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diff --git a/veryold/Correspondances/oldemail/castagraf/issue_5 (completed) b/veryold/Correspondances/oldemail/castagraf/issue_5 (completed) new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0197f6a --- /dev/null +++ b/veryold/Correspondances/oldemail/castagraf/issue_5 (completed) @@ -0,0 +1,14816 @@ +From ???@??? Mon Sep 22 23:05:52 2003 +Return-Path: <wagnerjjj@yahoo.com> +Delivered-To: theeditorishperson@castagraf.com +Received: (qmail 28003 invoked by uid 508); 22 Sep 2003 23:05:52 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO web20007.mail.yahoo.com) (216.136.225.70) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 22 Sep 2003 23:05:52 -0000 +Message-ID: <20030922230536.29947.qmail@web20007.mail.yahoo.com> +Received: from [64.136.27.34] by web20007.mail.yahoo.com via HTTP; Mon, 22 Sep 2003 16:05:36 PDT +Date: Mon, 22 Sep 2003 16:05:36 -0700 (PDT) +From: James Wagner <wagnerjjj@yahoo.com> +Subject: Re: issue five now available +To: the editorish person <theeditorishperson@castagraf.com> +In-Reply-To: <R02000100-1026-77B2D1CCED4A11D7824A0003930BD39A@[24.62.118.208]> +MIME-Version: 1.0 +Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii +X-Text-Classification: not_junk +X-POPFile-Link: <http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile1533=1.msg> + +dear the editorish person, okay on the poems. not a +problem. + +yeah, my book is out. that's why i was writing, +really, for that whole authenicity of the +acknowledgments thing. grand street once accepted two +of my poems, and then they never published them. so +you can get it--the false sun recordings--via amazon +or spdbooks.org or directly through 3rdbed.com (look +under Imprint). + +all the best to you, +james +--- the editorish person +<theeditorishperson@castagraf.com> wrote: +> James- +> +> thanks for the nice words. laura tells me we are +> holding the other poems for the next issue. (music +> poems together and then the others). hopefully +> that's okay. sorry if that messes things up for the +> book (is it out yet? can i get it via amazon?). the +> next issue will be out very soon. i'm currently +> shooting for the end of october. +> +> the editorish person +> +> p.s. laura can be reached directly at +> lagsolo@castagraf.com +> +> +> +> >hi, this is the james wagnerish person. +> > +> >i wanted to thank you for including me in the +> issue. +> >it looks great. the graphics/layout are topnotch. +> >and i love the work you choose. +> > +> >i am writing to ask laura solomon--i can't find her +> >individual e-mail at the moment--about my poems +> lingo +> >(1) through lingo (6). she accepted those along +> with +> >the two in the issue. normally, i wouldn't care, +> but +> >it appears as such in my book, the false sun +> >recordings, in the acknowledgments. i'm not mad, +> not +> >irritated, not even mildly perturbed. just +> wondering. +> > +> >thanks again for including me. +> > +> >take good care, +> >james + + +__________________________________ +Do you Yahoo!? +Yahoo! SiteBuilder - Free, easy-to-use web site design software +http://sitebuilder.yahoo.com + + +From ???@??? Mon Sep 22 17:21:38 2003 +Return-Path: <bennett.23@osu.edu> +Delivered-To: theeditorishperson@castagraf.com +Received: (qmail 27924 invoked by uid 508); 22 Sep 2003 17:21:38 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO mail-mta1.service.ohio-state.edu) (128.146.216.41) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 22 Sep 2003 17:21:38 -0000 +Received: from MAI326S02.osu.edu + (mai326s2.lib.ohio-state.edu [128.146.115.106]) by + mail-mta1.service.ohio-state.edu + (iPlanet Messaging Server 5.2 HotFix 1.14 (built Mar 18 2003)) + with ESMTP id <0HLM0022MLJQT8@mail-mta1.service.ohio-state.edu> for + theeditorishperson@castagraf.com; Mon, 22 Sep 2003 13:21:27 -0400 (EDT) +Date: Mon, 22 Sep 2003 13:21:48 -0400 +From: "John M. Bennett" <bennett.23@osu.edu> +Subject: Re: issue five now available +In-reply-to: <R02000100-1026-7A116EF3ECFB11D7824A0003930BD39A@[24.62.118 .208]> +X-Sender: jbennett@pop.service.ohio-state.edu +To: the editorish person <theeditorishperson@castagraf.com> +Message-id: <4.3.2.7.2.20030922131951.062844f0@pop.service.ohio-state.edu> +MIME-version: 1.0 +X-Mailer: QUALCOMM Windows Eudora Version 4.3.2 +Content-type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii; format=flowed +Content-transfer-encoding: 7BIT +X-Text-Classification: not_junk +X-POPFile-Link: <http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile1529=3.msg> + +Hi Editorish - +Thanks for this - very nice indeed! Great website design and very fine +work in it - + +Would you like to see some text poems for possible use in a future issue? + +Onword, +John + + +At 08:51 AM 9/22/2003 -0400, you wrote: +>greetings- +> +>At long last, castagraf issue number five is now available online at +>http://castagraf.com , featuring new work from Eric Baus, Anselm Berrigan, +>John Bennett, C.S. Carrier, Paul Killebrew, Andrea Loest, Dorthea Lasky, +>Nick Moudry, Jessica Olin, Sandra Simonds, Steven Timm, James Wagner, Your +>American Math, Leni Zumas, and of course more of the ever popular +>Whalebone Essays. +> +>enjoy +> +>the editorish person +>http://castagraf.com + +__________________________________________ +Dr. John M. Bennett +Curator, Avant Writing Collection +Rare Books & Manuscripts Library +The Ohio State University Libraries +1858 Neil Av Mall +Columbus, OH 43210 USA + +(614) 292-3029 +bennett.23@osu.edu +___________________________________________ + + + +From ???@??? Mon Sep 22 14:06:33 2003 +Return-Path: <wagnerjjj@yahoo.com> +Delivered-To: theeditorishperson@castagraf.com +Received: (qmail 5776 invoked by uid 508); 22 Sep 2003 14:06:33 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO web20003.mail.yahoo.com) (216.136.225.48) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 22 Sep 2003 14:06:33 -0000 +Message-ID: <20030922140617.85432.qmail@web20003.mail.yahoo.com> +Received: from [64.136.27.34] by web20003.mail.yahoo.com via HTTP; Mon, 22 Sep 2003 07:06:17 PDT +Date: Mon, 22 Sep 2003 07:06:17 -0700 (PDT) +From: James Wagner <wagnerjjj@yahoo.com> +Subject: Re: issue five now available +To: the editorish person <theeditorishperson@castagraf.com> +In-Reply-To: <R02000100-1026-7A116EF3ECFB11D7824A0003930BD39A@[24.62.118.208]> +MIME-Version: 1.0 +Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii +X-Text-Classification: not_junk +X-POPFile-Link: <http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile1529=1.msg> + +hi, this is the james wagnerish person. + +i wanted to thank you for including me in the issue. +it looks great. the graphics/layout are topnotch. +and i love the work you choose. + +i am writing to ask laura solomon--i can't find her +individual e-mail at the moment--about my poems lingo +(1) through lingo (6). she accepted those along with +the two in the issue. normally, i wouldn't care, but +it appears as such in my book, the false sun +recordings, in the acknowledgments. i'm not mad, not +irritated, not even mildly perturbed. just wondering. + +thanks again for including me. + +take good care, +james +--- the editorish person +<theeditorishperson@castagraf.com> wrote: +> greetings- +> +> At long last, castagraf issue number five is now +> available online at http://castagraf.com , featuring +> new work from Eric Baus, Anselm Berrigan, John +> Bennett, C.S. Carrier, Paul Killebrew, Andrea Loest, +> Dorthea Lasky, Nick Moudry, Jessica Olin, Sandra +> Simonds, Steven Timm, James Wagner, Your American +> Math, Leni Zumas, and of course more of the ever +> popular Whalebone Essays. +> +> enjoy +> +> the editorish person +> http://castagraf.com + + +__________________________________ +Do you Yahoo!? +Yahoo! SiteBuilder - Free, easy-to-use web site design software +http://sitebuilder.yahoo.com + + +From ???@??? Wed Sep 17 05:56:20 2003 +Return-Path: <tremblingsun@yahoo.com> +Delivered-To: sng@4 +Received: (qmail 24846 invoked by alias); 17 Sep 2003 05:56:20 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO web80104.mail.yahoo.com) (66.163.169.77) + by hosting-132-160.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 17 Sep 2003 05:56:20 -0000 +Message-ID: <20030917055613.22229.qmail@web80104.mail.yahoo.com> +Received: from [68.78.237.113] by web80104.mail.yahoo.com via HTTP; Tue, 16 Sep 2003 22:56:13 PDT +Date: Tue, 16 Sep 2003 22:56:13 -0700 (PDT) +From: Jason DeBoer <tremblingsun@yahoo.com> +Subject: Castagaf info re: reprints? +To: sng@luxagraf.com +MIME-Version: 1.0 +Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii +X-Text-Classification: not_junk +X-POPFile-Link: <http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile1260=3.msg> + +Dear Mr. Gilbertson, + +Could you please tell me if your journal considers work +that +has been previously published (whether in US print or +online)? Any other info you could provide about your +journal, including guidelines, would also be helpful. + + Many thanks, + Jason DeBoer + + + + +From ???@??? Tue Sep 16 18:52:44 2003 +Return-Path: <info@youramericanmath.com> +Delivered-To: sng@3 +Received: (qmail 15141 invoked by uid 508); 16 Sep 2003 18:52:44 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO tiger.hostspectrum.com) (209.120.224.11) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 16 Sep 2003 18:52:44 -0000 +Received: from [128.192.138.49] (helo=[128.192.138.49]) + by tiger.hostspectrum.com with asmtp (Exim 4.20) + id 19zKvu-0000JM-Fp + for sng@castagraf.com; Tue, 16 Sep 2003 13:52:14 -0500 +User-Agent: Microsoft-Entourage/10.0.0.1309 +Date: Tue, 16 Sep 2003 14:50:49 -0400 +Subject: Re: math on castagraf +From: Your American Math <info@youramericanmath.com> +To: sng <sng@castagraf.com> +Message-ID: <BB8CD3C9.E9%info@youramericanmath.com> +In-Reply-To: <R02000000-1026-B9FBC966E7E411D7AE5B0003930BD39A@[24.62.118.208]> +Mime-version: 1.0 +Content-type: text/plain; charset="US-ASCII" +Content-transfer-encoding: 7bit +X-AntiAbuse: This header was added to track abuse, please include it with any abuse report +X-AntiAbuse: Primary Hostname - tiger.hostspectrum.com +X-AntiAbuse: Original Domain - castagraf.com +X-AntiAbuse: Originator/Caller UID/GID - [0 0] / [47 12] +X-AntiAbuse: Sender Address Domain - youramericanmath.com +X-Text-Classification: not_junk +X-POPFile-Link: <http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile1253=10.msg> + +I will forward this to Alan... +Todd is back from Costa Rica and the band is no more because Alan quit, but +that's awesome the songs are up online. We're still selling records through +the distrobutor. + +Thanks, +Scott + + + +On 9/15/03 9:25 PM, "sng" <sng@castagraf.com> wrote: + +> hey- +> +> my name is scott and i run castagraf.com. along time ago i asked todd if i +> could put a couple of YAM songs (that just doesn't sound right) on the site +> for our new issue. well i finally got around to doing it. +> +> So, last time i heard todd was in costa rica and presumably not in the band +> anymore? Anyway i wanted to give you a heads up so you can check it out. +> +> http://www.castagraf.com +> +> if for any reason you're not into having the songs be downloaded (i put up +> eldoradomega, and a song for paul jones) i will remove them. +> +> otherwise good luck and alan if you should happen to read this give jimmy +> stapp a drink for me. i'll pay for it at christmas when i get back to athens. +> +> scott gilbertson +> editorish person +> http://www.castagraf.com +> +> + + + +From ???@??? Sun Sep 14 21:32:42 2003 +Return-Path: <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Delivered-To: sng@3 +Received: (qmail 31903 invoked by uid 508); 14 Sep 2003 21:32:42 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO ?24.62.127.208?) (24.62.127.208) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 14 Sep 2003 21:32:42 -0000 +User-Agent: Microsoft-Entourage/10.1.0.2006 +Date: Tue, 24 Feb 1970 19:24:09 -0500 +Subject: Whalebone--september03 +From: laura Solomon <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +To: scott gilbertson <sng@castagraf.com> +Message-ID: <7C6DF25B.11AD%lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Mime-version: 1.0 +Content-type: multipart/mixed; boundary="B_2087580253_926154" +X-Text-Classification: not_junk +X-POPFile-Link: <http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile1183=1.msg> + +--B_2087580253_926154 +Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit + + + +--B_2087580253_926154 +Content-Type: application/octet-stream; name="Castagraf Whalebone June.rtf" +Content-Transfer-Encoding: base64 +Content-Disposition: attachment + +e1xydGYxXG1hY1xhbnNpY3BnMTAwMDBcY29jb2FydGYxMDIKe1xmb250dGJsXGYw +XGZyb21hblxmY2hhcnNldDc3IFRpbWVzTmV3Um9tYW5QU01UO1xmMVxmcm9tYW5c 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Sun Sep 14 19:58:06 2003 +Return-Path: <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Delivered-To: sng@3 +Received: (qmail 10526 invoked by uid 508); 14 Sep 2003 19:58:06 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO ?24.62.127.208?) (24.62.127.208) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 14 Sep 2003 19:58:06 -0000 +User-Agent: Microsoft-Entourage/10.1.0.2006 +Date: Tue, 24 Feb 1970 17:49:34 -0500 +Subject: <no subject> +From: laura Solomon <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +To: scott gilbertson <sng@castagraf.com> +Message-ID: <7C6DDC2E.11AB%lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Mime-version: 1.0 +Content-type: text/plain; charset="US-ASCII" +Content-transfer-encoding: 7bit +X-Text-Classification: not_junk +X-POPFile-Link: <http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile1175=3.msg> + +Poems by C.S. Carrier can be found in Good Foot, Redactions and LIT. + + + +From ???@??? Sun Sep 14 17:20:55 2003 +Return-Path: <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Delivered-To: sng@3 +Received: (qmail 9316 invoked by uid 508); 14 Sep 2003 17:20:55 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO ?24.62.127.208?) (24.62.127.208) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 14 Sep 2003 17:20:55 -0000 +User-Agent: Microsoft-Entourage/10.1.0.2006 +Date: Tue, 24 Feb 1970 15:12:21 -0500 +Subject: FW: submission +From: laura Solomon <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +To: scott gilbertson <sng@castagraf.com> +Message-ID: <7C6DB755.11A8%lagsolo@castagraf.com> +In-Reply-To: <BAY4-DAV7553Bg42EuB00020655@hotmail.com> +Mime-version: 1.0 +Content-type: multipart/mixed; boundary="B_2087565141_317607" +X-Text-Classification: not_junk +X-POPFile-Link: <http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile1171=6.msg> + +--B_2087565141_317607 +Content-Type: multipart/alternative; boundary=Mailsmith-CFC75363-1584-11D9-9BDE-0003930BD39A +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit + +--Mailsmith-CFC75363-1584-11D9-9BDE-0003930BD39A +Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit + + +------ Forwarded Message +From: "Leni Zumas" <LZumas@msn.com> +Date: Wed, 20 Aug 2003 21:36:31 -0400 +To: <Lagsolo@earthlink.com> +Subject: submission + +hey laura, + + + +remember a long while ago you asked if i had anything i might want to submit +for your journal? well, here is something. it's actually the piece i read +at that bar 19 shindig in may. if it suits, that's cool. if not, cool +also. + + + +hope you're having a good final slice of summer. i am so mad it's ending. +or, more precisely, mad that school will begin. i dread making my 112 +syllabus. + + + +xo leni + + + +------ End of Forwarded Message + +--Mailsmith-CFC75363-1584-11D9-9BDE-0003930BD39A +Content-Type: text/html; charset=US-ASCII +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit + +<HTML> +<HEAD> +<TITLE>FW: submission</TITLE> +</HEAD> +<BODY> +<FONT FACE="Verdana"><BR> +------ Forwarded Message<BR> +<B>From: </B>"Leni Zumas" <LZumas@msn.com><BR> +<B>Date: </B>Wed, 20 Aug 2003 21:36:31 -0400<BR> +<B>To: </B><Lagsolo@earthlink.com><BR> +<B>Subject: </B>submission<BR> +<BR> +hey laura,<BR> + <BR> + <BR> + <BR> +remember a long while ago you asked if i had anything i might want to submit for your journal? well, here is something. it's actually the piece i read at that bar 19 shindig in may. if it suits, that's cool. if not, cool also.<BR> + <BR> + <BR> + <BR> +hope you're having a good final slice of summer. i am so mad it's ending. or, more precisely, mad that school will begin. i dread making my 112 syllabus.<BR> + <BR> + <BR> + <BR> +xo leni<BR> +<BR> +<BR> +<BR> +------ End of Forwarded Message<BR> +</FONT> +</BODY> +</HTML> + +--Mailsmith-CFC75363-1584-11D9-9BDE-0003930BD39A-- +--B_2087565141_317607 +Content-Type: application/octet-stream; name="Bellevue.doc" +Content-Transfer-Encoding: base64 +Content-Disposition: attachment + +0M8R4KGxGuEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPgADAP7/CQAGAAAAAAAAAAAAAAABAAAA +JwAAAAAAAAAAEAAAKQAAAAEAAAD+////AAAAACYAAAD///////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// 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+AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA== + +--B_2087565141_317607-- + +From ???@??? Mon Aug 18 15:16:46 2003 +Return-Path: <editor@octopusmagazine.com> +Delivered-To: editor@castagraf.com +Received: (qmail 3499 invoked by uid 508); 18 Aug 2003 15:16:46 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO octopusmagazine.com) (209.153.216.16) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 18 Aug 2003 15:16:46 -0000 +Date: Mon, 18 Aug 2003 08:20:16 -0700 +Message-Id: <200308180820.AA2424930@octopusmagazine.com> +Mime-Version: 1.0 +Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii +From: "Octopus Magazine" <editor@octopusmagazine.com> +Reply-To: <editor@octopusmagazine.com> +To: <editor@castagraf.com> +Subject: octopus 1 +X-Mailer: <IMail v7.13> +X-IMSTrailer: __IMail_7__ +X-Text-Classification: not_junk +X-POPFile-Link: <http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile758=1.msg> + +Castagraf-- + +The inaugural issue of Octopus is up and ready for your perusal at +www.octopusmagazine.com. It is a double issue of 16 (get it?) of our favorite poets. + +Props to our friend Denny Schmickle for designing the site. Be sure to link to him from the "about" page and tell him what you think of his work. + +Tony Tost and I are very proud parents of our new little cephalopod. Please please let us know what you think. + +Also, because we are fans of Castagraf, we included it on our links page. Let us know if you're cool with this. And feel free to reciprocate--it would really help get our little mag out there. + +Tell all your friends, and happy reading, + +Zach Schomburg +Co-editor + + +____________________________________________________________ +Free 20MB Web Site Hosting and Personalized E-mail Service! +Get It Now At Doteasy.com http://www.doteasy.com/et/ + + +From ???@??? Mon Aug 4 22:02:04 2003 +Return-Path: <root@glow.phpwebhosting.com> +Delivered-To: sng@3 +Received: (qmail 16330 invoked by uid 501); 4 Aug 2003 22:02:04 -0000 +Date: 4 Aug 2003 22:02:04 -0000 +Message-ID: <20030804220204.16329.qmail@glow.phpwebhosting.com> +To: sng@castagraf.com +Subject: [PHP] Support Ticket Updated! +From: support@phpwebhosting.com +X-Text-Classification: not_junk +X-POPFile-Link: <http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile128=7.msg> + +[Created: August 4, 2003, 2:49 pm by castagraf at 165.121.142.106] + +I'm pretty sure you have previously enabled ssh on my site, but i have some connection questions\. + + + +I'm trying tto set things up so the i can check my email through a tunnel\.\.\. but when i try to connect i\.e\. ssh castagraf\.com it refuses my password\. am i doing something wrong here or is ssh just not enabled\? do i need to connect to mail\.castagraf\.com\? \(that refuses the password as well\)\.\.\. + + + +thanks for your assistance + + + +here's a glimpse of what i'm doing: + + + +\[homes-Computer:~\] home% ssh castagraf\.com + +sng@castagraf\.com's password: + +Permission denied, please try again\. + +sng@castagraf\.com's password: + +[Updated: August 4, 2003, 6:02 pm by Support] + +Hi, + + + +Yeah, it looks like SSH was already enable (I enabled again, just in case). Try using the server name (glow.phpwebhosting.com) instead of your domain name. You will then be prompted for your CP username and pass. + + + +Please let me know if you continue to experience problems. + + + +Best Regards, + + + +Nick + +---------------------------------------------- +Do not reply via email to this message! +For the fastest reply, login to your control +panel and update this request. This will +provide maximum speed and accountability +for your requests. Thanks! +---------------------------------------------- + + + +From ???@??? Mon Aug 4 22:00:07 2003 +Return-Path: <root@glow.phpwebhosting.com> +Delivered-To: sng@3 +Received: (qmail 15738 invoked by uid 501); 4 Aug 2003 22:00:07 -0000 +Date: 4 Aug 2003 22:00:07 -0000 +Message-ID: <20030804220007.15735.qmail@glow.phpwebhosting.com> +To: sng@castagraf.com +Subject: [PHP] SSH enabled +From: support@phpwebhosting.com +X-Text-Classification: not_junk +X-POPFile-Link: <http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile128=6.msg> + +Dear Customer, + + + +SSH access has been enabled on your account. For security reasons, we no longer support telnet. SSH is a safer, more secure alternative to telnet (if you are familiar with telnet, ssh operates in the same manner except that the connection is fully encrypted). + + + +Free ssh clients are available for most platforms. For PC we recommend: + + + + PuTTY - http://www.chiark.greenend.org.uk/~sgtatham/putty/download.html + + + +For Mac users, we recommend: + + + + MacSSH - http://pro.wanadoo.fr/chombier/MacSSH/SSH_info.html + + + +Linux users, we recommend: + + + + openssh - http://www.openssh.org/ + + + +Please use "your_username.phpwebhosting.com" as the host/ username and make sure you select SSH as the protocol (port 22). Your SSH username and password is the same as your control panel's username and password. + + + +Your SSH password will always be in sync with your control panel's password unless you intentionally change it in the shell. If you do this, and forget what you changed it to, you can easily reset / re-sync the password by using the "change password" tool in your control panel. + + + +To ensure a stable environment for all users, please note the following: + + + +* Use of IRC, bots, etc. are not allowed. + +* Long running server processes are not allowed + +* If you need compiler access, please submit a request + +* Attempts to hide your actions, command history, etc. will result in removal of your account. + + + +Please let us know if you need anything else. We thank you for your business. Have a good day! + + + +Sincerely, + + + +Your phpwebhosting.com Support Team + + + + + + + +SSH related FAQ's: + + + +Q - I can't login using telnet + + + +A - For security reasons, we no longer support telnet, only SSH. + + + +SSH is a safer, more secure alternative to telnet. A telnet session uses clear text in all transmissions. That means that someone could potentially see everything you type including passwords. SSH on the other hand, encrypts this information and makes it unreadable. + + + +Q - I can't login using SSH + + + +A - This could be due to several problems. Here is a few of the most common - + + + +1. Make sure you are using "your_username.phpwebhsting.com" as the host/username and make sure you select SSH as the protocol (port 22). Some SSH clients, such as PuTTY can operate as telnet or SSH, so it is necessary to make sure you are using the correct protocol. + + + +2. Make sure you are using the correct username and password. Your SSH password should always be in sync with your control panel's password unless you intentionally changed it in the shell. If you did this, and forgot what you changed it to, you can easily reset / re-sync the password by using the "change password" tool in your control panel. + + + +(Also, be sure you are using the correct case. All UNIX passwords are CaSe SeNsiTiVe!) + + + +3. You are behind a network firewall that blocks ssh. We can put ssh on the telnet port, please note however that some firewalls block telnet too. In these cases you will need to ask your local firewall administrator to open the ssh port for you (port 22). + + + + +From - Mon, 30 Jun 2003 14:45:46 -0700 +Date: Mon, 30 Jun 2003 14:45:46 -0700 +To: sng@castagraf.com +Message-ID: <20030630144546866589.GyazMail.sng@castagraf.com> +Subject: Fwd: [not_junk] FW: <no subject> +Mime-Version: 1.0 (GMessage framework 0.9.9.9.2) +Content-Type: multipart/mixed; boundary=Multipart_20030630144546810025 +Status: RO + +--Multipart_20030630144546810025 +Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit + +----- Begin forwarded message ----- +From: laura Solomon <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Date: Mon, 09 Jun 2003 10:36:03 -0400 +To: scott gilbertson <sng@castagraf.com> +Subject: [not_junk] FW: <no subject> + + +------ Forwarded Message +From: "Travis Nichols" <tnicholzz@hotmail.com> +Date: Sun, 08 Jun 2003 19:42:30 -0400 +To: lagsolo@castagraf.com +Subject: Re: <no subject> + + +Laura- + +Sorry it took forever. I had to type it. There is actually one more +installment. It's pretty good too. + +Travis + +>From: laura Solomon <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +To: Travis Nichols <tnicholzz@hotmail.com> +Subject: <no subject> +Date: Sun, 08 Jun 2003 03:14:23 -0400 + +Hey Travis, + +I'm sorry to keep bugging you, but I was hoping to get a hold of the +last +installment of the whalebone essays before you leave town. Hope you +have a +fun trip and thanks for the ride Friday. + +Laura + + +_________________________________________________________________ +STOP MORE SPAM with the new MSN 8 and get 2 months FREE* +http://join.msn.com/?page=features/junkmail + + +------ End of Forwarded Message + + +--Multipart_20030630144546810025 +Content-Type: application/rtf; name="Castagraf Whalebone June.rtf" +Content-Transfer-Encoding: base64 +Content-Disposition: attachment + +e1xydGYxXGFuc2lcYW5zaWNwZzEyNTJcZGVmZjBcdWMxe1xmb250dGJse1xmMFxm +Y2hhcnNldDAgVGltZXMgTmV3IFJvbWFuO319e1xjb2xvcnRibA07fXtcc3R5bGVz +aGVldHtcczBcbm93aWRjdGxwYXJcbm9vdmVyZmxvd1xzbDI0MFxzbG11bHQxXGYw +XGZzMjBca2VybmluZzI4IE5vcm1hbA07fX1ccGFwZXJ3MTIyNDBccGFwZXJoMTU4 +NDBcbWFyZ3QxNDQwXG1hcmdsMTgwMFxtYXJncjE4MDBcbWFyZ2IxNDQwXGRlZnRh +YjcyMFxwZ25zdGFydDENXHZpZXdraW5kMVx2aWV3c2NhbGUxMDBcZmV0MFxwYXJk +XHBsYWluXHBhcmRcbm93aWRjdGxwYXJcbm9vdmVyZmxvd1xxalxzbDI0MFxzbG11 +bHQxXGxpNzIwe1xmMFxsYW5nMTAzM1xmczI0DVxrZXJuaW5nMjh7XGhlYWRlclxw 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+Delivered-To: submit@3 +Received: (qmail 27691 invoked by uid 508); 3 Jul 2003 15:23:05 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO web14712.mail.yahoo.com) (216.136.232.92) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 3 Jul 2003 15:23:05 -0000 +Message-ID: <20030703152300.81178.qmail@web14712.mail.yahoo.com> +Received: from [64.12.96.44] by web14712.mail.yahoo.com via HTTP; Thu, 03 Jul 2003 08:23:00 PDT +Date: Thu, 3 Jul 2003 08:23:00 -0700 (PDT) +From: Sara Henning <lucidity9980@yahoo.com> +Subject: submission +To: submit@castagraf.com +MIME-Version: 1.0 +Content-Type: multipart/mixed; boundary="0-1728672999-1057245780=:77988" +X-Text-Classification: not_junk +X-POPFile-Link: <http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile615=1.msg> + +--0-1728672999-1057245780=:77988 +Content-Type: multipart/alternative; boundary=Mailsmith-CFD8FE60-1584-11D9-9BDE-0003930BD39A +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit + +--Mailsmith-CFD8FE60-1584-11D9-9BDE-0003930BD39A +Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit + +Hi Laura, + Long time no hear....was wondering how you were doing and how your poetic life goeth. Saw Heidi Peppermint at a reading and she mentioned you had a an e-poetry magazine...congratulations. Here are some poems if you'd like to consider them: "Aubade," "Exposure," and "Parable." Let me know if any of the attachments don't make it and I'll resend. Hope all is going well. + +Yours, +Sara + + + +--------------------------------- +Do you Yahoo!? +SBC Yahoo! DSL - Now only $29.95 per month! +--Mailsmith-CFD8FE60-1584-11D9-9BDE-0003930BD39A +Content-Type: text/html; charset=us-ascii +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit + +<DIV> +<DIV>Hi Laura,</DIV> +<DIV> Long time no hear....was wondering how you were doing and how your poetic life goeth. Saw Heidi Peppermint at a reading and she mentioned you had a an e-poetry magazine...congratulations. Here are some poems if you'd like to consider them: "Aubade," "Exposure," and "Parable." Let me know if any of the attachments don't make it and I'll resend. Hope all is going well.</DIV> +<DIV> </DIV> +<DIV>Yours,</DIV> +<DIV>Sara</DIV></DIV><p><hr SIZE=1> +Do you Yahoo!?<br> +<a href="http://pa.yahoo.com/*http://rd.yahoo.com/evt=1207/*http://promo.yahoo.com/sbc/">SBC Yahoo! DSL</a> - Now only $29.95 per month! +--Mailsmith-CFD8FE60-1584-11D9-9BDE-0003930BD39A-- +--0-1728672999-1057245780=:77988 +Content-Type: application/msword; name="aubade.doc" +Content-Transfer-Encoding: base64 +Content-Disposition: attachment + +0M8R4KGxGuEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPgADAP7/CQAGAAAAAAAAAAAAAAABAAAA +JQAAAAAAAAAAEAAAJwAAAAEAAAD+////AAAAACQAAAD///////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +///////////////////////////////////////////spcEANUAJBAAA8BK/AAAA 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+//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +AQD+/wMKAAD/////BgkCAAAAAADAAAAAAAAARhgAAABNaWNyb3NvZnQgV29yZCBE +b2N1bWVudAAKAAAATVNXb3JkRG9jABAAAABXb3JkLkRvY3VtZW50LjgA9DmycQAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA= + +--0-1728672999-1057245780=:77988-- + +From lagsolo@earthlink.net Sat May 31 00:47:27 2003 +Return-Path: <lagsolo@earthlink.net> +Delivered-To: sng@3 +Received: (qmail 16210 invoked by uid 508); 31 May 2003 03:32:03 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO harrier.mail.pas.earthlink.net) (207.217.120.12) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 31 May 2003 03:32:03 -0000 +Received: from user-uinj37f.dialup.mindspring.com ([165.121.140.239]) + by harrier.mail.pas.earthlink.net with esmtp (Exim 3.33 #1) + id 19Lx62-0001kV-00 + for sng@castagraf.com; Fri, 30 May 2003 20:31:55 -0700 +User-Agent: Microsoft-Entourage/10.1.0.2006 +Date: Fri, 30 May 2003 11:36:29 -0400 +Subject: FW: a movie +From: Laura Solomon <lagsolo@earthlink.net> +To: scott gilbertson <sng@castagraf.com> +Message-ID: <BAFCF2BF.EA6%lagsolo@earthlink.net> +In-Reply-To: <20030529211505.45510.qmail@web9606.mail.yahoo.com> +Mime-version: 1.0 +Content-type: multipart/mixed; boundary="B_3137139391_791050" + +--B_3137139391_791050 +Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit + + +------ Forwarded Message +From: Nick Moudry <nickmoudry@yahoo.com> +Date: Thu, 29 May 2003 14:15:05 -0700 (PDT) +To: Laura Solomon <lagsolo@earthlink.com> +Subject: a movie + +OK, this is the for real this time not fucking around +version of this poem. + +-Nick + +__________________________________ +Do you Yahoo!? +Yahoo! Calendar - Free online calendar with sync to Outlook(TM). +http://calendar.yahoo.com + +------ End of Forwarded Message + + +--B_3137139391_791050 +Content-Type: application/octet-stream; name="a movie.doc" +Content-Transfer-Encoding: base64 +Content-Disposition: attachment + +0M8R4KGxGuEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPgADAP7/CQAGAAAAAAAAAAAAAAABAAAA +JwAAAAAAAAAAEAAAKQAAAAEAAAD+////AAAAACYAAAD///////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// 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+jSXDAQAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA//////////////// +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AQAAAP7///////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////8BAP7/AwoAAP////8GCQIA +AAAAAMAAAAAAAABGGAAAAE1pY3Jvc29mdCBXb3JkIERvY3VtZW50AAoAAABNU1dv 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from user-uinj37f.dialup.mindspring.com ([165.121.140.239]) + by harrier.mail.pas.earthlink.net with esmtp (Exim 3.33 #1) + id 19Lx5j-0001LQ-00 + for sng@castagraf.com; Fri, 30 May 2003 20:31:35 -0700 +User-Agent: Microsoft-Entourage/10.1.0.2006 +Date: Fri, 30 May 2003 11:36:09 -0400 +Subject: FW: +From: Laura Solomon <lagsolo@earthlink.net> +To: scott gilbertson <sng@castagraf.com> +Message-ID: <BAFCF2AB.EA5%lagsolo@earthlink.net> +In-Reply-To: <Law10-F116RVXR08ies00066a92@hotmail.com> +Mime-version: 1.0 +Content-type: multipart/mixed; boundary="B_3137139371_780309" + +--B_3137139371_780309 +Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit + + +------ Forwarded Message +From: "Dorothea Lasky" <yellowcrow863@hotmail.com> +Date: Fri, 30 May 2003 18:41:48 -0400 +To: lagsolo@earthlink.com + +Girl, Here are the ladies. +Love D + +_________________________________________________________________ +MSN 8 with e-mail virus protection service: 2 months FREE* 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+gX//AAOBf/8AA4F//wADgX//AAOBf/8AA4F//wADgX//AAOBf/8AA4F//wADgX// +AAOBf/8AA4F//wADgX//AAD/VE5BTQAAAB8eMzU5RUYxRTkwOEREOTE1OUY1NEQ1 +MTIxQkYwNTEzRVRCTAAAAGBEU1VNAAAlwEhETkkAACXvU1RZTAAAJflNQ1JPAAAy +7W9CbE4AADL9TUFSSwAAMwlXTUJUAAAzL1NOQVAAADM7VE5BTQAAQDJFVEJMAABA +Wf/+/fz7+vn48PHy8wx8EpY= + +--B_3137139371_780309-- + +From lagsolo@castagraf.com Mon May 26 19:22:37 2003 +Return-Path: <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Delivered-To: sng@3 +Received: (qmail 8602 invoked by uid 508); 26 May 2003 20:37:21 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO mallard.mail.pas.earthlink.net) (207.217.120.48) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 26 May 2003 20:37:21 -0000 +Received: from user-105n9mt.dialup.mindspring.com ([64.91.166.221]) + by mallard.mail.pas.earthlink.net with esmtp (Exim 3.33 #1) + id 19KOib-0003Er-00 + for sng@castagraf.com; Mon, 26 May 2003 13:37:17 -0700 +User-Agent: Microsoft-Entourage/10.1.0.2006 +Date: Mon, 26 May 2003 04:41:45 -0400 +Subject: FW: poem for castagraf +From: laura Solomon <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +To: scott gilbertson <sng@castagraf.com> +Message-ID: <BAF74B8B.E3E%lagsolo@castagraf.com> +In-Reply-To: <BAY4-F32gu3WOXs8Nxn00001f83@hotmail.com> +Mime-version: 1.0 +Content-type: multipart/mixed; boundary="B_3136768908_15287206" + +--B_3136768908_15287206 +Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit + + +------ Forwarded Message +From: "Paul Killebrew" <paulkillebrew@msn.com> +Date: Mon, 26 May 2003 12:43:57 -0400 +To: lagsolo@castagraf.com +Subject: poem for castagraf + +Laura! + +He be the po em in its fin al est state. This fucking weather, and on my day +off, too. Ah well. + +Kick ass, low-cash, +Paul + +_________________________________________________________________ +Add photos to your messages with MSN 8. Get 2 months FREE*. +http://join.msn.com/?page=features/featuredemail + + +------ End of Forwarded Message + + +--B_3136768908_15287206 +Content-Type: application/octet-stream; name="BuenosDias,Cap_nCrunch.doc" +Content-Transfer-Encoding: base64 +Content-Disposition: attachment + +0M8R4KGxGuEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPgADAP7/CQAGAAAAAAAAAAAAAAABAAAA +KgAAAAAAAAAAEAAALAAAAAEAAAD+////AAAAACkAAAD///////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// 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+//////////////////////////////////////////8BAP7/AgABAP////8GCQIA +AAAAAMAAAAAAAABGGAAAAE1pY3Jvc29mdCBXb3JkIERvY3VtZW50AP7///9OQjZX +EAAAAFdvcmQuRG9jdW1lbnQuOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA== + +--B_3136768908_15287206-- + +From lagsolo@castagraf.com Sun May 25 10:24:55 2003 +Return-Path: <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Delivered-To: sng@3 +Received: (qmail 8990 invoked by uid 508); 25 May 2003 17:18:35 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO avocet.mail.pas.earthlink.net) (207.217.120.50) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 25 May 2003 17:18:35 -0000 +Received: from user-105n8n1.dialup.mindspring.com ([64.91.162.225]) + by avocet.mail.pas.earthlink.net with esmtp (Exim 3.33 #1) + id 19Jz8T-00021w-00 + for sng@castagraf.com; Sun, 25 May 2003 10:18:17 -0700 +User-Agent: Microsoft-Entourage/10.1.0.2006 +Date: Sun, 25 May 2003 01:22:41 -0400 +Subject: FW: castagraf submission--james wagner +From: laura Solomon <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +To: scott gilbertson <sng@castagraf.com> +Message-ID: <BAF5CB67.E2F%lagsolo@castagraf.com> +In-Reply-To: <20030402061413.68652.qmail@web20008.mail.yahoo.com> +Mime-version: 1.0 +Content-type: multipart/mixed; boundary="B_3136670569_13066312" + +--B_3136670569_13066312 +Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit + +Stuff from James Wagner--don't use mingus. + +Laura + + +------ Forwarded Message +From: James Wagner <wagnerjjj@yahoo.com> +Date: Tue, 1 Apr 2003 22:14:13 -0800 (PST) +To: laura Solomon <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Subject: castagraf submission--james wagner + +Laura, + +Hi. I'm attaching three poems for your consideration +from my first book, _the false sun recordings_, due +out in August. These pieces are from the fifth and +final section of the book. They are intended as +collaborative pieces, as I was intentionally listening +to these albums as I was writing, in attempting to get +myself into new states, new vocabularies, new moods. + +Thank you for your time on these. + +I hope you're well, and writing. + +Take care, +James + + +__________________________________________________ +Do you Yahoo!? +Yahoo! Tax Center - File online, calculators, forms, and more +http://tax.yahoo.com + +------ End of Forwarded Message + + +--B_3136670569_13066312 +Content-Type: application/octet-stream; name="mingus.doc" +Content-Transfer-Encoding: base64 +Content-Disposition: attachment + +0M8R4KGxGuEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPgADAP7/CQAGAAAAAAAAAAAAAAABAAAA +AgAAAAAAAAAAEAAADAAAAAEAAAD+////AAAAAAMAAAD///////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////9SAG8AbwB0ACAARQBuAHQA 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<lagsolo@earthlink.net> +To: scott gilbertson <sng@castagraf.com> +Message-ID: <BAF5BF51.E29%lagsolo@earthlink.net> +In-Reply-To: <BAY1-F1466gvdJ4abGy0000b7c5@hotmail.com> +Mime-version: 1.0 +Content-type: multipart/mixed; boundary="B_3136667474_12881402" + +--B_3136667474_12881402 +Content-Type: multipart/alternative; boundary=Mailsmith-CFFDB6D7-1584-11D9-9BDE-0003930BD39A +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit + +--Mailsmith-CFFDB6D7-1584-11D9-9BDE-0003930BD39A +Content-Type: text/plain; charset=ISO-8859-1 +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit + +Here are poems from Jessica Olindont use Racing--its not quite up to +par with the others. Ill send you a bio soon. + +Laura + + +------ Forwarded Message +From: "jessica olin" <jessicaolin@hotmail.com> +Date: Wed, 23 Apr 2003 23:25:35 +0000 +To: lagsolo@earthlink.com +Subject: pomes + +hey laura-- +here are some poems, sorry it took so long. i've been in a state now for +about a week. i don't have that many that are viewable so i sent you a +couple you haven't seen, a couple you have. also the last 2 poems are +totally not finished but they were in the file, just me playing around (the +one about the chow dog and 'orbit') trying to explore in a different style +or tone. i feel like i have a lot of learning to do about how i write or +like to write or how different things work. anyway i love that you asked me +for some poems and hope your yellow metal flower is doing well. are you +going to the reading tomorrow night? xo +jessica + + +Tired of spam? Get advanced junk mail protection +<http://g.msn.com/8HMHENUS/2734> with MSN 8. + +------ End of Forwarded Message + + +--Mailsmith-CFFDB6D7-1584-11D9-9BDE-0003930BD39A +Content-Type: text/html; charset=ISO-8859-1 +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit + +<HTML> +<HEAD> +<TITLE>FW: pomes</TITLE> +</HEAD> +<BODY> +<FONT FACE="Verdana">Here are poems from Jessica Olin—don’t use “Racing”--it’s not quite up to par with the others. I’ll send you a bio soon.<BR> +<BR> +Laura<BR> +<BR> +<BR> +------ Forwarded Message<BR> +<B>From: </B>"jessica olin" <jessicaolin@hotmail.com><BR> +<B>Date: </B>Wed, 23 Apr 2003 23:25:35 +0000<BR> +<B>To: </B>lagsolo@earthlink.com<BR> +<B>Subject: </B>pomes<BR> +<BR> +hey laura--<BR> +here are some poems, sorry it took so long. i've been in a state now for about a week. i don't have that many that are viewable so i sent you a couple you haven't seen, a couple you have. also the last 2 poems are totally not finished but they were in the file, just me playing around (the one about the chow dog and 'orbit') trying to explore in a different style or tone. i feel like i have a lot of learning to do about how i write or like to write or how different things work. anyway i love that you asked me for some poems and hope your yellow metal flower is doing well. are you going to the reading tomorrow night? xo<BR> +jessica<BR> +<BR> +<HR ALIGN=CENTER SIZE="3" WIDTH="100%">Tired of spam? 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+//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////8BAP7/AwoAAP////8GCQIA +AAAAAMAAAAAAAABGGAAAAE1pY3Jvc29mdCBXb3JkIERvY3VtZW50AAoAAABNU1dv +cmREb2MAEAAAAFdvcmQuRG9jdW1lbnQuOAD0ObJxAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA== + +--B_3136667474_12881402-- + +From lagsolo@castagraf.com Sun May 25 09:54:50 2003 +Return-Path: <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Delivered-To: sng@3 +Received: (qmail 30289 invoked by uid 508); 25 May 2003 16:17:21 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO avocet.mail.pas.earthlink.net) (207.217.120.50) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 25 May 2003 16:17:21 -0000 +Received: from user-105n8ak.dialup.mindspring.com ([64.91.161.84]) + by avocet.mail.pas.earthlink.net with esmtp (Exim 3.33 #1) + id 19JyBK-0002TF-00 + for sng@castagraf.com; Sun, 25 May 2003 09:17:10 -0700 +User-Agent: Microsoft-Entourage/10.1.0.2006 +Date: Sun, 25 May 2003 00:21:39 -0400 +Subject: Chriscarrier's poems +From: laura Solomon <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +To: scott gilbertson <sng@castagraf.com> +Message-ID: <BAF5BD14.E26%lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Mime-version: 1.0 +Content-type: multipart/mixed; boundary="B_3136666902_12812765" + +--B_3136666902_12812765 +Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit + +Here's his address to be added to the list: ccarrier@english.umass.edu. +Don't forget to add the other newcomers. + +Okay a bio, I'll send one soon. + +Love, Laura + + +--B_3136666902_12812765 +Content-Type: application/msword; name="chriscarrier.doc" +Content-Transfer-Encoding: base64 +Content-Disposition: attachment + +0M8R4KGxGuEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPgADAP7/CQAGAAAAAAAAAAAAAAABAAAA +MgAAAAAAAAAAEAAANAAAAAEAAAD+////AAAAADEAAAD///////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// 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+AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +DgACAP///////////////wAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAABkAAAAAEAAAAAAAAFcAbwByAGQARABvAGMAdQBtAGUAbgB0AAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAaAAIBBQAAAP////////// +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAB4wAAAAAAAA +BQBTAHUAbQBtAGEAcgB5AEkAbgBmAG8AcgBtAGEAdABpAG8AbgAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACgAAgECAAAABAAAAP////8AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAhAAAAABAAAAAAAAAFAEQAbwBjAHUAbQBlAG4A +dABTAHUAbQBtAGEAcgB5AEkAbgBmAG8AcgBtAGEAdABpAG8AbgAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +OAACAf///////////////wAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAACkAAAAAEAAAAAAAAAEAQwBvAG0AcABPAGIAagAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAASAAIBAQAAAAYAAAD///// +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAFgAAAAAAAAA +TwBiAGoAZQBjAHQAUABvAG8AbAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAABYAAQD///////////////8AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAABk/jVTIsMBAGT+NVMiwwEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAP///////////////wAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAEAAAD+//////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +AQD+/wIAAQD/////BgkCAAAAAADAAAAAAAAARhgAAABNaWNyb3NvZnQgV29yZCBE +b2N1bWVudAD+////TkI2VxAAAABXb3JkLkRvY3VtZW50LjgAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA= + +--B_3136666902_12812765-- + +From lagsolo@castagraf.com Sun May 25 08:59:18 2003 +Return-Path: <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Delivered-To: sng@3 +Received: (qmail 25655 invoked by uid 508); 25 May 2003 15:56:10 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO avocet.mail.pas.earthlink.net) (207.217.120.50) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 25 May 2003 15:56:10 -0000 +Received: from user-105n8ak.dialup.mindspring.com ([64.91.161.84]) + by avocet.mail.pas.earthlink.net with esmtp (Exim 3.33 #1) + id 19Jxqk-0005JH-00 + for sng@castagraf.com; Sun, 25 May 2003 08:55:55 -0700 +User-Agent: Microsoft-Entourage/10.1.0.2006 +Date: Sun, 25 May 2003 00:00:24 -0400 +Subject: FW: No Subject - See Attachment +From: laura Solomon <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +To: scott gilbertson <sng@castagraf.com> +Message-ID: <BAF5B818.E21%lagsolo@castagraf.com> +In-Reply-To: <79.11553bcb.2bfaa90e@aol.com> +Mime-version: 1.0 +Content-type: multipart/mixed; boundary="B_3136665626_12733087" + +--B_3136665626_12733087 +Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit + +Here's Anselm Berrigan's poem. Below a quick bio: + +Anselm Berrigan is the author of two books, Integrity and Dramatic Life, and +Zero Star Hotel, both from Edge Books. + + + +------ Forwarded Message +From: AnselmBerrigan@aol.com +Date: Mon, 19 May 2003 17:39:26 EDT +To: lagsolo@castagraf.com +Subject: No Subject - See Attachment + +Hi Laura, + +I am perhaps way late for anything, but I've got something that might work +for Castagraf if you have a liking for it -- is attached with this e-mail. +It +could be a hassle to format, perhaps, but maybe not. I don't know the ways +of +html too well. At any rate, it's yours if you like; and no problem if the +poem is not up your alley. + +Anselm Berrigan + + +------ End of Forwarded Message + + +--B_3136665626_12733087 +Content-Type: multipart/appledouble; name="Postcards to Brett Evans"; boundary=Mailsmith-D0080AD4-1584-11D9-9BDE-0003930BD39A +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit + +--Mailsmith-D0080AD4-1584-11D9-9BDE-0003930BD39A +Content-Type: application/applefile; name="Postcards to Brett Evans" +Content-Transfer-Encoding: base64 + +AAUWBwACAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAQAAAAIAAAASgAAABAAAAAJAAAAWgAA +ACAAAAADAAAAegAAABgAAAACAAAAkgAAAR667r4Euu7EHYAAAACAAAAAVzhCTk1T +V0QBAAIAAIEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAABQb3N0Y2FyZHMgdG8gQnJldHQgRXZh +bnMAAAEAAAABAAAAAAAAAAAebkV2ZW50cwAAAABcAAkAzQAAAFwADgABAAAAAAAO +AAAYUG9zdGNhcmRzIHRvIEJyZXR0IEV2YW5zLS0tLS1yZwIwVzhCTk1TV0QAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAgAAAAAAAAAC67r4EAAE2AAAAAR4AcgAHAAIAAAAAAAgAAFR5 +cGVMaWIAAAAAAQAAAAAABwADAAgABFZlcnNpb24AMi4wAAAAAAEAAAAAAAAAJgAA 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with Microsoft SMTPSVC; + Sun, 11 May 2003 08:17:50 -0700 +Received: from 64.91.164.75 by lw9fd.law9.hotmail.msn.com with HTTP; + Sun, 11 May 2003 15:17:49 GMT +X-Originating-IP: [64.91.164.75] +X-Originating-Email: [drwaiben@hotmail.com] +From: "sil hawkard" <drwaiben@hotmail.com> +To: sng@luxagraf.com +Bcc: +Subject: Fwd: [PHP] SSH enabled +Date: Sun, 11 May 2003 15:17:49 +0000 +Mime-Version: 1.0 +Content-Type: text/plain; format=flowed +Message-ID: <Law9-F30a7ddhlHs46t00011490@hotmail.com> +X-OriginalArrivalTime: 11 May 2003 15:17:50.0315 (UTC) FILETIME=[7C55F3B0:01C317D0] + + + + +>From: support@phpwebhosting.com +>To: drwaiben@hotmail.com +>Subject: [PHP] SSH enabled +>Date: 28 Apr 2003 20:56:41 -0000 +> +>Dear Customer, +> +>SSH access has been enabled on your account. For security reasons, we no +>longer support telnet. SSH is a safer, more secure alternative to telnet +>(if you are familiar with telnet, ssh operates in the same manner except +>that the connection is fully encrypted). +> +>Free ssh clients are available for most platforms. For PC we recommend: +> +> PuTTY - http://www.chiark.greenend.org.uk/~sgtatham/putty/download.html +> +>For Mac users, we recommend: +> +> MacSSH - http://pro.wanadoo.fr/chombier/MacSSH/SSH_info.html +> +>Linux users, we recommend: +> +> openssh - http://www.openssh.org/ +> +>Please use "your_username.phpwebhosting.com" as the host/ username and make +>sure you select SSH as the protocol (port 22). Your SSH username and +>password is the same as your control panel's username and password. +> +>Your SSH password will always be in sync with your control panel's password +>unless you intentionally change it in the shell. If you do this, and forget +>what you changed it to, you can easily reset / re-sync the password by +>using the "change password" tool in your control panel. +> +>To ensure a stable environment for all users, please note the following: +> +>* Use of IRC, bots, etc. are not allowed. +>* Long running server processes are not allowed +>* If you need compiler access, please submit a request +>* Attempts to hide your actions, command history, etc. will result in +>removal of your account. +> +>Please let us know if you need anything else. We thank you for your +>business. Have a good day! +> +>Sincerely, +> +>Your phpwebhosting.com Support Team +> +> +> +>SSH related FAQ's: +> +>Q - I can't login using telnet +> +>A - For security reasons, we no longer support telnet, only SSH. +> +>SSH is a safer, more secure alternative to telnet. A telnet session uses +>clear text in all transmissions. That means that someone could potentially +>see everything you type including passwords. SSH on the other hand, +>encrypts this information and makes it unreadable. +> +>Q - I can't login using SSH +> +>A - This could be due to several problems. Here is a few of the most common +>- +> +>1. Make sure you are using "your_username.phpwebhsting.com" as the +>host/username and make sure you select SSH as the protocol (port 22). Some +>SSH clients, such as PuTTY can operate as telnet or SSH, so it is necessary +>to make sure you are using the correct protocol. +> +>2. Make sure you are using the correct username and password. Your SSH +>password should always be in sync with your control panel's password unless +>you intentionally changed it in the shell. If you did this, and forgot what +>you changed it to, you can easily reset / re-sync the password by using the +>"change password" tool in your control panel. +> +>(Also, be sure you are using the correct case. All UNIX passwords are CaSe +>SeNsiTiVe!) +> +>3. You are behind a network firewall that blocks ssh. We can put ssh on the +>telnet port, please note however that some firewalls block telnet too. In +>these cases you will need to ask your local firewall administrator to open +>the ssh port for you (port 22). +> + +_________________________________________________________________ +Add photos to your e-mail with MSN 8. Get 2 months FREE*. +http://join.msn.com/?page=features/featuredemail + + + +From drwaiben@hotmail.com Sat Apr 26 16:31:37 2003 +Return-Path: <drwaiben@hotmail.com> +Delivered-To: sng@3 +Received: (qmail 21873 invoked by uid 508); 26 Apr 2003 15:45:11 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO hotmail.com) (64.4.9.56) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 26 Apr 2003 15:45:11 -0000 +Received: from mail pickup service by hotmail.com with Microsoft SMTPSVC; + Sat, 26 Apr 2003 08:45:02 -0700 +Received: from 64.91.160.111 by lw9fd.law9.hotmail.msn.com with HTTP; + Sat, 26 Apr 2003 15:45:01 GMT +X-Originating-IP: [64.91.160.111] +X-Originating-Email: [drwaiben@hotmail.com] +From: "sil hawkard" <drwaiben@hotmail.com> +To: sng@castagraf.com +Bcc: +Subject: Fwd: Your phpwebhosting.com account +Date: Sat, 26 Apr 2003 15:45:01 +0000 +Mime-Version: 1.0 +Content-Type: text/plain; format=flowed +Message-ID: <Law9-F56Sg7IDfIufSS0000b2ac@hotmail.com> +X-OriginalArrivalTime: 26 Apr 2003 15:45:02.0056 (UTC) FILETIME=[CCBB9E80:01C30C0A] + + + + + + + + +>From: support@phpwebhosting.com +>To: drwaiben@hotmail.com +>Subject: Your phpwebhosting.com account +>Date: 25 Apr 2003 17:03:50 -0000 +> +>Dear Customer, +> +>Your account at phpwebhosting.com has been created and is now ready for +>use. You may access your control panel at the following URL: +> +> http://mili.phpwebhosting.com/ +> +>. Your login WILL NOT work on the main www.phpwebhosting.com login page, it +>will only work on your particular server. +> +>You may access your website at the following URL: +> +>http://mili.phpwebhosting.com/~luxagraf +> +>After our DNS updates (normally within a few hours) you'll be able to +>access your domain at: +> +> luxagraf.phpwebhosting.com +> +>If you have a domain name, it will begin resolving to your account here as +>soon as you update your whois record to use our nameservers. Your record +>should be updated to: +> +>Nameserver 1: ns1.phpwebhosting.com +> 64.65.1.112 +>Nameserver 2: ns2.phpwebhosting.com +> 64.65.34.231 +> +>Important: If you did not specify a domain name when you signed up and want +>to add one later, you MUST send us a message to tell us about the domain. +>Setting your DNS to us is not enough, you must also let us know the name of +>your domain so that we can add it to our servers. +> +>Your username is luxagraf and you may upload your files via ftp to the +>server mili.phpwebhosting.com. If you require telnet or secure shell +>access, please submit a request through the control panel request form and +>access will be granted as soon as your credit card information is verfied. +> +>If you have any other questions please send them through the form in your +>control panel (you can login to your control panel at: +> +> http://mili.phpwebhosting.com/ +> +>Thanks for your business and have a great day! +> +>Your phpwebhosting.com Customer Support Team +> +> + +_________________________________________________________________ +Add photos to your e-mail with MSN 8. Get 2 months FREE*. +http://join.msn.com/?page=features/featuredemail + + + + +From drwaiben@hotmail.com Sat Apr 26 16:31:36 2003 +Return-Path: <drwaiben@hotmail.com> +Delivered-To: sng@3 +Received: (qmail 20489 invoked by uid 508); 26 Apr 2003 15:44:18 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO hotmail.com) (64.4.9.63) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 26 Apr 2003 15:44:18 -0000 +Received: from mail pickup service by hotmail.com with Microsoft SMTPSVC; + Sat, 26 Apr 2003 08:44:13 -0700 +Received: from 64.91.160.111 by lw9fd.law9.hotmail.msn.com with HTTP; + Sat, 26 Apr 2003 15:44:13 GMT +X-Originating-IP: [64.91.160.111] +X-Originating-Email: [drwaiben@hotmail.com] +From: "sil hawkard" <drwaiben@hotmail.com> +To: sng@castagraf.com +Bcc: +Subject: Fwd: Domain Name Order Confirmation Order # 1051289097740 +Date: Sat, 26 Apr 2003 15:44:13 +0000 +Mime-Version: 1.0 +Content-Type: text/plain; format=flowed +Message-ID: <Law9-F63mYDKFJ2I13p0000b2a9@hotmail.com> +X-OriginalArrivalTime: 26 Apr 2003 15:44:13.0924 (UTC) FILETIME=[B00B4240:01C30C0A] + + + + + + + + +>From: Active Domain - Sales <sales@active-domain.com> +>To: drwaiben@hotmail.com +>Subject: Domain Name Order Confirmation Order # 1051289097740 +>Date: Sat, 26 Apr 2003 13:39:34 +0800 +> +>Dear Customer, +> +>Thank you for your recent domain registration order. Your order has been +>processed as follows: +> +>The following domain was registered successfully: +> +>luxagraf.com - (1 Year) +> +>Please note that this transaction will appear in your credit card statement +>as: "WP-Active Domain" or something similar. +> +>You may begin to configure your domain name at this address: +>https://domainpanel.com/ +> +>Your log in password is: 5540826 +> +>You should change your password to something you are familiar with. You may +>do that in our Domain Manager after you have log in. Please note that it +>will take up to 72 hours before your domain is active. At the same time, +>you may also see the above domain(s) as available in a whois search. This +>is normal, as the whois server will update the status of newly registered +>domains only after 48 hours. +> +>To help you get started in configuring your domain, we have provided +>detailed information on how to use our Domain Manager. You may read about +>it here: http://active-domain.com/help/faq.htm +> +>Thank you for using Active Domain's services. If you have any questions +>regarding this order or any of our services feel free to contact our +>technical support staff at: support@active-domain.com. +> +>Sincerely, +> +> +>Sales Team +>Active Domain +>http://active-domain.com +> +>Thinking of Web Hosting? +>http://active-venture.com + +_________________________________________________________________ +Tired of spam? Get advanced junk mail protection with MSN 8. +http://join.msn.com/?page=features/junkmail + + + + +From staplesv@yahoo.com Mon Apr 21 17:56:31 2003 +Return-Path: <staplesv@yahoo.com> +Delivered-To: submit@3 +Received: (qmail 27232 invoked by uid 508); 21 Apr 2003 19:12:10 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO web40408.mail.yahoo.com) (66.218.78.105) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 21 Apr 2003 19:12:10 -0000 +Message-ID: <20030421191153.53688.qmail@web40408.mail.yahoo.com> +Received: from [128.192.199.53] by web40408.mail.yahoo.com via HTTP; Mon, 21 Apr 2003 12:11:53 PDT +Date: Mon, 21 Apr 2003 12:11:53 -0700 (PDT) +From: john staples <staplesv@yahoo.com> +Subject: Re: castagraf +To: submit <submit@castagraf.com> +In-Reply-To: <F5E57ED7-6D16-11D7-8C1D-0003930BD39A@castagraf.com> +MIME-Version: 1.0 +Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii + +SCott, I'll have a look to see what I've got, but it +will also take about a half an hour of Heidi trying to +convince me that what I've got is presentable among +the kind of upper crust folk you're dealing with. + +I had a really shitty week last week, btw, my advisor +informed me that I'm taking two classes that don't +count toward my fucking degree(!). I'm sorting it out +but spending more time on it than I've put into +classes so far, and so forth. + + +Sounds like a good prescription, departing the old +sod. Amherst is it, or that town near it? Nice one +anyway, good to see another escape in progress. Heidi +has a different perspective what with all these +impressive poets arriving in the summer. Oh well. +Give me your number again just in case I don't have it +or you've moved and I'll give you a buzz. +Alater. + + +--- submit <submit@castagraf.com> wrote: +> John- +> +> how's it going? I heard you got into Syracuse... +> congratulations. (the +> jinx of castagraf did not appear work its evil magic +> on you--out of the +> five people i've published that i know applied to +> grad school, you're +> the only one that got in). +> +> I'm in the process of putting together a new issue +> and i was wondering +> if you might have a short story or two you'd be +> willing to give us... +> +> +> I'm leaving town for good on the 5th of May so we +> need to go out some +> night between now and then and have a few drinks and +> maybe shoot some +> pool. +> +> talk to you soon +> +> Scott +> + + +__________________________________________________ +Do you Yahoo!? +The New Yahoo! Search - Faster. Easier. Bingo +http://search.yahoo.com + + + +From frazzmata@hotmail.com Sat Apr 19 01:39:22 2003 +Return-Path: <frazzmata@hotmail.com> +Delivered-To: submit@3 +Received: (qmail 4939 invoked by uid 508); 18 Apr 2003 18:56:34 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO hotmail.com) (65.54.247.42) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 18 Apr 2003 18:56:34 -0000 +Received: from mail pickup service by hotmail.com with Microsoft SMTPSVC; + Fri, 18 Apr 2003 11:56:28 -0700 +Received: from 156.42.68.23 by by2fd.bay2.hotmail.msn.com with HTTP; + Fri, 18 Apr 2003 18:56:27 GMT +X-Originating-IP: [156.42.68.23] +X-Originating-Email: [frazzmata@hotmail.com] +From: "Ken F" <frazzmata@hotmail.com> +To: submit@castagraf.com +Bcc: +Subject: tons of those +Date: Fri, 18 Apr 2003 11:56:27 -0700 +Mime-Version: 1.0 +Content-Type: text/plain; format=flowed +Message-ID: <BAY2-F42yF1BcI3Em6k0000c050@hotmail.com> +X-OriginalArrivalTime: 18 Apr 2003 18:56:28.0146 (UTC) FILETIME=[37ABDD20:01C305DC] + +I have hundreds of those vignettes, short stories, etc. + +heres one more, let me know if you like them. + + +Rotting Fruit and Insect Carapaces... +By +Ken Fowles + + + I stood out in the driveway of the old house. She was finally leaving. + It dawned on me that I hadn't seen the sun in three months. + "I can't sit around and watch you kill yourself, not without killing +myself too," she said. She was packing the car and didn't look me in the eye +as she said it. As if she were talking to the boxes and stacks of clothes in +the trunk. + Butch and Mika, our two pit bulls, sat in the car with their tongues +hanging out. They think they are going to the beach or the park; it's all +the same to them. They look at me with those dumb happy eyes and I realize I +will never see them again. + We argued a little over who was going to take the dogs. + "You can't keep them, they'll die here with you," she said. "You don't +even know how you're going to eat, how are you going to feed them?" + What was all this talk about dying? + "I don't eat much," I said. + "Well, they do." + That won the argument, what could I say in rebuttal? + + "Where will you go?" I asked as if I didn't know. + "To my parents," she said. "I need to get help." + She still hadn't looked at me since the whole whirlwind of packing +began. She was good at being purposeful, at following through, at sucking it +up and doing what needed to be done. I envied that in her. + + I also envied the fact that she was going to escape. She was going to +leave the needles,the piling bills, and the rain behind. There were people +in the world that loved her. I didn't have that. I had her. + + I stood there with my hands in my pockets and my shoulders shrugged +against the cold drizzle. I watched her maneuvering the boxes to fit in the +trunk. Stacking and restacking to make everything fit. + She wasn't taking much, her favorite clothes, her guitar, her books, +and the dogs. She didn't mind having to get everything again, rebuilding was +easy for her. She didn't get attached to things. She was a people person. It +took alot for her to give up on someone. + + I smoked a cigarette, paying close attention to the smoke blending with +the mist. I even blew smoke rings. It had been years since I'd done that but +I had to keep my mind busy. I had to battle back the heaviness that +threatened to pull me into the cold, cold ground. Smoke rings seemed as good +of a distraction as anything. + + The packing storm ended with a climactic slamming of the trunk on the +old Honda. + + It was just she and I then, mano a mano. Now the hard part. + + She looked at me with amber eyes, her lower lip weighted, like a play +pout, but it was real. The moisture in her eyes was trying to become tears +but she fought them off. The action caused a slight twitch of the muscles in +her cheeks. An errant lock of hair hung in her face. She moved it behind her +ear but it came right back. + + "Why'd you have to start getting high again?" she asked. + "You got high too." + "Only because you did." + "Come on," I said. + "I would not have used if you didn't use first." + "Ok," I said. + + She stood there, not sure what to do with herself. She lit a cigarette. +She inhaled deeply, like she was angry at it and wanted to suck it all down +at once, to destroy it. + + We stood in silence smoking cigarettes. Together and so far apart. + + "I hate you, you fuckin' asshole," she said. I knew she meant something +else. She meant she loved me and hated that I had made it so she couldn't be +with me. I understood. I hated me for it too. + + When the cigarette was done, she walked up to me. Looking at the +ground. She got close to me, pushing her body lightly against mine. Her arms +hung limply at her side. I felt the swell of her breast against my chest, +her hip bone firm against mine. She was all soft and dense with life. + + I realized then just how badly I had fucked up. I wrapped one arm +around her back. Her small muscular back, and tried to hold on. +She wiggled free and said, " Don't." + I dropped my arm and stood there with her pressed against me, and felt +awkward. I suddenly wanted her gone, if she was going to go, I wanted her to +get the fuck out of there. + + It was hell. I want back to my dope and to my hustle. When there is no +action there is only sadness. I needed to get moving, inertia is a killer. I +am like a shark, moving to stay alive and consuming everything in my path. + + "Will you get help please? You could be so much, please get help," she +said. She started to cry then, really cry, rivers and lakes of tears. The +Tacoma skies were jealous. + + "I will." I said. + "No," she yelled and hit me in the chest. A hard hit that made a deep +thud like I were an empty wooden barrel. "You won't you motherfucker. I know +you won't. I won't be at your funeral, Do you hear me? I won't be there." + She stepped back from me, almost as if repelled back by some force. + She jumped into the car and started it, it fired up and she revved and +revved the engine like it was trying to die on her. She backed out of the +driveway and disappeared around the corner. I could hear the water hissing +under her wheels after she was out of sight. + + I watched the road for some time after she was gone. Hoping she'd come +back and knowing she wouldn't. + + I crept back inside and went straight to the bathroom. I did as much +heroin as I thought I could take without an OD. Then I sat on the old +cracked toilet and flipped through the pictures in my wallet. Wedding +pictures, camping trips, christmases. + + Melancholy was there but so was the smack, and tears were far far away. + + + + +_________________________________________________________________ +Tired of spam? Get advanced junk mail protection with MSN 8. +http://join.msn.com/?page=features/junkmail + + + + +From frazzmata@hotmail.com Sat Apr 19 01:39:16 2003 +Return-Path: <frazzmata@hotmail.com> +Delivered-To: submit@3 +Received: (qmail 4130 invoked by uid 508); 18 Apr 2003 18:51:33 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO hotmail.com) (65.54.247.25) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 18 Apr 2003 18:51:33 -0000 +Received: from mail pickup service by hotmail.com with Microsoft SMTPSVC; + Fri, 18 Apr 2003 11:51:27 -0700 +Received: from 156.42.68.23 by by2fd.bay2.hotmail.msn.com with HTTP; + Fri, 18 Apr 2003 18:51:26 GMT +X-Originating-IP: [156.42.68.23] +X-Originating-Email: [frazzmata@hotmail.com] +From: "Ken F" <frazzmata@hotmail.com> +To: submit@castagraf.com +Bcc: +Subject: some shit from me. +Date: Fri, 18 Apr 2003 11:51:26 -0700 +Mime-Version: 1.0 +Content-Type: text/plain; format=flowed +Message-ID: <BAY2-F25pZOv4z0mNj20000bfb3@hotmail.com> +X-OriginalArrivalTime: 18 Apr 2003 18:51:27.0018 (UTC) FILETIME=[842F60A0:01C305DB] + + +My name is Ken Fowles. I am a writer of sorts, ex-con, loser, etc etc. +I write vignettes, short plays, poems. Here's a little something. +There will be formatting issues I assume. + + +Like Fred Astaire, if he wasn't... +By +Ken Fowles + + + + + "Care to dance?" I asked. Drunk. + "What makes you think she wants to dance with you?" the fat one said +and her second chin jiggled. + "Stop cock blocking," I said to the fat friend without making eye +contact. + "I think that's a good question, why would I want to dance with you?" +She asked. She was short, thin, neck like a swan. + "I am the greatest dancer in the world." + The fat one laughed. This time I did look at her, bullets of "shut the +fuck up" fired from my eyes. + She shut the fuck up. + "The greatest dancer in the world huh?" she said and sipped on her +drink. It had an umbrella coming out of it. Way too classy for this +shithole, but so was she. + "Yup, I'm Travolta," I said. + "Ok then, let's dance." + She slid out of the booth and her friend watched me, trying to fire +back bullets of her own. I winked at her and smiled that grin of mine. + + She went to the jukebox with my dollar. Slid it in and selected songs. +I took the opportunity to drink another beer. + Some shit came out of the speakers, some R & B shit. + Her hips started moving as she approached me. I was fucked, I was way +out of my league. + "You can't dance at all can you?" + "Not a step." + "Why'd you say you were the greatest dancer in the world?" + "With practice, and maybe a different body, I would be." + "I could be thoroughly disappointed and sit down and say bad things +about you to my friends," she said. + "You'd have plenty of company. Lots of people have been disappointed." + "I'm sure they have." + "The truth is, I usally don't talk to strange women at all." + "Why?" + "Ferocious cowardice." + "Why'd you talk to me?" + "I'm drunk." + "I see." + + She showed me how to dance a little. Showed me how to move. Mostly she +just moved and I touched her where ever she told me to. + + We closed the place, still talking when the bartender was sweeping +around us, like in a movie. + Then she had to go. + + "My husband will freak." + I said nothing. + "You didn't know I was married?" + "Usually, I don't know stuff people don't tell me," I said. + "I'm married. Sorry." + "Here I thought we had something," I said. + "We did, we had a dance." + "Don't mind me. I always think things are other things." + "Sometimes they are." + "Not with me." + "It was fun, I'm going to go." + "Ok." + She got up and left as if we never talked, as if we were total +strangers. I guess we were. It's just that I had fallen in love. I do that +alot. + I have alcohol again, and soon my heart will be cold, so very very +cold. + + + +_________________________________________________________________ +Add photos to your messages with MSN 8. Get 2 months FREE*. +http://join.msn.com/?page=features/featuredemail + + + + +From CY2000607747059@aol.com Fri Apr 18 11:50:07 2003 +Return-Path: <anonymous@glow.phpwebhosting.com> +Delivered-To: editor@castagraf.com +Received: (qmail 21691 invoked by uid 991); 18 Apr 2003 15:43:11 -0000 +Date: 18 Apr 2003 15:43:11 -0000 +Message-ID: <20030418154311.21690.qmail@glow.phpwebhosting.com> +Subject: [sundry exotica] New Comment Posted to 'welcome to everything else' +From: CY2000607747059@aol.com +To: editor@castagraf.com + +A new comment has been posted on your blog sundry exotica, on +entry #19 (welcome to everything else). + +http://www.castagraf.com/cgi-bin/mt/mt-comments.cgi?entry_id=19 + +IP Address: 64.12.97.9 +Name: Cynthia +Email Address: CY2000607747059@aol.com +URL: + +Comments: + + hi astounding publication + + enjoy the we are about writing style + and the use of language by the writers + especially christine m. + + do you read unsolicited submissions? + +-- +Powered by Movable Type +Version 2.51 +http://www.movabletype.org/ + + + + +From lagsolo@castagraf.com Tue Apr 8 18:47:56 2003 +Return-Path: <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Delivered-To: sng@3 +Received: (qmail 11085 invoked by uid 508); 8 Apr 2003 22:37:22 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO albatross.mail.pas.earthlink.net) (207.217.120.120) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 8 Apr 2003 22:37:22 -0000 +Received: from user-uinj221.dialup.mindspring.com ([165.121.136.65]) + by albatross.mail.pas.earthlink.net with esmtp (Exim 3.33 #1) + id 1931hK-0002MJ-00 + for sng@castagraf.com; Tue, 08 Apr 2003 15:36:10 -0700 +User-Agent: Microsoft-Entourage/10.1.0.2006 +Date: Tue, 08 Apr 2003 06:39:18 -0400 +Subject: FW: cleer5 +From: laura Solomon <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +To: scott gilbertson <sng@castagraf.com> +Message-ID: <BAB81F18.BE9%lagsolo@castagraf.com> +In-Reply-To: <4.3.2.7.2.20030408072915.02cdc470@pop.service.ohio-state.edu> +Mime-version: 1.0 +Content-type: multipart/mixed; boundary="B_3132628778_13131444" + +--B_3132628778_13131444 +Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit + + +------ Forwarded Message +From: "John M. Bennett" <bennett.23@osu.edu> +Date: Tue, 08 Apr 2003 07:31:55 -0400 +To: lagsolo@castagraf.com +Subject: cleer5 + +Greetings! +Michael Peters told me about your site - looks real good. Here's an image +you might want to use (it's Visual Poetry) - I'll send another in a +separate email - Let me know what you think! + +Onword, +John + + +__________________________________________ +Dr. John M. Bennett +Curator, Avant Writing Collection +Rare Books & Manuscripts Library +The Ohio State University Libraries +1858 Neil Av Mall +Columbus, OH 43210 USA + +(614) 292-3029 +bennett.23@osu.edu +___________________________________________ + + +------ End of Forwarded Message + + +--B_3132628778_13131444 +Content-Type: image/jpeg; name="cleen5rgb72dpi1.jpg" +Content-Transfer-Encoding: base64 +Content-Disposition: attachment + +/9j/4AAQSkZJRgABAgAAZABkAAD/7AARRHVja3kAAQAEAAAACgAA/+4AIUFkb2Jl +AGTAAAAAAQMAEAMCAwYAACOQAABg/gAA347/2wCEABQQEBkSGScXFycyJh8mMi4m +JiYmLj41NTU1NT5EQUFBQUFBREREREREREREREREREREREREREREREREREREREQB +FRkZIBwgJhgYJjYmICY2RDYrKzZERERCNUJERERERERERERERERERERERERERERE +RERERERERERERERERERERP/CABEIAxcCYAMBIgACEQEDEQH/xADhAAACAwEBAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAABQEDBAIGAQEBAQEBAQAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAQIDBAUQAAICAgECBgED +BQEBAAIDAAECAwQABRESExAgMCExFAZAIhVQQTIjJDNgcDRCJRYRAAIBAgMEBgcG +BAMHBAAGAwECEQADITESQVFhInGBkTITBBChscHRQlIw8OFiciNAkjMUIPGCorLC 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lagsolo@castagraf.com Tue Apr 8 18:47:28 2003 +Return-Path: <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Delivered-To: sng@3 +Received: (qmail 10941 invoked by uid 508); 8 Apr 2003 22:36:11 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO albatross.mail.pas.earthlink.net) (207.217.120.120) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 8 Apr 2003 22:36:11 -0000 +Received: from user-uinj221.dialup.mindspring.com ([165.121.136.65]) + by albatross.mail.pas.earthlink.net with esmtp (Exim 3.33 #1) + id 1931gm-0002MJ-00 + for sng@castagraf.com; Tue, 08 Apr 2003 15:35:37 -0700 +User-Agent: Microsoft-Entourage/10.1.0.2006 +Date: Tue, 08 Apr 2003 06:39:00 -0400 +Subject: FW: firework low res jpgeg cleen1 +From: laura Solomon <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +To: scott gilbertson <sng@castagraf.com> +Message-ID: <BAB81F06.BE8%lagsolo@castagraf.com> +In-Reply-To: <4.3.2.7.2.20030408073259.02dc24b8@pop.service.ohio-state.edu> +Mime-version: 1.0 +Content-type: multipart/mixed; boundary="B_3132628743_13124542" + +--B_3132628743_13124542 +Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit + + +------ Forwarded Message +From: "John M. Bennett" <bennett.23@osu.edu> +Date: Tue, 08 Apr 2003 07:33:17 -0400 +To: lagsolo@castagraf.com +Subject: firework low res jpgeg cleen1 + +Here's the other - +John + + +__________________________________________ +Dr. John M. Bennett +Curator, Avant Writing Collection +Rare Books & Manuscripts Library +The Ohio State University Libraries +1858 Neil Av Mall +Columbus, OH 43210 USA + +(614) 292-3029 +bennett.23@osu.edu +___________________________________________ + + +------ End of Forwarded Message + + +--B_3132628743_13124542 +Content-Type: image/jpeg; name="cleen1-rgb72dpifw.jpg" +Content-Transfer-Encoding: base64 +Content-Disposition: attachment + +/9j/4AAQSkZJRgABAQEASABIAAD/2wBDAA0JCgsKCA0LCgsODg0PEyAVExISEycc +HhcgLikxMC4pLSwzOko+MzZGNywtQFdBRkxOUlNSMj5aYVpQYEpRUk//2wBDAQ4O +DhMREyYVFSZPNS01T09PT09PT09PT09PT09PT09PT09PT09PT09PT09PT09PT09P +T09PT09PT09PT09PT0//wAARCAMXAmADASIAAhEBAxEB/8QAGwAAAQUBAQAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAECBAUGAwf/xABHEAABAwMCBAQDBwIDBwQBAwUBAgMEAAUREiEGMUFR +EyJhcRQygSNCUpGhscEV0TNi4QcWJENygvAlNJLxU0RjsiY1c4PS/8QAGgEBAQEB +AQEBAAAAAAAAAAAAAAECAwQFBv/EADQRAAICAQQBAgQFAwQCAwAAAAABAhEDBBIh +MVETQQUiMmEUcYGh8COxwTNCkdEVJFLh8f/aAAwDAQACEQMRAD8A9I8NH4RSeGj8 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Elizabethzechel@aol.com + by imo-r04.mx.aol.com (mail_out_v34.21.) id m.f2.2a8c8dc9 (2612) + for <submit@castagraf.com>; Sun, 16 Mar 2003 17:53:37 -0500 (EST) +From: Elizabethzechel@aol.com +Message-ID: <f2.2a8c8dc9.2ba65a71@aol.com> +Date: Sun, 16 Mar 2003 17:53:37 EST +Subject: Elizabeth Zechel's Painting Information +To: submit@castagraf.com +MIME-Version: 1.0 +Content-Type: multipart/mixed; boundary="part1_f2.2a8c8dc9.2ba65a71_boundary" +X-Mailer: AOL 4.0 for Windows 95 sub 113 + +--part1_f2.2a8c8dc9.2ba65a71_boundary +Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit + +Here are the titles and etc of the works on Castagraf. Sorry it took so long. +I've attached the same info in case this "dis-formats" on its way to you... + +1. Making Me + 30" x 40", Oil + 2002 + + +2. Hate Camp +42" x 38", Oil, Thread +2002 + + +3. Guilty or No Fun + 42" x 44", Oil + 2002 + + +4. For My Husband + 36" x 36", Oil + 2002 + + +5. I Have Become Home + 52" x 38", Oil + 2002 + + +6. Swan Greed: For Raymond Roussel + 40" x 30", Oil, Thread + 2002 + + + 7. Stolen Glimpses + 47" x 40", Oil + 2002 + + +8. 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8 02:40:48 2003 +Return-Path: <salanej@mac.com> +Delivered-To: submit@3 +Received: (qmail 8801 invoked by uid 508); 8 Mar 2003 00:05:56 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO smtpout.mac.com) (17.250.248.87) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 8 Mar 2003 00:05:56 -0000 +Received: from woappsx47.mac.com (woappsx47-en1 [10.13.11.147]) + by smtpout.mac.com (Xserve/MantshX 2.0) with ESMTP id h2805sXl019792 + for <submit@castagraf.com>; Fri, 7 Mar 2003 16:05:55 -0800 (PST) +Received: from woappsx47 (localhost [127.0.0.1]) + by woappsx47.mac.com (8.12.2/8.12.2) with ESMTP id h2805sih010037 + for <submit@castagraf.com>; Fri, 7 Mar 2003 16:05:54 -0800 (PST) +Message-ID: <5202324.1047081954504.JavaMail.salanej@mac.com> +Date: Fri, 07 Mar 2003 16:05:54 -0800 +From: Jeffrey Salane <salanej@mac.com> +To: submit <submit@castagraf.com> +Subject: Re: Interesting submission? +Mime-Version: 1.0 +Content-Type: text/plain; charset=ISO-8859-1 +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit + +Hello Editorish- + +I knew about the Whalebone Essays already, which is why I had the initial thought to ask about the novel concept, plus all my friends were pushing me to send this stuff to you. To be honest, the novel is still in its beginning stages and doesn't go on much farther than what you have received. At least, I only have a few more parts that I am prepared to show anyone right at this moment. That said, I would love to actually give you the piece as a one time run, if you and your partner are interested. I'm abandoning the one whole novel published by one place idea and moving into the Jenny Boully train of thought where pieces of the novel can appear in multiple magazines. + +However, and I apologize for the conversational tone of this email,let me tell you about the grand design of the story. I wanted to write a novel that existed without narrative structure. But that didn't work. So I started writing these small pieces about my life, about my parents life when they were my age, and then about their parents when they were my age, circling around what it means to be a Young American, coming from America, coming from the South, coming from a foriegn country (Italy), having our name changed, coming from wars with foreign countries (Vietnam, Korea) and connecting all the violence, discovery, and mistakes of youth culture and American culture. + +This all comes from a recent, close study of Ben Marcus, Lydia Davis, and Anne Carson (all being big names) and looking closely at how they handle story-telling, and then seeing all of those "what it's like to be alive in the '60s" books, and suddenly I realized how similar and drastically different America is, in and of itself. And this is certainly not an attempt like "Gangs of New York" to show grit, true spirit, and the bloody nature of things. It's a new set of glasses, a different heart in the same body, it jogs the mind around what exists, what existed, and what remains in this American Life. Plus being in NYC at the moment, here for the attacks, here for the protests, here to see Bush take leadership and drive the country down, it hurtles me into a hyperstate of quandry and questionable mindset, about what we do to be who we are and where we learned it. + +So please, send this to your co-editor. I suppose you have met Danielle, my co-editor for la petite zin, by now, seeing as how you're both in Athens. She's an amazing person with a mind to match and I miss her dearly now that she's away from the city. + +I look forward to hearing back from you, and if you would like more of the story, there are extra sections, I'll send whatever you need. + +Thanks so much. + +Jeff + + + +From salanej@mac.com Wed Feb 26 00:45:36 2003 +Return-Path: <salanej@mac.com> +Delivered-To: submit@3 +Received: (qmail 9219 invoked by uid 508); 26 Feb 2003 05:17:59 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO smtpout.mac.com) (17.250.248.89) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 26 Feb 2003 05:17:59 -0000 +Received: from asmtp01.mac.com (asmtp01-qfe3 [10.13.10.65]) + by smtpout.mac.com (Xserve/MantshX 2.0) with ESMTP id h1Q5Hs8I020662 + for <submit@castagraf.com>; Tue, 25 Feb 2003 21:17:54 -0800 (PST) +Received: from Jeffrey-Salanes-Computer.local ([216.165.3.230]) + by asmtp01.mac.com (Netscape Messaging Server 4.15) with ESMTP + id HAWHDQ00.NRX for <submit@castagraf.com>; Tue, 25 Feb 2003 + 21:17:50 -0800 +Date: Tue, 25 Feb 2003 00:22:48 -0500 +Mime-Version: 1.0 (Apple Message framework v543) +Content-Type: multipart/mixed; boundary=Apple-Mail-11--876108371 +Subject: Interesting submission? +From: Jeffrey Salane <salanej@mac.com> +To: submit@castagraf.com +Message-Id: <2D92CAC7-4881-11D7-9E81-000393758974@mac.com> +X-Mailer: Apple Mail (2.543) + +--Apple-Mail-11--876108371 +Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit + +Dear Editorish Person- + +I have an offer for you, perhaps. I am in the process of writing a +novel in verse and heard from a few good folks that this idea might be +crazy enough for you and yours. + +Would you be interested publishing the entire novel, in excerpts, of +course, for as long as the novel or castagraf stands? + +If this doesn't sound like something you would be interested in, I +completely understand, it's a bit of a crazy notion, but in running +another on-line magazine (www.lapetitezine.com) I understand the +freedom we have, or can have if we want it. + +I'm including the first section for you to review. Thanks for your +time and efforts in reading this piece, and I look forward to hearing +>from you soon. + +Jeff +--Apple-Mail-11--876108371 +Content-Type: application/msword; name="Young.Americans.doc" +Content-Transfer-Encoding: base64 +Content-Disposition: attachment + +0M8R4KGxGuEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPgADAP7/CQAGAAAAAAAAAAAAAAABAAAA +JgAAAAAAAAAAEAAAKAAAAAEAAAD+////AAAAACUAAAD///////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +///////////////////////////////////////////spcEAG0AJBAAA8BK/AAAA 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+AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAFgAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAD///////////////8AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAP///////////////wAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAEAAAD+//////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +AQD+/wIAAQD/////BgkCAAAAAADAAAAAAAAARhgAAABNaWNyb3NvZnQgV29yZCBE +b2N1bWVudAD+////TkI2VxAAAABXb3JkLkRvY3VtZW50LjgAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA= + +--Apple-Mail-11--876108371-- + +From Sycamoresandra@aol.com Wed Feb 19 10:19:38 2003 +Return-Path: <Sycamoresandra@aol.com> +Delivered-To: submit@3 +Received: (qmail 29930 invoked by uid 508); 19 Feb 2003 02:08:12 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO imo-m02.mx.aol.com) (64.12.136.5) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 19 Feb 2003 02:08:12 -0000 +Received: from Sycamoresandra@aol.com + by imo-m02.mx.aol.com (mail_out_v34.21.) id m.168.1addaba8 (25305) + for <submit@castagraf.com>; Tue, 18 Feb 2003 21:08:07 -0500 (EST) +From: Sycamoresandra@aol.com +Message-ID: <168.1addaba8.2b844106@aol.com> +Date: Tue, 18 Feb 2003 21:08:06 EST +Subject: 2 poems +To: submit@castagraf.com +MIME-Version: 1.0 +Content-Type: multipart/alternative; boundary="part1_168.1addaba8.2b844106_boundary" +X-Mailer: 6.0 sub 10578 + +--part1_168.1addaba8.2b844106_boundary +Content-Type: text/plain; charset=UTF-8 +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit + +Thankyou for taking the time to review the enclosed poems. My poems will +appear in the upcoming issues of Barrow Street, Lynx Eye, California Quarterly +, Poetry Motel, Muse Apprentice Guild and The Monday Poetry Report. My poems +have also recently been published in Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review, H2So4, +Can We Have Our Ball Back? and Shampoo. I received a BA inCreative Writing +and Psychology from UCLA. Currently, I am pursuing my MFA atthe University of +Montana, in Missoula. Thanks, Sandra + +______________________________________________________________________ +darkens + +and what could I do there +within without the dim world will lighten will +shed its lightened world and then the grass +will not be grass will be not +grass again these hours slipping cells +slipping weird +cells I tell you this place + is where I learned + + * + +about time +or at least unlocked the arc +of thought the cement poured +on the rhetoric hardened + ideas flexed, + + * + + +fixed like backbone +you say nothing in + particular and it’s + +true that it’s nothing + + in particular that makes me think +of those who were missing +the letters of their names + + + * + + + like teeth + and as I walked + out into the steel + +dawn—snow light, + +dark, packed tightly into + +the vacancy of the coiled + + winter sidewalks no bridge +flickered home it was my first day + + + + * + +of freedom + so I watched the trail + +of the jet’s tail end fall +seated opposite + the ocean and desire came slowly + and steadily down +like a drizzle onthe lyrics + then veering off + you say nothing + + * + +you say happens +or happens to be about anything +because you use your intelligence +of language as a trap- +door out +of your own and I say that’s true + + but I can never find + +the stone to push so that the door + + + * +will open +my long +sentence soaking + up the sounds of these birds +>from this bridge pulling away the sky with their sharp flight +___________________________________________________________________ +[There is steam] + +There is steam. There is fire. + +Some shout, All + +aboard the train but I call it + + + +the push through + + + +days. Not the forest. Not + + + +the speed. Yes, the way to recall + + + +forest and speed like silver and gold + + + +coins. The chug + + + +a lug. We buy and sell + + + +and buy. We + + + +bury. And in between—the trap of hold + + + +my hand, the trap of must + + + +breathe of no choice only to + + + +clutch, but I do not want to but I do + + + +anyway. No real + + + +reason. None unreal either. + + + +The tunnel’s weird + + + +and stunning. At times + + + +the beautiful shoved right + + + +through your pupil. Only + + + + nothing seems to + + + +catch. Only leaves. + + + +Leaves sped up or left + + + +behind like green pennies. + + + +On the way to the eye is an accident + + + +on the way to the mind. Here + + + +we go, the flowers burn + + + +and bloom. + + + +--part1_168.1addaba8.2b844106_boundary +Content-Type: text/html; charset=UTF-8 +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit + +<HTML><FONT FACE=arial,helvetica><FONT SIZE=2>Thankyou for taking the time to review the enclosed poems. My poems will appear in the upcoming issues of <I>Barrow Street</I>, <I>Lynx Eye</I>, <I>California Quarterly</I>, <I>Poetry Motel</I>, <I>Muse Apprentice Guild</I> and <I>The Monday Poetry Report</I>. My poems have also recently been published in Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review, H2So4, Can We Have Our Ball Back? and <I>Shampoo</I>. I received a BA inCreative Writing and Psychology from UCLA. Currently, I am pursuing my MFA atthe University of Montana, in Missoula. Thanks, Sandra +<BR> +<BR>______________________________________________________________________ +<BR><B>darkens </B> +<BR> +<BR>and what could I do there +<BR>within without the dim world will lighten will +<BR>shed its lightened world and then the grass +<BR>will not be grass will be not +<BR>grass again these hours slipping cells +<BR>slipping weird +<BR>cells I tell you this place +<BR> is where I learned +<BR> +<BR> * +<BR> +<BR>about time +<BR>or at least unlocked the arc +<BR>of thought the cement poured +<BR>on the rhetoric hardened +<BR> ideas flexed, +<BR> +<BR> * +<BR> +<BR> +<BR>fixed like backbone +<BR>you say nothing in +<BR> particular and it’s<BR>true that it’s nothing<BR> in particular that makes me think +<BR>of those who were missing +<BR>the letters of their names +<BR> +<BR> +<BR> * +<BR> +<BR> +<BR> like teeth +<BR> and as I walked +<BR> out into the steel<BR>dawn—snow light,<BR>dark, packed tightly into<BR>the vacancy of the coiled<BR> winter sidewalks no bridge +<BR>flickered <I>home</I> it was my first day +<BR> +<BR> +<BR> +<BR> * +<BR> +<BR>of freedom +<BR> so I watched the trail <BR>of the jet’s tail end fall seated opposite +<BR> the ocean and desire came slowly +<BR> and steadily down +<BR>like a drizzle onthe lyrics +<BR> then veering off +<BR> you say nothing +<BR> +<BR> * +<BR> +<BR>you say <I>happens</I> +<BR>or happens to be about anything +<BR>because you use your intelligence +<BR>of language as a trap- +<BR>door out +<BR>of your own and I say that’s true<BR> but I can never find <BR>the stone to push so that the door +<BR> +<BR> +<BR> * +<BR>will open +<BR>my long +<BR>sentence soaking +<BR> up the sounds of these birds +<BR>from this bridge pulling away the sky with their sharp flight +<BR>___________________________________________________________________ +<BR><B>[There is steam]</B> +<BR> +<BR>There is steam. There is fire. +<BR> +<BR>Some shout, <I>All +<BR></I> +<BR><I>aboard</I> <I>the train</I> but I call it <BR><BR>the push through <BR><BR>days. Not the forest. Not<BR><BR>the speed. Yes, the way to recall<BR><BR>forest and speed like silver and gold<BR><BR>coins. The chug<BR><BR>a lug. We buy and sell <BR><BR>and buy. We <BR><BR>bury. And in between—the trap of hold<BR><BR>my hand, the trap of must<BR><BR>breathe of no choice only to<BR><BR>clutch, but I do not want to but I do<BR><BR>anyway. No real<BR><BR>reason. None unreal either.<BR><BR>The tunnel’s weird <BR><BR>and stunning. At times <BR><BR>the beautiful shoved right<BR><BR>through your pupil. Only<BR><BR> nothing seems to<BR><BR>catch. Only leaves.<BR><BR>Leaves sped up or left<BR><BR>behind like green pennies.<BR><BR>On the way to the eye is an accident<BR><BR>on the way to the mind. Here<BR><BR>we go, the flowers burn <BR><BR>and bloom.<BR></FONT></HTML> + +--part1_168.1addaba8.2b844106_boundary-- + diff --git a/veryold/Correspondances/oldemail/castagraf/issue_6 (complete) b/veryold/Correspondances/oldemail/castagraf/issue_6 (complete) new file mode 100644 index 0000000..182891a --- /dev/null +++ b/veryold/Correspondances/oldemail/castagraf/issue_6 (complete) @@ -0,0 +1,55675 @@ +From ???@??? Mon Mar 8 17:01:56 2004 +Return-Path: <sawako@factorial.org> +Delivered-To: sng@4 +Received: (qmail 21100 invoked by alias); 8 Mar 2004 17:01:56 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO venus.hiddenservers.com) (64.21.67.2) + by hosting-132-160.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 8 Mar 2004 17:01:56 -0000 +Received: from q213166.ap.plala.or.jp ([220.99.213.166] helo=FM-3069418494.factorial.org) + by venus.hiddenservers.com with asmtp (Exim 4.24) + id 1B0O8a-0006dy-JO + for sng@luxagraf.com; Mon, 08 Mar 2004 12:01:56 -0500 +Message-Id: <5.1.1.8.2.20040308220823.05d6dbf8@mail.factorial.org> +X-Sender: sawako@factorial.org@mail.factorial.org +X-Mailer: QUALCOMM Windows Eudora Version 5.1.1-J +Date: Mon, 08 Mar 2004 22:21:36 +0900 +To: sng <sng@luxagraf.com> +From: Sawako Nakayasu <sawako@factorial.org> +Subject: Re: [news] Issue 6 now available +In-Reply-To: <r02010100-1032-816CD8286FFF11D8BEAE0003930BD39A@[24.62.127 + .16]> +References: <5.1.1.8.2.20040305225629.04980e10@mail.factorial.org> +Mime-Version: 1.0 +Content-Type: text/plain; charset="iso-2022-jp"; format=flowed +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit +X-AntiAbuse: This header was added to track abuse, please include it with any abuse report +X-AntiAbuse: Primary Hostname - venus.hiddenservers.com +X-AntiAbuse: Original Domain - luxagraf.com +X-AntiAbuse: Originator/Caller UID/GID - [47 12] / [47 12] +X-AntiAbuse: Sender Address Domain - factorial.org +X-Text-Classification: not_junk +X-POPFile-Link: http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile5089=8.msg + +Hi Scott, + +It's good to be able to put a name to the non-face. Anyway I understand the +laying-low factor. I don't say anywhere on the Factorial website explicitly +that I'm the editor, somehow feels safer or something. + +> but just as there are good/bad +>writers, there are good/bad coders. I've been interested in the sort of +>structure of code lately, but looking at more in terms of poetry than +>simple properties/method, i.e. the choices one makes in programming are +>often similer to ones faced in writing poems. + +I've heard about this - good/bad code - and for as little as it matters, it +does, at the same time - + +>This is an interesting read... +> +><http://www.cprw.com/Lake/loom.htm> + +Couldn't get through it! Swamped! + + +>The correlation between math, music, and language always gets me +>thinking about my friend's mom... +>I did a quick google search on her and came up with this: +>http://www.w3art.com/NancyMooslin.html +>Anyway, she renders the work of modern composers in paint and she has +>this very complex color/size schema which she uses to visually represent +>compositions. At the time I knew her I knew nothing about computers, but +>basically what she does is turn music into pixels. her pixels are just +>bigger and have more complex meanings and variations than the ones on a +>CRT display. The whole process is a little anal-retentive for me, but +>the results are eye opening. + +This looks interesting...though at the same time I find a lot of these +things to be more interesting in theory than practice - felt that way about +a lot of new music too - + +>My end conclusion is that music is +>still capable of getting somewhere that words can't. + +Agreed. But the reverse is true too - so Im glad we have both - +I also love pop music, and am amazed by it - by the fact that the music and +the words independently are kind of lame, but put together make something +wonderful - + +>In another life I'm a mathematician, but in this one I simply don't have +>the energy to actually work things out and really wrap my head around +>them. I did read David Foster Wallace's new book though and generally +>followed it. He's really amazing, he's definitely got his stylistic +>mannerisms and ticks, which can be annoying at times, but he's really +>fucking smart and can write with a lucidity that very few modern writers +>can manage. See poetry is ahead of fiction in the sense that the navel +>gazing stage seems to have passed to some extent. Fiction is still stuck +>with it's chin on it's chest and a self satisfied grin on it's face. +>Except for Wallace and handful of others. I just don't want to read +>everybody's account of their wacky/tragic/funny/endearing/whatever life. +>There's general lack of, um, well I mean you can get more out the +>introduction to a 19th century russian novel than you will out of a 21st +>century american trilogy. But i can't get started on that or I'll never +>shut up. + +Have yet to read a whole book of his, but did read a clip from the new one +on the Conjunctions website. So you think he's brilliant enough to stick +with all the way through? I hear this from lots of people, but strangely +nothing gives me that extra push to actually read him... + +>Well it didn't use to be, but is now. Fully class based and everything. +>People are starting to use it for all kinds of thing. I know a guy who's +>deep in a project to automate some rich guy's house (temperature, +>lights, sound, TV, all that stuff) and the main interface is written in +>flash and runs on any wireless capable pda. Kind of ridiculous from one +>standpoint, but cool that actionscript is capable of doing that. + +Crazy! Amazing! Exciting! + +Have I asked you where your geography is? And Laura? Are you all in the +Boston area? If so I will be in town October... + +yours, +Sawako + + + + +From ???@??? Fri Mar 5 16:04:31 2004 +Return-Path: <sawako@factorial.org> +Delivered-To: sng@4 +Received: (qmail 1927 invoked by alias); 5 Mar 2004 16:04:31 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO venus.hiddenservers.com) (64.21.67.2) + by hosting-132-160.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 5 Mar 2004 16:04:31 -0000 +Received: from u071140.ap.plala.or.jp ([220.221.71.140] helo=FM-3069418494.factorial.org) + by venus.hiddenservers.com with asmtp (Exim 4.24) + id 1AzHoN-0006Cf-UF + for sng@luxagraf.com; Fri, 05 Mar 2004 11:04:32 -0500 +Message-Id: <5.1.1.8.2.20040306005525.049a3178@mail.factorial.org> +X-Sender: sawako@factorial.org@mail.factorial.org +X-Mailer: QUALCOMM Windows Eudora Version 5.1.1-J +Date: Sat, 06 Mar 2004 01:01:20 +0900 +To: sng <sng@luxagraf.com> +From: Sawako Nakayasu <sawako@factorial.org> +Subject: somewhat +Mime-Version: 1.0 +Content-Type: multipart/mixed; boundary="=====================_44240264==_" +X-AntiAbuse: This header was added to track abuse, please include it with any abuse report +X-AntiAbuse: Primary Hostname - venus.hiddenservers.com +X-AntiAbuse: Original Domain - luxagraf.com +X-AntiAbuse: Originator/Caller UID/GID - [47 12] / [47 12] +X-AntiAbuse: Sender Address Domain - factorial.org +X-Text-Classification: not_junk +X-POPFile-Link: http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile4974=12.msg + +--=====================_44240264==_ +Content-Type: text/plain; charset=iso-2022-jp +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit + +hi again, you just reminded me of something i wrote many many many years +ago - when i found myself homeless and ended up living (temporarily) in a +house with 4 guys - a collage from three source texts (guess what they were!) - + +sawako +--=====================_44240264==_ +Content-Type: application/msword; name="boy collage.doc"; x-mac-type="3F3F3F3F"; x-mac-type="3F3F3F3F" +Content-Transfer-Encoding: base64 +Content-Disposition: attachment + +0M8R4KGxGuEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPgADAP7/CQAGAAAAAAAAAAAAAAABAAAAIgAAAAAAAAAA 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+AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +--=====================_44240264==_-- + +From ???@??? Fri Mar 5 16:04:28 2004 +X-POPFile-TimeoutPrevention: 0 +Return-Path: <sawako@factorial.org> +Delivered-To: sng@4 +Received: (qmail 1913 invoked by alias); 5 Mar 2004 16:04:28 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO venus.hiddenservers.com) (64.21.67.2) + by hosting-132-160.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 5 Mar 2004 16:04:28 -0000 +Received: from u071140.ap.plala.or.jp ([220.221.71.140] helo=FM-3069418494.factorial.org) + by venus.hiddenservers.com with asmtp (Exim 4.24) + id 1AzHoL-0006Cf-M3 + for sng@luxagraf.com; Fri, 05 Mar 2004 11:04:30 -0500 +Message-Id: <5.1.1.8.2.20040305225629.04980e10@mail.factorial.org> +X-Sender: sawako@factorial.org@mail.factorial.org +X-Mailer: QUALCOMM Windows Eudora Version 5.1.1-J +Date: Sat, 06 Mar 2004 00:51:36 +0900 +To: sng <sng@luxagraf.com> +From: Sawako Nakayasu <sawako@factorial.org> +Subject: Re: [news] Issue 6 now available +In-Reply-To: <r02010100-1032-8546A8026E2B11D897870003930BD39A@[24.62.127 + .16]> +References: <5.1.1.8.2.20040304220600.047ad890@mail.factorial.org> +Mime-Version: 1.0 +Content-Type: text/plain; charset="iso-2022-jp"; format=flowed +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit +X-AntiAbuse: This header was added to track abuse, please include it with any abuse report +X-AntiAbuse: Primary Hostname - venus.hiddenservers.com +X-AntiAbuse: Original Domain - luxagraf.com +X-AntiAbuse: Originator/Caller UID/GID - [47 12] / [47 12] +X-AntiAbuse: Sender Address Domain - factorial.org +X-Text-Classification: not_junk +X-POPFile-Link: http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile4974=11.msg + +Dear...sng? editorish? + +Ask me as any questions as you have! I appreciate it, actually, because I +always have trouble talking about my own work, really don't know how to +explain...but this gives me an opportunity and new angle to think about things... + +So: for as little as I know about code, I love the suggestion that there +might be a correlation, though it's not very direct. The first thing that +came to mind was that I have 'been around' a lot of code - meaning, I spent +six years dating a serious computer nerd! Does that count? (and please +forgive the terminology - I mean it most affectionately) So I've seen +it...without getting too far into it...but I think there's a similarity of +thinking about languages and how information gets carried via these vessels +called language - programming language or not,,,my first language is +Japanese, though I only write in English. I think that being so close to +another language (that I am not writing in) lets me reconfigure syntax, or +just see language for the 'code' that it is - probably a closer connection +is the fact that I studied music as an undergrad, at UCSD where new music +was very strong - which means that I spent a lot of time looking at wacked +out music scores, thinking about how people represented on paper the sonic +world they were conjuring up. The gap between musical sound and notation is +endlessly fascinating to me. And then music itself can be so +mathematical...and really to tell you the truth I think I wanted to be a +composer, so when I write poetry, often it is my form of +'composition'...and then from music we get to performance...music is a +notation for something that is supposed to happen in the real world in real +time and space, which takes me to playwriting, another form of code, and I +think about how many ways there are to 'notate' not just sound but real +people doing stuff - so there is an element of that in there too. + +And then speaking of performance I extend that past people to...everything. +A rock on the side of the street vs a rock in the center of the stage - +they 'speak' differently. And now I've spent lots of time in the US, +France, and Japan - which makes me very aware of the daily performance of +being, all of our behavioral habits as acquired performances - and how not +really natural so much of it is - anger is a good one; watching how +different people show their anger... + +....perhaps this is more than you asked for...? + +I did a performance once where the musician who was supposed to perform +with me couldn't make it, so I brought a potted plant instead. + +Anyway, the short answer to your question is that the furthest I got into +code was using Flash, which you know isn't real programming anyway, and +perhaps importing a little bit of actionscript into it. I am endlessly +intrigued by it all, but brain capacity on that front is not high enough to +keep up with my demands so I get frustrated easily. + +But I do love flash and always appreciate good design. Do you do all the +programming for castagraf? + +____________ + +....okay I just saw your website and answered that last question. And I read +more of your website than one might imagine I would, because it gives me a +strange sense of comfort and nostalgia for my days in san diego - not only +was my boyfriend a computer nerd, but all his friends were, who all played +hockey, and I played hockey with them - anyway what i mean is that i was +around it a lot, and heard lots of talk about it, without really +understanding, but it accumulated and built its own space in my brain, you +know? and I suspect that these guys in their computer world occupied +somewhat of a parallel universe to poetry (although you might say that +about anything specialized)...but there is a sort of language world, and +you could talk about that, or all the peripherals - books, publishing, +reading events, etc - but really you get back to the love and interest of +the stuff, and have enough love of it that you give it tons of your time +and energy for no money at all, and there is a beauty in that. + +read a recent nytimes mag. article about the folks who write viruses, and +was reminded of all that, the parallel...in spite of the many differences. + +....and I loved the levitated website - grateful to the link, although +seeing that stuff just makes me sad about my own limitations - what i love +to do is use it in real-world performance - what I've done in the past +(most recently last october) is to animate text in flash, then project it +in ther performance space, and the magic of projection and animation and +real people/things in the space come together and i find it all really +fascinating - in rehearsal once there was nothing but a ladder in the +space, and some floating animated text, and the way it landed on the ladder +was so beautiful...so I love this stuff, and love the potential that flash +offers - but am endlessly frustrated by my own technical limits...to know +that there are really cool things possible, but slightly out of reach... + +anyway. so castagraf is all in actionscript? and this is the secret to +small file size? there's such beauty in all this, much like poetry, right? + +a line i copied from the web recently: + +don't fall in love with your code. + +This is a much longer email than I thought I would find myself writing, +really. But thank you for seeing the code in my writing - I'm going to take +it as a compliment just because I want to. + +yours, +Sawako + +At 07:30 04/03/05, you wrote: + +>Sawako- +> +> > +> >Thanks for your explanation though - I really like to know how these +>things get done. +> >What I don't understand, though, is that I thought Flash just embedded +>all fonts - so +> >that it carries across formats... +> +>well embedding fonts is an option and that's what I changed. generally i +>try to avoid embedding fonts to keep file size down, but in this case it +>didn't change too much. +> +>The difference in platforms (and apparently even browsers) has to do +>with how a space is displayed. to display the text flash hands off the +>rendering to the browser engine which in turn hands it off to operating +>system (highly simplified and not always the case but generally speaking +>that's how it works). so flash has to tell the browser how much space a +>space is, if that makes sense. Since spaces vary by font (as a space is +>actually a character) if i suddenly switch to monoco or some other +>monospaced font the alignment would be all fucked up again. I think the +>reason mozilla on windows is having trouble is that it renders on it's +>own without using the operating system and somewhere in the process of +>doing it's own rendering it's not getting the right amount of space in a +>space. +> +>Given that 89% of my logs are IE users probably the formatting will come +>across okay. +> +>Okay so since I went to the trouble of explaining all that (or trying +>anyway) I grant myself one question... +> +>In your piece (haven't read the whole thing, but from what laura tells +>me it is similiar to what we published) I seem to detect certain +>computer code influences, i.e. the formating, certain characters seem to +>be called from what could be thought of as a character class, objects +>get assigned properties, variables are created etc. Would you say that +>code has influenced your writing, or have I just been writing too much +>code myself? +> +>sng +>http://luxagraf.com +> +> + + + + +From ???@??? Thu Mar 4 14:00:37 2004 +X-POPFile-TimeoutPrevention: 0 +Return-Path: <sawako@factorial.org> +Delivered-To: theeditorishperson@castagraf.com +Received: (qmail 11951 invoked from network); 4 Mar 2004 14:00:37 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO venus.hiddenservers.com) (64.21.67.2) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 4 Mar 2004 14:00:37 -0000 +Received: from u071140.ap.plala.or.jp ([220.221.71.140] helo=FM-3069418494.factorial.org) + by venus.hiddenservers.com with asmtp (Exim 4.24) + id 1AytOu-0003Pp-0y; Thu, 04 Mar 2004 09:00:36 -0500 +Message-Id: <5.1.1.8.2.20040304220600.047ad890@mail.factorial.org> +X-Sender: sawako@factorial.org@mail.factorial.org +X-Mailer: QUALCOMM Windows Eudora Version 5.1.1-J +Date: Thu, 04 Mar 2004 22:16:53 +0900 +To: laura Solomon <lagsolo@castagraf.com>,theeditorishperson@castagraf.com +From: Sawako Nakayasu <sawako@factorial.org> +Subject: Re: [news] Issue 6 now available +In-Reply-To: <BC6BF223.1A0D%lagsolo@castagraf.com> +References: <5.1.1.8.2.20040304152834.04dc1610@mail.factorial.org> +Mime-Version: 1.0 +Content-Type: text/html; charset="iso-2022-jp" +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit +X-AntiAbuse: This header was added to track abuse, please include it with any abuse report +X-AntiAbuse: Primary Hostname - venus.hiddenservers.com +X-AntiAbuse: Original Domain - castagraf.com +X-AntiAbuse: Originator/Caller UID/GID - [47 12] / [47 12] +X-AntiAbuse: Sender Address Domain - factorial.org +X-Text-Classification: not_junk +X-POPFile-Link: http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile4839=7.msg + +<html> +Hi to both of you - <br><br> +I was just writing (and about to send) the below to Laura, when I got the +note from...Scott? <br><br> +Anyway, I just took a look - and although it still looks funny from +Mozilla, it is all good on IE - so that's more than good enough for me - +<br><br> +Thanks for your explanation though - I really like to know how these +things get done. What I don't understand, though, is that I thought Flash +just embedded all fonts - so that it carries across formats...<br><br> +In any case I appreciate all your attention to detail, and your quick +response, all of it. I've been in Japan for almost two years now, and +people are just so very on top of things, punctual, correct, organized - +which makes American poets/publishers just look like lazy heathens. +Anyway you guys are great. And the website looks so good. I am a sucker +for good design. Japanese books of poetry are beautiful (but most +Japanese websites are hideous!)<br><br> +Thanks again -<br><br> +yours,<br> +Sawako<br><br> +<br> +________________<br><br> +Hi Laura,<br><br> +That is strange - but I'm glad to hear it looks ok everywhere else! I use +Mozilla - and I tried opening it with IE, then installed Flash Player 7 +(though I don't think I needed it - am already running Flash MX) - and +tried messing with the encoding (because I am on a Japanese OS, but +encoding shouldn't matter if it's set in flash)...so I am all out of +ideas, but I really appreciate all the work you put into making it right, +and I believe you that it is right, even if it's wonky on my end! Anyway +please don't worry too much about it - you've done so much already - and +I'll check it out again when I'm on a different computer - and meanwhile +I'll keep reading the rest of the issue!<br><br> +take good care,<br> +Sawako<br><br> +At 10:35 04/03/04, you wrote:<br> +<blockquote type=cite><font face="Verdana">Dear Sawako,<br><br> +Very strange--I m not sure why it s appearing on your screen that way. On +ours it s exactly the same as the pdf (in two columns), which to me +appears like I remember it in your manuscript. We ve checked it on both +pcs and macs using different browsers (safari, explorer, opera etc.) too. +I ll pass this news on to Scott, but try looking at it on another +computer and let me know if it turns out the same. It could be that the +Flash you re using needs updating to Flash 6 or 7. Anyway, I m sorry it s +looking funky from your end. Scott spent nearly three weekends making +sure that the formatting on your poem was correct, and then I went +through it line by line to ensure that it was indeed right. Anyway, let +me know if you have any luck on another computer. We ll try to get to the +bottom of this.<br><br> +Thanks again for your work,<br> +Laura <br><br> +<br><br> +On 3/4/04 3:34 AM, "Sawako Nakayasu" +<sawako@factorial.org> wrote:</font> +<dl> +<dd>Hello - <br><br> + +<dd>Congratulations on the new issue! The design is beautiful, as always +- and likewise the contents - thank you so much for including my work; I +really appreciate it, and all the work you put into sustaining and +developing the journal. I know it's not easy...I am lagging with my own +editorial pursuits, and feeling much guilt of my own about +it...<br><br> + +<dd>Anyway - I'm not sure if you sent out proofs, or if you do that at +all, but the formatting on my piece is a bit messy - I'm hoping that you +didn't receive it with the formatting garbled in the first place, but I +thought you (Laura) had said you'd seen the piece in hard copy first. In +any case, it's shouldn't be too hard to fix: all the lines follow the +same format - <br><br> + +<dd>word: whatever comes next +<dd> +next line +<dd> +and another<br><br> + +<dd>new thing: the following<br><br> + +<dd>etc etc so that basically it forms two columns of text. (I realize +that it's possible/likely that my example above will be just as +garbled...) Basically it means that the right column needs to be aligned +within its own column, right now the lines following the colon are too +far right. Does this make sense? Sorry for the hassle...just that all of +your presentation is always so beautiful that I'd be thrilled to have my +piece looking good too...!<br><br> + +<dd>Please let me know if this sounds ok - or if you have questions, +etc.<br><br> + +<dd>& thanks again - <br><br> + +<dd>yours, +<dd>Sawako<br><br> + +<dd>At 10:07 04/03/04, you wrote: +<dd>Greetings castagraf readers, +<dd>we are pleased to announce the sixth issue of castagraf +magazine.<br><br> + +<dd><<a href="http://castagraf.com <http://castagraf.com/" eudora="autourl">http://castagraf.com +<http://castagraf.com/</a>> ><br><br> + +<dd>featuring work from: <br><br> + +<dd>Michael Carr, Circulatory System, Sarah Henning, Juliana Leslie, +<dd>Jonathan Link, Aaron McCollough, Christina Mengert, Jonathan Minton, +<dd>Megan Nadolski, Sawako Nakayasu, Peter Richards, Michael Ruby, Tony +<dd>Tost, James Wagner, and more of The Whalebone Essays.<br><br> + +<dd>Come and join the youth and beauty brigade. +</dl>-the editorish person <br><br> +<br><br> +</blockquote></html> + + + + +From ???@??? Thu Mar 4 08:36:58 2004 +Return-Path: <sawako@factorial.org> +Delivered-To: theeditorishperson@castagraf.com +Received: (qmail 5960 invoked from network); 4 Mar 2004 08:36:58 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO venus.hiddenservers.com) (64.21.67.2) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 4 Mar 2004 08:36:58 -0000 +Received: from q210194.ap.plala.or.jp ([220.99.210.194] helo=FM-3069418494.factorial.org) + by venus.hiddenservers.com with asmtp (Exim 4.24) + id 1AyoLh-0002J8-Ng; Thu, 04 Mar 2004 03:36:58 -0500 +Message-Id: <5.1.1.8.2.20040304152834.04dc1610@mail.factorial.org> +X-Sender: sawako@factorial.org@mail.factorial.org +X-Mailer: QUALCOMM Windows Eudora Version 5.1.1-J +Date: Thu, 04 Mar 2004 17:34:03 +0900 +To: the editorish person <theeditorishperson@castagraf.com>, + laura Solomon <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +From: Sawako Nakayasu <sawako@factorial.org> +Subject: Re: [news] Issue 6 now available +In-Reply-To: <r02010100-1032-61723DC86D7811D8A2FD0003930BD39A@[24.62.127 + .16]> +Mime-Version: 1.0 +Content-Type: text/html; charset="iso-2022-jp" +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit +X-AntiAbuse: This header was added to track abuse, please include it with any abuse report +X-AntiAbuse: Primary Hostname - venus.hiddenservers.com +X-AntiAbuse: Original Domain - castagraf.com +X-AntiAbuse: Originator/Caller UID/GID - [47 12] / [47 12] +X-AntiAbuse: Sender Address Domain - factorial.org +X-Text-Classification: not_junk +X-POPFile-Link: http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile4828=6.msg + +<html> +<font face="Arial, Helvetica">Hello - <br><br> +Congratulations on the new issue! The design is beautiful, as always - +and likewise the contents - thank you so much for including my work; I +really appreciate it, and all the work you put into sustaining and +developing the journal. I know it's not easy...I am lagging with my own +editorial pursuits, and feeling much guilt of my own about +it...<br><br> +Anyway - I'm not sure if you sent out proofs, or if you do that at all, +but the formatting on my piece is a bit messy - I'm hoping that you +didn't receive it with the formatting garbled in the first place, but I +thought you (Laura) had said you'd seen the piece in hard copy first. In +any case, it's shouldn't be too hard to fix: all the lines follow the +same format - <br><br> +word:<x-tab> </x-tab>whatever comes next<br> +<x-tab> </x-tab><x-tab> </x-tab>next +line<br> +<x-tab> </x-tab><x-tab> </x-tab>and +another<br><br> +new thing: <x-tab> </x-tab>the +following<br><br> +etc etc so that basically it forms two columns of text. (I realize that +it's possible/likely that my example above will be just as garbled...) +Basically it means that the right column needs to be aligned within its +own column, right now the lines following the colon are too far right. +Does this make sense? Sorry for the hassle...just that all of your +presentation is always so beautiful that I'd be thrilled to have my piece +looking good too...!<br><br> +Please let me know if this sounds ok - or if you have questions, +etc.<br><br> +& thanks again - <br><br> +yours,<br> +Sawako<br><br> +At 10:07 04/03/04, you wrote:<br> +<blockquote type=cite>Greetings castagraf readers,<br><br> +we are pleased to announce the sixth issue of castagraf +magazine.<br><br> +<<a href="http://castagraf.com/" eudora="autourl">http://castagraf.com</a>><br><br> +featuring work from: <br><br> +Michael Carr, Circulatory System, Sarah Henning, Juliana Leslie,<br> +Jonathan Link, Aaron McCollough, Christina Mengert, Jonathan +Minton,<br> +Megan Nadolski, Sawako Nakayasu, Peter Richards, Michael Ruby, Tony<br> +Tost, James Wagner, and more of The Whalebone Essays.<br><br> +Come and join the youth and beauty brigade.<br><br> +-the editorish person </font></blockquote></html> + + + + +From ???@??? Thu Mar 4 04:49:16 2004 +Return-Path: <wagnerjjj@yahoo.com> +Delivered-To: theeditorishperson@castagraf.com +Received: (qmail 32445 invoked from network); 4 Mar 2004 04:49:16 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO web20021.mail.yahoo.com) (216.136.225.12) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 4 Mar 2004 04:49:16 -0000 +Message-ID: <20040304044917.60009.qmail@web20021.mail.yahoo.com> +Received: from [64.136.26.227] by web20021.mail.yahoo.com via HTTP; Wed, 03 Mar 2004 20:49:17 PST +Date: Wed, 3 Mar 2004 20:49:17 -0800 (PST) +From: James Wagner <wagnerjjj@yahoo.com> +Subject: Re: [news] Issue 6 now available +To: the editorish person <theeditorishperson@castagraf.com> +In-Reply-To: <r02010100-1032-61723DC86D7811D8A2FD0003930BD39A@[24.62.127.16]> +MIME-Version: 1.0 +Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii +X-Text-Classification: junk +X-POPFile-Link: http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile4828=4.msg + +Hi, Laura-- + +They look good. Thanks for accepting them. + +Strangely, I don't remember sending you Lingo (7), as +it was previously accepted at Can We Have Our Ball +Back? But, then, the question is, How did you get it? + So I must have sent it to you. I am sorry if I +screwed up. I have it written down as Castagraf (1) +through (6). Who knows? It was not my intention. +Maybe it's best to take that one down. I don't know. +It's your call. + +Thanks again, +James +--- the editorish person +<theeditorishperson@castagraf.com> wrote: +> Greetings castagraf readers, +> +> we are pleased to announce the sixth issue of +> castagraf magazine. +> +> <http://castagraf.com> +> +> featuring work from: +> +> Michael Carr, Circulatory System, Sarah Henning, +> Juliana Leslie, +> Jonathan Link, Aaron McCollough, Christina Mengert, +> Jonathan Minton, +> Megan Nadolski, Sawako Nakayasu, Peter Richards, +> Michael Ruby, Tony +> Tost, James Wagner, and more of The Whalebone +> Essays. +> +> Come and join the youth and beauty brigade. +> +> -the editorish person + + +__________________________________ +Do you Yahoo!? +Yahoo! Search - Find what youre looking for faster +http://search.yahoo.com + + + +From ???@??? Sun Feb 29 20:42:37 2004 +Return-Path: <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Delivered-To: theeditorishperson@castagraf.com +Received: (qmail 17408 invoked from network); 29 Feb 2004 20:42:37 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO ?24.62.127.208?) (24.62.127.208) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 29 Feb 2004 20:42:37 -0000 +User-Agent: Microsoft-Entourage/10.1.0.2006 +Date: Sun, 29 Feb 2004 04:37:42 -0500 +Subject: More christina mengert poems +From: laura Solomon <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +To: the editorish person <theeditorishperson@castagraf.com> +Message-ID: <BC671D16.19E1%lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Mime-version: 1.0 +Content-type: text/plain; charset="US-ASCII" +Content-transfer-encoding: 7bit +X-Text-Classification: not_junk +X-POPFile-Link: http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile4644=6.msg + + Looking Glass + + Fact of the matter is, I haven't even begun + To resemble you. Recognition being a much + Firmer act than innovation, I set about + Transcribing you. Burnt you. Weathered you. + Stranger you. In truth, your eyes totally + Escape me. I watch them age and they totally + Escape me. I move my hand as if to mimic + A gesture, but it's your lip that's bleeding, + Not your palm, not your finger. Years pass, + And maybe I've learned your blank stare, + But that's it. I cannot bear your disappointed + Face. Forgive me my last attempt. + + + Vandalism + + It is easy to say as a doctor that this blood is occupationally + Justified. Not as easy to say it near two ears and a blowtorch. + As a unit I could not improve upon what was already becoming + Your face. Removing the ears not only seemed a solution, + It seemed immanent redemption. This blood, justified. + When I feel firmly convinced of the underlying structure, + I will return these things. Though I expect you'll never + Ask for them again. + + + + +From ???@??? Tue Feb 24 12:34:23 2004 +Return-Path: <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Delivered-To: sng@3 +Received: (qmail 30505 invoked from network); 24 Feb 2004 12:34:23 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO ?24.62.127.208?) (24.62.127.208) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 24 Feb 2004 12:34:23 -0000 +User-Agent: Microsoft-Entourage/10.1.0.2006 +Date: Mon, 23 Feb 2004 20:29:18 -0500 +Subject: Christina mengert bio +From: laura Solomon <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +To: scott gilbertson <sng@castagraf.com> +Message-ID: <BC60131E.19AB%lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Mime-version: 1.0 +Content-type: text/plain; charset="US-ASCII" +Content-transfer-encoding: 7bit +X-Text-Classification: not_junk +X-POPFile-Link: http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile4275=26.msg + +Christina Mengert is a graduate student at Brown University. Her poems have +appeared recently in American Letters & Commentary, The Canary, Slope and +Typo. + + + + +From ???@??? Sun Feb 8 15:39:14 2004 +Return-Path: <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Delivered-To: sng@3 +Received: (qmail 9831 invoked from network); 8 Feb 2004 15:39:14 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO ?24.62.127.208?) (24.62.127.208) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 8 Feb 2004 15:39:14 -0000 +User-Agent: Microsoft-Entourage/10.1.0.2006 +Date: Sat, 07 Feb 2004 23:33:44 -0500 +Subject: Final whalebone +From: laura Solomon <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +To: scott gilbertson <sng@castagraf.com> +Message-ID: <BC4B265A.190C%lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Mime-version: 1.0 +Content-type: multipart/mixed; boundary="B_3159041629_1981804" +X-Text-Classification: not_junk +X-POPFile-Link: http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile3301=1.msg + +--B_3159041629_1981804 +Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit + + + +--B_3159041629_1981804 +Content-Type: application/msword; name="last whalebone.doc"; x-mac-type="5738424E"; x-mac-type="4D535744" +Content-Transfer-Encoding: base64 +Content-Disposition: attachment + +0M8R4KGxGuEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPgADAP7/CQAGAAAAAAAAAAAAAAABAAAANwAAAAAA +AAAAEAAAOQAAAAEAAAD+////AAAAADYAAAD///////////////////////////////////// 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+AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAD///////////// +//8AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAABAAAA +/v////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +/////////////////////////////wEA/v8CAAEA/////wYJAgAAAAAAwAAAAAAAAEYYAAAA +TWljcm9zb2Z0IFdvcmQgRG9jdW1lbnQA/v///05CNlcQAAAAV29yZC5Eb2N1bWVudC44AAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +--B_3159041629_1981804-- + +From ???@??? Sun Feb 8 15:09:44 2004 +Return-Path: <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Delivered-To: sng@3 +Received: (qmail 2580 invoked from network); 8 Feb 2004 15:09:44 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO ?24.62.127.208?) (24.62.127.208) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 8 Feb 2004 15:09:44 -0000 +User-Agent: Microsoft-Entourage/10.1.0.2006 +Date: Sat, 07 Feb 2004 23:04:18 -0500 +Subject: Michael Carr bio +From: laura Solomon <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +To: scott gilbertson <sng@castagraf.com> +Message-ID: <BC4B1F72.1907%lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Mime-version: 1.0 +Content-type: text/plain; charset="US-ASCII" +Content-transfer-encoding: 7bit +X-Text-Classification: not_junk +X-POPFile-Link: http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile3297=24.msg + +Michael Carr lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts. He is editor of the +single-issue magazines dachshund and bling bling (forthcoming). His poetry +has been included in can we have our ball back?, CARVE, and LUNGFULL! + + + + +From ???@??? Sun Feb 8 15:04:21 2004 +Return-Path: <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Delivered-To: theeditorishperson@castagraf.com +Received: (qmail 1811 invoked from network); 8 Feb 2004 15:04:21 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO ?24.62.127.208?) (24.62.127.208) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 8 Feb 2004 15:04:21 -0000 +User-Agent: Microsoft-Entourage/10.1.0.2006 +Date: Sat, 07 Feb 2004 22:58:56 -0500 +Subject: Re: poetry submission +From: laura Solomon <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +To: the editorish person <theeditorishperson@castagraf.com> +Message-ID: <BC4B1E30.1906%lagsolo@castagraf.com> +In-Reply-To: <R02000100-1028-6AA99DAEF91411D7AEB80003930BD39A@[24.62.118.208]> +Mime-version: 1.0 +Content-type: text/plain; charset="US-ASCII" +Content-transfer-encoding: 7bit +X-Text-Classification: not_junk +X-POPFile-Link: http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile3295=4.msg + +Dear Becky, + +I regret being the bearer of bad news, but unfortunately we decided against +taking these poems for castagraf. I'm really sorry and hope you won't hold +it against us. We had quite a lot of work to consider and the decision was a +tough one. I hope your day is happy and that we'll share more bus rides in +the upcoming week. Again my apologies, I hope you won't be offended or angry +with us. + +Take care, +Laura + + + +On 10/7/03 6:20 PM, "the editorish person" +<theeditorishperson@castagraf.com> wrote: + +> +> ====== Forwarded Message ====== +> Date: 10/4/03 11:09 PM +> Received: 10/5/03 6:09 AM -0000 +> From: virtualbecky@yahoo.com (becky rosen) +> To: theeditorishperson@castagraf.com +> +> Hi Laura, +> I was checking out the latest Castagraf and thought +> you might like these (if not, I promise I won't be +> mad:) +> They're 5 sections from a long poem called "as I +> inhabit men (and women)". +> Take care, +> Becky +> +> __________________________________ +> Do you Yahoo!? +> The New Yahoo! Shopping - with improved product search +> http://shopping.yahoo.com +> ====== End Forwarded Message ====== + + + + +From ???@??? Sun Feb 8 14:49:52 2004 +Return-Path: <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Delivered-To: sng@3 +Received: (qmail 30699 invoked from network); 8 Feb 2004 14:49:52 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO ?24.62.127.208?) (24.62.127.208) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 8 Feb 2004 14:49:52 -0000 +User-Agent: Microsoft-Entourage/10.1.0.2006 +Date: Sat, 07 Feb 2004 22:44:26 -0500 +Subject: Michael ruby bio +From: laura Solomon <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +To: scott gilbertson <sng@castagraf.com> +Message-ID: <BC4B1ACA.18FF%lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Mime-version: 1.0 +Content-type: text/plain; charset="US-ASCII" +Content-transfer-encoding: 7bit +X-Text-Classification: not_junk +X-POPFile-Link: http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile3297=20.msg + +Michael Ruby's first book, At an Intersection, was published last year by +Alef Books. A long poem, "Wave Talk," appeared this past winter in +syllogism, and other poems are forthcoming in Lost & Found Times, Poethia, +Mudlark, xStream, Aught, La Petite Zine, Sidereality and Shampoo. + + + + +From ???@??? Sun Feb 8 14:36:54 2004 +Return-Path: <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Delivered-To: sng@3 +Received: (qmail 27441 invoked from network); 8 Feb 2004 14:36:54 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO ?24.62.127.208?) (24.62.127.208) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 8 Feb 2004 14:36:54 -0000 +User-Agent: Microsoft-Entourage/10.1.0.2006 +Date: Sat, 07 Feb 2004 22:31:26 -0500 +Subject: castagraf: peter richards poems +From: laura Solomon <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +To: scott gilbertson <sng@castagraf.com> +Message-ID: <BC4B17C0.18FB%lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Mime-version: 1.0 +Content-type: multipart/mixed; boundary="B_3159037889_1745152" +X-Text-Classification: not_junk +X-POPFile-Link: http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile3297=18.msg + +--B_3159037889_1745152 +Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit + +The title should say: from Helsinki. ("Helsinki" being the title of the +whole book from which these poems are taken.) + +I love you Mr. Editorish person. + +--B_3159037889_1745152 +Content-Type: application/msword; name="Helsinki for Castragraf.doc"; x-mac-type="5738424E"; x-mac-type="4D535744" +Content-Transfer-Encoding: base64 +Content-Disposition: attachment + +0M8R4KGxGuEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPgADAP7/CQAGAAAAAAAAAAAAAAABAAAAMgAAAAAA +AAAAEAAANAAAAAEAAAD+////AAAAADEAAAD///////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// 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+//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +AQD+/wIAAQD/////BgkCAAAAAADAAAAAAAAARhgAAABNaWNyb3NvZnQgV29yZCBEb2N1bWVu +dAD+////TkI2VxAAAABXb3JkLkRvY3VtZW50LjgAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA 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Sun Feb 8 14:28:55 2004 +X-POPFile-TimeoutPrevention: 0 +Return-Path: <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Delivered-To: sng@3 +Received: (qmail 24940 invoked from network); 8 Feb 2004 14:28:55 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO ?24.62.127.208?) (24.62.127.208) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 8 Feb 2004 14:28:55 -0000 +User-Agent: Microsoft-Entourage/10.1.0.2006 +Date: Sat, 07 Feb 2004 22:23:29 -0500 +Subject: castagraf: Jonathan Minton +From: laura Solomon <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +To: scott gilbertson <sng@castagraf.com> +Message-ID: <BC4B15E1.18F9%lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Mime-version: 1.0 +Content-type: text/plain; charset="US-ASCII" +Content-transfer-encoding: 7bit +X-Text-Classification: not_junk +X-POPFile-Link: http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile3297=17.msg + +Jonathan Minton is the editor of the online journal Word For/Word +(www.wordforword.info). He has published recently in GutCult, Columbia +Poetry Review, Generator, eratio, sidreality, Milk, and Tom Hibbard's Poems +for Peace anthology. His chapbook, Lost Languages, was published by Long +Leaf Press. He lives and teaches in Helena, Montana. + + + +If the Object of Thinking is Thinking + + + +Ladders are the question +long before the window that won't close lets in rain, + +or hammers left on their shelf +before the curtain falls from its nail. + +The strings of events behind a kitchen window +answer with their improbable scenarios: +as in motion lights responding each morning +to blue jays leaving their nest, or a red gasoline can +signifying "chokeberry" to bewildered humming birds. + +What can then be said of the differences +between the view from the window of birdflight, +the view from the window, +the view from the window nailed shut? + +View is like a view, a window like a curtain, +a hammer like a hand, a ladder like a string, +a bird like a berry, light is like +the likeness in a window as it opens, as it shuts. + +The string around a finger still signifies remembering +even while its object is forgotten. Or consider +the more familiar story: a man walks into a bar +carrying a ladder under one arm, a hammer under the other: +a priest and rabbi stare blankly from their barstools +among an otherwise empty bar: elsewhere, +labels are peeling from hardware store catalogs. + +Call it then "the narrative of random ladders," +so long as what is said after allows a window +for the thought of eventfulness in (this) thinking, +its body of thought now gesturing arrival. + + + + + + +Point of View after View + +It's inevitable to be beside one's self +after looking into the depths of things, +or measuring their most practical approach. +As in the view of sage in sunlight. +As in the view of sage in Montana. +As in the loose bolt that falls from the window +as the window opens and shuts, or the loose tooth +that hurts whenever fruit is eaten. One must use +pair of eyes, pair of hands, pair of feet. Doubled +as they are, things accumulate, +gather weight, then a momentum. +A hand moves. A hand writes. The window +opens. A tangerine spills the coffee. +The lines between window and tooth +measure the lines between bolt and cup. +I'm speaking of I, and I, when looking, +as in this view of Montana between sunlight and sage, +as in that view of sage between sunlight and Montana, +as in these loose bits stuttering the need to speak, +before a punch line suggests a third approach. +The letters pause, unpeel, gesturing an audience. +Our breath fogs both sides of the window, until the moisture +is absorbed by rain. I'm speaking +of the way a dentist numbs the gums +before drilling, the way the rain finally breaks, +compelling us to gape every time. + + + + +From ???@??? Sun Feb 8 14:24:07 2004 +Return-Path: <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Delivered-To: sng@3 +Received: (qmail 24324 invoked from network); 8 Feb 2004 14:24:07 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO ?24.62.127.208?) (24.62.127.208) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 8 Feb 2004 14:24:07 -0000 +User-Agent: Microsoft-Entourage/10.1.0.2006 +Date: Sat, 07 Feb 2004 22:18:42 -0500 +Subject: Peter Richards bio +From: laura Solomon <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +To: scott gilbertson <sng@castagraf.com> +Message-ID: <BC4B14C2.18F7%lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Mime-version: 1.0 +Content-type: text/plain; charset="US-ASCII" +Content-transfer-encoding: 7bit +X-Text-Classification: not_junk +X-POPFile-Link: http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile3297=16.msg + +Peter Richards is the author of two poetry collections, Oubliette and Nude +Sire, both from Verse Press. He lives in Somerville, MA and is the Director +of Meal Planning for The Massachusetts House of Corrections. + + + + +From ???@??? Thu Feb 5 04:02:16 2004 +Return-Path: <MBNadolski@aol.com> +Delivered-To: sng@3 +Received: (qmail 25879 invoked from network); 5 Feb 2004 04:02:16 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO imo-d04.mx.aol.com) (205.188.157.36) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 5 Feb 2004 04:02:16 -0000 +Received: from MBNadolski@aol.com + by imo-d04.mx.aol.com (mail_out_v36_r4.12.) id m.1d5.19b8441e (16111) + for <sng@castagraf.com>; Wed, 4 Feb 2004 23:02:07 -0500 (EST) +Received: from aol.com (mow-m04.webmail.aol.com [64.12.184.132]) by air-id12.mx.aol.com (v97.18) with ESMTP id MAILINID123-3eef4021c03e20d; Wed, 04 Feb 2004 23:02:06 -0500 +Date: Wed, 04 Feb 2004 23:02:06 -0500 +From: MBNadolski@aol.com +To: sng@castagraf.com +Subject: #11 +MIME-Version: 1.0 +Message-ID: <64FCF8A1.0749EC77.0AFA5DAC@aol.com> +X-Mailer: Atlas Mailer 2.0 +X-AOL-IP: 166.102.89.55 +Content-Type: multipart/mixed; boundary=-------650321f975015cf650321f975015cf +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit + 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Thu Feb 5 03:40:26 2004 +Return-Path: <MBNadolski@aol.com> +Delivered-To: sng@3 +Received: (qmail 19234 invoked from network); 5 Feb 2004 03:40:26 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO imo-d04.mx.aol.com) (205.188.157.36) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 5 Feb 2004 03:40:26 -0000 +Received: from MBNadolski@aol.com + by imo-d04.mx.aol.com (mail_out_v36_r4.12.) id m.67.21970e2d (15887) + for <sng@castagraf.com>; Wed, 4 Feb 2004 22:40:17 -0500 (EST) +Received: from aol.com (mow-m11.webmail.aol.com [64.12.184.139]) by air-id08.mx.aol.com (v97.18) with ESMTP id MAILINID82-3e0f4021bb20220; Wed, 04 Feb 2004 22:40:17 -0500 +Date: Wed, 04 Feb 2004 22:40:16 -0500 +From: MBNadolski@aol.com +To: sng@castagraf.com +Subject: documentary for you +MIME-Version: 1.0 +Message-ID: <04DB67BE.058F49D0.0AFA5DAC@aol.com> +X-Mailer: Atlas Mailer 2.0 +X-AOL-IP: 166.102.89.55 +Content-Type: multipart/mixed; boundary=-------505ca865b9ac98505ca865b9ac98 +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit +X-Text-Classification: not_junk +X-POPFile-Link: http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile3090=2.msg + +---------505ca865b9ac98505ca865b9ac98 +Content-Type: text/plain; charset=iso-8859-1 +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit + +SNG, +So, this is the deal...I haven't had too much time to mess around with my spoils from my time in the prison. I can probably get you a collection of 4 or 5 (including the last two I sent) by the end of the weekend if you REALLY want it. +I am sending another one to you instead that you may use at your leisure. It is about a teenage girl who has cystic fibrosis among many other things. Anyway, she got the chance to do this surgery where they insert a metal pole into her spine...it is supposed to straighten her out and at best, make her walk someday. She just wanted to be real you know? She just wanted to have her hair done and strut up and down the florescent lit hallways and smile at boys and so on and so forth. Anyway, she went through the operation and then (as you will see) she found out at the end she will never walk. Sad yes. Worth it? Who knows? Human quest my friend. Sad and beautiful. Use it if you want. I felt her. +I am sending them in order. +miss ya, +MBN +---------505ca865b9ac98505ca865b9ac98 +Content-Type: image/jpeg; name="1.jpg"; x-mac-type="3F3F3F3F"; x-mac-type="3F3F3F3F" +Content-Transfer-Encoding: base64 +Content-Disposition: attachment + +/9j/4AAQSkZJRgABAgEAyADIAAD/4Q18RXhpZgAATU0AKgAAAAgABwESAAMAAAABAAEAAAEa +AAUAAAABAAAAYgEbAAUAAAABAAAAagEoAAMAAAABAAIAAAExAAIAAAAdAAAAcgEyAAIAAAAU +AAAAj4dpAAQAAAABAAAApAAAANAAAADIAAAAAQAAAMgAAAABQWRvYmUgUGhvdG9zaG9wIENT +IE1hY2ludG9zaAAxOTc2OjA1OjE0IDIzOjM3OjIxAAAAA6ABAAMAAAAB//8AAKACAAQAAAAB +AAAFeKADAAQAAAABAAAFeAAAAAAAAAAGAQMAAwAAAAEABgAAARoABQAAAAEAAAEeARsABQAA +AAEAAAEmASgAAwAAAAEAAgAAAgEABAAAAAEAAAEuAgIABAAAAAEAAAxGAAAAAAAAAEgAAAAB +AAAASAAAAAH/2P/gABBKRklGAAECAQBIAEgAAP/tAAxBZG9iZV9DTQAC/+4ADkFkb2JlAGSA +AAAAAf/bAIQADAgICAkIDAkJDBELCgsRFQ8MDA8VGBMTFRMTGBEMDAwMDAwRDAwMDAwMDAwM +DAwMDAwMDAwMDAwMDAwMDAwMDAENCwsNDg0QDg4QFA4ODhQUDg4ODhQRDAwMDAwREQwMDAwM +DBEMDAwMDAwMDAwMDAwMDAwMDAwMDAwMDAwMDAwM/8AAEQgAoACgAwEiAAIRAQMRAf/dAAQA 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Wed Feb 4 02:56:30 2004 +Return-Path: <MBNadolski@aol.com> +Delivered-To: sng@3 +Received: (qmail 1188 invoked from network); 4 Feb 2004 02:56:30 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO imo-r08.mx.aol.com) (152.163.225.104) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 4 Feb 2004 02:56:30 -0000 +Received: from MBNadolski@aol.com + by imo-r08.mx.aol.com (mail_out_v36_r4.12.) id m.197.2531ae96 (16098) + for <sng@castagraf.com>; Tue, 3 Feb 2004 21:56:26 -0500 (EST) +Received: from aol.com (mow-d17.webmail.aol.com [205.188.139.133]) by air-id11.mx.aol.com (v97.18) with ESMTP id MAILINID112-3ee240205f596d; Tue, 03 Feb 2004 21:56:25 -0500 +Date: Tue, 03 Feb 2004 21:56:25 -0500 +From: MBNadolski@aol.com +To: sng@castagraf.com +MIME-Version: 1.0 +Message-ID: <519CF8E0.532D1481.0AFA5DAC@aol.com> +X-Mailer: Atlas Mailer 2.0 +X-AOL-IP: 166.102.89.220 +Content-Type: multipart/mixed; boundary=-------51dadbd8536af77951dadbd8536af779 +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit +Subject: +X-Text-Classification: junk +X-POPFile-Link: http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile3034=2.msg + +---------51dadbd8536af77951dadbd8536af779 +Content-Type: text/plain; charset=iso-8859-1 +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit + +And here's another...these next two might be too whatever +---------51dadbd8536af77951dadbd8536af779 +Content-Type: image/jpeg; name="girls.jpg"; x-mac-type="3F3F3F3F"; x-mac-type="3F3F3F3F" +Content-Transfer-Encoding: base64 +Content-Disposition: attachment + +/9j/4AAQSkZJRgABAgEAyADIAAD/4RFERXhpZgAATU0AKgAAAAgACAEOAAIAAADZAAAAbgES +AAMAAAABAAEAAAEaAAUAAAABAAABRwEbAAUAAAABAAABTwEoAAMAAAABAAIAAAExAAIAAAAd +AAABVwEyAAIAAAAUAAABdIdpAAQAAAABAAABiAAAAbRQaG90byBieSBNZWdhbiBOYWRvbHNr +aSwgTWlsbGVkZ2V2aWxsZSwgR0EsCjExLzE3LzAzLgoKVGhlIEdlb3JnaWEgTWlsaXRhcnkg +Q29sbGVnZSdzIGdpcmxzIG1pZGRsZSBzY2hvb2wgYmFza2V0YmFsbCB0ZWFtIHByYWN0aWNl +cyBkcmliYmxpbmcgTW9uZGF5IGFmdGVybm9vbiwgd2hpbGUgd29ya21lbiByZW1vdmUgdGhl +IHdpbmRvd3MgaW4gdGhlIGd5bSBmb3IgcmVwYWlycy4AAAAAyAAAAAEAAADIAAAAAUFkb2Jl 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Wed Feb 4 02:52:35 2004 +Return-Path: <MBNadolski@aol.com> +Delivered-To: sng@3 +Received: (qmail 497 invoked from network); 4 Feb 2004 02:52:35 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO imo-r03.mx.aol.com) (152.163.225.99) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 4 Feb 2004 02:52:35 -0000 +Received: from MBNadolski@aol.com + by imo-r03.mx.aol.com (mail_out_v36_r4.12.) id m.163.2b3df6f2 (15898) + for <sng@castagraf.com>; Tue, 3 Feb 2004 21:52:32 -0500 (EST) +Received: from aol.com (mow-d14.webmail.aol.com [205.188.139.130]) by air-id09.mx.aol.com (v97.18) with ESMTP id MAILINID91-3e1a40205e6f1be; Tue, 03 Feb 2004 21:52:31 -0500 +Date: Tue, 03 Feb 2004 21:52:31 -0500 +From: MBNadolski@aol.com +To: sng@castagraf.com +MIME-Version: 1.0 +Message-ID: <6F57A90F.63485284.0AFA5DAC@aol.com> +X-Mailer: Atlas Mailer 2.0 +X-AOL-IP: 166.102.89.220 +Content-Type: multipart/mixed; boundary=-------6f6bec8f635c96046f6bec8f635c9604 +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit +Subject: +X-Text-Classification: junk +X-POPFile-Link: http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile3034=1.msg + +---------6f6bec8f635c96046f6bec8f635c9604 +Content-Type: text/plain; charset=iso-8859-1 +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit + +Here are some singles if you want them too...I like this one. +---------6f6bec8f635c96046f6bec8f635c9604 +Content-Type: image/jpeg; name="gallery.jpg"; x-mac-type="3F3F3F3F"; x-mac-type="3F3F3F3F" +Content-Transfer-Encoding: base64 +Content-Disposition: attachment + +/9j/4AAQSkZJRgABAgEAyADIAAD/4RkYRXhpZgAATU0AKgAAAAgACwEOAAIAAAGvAAAAkgEP +AAIAAAASAAACQQEQAAIAAAAKAAACUwESAAMAAAABAAEAAAEaAAUAAAABAAACXQEbAAUAAAAB +AAACZQEoAAMAAAABAAIAAAExAAIAAAAdAAACbQEyAAIAAAAUAAACigITAAMAAAABAAIAAIdp +AAQAAAABAAACoAAABFhQaG90byBieSBNZWdhbiBOYWRvbHNraSwgTWlsbGVkZ2V2aWxsZSwg +R0EsIAoxMC84LzAzLgoKTWlsbGVkZ2V2aWxsZSByZXNpZGVudCBMdWN5IFVuZGVyd29vZCBz +aXRzIGJldHdlZW4gU2hpcmxleSBhbmQgTWF1cmljZSBGcmllZG1hbiwgZnJvbSBTYW5kZXJz +dmlsbGUsIGR1cmluZyBhIHJlY2VwdGlvbiBmb3IgYXJ0aXN0IEJhcnJ5IE1vc2VyIGF0IHRo 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Wed Feb 4 02:24:28 2004 +Return-Path: <MBNadolski@aol.com> +Delivered-To: sng@3 +Received: (qmail 25482 invoked from network); 4 Feb 2004 02:24:28 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO imo-d05.mx.aol.com) (205.188.157.37) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 4 Feb 2004 02:24:28 -0000 +Received: from MBNadolski@aol.com + by imo-d05.mx.aol.com (mail_out_v36_r4.12.) id m.187.24bc0a3c (16086) + for <sng@castagraf.com>; Tue, 3 Feb 2004 21:24:14 -0500 (EST) +Received: from aol.com (mow-d17.webmail.aol.com [205.188.139.133]) by air-id10.mx.aol.com (v97.18) with ESMTP id MAILINID103-3ed6402057ce2fc; Tue, 03 Feb 2004 21:24:14 -0500 +Date: Tue, 03 Feb 2004 21:24:14 -0500 +From: MBNadolski@aol.com +To: sng@castagraf.com (sng) +Subject: Re: Checking in +MIME-Version: 1.0 +Message-ID: <0F25ECC9.0AF5D17F.0AFA5DAC@aol.com> +X-Mailer: Atlas Mailer 2.0 +X-AOL-IP: 166.102.89.220 +Content-Type: text/plain; charset=iso-8859-1 +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit +X-Text-Classification: junk +X-POPFile-Link: http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile3031=1.msg + +um...I dunno...wait till tommorrow and I'll make my mind up...I feel like the prison essay isn't cool enough for you site. I do have another one you may like better...it's sort of a hopeless story but, I love it. +-MBN + + + +From ???@??? Tue Feb 3 20:44:32 2004 +Return-Path: <MBNadolski@aol.com> +Delivered-To: sng@3 +Received: (qmail 25649 invoked from network); 3 Feb 2004 20:44:32 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO imo-d05.mx.aol.com) (205.188.157.37) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 3 Feb 2004 20:44:32 -0000 +Received: from MBNadolski@aol.com + by imo-d05.mx.aol.com (mail_out_v36_r4.12.) id m.9b.43881dd5 (15862) + for <sng@castagraf.com>; Tue, 3 Feb 2004 15:44:12 -0500 (EST) +Received: from aol.com (mow-m18.webmail.aol.com [64.12.180.134]) by air-id06.mx.aol.com (v97.18) with ESMTP id MAILINID61-3df64020081c29; Tue, 03 Feb 2004 15:44:12 -0500 +Date: Tue, 03 Feb 2004 15:44:12 -0500 +From: MBNadolski@aol.com +To: sng@castagraf.com (sng) +Subject: Re: Checking in +MIME-Version: 1.0 +Message-ID: <013BFF64.03F6FF7E.0AFA5DAC@aol.com> +X-Mailer: Atlas Mailer 2.0 +X-AOL-IP: 162.40.240.77 +Content-Type: multipart/mixed; boundary=-------15e1b6c4191b8615e1b6c4191b86 +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit 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Tue Feb 3 20:43:49 2004 +Return-Path: <MBNadolski@aol.com> +Delivered-To: sng@3 +Received: (qmail 25461 invoked from network); 3 Feb 2004 20:43:49 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO imo-d03.mx.aol.com) (205.188.157.35) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 3 Feb 2004 20:43:49 -0000 +Received: from MBNadolski@aol.com + by imo-d03.mx.aol.com (mail_out_v36_r4.12.) id m.1a3.1fe05c23 (16035) + for <sng@castagraf.com>; Tue, 3 Feb 2004 15:43:33 -0500 (EST) +Received: from aol.com (mow-m15.webmail.aol.com [64.12.180.131]) by air-id10.mx.aol.com (v97.18) with ESMTP id MAILINID102-3ea3402007f436c; Tue, 03 Feb 2004 15:43:32 -0500 +Date: Tue, 03 Feb 2004 15:43:32 -0500 +From: MBNadolski@aol.com +To: sng@castagraf.com (sng) +Subject: Re: Checking in +MIME-Version: 1.0 +Message-ID: <16B9FEE0.6C762F4A.0AFA5DAC@aol.com> +X-Mailer: Atlas Mailer 2.0 +X-AOL-IP: 162.40.240.77 +Content-Type: multipart/mixed; boundary=-------16dc70106c98a07a16dc70106c98a07a +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit + +---------16dc70106c98a07a16dc70106c98a07a +Content-Type: text/plain; charset=iso-8859-1 +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit + +OK, I'm gonna send you two of my congregational prison photos that I like, but you don't have to use them. You can decide. I'll send you some more stuff tonight. +-MBN +---------16dc70106c98a07a16dc70106c98a07a +Content-Type: image/jpeg; name="prisonprayers.jpg"; x-mac-type="3F3F3F3F"; x-mac-type="3F3F3F3F" +Content-Transfer-Encoding: base64 +Content-Disposition: attachment + +/9j/4AAQSkZJRgABAgEAyADIAAD/7RPiUGhvdG9zaG9wIDMuMAA4QklNBAQAAAAAACwcAgAA +AgACHAJ4ACAgICAgICAgICAgICAgICAgICAgICAgICAgICAgICAgIDhCSU0D6QAAAAAAeAAD +AAAASABIAAAAAALeAkD/7v/uAwYCUgNnBSgD/AACAAAASABIAAAAAALYAigAAQAAAGQAAAAB +AAMDAwAAAAF//wABAAEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAABgCAAZAZAAAAAAACAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAADhCSU0D7QAAAAAAEADIAAAAAQABAMgAAAABAAE4QklNA/MAAAAAAAgAAAAA +AAAAADhCSU0ECgAAAAAAAQAAOEJJTScQAAAAAAAKAAEAAAAAAAAAAThCSU0D9AAAAAAAEgA1 +AAAAAQAtAAAABgAAAAAAAThCSU0D9wAAAAAAHAAA/////////////////////////////wPo +AAA4QklNBAgAAAAAABAAAAABAAACQAAAAkAAAAAAOEJJTQQUAAAAAAAEAAAAAThCSU0EDAAA +AAASMAAAAAEAAABwAAAASQAAAVAAAF/QAAASFAAYAAH/2P/gABBKRklGAAECAQBIAEgAAP/+ +ACZGaWxlIHdyaXR0ZW4gYnkgQWRvYmUgUGhvdG9zaG9wqCA1LjL/7gAOQWRvYmUAZIAAAAAB 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Sat Jan 24 19:20:21 2004 +Return-Path: <postpran2@juno.com> +Delivered-To: theeditorishperson@castagraf.com +Received: (qmail 3134 invoked from network); 24 Jan 2004 19:20:21 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO outbound20-2.nyc.untd.com) (64.136.20.160) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 24 Jan 2004 19:20:21 -0000 +Received: from webmail05.nyc.untd.com (webmail05.nyc.untd.com [10.140.30.145]) + by smtpout04.nyc.untd.com with SMTP id AABABFTLHAY6MVQS + for <theeditorishperson@castagraf.com> (sender <postpran2@juno.com>); + Sat, 24 Jan 2004 11:19:35 -0800 (PST) +Received: from cookie.untd.com by cookie.untd.com for <"yyLDmTg0/8Np8Mrm+pTakXXdpOr2kyIOb2uNPTnR0vU8yw5k7zL2ag==">; Sat, 24 Jan 2004 11:18:47 PST +Received: (from postpran2@juno.com) + by webmail05.nyc.untd.com (jqueuemail) id JLPB66GX; Sat, 24 Jan 2004 11:18:47 PST +Received: from [67.30.201.44] by webmail05.nyc.untd.com with HTTP: + Sat, 24 Jan 2004 19:18:24 GMT +X-Originating-IP: [67.30.201.44] +Mime-Version: 1.0 +X-Original-From: "postpran2@juno.com" <postpran2@juno.com> +Date: Sat, 24 Jan 2004 19:18:24 GMT +To: theeditorishperson@castagraf.com +Subject: Withdrawl of "Mr. Whiskers and the Picnic Basket" (Marcus Slease) +X-Mailer: WebMail Version 2.0 +Content-Type: text/plain +From: postpran2@juno.com +Message-Id: <20040124.111847.21043.1143531@webmail05.nyc.untd.com> +X-ContentStamp: 3:5:2831719143 +X-Text-Classification: junk +X-POPFile-Link: http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile2215=6.msg + + +Dear Castagraf, + +I did not notice any prohibitions against simultaneous submissions, so I hope this doesn't put me in the ice house. + +On 10/21/03 I sent the following poems to Castagraf: + +"A Prophet Laid Out my Path" +"Mr. Whiskers and the Picnic Basket" +"Eggs on a Spoon" +"All My Pets are Carnivorous" + +The poetry editor of Story South would like to publish "Mr. Whiskers and the Picnic basket" so I am afraid I will have to withdraw it from consideration. + +Again, I am very sorry. I hope we are not on bad terms. + +Sincerely, +Marcus Slease + + + +From ???@??? Wed Jan 7 20:39:56 2004 +Return-Path: <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Delivered-To: sng@3 +Received: (qmail 23311 invoked from network); 7 Jan 2004 20:39:56 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO ?24.62.127.208?) (24.62.127.208) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 7 Jan 2004 20:39:56 -0000 +User-Agent: Microsoft-Entourage/10.1.0.2006 +Date: Wed, 07 Jan 2004 04:33:38 -0500 +Subject: New issue of castagraf: Sawako poem +From: laura Solomon <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +To: scott gilbertson <sng@castagraf.com> +Message-ID: <BC213CA6.17F5%lagsolo@castagraf.com> +In-Reply-To: <5.1.1.8.2.20031217004712.00d7b6b0@mail.factorial.org> +Mime-version: 1.0 +Content-type: multipart/mixed; boundary="B_3156294824_1450210" + +--B_3156294824_1450210 +Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit + +Hey Scott, + +Here's Sawako's piece again. Note the formatting request in her email below. + +Laura + + + + + +------ Forwarded Message +From: Sawako Nakayasu <sawako@factorial.org> +Date: Wed, 17 Dec 2003 00:48:21 +0900 +To: laura Solomon <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Subject: Re: Castagraf + +hi laura, please let me know if you get this - with attachments +sawako + +____________________ + +Dear Laura, + +Here is an excerpt - I'm sorry to me so slow! It's shocking to me how +difficult it is to get things done - a bit troublesome, but I really +appreciate your gentle reminder and encouragement. It's also a little +scary, too, how insignificant this (writing) feels right now, in light of +everything - which is curious because that's how i was feeling when I first +started writing this piece - I was in grad school/mfa when 9/11 happened, +and it seemed so ridiculous to find myself in a 'writing program' - when +there was such chaos and pain and difficulty all around - + +So - a note on the text - or formatting - I'm not sure how you're planning +to format, but I like the way you define a frame in which to place the text +- so I attached a pdf and also word so that it's usable, but basically if +you could format it so that the text runs from top to bottom of the frame, +then to the next page (ie no scrolling up/down). +The breaks: the first one, on 'stay', could you please make what follows +land on the next page, at the same latitude as wherever it broke off? +Same with the last one at the end, between 'other dangers called' and +'time' - (in the original ms the word 'time' is at the top, but this didn't +make sense since I chose to end the excerpt here.) + +If you would rather begin/end the selection at a different point, please +let me know - I chose something that seemed to make sense, but I'm not set +in stone about it. + +thanks for everything, laura - I look forward to meeting you one day - + +sawako + +At 11:18 03/12/13 -0500, you wrote: +>Thanks Sawako--I'll be checking my inbox. I hope things work out. Love's +>tough, what can I say--it's enough sometimes to make you want to jump in +>front of a bus (or it has been so for me), but it reminds you, at the same +>time, that you really are alive and that life itself is really worthwhile. +>Funny how love inspires both feelings--utter despair and dissuadable hope. I +>hope this note finds you happy. +> +>Be bright, +>Laura +> +> +> +>On 12/12/03 12:39 PM, "Sawako Nakayasu" <sawako@factorial.org> wrote: +> +> > Hi Laura, +> > +> > Thank you so much for your note - I've been meaning to send you an excerpt, +> > but I've been 'busy' being heartbroken and unemployed...not the usual kind +of +> > business, but this is a rough time of year for it all! So I've been a +> bit more +> > dysfunctional than usual, but the new year should (theoretically) +> clear things +> > up a bit. And I didnt really mean to say that to ask for sympathy - I +managed +> > to fall in love for the first time in my life (didnt think I had it +> in me), so +> > a lot of good has happened - even though its hard to see it go... +> > +> > anyway I will work on getting you some work this weekend! (shouldn't be so +> > hard, i know...) +> > +> > yours, +> > Sawako +> > +> > +> > At 23:29 03/12/11 -0500, you wrote: +> >> Dear Sawako, +> >> +> >> I just wanted to let you know that we're still really interested in +> >> including your work in our next issue. I'm sure you're really busy, what +> >> with the time of year, but if you find time to send us a few pieces and a +> >> bio, we'd be really thrilled to showcase your poetry. We're hoping to have +> >> the new issue up by mid-January. +> >> +> >> Take care and happy holidays, +> >> Laura Solomon +> > +> > +> > +> > __________________________________________________________ +> > Texture Notes +> > http://www.nakayasu.blogspot.com/ +> > +> > +> > + + +------ End of Forwarded Message + +--B_3156294824_1450210 +Content-Type: application/octet-stream; name="sowehave_castagraf.pdf"; x-mac-type="3F3F3F3F"; x-mac-type="3F3F3F3F" +Content-Transfer-Encoding: base64 +Content-Disposition: attachment + +JVBERi0xLjMNJeLjz9MNCjU2NCAwIG9iag08PCANL0xpbmVhcml6ZWQgMSANL08gNTY3IA0v +SCBbIDExNDcgMzE2IF0gDS9MIDEyNjYzOSANL0UgMjg5NTAgDS9OIDEyIA0vVCAxMTUyNDAg +DT4+IA1lbmRvYmoNICAgICAgICAgICAgICAgICAgICAgICAgICAgICAgICAgICAgICAgICAg +ICAgICAgICAgICB4cmVmDTU2NCAxNiANMDAwMDAwMDAxNiAwMDAwMCBuDQowMDAwMDAwNjcx +IDAwMDAwIG4NCjAwMDAwMDEwMDggMDAwMDAgbg0KMDAwMDAwMTQ2MyAwMDAwMCBuDQowMDAw +MDAxNzc0IDAwMDAwIG4NCjAwMDAwMDE4MTUgMDAwMDAgbg0KMDAwMDAwMjMxNSAwMDAwMCBu 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Wed Jan 7 20:31:21 2004 +Return-Path: <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Delivered-To: sng@3 +Received: (qmail 21492 invoked from network); 7 Jan 2004 20:31:21 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO ?24.62.127.208?) (24.62.127.208) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 7 Jan 2004 20:31:21 -0000 +User-Agent: Microsoft-Entourage/10.1.0.2006 +Date: Wed, 07 Jan 2004 04:25:09 -0500 +Subject: FW: Michael Ruby submission +From: laura Solomon <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +To: scott gilbertson <sng@castagraf.com> +Message-ID: <BC213AA5.17F0%lagsolo@castagraf.com> +In-Reply-To: <6CF9C2F2C5B4D51195490002A5644A960FCDD666@wfcmxsmb02> +Mime-version: 1.0 +Content-type: multipart/mixed; boundary="B_3156294309_1451299" +X-Text-Classification: not_junk +X-POPFile-Link: http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile1059=35.msg + +--B_3156294309_1451299 +Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit + +I like these a lot, but can't pick between them. Let me know which ones you +like best. + +Laura + + + +------ Forwarded Message +From: "Ruby, Michael" <Michael.Ruby@wsj.com> +Date: Tue, 18 Nov 2003 20:10:40 -0500 +To: "'submit@castagraf.com'" <submit@castagraf.com> +Subject: Michael Ruby submission + +Dear Editors, + +I've been enjoying reading Castagraf during my free moments at work, and I +thought I'd send you some sections of a new book of fiction/prose poetry +called Dreams of the 1990s. I think they would definitely amuse many of +your readers. + +My first book of poems, At an Intersection, was published by Alef Books in +Manhattan at the end of last year. A long poem, "Wave Talk," appeared this +past winter in syllogism in Berkeley, and other poems are coming out this +year in Lost & Found Times in Columbus and in e-zines Poethia, Mudlark, +xStream, Aught, La Petite Zine, Sidereality and Shampoo. Thank your for +reading my work. + +Best, +Michael Ruby + <<ruby.doc>> + + +------ End of Forwarded Message + +--B_3156294309_1451299 +Content-Type: application/octet-stream; name="ruby.doc"; x-mac-type="3F3F3F3F"; x-mac-type="3F3F3F3F" +Content-Transfer-Encoding: base64 +Content-Disposition: attachment + +0M8R4KGxGuEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPgADAP7/CQAGAAAAAAAAAAAAAAABAAAAPQAAAAAA +AAAAEAAAPwAAAAEAAAD+////AAAAADwAAAD///////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// 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Wed Jan 7 20:29:26 2004 +Return-Path: <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Delivered-To: sng@3 +Received: (qmail 19528 invoked from network); 7 Jan 2004 20:29:26 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO ?24.62.127.208?) (24.62.127.208) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 7 Jan 2004 20:29:26 -0000 +User-Agent: Microsoft-Entourage/10.1.0.2006 +Date: Wed, 07 Jan 2004 04:23:09 -0500 +Subject: Castagraf +From: laura Solomon <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +To: scott gilbertson <sng@castagraf.com> +Message-ID: <BC213A31.17EE%lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Mime-version: 1.0 +Content-type: multipart/mixed; boundary="B_3156294194_1430240" +X-Text-Classification: not_junk +X-POPFile-Link: http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile1059=34.msg + +--B_3156294194_1430240 +Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit + +Let me know what you think about these. They're from Travis's and Nick's +student. I like Insect Friends for its narration's simplicity and child-like +obsessiveness (the repetition/ reiteration of thoughts). I'm not as keen on +Sleeping with Jesus--I love the last line and the general conceit but I'm +not sure it works as a whole. It seems to need more complication. + +Laura + +--B_3156294194_1430240 +Content-Type: application/msword; name="Insect Friends.doc"; x-mac-type="5738424E"; x-mac-type="4D535744" +Content-Transfer-Encoding: base64 +Content-Disposition: attachment + +0M8R4KGxGuEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPgADAP7/CQAGAAAAAAAAAAAAAAABAAAAMQAAAAAA +AAAAEAAAMwAAAAEAAAD+////AAAAADAAAAD///////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +///////////////////////////////////spcEAqUAJBAAA8BK/AAAAAAABEQABAAEABgAA 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+AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA= +--B_3156294194_1430240-- + +From ???@??? Wed Jan 7 15:02:55 2004 +X-POPFile-TimeoutPrevention: 0 +Return-Path: <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Delivered-To: sng@3 +Received: (qmail 22164 invoked from network); 7 Jan 2004 15:02:55 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO ?24.62.127.208?) (24.62.127.208) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 7 Jan 2004 15:02:55 -0000 +User-Agent: Microsoft-Entourage/10.1.0.2006 +Date: Tue, 06 Jan 2004 22:56:38 -0500 +Subject: New issue of castagraf: Aaron McCollough's bio +From: laura Solomon <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +To: scott gilbertson <sng@castagraf.com> +Message-ID: <BC20EDA6.17E6%lagsolo@castagraf.com> +In-Reply-To: <00a301c3d52c$e99d8e00$0200a8c0@oemcomputer> +Mime-version: 1.0 +Content-type: multipart/alternative; boundary="B_3156274600_1012035" +X-Text-Classification: not_junk +X-POPFile-Link: http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile1059=5.msg + +--B_3156274600_1012035 +Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit + + +Aaron McCollough is the author of two books of poems: WELKIN (Ahsahta Press, +2002) and DOUBLE VENUS (SALT, 2003). He is a graduate of the Iowa Writers' +Workshop and poetry editor of the online literary periodical GUTCULT +(www.gutcult.com <http://www.gutcult.com> ). McCollough lives in Ann Arbor, +MI. + + +--B_3156274600_1012035 +Content-Type: text/html; charset=US-ASCII +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit + +<HTML> +<HEAD> +<TITLE>New issue of castagraf: Aaron McCollough's bio</TITLE> +</HEAD> +<BODY> +<FONT FACE="Verdana"><BR> +</FONT><FONT SIZE="2"><FONT FACE="Georgia">Aaron McCollough is the author of two books of poems: WELKIN (Ahsahta Press, 2002) and DOUBLE VENUS (SALT, 2003). He is a graduate of the Iowa Writers' Workshop and poetry editor of the online literary periodical GUTCULT (www.gutcult.com <http://www.gutcult.com> ). McCollough lives in Ann Arbor, MI.<BR> +</FONT></FONT><FONT FACE="Verdana"> <BR> +</FONT> +</BODY> +</HTML> + +--B_3156274600_1012035-- + +From ???@??? Wed Jan 7 14:28:11 2004 +Return-Path: <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Delivered-To: sng@3 +Received: (qmail 11897 invoked from network); 7 Jan 2004 14:28:11 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO ?24.62.127.208?) (24.62.127.208) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 7 Jan 2004 14:28:11 -0000 +User-Agent: Microsoft-Entourage/10.1.0.2006 +Date: Tue, 06 Jan 2004 22:21:56 -0500 +Subject: New issue of castagraf: Juliana Leslie bio +From: laura Solomon <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +To: scott gilbertson <sng@castagraf.com> +Message-ID: <BC20E584.17E0%lagsolo@castagraf.com> +In-Reply-To: <v04210100bc2100e4811c@[65.128.20.7]> +Mime-version: 1.0 +Content-type: text/plain; charset="US-ASCII" +Content-transfer-encoding: 7bit +X-Text-Classification: not_junk +X-POPFile-Link: http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile1059=2.msg + + + + +Juliana Leslie is the author of a chapbook, Pie in the sky (Braincase +Press). Her work has recently been published in Syllogism and +Baffling Combustions and is forthcoming in No: a journal of the arts. +She lives in Northampton, MA. + + + + + +From ???@??? Tue Jan 6 18:40:09 2004 +Return-Path: <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Delivered-To: sng@3 +Received: (qmail 5285 invoked from network); 6 Jan 2004 18:40:09 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO ?24.62.127.208?) (24.62.127.208) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 6 Jan 2004 18:40:09 -0000 +User-Agent: Microsoft-Entourage/10.1.0.2006 +Date: Tue, 06 Jan 2004 02:33:52 -0500 +Subject: New issue of castagraf: two more from Christina +From: laura Solomon <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +To: scott gilbertson <sng@castagraf.com> +Message-ID: <BC1FCF10.17D4%lagsolo@castagraf.com> +In-Reply-To: <00FC7CB8B6D2B9409C62F24EE91430281585ED@MAIL2.AD.Brown.Edu> +Mime-version: 1.0 +Content-type: text/plain; charset="US-ASCII" +Content-transfer-encoding: 7bit +X-Text-Classification: not_junk +X-POPFile-Link: http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile1002=29.msg + + +------ Forwarded Message +From: "Mengert, Christina" <Christina_Mengert@brown.edu> +Date: Tue, 6 Jan 2004 13:20:52 -0500 +To: "laura Solomon" <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Subject: RE: scott who? + + + + Sure thing Laura-Loo, and a happy holidays at you too! + + (let me know if you don't like the poems, which you of course reserve +the right not to. and i'll send you others). + + Let me know when the next issue is a-comin'. :-) + + C. + + + Looking Glass + + Fact of the matter is, I haven't even begun + To resemble you. Recognition being a much + Firmer act than innovation, I set about + Transcribing you. Burnt you. Weathered you. + Stranger you. In truth, your eyes totally + Escape me. I watch them age and they totally + Escape me. I move my hand as if to mimic + A gesture, but it's your lip that's bleeding, + Not your palm, not your finger. Years pass, + And maybe I've learned your blank stare, + But that's it. I cannot bear your disappointed + Face. Forgive me my last attempt. + + + Vandalism + + It is easy to say as a doctor that this blood is occupationally + Justified. Not as easy to say it near two ears and a blowtorch. + As a unit I could not improve upon what was already becoming + Your face. Removing the ears not only seemed a solution, + It seemed immanent redemption. This blood, justified. + When I feel firmly convinced of the underlying structure, + I will return these things. Though I expect you'll never + Ask for them again. + + + > Vandalisms + > + > The last time you used an if/then clause + > Birds got caught between your teeth. There's a pig outside + > Blowing us down. + > + > + > One-in-the-Same + > + > Three years ago I was not an alien. + > You made songs and jumped at red things. + > Now I will never be from beginning. + > I gather my nerves, string them into my feet, + > So that walking here I am reminded + > I will never touch you again. + > + > + + + + +------ End of Forwarded Message + + + + +From ???@??? Tue Jan 6 15:32:48 2004 +Return-Path: <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Delivered-To: sng@3 +Received: (qmail 18385 invoked from network); 6 Jan 2004 15:32:48 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO ?24.62.127.208?) (24.62.127.208) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 6 Jan 2004 15:32:48 -0000 +User-Agent: Microsoft-Entourage/10.1.0.2006 +Date: Mon, 05 Jan 2004 23:26:28 -0500 +Subject: New issue of castagraf: James Wagner poems +From: laura Solomon <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +To: scott gilbertson <sng@castagraf.com> +Message-ID: <BC1FA326.17CE%lagsolo@castagraf.com> +In-Reply-To: <20030404195828.36058.qmail@web20010.mail.yahoo.com> +Mime-version: 1.0 +Content-type: multipart/mixed; boundary="B_3156189991_306023" +X-Text-Classification: not_junk +X-POPFile-Link: http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile1002=17.msg + +--B_3156189991_306023 +Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit + + +------ Forwarded Message +From: James Wagner <wagnerjjj@yahoo.com> +Date: Fri, 4 Apr 2003 11:58:28 -0800 (PST) +To: laura Solomon <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Subject: Re: castagraf + +Dear Laura, + +I'm trying to spread out the poems a bit. But I'll +send you these from the third section of _the false +sun recordings_. I haven't sent them out before. + +Murmuring with sealed lips? Interesting. + +I will divine the secret eventually. + +Lake hair, +James +--- laura Solomon <lagsolo@castagraf.com> wrote: +> Dear James, +> +> Thanks for the poems. Can you send more? Ah the +> elliptical nature of the +> word--castagraf--I'm afraid can never be revealed. I +> can only murmur this +> clue from between my sealed lips, "portmanteau." +> +> Yrs, +> +> Laura +> +> On 4/2/03 2:12 PM, "James Wagner" +> <wagnerjjj@yahoo.com> wrote: +> +> > Laura, +> > +> > I screwed up. I shouldn't have sent you that +> > "Mingus..." one. I had already sent it to another +> > place. The other two are O.K. though, if you like +> > them. +> > +> > You never told me what "castagraf" stands for. +> > +> > Take care, +> > James +> > +> > +> > __________________________________________________ +> > Do you Yahoo!? +> > Yahoo! Tax Center - File online, calculators, +> forms, and more +> > http://tax.yahoo.com +> > +> + + +__________________________________________________ +Do you Yahoo!? +Yahoo! Tax Center - File online, calculators, forms, and more +http://tax.yahoo.com + +------ End of Forwarded Message + +--B_3156189991_306023 +Content-Type: application/octet-stream; name="lingo (1)-(6).doc"; x-mac-type="3F3F3F3F"; x-mac-type="3F3F3F3F" +Content-Transfer-Encoding: base64 +Content-Disposition: attachment + +0M8R4KGxGuEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPgADAP7/CQAGAAAAAAAAAAAAAAABAAAAGAAAAAAA +AAAAEAAAGQAAAAEAAAD+////AAAAABcAAAD///////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// 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Tue Jan 6 15:21:43 2004 +Return-Path: <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Delivered-To: sng@3 +Received: (qmail 15182 invoked from network); 6 Jan 2004 15:21:43 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO ?24.62.127.208?) (24.62.127.208) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 6 Jan 2004 15:21:43 -0000 +User-Agent: Microsoft-Entourage/10.1.0.2006 +Date: Mon, 05 Jan 2004 23:15:26 -0500 +Subject: New Issue of castagraf: Christina Mengert poems +From: laura Solomon <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +To: scott gilbertson <sng@castagraf.com> +Message-ID: <BC1FA08E.17CC%lagsolo@castagraf.com> +In-Reply-To: <00FC7CB8B6D2B9409C62F24EE91430281584FC@MAIL2.AD.Brown.Edu> +Mime-version: 1.0 +Content-type: text/plain; charset="US-ASCII" +Content-transfer-encoding: 7bit +X-Text-Classification: not_junk +X-POPFile-Link: http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile1002=16.msg + + + +Vandalisms + +The last time you used an if/then clause +Birds got caught between your teeth. There's a pig outside +Blowing us down. + + + + + +One-in-the-Same + +Three years ago I was not an alien. +You made songs and jumped at red things. +Now I will never be from beginning. +I gather my nerves, string them into my feet, +So that walking here I am reminded +I will never touch you again. + + + + + + +From ???@??? Tue Jan 6 15:08:56 2004 +Return-Path: <lagsolo@earthlink.net> +Delivered-To: sng@3 +Received: (qmail 11459 invoked from network); 6 Jan 2004 15:08:56 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO ?24.62.127.208?) (24.62.127.208) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 6 Jan 2004 15:08:56 -0000 +User-Agent: Microsoft-Entourage/10.1.0.2006 +Date: Mon, 05 Jan 2004 23:02:31 -0500 +Subject: New issue of castagraf: Jon Link comics +From: Laura Solomon <lagsolo@earthlink.net> +To: scott gilbertson <sng@castagraf.com> +Message-ID: <BC1F9D8D.17C9%lagsolo@earthlink.net> +In-Reply-To: <F90E74D3-13FC-11D8-9419-000393B28AE6@thenumbskull.com> +Mime-version: 1.0 +Content-type: multipart/mixed; boundary="B_3156188557_225580" +X-Text-Classification: junk +X-POPFile-Link: http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile1002=14.msg + +--B_3156188557_225580 +Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit + + +------ Forwarded Message +From: jon link <jon@thenumbskull.com> +Date: Mon, 10 Nov 2003 23:10:23 -0500 +To: Laura Solomon <lagsolo@earthlink.net>, laura solomon +<lagsolo@earthlink.com> +Subject: castagraf? + +laura, + +im not sure if you even want this anymore, but here are some of the +drawings i do. +more can be found at http://thenumbskull.com which is the website i am +starting. + +take care, +jon + + + +------ End of Forwarded Message + +--B_3156188557_225580 +Content-Type: image/jpeg; name="glixcour.jpg"; x-mac-type="4A504547"; x-mac-type="3842494D" +Content-Transfer-Encoding: base64 +Content-Disposition: attachment + +/9j/4AAQSkZJRgABAgAAZABkAAD/7AARRHVja3kAAQAEAAAAPAAA/+4AJkFkb2JlAGTAAAAA +AQMAFQQDBgoNAAATpAAALzwAAEiNAABfuP/bAIQABgQEBAUEBgUFBgkGBQYJCwgGBggLDAoK +CwoKDBAMDAwMDAwQDA4PEA8ODBMTFBQTExwbGxscHx8fHx8fHx8fHwEHBwcNDA0YEBAYGhUR +FRofHx8fHx8fHx8fHx8fHx8fHx8fHx8fHx8fHx8fHx8fHx8fHx8fHx8fHx8fHx8fHx8f/8IA +EQgB+gHCAwERAAIRAQMRAf/EAOMAAQADAQEBAQAAAAAAAAAAAAADBAUCAQYHAQEAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAEAACAgIABAUCBQUBAQAAAAADBAECAAVAExQVECAwERJQIyExIiQ0YHCwJTUG +MxEAAgEBBQIGDQgJAgcBAQAAAQIDEQAhMRIEQRMQUWFxIjJAgZGhscHRQlJyIzM0IDBiktJT +kxRQgqKywkNzJAVgdHDw4eJjg1TxNRIBAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAsBMBAAEDAwMCBgIDAQEA 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Tue Jan 6 15:07:26 2004 +Return-Path: <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Delivered-To: sng@3 +Received: (qmail 11063 invoked from network); 6 Jan 2004 15:07:26 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO ?24.62.127.208?) (24.62.127.208) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 6 Jan 2004 15:07:26 -0000 +User-Agent: Microsoft-Entourage/10.1.0.2006 +Date: Mon, 05 Jan 2004 23:01:06 -0500 +Subject: New issue of castagraf: Michael Carr poems +From: laura Solomon <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +To: scott gilbertson <sng@castagraf.com> +Message-ID: <BC1F9D32.17C8%lagsolo@castagraf.com> +In-Reply-To: <214B3342.1727FC3B.0B7250E5@aol.com> +Mime-version: 1.0 +Content-type: text/plain; charset="US-ASCII" +Content-transfer-encoding: 7bit +X-Text-Classification: not_junk +X-POPFile-Link: http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile1002=13.msg + +Hi Scott--I like the first two but not the third. + +Laura + + + +------ Forwarded Message +From: CanonAspirin@aol.com +Date: Tue, 11 Nov 2003 10:13:49 -0500 +To: lagsolo@castagraf.com +Subject: Re: submission + +Hi Laura- + +Below are three poems, the first two are a little more zen than the last, +perhaps they work better without the 3rd(?). Anyway, I thought I'd send +these off for you to take a look before I got a chance to procrastinate. + +Best, +Michael + +---------------------------- + + Date/Time + +There is in Orlando +what would be the + +opposite of how it +looked you could say but + +a stage called a world's +world, this is in a series + +if it was everywhere. The +background movie of stages + +and what it's known as +there like being new + +Every departure is carrying +a lamp then the next + +in extra silence, no one +will speak of it + +It was a lesson if its +opposite comes with + +its double, they would have to +be there instead to get home + +to learn night isn't when +you see it at a later + +time, there is no other +place they could know + +---------------------------- + + viz. + +It was the extremity of them +The weight of my life transports +Fact a step from + +The length of the direction +My son considered +They disappear near the sea + +A dream with itself and +It was not seen to them +Which saw ignition + +In my heart +If it is indifferent, that one finds +The reply of its description + +Left that request, knows me. I have +The necessity like its damage +One falls, a pump + +---------------------------- + + W. James + +Thin films telex the stormy petrel +Our parsons tables handwrite toe-to-toe + +so as to word other than the climatology +They camphorate seducing although definable + +purport preshrank over the chagrin of evictee yet +an evictee felicitated instead of the star system + +From under the poinsettia of facsimile +alkyl stormy petrels encyst and herbicidally + +across from a poinsettia of Vietnamese +of a Manx cat is morbidly natty to taint + +A workwoman is fuliginous of Parthian +stormy petrels that rumple parallactic + +throughout neither, beggaring and +encysting around avuncular timbrels + +We mutinously interest and interdigitate +around poinsettias but they cannot + +uniform us from under their mincemeats +Evasively the biogeographer of + +twillings would haunt to presort us +alterably up until her reactor's attendee + + +------ End of Forwarded Message + + + + +From ???@??? Tue Jan 6 15:04:11 2004 +Return-Path: <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Delivered-To: sng@3 +Received: (qmail 10412 invoked from network); 6 Jan 2004 15:04:11 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO ?24.62.127.208?) (24.62.127.208) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 6 Jan 2004 15:04:11 -0000 +User-Agent: Microsoft-Entourage/10.1.0.2006 +Date: Mon, 05 Jan 2004 22:57:51 -0500 +Subject: New Issue of castagraf: Aaron McCoullough +From: laura Solomon <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +To: scott gilbertson <sng@castagraf.com> +Message-ID: <BC1F9C71.17C7%lagsolo@castagraf.com> +In-Reply-To: <02c701c3ad6b$71b948e0$0300a8c0@oemcomputer> +Mime-version: 1.0 +Content-type: multipart/mixed; boundary="B_3156188274_224358" +X-Text-Classification: not_junk +X-POPFile-Link: http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile1002=12.msg + +--B_3156188274_224358 +Content-Type: multipart/alternative; boundary=Mailsmith-CF29608F-1584-11D9-9BDE-0003930BD39A +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit + +--Mailsmith-CF29608F-1584-11D9-9BDE-0003930BD39A +Content-Type: text/plain; charset=ISO-8859-1 +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit + +Hi ScottI like #11 and #12. + +Laura + + +------ Forwarded Message +From: "Aaron McCollough" <amccollo@umich.edu> +Date: Mon, 17 Nov 2003 19:32:22 -0500 +To: "laura Solomon" <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Subject: Re: Last Night...You Said... + +Laura- + +Here are four selections from a series called "Superliminare," which belongs +to my new manuscript. They are pretty minimalistic. + +Let me know if you are interested in any/all for castagraf. + +All best- + +Aaron +****************************************************** +Aaron McCollough +English Department +University of Michigan + +"If you have any music that may not be heard, + to't again" -- Othello 3.1 +****************************************************** +> ----- Original Message ----- +> From: laura Solomon <mailto:lagsolo@castagraf.com> +> To: Aaron McCollough <mailto:amccollo@umich.edu> +> Sent: Friday, November 14, 2003 11:52 AM +> Subject: Re: Last Night...You Said... +> +> Hi Aaron, +> +> The site looks greatand so does the content. Im bookmarking you presently +> and looking forward to a full perusal tomorrow morning. Im sending you the +> longer poem as an attachment. (Pages 8, 10, 11, 14, 17 & 19 have been printed +> elsewhere.) Let me know if youd like to use any of it. And please do send +> castagraf workwere always looking for new poets. +> +> It was really nice to meet you. Hope the wind has died down a little. +> +> Laura +> +> +> On 11/14/03 1:49 PM, "Aaron McCollough" <amccollo@umich.edu> wrote: +> +>> Hey Laura- +>> +>> Great to meet you last night and to hear you read. As promised, here I am, +>> emailing you. If you have a chance to check out gutcult, the address is +>> http://www.gutcult.com +>> +>> It's not all FLASH'd out like castagraf, but... +>> +>> I would like to submit something to castagraf. I need to look over my stuff +>> and see what might fit. +>> +>> More Soon- +>> +>> Aaron +>> ****************************************************** +>> Aaron McCollough +>> English Department +>> University of Michigan +>> +>> "If you have any music that may not be heard, +>> to't again" -- Othello 3.1 +>> ****************************************************** +>> +> + + +------ End of Forwarded Message + +--Mailsmith-CF29608F-1584-11D9-9BDE-0003930BD39A +Content-Type: text/html; charset=ISO-8859-1 +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit + +<HTML> +<HEAD> +<TITLE>New Issue of castagraf: Aaron McCoullough</TITLE> +</HEAD> +<BODY> +<FONT FACE="Verdana">Hi Scott—I like #11 and #12. <BR> +<BR> +Laura<BR> +<BR> +<BR> +------ Forwarded Message<BR> +<B>From: </B>"Aaron McCollough" <amccollo@umich.edu><BR> +<B>Date: </B>Mon, 17 Nov 2003 19:32:22 -0500<BR> +<B>To: </B>"laura Solomon" <lagsolo@castagraf.com><BR> +<B>Subject: </B>Re: Last Night...You Said...<BR> +<BR> +</FONT><FONT SIZE="2"><FONT FACE="Georgia">Laura-<BR> +</FONT></FONT><FONT FACE="Verdana"> <BR> +</FONT><FONT SIZE="2"><FONT FACE="Georgia">Here are four selections from a series called "Superliminare," which belongs to my new manuscript. They are pretty minimalistic.<BR> +</FONT></FONT><FONT FACE="Verdana"> <BR> +</FONT><FONT SIZE="2"><FONT FACE="Georgia">Let me know if you are interested in any/all for castagraf.<BR> +</FONT></FONT><FONT FACE="Verdana"> <BR> +</FONT><FONT SIZE="2"><FONT FACE="Georgia">All best-<BR> +</FONT></FONT><FONT FACE="Verdana"> <BR> +</FONT><FONT SIZE="2"><FONT FACE="Georgia">Aaron<BR> +</FONT></FONT><FONT FACE="Verdana">******************************************************<BR> +Aaron McCollough<BR> +English Department<BR> +University of Michigan<BR> + <BR> +"If you have any music that may not be heard,<BR> + to't again" -- Othello 3.1 <BR> +******************************************************<BR> +</FONT><BLOCKQUOTE><FONT FACE="Verdana">----- Original Message ----- <BR> +<B>From:</B> laura Solomon <mailto:lagsolo@castagraf.com> <BR> +<B>To:</B> Aaron McCollough <mailto:amccollo@umich.edu> <BR> +<B>Sent:</B> Friday, November 14, 2003 11:52 AM<BR> +<B>Subject:</B> Re: Last Night...You Said...<BR> +<BR> +Hi Aaron,<BR> +<BR> +The site looks greatand so does the content. Im bookmarking you presently and looking forward to a full perusal tomorrow morning. Im sending you the longer poem as an attachment. (Pages 8, 10, 11, 14, 17 & 19 have been printed elsewhere.) Let me know if youd like to use any of it. And please do send castagraf workwere always looking for new poets. <BR> +<BR> +It was really nice to meet you. Hope the wind has died down a little.<BR> +<BR> +Laura <BR> +<BR> +<BR> +On 11/14/03 1:49 PM, "Aaron McCollough" <amccollo@umich.edu> wrote:<BR> +<BR> +</FONT><BLOCKQUOTE><FONT SIZE="2"><FONT FACE="Georgia">Hey Laura-<BR> +</FONT></FONT><FONT FACE="Verdana"><BR> +</FONT><FONT SIZE="2"><FONT FACE="Georgia">Great to meet you last night and to hear you read. As promised, here I am, emailing you. If you have a chance to check out gutcult, the address is http://www.gutcult.com<BR> +</FONT></FONT><FONT FACE="Verdana"><BR> +</FONT><FONT SIZE="2"><FONT FACE="Georgia">It's not all FLASH'd out like castagraf, but...<BR> +</FONT></FONT><FONT FACE="Verdana"><BR> +</FONT><FONT SIZE="2"><FONT FACE="Georgia">I would like to submit something to castagraf. I need to look over my stuff and see what might fit.<BR> +</FONT></FONT><FONT FACE="Verdana"><BR> +</FONT><FONT SIZE="2"><FONT FACE="Georgia">More Soon-<BR> +</FONT></FONT><FONT FACE="Verdana"><BR> +</FONT><FONT SIZE="2"><FONT FACE="Georgia">Aaron<BR> +******************************************************<BR> +Aaron McCollough<BR> +English Department<BR> +University of Michigan<BR> +</FONT></FONT><FONT FACE="Verdana"><BR> +</FONT><FONT SIZE="2"><FONT FACE="Georgia">"If you have any music that may not be heard,<BR> + to't again" -- Othello 3.1 <BR> +******************************************************<BR> +</FONT></FONT><FONT FACE="Verdana"><BR> +</FONT></BLOCKQUOTE><FONT FACE="Verdana"><BR> +</FONT></BLOCKQUOTE><FONT FACE="Verdana"><BR> +<BR> +------ End of Forwarded Message<BR> +</FONT> +</BODY> +</HTML> + +--Mailsmith-CF29608F-1584-11D9-9BDE-0003930BD39A-- +--B_3156188274_224358 +Content-Type: application/octet-stream; name="mccolloughcastagraf.doc"; x-mac-type="3F3F3F3F"; 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+AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAA== +--B_3156188274_224358-- + +From ???@??? Tue Jan 6 14:50:34 2004 +X-POPFile-TimeoutPrevention: 0 +Return-Path: <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Delivered-To: sng@3 +Received: (qmail 6465 invoked from network); 6 Jan 2004 14:50:34 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO ?24.62.127.208?) (24.62.127.208) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 6 Jan 2004 14:50:34 -0000 +User-Agent: Microsoft-Entourage/10.1.0.2006 +Date: Mon, 05 Jan 2004 22:44:16 -0500 +Subject: New issue of castagraf: Tony Tost poem/bio +From: laura Solomon <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +To: scott gilbertson <sng@castagraf.com> +Message-ID: <BC1F9940.17C3%lagsolo@castagraf.com> +In-Reply-To: <20031124042934.46488.qmail@web11306.mail.yahoo.com> +Mime-version: 1.0 +Content-type: multipart/mixed; boundary="B_3156187456_148101" +X-Text-Classification: not_junk +X-POPFile-Link: http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile1002=11.msg + +--B_3156187456_148101 +Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit + +Hey Scott, + +Use the second two poems. Love,Laura + + +Tony Tost's first book, Invisible Bride, is forthcoming this spring from LSU +Press after being selected by CD Wright for the Walt Whitman Award. He also +co-edits Octopus Magazine. + +__________________________________ +Do you Yahoo!? +Free Pop-Up Blocker - Get it now +http://companion.yahoo.com/ + +------ End of Forwarded Message + +--B_3156187456_148101 +Content-Type: application/octet-stream; name="castagraf submission, tost.doc"; x-mac-type="3F3F3F3F"; x-mac-type="3F3F3F3F" +Content-Transfer-Encoding: base64 +Content-Disposition: attachment + +0M8R4KGxGuEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPgADAP7/CQAGAAAAAAAAAAAAAAABAAAANwAAAAAA +AAAAEAAAOQAAAAEAAAD+////AAAAADYAAAD///////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// 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+AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +--B_3156187456_148101-- + +From ???@??? Tue Jan 6 14:41:04 2004 +Return-Path: <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Delivered-To: sng@3 +Received: (qmail 3512 invoked from network); 6 Jan 2004 14:41:04 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO ?24.62.127.208?) (24.62.127.208) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 6 Jan 2004 14:41:04 -0000 +User-Agent: Microsoft-Entourage/10.1.0.2006 +Date: Mon, 05 Jan 2004 22:34:46 -0500 +Subject: New issue of castagraf: Sarah Henning poem/bio +From: laura Solomon <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +To: scott gilbertson <sng@castagraf.com> +Message-ID: <BC1F9706.17C1%lagsolo@castagraf.com> +In-Reply-To: <20031125162634.80188.qmail@web14712.mail.yahoo.com> +Mime-version: 1.0 +Content-type: text/plain; charset="US-ASCII" +Content-transfer-encoding: 7bit +X-Text-Classification: not_junk +X-POPFile-Link: http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile1002=10.msg + + +------ Forwarded Message +From: Sara Henning <lucidity9980@yahoo.com> +Date: Tue, 25 Nov 2003 08:26:33 -0800 (PST) +To: laura Solomon <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Subject: Re: submission + +Hey Laura-- +I'll included the revised "Parable" in this email +text. Here goes-- + +Parable + +If here is a parable singeing elsewhere before us, +a parable we smash toward a course ripe and addictive, +if here is a parable subtracting through climates +until what is left makes a heist on our cheeks now, +fresh and fast, then our parable is not a bird opening +slowly into a pathetic ruby, is not a hunter unhoused +by an angry kill, nor a woman whose story is the +length of her lover's spine, but is instead the you +and the me making smaller routes from a place we have +always been, a place our eclipsed legs buckle and +squint into other apprehensions of travel, a place +that is matchless, that relocates its axle toward the +brink of what appears to be not quite here, the +subliminal smoke that counterfeit, is the only route +reminding us of where we have been, and the discretion +of where we will never go. + +Brief Bio: + +Sara Henning lives in Athens, GA and has published +work in poetry journals including LIT, Slope, Fence, +Conduit, and Maissoneuve. + +So anyways, how is UMass? Does the program aim itself +toward a certain flavour of writing, or would anyone +of eclectic mindset fit in? On a more superficial +note, is the weather really cold? (I have a +subversion to freezing). Is decent affordable housing +hard to come by? I'm applying for the fall and was +wondering what things were like if I choose to attend. + So Brad and Monica and Travis all live together? Are +Travis and Monica still together? Its nice that Scott +moved up there with you. Your relationship must be +serious :) How's Susie doing? Has she published +anything lately? I know I like her visual style. +Wow, good for Paul; a contest judged by Ashbery. +That's an accomplishment. I'd love to read your new +manuscript if ever the situation permits. Do you know +what your plans are post graduation? My mom's giving +me shit about doing the mfa program for just that +reason; she thinks the job opportunities are +nonexistent. Anyway, I'm about halfway through a +manuscript of my own; evenings without many +responsibilities have been good for my writing +practice. It is really good to hear from you. I'lll +let you know where I end up attending school, and hope +to keep in touch-- +thanks again for publishing my work. +sara +--- laura Solomon <lagsolo@castagraf.com> wrote: +> Hey Sarah--yes that would be great, send the revised +> version along with a +> brief bio. I'm glad to hear you're doing well. I +> just saw Brian read this +> past week in Amherst, and last night I spoke to +> Susie, whom I hadn't heard +> from in a year. Crazy, huh? I don't know that I have +> any news, really, on +> old Athens folk. Brad Flis, Monica and Travis live +> down the street from me +> and have a new kitten named Pre-fontaine. Paul's +> still in New York but is +> hoping to go to law school in Boston next year. His +> chapbook Forget Rita was +> selected last year by John Ashbery for the PSA NY +> chapbook award. It should +> be out soon--so that's sort of exciting. I'm still +> at UMass and have another +> couple of semesters to go. Hopefully I'll be +> finished by next fall. Scott's +> moved up here with me and that's been nice. I +> haven't been sending too many +> poems out--mostly I've been concentrating on just +> writing. I've finished a +> new manuscript though and am starting to circulate +> it. It's good to hear +> from you. Hold the fort down, down there. +> +> Take care, +> Laura +> +> On 11/22/03 12:16 PM, "Sara Henning" +> <lucidity9980@yahoo.com> wrote: +> +> > hi laura, +> > +> > I'm ecstatic you're interested in "Parable." +> Since +> > its gone through several incantations, would you +> like +> > me to forward you a revision? Also, is there +> anything +> > else you might need from me concerning the +> submission? +> > Anyway, enough of the technicalities....I've been +> > fine. I took some time off from school and +> > educational obligations for the last year and a +> > half....I just felt like I needed some space. I am +> > applying to U washington in Missouri, Cornell, +> Umass, +> > George Mason and Brown for the next calendar year, +> and +> > I've been writing and publishing poetry in hit and +> > miss journals (most recently Maissoneuve, so watch +> out +> > for me if you get the subscription! :) ) Other +> than +> > that I've been living with my fiancee and working +> in a +> > montessori school (where, coincidentally, Brian's +> > daughter is enrolled). Its been a nice break but +> I'm +> > ready to get back into school. Anyway, that's +> enough +> > for now, so, tell me about you....also, have you +> heard +> > any news concerning any of the old poetry folk +> from +> > Georgia? I've lost touch with a good bit of them, +> > unfortunately. +> > +> > Sara +> > --- laura Solomon <lagsolo@castagraf.com> wrote: +> >> Hey Sarah--I think we'd like to take "Parable" +> for +> >> the next issue. I'm sorry +> >> too for taking so long to let you know. The issue +> >> will be out probably by +> >> mid-January. So, tell me, how are you? +> >> +> >> Laura +> >> +> >> +> >> On 11/19/03 11:22 PM, "Sara Henning" +> >> <lucidity9980@yahoo.com> wrote: +> >> +> >>> hi laura, +> >>> sorry about the hit and miss emails i've been +> >>> sending you lately....i'm not much of an +> >> electronic +> >>> person anymore. sorry to hear about the car +> >>> wreck.....are you going to be ok? how has your +> >> poetry +> >>> been? i've seen some things about you doing +> >>> readings/tours.....have you given any thought to +> >> my +> >>> work yet? let me know. +> >>> +> >>> sara +> >>> --- laura Solomon <lagsolo@castagraf.com> wrote: +> >>>> Hi Sara?I apologize for the long time no +> >> response, +> >>>> but I?ve had a pretty +> >>>> insane couple of months. I was in a car wreck +> in +> >>>> August, surgery, physical +> >>>> therapy, etc, and then went about three weeks +> >>>> without email (I was +> >>>> converting from phone modem to cable). At any +> >> rate, +> >>>> I lost track of your +> >>>> email and never got back to you about your +> poems. +> >> We +> >>>> definitely want to use +> >>>> some of them for the next issue, but I?ve still +> >> got +> >>>> to figure out which +> >>>> ones. I?ll let you know something definite in +> the +> >>>> next week or so. I hope +> >>>> you?re +> >>>> doing well. Take care, Laura +> >>>> +> >>>> On 7/6/03 10:42 AM, "Sara Henning" +> >>>> <lucidity9980@yahoo.com> wrote: +> >>>> +> >>>>> Dear Laura, +> >>>>> I'm still in Athens, applying to graduate +> >>>> school for next year in +> >>>>> creative writing. I've been writing and +> >> attempting +> >>>> to get poems accepted, as +> >>>>> well as working on a manuscript. How have you +> >>>> been? How is the program at +> >>>>> UMass? Is Scott the other editor of +> Castagraf? +> >>>> When did the magazine take +> >>>>> flight? Seems like I'm asking a lot of +> >> questions +> >>>> in a row, but I seem to have +> >>>>> lost contact with a lot of people I used to be +> >>>> close to in the "writing +> >>>>> world." Thanks for considering the poems, and +> >> if +> >>>> you like, fill me in on +> >>>>> what's been going on with you for the last +> >> umpteen +> >>>> months since our last +> >>>>> interaction. +> >>>>> +> >>>>> Sara +> >>>>> +> >>>>> editorish person <submit@castagraf.com> wrote: +> >>>>>> Dear Sarah, +> >>>>>> +> >>>>>> Thanks for sending these. Where are you and +> how +> >>>> are you doing? I hadn?t heard +> >>>>>> any news about you and have wondered about +> your +> >>>> whereabouts. The poems came +> >>>>>> through fine, and I?ll get back to you about +> >> them +> >>>> soon, once Scott has had a +> >>>>>> chance to look at them too. +> >>>>>> +> >>>>>> +> >>>>>> Laura +> >>>>>> +> >>>>>> On 7/3/03 11:23 AM, "Sara Henning" +> >>>> <lucidity9980@yahoo.com> wrote: +> >>>>>> +> >>>>>>> Hi Laura, +> >>>>>>> Long time no hear....was wondering how +> you +> >>>> were doing and how your +> >>>>>>> poetic life goeth. Saw Heidi Peppermint at a +> >>>> reading and she mentioned you +> >>>>>>> had a an e-poetry +> magazine...congratulations. +> >>>> Here are some poems if you'd +> >>>>>>> like to consider them: "Aubade," +> "Exposure," +> >>>> and "Parable." Let me know if +> >>>>>>> any of the attachments don't make it and +> I'll +> >>>> resend. Hope all is going +> >>>>>>> well. +> >>>>>>> +> >>>>>>> Yours, +> >>>>>>> Sara +> >>>>>>> +> >>>>>>> Do you Yahoo!? +> >>>>>>> SBC Yahoo! DSL +> >>>>>>> +> >>>> +> >>> +> >> +> > +> +<http://pa.yahoo.com/*http://rd.yahoo.com/evt=1207/*http://promo.yahoo.com/s +> +=== message truncated === + + +__________________________________ +Do you Yahoo!? +Free Pop-Up Blocker - Get it now +http://companion.yahoo.com/ + + +------ End of Forwarded Message + + + + +From ???@??? Tue Jan 6 14:37:34 2004 +Return-Path: <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Delivered-To: sng@3 +Received: (qmail 2979 invoked from network); 6 Jan 2004 14:37:34 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO ?24.62.127.208?) (24.62.127.208) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 6 Jan 2004 14:37:34 -0000 +User-Agent: Microsoft-Entourage/10.1.0.2006 +Date: Mon, 05 Jan 2004 22:31:14 -0500 +Subject: New issue of castagraf: Juliana Leslie poems +From: laura Solomon <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +To: scott gilbertson <sng@castagraf.com> +Message-ID: <BC1F9634.17BF%lagsolo@castagraf.com> +In-Reply-To: <v04210103bbf195d8fe1e@[65.128.20.146]> +Mime-version: 1.0 +Content-type: multipart/mixed; boundary="B_3156186678_157470" +X-Text-Classification: not_junk +X-POPFile-Link: http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile1002=9.msg + +--B_3156186678_157470 +Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit + +Scott, +Hey look I'm working on it! Just take the first poem series in this +attachment. + +Laura + + + +------ Forwarded Message +From: Juliana Leslie <julianaleslie@earthlink.net> +Date: Mon, 1 Dec 2003 20:06:32 -0500 +To: laura Solomon <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Subject: Re: Oh and there's this great journal castagraf + +Thank you for reminding me. I attached a word document. Let me know +if you can't open it or something. I'll bring a copy of the recipe +for you tomorrow. See you later... + +Juliana + + + +>(I thought I might as well remind you:) +> +>Laura + + +------ End of Forwarded Message + +--B_3156186678_157470 +Content-Type: application/msword; name="castagraf_submission_.doc"; x-mac-type="5738424E"; x-mac-type="4D535744" +Content-Transfer-Encoding: base64 +Content-Disposition: attachment + +0M8R4KGxGuEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPgADAP7/CQAGAAAAAAAAAAAAAAABAAAALQAAAAAA +AAAAEAAALwAAAAEAAAD+////AAAAACwAAAD///////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// 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Tue Jan 6 14:32:33 2004 +Return-Path: <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Delivered-To: sng@3 +Received: (qmail 2055 invoked from network); 6 Jan 2004 14:32:33 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO ?24.62.127.208?) (24.62.127.208) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 6 Jan 2004 14:32:33 -0000 +User-Agent: Microsoft-Entourage/10.1.0.2006 +Date: Mon, 05 Jan 2004 22:26:14 -0500 +Subject: New Issue of Castagraf: Sawako bio +From: laura Solomon <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +To: scott gilbertson <sng@castagraf.com> +Message-ID: <BC1F9507.17BD%lagsolo@castagraf.com> +In-Reply-To: <5.1.1.8.2.20031218012114.00d8ee40@mail.factorial.org> +Mime-version: 1.0 +Content-type: multipart/alternative; boundary="B_3156186375_142494" +X-Text-Classification: not_junk +X-POPFile-Link: http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile1002=7.msg + +--B_3156186375_142494 +Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit + + +------ Forwarded Message +From: Sawako Nakayasu <sawako@factorial.org> +Date: Thu, 18 Dec 2003 01:22:47 +0900 +To: laura Solomon <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Subject: Re: Castagraf + +Dear Laura, + +here's a short bio: + +Sawako Nakayasu's first book, So we have been given time Or, is forthcoming +from Verse Press. She edits !Factorial Press, is currently trying to decide +where to live, and can be contacted at sawako@factorial.org. + +thanks again for being so supportive - + +best, +Sawako + +At 21:33 03/12/16 -0500, you wrote: +> Hi Sawako--yes, I did receive them. Thanks so much. It's a great passage. +> Would you mind sending me a brief bio to include? +> +> Laura +> +> +> On 12/16/03 9:46 PM, "Sawako Nakayasu" <sawako@factorial.org> wrote: +> +>> > hi laura just wanted to check if you got the files...? +>> > +>> > thanks, +>> > sawako +>> > +>> > At 21:39 03/12/15 -0500, you wrote: +>>> >> Hi Sawako--thanks for re-sending. I unfortunately did not receive the +>>> >> attachments. Would you mind sending them again? +>>> >> +>>> >> Laura +>> > +>> > + + +------ End of Forwarded Message + +--B_3156186375_142494 +Content-Type: text/html; charset=US-ASCII +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit + +<HTML> +<HEAD> +<TITLE>New Issue of Castagraf: Sawako bio</TITLE> +</HEAD> +<BODY> +<FONT FACE="Verdana"><BR> +------ Forwarded Message<BR> +<B>From: </B>Sawako Nakayasu <sawako@factorial.org><BR> +<B>Date: </B>Thu, 18 Dec 2003 01:22:47 +0900<BR> +<B>To: </B>laura Solomon <lagsolo@castagraf.com><BR> +<B>Subject: </B>Re: Castagraf<BR> +<BR> +Dear Laura,<BR> +<BR> +here's a short bio:<BR> +<BR> +Sawako Nakayasu's first book, <I>So we have been given time Or</I>, is forthcoming from Verse Press. She edits !Factorial Press, is currently trying to decide where to live, and can be contacted at sawako@factorial.org.<BR> +<BR> +thanks again for being so supportive - <BR> +<BR> +best,<BR> +Sawako<BR> +<BR> +At 21:33 03/12/16 -0500, you wrote:<BR> +</FONT><BLOCKQUOTE><FONT FACE="Verdana">Hi Sawako--yes, I did receive them. Thanks so much. It's a great passage.<BR> +Would you mind sending me a brief bio to include?<BR> +<BR> +Laura<BR> +<BR> +<BR> +On 12/16/03 9:46 PM, "Sawako Nakayasu" <sawako@factorial.org> wrote:<BR> +<BR> +> hi laura just wanted to check if you got the files...?<BR> +> <BR> +> thanks,<BR> +> sawako<BR> +> <BR> +> At 21:39 03/12/15 -0500, you wrote:<BR> +>> Hi Sawako--thanks for re-sending. I unfortunately did not receive the<BR> +>> attachments. Would you mind sending them again?<BR> +>> <BR> +>> Laura<BR> +> <BR> +> <BR> +</FONT></BLOCKQUOTE><FONT FACE="Verdana"><BR> +<BR> +------ End of Forwarded Message<BR> +</FONT> +</BODY> +</HTML> + +--B_3156186375_142494-- + +From ???@??? Tue Jan 6 14:26:38 2004 +Return-Path: <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Delivered-To: sng@3 +Received: (qmail 32152 invoked from network); 6 Jan 2004 14:26:38 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO ?24.62.127.208?) (24.62.127.208) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 6 Jan 2004 14:26:38 -0000 +User-Agent: Microsoft-Entourage/10.1.0.2006 +Date: Mon, 05 Jan 2004 22:20:18 -0500 +Subject: New issue of Castagraf: final whalebone file +From: laura Solomon <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +To: scott gilbertson <sng@castagraf.com> +Message-ID: <BC1F93A4.17BC%lagsolo@castagraf.com> +In-Reply-To: <BC08AA39.3822%ericbaus@comcast.net> +Mime-version: 1.0 +Content-type: multipart/mixed; boundary="B_3156186020_114977" +X-Text-Classification: not_junk +X-POPFile-Link: http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile1002=6.msg + +--B_3156186020_114977 +Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit + + +------ Forwarded Message +From: Eric Mathew Baus <ericbaus@comcast.net> +Date: Fri, 19 Dec 2003 13:14:34 -0400 +To: laura Solomon <lagsolo@castagraf.com> +Subject: Re: final whalebone file + +Hey Laura, + +Here's a file w/ the final installment of the whalebone. + +Talk to you soon!-E + + + + +------ End of Forwarded Message + +--B_3156186020_114977 +Content-Type: application/msword; name="last whalebone.doc"; x-mac-type="5738424E"; x-mac-type="4D535744" +Content-Transfer-Encoding: base64 +Content-Disposition: attachment + +0M8R4KGxGuEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPgADAP7/CQAGAAAAAAAAAAAAAAABAAAAPAAAAAAA +AAAAEAAAPgAAAAEAAAD+////AAAAADsAAAD///////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +///////////////////////////////////spcEAYwAJBAAAABK/AAAAAAABEQABAAEABAAA 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Wed Dec 31 21:06:17 2003 +X-POPFile-TimeoutPrevention: 0 +X-POPFile-TimeoutPrevention: 1 +X-POPFile-TimeoutPrevention: 2 +X-POPFile-TimeoutPrevention: 3 +X-POPFile-TimeoutPrevention: 4 +X-POPFile-TimeoutPrevention: 5 +Return-Path: <7908-return-46-72741206@lb.bcentral.com> +Delivered-To: editorishperson@3 +Received: (qmail 14880 invoked from network); 31 Dec 2003 21:06:17 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO tybclbsmtpa03.PROD.TYBCENTRAL.COM) (204.71.191.29) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 31 Dec 2003 21:06:17 -0000 +Received: from mail pickup service by tybclbsmtpa03.PROD.TYBCENTRAL.COM with Microsoft SMTPSVC; + Wed, 31 Dec 2003 13:06:17 -0800 +Reply-To: <7908-feedback-46@lb.bcentral.com> +From: Poetz <listings@poetz.com> +Sender: <7908-return-46-72741206@lb.bcentral.com> +To: List Member <editorishperson@castagraf.com> +Subject: Poetz Monthly Update: January 2004 +Date: Wed, 31 Dec 2003 12:39:57 -0800 +MIME-Version: 1.0 +Content-Type: multipart/alternative; + boundary="--=_--dd27cf33-73df-4035-8442-98f74ac4b244--" +Message-ID: <TYBCLBSMTPA03dlTVnk00023724@tybclbsmtpa03.PROD.TYBCENTRAL.COM> +X-OriginalArrivalTime: 31 Dec 2003 21:06:17.0478 (UTC) FILETIME=[EEA35A60:01C3CFE1] +X-Text-Classification: not_junk +X-POPFile-Link: http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile620=6.msg + +----=_--dd27cf33-73df-4035-8442-98f74ac4b244-- +Content-Type: text/plain; charset=utf-8 +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit + +Hello, everyone! + +If this newsletter seems a bit light, that's because it is -- everybody's in holiday mode, and the news & listings weren't exactly pouring in... No doubt everyone will catch up in good old jumpstarting January, and the next e-letter will be chock full of goodies. + +Meanwhile, we took this opportunity to focus on readings in the outer boroughs that don't usually get too much attention. Get out that Metrocard and GO! Bronx, Brooklyn, Queens - here we come! + +Wishing you all a safe, happy, healthy and creative new year! +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___: +FRIDAY NIGHTS, 6pm + +The Pink Pony West Poetry Reading Series +Cornelia Street Cafe, 29 Cornelia Street +Hosted by Jackie Sheeler +$6 admission gets you a free drink +open mike starts at 6, feature reads around 7 +www.poetz.com/pony/pinkpony.htm + +1/09 Anyssa Kim is a classically-trained violinist who plays regularly with the New York Repertory Orchestra. She has performed her poetry at the Westbeth Theater, Nuyorican Poets Cafe, Bowery Poetry Club and the HOWL! Festival. Ovarian Twists, New & Selected Poems is her first book. + +1/16 Christine Goodman is a poet and performer living in Jersey City, NJ. Her work has appeared in numerous publications, collections, and on NYC-area television shows,. She is the director of Art House Productions, an organization which creates performance, broadcast, and publishing opportunities for artists. + +1/23 Cheryl Boyce Taylor: Trinidad-born and Queens-bred, Cheryl Boyce Taylor is a poet, activist and visual artist. The author of two collections of poetry Raw Air, and Night When Moon Follows, she is currently working on a new collection of poems titled Convincing The Body. + +1/30 Tsaurah Litsky is the author of Baby on the Water and Good Bye Beautiful Mother. Her prose and poetry has appeared in over sixty publications. Tsaurah Teaches erotic writing and erotic literature at the New School. + +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___: +MONDAY & WEDNESDAY NIGHTS, 8pm +The Poetry Project, St. Mark¹s Church in-the-Bowery +131 East 10th Street @ Second Ave | $8, $7 students/seniors, $5 members +212-674-0910 | www.poetryproject.com +1/05 Open Reading, sign-up begins at 7:45pm +1/07 Chris Edgar & Lisa Jarnot +1/12 Douglas A. Martin & Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick +1/14 John Godfrey & Patricia Spears Jones +1/21 Erica Hunt & Elizabeth Willis +1/28 80th Birthday Celebration for Harvey Shapiro + +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___: +EVERY MONDAY, 8pm +Saturn Series at Nightingale +Hosted by Su Polo, David Elsasser & Bill Duke +213 Second Avenue @ 13th Street, $3 +1/05 Penelope Maguffin +1/12 Thad Rutkowski +1/19 Austin Alexis + +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___: +NEW VOICES ON WWW.POETZ.COM: +Elana Bell: Harlem Roommate +Joelle Hann: two poems +Veranda Porche: three poems +Ahimsa Timoteo Bodhrán: Post + +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___: +THURSDAY, 1/1, noon-midnight (for both) +Tenth Annual Alternative New Year's Day Marathon Reading +The Bowery Poetry Club, 308 Bowery @ Bleecker +free! | www.bowerypoetry.com | 212-614-0505 +BRING CANNED FOOD TO DONATE FOR CITY HARVEST! +Poetry Project's New Year's Day Marathon Reading +St. Mark¹s Church in-the-Bowery +131 East 10th Street @ Second Ave +$15, $12 students/seniors, $10 members + +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___: +SATURDAY, 1/3, 4pm +Jeff Derksen and Tom Orange +The Bowery Poetry Club, 308 Bowery @ Bleecker +$5 | www.bowerypoetry.com + +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___: +SATURDAY, 1/3, 6pm +Ahimsa Timoteo Bodhran & Rosette Capotorto & open +The Cornelia Street Cafe, 29 Cornelia Street +$6 cover gets you a free drink | www.corneliastreetcafe.com + +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___: +SUNDAY, 1/4, noon +A Benefit Poetry Reading & Celebration for Pedro Pietri +Donations are urgently needed, as Pedro is seeking alternative treatment for inoperable stomach cancer that is not covered by insurance. If you can't make it to the reading but want to donate, contact Fish@louderarts.com, 917-209-4211 +The Bowery Poetry Club, 308 Bowery @ Bleecker +$5 | www.bowerypoetry.com + +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___: +SUNDAY, 1/4, 4pm +Memorial for the late Thomas M. Catterson +The Orange Bear, 47 Murray Street @ Church +$3 + $3 min | dunnmiracle@earthlink.net + +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___: +MONDAY, 1/5, 7:30pm +Denis Gray & open +Johnny O's, 2152 Westchester Avenue, The Bronx +free | 718.792.6078 | Subway: #6 to Castle Hill Avenue + +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___: +TUESDAY, 1/6, 7pm +Brenda Coultas, Ira Sher, Susan Meehan, Eric Darton +A Taste of Art, 147 Duane Street (@ Church/West Broadway) +free | 212.964.5493 | www.atasteofart.com + +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___: +TUESDAY, 1/6, 7:30pm +Thaddeus Rutkowski & open +Park Slope Poetry Project at Emanuel Lutheran Church +283 Prospect Avenue, Brooklyn (@ 5th/6th Avenues) +$5 | bill@poetrycentral.com | +Subway: W/M/N/R to Prospect Avenue + +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___: +TUESDAY, 1/6, 9:30pm +Poetry + Karaoke = Fun +Poets recite then sing! +The Bowery Poetry Club, 308 Bowery @ Bleecker +$6 | www.bowerypoetry.com + +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___: +FRIDAY, 1/9, 8pm +Edmund Berrigan, Steve Dalachinksy, Yuko Otomo, Edna Leshowitz, Brian Boyles +M Shanghai Bistro, 129 Havemeyer St (Grand/S. 1st), Brooklyn +free | 718.384.9400 | tonyblairpresents@yahoo.com + +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___: +SATURDAY, 1/10, 4pm +Jen Coleman and Frank Sherlock +The Bowery Poetry Club, 308 Bowery @ Bleecker +$5 | www.bowerypoetry.com + +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___: +SATURDAY, 1/10, 7:30pm +Girlsalon Literary Night +Queer poets & writers followed by open & a dance party +Meow Mix, 269 East Houston Street @ Avenues A/B +$5 | www.janinesays.com + +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___: +SUNDAY 1/11, 1pm +Evie Ivy & open +Starbucks, 3rd Ave & 75th St, Brooklyn +$3 adm + $3 min | dunnmiracle@earthlink.net + +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___: +SUNDAY 1/11, 2pm +Kathy Garlick & Peggy Ann Tartt +Wave Hill, 675 West 252nd Street, The Bronx +free | 718.549.3200 | www.wavehill.org +Directions: #1/9 Train to 231st Street, then BX7 or BX10 bus to 252nd Street. +Walk across the parkway bridge, make a left to 249th Street, then a right and into the Wave Hill gate. + +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___: +SUNDAY 1/11, 7pm +Steven Cordova, Melissa Hotchkiss, Aaron Smith +Village Reading Series at Caffé Sha Sha +510 Hudson Street @ Christopher/West 10th + +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___: +SUNDAY 1/11, 10pm +Sekou Sundiata & Band +The Bowery Poetry Club, 308 Bowery @ Bleecker +www.bowerypoetry.com + +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___: +MONDAY 1/12, 8:15pm +Richard Howard & Mary Jo Salter +Unterberg Poetry Center at the 92nd Street Y +1395 Lexington Avenue +$16 | www.92y.org | 212.415.5500 + +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___: +WEDNESDAY, 1/14, 6pm +Joan Cusack Handler, Laure-Anne Bosselaar, Karin de Weille +The Cornelia Street Cafe, 29 Cornelia Street +$6 cover gets you a free drink | www.corneliastreetcafe.com + +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___: +FRIDAY 1/16, 8pm +The Buffalo Readings presents: +King Otho, David Acevedo, Aaron Arnout, +Stephen Deninno, Noah Levin, Rafael Bueno & open +Casa Del Sol / Future City +672-674 East 136th St. at Cypress Ave, Bronx +free | www.casadelsol.org | 718.742.2522 +Subway: 6 to Cypress Avenue + +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___: +SATURDAY, 1/17, 4pm +Sherry Brennan and Fiona Templeton +The Bowery Poetry Club, 308 Bowery @ Bleecker +$5 | www.bowerypoetry.com + +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___: +SUNDAY, 1/18, 2pm +Rhina Espaillat, Junot Diaz & Cesar Sanchez Beras +Brooklyn Public Library at Grand Army Plaza, Brooklyn +free | 718.230.2122 + +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___: +SUNDAY, 1/18, 2pm +Tony Gloeggler & open +Michael Hinton accompanies open mike readers at the piano +Central Queens Library Auditorium +89-11 Merrick Boulevard, Jamaica, Queens +free | 718.990.0778 | Subway: F to 169th Street + +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___: +MONDAY, 1/19, 7pm +Youth Speaks & Community Word Project present +their first annual celebration in honor of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. +Willie Perdomo, D.H. Melhem, Nadine Mozon, Michael Cirelli, +Buttafly Soul, Chinaka Hodge, Akil Dasan, many others +The Bowery Poetry Club, 308 Bowery @ Bleecker +$10 | www.bowerypoetry.com + +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___: +MONDAY, 1/19, 7:30pm +Marguerite Maria Rivas & open +Johnny O's, 2152 Westchester Avenue, The Bronx +free | 718.792.6078 | Subway: #6 to Castle Hill Ave + +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___: +TUESDAY, 1/20, 7:30pm +Jean Lehrman & open +Book Value Discount Bookstore +33-18 Broadway, Astoria, Queens +contribution | dunnmiracle@earthlink.net + +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___: +TUESDAY, 1/20 +8:00pm: Talk Engine: wordmusic with Jackie Sheeler, Glenn Minasian +9:30pm Poetry + Karaoke = Fun! at 9:30pm +The Bowery Poetry Club, 308 Bowery @ Bleecker +www.bowerypoetry.com + +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___: +SATURDAY, 1/24, 4pm +Jen Hofer and Aaron Kunin +The Bowery Poetry Club, 308 Bowery @ Bleecker +$5 | www.bowerypoetry.com + +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___: +SUNDAY, 1/25, 4pm +Pass the Words: +Paul Violi, Tony Towle, Justin Jamail, Andrew McCarron +The Bowery Poetry Club, 308 Bowery @ Bleecker +$5 | www.bowerypoetry.com + +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___: +TUESDAY, 1/27, 6pm +Graduate Poetry Series: +Michael Whalen, Ben Turner, Rachel Daley, Robyn Art +The Cornelia Street Cafe, 29 Cornelia Street +$6 cover gets you a free drink | www.corneliastreetcafe.com + +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___: +WEDNESDAY, 1/28, 7pm +Bruce Weber's No Chance Ensemble & open +Green Pavilion 4307 18th Avenue, Brooklyn +$5 min + $3 donation | 718-435-4722 | Subway: F to 18th Avenue + +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___: +SATURDAY, 1/31, 4pm +Alan Gilbert and Jennifer Scappettone +The Bowery Poetry Club, 308 Bowery @ Bleecker +$5 | www.bowerypoetry.com + +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___: +WORKSHOPS: +Jackie Sheeler leads a craft workshop (your poems on the table) on Monday nights at the Writer's Voice, 5 West 63rd Street. Classes begin January 5th, this is the last call for registration. Several pricing options are available (including FREE workshops with a new West Side Y membership!). For details and registration, contact Glenn Raucher at 212-875-4124. + +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___: +CALLS FOR SUBMISSIONS: + +ginosko (ghin-oce-koe) To perceive, understand, recognize, gain knowledge of, realize, come to know; ginosko is the knowledge that has an inception, a progress, and an attainment. It is the recognition of truth by personal experience. GINSOKO seeks work for its second issue, due out early 2004. Accepting short stories, prose poems, poems, excerpts. Length flexible. Also b/white art & photos. Work that reflects spiritual truth without being religious, ethereal, or intangible--reports in three months, accept simultaneous submissions & reprints. Email & hard copies of first issue available on request from Robert Cesaretti, POB 246, Fairfax CA 94978 + +The Connecticut Poetry Society seeks unpublished poetry up to 40 lines in length for its annual Competition. Deadline: March 1, 2004. $10 for three poems, check payable to Connecticut Poetry Society. Awards: 1st. $150. 2nd. $100. 3rd. $50. Send SASE plus two copies of the poems, one with complete contact info in upper right corner, other with no contact info to 2004 Annual Connecticut River Review Poetry Contest, c/o Connecticut Poetry Society, PO Box 4053, Waterbury, CT. 06704-0053 + +One more shot for Long Shot! This literary journal previously announced that it was ending its 21-year run, but will publish one special "Beat Bush" issue. Long Shot is inviting writers and artists to send unpublished work for consideration--poems, short fiction, or visual art. The work doesn't have to be explicitly about the Bush administration, but should deal in some way with social themes. Submit by 1/15/2004 to Long Shot, Attn: Eliot Katz, P.O. Box 6238, Hoboken, NJ 07030 and include a short cover letter that mentions your submission is for the Beat Bush issue. No email submissions for this issue. + +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___: +this has been another monthly update +from The Poetz Group +If you find these mailings useful, we urge you to support them through Amazon's honor system at www.amazon.com/paypage/PHC91FI76DSJV +or through Paypal (preferred) at www.paypal.com/xclick/business=jsheeler%40mindspring.com&item_name=Donate+to+the+Poetz.com+Calendars&item_number=0000001&amount=10.00 +The Poetz Group gratefully welcomes your contributions! +Do you curate a poetic event? We welcome your listings! + Boston boston@poetz.com // http://www.poetz.com/boston/index.htm + Hudson Valley, NY hudsonvalley@poetz.com // http://www.poetz.com/hudson/index.htm + NYC listings@poetz.com // http://www.poetz.com/calendar/index.htm + New Jersey jersey@poetz.com // http://www.poetz.com/jersey/index.htm + Pittsburgh pittsburgh@poetz.com // http://www.poetz.com/pittsburgh/index.htm + Texas texas@poetz.com // http://www.poetz.com/houston/index.htm +If you are interested in maintaining a poetry calendar for your area, write to jackie@poetz.com. Calendar setup and hosting is free -- all you have to do is enter your local events according to the guidelines at www.poetz.com/regpomgrs.htm + +The Poetz Group +PO Box 1401 +NY NY 10026 + +_______________________________________________________________________ +Powered by List Builder +To unsubscribe follow the link: +http://lb.bcentral.com/ex/sp?c=7908&s=ABB93F195FD0B9A6&m=46 +----=_--dd27cf33-73df-4035-8442-98f74ac4b244-- +Content-Type: text/html; charset=utf-8 +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit + +<!doctype HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.0 Transitional//EN"> +<html> + +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Language" content="en-us"> +<title>Poetz Monthly Update</title> +<meta content="text/html; charset=windows-1252" http-equiv="Content-Type"> +<meta content="Microsoft FrontPage 5.0" name="GENERATOR"> +<meta content="FrontPage.Editor.Document" name="ProgId"> +<style> +<!-- +h3 + {margin-bottom:.0001pt; + text-align:center; + page-break-after:avoid; + font-size:16.0pt; + font-family:"Calisto MT"; + font-weight:normal; margin-left:0in; margin-right:0in; margin-top:0in} +h1 + {margin-bottom:.0001pt; + page-break-after:avoid; + font-size:12.0pt; + font-family:"Calisto MT"; + margin-left:0in; margin-right:0in; margin-top:0in} +--> +</style> +</head> + +<body> + +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b> +<font size="2" face="Arial"> <br> +Hello, everyone!</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><font face="Arial" size="2">If this newsletter +seems a bit light, that's because it is -- everybody's in holiday mode, and the +news & listings weren't exactly pouring in... No doubt everyone will catch up in +good old jumpstarting January, and the next e-letter will be chock full of +goodies.</font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><font face="Arial" size="2">Meanwhile, we took +this opportunity to focus on readings in the outer boroughs that don't usually +get too much attention. Get out that Metrocard and GO! Bronx, Brooklyn, Queens +- here we come!</font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b><font face="Arial" size="2">Wishing you all a +safe, happy, healthy and creative new year!</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><font face="Arial" size="2"> +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___:</font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><font face="Arial" size="2"> +<b>FRIDAY NIGHTS, 6pm<br> +<font color="#0000FF">The Pink Pony West Poetry Reading Series<br> +</font> +</b>Cornelia Street Cafe, 29 Cornelia Street<br> +Hosted by <b><a href="mailto:jackie@poetz.com">Jackie +Sheeler</a><br> +</b>$6 admission gets you a free drink<br> +<b>open mike starts at 6, feature reads around 7<br> +<a href="http://www.poetz.com/pony/pinkpony.htm"> +www.poetz.com/pony/pinkpony.htm</a></b></font></p> +<font size="2"> +<p style="margin-left: 20; margin-right: 150"><span class="328015601-19122003"> +<strong><font face="Arial">1/0</font></strong></span><span lang="en-us"><span class="031345100-10092003"><span class="750235414-03102003"><span class="703594700-02112003"><strong><font face="Arial"><span class="328015601-19122003">9 +</span></font></strong><span class="328015601-19122003"><strong> +<font face="Arial"> Anyssa Kim</font></strong><span class="734141916-31122003"><font face="Arial"> +</font></span><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial">is a +classically-trained violinist who plays regularly with the New York Repertory +Orchestra. She has performed her poetry at the Westbeth Theater, Nuyorican Poets +Cafe, Bowery Poetry Club and the HOWL! Festival. <em> +<span style="FONT-FAMILY: Arial">Ovarian Twists, New & Selected Poems</span></em> +is her first book.</span></p> +<p style="margin-left: 20; margin-right: 150"><strong><font face="Arial">1/16 +Christine Goodman </font></strong><span class="734141916-31122003"> +<font face="Arial">is a poet and performer living in Jersey City, NJ. Her work +has appeared in numerous publications, collections, and on NYC-area television +shows,. She is the director of Art House Productions, an organization which +creates performance, broadcast, and publishing opportunities for artists.</font></span></p> +<p style="margin-left: 20; margin-right: 150"><strong><font face="Arial">1/23 +Cheryl Boyce Taylor</font></strong><span class="734141916-31122003"><font face="Arial">: Trinidad-born +and Queens-bred, Cheryl Boyce Taylor is a poet, activist and visual artist. The +author of two collections of poetry <i>Raw Air, and Night When Moon Follows, </i> +she is currently working on a new collection of poems titled <i>Convincing The +Body.</i> </font></span></p> +<p style="margin-left: 20; margin-right: 150"><strong><font face="Arial">1/30 +Tsaurah Litsky</font></strong><span class="734141916-31122003"><font face="Arial"> is +the author of <em>Baby on the Water</em><i> </i>and <em>Good Bye Beautiful +Mother</em>. Her prose and poetry has appeared in over sixty publications. +Tsaurah Teaches erotic writing and erotic literature at the New School. </font></span></p> +</span></span></span></span></span> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b> +<font face="Arial" size="2" color="#0000FF"> +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___:</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><font face="Arial"><b>MONDAY & WEDNESDAY NIGHTS, +8pm<br> +<font color="#0000FF">The Poetry Project,</font> St. Mark¹s Church in-the-Bowery<br> +</b>131 East 10th Street @ Second Ave | $8, $7 students/seniors, $5 members<br> +212-674-0910<b> | <a href="http://www.poetryproject.com">www.poetryproject.com</a></b></font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px; margin-left:20px"><font face="Arial"><b>1/05 +</b>Open Reading, sign-up begins at 7:45pm<br> +<b>1/07 Chris Edgar & Lisa Jarnot<br> +1/12 Douglas A. Martin & Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick<br> +1/14 John Godfrey & Patricia Spears Jones<br> +1/21 Erica Hunt & Elizabeth Willis<br> +1/28 </b>80th Birthday Celebration for <b>Harvey Shapiro</b></font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b> +<font face="Arial" size="2" color="#0000FF"> +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___:</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><font face="Arial"><b>EVERY MONDAY, 8pm<br> +<font color="#0000FF">Saturn Series at Nightingale<br> +</font></b>Hosted by <b><a href="mailto:supolo@rcn.com">Su Polo</a></b>, David +Elsasser & Bill Duke<br> +213 Second Avenue @ 13th Street, $3</font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px; margin-left:20px"><b><font face="Arial">1/05 +Penelope Maguffin<br> +1/12 Thad Rutkowski<br> +1/19 Austin Alexis</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b> +<font face="Arial" size="2" color="#0000FF"> +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___:</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b><font face="Arial">NEW VOICES ON +<a href="http://WWW.POETZ.COM">WWW.POETZ.COM</a>:</font></b></p> + <p align="left" style="margin-left: 20"><font face="Arial" size="2"><b> + Elana Bell: </b><a href="http://www.poetz.com/2003/ebell.htm">Harlem + Roommate</a><br> + <b>Joelle Hann: </b><a href="http://www.poetz.com/2003/jhann.htm">two + poems</a></font><font face="Arial"><br> + </font><font face="Arial" size="2"><b>Veranda Porche:</b> + <a href="http://www.poetz.com/2003/vporche.htm">three poems</a></font><font face="Arial"><br> + </font><font face="Arial" size="2"><b>Ahimsa Timoteo Bodhrán: </b> + <a href="http://www.poetz.com/2003/abodhran.htm">Post</a></font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b> +<font face="Arial" size="2" color="#0000FF"> +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___:</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><font face="Arial" size="2"><b>THURSDAY, 1/1, +noon-midnight </b>(for both)</font></p> +<p style="margin-left:20px" align="left"><font face="Arial"><b>Tenth Annual +Alternative New Year's Day Marathon Reading<br> +</b>The Bowery Poetry +Club, 308 Bowery @ Bleecker<br> +<b>free!</b> | <a href="http://www.bowerypoetry.com/"><b> +www.bowerypoetry.com</b></a> | 212-614-0505<br> +<i>BRING CANNED FOOD TO DONATE FOR CITY HARVEST!</i></font></p> +<p style="margin-left:20px" align="left"><b><font face="Arial">Poetry Project's +New Year's Day Marathon Reading<br> +</font></b><font face="Arial">St. Mark¹s Church in-the-Bowery<br> +131 East 10th Street @ Second Ave<br> +$15, $12 students/seniors, $10 members</font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b> +<font face="Arial" size="2" color="#0000FF"> +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___:</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b><font face="Arial">SATURDAY, 1/3, 4pm</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px; margin-left:20"><font face="Arial" size="2"><b> +Jeff Derksen and Tom Orange </b></font></p> +<p style="margin-left:20px" align="left"><font face="Arial">The Bowery Poetry +Club, 308 Bowery @ Bleecker <br> +$5 | <b><a href="http://www.bowerypoetry.com">www.bowerypoetry.com</a></b></font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b> +<font face="Arial" size="2" color="#0000FF"> +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___:</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b><font face="Arial">SATURDAY, 1/3, 6pm </font> +</b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px; margin-left:20"><font face="Arial"><b>Ahimsa +Timoteo Bodhran & Rosette Capotorto</b> & open</font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px; margin-left:20"><font face="Arial">The Cornelia +Street Cafe, 29 Cornelia Street<br> +$6 cover gets you a free drink | <b><a href="http://www.corneliastreetcafe.com"> +www.corneliastreetcafe.com</a></b></font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b> +<font face="Arial" size="2" color="#0000FF"> +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___:</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b><font face="Arial">SUNDAY, 1/4, noon</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150; margin-left:20" align="left"><font face="Arial"><b> +<i>A Benefit Poetry Reading & Celebration for Pedro Pietri</i></b></font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150; margin-left:20" align="left"><font face="Arial"> +Donations are urgently needed, as Pedro is seeking alternative treatment for +inoperable stomach cancer that is not covered by insurance. If you can't make it +to the reading but want to donate, contact <a href="mailto:Fish@louderarts.com"> +Fish@louderarts.com</a>, 917-209-4211</font></p> +<p style="margin-left:20px" align="left"><font face="Arial">The Bowery Poetry +Club, 308 Bowery @ Bleecker <br> +$5 | <b><a href="http://www.bowerypoetry.com">www.bowerypoetry.com</a></b></font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b> +<font face="Arial" size="2" color="#0000FF"> +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___:</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b><font face="Arial">SUNDAY, 1/4, 4pm</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150; margin-left:20" align="left"><i><b> +<font face="Arial">Memorial for the late Thomas M. Catterson</font></b></i></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150; margin-left:20" align="left"><font face="Arial">The +Orange Bear, 47 Murray Street @ Church<br> +$3 + $3 min | <b><a href="mailto:dunnmiracle@earthlink.net"> +dunnmiracle@earthlink.net</a></b></font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b> +<font face="Arial" size="2" color="#0000FF"> +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___:</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b><font face="Arial">MONDAY, 1/5, 7:30pm </font> +</b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150; margin-left:20" align="left"><font face="Arial"><b> +Denis Gray</b> & open</font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150; margin-left:20" align="left"><font face="Arial"> +Johnny O's, 2152 Westchester Avenue, <font color="#800080"><b>The Bronx </b> +</font><br> +free | 718.792.6078 | Subway: #6 to Castle Hill Avenue</font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b> +<font face="Arial" size="2" color="#0000FF"> +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___:</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b><font face="Arial">TUESDAY, 1/6, 7pm </font> +</b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150; margin-left:20" align="left"><b><font face="Arial"> +Brenda <a href="mailto:info@atasteofart.com"><font color="#000000">Coultas</font></a>, +Ira Sher, Susan Meehan, Eric Darton</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150; margin-left:20" align="left"><font face="Arial">A +Taste of Art, 147 Duane Street (@ Church/West Broadway)<br> +free | 212.964.5493 | <b><a href="http://www.atasteofart.com"> +www.atasteofart.com</a></b></font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b> +<font face="Arial" size="2" color="#0000FF"> +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___:</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b><font face="Arial">TUESDAY, 1/6, 7:30pm </font> +</b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150; margin-left:20" align="left"><font face="Arial"><b> +Thaddeus Rutkowski</b> & open </font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150; margin-left:20" align="left"><font face="Arial"> +Park Slope Poetry Project at Emanuel Lutheran Church <br> +283 Prospect Avenue, <font color="#800080"><b>Brooklyn</b></font> (@ 5th/6th +Avenues) <br> +$5 | <b><a href="mailto:bill@poetrycentral.com">bill@poetrycentral.com</a></b> | +Subway: W/M/N/R to Prospect Avenue </font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b> +<font face="Arial" size="2" color="#0000FF"> +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___:</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b><font face="Arial">TUESDAY, 1/6, 9:30pm </font> +</b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150; margin-left:20" align="left"><font face="Arial"><i> +Poetry + Karaoke = Fun <br> +</i>Poets recite then sing! </font></p> +<p style="margin-left:20px" align="left"><font face="Arial">The Bowery Poetry +Club, 308 Bowery @ Bleecker <br> +$6 | <b><a href="http://www.bowerypoetry.com">www.bowerypoetry.com</a></b></font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b> +<font face="Arial" size="2" color="#0000FF"> +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___:</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b><font face="Arial">FRIDAY, 1/9, 8pm </font> +</b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150; margin-left:20" align="left"><b><font face="Arial"> +Edmund Berrigan, Steve Dalachinksy, Yuko Otomo, Edna Leshowitz, Brian Boyles +</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150; margin-left:20" align="left"><font face="Arial">M +Shanghai Bistro, 129 Havemeyer St (Grand/S. 1st), <font color="#800080"><b> +Brooklyn </b></font><br> +free | 718.384.9400 | <b><a href="mailto:tonyblairpresents@yahoo.com"> +tonyblairpresents@yahoo.com</a></b></font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b> +<font face="Arial" size="2" color="#0000FF"> +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___:</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b><font face="Arial">SATURDAY, 1/10, 4pm </font> +</b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150; margin-left:20" align="left"><b><font face="Arial"> +Jen Coleman and Frank Sherlock</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-left:20px" align="left"><font face="Arial">The Bowery Poetry +Club, 308 Bowery @ Bleecker <br> +$5 | <b><a href="http://www.bowerypoetry.com">www.bowerypoetry.com</a></b></font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b> +<font face="Arial" size="2" color="#0000FF"> +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___:</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b><font face="Arial">SATURDAY, 1/10, 7:30pm +</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150; margin-left:20" align="left"><font face="Arial"><i> +Girlsalon Literary Night <br> +</i>Queer poets & writers followed by open & a dance party</font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150; margin-left:20" align="left"><font face="Arial"> +Meow Mix, 269 East Houston Street @ Avenues A/B <br> +$5 | <a href="http://www.janinesays.com/"><b>www.janinesays.com</b></a></font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b> +<font face="Arial" size="2" color="#0000FF"> +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___:</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b><font face="Arial">SUNDAY 1/11, 1pm </font> +</b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150; margin-left:20" align="left"><font face="Arial"> +Evie Ivy & open</font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150; margin-left:20" align="left"><font face="Arial"> +Starbucks, 3rd Ave & 75th St, <font color="#800080"><b>Brooklyn</b></font><br> +$3 adm + $3 min | <b><a href="mailto:dunnmiracle@earthlink.net"> +dunnmiracle@earthlink.net</a></b></font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b> +<font face="Arial" size="2" color="#0000FF"> +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___:</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b><font face="Arial">SUNDAY 1/11, 2pm </font> +</b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150; margin-left:20" align="left"><b><font face="Arial"> +Kathy Garlick & Peggy Ann Tartt</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150; margin-left:20" align="left"><font face="Arial"> +Wave Hill, 675 West 252nd Street, <font color="#800080"><b>The Bronx</b></font><br> +free | 718.549.3200 | <b><a href="http://www.wavehill.org">www.wavehill.org</a></b></font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150; margin-left:20" align="left"><font face="Arial"><b> +Directions</b>: #1/9 Train to 231st Street, then BX7 or BX10 bus to 252nd +Street. <br> +Walk across the parkway bridge, make a left to 249th Street, then a right and +into the Wave Hill gate.</font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b> +<font face="Arial" size="2" color="#0000FF"> +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___:</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b><font face="Arial">SUNDAY 1/11, 7pm </font> +</b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150; margin-left:20" align="left"><b><font face="Arial"> +Steven Cordova, Melissa Hotchkiss, Aaron Smith</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150; margin-left:20" align="left"><font face="Arial"> +Village Reading Series at Caffé Sha Sha<br> +510 Hudson Street @ Christopher/West 10th</font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b> +<font face="Arial" size="2" color="#0000FF"> +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___:</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b><font face="Arial">SUNDAY 1/11, 10pm </font> +</b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150; margin-left:20" align="left"><b><font face="Arial"> +Sekou Sundiata & Band</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-left:20px" align="left"><font face="Arial">The Bowery Poetry +Club, 308 Bowery @ Bleecker <br> +<b><a href="http://www.bowerypoetry.com">www.bowerypoetry.com</a></b></font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b> +<font face="Arial" size="2" color="#0000FF"> +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___:</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b><font face="Arial">MONDAY 1/12, 8:15pm </font> +</b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150; margin-left:20" align="left"><b><font face="Arial"> +Richard Howard & Mary Jo Salter </font></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150; margin-left:20" align="left"><font face="Arial"> +Unterberg Poetry Center at the 92nd Street Y <br> +1395 Lexington Avenue <br> +$16 | <b><a href="http://www.92y.org">www.92y.org</a></b> | 212.415.5500 </font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b> +<font face="Arial" size="2" color="#0000FF"> +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___:</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b><font face="Arial">WEDNESDAY, 1/14, 6pm </font> +</b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px; margin-left:20"><font face="Arial"><b>Joan Cusack +Handler, Laure-Anne Bosselaar, Karin de Weille</b></font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px; margin-left:20"><font face="Arial">The Cornelia +Street Cafe, 29 Cornelia Street<br> +$6 cover gets you a free drink | <b><a href="http://www.corneliastreetcafe.com"> +www.corneliastreetcafe.com</a></b></font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b> +<font face="Arial" size="2" color="#0000FF"> +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___:</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b><font face="Arial">FRIDAY 1/16, 8pm </font> +</b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150; margin-left:20" align="left"><font face="Arial"><i> +The Buffalo Readings presents:<br> +</i><b>King Otho, David Acevedo, Aaron Arnout, <br> +Stephen Deninno, Noah Levin, Rafael Bueno</b> & open</font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150; margin-left:20" align="left"><font face="Arial"> +Casa Del Sol / Future City <br> +672-674 East 136th St. at Cypress Ave, <font color="#800080"><b>Bronx </b> +</font><br> +free | <b><a href="http://www.casadelsol.org">www.casadelsol.org</a></b> | +718.742.2522 <br> +Subway: 6 to Cypress Avenue </font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b> +<font face="Arial" size="2" color="#0000FF"> +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___:</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b><font face="Arial">SATURDAY, 1/17, 4pm </font> +</b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150; margin-left:20" align="left"><b><font face="Arial"> +Sherry Brennan and Fiona Templeton </font></b></p> +<p style="margin-left:20px" align="left"><font face="Arial">The Bowery Poetry +Club, 308 Bowery @ Bleecker <br> +$5 | <b><a href="http://www.bowerypoetry.com">www.bowerypoetry.com</a></b></font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b> +<font face="Arial" size="2" color="#0000FF"> +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___:</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b><font face="Arial">SUNDAY, 1/18, 2pm </font> +</b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150; margin-left:20" align="left"><b><font face="Arial"> +Rhina Espaillat, Junot Diaz & Cesar Sanchez Beras</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150; margin-left:20" align="left"><font face="Arial"> +Brooklyn Public Library at Grand Army Plaza, <font color="#800080"><b>Brooklyn</b></font><br> +free | 718.230.2122 </font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b> +<font face="Arial" size="2" color="#0000FF"> +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___:</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b><font face="Arial">SUNDAY, 1/18, 2pm </font> +</b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150; margin-left:20" align="left"><font face="Arial"><b> +Tony Gloeggler</b> & open<br> +Michael Hinton accompanies open mike readers at the piano</font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150; margin-left:20" align="left"><font face="Arial"> +Central Queens Library Auditorium <br> +89-11 Merrick Boulevard, <font color="#800080" size="2" face="Arial"><b>Jamaica, +Queens</b></font> <font color="#800080"><b><br> +</b></font>free | 718.990.0778 | Subway: F to 169th Street </font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b> +<font face="Arial" size="2" color="#0000FF"> +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___:</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b><font face="Arial">MONDAY, 1/19, 7pm </font> +</b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150; margin-left:20" align="left"><font face="Arial"><i> +<b>Youth Speaks</b> & <b>Community Word Project</b> present <br> +their first annual celebration in honor of <b>Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.</b></i></font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150; margin-left:20" align="left"><font face="Arial"><b> +Willie Perdomo, D.H. Melhem, Nadine Mozon, Michael Cirelli,<br> +Buttafly Soul, Chinaka Hodge, Akil Dasan, </b>many others</font></p> +<p style="margin-left:20px" align="left"><font face="Arial">The Bowery Poetry +Club, 308 Bowery @ Bleecker <br> +$10 | <b><a href="http://www.bowerypoetry.com">www.bowerypoetry.com</a></b></font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b> +<font face="Arial" size="2" color="#0000FF"> +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___:</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b><font face="Arial">MONDAY, 1/19, 7:30pm </font> +</b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150; margin-left:20" align="left"><font face="Arial"><b> +Marguerite Maria Rivas</b> & open </font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150; margin-left:20" align="left"><font face="Arial"> +Johnny O's, 2152 Westchester Avenue, <font color="#800080"><b>The Bronx </b> +</font><br> +free | 718.792.6078 | Subway: #6 to Castle Hill Ave </font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b> +<font face="Arial" size="2" color="#0000FF"> +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___:</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b><font face="Arial">TUESDAY, 1/20, 7:30pm +</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150; margin-left:20" align="left"><font face="Arial"><b> +Jean Lehrman</b> & open </font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150; margin-left:20" align="left"><font face="Arial"> +Book Value Discount Bookstore <br> +33-18 Broadway, <font color="#800080"><b>Astoria, Que</b></font><b><font color="#800080">ens</font></b><br> +contribution | <b><a href="mailto:dunnmiracle@earthlink.net"> +dunnmiracle@earthlink.net</a></b></font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b> +<font face="Arial" size="2" color="#0000FF"> +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___:</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b><font face="Arial">TUESDAY, 1/20</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150; margin-left:20" align="left"><font face="Arial"> +8:00pm: <b>Talk Engine</b>: wordmusic with <b>Jackie Sheeler</b>, <b>Glenn +Minasian</b> <br> +9:30pm <b>Poetry + Karaoke = Fun!</b> at 9:30pm </font></p> +<p style="margin-left:20px" align="left"><font face="Arial">The Bowery Poetry +Club, 308 Bowery @ Bleecker <br> +<b><a href="http://www.bowerypoetry.com">www.bowerypoetry.com</a></b></font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b> +<font face="Arial" size="2" color="#0000FF"> +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___:</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b><font face="Arial">SATURDAY, 1/24, 4pm </font> +</b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150; margin-left:20" align="left"><b><font face="Arial"> +Jen Hofer and Aaron Kunin</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-left:20px" align="left"><font face="Arial">The Bowery Poetry +Club, 308 Bowery @ Bleecker <br> +$5 | <b><a href="http://www.bowerypoetry.com">www.bowerypoetry.com</a></b></font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150; margin-left:20" align="left"><b> +<font face="Arial" size="2" color="#0000FF"> +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___:</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b><font face="Arial">SUNDAY, 1/25, 4pm </font> +</b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150; margin-left:20" align="left"><font face="Arial"><i> +Pass the Words: <br> +</i><b>Paul Violi, Tony Towle, Justin Jamail, Andrew McCarron </b></font></p> +<p style="margin-left:20px" align="left"><font face="Arial">The Bowery Poetry +Club, 308 Bowery @ Bleecker <br> +$5 | <b><a href="http://www.bowerypoetry.com">www.bowerypoetry.com</a></b></font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b> +<font face="Arial" size="2" color="#0000FF"> +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___:</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b><font face="Arial">TUESDAY, 1/27, 6pm </font> +</b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150; margin-left:20" align="left"><font face="Arial"><i> +Graduate Poetry Series:<br> +</i><b>Michael Whalen, Ben Turner, Rachel Daley, Robyn Art </b></font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px; margin-left:20"><font face="Arial">The Cornelia +Street Cafe, 29 Cornelia Street<br> +$6 cover gets you a free drink | <b><a href="http://www.corneliastreetcafe.com"> +www.corneliastreetcafe.com</a></b></font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b> +<font face="Arial" size="2" color="#0000FF"> +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___:</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b><font face="Arial">WEDNESDAY, 1/28, 7pm </font> +</b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150; margin-left:20" align="left"><font face="Arial"><b> +Bruce Weber's No Chance Ensemble</b> & open</font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150; margin-left:20" align="left"><font face="Arial"> +Green Pavilion 4307 18th Avenue, <font color="#800080"><b>Brooklyn</b></font><br> +$5 min + $3 donation | 718-435-4722 | Subway: F to 18th Avenue </font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b> +<font face="Arial" size="2" color="#0000FF"> +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___:</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b><font face="Arial">SATURDAY, 1/31, 4pm </font> +</b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150; margin-left:20" align="left"><b><font face="Arial"> +Alan Gilbert and Jennifer Scappettone </font></b></p> +<p style="margin-left:20px" align="left"><font face="Arial">The Bowery Poetry +Club, 308 Bowery @ Bleecker <br> +$5 | <b><a href="http://www.bowerypoetry.com">www.bowerypoetry.com</a></b></font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b> +<font face="Arial" size="2" color="#0000FF"> +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___:</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b> +<font size="2" face="Arial">WORKSHOPS:</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><font face="Arial"><b>Jackie Sheeler </b>leads a +craft workshop (your poems on the table) on Monday nights at the Writer's Voice, +5 West 63rd Street. Classes begin January 5th, this is the <b>last call</b> for +registration. Several pricing options are available (including <b>FREE</b> +workshops with a new West Side Y membership!). For details and registration, +contact <b> +<a href="mailto:graucher@ymcanyc.org?subject=writing workshop with Jackie Sheeler"> +Glenn Raucher</a> at 212-875-4124.</b></font></p> +<font lang="0" face="Arial" FAMILY="FIXED" PTSIZE="12"> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b> +<font face="Arial" size="2" color="#0000FF"> +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___:</font></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b> +<font size="2" face="Arial">CALLS FOR SUBMISSIONS:</font></b></p> +<p align="left" style="margin-left: 20; margin-right: 150"><b>ginosko (ghin-<i>oce</i>-koe)</b> +To perceive, understand, recognize, gain knowledge of, realize, come to know; <i> +ginosko</i> is the knowledge that has an inception, a progress, and an +attainment. It is the recognition of truth by personal experience. <b>GINSOKO</b> +seeks work for its second issue, due out early 2004. Accepting short stories, +prose poems, poems, excerpts. Length flexible. Also b/white art & photos. Work +that reflects spiritual truth without being religious, ethereal, or +intangible--reports in three months, accept simultaneous submissions & reprints. +Email & hard copies of first issue available on request from +<a href="mailto:GinoskoEditor@aol.com?subject=Ginsoko call for submissions in Poetz.com"> +Robert Cesaretti</a>, POB 246, Fairfax CA 94978</p> +<p align="left" style="margin-left: 20; margin-right: 150"><b>The Connecticut +Poetry Society</b> seeks unpublished poetry up to 40 lines in length for its +annual Competition. Deadline: March 1, 2004. $10 for three poems, check payable +to Connecticut Poetry Society. Awards: 1st. $150. 2nd. $100. 3rd. $50. Send SASE +plus two copies of the poems, one with complete contact info in upper right +corner, other with no contact info to 2004 Annual Connecticut River Review +Poetry Contest, c/o Connecticut Poetry Society, PO Box 4053, Waterbury, CT. +06704-0053</p> +</font> +<p style="margin-left: 20; margin-right: 150px"><font face="Arial">One more shot +for <b>Long Shot! </b> This literary journal previously announced that it +was ending its 21-year run, but will publish one special "<b>Beat Bush</b>" +issue. Long Shot is inviting writers and artists to send unpublished work for +consideration--poems, short fiction, or visual art. The work doesn't have to be +explicitly about the Bush administration, but should deal in some way with +social themes. Submit by 1/15/2004 to Long Shot, Attn: Eliot Katz, P.O. +Box 6238, Hoboken, NJ 07030 and include a short cover letter that mentions your +submission is for the Beat Bush issue. No email submissions for this issue.</font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b> +<font face="Arial" size="2" color="#0000FF"> +___:___:___^___:___:___:___^___:___:___:___:</font></b></p> +</font> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><font size="2" face="Arial"> +this has been another monthly update<br> +from <a href="http://www.poetz.com/"><b>The Poetz Group</b></a></font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b><i> +<font size="2" face="Arial">If you find these mailings +useful, we urge you to support them through +<a href="http://www.amazon.com/paypage/PHC91FI76DSJV"> +Amazon's honor system</a> at +<a href="http://www.amazon.com/paypage/PHC91FI76DSJV"> +www.amazon.com/paypage/PHC91FI76DSJV<br> +</a>or through Paypal (preferred) at +<a href="https://www.paypal.com/xclick/business=jsheeler@mindspring.com&item_name=Donate+to+the+Poetz.com+Calendars&item_number=0000001&amount=10.00"> +www.paypal.com/xclick/business=jsheeler%40mindspring.com&item_name=Donate+to+the+Poetz.com+Calendars&item_number=0000001&amount=10.00</a></font></i></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><b><i> +<font size="2" face="Arial">The Poetz Group gratefully +welcomes your contributions!</font></i></b></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><font face="Arial" size="2"> +<b>Do you curate a poetic event? We welcome your listings!<br> +</b> <b> Boston </b> +<a href="mailto:boston@poetz.com">boston@poetz.com</a> // +<a href="http://www.poetz.com/boston/index.htm"> +http://www.poetz.com/boston/index.htm</a><br> +</font> +<b><font face="Arial" size="2"> </font></b><font face="Arial" size="2"> +<b>Hudson Valley, NY </b> +<a href="mailto:hudsonvalley@poetz.com"> +hudsonvalley@poetz.com</a> // <a href="http://www.poetz.com/hudson/index.htm">http://www.poetz.com/hudson/index.htm</a><br> + <b> NYC</b> +<a href="mailto:listings@poetz.com">listings@poetz.com</a> +// <a href="http://www.poetz.com/calendar/index.htm"> +http://www.poetz.com/calendar/index.htm</a><br> +<b> New Jersey</b> +<a href="mailto:jersey@poetz.com">jersey@poetz.com</a> // +<a href="http://www.poetz.com/jersey/index.htm"> +http://www.poetz.com/jersey/index.htm</a><br> + <b>Pittsburgh</b> <a href="mailto:pittsburgh@poetz.com"> +pittsburgh@poetz.com</a> // <a href="http://www.poetz.com/pittsburgh/index.htm"> +http://www.poetz.com/pittsburgh/index.htm</a><br> +<b> Texas</b> +<a href="mailto:texas@poetz.com">texas@poetz.com</a> // +<a href="http://www.poetz.com/houston/index.htm"> +http://www.poetz.com/houston/index.htm</a></font></p> +<p style="margin-right: 150px"><font face="Arial" size="2"> +If you are interested in maintaining a <b>poetry calendar +for your area,</b> write to <b> +<a href="mailto:jackie@poetz.com">jackie@poetz.com</a></b>. +Calendar setup and hosting is free -- all you have to do is +enter your local events according to the guidelines at <b> +<a href="http://www.poetz.com/regpomgrs.htm"> +www.poetz.com/regpomgrs.htm</a></b></font></p> + + +<img src="http://rd.bcentral.com/op.aspx?ID=1389252&s=72741206" height="1" width="1"/> +<BR /><BR /><BR /><HR /><CENTER><FONT COLOR="#000000">Powered by List Builder<BR /><A HREF="http://lb.bcentral.com/ex/sp?c=7908&s=DF96E8293F5549CF&m=46">Click here to change or remove your subscription</A></FONT></CENTER></body> + +</html> +----=_--dd27cf33-73df-4035-8442-98f74ac4b244---- + +From ???@??? Fri Dec 19 04:06:05 2003 +Return-Path: <symbiospress@hotmail.com> +Delivered-To: submit@3 +Received: (qmail 30712 invoked from network); 19 Dec 2003 04:06:05 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO hotmail.com) (64.4.47.37) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 19 Dec 2003 04:06:05 -0000 +Received: from mail pickup service by hotmail.com with Microsoft SMTPSVC; + Thu, 18 Dec 2003 20:06:06 -0800 +Received: from 65.31.134.135 by by9fd.bay9.hotmail.msn.com with HTTP; + Fri, 19 Dec 2003 04:06:06 GMT +X-Originating-IP: [65.31.134.135] +X-Originating-Email: [symbiospress@hotmail.com] +X-Sender: symbiospress@hotmail.com +From: "Symbios Press" <symbiospress@hotmail.com> +To: submit@castagraf.com, symbiospress@hotmail.com +Bcc: +Subject: FW: hello, submission hereMy +Date: Thu, 18 Dec 2003 22:06:06 -0600 +Mime-Version: 1.0 +Content-Type: text/plain; format=flowed +Message-ID: <BAY9-F37xUATql0nl1j0005550a@hotmail.com> +X-OriginalArrivalTime: 19 Dec 2003 04:06:06.0809 (UTC) FILETIME=[6D477C90:01C3C5E5] +X-Text-Classification: not_junk +X-POPFile-Link: http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile212=2.msg + +Hey, I really like the site. I think it's really cool to get bands involved, +lit and rock have been separated for far too long. + +Ummm. . .well, I'm hoping Laura Solomon reads this, since I'd like to say +"hi" to her. I first saw her in baffling combustions (Nick Moudry is a +highschool buddy of mine). And I really like Bivouac and +all. And Nick got me a copy of the complete "Epitaphs" which I also admire, +seeing in completion and it's a good long lyric and fulfilling read. + +So, my identity--well, I'm Airen McNally. I graduated in English from UNI +where I worked for the North American Review. Currently am in Milwaukee +making chapbooks for friends and working as production editor for the Cream +City Review. My stuff has been in Inner Weather and Circuit. + +The poem: + + + +"Lung Bellow, Blood and Bone" + + +Oh! Let the beasts and absent seamstresses devise +our lives and lay them out before us like +honey, or like pasts plentiful +and sundered, demeanors tortured +underneath the helm of an anxious +and oppressive solitude. Oh! + +Dirge up a search, a dollar, +a stone. Dip +into the deepening equinox and fix +false gallant allegiance with the kiss +of something less than certain---oh--- +engage in nonsense and in trite and endless solipsism! + +My savior---sound---envelope and obtain me +in meager entertainments. Sip +my ascent into drizzle +as architecture melds into unfelt fortitude + +and drowns in the mirage of home, a midwestern flat land +burning into rolls as hill meets sky. + +Oh! Music! Scathe my fingers and dredge +the lingering features of my soul! +My skeleton, my damp rattle and plush +scraping ache of deadened flesh and elbow, +lost to drought and draught alike, +hazing into morning for the simple sake +of pledging to the safe gods of some diminished haven, +heaven, leavened and sorrow-laden, +scribbling to the shivering scratch of metronome, +as shadows dance to blur against the pulp of daybreak. + +Below our feet and strung up to dry. Yellowed. +Archaic and blunted. Crass +melodies with sugar hurts crossed +and promised into subsequent burials. + +Let them hang us like a blank caesura, +Caesar on a starry night in the middle of a blank Disneyland, wishing. Let + +them resurrect us in haste, in +whatever bashful manipulations take them home. + +In the manner of a hunt, the matter +of meat clinging to bone for lack of blood. + + + + +Well, hey, thanks for giving the poem a chance. Have a very happy holiday! + + +airen mcnally + +_________________________________________________________________ +Tired of slow downloads? Compare online deals from your local high-speed +providers now. https://broadband.msn.com + + + + +From ???@??? Mon Dec 1 20:13:20 2003 +X-POPFile-TimeoutPrevention: 0 +X-POPFile-TimeoutPrevention: 1 +Return-Path: <jonwlentz@hotmail.com> +Delivered-To: submit@3 +Received: (qmail 16325 invoked from network); 1 Dec 2003 20:13:20 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO hotmail.com) (207.68.165.59) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 1 Dec 2003 20:13:20 -0000 +Received: from mail pickup service by hotmail.com with Microsoft SMTPSVC; + Mon, 1 Dec 2003 12:13:17 -0800 +Received: from 128.119.76.160 by sea2fd.sea2.hotmail.msn.com with HTTP; + Mon, 01 Dec 2003 20:13:16 GMT +X-Originating-IP: [128.119.76.160] +X-Originating-Email: [jonwlentz@hotmail.com] +From: "Jon Lentz" <jonwlentz@hotmail.com> +To: submit@castagraf.com +Bcc: +Subject: Submission +Date: Mon, 01 Dec 2003 20:13:16 +0000 +Mime-Version: 1.0 +Content-Type: multipart/mixed; boundary="----=_NextPart_000_2a39_3a12_1396" +Message-ID: <Sea2-F59DxcVd64cfQu0001da83@hotmail.com> +X-OriginalArrivalTime: 01 Dec 2003 20:13:17.0106 (UTC) FILETIME=[8E989920:01C3B847] +X-Text-Classification: not_junk +X-POPFile-Link: <http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile5575=1.msg> + +------=_NextPart_000_2a39_3a12_1396 +Content-Type: text/plain; Charset=US-ASCII +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit + +Dear Castagraf, + +My Name is Jon Lentz and I am a undergraduate at UMASS Amherst. I have been +writing for some time and have "published" in a few student run +publications. But now I'd like to try for something bigger. + +I have been reading Castagraf and enjoy it very much. I have had both Travis +Nichols and Nick Moudry as teachers here at Umass, and I particularly enjoy +their work. + +Anyway, here are two stories and one poem that I would like to submit to you +for possible publication. Reguardless of the answer, I will continue to read +and enjoy Castagraf.Thank you very much, + +Sincerely, +Jon Lentz + +_________________________________________________________________ +Set yourself up for fun at home! Get tips on home entertainment equipment, +video game reviews, and more here. +http://special.msn.com/home/homeent.armx +------=_NextPart_000_2a39_3a12_1396 +Content-Type: application/msword; name="Insect Friends.doc" +Content-Transfer-Encoding: base64 +Content-Disposition: attachment + +0M8R4KGxGuEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPgADAP7/CQAGAAAAAAAAAAAAAAABAAAA +MQAAAAAAAAAAEAAAMwAAAAEAAAD+////AAAAADAAAAD///////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// 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Thu Nov 27 14:33:48 2003 +Return-Path: <Dorothee.Lang@blueprint21.de> +Delivered-To: submit@3 +Received: (qmail 11630 invoked from network); 27 Nov 2003 14:33:48 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO moutng.kundenserver.de) (212.227.126.187) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 27 Nov 2003 14:33:48 -0000 +Received: from [212.227.126.162] (helo=mrelayng.kundenserver.de) + by moutng.kundenserver.de with esmtp (Exim 3.35 #1) + id 1APNDH-00022I-00 + for submit@castagraf.com; Thu, 27 Nov 2003 15:33:47 +0100 +Received: from [80.138.41.66] (helo=doro2000) + by mrelayng.kundenserver.de with asmtp (Exim 3.35 #1) + id 1APNDG-00084l-00 + for submit@castagraf.com; Thu, 27 Nov 2003 15:33:46 +0100 +Message-ID: <002601c3b4f3$cd22ac00$6400a8c0@doro2000> +From: "Dorothee Lang" <Dorothee.Lang@blueprint21.de> +To: <submit@castagraf.com> +Subject: submission "vibrations" +Date: Thu, 27 Nov 2003 15:36:07 +0100 +MIME-Version: 1.0 +Content-Type: multipart/alternative; + boundary="----=_NextPart_000_0023_01C3B4FC.2D0BEB60" +X-Priority: 3 +X-MSMail-Priority: Normal +X-Mailer: Microsoft Outlook Express 6.00.2600.0000 +X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V6.00.2600.0000 +X-Provags-ID: kundenserver.de abuse@kundenserver.de auth:3b8b275e1b0256c73d27dccc9b735b90 +X-Text-Classification: not_junk +X-POPFile-Link: <http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile5467=1.msg> + +------=_NextPart_000_0023_01C3B4FC.2D0BEB60 +Content-Type: text/plain; charset=iso-8859-1 +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit + +dear Castagraf Editors, + + +i came across your page through an unpleasant event schedule in the internet.. this one: http://www.unpleasanteventschedule.com/UESabout.htm + +anything but unpleasant, your Castagraf website. Congrats for the moving home page - i love it. and thought you might like to receive a sonic submission for your next issue: + +"vibrations" is an interactive sonic installation +the basic idea of the installation is to contrast the technical definition of "sound" with the emotional difference that sound makes when percepting a scene + +to see & hear the "vibrations", visit this temporary web site that contains the flash file: http://www.test.blueprint21.de/Sound.html + +this installation hasn't been published yet nor has it been submitted anywhere else. + +my bio in short: +Dorothee Lang lives in Germany, likes to linger in limbo, lends lyrics from the library and loves to write on paper and on line. Her work has recently appeared in Eyeshot, Word Riot, Locus Novus, The Cafe Irreal and The Blue Moon Review. More pieces of her can be found on her website http://www.blueprint21.de + +thank you for your consideration - and thanks for creating this inspiring place in cyberspace + +regards, +Dorothee +http://www.blueprint21.de +------=_NextPart_000_0023_01C3B4FC.2D0BEB60 +Content-Type: text/html; charset=iso-8859-1 +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit + +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.0 Transitional//EN"> +<HTML><HEAD> +<META http-equiv=Content-Type content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"> +<META content="MSHTML 6.00.2716.2200" name=GENERATOR> +<STYLE></STYLE> +</HEAD> +<BODY bgColor=#ffffff> +<DIV><FONT face=Arial size=2> +<DIV><FONT face=Arial size=2> +<DIV><FONT size=2><FONT face=Tahoma>dear Castagraf</FONT><FONT face=Tahoma +size=2> Editors, <BR></FONT> +<DIV><FONT size=2></FONT> </DIV> +<DIV><FONT size=2><FONT face=Tahoma>i came across your page through an +unpleasant event schedule in the internet.. this one: </FONT><A +href="http://www.unpleasanteventschedule.com/UESabout.htm"><FONT +face=Tahoma>http://www.unpleasanteventschedule.com/UESabout.htm</FONT></A></FONT></DIV><FONT +size=2></FONT> +<DIV><FONT size=2><FONT face=Tahoma size=2></FONT></FONT> </DIV> +<DIV><FONT size=2><FONT face=Tahoma size=2>anything but unpleasant, your +Castagraf website. Congrats for the moving home page - i love it. and thought +you might like to receive a sonic submission for your next issue: +</FONT></FONT></DIV> +<DIV><BR><FONT face=Tahoma>"vibrations" is an interactive sonic +installation</FONT></FONT></DIV></DIV> +<DIV><FONT size=2><FONT face=Tahoma>the basic idea of the installation is +to contrast the technical definition of "sound" with the emotional +difference that sound makes when percepting a scene<BR><BR>to see & +hear the "vibrations", visit this temporary web site that contains the flash +file: </FONT><A href="http://www.test.blueprint21.de/Sound.html"><FONT +face=Tahoma>http://www.test.blueprint21.de/Sound.html</FONT></A></FONT></DIV> +<DIV><FONT face=Tahoma size=2></FONT> </DIV> +<DIV><FONT face=Tahoma size=2>this installation hasn't been published yet nor +has it been submitted anywhere else. <BR><BR>my bio in short: <BR>Dorothee Lang +lives in Germany, likes to linger in limbo, lends lyrics from the library and +loves to write on paper and on line. Her work has recently appeared in Eyeshot, +Word Riot, Locus Novus, The Cafe Irreal and The Blue Moon Review. More pieces of +her can be found on her website http://www.blueprint21.de<BR><BR>thank you for +your consideration - and thanks for creating this inspiring place in +cyberspace</FONT></DIV> +<DIV><FONT size=2><BR><FONT face=Tahoma>regards, +<BR>Dorothee<BR></FONT></FONT><A href="http://www.blueprint21.de"><FONT +face=Tahoma size=2>http://www.blueprint21.de</FONT></A><FONT face=Tahoma> +</FONT></DIV></FONT></DIV></FONT></DIV></BODY></HTML> +------=_NextPart_000_0023_01C3B4FC.2D0BEB60-- + +From ???@??? Mon Nov 24 04:29:33 2003 +Return-Path: <tonytost@yahoo.com> +Delivered-To: submit@3 +Received: (qmail 20181 invoked from network); 24 Nov 2003 04:29:33 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO web11306.mail.yahoo.com) (216.136.131.209) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 24 Nov 2003 04:29:33 -0000 +Message-ID: <20031124042934.46488.qmail@web11306.mail.yahoo.com> +Received: from [24.162.230.32] by web11306.mail.yahoo.com via HTTP; Sun, 23 Nov 2003 20:29:34 PST +Date: Sun, 23 Nov 2003 20:29:34 -0800 (PST) +From: Tony Tost <tonytost@yahoo.com> +Subject: poetry submission +To: submit@castagraf.com +MIME-Version: 1.0 +Content-Type: multipart/mixed; boundary="0-728603848-1069648174=:45914" +X-Text-Classification: not_junk +X-POPFile-Link: <http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile5310=1.msg> + +--0-728603848-1069648174=:45914 +Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit + +Please find attached (I do apologize, even if I don't +have to) three poems. The first two are sort of in +spy talk--the first word of each sentence forms +another sentence--in the first one, it's from a letter +written by Frank O'hara for a lover, the second it's +the poem's title (taken from John Berryman's +Shakespeare). The third poem has no spy talk, but it +is indebted heavily to a handful of on-line poetry +reviews. + +My first book, Invisible Bride, is forthcoming this +spring from LSU Press after being selected by CD +Wright for the Walt Whitman Award. I also co-edit +Octopus Magazine -- our second issue is in the works +(we'll send you a url as a proof in probably a couple +of weeks). + +Thanks! + +Tony Tost + +__________________________________ +Do you Yahoo!? +Free Pop-Up Blocker - Get it now +http://companion.yahoo.com/ +--0-728603848-1069648174=:45914 +Content-Type: application/msword; name="castagraf submission, tost.doc" +Content-Transfer-Encoding: base64 +Content-Disposition: attachment + +0M8R4KGxGuEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPgADAP7/CQAGAAAAAAAAAAAAAAABAAAA +NwAAAAAAAAAAEAAAOQAAAAEAAAD+////AAAAADYAAAD///////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// 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+AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA +AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA + + +--0-728603848-1069648174=:45914-- + +From ???@??? Wed Nov 19 01:10:25 2003 +Return-Path: <Michael.Ruby@wsj.com> +Delivered-To: submit@3 +Received: (qmail 14122 invoked from network); 19 Nov 2003 01:10:25 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO secinsgproxy.dowjones.com) (63.240.101.2) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 19 Nov 2003 01:10:25 -0000 +Received: (from uucp@localhost) + by secinsgproxy.dowjones.com (8.11.6+Sun/8.11.6) id hAJ1AQg23379 + for <submit@castagraf.com>; Tue, 18 Nov 2003 20:10:26 -0500 (EST) +Received: from sbkmxsmb01.mcn.dowjones.com(162.55.46.103) by secinsgproxy.dowjones.com via csmap (V6.0) + id srcBAAc_aGPT; Tue, 18 Nov 03 20:10:26 -0500 +Received: by sbkmxsmb01 with Internet Mail Service (5.5.2654.89) + id <X1SW03N6>; Tue, 18 Nov 2003 20:10:25 -0500 +Message-ID: <6CF9C2F2C5B4D51195490002A5644A960FCDD666@wfcmxsmb02> +From: "Ruby, Michael" <Michael.Ruby@wsj.com> +To: "'submit@castagraf.com'" <submit@castagraf.com> +Subject: Michael Ruby submission +Date: Tue, 18 Nov 2003 20:10:40 -0500 +MIME-Version: 1.0 +X-Mailer: Internet Mail Service (5.5.2654.89) +Content-Type: multipart/mixed; + boundary="----_=_NextPart_000_01C3AE39.F2B2D140" +X-Text-Classification: not_junk +X-POPFile-Link: <http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile5025=1.msg> + +------_=_NextPart_000_01C3AE39.F2B2D140 +Content-Type: text/plain; charset=iso-8859-1 +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit + +Dear Editors, + +I've been enjoying reading Castagraf during my free moments at work, and I +thought I'd send you some sections of a new book of fiction/prose poetry +called Dreams of the 1990s. I think they would definitely amuse many of +your readers. + +My first book of poems, At an Intersection, was published by Alef Books in +Manhattan at the end of last year. A long poem, "Wave Talk," appeared this +past winter in syllogism in Berkeley, and other poems are coming out this +year in Lost & Found Times in Columbus and in e-zines Poethia, Mudlark, +xStream, Aught, La Petite Zine, Sidereality and Shampoo. Thank your for +reading my work. + +Best, +Michael Ruby + <<ruby.doc>> +------_=_NextPart_000_01C3AE39.F2B2D140 +Content-Type: application/msword; name="ruby.doc" +Content-Transfer-Encoding: base64 +Content-Disposition: attachment + +0M8R4KGxGuEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPgADAP7/CQAGAAAAAAAAAAAAAAABAAAA +PQAAAAAAAAAAEAAAPwAAAAEAAAD+////AAAAADwAAAD///////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// +///////////////////////////////////////////spcEANyAJBAAA8BK/AAAA 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Mon Nov 10 15:55:04 2003 +Return-Path: <CanonAspirin@aol.com> +Delivered-To: submit@3 +Received: (qmail 29806 invoked from network); 10 Nov 2003 15:55:04 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO imo-m02.mx.aol.com) (64.12.136.5) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 10 Nov 2003 15:55:05 -0000 +Received: from CanonAspirin@aol.com + by imo-m02.mx.aol.com (mail_out_v36_r1.1.) id m.1d4.1411f313 (15864) + for <submit@castagraf.com>; Mon, 10 Nov 2003 10:54:58 -0500 (EST) +Received: from aol.com (mow-m22.webmail.aol.com [64.12.180.138]) by air-id06.mx.aol.com (v97.8) with ESMTP id MAILINID63-3df83fafb4d137c; Mon, 10 Nov 2003 10:54:57 -0500 +Date: Mon, 10 Nov 2003 10:54:57 -0500 +From: CanonAspirin@aol.com +To: submit@castagraf.com +Subject: submission +MIME-Version: 1.0 +Message-ID: <0A5592EC.3F3D739D.0B7250E5@aol.com> +X-Mailer: Atlas Mailer 2.0 +X-AOL-IP: 66.9.123.130 +Content-Type: text/plain; charset=iso-8859-1 +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit +X-Text-Classification: not_junk +X-POPFile-Link: <http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile4548=1.msg> + +Hi there- + +My new friend Dottie Lasky told me about your site, or reminded me as I think I'd run into it before - if there is a Laura Solomon somewhere behind this email address, I did a reading at Wordsworth with you around a year ago. I was wondering if you are currently seeking poems for another installment, I don't know exactly how recent the recent issue is. If so, let me know & I'll send some work. + +Thanks +Michael Carr + + +From ???@??? Wed Oct 22 02:31:48 2003 +Return-Path: <postpran@juno.com> +Delivered-To: submit@3 +Received: (qmail 25487 invoked from network); 22 Oct 2003 02:31:48 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO m10.nyc.untd.com) (64.136.22.73) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 22 Oct 2003 02:31:48 -0000 +Received: from cookie.untd.com by cookie.untd.com for <"yyLDmTg0/8Pb9OeR+G+GabDxhlRf4/bekhjqFtx79ijhDILFzf39Cw==">; Tue, 21 Oct 2003 19:31:14 PDT +Received: (from postpran@juno.com) + by m10.nyc.untd.com (jqueuemail) id JC3G6P4K; Tue, 21 Oct 2003 19:31:14 PDT +To: submit@castagraf.com +Date: Tue, 21 Oct 2003 22:37:32 -0400 +Subject: poetry submissions for Marcus Slease (10/21/03) +Message-ID: <20031021.223734.-603647.1.postpran@juno.com> +X-Mailer: Juno 5.0.33 +MIME-Version: 1.0 +Content-Type: multipart/alternative; boundary=--__JNP_000_4ddd.5e1d.1c23 +X-Juno-Line-Breaks: 8-6,7-9,12-13,15-16,19-33,35-39,41-42,44-192,193-32767 +From: postpran@juno.com +X-Text-Classification: not_junk +X-POPFile-Link: <http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile3310=1.msg> + +----__JNP_000_4ddd.5e1d.1c23 +Content-Type: text/plain; charset=iso-8859-1 +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit + + + +Dear Poetry Editors: +I am a native of Portadown, N. Ireland living in Greensboro, North +Carolina. I am currently feasting on Mayakovsky, Matthew Sweeney, and +Frank OHara. + +Recent poetry has appeared (or is forthcoming) in Haydens Ferry Review, +Diagram, can we have our ball back?, Gut Cult, Spork, Octopus, and Typo. + +I received an honorable mention in the 2003 Davoren Hanna Poetry +Competition (based in Dublin, Ireland. Judges: Charles Simic and Matthew +Sweeney). + +Please consider the poems pasted below: + +"Eggs on a Spoon" +"Mr. Whiskers and the Picnic Basket" +"All My Pets are Carnivorous" +"A Prophet Laid Out My Path" + + +Eggs on a Spoon + +My parents got worked up about fish and chips and so the sperm +found its little egg and I found my way into mad Ireland. +My father found a girl in a chip shop who was always crunching +a pickle and leaning against the wall with a cigarette in the other hand. + +For years pickles tasted metallic because thats what the girls butt +tasted like when she tossed it to the pavement. My mom fed me +Chinese gravy on chips. Portadown Chinese chips. We ate it every Friday +after my father left with a new egg. After the chips we walked across +the bridge to exact brown houses. My favorite chippie was in Milton +Keynes. +Next to the 7-Eleven where my mom worked and snuck me Wow! +comics that I read on the break room sofa full of holes and little red +dots +from who knows what. The day I learned to ride we started at this fish +and chip shop and my mom held onto my seat as I rode my new Chopper bike +and I did the mad pedal and she let go and I knew so I crashed +into a fence full of Field Day participants. Some children jumped +into sand, others tiptoed with eggs on a spoon. + + + +Mr. Whiskers and the Picnic Basket + +Mr. Whiskers stole our picnic basket. We had just finished +a romantic movie and drove to the woods +for fancy cheese. We spotted a perfect clearing, +lush grass hidden by old trees. My girl hiked +up her skirt and we plotted our future. From here +to eternity. Thats when Mr. Whiskers snagged the basket. + +We ate pine nuts from my pocket and scoured +the woods. Small footprints littered the dirt. +It was a hard search with menacing clouds. +So we packed it in, returned home. + +And there, by god, was Mr. Whiskers +curled up on our new couch. +The picnic basket half gnawed. +Cheese crumbles wedged between nose and mouth. +Slogging back our wine, ashing his cigar +on the coffee table, chuckling. + +My girl spoke about proper actions. +For her, it was simple. +Punishment as extension +of the human predicament. + +All the worst happenings returned to my mind: +the half-blind bully who tripped +me every time I was near +a girl I liked, the UVF uncle who bounced +me on his knee and whispered +my future as he ran +my hand through his beard. + +We dunked Mr. Whiskers head +in the toilet bowl, stuck pins +under his toenails, pierced +his ears with a Black and Decker drill. + +Eventually we stuffed him into twelve layers +of trash bags, dragged him +to the basement, and buried +him under the floor in a steel box. + +And we returned to the woods and began +a new picnic. No cheese. +No fancy wine. Just a boy and his girl +sitting in silence, eating apples +from a broken picnic basket. + + +All My Pets are Carnivorous + +I used to live in an abandoned hat factory. +Every morning my slippers set off +the metal detectors and a man +with a holster crushed me against the wall. +You know how when we see something +new we make another notch in our belts? +Ive lost every umbrella Ive ever owned +and my best friends kisses taste +like warm pickles. +Santa turned out to be a puppet with a zipper +for a mouth. +You know how some guys callus their fingers +for guitar strings? +Im not so well arranged. +Harmony. A little harmony +and the world makes a pact with apeshit. +My road is a broken cricket. A grocery bag +full of holes. The Great Divide shadows +my pockets. If you look just right you can see +creatures crawling around the sun waving +white hankies. Listen buster, dont write me off. +Im not just a tube of rotting liver jelly. +Ive earned enough suppers for three lifetimes. +The mighty mosquito cannot stomach my blood. +All my pets are carnivorous. + + +A Prophet Laid Out My Path + +Everything smelled strange in the prophets house. +His fridge was half-open and I saw some lumpy milk, +a rotten cabbage. When he spoke, his breath smelled like old wool: + +Look, he said. Theres a lot in store for you. +Just keep clear of the women and when youre +a god youll have your own planet. + +His hands moved in for the big blessing +and the weight of them brought me close +to the stench of his shoe polish. + +An old lady sat in the corner with a tape deck. +She offered to translate and transcribe +the prophets mumbles for a small fee. + +Everyday I waited for the mail. Waited for my blessing. +Full of my specialness, I pushed away the carnality +of plush pillows, the lubrication of silk sheets. + +But after a few years my hands lost delicacy, began +pinching my girls nipples, began their low roam. + +Thats when my life began its strobe: +one flash holy past, one flash carnal future. + +One time I walked through the supermarket chanting +I am a warrior of light over and over, but trying + +not to think of sex, only made me think of it more. +The lady palming the baby formula dripped + +milk from her silver dollar nipples, the spiked redhead +thumbing through Cosmo jiggled her pierced clitoris + +in time to the whistle of the toy train circling the store, +the athletic woman leaning over to retrieve her shopping list + +softly squeezed my balls and whispered what she wanted +me to do. Straight-away, when I arrived at my + +girls house, we pasted pictures of Jesus all over the walls, +on the ceiling above her bed. But it didnt work. We took turns + +staring at Jesus while we came and came and came. +Eventually, I realized it was no use. My holy days were over. + +But sometimes, right before I shut my eyes, the prophet +sneaks into my room and frowns, locks the fingers +of his hands and draws birdshadows on my wall. + + + + + + + + + +----__JNP_000_4ddd.5e1d.1c23 +Content-Type: text/html; charset=iso-8859-1 +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit + +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.0 Transitional//EN"> +<HTML><HEAD> +<META http-equiv=Content-Type content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"> +<META content="MSHTML 6.00.2800.1264" name=GENERATOR></HEAD> +<BODY bottomMargin=0 leftMargin=3 topMargin=0 rightMargin=3> +<DIV><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; FONT-FAMILY: Perpetua; LETTER-SPACING: -0.25pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA"><SPAN +style="mso-spacerun: yes"></SPAN></SPAN> </DIV><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; FONT-FAMILY: Perpetua; LETTER-SPACING: -0.25pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA"><SPAN +style="mso-spacerun: yes"> +<P class=MsoSalutation style="MARGIN: 11pt 0in"> </P> +<P class=MsoSalutation style="MARGIN: 11pt 0in"><FONT face=Garamond size=4>Dear +Poetry Editors:</FONT></P> +<P class=MsoBodyText2 style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><FONT face=Garamond size=4>I +am a native of Portadown, N. Ireland living in Greensboro, North Carolina. I am +currently feasting on Mayakovsky, Matthew Sweeney, and Frank +OHara.</FONT></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; FONT-FAMILY: Perpetua; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt"><FONT +size=4><FONT face=Garamond> <?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = +"urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /><o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; FONT-FAMILY: Perpetua; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt"><FONT +size=4><FONT face=Garamond>Recent poetry has appeared (or is forthcoming) in +<I>Haydens Ferry Review</I>, <I>Diagram, can we have our ball back?, Gut +Cult</I>, <I>Spork, Octopus, and Typo.<o:p></o:p></I></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><I><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 12pt; FONT-FAMILY: Perpetua; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt"><FONT +size=4><FONT face=Garamond> <o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></I></P> +<DIV><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 10pt; FONT-FAMILY: Arial; LETTER-SPACING: -0.25pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA"><FONT +face=Garamond size=4>I received an honorable mention in the 2003 Davoren Hanna +Poetry Competition (based in Dublin, Ireland. Judges: Charles Simic and Matthew +Sweeney). </FONT></SPAN><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 10pt; FONT-FAMILY: Arial; LETTER-SPACING: -0.25pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA"><FONT +face=Garamond size=4></FONT></SPAN></DIV> +<DIV><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 10pt; FONT-FAMILY: Arial; LETTER-SPACING: -0.25pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA"><FONT +face=Garamond size=4></FONT></SPAN> </DIV> +<DIV><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 10pt; FONT-FAMILY: Arial; LETTER-SPACING: -0.25pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA"><FONT +face=Garamond size=4>Please consider the poems pasted below:</FONT></SPAN></DIV> +<DIV><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 10pt; FONT-FAMILY: Arial; LETTER-SPACING: -0.25pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA"><FONT +face=Garamond size=4></FONT></SPAN> </DIV> +<DIV><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 10pt; FONT-FAMILY: Arial; LETTER-SPACING: -0.25pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA"><FONT +face=Garamond size=4>"Eggs on a Spoon"</FONT></SPAN></DIV> +<DIV><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 10pt; FONT-FAMILY: Arial; LETTER-SPACING: -0.25pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA"><FONT +face=Garamond size=4>"Mr. Whiskers and the Picnic Basket"</FONT></SPAN></DIV> +<DIV><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 10pt; FONT-FAMILY: Arial; LETTER-SPACING: -0.25pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA"><FONT +face=Garamond size=4>"All My Pets are Carnivorous"</FONT></SPAN></DIV> +<DIV><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 10pt; FONT-FAMILY: Arial; LETTER-SPACING: -0.25pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA"><FONT +face=Garamond size=4>"A Prophet Laid Out My Path"</FONT></SPAN></DIV> +<DIV><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 10pt; FONT-FAMILY: Arial; LETTER-SPACING: -0.25pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA"><FONT +face=Garamond size=4></FONT></SPAN> </DIV> +<DIV><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 10pt; FONT-FAMILY: Arial; LETTER-SPACING: -0.25pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA"><FONT +face=Garamond size=4></FONT></SPAN> </DIV> +<DIV><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 10pt; FONT-FAMILY: Arial; LETTER-SPACING: -0.25pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA"> +<H1 style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 18pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US"><FONT +face=Garamond><EM>Eggs on a Spoon<o:p></o:p></EM></FONT></SPAN></H1> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond> <o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond><STRONG>My parents got worked up about fish and chips and so the +sperm<o:p></o:p></STRONG></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond><STRONG>found its little egg and I found my way into mad +Ireland.<o:p></o:p></STRONG></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond><STRONG>My father found a girl in a chip shop who was always +crunching <o:p></o:p></STRONG></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond><STRONG>a pickle and leaning against the wall with a cigarette in +the other hand. <o:p></o:p></STRONG></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond><STRONG>For years pickles tasted metallic because thats what the +girls butt <o:p></o:p></STRONG></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond><STRONG>tasted like when she tossed it to the pavement. My mom fed +me<o:p></o:p></STRONG></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond><STRONG>Chinese gravy on chips. Portadown Chinese chips. We ate it +every Friday <o:p></o:p></STRONG></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond><STRONG>after my father left with a new egg. After the chips we +walked across <o:p></o:p></STRONG></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond><STRONG>the bridge to exact brown houses. My favorite chippie was +in Milton Keynes. <o:p></o:p></STRONG></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond><STRONG>Next to the 7-Eleven where my mom worked and snuck me Wow! +<o:p></o:p></STRONG></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond><STRONG>comics that I read on the break room sofa full of holes +and little red dots <o:p></o:p></STRONG></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond><STRONG>from who knows what. The day I learned to ride we started +at this fish <o:p></o:p></STRONG></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond><STRONG>and chip shop and my mom held onto my seat as I rode my +new Chopper bike <o:p></o:p></STRONG></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond><STRONG>and I did the mad pedal and she let go and I knew so I +crashed <o:p></o:p></STRONG></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond><STRONG>into a fence full of Field Day participants. Some children +jumped <o:p></o:p></STRONG></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond><STRONG>into sand, others tiptoed with eggs on a +spoon.<o:p></o:p></STRONG></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P></SPAN></DIV> +<DIV><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 10pt; FONT-FAMILY: Arial; LETTER-SPACING: -0.25pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA"><FONT +face=Garamond size=4><STRONG></STRONG></FONT></SPAN></SPAN></SPAN> </DIV> +<DIV><FONT face=Garamond size=4></FONT> </DIV> +<DIV> +<H1 style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 18pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"> +<H1 style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 18pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond><EM>Mr. Whiskers and the Picnic +Basket<o:p></o:p></EM></FONT></FONT></SPAN></H1> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond> <o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>Mr. Whiskers stole our picnic basket. We had just +finished<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>a romantic movie and drove to the woods +<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>for fancy cheese. We spotted a perfect clearing, +<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>lush grass hidden by old trees. My girl +hiked<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>up her skirt and we plotted our future. From +here<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>to eternity. Thats when Mr. Whiskers snagged the +basket.<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond> <o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>We ate pine nuts from my pocket and +scoured<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>the woods. Small footprints littered the +dirt.<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>It was a hard search with menacing +clouds.<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>So we packed it in, returned +home.<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond> <o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>And there, by god, was Mr. +Whiskers<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>curled up on our new couch.<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>The picnic basket half gnawed.<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>Cheese crumbles wedged between nose and +mouth.<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>Slogging back our wine, ashing his cigar +<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>on the coffee table, chuckling. +<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond> <o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>My girl spoke about proper actions. +<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>For her, it was simple.<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>Punishment as extension<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>of the human predicament.<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond> <o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>All the worst happenings returned to my mind: +<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>the half-blind bully who +tripped<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>me every time I was near <o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>a girl I liked, the UVF uncle who +bounced<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>me on his knee and whispered<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>my future as he ran <o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>my hand through his beard.<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<H1 style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt 4.25in; tab-stops: 383.25pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; COLOR: black; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT +size=4><FONT face=Garamond> <o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></H1> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>We dunked Mr. Whiskers head<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>in the toilet bowl, stuck pins<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>under his toenails, pierced<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>his ears with a Black and Decker +drill.<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond> <o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>Eventually we stuffed him into twelve +layers<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>of trash bags, dragged him<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>to the basement, and buried<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>him under the floor in a steel +box.<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond> <o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>And we returned to the woods and +began<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>a new picnic. No cheese. <o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>No fancy wine. Just a boy and his +girl<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>sitting in silence, eating apples +<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>from a broken picnic basket.<SPAN +style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </SPAN></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><SPAN +style="mso-spacerun: yes"><FONT face=Garamond +size=4></FONT></SPAN></SPAN> </P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond><SPAN +style="mso-spacerun: yes"></SPAN><o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN> </P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 18pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US"><FONT +size=4><FONT face=Garamond><EM>All My Pets are +Carnivorous<o:p></o:p></EM></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond> <o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>I used to live in an abandoned hat +factory.<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>Every morning my slippers set off +<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>the metal detectors and a man<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>with a holster crushed me against the +wall.<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>You know how when we see +something<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>new we make another notch in our +belts?<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>Ive lost every umbrella Ive ever +owned<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>and my best friends kisses +taste<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>like warm pickles.<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>Santa turned out to be a puppet with a +zipper<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>for a mouth.<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>You know how some guys callus their +fingers<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>for guitar strings?<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>Im not so well arranged.<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>Harmony. A little harmony<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>and the world makes a pact with +apeshit.<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>My road is a broken cricket. A grocery +bag<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>full of holes. The Great Divide +shadows<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>my pockets. If you look just right you can +see<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>creatures crawling around the sun waving +<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>white hankies. Listen buster, dont write me off. +<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>Im not just a tube of rotting liver jelly. +<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>Ive earned enough suppers for three +lifetimes.<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>The mighty mosquito cannot stomach my blood. +<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; FONT-FAMILY: Perpetua; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA"><FONT +face=Garamond size=4>All my pets are carnivorous.</FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; FONT-FAMILY: Perpetua; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA"><FONT +face=Garamond size=4></FONT></SPAN> </P><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; FONT-FAMILY: Perpetua; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA"> +<H1 style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 18pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US"><FONT +size=4><FONT face=Garamond></FONT></FONT></SPAN> </H1> +<H1 style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 18pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US"><FONT +size=4><FONT face=Garamond><EM>A Prophet Laid Out My +Path<o:p></o:p></EM></FONT></FONT></SPAN></H1> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond> <o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>Everything smelled strange in the prophets house. +<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>His fridge was half-open and I saw some lumpy milk, +<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>a rotten cabbage. When he spoke, his breath smelled like old +wool:<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond> <o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>Look, he said. Theres a lot in store for +you.<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>Just keep clear of the women and when +youre<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>a god youll have your own planet.<SPAN +style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </SPAN><o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond> <o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>His hands moved in for the big +blessing<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>and the weight of them brought me close +<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>to the stench of his shoe polish. +<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond> <o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>An old lady sat in the corner with a tape deck. +<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>She offered to translate and +transcribe<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>the prophets mumbles for a small +fee.<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond> <o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>Everyday I waited for the mail. Waited for my +blessing.<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>Full of my specialness, I pushed away the +carnality<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>of plush pillows, the lubrication of silk +sheets.<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond> <o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>But after a few years my hands lost delicacy, +began<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>pinching my girls nipples, began their low +roam.<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond> <o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>Thats when my life began its +strobe:<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>one flash holy past, one flash carnal +future.<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond> <o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>One time I walked through the supermarket +chanting<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>I am a warrior of light over and over, but +trying<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond> <o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>not to think of sex, only made me think of it +more.<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>The lady palming the baby formula +dripped<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond> <o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>milk from her silver dollar nipples, the spiked redhead +<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>thumbing through Cosmo jiggled her pierced +clitoris<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond> <o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>in time to the whistle of the toy train circling the +store,<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>the athletic woman leaning over to retrieve her shopping +list<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond> <o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>softly squeezed my balls and whispered what she +wanted<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>me to do. Straight-away, when I arrived at +my<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond> <o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>girls house, we pasted pictures of Jesus all over the +walls,<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>on the ceiling above her bed. But it didnt work. We took +turns<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond> <o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>staring at Jesus while we came and came and came. +<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>Eventually, I realized it was no use. My holy days were +over.<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond> <o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>But sometimes, right before I shut my eyes, the +prophet<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>sneaks into my room and frowns, locks the +fingers<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT size=4><FONT +face=Garamond>of his hands and draws birdshadows on my wall. +<o:p></o:p></FONT></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><FONT face=Garamond +size=4></FONT></SPAN><o:p></o:p></SPAN> </P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT +face=Perpetua> <o:p></o:p></FONT></SPAN></P> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt"><FONT +face=Perpetua> <o:p></o:p></FONT></SPAN></P></SPAN></H1> +<H1 style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 18pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT +face=Perpetua></FONT></SPAN> </H1> +<H1 style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 18pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT +face=Perpetua></FONT></SPAN> </H1> +<H1 style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 18pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT +face=Perpetua></FONT></SPAN> </H1> +<H1 style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 18pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT +face=Perpetua></FONT></SPAN> </H1> +<H1 style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"> +<P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT +face=Perpetua><o:p></o:p></FONT></SPAN></P><SPAN +style="FONT-SIZE: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt"><FONT +face=Perpetua> <o:p></o:p></FONT></SPAN></H1></DIV></BODY></HTML> +----__JNP_000_4ddd.5e1d.1c23-- + +From ???@??? Sun Oct 5 06:09:52 2003 +Return-Path: <virtualbecky@yahoo.com> +Delivered-To: theeditorishperson@castagraf.com +Received: (qmail 19881 invoked by uid 508); 5 Oct 2003 06:09:52 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO web40911.mail.yahoo.com) (66.218.78.208) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 5 Oct 2003 06:09:52 -0000 +Message-ID: <20031005060945.52050.qmail@web40911.mail.yahoo.com> +Received: from [128.119.232.46] by web40911.mail.yahoo.com via HTTP; Sat, 04 Oct 2003 23:09:45 PDT +Date: Sat, 4 Oct 2003 23:09:45 -0700 (PDT) +From: becky rosen <virtualbecky@yahoo.com> +Subject: poetry submission +To: theeditorishperson@castagraf.com +MIME-Version: 1.0 +Content-Type: multipart/mixed; boundary="0-1862496615-1065334185=:49999" +X-Text-Classification: not_junk +X-POPFile-Link: <http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile2151=2.msg> + +--0-1862496615-1065334185=:49999 +Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit + +Hi Laura, +I was checking out the latest Castagraf and thought +you might like these (if not, I promise I won't be +mad:) +They're 5 sections from a long poem called "as I +inhabit men (and women)". +Take care, +Becky + +__________________________________ +Do you Yahoo!? +The New Yahoo! 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Wed Oct 1 17:34:17 2003 +Return-Path: <sawako@factorial.org> +Delivered-To: submit@3 +Received: (qmail 21785 invoked by uid 508); 1 Oct 2003 17:34:17 -0000 +Received: from unknown (HELO venus.hiddenservers.com) (64.21.67.2) + by hosting-132-76.phpwebhosting.com with SMTP; 1 Oct 2003 17:34:17 -0000 +Received: from yahoobb219202056249.bbtec.net ([219.202.56.249] helo=FM-293049965.factorial.org) + by venus.hiddenservers.com with asmtp (Exim 4.20) + id 1A4kra-0002Ow-Qf; Wed, 01 Oct 2003 13:34:11 -0400 +Message-Id: <5.1.1.9.2.20031002023248.056dd768@mail.factorial.org> +X-Sender: sawako@factorial.org@mail.factorial.org +X-Mailer: QUALCOMM Windows Eudora Version 5.1-Jr3 +Date: Thu, 02 Oct 2003 02:33:05 +0900 +To: submit@castagraf.com +From: Sawako Nakayasu <sawako@factorial.org> +Subject: a note, & submission +Mime-Version: 1.0 +Content-Type: text/plain; charset="ISO-2022-JP" +Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit +X-AntiAbuse: This header was added to track abuse, please include it with any abuse report +X-AntiAbuse: Primary Hostname - venus.hiddenservers.com +X-AntiAbuse: Original Domain - castagraf.com +X-AntiAbuse: Originator/Caller UID/GID - [47 12] / [47 12] +X-AntiAbuse: Sender Address Domain - factorial.org +X-Text-Classification: not_junk +X-POPFile-Link: <http://127.0.0.1:8080/jump_to_message?view=popfile1987=1.msg> + +Hello - + +Your website is gorgeous; I wish I could make better use of my copy of Flash, not to mention all the other software I got for cheap in Hong Kong. + +Please find enclosed (or rather, below), a submission of poetry - and even further below, a link to the blog where I originally wrote them, if you're interested for any reason in seeing more. + +yours, +Sawako Nakayasu + +___________________ + +Nightmare about hamburgers, + +Having fallen into one. + +Or rather, being swallowed by an avalanche of undercooked hamburger meat, I am in the pinkest part of it and try the spitting method to find out which way is up. I decide, however, that any direction is good enough so long as it is fast, as my assumption is that no hamburger can possibly go on forever. I worm my clothes off so that I can move easier, and am reminded of Carolee Schneemann's Meat Joy from the 60s, though I am finding no joy in this. I struggle to get my clothes back on as I realize that the friction from the clothes are necessary to overcome the grease so that I can get out of this place. + +I think I see a light in the distance. + +Though it might very easily be a lump of fat. + +But worse yet, clearer yet, I begin to smell smoke, a gas-fired barbeque. I call out, distressed and damselled to the hilt, + +"Hamburger!" +"Hamburger!" +"Hamburger!" + +for lack of a better way to describe the situation - and I am quoting some long-lost love poem, and so I am. + + +*** + + +A standard commercial airplane flying a standard trans-atlantic or pacific route with the standard set of economy, business, and first-class passengers and correspondingly standard crew of pilots, flight attendants, and in-flight meteorologists. + +This very aircraft also filled to the brim and every cranny with diamonds, and the flight attendant who wades her way slowly, patiently, through the stones and down the narrow aisle, pushing the usual cart of drinks, peanuts, salisbury steak and long-ago fried potatoes, and what her face looks like at the end of it, and just then the diamond that drops out from under the neath of her skirt. + + +*** + + +A trail of anything - insects, hamburgers, bicycles, popsicles, miniature lightening bolts, road maps - anything, all of it, all lined up insidiously, all imagining the small of my back, envisioning it, bare, exposed to the light, sunlight, moonlight, halogen, fluorescent, all of it - seeing it, wanting it, nearing, fighting for, quietly, no - silently, crowding, my small, and - + + +*** + + +What do you miss about America? + +A woman, a very very fat woman, I trace her and to what extent she gives, and what of her takes as I dive into her rolls, loll around and find a press, a fold, fresh laundry out of the dryer and keep tracing her, linger on the inside of her elbow, inside of her armpit, fall into her heated neck I keep tracing her with my finger her trace and then she bites me and I go back. + + + +__________________________________________________________ +Texture Notes +http://www.nakayasu.blogspot.com/ + + + + +__________________________________________________________ +Texture Notes +http://www.nakayasu.blogspot.com/ + + + diff --git a/veryold/Misc/newbook_back.txt b/veryold/Misc/newbook_back.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0c6b281 --- /dev/null +++ b/veryold/Misc/newbook_back.txt @@ -0,0 +1,603 @@ + The black rippling sea of hats undulates in rows as the men make their way out of the square. The trolleys are stopped, silent and abandoned. The sea moves slowly down, turning on Andrássey Avenue, past the black flags, away from the smoking bronze torches of the catafalque and toward the ring. + All of this happened before. + His father's shoulders lurch in time with the crowd. A woman in black tea gown walks beside them, the drooping brim of her hat shading all but the sides of her cheeks which flush as her faint boots stumbling awkward on the wooden planks of Andrássey Avenue. At the front of the procession, just behind the hearse with its gilded horses and wreaths from governors and statesmen, three riders hold silver staves, black lanterns hanging down. Wafts of Myrrh and incense drift back over the crowd carried on the still-chilly May air blowing down off the distant hills. The woman trips again, and a man to her right catches her arm and holds her steady. Theo watches them, wondering where the man lost his hat. The crowd shuffles on. + On balconies above women curtsey the hearse, an old man in white linen suit doffs a bowler and makes a sweeping bow. Theo looks up to see the shining crown of the man's bald head. The man walking beside his father looks up as well and turns away smiling. He glances over at Theo and winks, but Theo is worried about the balconies, with the weight of so many onlookers he expects them to fall, crumbling into dusty rubble, destroying the waiters standing outside the cafe bars below. + His father is moving faster now, there is less theatre the closer they get to the city cemetery where eventually only the obligated dignitaries and family will stand beside the grave in the violet twilight, watching as the body is lowered into the ground. Already the the crowd is beginning to disperse into the cafes and coffeehouses, but the man continues to walk beside them. His pointed goatee and thin sideburns remind Theo of the Turkish boatmen that frequent his father's meeting room, but he doesn't have the dark skin of a Turk, he is paler, but still olive complexioned and wearing the finest looking cloth Theo has ever seen. + At Octagon Square the trumpeter's horn blows and the hearse turns onto Elizabeth ring. His father turns with the other Guild members and Theo catches a glimpse of the governor as he step inside the coach. The cafes have pulled their tables back, a band plays traditional Hungarian songs, Even the derelicts, drunks and hustlers seem to feel the need to remain in the shadows though he can see the glint of freshly lighted gas lamps on their slick jackets as they huddle in the alleyways and stoops, hats removed while the procession passes. + The man walking next to them begins to slow, Theo watches as his arm reaches out and grabs his father who half turns and starts at first, nearly throwing Theo from his shoulders but catching himself just in time. The man without a hat steadies his father who reaches up and lifts Theo's slight frame over his head, setting his feet down on the wooden planks. They talk for minute in hushed words Theo can't hear. The woman kneels down, smiling at Theo. + Did you enjoy the procession? + Yes ma'am says Theo shyly. She rustles his hair. + Would you you like to have a cup of chocolate with us she asks smiling. + Theo looks up at his father whose face is turned toward the man, his jaw set back and half clenched. Theo stiffens, but smiles back at the woman. Yes ma'am. + His father hesitates but then shrugs and agrees, a nervous smile spreading slowly across his face. + The somewhat awkward troop settles into a corner table and the man and woman introduce themselves to Theo, but Theo is more interested in their clothes than their names. Both the man and the woman, who Theo discerns is somehow or other connected to the man, have on a caliber of clothing Theo has never seen outside the shop windows along Vaci Street. The man's suit is impeccably tailored, fine and so deeply black that it seems to absorb the dull glow of the cafe's electric light. The woman's folds of chiffon rustle as she shifts in her seat, the delicate lace overlays and the velvet ribbon sashed high on her waist call out, begging him to crawl across the table and bury his head in them. + She coos over him, remarking to his father that she has a daughter about the same age. She whispers to the waiter who brings hard candy with the lager and spritzers for the rest of the table. Theo sits straight in his chair the way his father taught him, sucking deliciously on the crystalized candy when he see it glittering on her neck and before he can stop them, tears well up in his eyes. He hurriedly sets the candy on a napkin and excuses himself to the restroom. + In the back of the cafe, before ducking into the restroom, Theo turns around looking past that counter bar where a line of men in half unbuttoned coats roar in drunkenly, sing song welcoming the new century for the hundredth time, Theo watchesh his father talking to the woman in hoarse shouts, his face clouded by smoke from the cigarette that dangles from his slender fingers, the man between them smiles at Theo across the room. Theo turns and, after locking the bathroom door behind him, slumps to the floor and begins to sob uncontrollably. It starts like a single string plucked and then cascades into a bow pulled cross a full chord until the sound of his sobs fill the white marble tiles, dancing around the porcelain toilet, bouncing off the iron fixtures of the sink, muted by carefully laid towels that drive the sound down, under the closed door and out into the cafe where it disappears into the general murmur where nothing, not even a paltry echo, returns. Instead something else creeps in through his is aural prefirary, outside, through the the window, leaking in between the paint flecked sill above his head come the sounds of a fiddle. Theo sniffles and forces himself quiet for a minute to listen closer, catching now the melody of a man singing punctuated by the clatter a woman's boots on the hard stone of the alleyway outside. Theo stops crying entirely, caught up in the muted sounds just beyond the glazed glass. Listening closer he can hear the sound a carriage on the road further up, the murmer of dispersing crowds, the echo of men shouting on the street, the clanging of trolley bells, the clopping of horse hooves, and in the distance the fog horn of a barge departing down the Danube, but the woman's laugh pulls him closer back into the alley just beyond the window above him. Theo stands up and fumbles with the paint chipped sill until he prys it open and looks down at the scene below. + The fiddler is standing on a crate swaying back and forth to the music, head cocked half belting out a slurred song while he watches a man and woman dancing badly in front of him. Her skirts swirl, the man stumbles on the uneven ground and nearly causes her to fall. Theo rests his head on the windowsill and thinks about his dream, the same dream he has every night. His mother is there, someone is playing an accordion, another a fiddle, the room is dark lit only by a handful of candles burning on the table where he sits waiting for something. People are dancing round the open room in front of him, his mother among them but he can never see her clearly, only only the faded and yellowing image from his father's bureau spinning between the others before him, singing and laughing, but drained of color and life. At some point the apparition always crosses the room and leans down to whisper something in his ear before scooping him up in her arms, his forehead nestled argainst her skin, her neck warm against his face, the soft line of her jaw nestling his head beneath her chin where his lips purse on the hard and glittering diamante broach. Out the corner of his eye the room is always a dizzying blur; his mother spins with the music, revealing to Theo a whirl of chairs and bookshelves intersected by men in long coats fanned out with the motion of their feet, women at the end of their outstretched arms, their skirts a blurry kaleidoscope of blues and whites and always the room begins to spin, creating its own momentum, turning and turning as more strings fill in the music, violas and cellos now, until a whole symphony is assembled and heading toward a crescendo when the bottom begins to drops out, one stuttering notes at a time slowly collapsing until the images begin to blur and fade away along with first the cello, which disappears into the swirling flower patterns of the wallpaper, followed by the pounding timpani and marshal sounds which crumble into the wainscoting, until the fiddle falls silent and the accordion wheezes slowly into the smoky background, replaced by a suffocating blackness. Theo is falling now, looking back up at the faces above, watching him as he rushes downward and a sound begins to fill his ears, a sound like the Danube spilling its banks in the spring, it curls in under his toes and he feels unafraid, but certain he will die, and then the faces become too distant to see and the light disappears into a pinpoint star between the edge of everything and total blackness, until Theo starts upright in bed, gasping for breathe. + He watches now as the man tries to spin the woman along his outstretched arm, away from the rotting cabbage and potato peelings of the alley gutter, but the stones beneath his feet seem to give way and he loses his balance and slowly falls in a crumbling motion into the rotting vegetables and sewer water, laughing as he goes. The fiddle player stops in concern. The man slowly picks himself up, still laughing and struggling out of his now filthy coat which he lets fall back into the gutter. He throws his arm around the woman and they walk off drunkenly, zigzagging up the alley and out into the street leaving the musician still standing, fiddle in hand, looking after them. + Theo? + The voice startles him away from the windows. Yes? He unlocks the door and the man in fine clothes slides in. + What are you doing in here? + Theo shrugs and gestures to the open window. Watching. + The man studies his face for a moment and then asks if everything is okay. + Theo thinks for moment. Is everything ever okay? + The man laughs. No. I guess not. + Theo watches as the man turns to the mirror and studies himself for a moment idly dancing a gold coin across his knuckles and between his fingers. He looks at Theo through the mirror and turns, still flipping around the coin. And then suddenly it's gone. + The man smiles and shrugs. + Theo laughs and instinctively clasps the man's hand within his own, turning it over in search of the missing coin, but it isn't there. + Where did it go? + It's gone. + Yes, but to where? + Somewhere you can't go. + Where is that? + Look. The man turns over both hands to ensure that Theo can see he does not have the coin. Theo nods. + The man then reaches up behind Theo's ear and pulls back with a large diamond stone dangling from a thin velvet choker that's laced between his fingers. + Theo stands for a moment gaping. How did you... + The man just shrugs. Clean yourself up and come back to the table and then maybe I'll show you. The man turns back to the mirror, touching his hair and smiling back at Theo before turning to disappear out the door. + Theo steps up to the sink, standing on his tiptoes to wash his faces when he notices at the bottom, near the drain plug, the missing gold coin. + Theo looks up into the mirror in surprise, but sees only his own face staring back at him. He notices for the first time that his face looks curiously foreign to him, as though he were looking out at a stranger. His face suddenly seems to have become as Theo will henceforth know it, the smooth almost angelic skin of a statue frozen in a moment he will soon forget. Though eventually spots of stubble will come in and by seventeen a full beard, much like his father's, will begin to grow the smooth foreign skin will never entirely fade and the beard will never cover the the feeling of being an impostor in his own skin + + That night, lying in bed listening to the barges plying their way down the Danube, Theo's dream changes. This time instead of dropping off into darkness, he remains, nestled against the rough coolness of the stone, his mother's neck warm against his check until the room gives way to the stars, puncture holes in the ceiling of the room at first until they begin to break free and the room falls away, down into the blackness away from Theo who stands now beside the river watching as the man without a hat stands alone on the quay, dressed in the same black suit waving to Theo from the far shore. And then he disappears. +# + The rock hits the window with a shocking crash that sends Theo bolting out of bed where he had been idling, thinking about the funeral of the painter Munkácsy, so many years ago, but thinking not of the painter at all, but as he always has -- as the night he learned that things could disappear. Or, more properly, that things could be made to appear as if they disappeared - hidden in plain sight. + His hear is still pounding as he slides the window open and looks down into the street to see + +meets her on the street they go off to some park... + + Your Father wants me to go down the river with him again next week. + Please don't call him that. + Okay, fine, Lazlo wants me to go down the river + If he were really my father, he would live with us. + In the palace. + It's not a palace. It's just big and cold. You know I hate it. + At least it doesn't smell of fish. Theo picks up a stone near his foot and tosses it into the grass. + +... got out on a date, segue to river trip and chapter end +# +She is tightly stitched in cloud. Returning again, collapsing inward, from the warm belly up, rising out of the swelter of underworld night, a silver-scaled blindfish in the mouth of a watery serpent, thin cocooned body wrapped in sticky, fibrous light, peeling muslin and gauze, with scarlet flakes of skin like milky stars screaming across the night sky. The bending cottonwoods mark the wind crawling out of canyons and rocky stream beds to snag autumn's last leaves, plucked and shivering down into puddles of rainwater spilled from leaf choked gutters, running down to rivers to sea to night to the moss slick depths of winding subterranean swells, the rumble of rising waters, boulders smashing bank and bone, swallowing shoots of sallow and debris, the drowning. Starbursts and flashes in parallax at the edges of the horizon where the sun sinks and a streak of cloud paints waning purple across the western skyline. Claire stood at the basement window trembling, arms crossed over her chest, a cigarette clenched between her fingers. The color drained out of the day like bleached laundry on the line, an ebb tide of evening light retreated across the gravel parking lot chased by the shadows of a train descending into a tunnel, plumbing the unknown depth of rock and sand beneath the well-lit fixtures of day. Claire took a drag and watched a canyon wren hopping on the ground in front of the window, its watery black eyes pausing from time to time to take her in, a breath, a shadow, a movement, the dry salt of cheeks pressed together. She could feel the cold stillness descending just beyond the smudged shelter of glass, a tuft of wind ruffled the wren and in a black streak it disappeared into the sky. The day seemed to suck in on itself, a collapsing uncertainty, like so many passenger pigeons, limping, broken-winged and exhausted, returning home on foot. The afternoon shrunk into night, pulled in reserve what remained, hunkering down in canyons and valleys, a laughing wind among the willows waiting out the night. Claire's cigarette continued to burn, but she did not smoke it. She turned away from the window and sat down against the wall, opposite Jimmy. + +He stared directly into the gray-green pools of her eyes, noting the saline scales clinging to her cheeks, but he did not see anything he recognized, instead there lay only a thick absence, sewn like cobwebs choking juniper boughs. "Does this help?" + +"Help?" Claire turned away from him lay down on the floor and watched the thin gray ribbons of smoke drift up from her cigarette toward the asbestos ceiling where the smoke spread out, billowing in all directions as if suddenly robbed of purpose, drifting aimlessly now across inverted fields of thread and fiber, plaster and silence, a ghost wandering up out of the building leaving behind a body of ash. + +Jimmy sat back against the wall, one leg drawn up studying his fingernails, slowly trying to work the packed bearing grease and smoky motor oil from under them. After a while he gave up on his nails and reached into a greasy paper sack and extracted a boiled peanut which he shelled in one smooth motion extracting the flesh and flicking the husk into a metal waste-bin to his right. "It's not a question of helping is it?" + +She ignored his question. "We're going to be shut down aren't we?" + +"Probably." + +"Then was it pointless?" + +"Probably. Maybe? I don't know." He eyed her suspiciously unsure of what to say. "You should ash," he said finally, sliding the aluminum can toward Claire with an ear grating screech that continue to echo about the room long after the waste bin came to halt next to her arm. + +Ignoring the involuntary shiver down her spine, Claire distractedly flicked her cigarette toward the can, arcing a spray of ash which splashed against the side of the can and dusted down, a trail of unattached white flakes fell like dead skin left behind, floating down from some unseen body already departed but reminders, remembrances still settling on the soft angora fibers of her sweater, the skin you couldn't escape, the dust on the shelves, thin layers of everyone coating the world in a barely discernible varnish. + +"It feels like... Jimmy, I need..." + +He looked at her as if waiting for the thought to be continued, but she did not indulge him. He returned to his peanuts. + +Claire hooked a bit of her reddish hair behind her ear and watched Jimmy as he ate. He began to talk in an abstracted, detached manner that she found tedious, speaking as if the words were merely ideas, had no value themselves but what a listener might attach to them. She was still caught between the two worlds and had trouble understanding why he couldn't see that every word had a meaning, that language was not an abstraction but the very thing that constructed the world he lived in, the world she was slowly returning to wondering -- is it possible to live mythically?. We sew each vital stitch, but not without doubt; a cell cannot survive without each constituent part, this is why Darwin suffers his thumb. She remembered the colors mainly, in these re-entry moments -- the color removed from light, able to stand and dance on it's own like some synesthesia of sight and motion, vision and touch, such that, like remembering the image of a sleeping loved one long after they are gone, something inside you wanted to burst outward with an indescribable and joyful sadness, a complete and total synthesis of opposites, with none of the bore of happiness, no hackneyed sentiment, without cynicism, without skepticism, where the sun alights your every nerve and you know that for what seems like the first time that you exist, really exist. She thought suddenly of something her grandmother has once said, *once something dies, you can't make it live*. But lingering in this boundary land it almost felt like you could raise the dead, like perhaps you have and you simply don't remember it. Here the pieces seemed, if not to fit, to at least possess a cohesive integrity that could connect the disparity of the clothes and the body, the ship and the sea, the rain and the flood, wave over wave under, so much movement and still so still, as if the sky filled your skull. "A realization of the imagination," as Sil had said. Sil had also once remarked that the danger with tapping into the vast realms of the imagination, which as he pointed out bore a more than passing linguistic similarity to the word magic, is that you might suddenly find yourself having called up something you cannot put down, a notion that continued to haunt Claire every time she returned. And yet Sil was so utterly unperturbed by the world around him that Claire found it difficult to imagine him ever truly afraid of anything, though there were whispers of something, something she had thus far refrained from asking him about -- and then one day he simply did not show up. But Claire continued, not in hopes of helping anyone, but because she couldn't let go of the feeling that this was a way back, that the continual projection outward and its commiserate return inward would allow her just once to exist outside herself, to live for one fleeting moment as not Claire but as everyone indivisible. + +Down the hall from where Jimmy and Claire lounged in the dwindling twilight, in a small room lined with bulging bookshelves stuffed to the gills with a collection of scientific volumes from the usual suspects like Freud, Jung, Einstein, Darwin and Bohr as well as more esoteric tomes from the likes of Korzybski, Reich, Tesla, Leibniz and others, sat man in wrinkled slacks with a partly unbuttoned lab coat that revealed a stethoscope and a coffee-stained shirt beneath it. The man wore headphones and pounded on a keyboard in burst and stutters of clacking keys, but he stared straight ahead as if reading his words off an unseen screen over the wall in front of him, perhaps backlit by an unseen projector with glowing unseen Aeolight tubes requisitioned from the Army Air Corp cum Air Force dumping ground not five miles from this very hospital. Eschewing the tendencies of his collegues toward frazzled chaoic hairstyles, Dr Waiben's head was closely shorn which never ceased to amaze those previously familiar with him only through his works, which was admittedly a small, though devoted group. That he was the preminint scholar in his field was unquestioned, however, the exact number of competing scholars was not directly known, but assumed by most to be fairly low, which is not to say his illustrious curriculum vitae was anything to sneeze at... having studied at the prestigeous Koestler Parapsychology Unit at Edinburgh University, he briefly took up residence there, though his leaning toward applying rigourusly scientific tests to his collegues somewhat questionable methodology put him on the outs, eventually he left for a stint in Vienna, and then to Panthon-Sorbonne where he took up redience in the Applied Mathematics department until the student protests of the sixties, when, making the ill-advised assumption that democratic protest had a strong future in France, he had sided with the students and shortly found himself deported back to the American shores from whence he came. Having then taken up residence at the recently defunded and dispersed Massachusetts Institute of Technology's Woulden College of Parapsychology And Esoteric Electrical Phenomena (P.E.E.P), owing to his groundbreaking work in attempting to test Riech's still controversial orgone-based "cloud busting" theories (a project funded almost entirely by the equally controvserial Montasano seed company, rumored to be seeking yet another means of holding the industrial farming industry over the barrel as it were) he now found himself marroned here in the Arizona desert with the dubious destinction of being the only scientist in the country legally authorized to administer Dimethyltryptamine to a baker's dozen of carefully selected patients on the vague premise that DMT might be useful in rehabilitating certain psychological borderline cases back to what was culturally defined as workably human. How he had convinced not just the FDA, but also the stuffy starched collar suits that oversaw the budgetary constraints of the University of Arizona at Tucson that DMT was a viable research subject was something even Waiben was only dimly aware of and with the rapid approach of his half yearly report his mind had lately been trying with considerable effort to recollect the exact wording of his original Q and A with the suits. + +There had been a time when Waiben was quite certain that his work was worthwhile, worthy even. He like to style himself as a garbage collector of scientific theory moving slowly through long disregarded tomes to empiraically demostrate them false, one by one, despite that fact that he tended to work from a negative hypothesis which put him at odds with not only those others working in the "fringe" fields of science, who naturally disliked his sharply critical repukes of their theories, but also the more mainstream scientists who either dismissed him outright, or couldn't understand why he wasted his time with theories he inevitably proved false. Lately Waiben had started to sway toward this later argument and was seriously considering retirement at the relavitely ripe old age of sixty eight, "just about a Christie's worthy vintage" his erstwhile collegue and friend from his days at the Sorbonne, Vandamire Scott quipped. "What you ought to do my boy," Scott suggested, "is get out on the lecture circuit. Quite a lot of these up and coming American Unies are only too eager to lay their hands on someone like us, *studied in Europe* they always put on the flyers." Vandameer chuckled, "You might end up in a nearly empty lecture hall down the the Humanities ghetto (perish the thought), but you'd be surpirsed who turns up... quite a number of impressionable young women who turn to 'kooky' scientific tomes to spice up their otherwise dull poetry. And you'd be amazed how the May-November romance seems to sparkle for them, at least for a night or two." Waiben dismissed the later notion as predatory ("evolutionarily necessary," Vandameer retorted) and so he sat late in the evening on a Friday typing up notes while Scott shagged his way through Conneticutt having stopped over for an extended dalliance in Watertown the details of which he was only too eager to relay during a recent phone call -- nipples like summer fruit my boy... Do you remember when your skin was taught? Good lord! -- Waiben hung up mid sentence. Which isn't to say Waiben was above the occaissional abridged affaire de coeurs himself. Lately he found himself unable to concentrate when a certain subject, Claire Bierce, was in the chair, an ever-present scent of peaches seemed to accompany her into the room, a delusion which Waiben was pretty sure arose solely from him discovering via her background forms that she orginated from the state of Georgia. Nevertheless Claire possessed an undeniable precessence, a musicality in her very movement hinted not just at a willful inclination toward the sort of deparity that men find similatneously appealing and horrifying, but also a depth of character that made you want to sink into her thoughts as if collapsing onto a feather bed to disappear into the relaxed ease of sleep. But having already lost his longtime research assistant, who protested an "inability to maintain scientific integrity when Claire is in the room," Dr Waiben was wary of his owning growing inability to do likewise, but, or perhaps, as he was only now began to appreciate, *because of* this lack of scientific objectification, Claire had unquestionably become the most valuable subject in his experiement. Hippy enthusiasm not withstanding, it was surprisingly difficult to find people willing to subject themselves to the rigors of Dimethyltryptamine. Of the forty or so volunteers who showed up at the initital public cattle call, only seventeen had passed the prescreening and of those only a dozen had returned after their first dose, which was in hindsight rather large. In the course of the next six months he had lost another to possession charges and another to Ohio, which Waiben freely admitted was the most humilating thing that had yet happened in his research career. However Claire made up for it, not just in her lucid descriptions and remarkable ability to retain organized thoughts where even the most skeptical of the others turned to jellied, raving idiots, but because she made everyone around her want to continue in spite of the increasing sense of futility that pervaded everyone involved, including Waiben. So it was irritating when tonight Vandameer's skin comment had unwillingly crept into Waiben's mind as he watched Claire's face, the billowing softness of it, the slight hints of a laugh line, a crease of time only recently realized on the vast pallet of youth, and it began to consume him in a way that no skin had since that afternoon in the sun-drenched Parisian apartment when, for one strange moment, while inside a young exchange student who, one foot on the ground, one foot raised on a kitchen stool as Waiben entered her from the front, in a moment of glaze-eyed lust breathed, "you make me want to be a whore," an Arabian Nights-like celebration of decandance and depravity which might well have been the only thing that pulled Waiben's mind back from the diaphaneitous realms of feminality, where he was encountering for the first time the full force of his own soul, in the momentary and then sustained contact with her skin, so incredably hushed and enveloping, the nerves of his own skin, by comparison callous, dumb and uncouth, relayed back a sensation that hinted at the falacy of the seemingly indelable seperation of one body from the next and rather implied that there might be elastic mingling of bodies, a slipping, AEther-like permeability between everyone, as if by a passage through the core fires of sun, he had suddenly emerged in some parallel universe where the word soul had not yet been worn out. + +Waiben rewound the tape and turned the page. The clacking noise took up once more, seeping past the open door, out into the submerged watery darkness of the hall. + +Claire was back now. With all the depressing letdown that inevitably brought with it. She distracted herself listening to Jimmy, but the utter disappointment of satiation would not retreat that easily and she had trouble following his voice. It warbled like a finch fluttering about its cage. The clacking of Waiben's typing distracted her thoughts. She watched Jimmy tap his foot distractedly on the floor to some unheard beat, his unruly rag of brown hair and thick, black-framed glasses nodding unconsciously. She smiled, this why I come back, not for the world, but for my part of it. And then the guilt shattered her vision. She had wanted. She had wanted to tell him, but he so rarely stopped talking. Though she knew he talked during these comedown session mainly for her benefit, it did make it hard to get a word in edgewise. But she also knew that the longer she waited, the worse the guilt felt. She slowly drew herself up, wrapped her arms around her legs and rocked back and forth. "Jimmy." she said his name shyly as if not wanting to disturb him. "My grandmother died two days ago..." She tried to sound matter-of-fact, but her voice betrayed her. + +Jimmy sat stunned silent for a moment. "I'm sorry, Claire why didn't you..." + +"Don't be sorry Jimmy, she was old, she was sick." Claire sighed, she could feel tears coming to her eyes, but she lay back down and stared blankly at the ceiling. "Actually she didn't die, she killed herself." The tears came more freely now and she made no effort to hide her face from him. "I don't know why I didn't say anything. I thought maybe it would come up when I was..." She waited to see if he would finish the sentence for her. + +He shook his head, but said nothing. + +She gathered herself and looked at Jimmy pleadingly. "Well. Will you come to the funeral tomorrow?" + +"Of course." Jimmy rolled down the top of the greasy paper bag and rose to his feet. "Let's get out of here. I'll let him know we're leaving," he said and walked quickly from the room. + +She listened to his footsteps padding down the hall, a murmur of voices, she thought of cranes moving slow over the marsh, ungainly long legs tucked behind them, momentarily streamlined as if just an extension of their bodies, gliding low of the reeds an cattails, the musty smell of brackish water at sunset, the first crisp of fall harking in gusts of wind. + +Claire dropped the still burning cigarette in the waste bin and slowly sat up. The chair was exactly as it had been, worn arms gone from taupe to a bruised gray, stirrups pushed to either side. The metal table, the tray of needles and potions, Benzedrine alkaloids encased in syringes, opiate derivatives still lying unneeded, a broken piece of glass tubing with burned ends lay to the side. The waxy black shelves behind the tray were covered in a grotesque ephemera of zoological oddities, reptiles in formaldehyde, a coiled rattlesnake, a horned lizard with its forelegs pressed against the glass, a scaly gila monster in beaded orange and brown faded by the glare of afternoon sun, the stuffed Toucan decaying on a broken palo verde branch, its gnarled scaly feet now held in place by wrapped metal wire. Higher up there were fossilized trilobites propped on plastic stands and the ghost image of a fern embedded in shale. She shuddered at the sight of a blind newt sitting on the top shelf its regressive eye sockets covered by a fine milky fold of proto skin. She grabbed her coat from the rack and turned to leave. She flipped the light and turned to pull the door shut behind her glancing involuntarily at the top shelf where the two-headed cat stared down at her, four accusing eyes reflecting the dusting moonlight. + +In the car they didn't speak. Jimmy brought the Falcon up to speed and slid onto the interstate. Claire watched the caustic yellow glow of the city on the clouds in the rearview mirror. She smiled suddenly, "My grandmother told me once that she used to chew sand." + +"Chew sand?" Jimmy fingered the locking shifter and flicked ash out a cracked window. Wind hissed in the slipstream. + +"Her family came west in the dust bowl. My great grandfather was dying of tuberculosis, they brought him out on the back of pickup, seven kids and dying man." + +"Sounds like a Faulkner novel." + +"Yeah but my great grandfather mysteriously recovered and ran off with a VA nurse, never to be heard from again." + +Jimmy chuckled, "sounds even more like Faulkner." + +Claire stared out the window at the sagebrush racing by in streaks of pale green lit up by the headlights. "My grandmother said there was so much dust and dirt and grit that it just leeched into your skin, clogged all your pores... and there's her father coughing up blood on the bed of the truck... and Gamma and her brothers and sisters sitting there spitting out dust every few minutes, deaf with wind, no one talking, barely able to even see each other... let alone hear a conversation... and they rode like that for five days, all the way from eastern Kansas to here.... My grandmother told me that at some point she just decided to stop spitting out the sand, she let it collect on the edges of her lips and every now and then she'd run her tongue over her lips, draw the sand in her mouth and try to chew it." Claire laughed softly. "I'll never forget her telling me that, she was laughing when she finished the story and she said it was one of her happiest memories." Claire turned to look at Jimmy. "Imagine that Jimmy, imagine if one of your fondest memories was of chewing sand... I wish she had told me why." She turned back to the window and the tears came again. She watched them in the reflection, they rolled silently down her cheeks as if they, and indeed her own face, belonged to someone else + +The streetlights gave way to the dusty darkness of a gravel road, they were enveloped in a dusty cloud, Claire rolled down the window and stuck her head outside, tongue extended laughing and crying at the same time, the wind whipped her tears off her cheeks and carried them out into the parched desert night. The dust and sand stung her cheeks and filled her eyes. She ducked back inside the car coughing and spitting. "Crazy woman," she muttered. + +The bar was packed and sweltering, sticky bodies thronged together, scrunched shoulders and craning necks, trickles of sweat were visible on necks and earlobes as Claire struggled through the crowd trying to follow Jimmy toward the back of the room. Amid little grunts of pain, whispers of apology and finally a margin of cool air from the back door. Jimmy broke through, dragging Claire behind him to fall into a booth next to a half drunk and grinning version of Sil, animated like a cartoon in the dim light of the booth. "Jimmy! Just the man I was looking for, starter died this morning I had to kick start the beast to get here this afternoon..." His voice trailed off as he studied Claire's dusty face, "What happened to you?" Claire groaned and let her purse drop from her shoulder to the cushion beside her. "I was trying to chew sand." She laughed and took the beer that Sil held out to her. He shrugged but said nothing. Sil was probably the only person she knew who never insisted on sussing out some greater explanation, or at least if he ever did so he kept it to himself. She laid her head on his shoulder. He and jimmy begin to talk of motorcycles. Claire listened half heartedly, wishing that the music would begin. It wasn't that she minded so much the talk of carburetors and fuel pumps, she even had a motorcycle herself, a gift from Sil and Jimmy who decided that anyone crazy enough to catapult themselves into the psychedelic realm of elves and aliens ought to have no trouble riding a motorcycle. And the truth was she enjoyed it, she even enjoyed fixing it since between the two of them they seemed able to scrap together only enough money to by some late seventies vintage machine that had hitherto been resting in some junkyard the two of them frequented when they went scrounging for parts. All things considered she would have welcomed a distracting conversation, but she didn't want to talk about bikes, she didn't want to talk about anything that wouldn't matter tomorrow. Beside which it was February and only Sil was insane enough to ride his motorcycle in the freezing cold nights of February in Tucson anyway. She threaded her arm around Sil's working her elbom into the warmth of his belly and thought about his curious, impervious detachment to temperature. She recalled once staying over at his house and watching him step out for a cigarette barefoot in the snow. Claire had once witnessed him dip his fingers in boiling water to retrieve a bobbing potato with apparently no pain whatsoever, just an embarrassed blush when he caught her staring, mouth agape. + +Somewhere on the far side of the throng that was now backed all the way up to their both such that a row of shapely asses and thighs threatened to impinge on their drinks, a saxophone began to tune, squelching suggestively and then the kick drums thumped once or twice and the show started suddenly out of the chaos of tuning a half disernable melody began to emerge. Claire released Sil and climbed up on the back of the booth, spine arched and craned her neck trying to see over the crowd. All the shoulders and stooped backs turned just so, perfectly aligning the emptiness between Claire and the stage so that her eyes met those of the dancer onstage and cannot avoid but meet them again. A writhing serpentine figure that that spiraled around the man with the metal chest, or rather with the metal attached to his chest. To his face. To his lips. It sounded like Paleolithic cave drawings -- dueling sculptors chipping at the same stone, part horrific cacophony, and part terrifying clarity. The dancer fell to the floor of the stage and then began to rise in slow circling motions, spinning as if to slow the motion of the earth to rob it of some spped that would cause everyone in the room to suddenly sieze upon this moment as fragmentory, fleeting, but not yet gone, to sieze it and hold it and never let go. The trio had been in town for three weeks now, a long pause on a journey into something only dust and angels were really fully aware of, pausing here to pack out the Rattle Bar and Grill which had not seen the likes of such talent in all it's barren days and for which the owner, proprietor and occasional bartender Sil Hawkard had been paying handsomely. And he made sure to ply Claire with plenty of free beverages to entertain and enlarge the ever flexible nature of perception such that a certain dancer of curiously indecipherable ethnic origins who had tendencies toward the affections fay, cherry-haired young women might continue to take residence in the dilapidated guesthouse behind the bar over the increasingly vocal grumblings of the saxophonist and the drummer who understandably did not see a future for avant garde jazz in Tucson Arizona. + +Later the patrons couple off in a haze of alcohol and dust from taxis circling in the drive, and the night began to take on a bruised character, like a drunk beginning to sober in a cold lonely jail cell. + +Claire excused herself to the bathroom. Jimmy sat up straight and eyed Sil out of the corner of his eye, "You going to the funeral tomorrow?" + +Sil nodded and sat silent for a moment as if weighing out the words that both of them knew would be next. "She wanted to tell you Jimmy," He spoke slowly and stared at his empty glass, fiddling with it. "I think she just feels strange because you're there, in the room." He looked up at Jimmy. "She thinks you know things about her that she doesn't know." + +"I do." Jimmy spoke matter-of-factly as if it were a thing of no importance. + +"Well, I'm just saying, don't take it personally if she doesn't tell you things sometimes, she's just protecting herself." + +"You make it sound like we're lovers Sil." + +"What the hell does that have to do with it? If you were lovers she'd have told you already, it's always your friends that really hurt you." Sil smiled ironically. + +Jimmy pulled a cigarette out of the pack on the table but didn't light it. "This afternoon she became her grandmother." + +Sil's head snapped up to meet Jimmy's gaze, "What do you mean 'became'?" + +"It happens quite a bit, she becomes other people, sometimes her family members, sometimes distant relatives I'm pretty sure she never even knew... + +"Are you going to tell her?" + +"I can't Sil." + +"Fuck what Waiben wants Jimmy, the whole fucking thing is going o get shut down anyway as soon as he publishes this stuff, probably even sooner. He's already skating on thin ice at with the University, once they find out that he's convinced DMT gives you access to spirit worlds or whatever shit he seems convinced it does, he's fucking finished. The scientific element'll finally go out the window and he'll pick up and move on in some other fucking direction. That's what he always does. The man is batshit crazy..." + +Claire sat back down next to Jimmy and suddenly glared at Sil. "He is not." + +"Claire I've known him longer than you, trust me he's batshit crazy. For the most part in a good way, but you just never know... I've always avoided delving too deep into his craziness. Frankly there's no way of telling what's down there at the bottom. I mean do you know anyone else who's fallen out of an airplane and lived?" + +"He didn't fall, he jumped." + +"I rest my case -- bat shit crazy." Sil slumped back and swirled the drink. "Jasmine my dear, when you get a sec I need a splash." The girl behind the bar nodded but didn't stop rinsing glasses and stacking them on the shelf behind her. + +Claire continued to glared at Sil, but on the other hand she did half believe him. Waiben, or Scratch as Sil called him -- for reasons no one seemed to be aware of save Sil -- was, at the very least, eccentric. Claire desperately wanted to ask Sil more about Waiben, but had always refused to out of pride. She knew Waiben was Sil had worked together for years, but then he had just left. Dropped the whole thing without so much as a phone call. Bought the bar and hadn't, so far as she knew, spoken to Waiben since. Neither Claire nor anyone else had ever induced either Sil or Waiben to elucidate on the situation, though neither spoke ill of the other, provided bat-shit crazy was not considered ill. + +"You look like you're going to skin me alive," Sil met her definate gaze with what he undoubtedly considered a warm, open sort of smile but which Claire found somehow intruding, as if he were listening to her thoughts. + +"Naw. Market's dropped out in pelts." She took a last drag from her bottle of beer and faked a smile back at him. + +Jimmy had become sullen and quiet. He popped a handful of peanuts in his mouth and slid out of the booth. "Time for me to go I guess, you coming Claire?" + +"Naw, I'll stay a bit." + +"Okay. I'll see ya'll tomorrow." Jimmy walked over shook hands with the bartender and wandered out the front door. Sil and Claire watched him go. + +"You finally told him?" + +"Did he say something to you?" + +"He asked if I was going." + +"Oh." She felt a sicking pit open up in her stomach. "Can I stay with you tonight?" + +"You'll have to ride on the bike..." + +Sil fell asleep the minute he took off his clothes and sunk onto the bed. Claire ran the water, filling the bathtub. She slowly peeled off her clothing and stared at her body in the mirror. Her hair was stringy and dry, her face rimmed in a thin layer of dust. She sighed and walked back into the bedroom to retrieve a candle. She lit the candle and turned off the bathroom light. She turned off the water and sank slowly into the tub. The water enveloped her like an electric blank on a midwest morning, she lowered her body further into the water and slowly let her head go under. Her hair floated up and clung to the surface as the watery silence filled her ears and the rhythm of her own heart filled her ears. + +She remembered the last time she had seen her grandmother. They were sitting at the kitchen table the yellow flowered curtains puffed with the first cool breeze of fall. Her grandmother asked Claire for a cigarette. Claire protested at first but her grandmother said it didn't matter anymore, she might as well enjoy what was left. Claire ended up giving her a cigarette and fished out another for herself. Her grandmother struck a match and held it up for Claire who had leaned in to light, meeting her grandmother's eyes as she did, struck at once that though the skin of her face was loose and drawn, her eyes had the same liquid brightness of a baby, the seemed to crackle with life in spite of the dying that surrounded them. Claire sat back in her chair and studied her grandmother's face as she smoked, wondering what how it looked, young and smooth, before eighty years spent in and out of the desert sun. + +Claire remembered thinking that to some people the desert was a hot wind at the gas station, something passing through and to be passed through. Others saw a sunny retreat from cold wind billowing off northern lakes; some saw it as an endless playground of sunshine, golf and hotel pools. Her grandmother simply arrived in it one day, accepted it and tried to swallow it, literally Claire realized now. + +"It used to be so beautiful here in the fall," her grandmother was staring out the back door toward the mountains. "Those hills where covered with junipers and in the gullies there were enormous Sycamores and Cottonwoods that turned yellow and orange..." + +Claire looked up at the hills now covered in houses. She remembered dimly, as a girl, walking in the canyons with her grandmother and grandfather, gathering leaves and looking for wizards and fairies in the shaded glades of trees, the cool moist air near the water, the dry crunch of leaves under her young feet. + +"It still is beautiful, though," Her grandmother turned in her chair and flicked a bit of ash into the kitchen sink. "Claire." She stopped as if gathering something up within her, "I'm dying." + +Claire lifted her head out of the rub and drew her legs up, tucking her feet under her and wrapping her arms around her knees. + +What is age made of, what shape does death take as it drew nearer? Perhaps it takes no clearer shape, perhaps death remains forever a stranger, perhaps it's life that has sharper shape when death approaches. If life begins in pleasure and ends in pain is it therefore necessarily futile? Is it just an expansive joke, me being the product of endless strangers' pleasure, rooted in their bellies and born through their legs only to end in pain? And what? Along the way move to feel my own pleasure and bear out strangers of my own, slowly plodding toward the pain? She thought of Aldus Huxley and his anesthetized, hallucinatory suicide. Was that cheating? Was the pain necessary? Was it still possible to die with grace, naturally, without the infest of disease, that latter day stranger come to roost itself like so many passenger pigeons returned home? She thought of her grandmother's pain, swept up in the rising river, the boulders, she wondered if it had lasted, if it had passed quickly or never existed at all. She wondered what her grandmother had thought of, sitting there beside the river, soaked through by the rain, watching the water rise, the distant rumble of boulders beginning to move, the faint white noise of the coming flood... and then... what? Claire leaned her head on her knees and watched the candle flickering. She remembered her grandmother's eyes the moist vitality in them, the tiny universes of memory floating in a saline ether with faint but visible stars beginning to glow behind them. + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +"It was a lovely service doncha think?" + +Claire felt a little vomit start to migrate up her throat, but she just smiled at her aunt and nodded. Claire hadn't been at the funeral. True, her body had stood between Sil and her Aunt, but she never heard the words and just watched dumbly as everyone dropped a handful of dirt down a whole that contained some shattered remnants of her grandmother that the fire department had managed to salvage from the river a full twnety two miles from the canyon where her car was parked. Claire had spent most of the brief cemermony watching the traffic on N. Oracle speeding along as usual. Afterward everyone retreated back to their cars and as Jimmy drove them toward the foothills for the reception at her Aunt's house Claire watched a group of hotair balloons begin to slowly lift off from the small airfield on the outskirts of town. She did her time making rounds taking in condolances from well-meaning family members she knew would drive home commenting on the tattoo on her wrist, the small diamond stud in her nose, the unkept wildness of her hair, the fact that she had not one, but two men with her, the fact that she hadn't been to church since the eighth grade when James Becker tried to rape her bdhind the chapel and she broke his nose with a brick, the later detail seemingly the ony one anyone cared to remember, she smiled but she sould see the clucking disapproaval in her both of her aunts and the slightly creepy leering grin of their husbands, one of whom had tried to kiss her at his own wedding three years ago. + +As always Claire used cigarettes to escape her family. She slipped outside at the earliest possible moment and sat down on the patio table to watch her young cousin. He marched up to her a plfastic fireman's hat wildly cockeyed on his head and strangely out of place with the suit he still had on. "How are you Darren?" + +He shrugged and looked at her shyly. "You have a picture on your arm." + +"Yes I do Darren. It's called a tattoo, it's ink embedded... + +"What's it a picture of?" + +Claire pulled up her sleeve so he could see the whole tattoo. "It's all the signs of the Zodiac in a circle... When were you born Darren? March?" + +He nodded but kept staring at her arm. "This is your symbol right here." She pointed to Aries, which he leaned in to scrutinize closer. "You're an Aries. That means your symbol is the the Bull. Very strong." + +He seemed please by this notion and Claire neglected to add that he would very likely grow up constantly falling in and out of love with a string of trailor park ex-wives spreading in his wake. + +"Which one are you?" + +"I'm Sagitarious, this on here, the little hook like symbol." + +"Why do you have a tattoo?" + +She smiled. I got drunk once and it seemed like a good idea was Claire reasoned, not the appropriate response to give a five year old, but somehow she had never come up with better one. "Why do you have a nose?" + +He laughed, "I dunno, everyone has a nose... do I have a tattoo?" + +She giggled and raised his shirt and begin to tickle him, "I don't know let's see..." + +He squealed and ran away, circling back around, but staying just out of arms reach. "I don't have a tattoo," he said finally. + +"No you don't. But you can get one some day if you want." Claire tried to picture her Aunt's face when Darren would relay this bit of information. + +"Are you on drugs?" + +"What?" Claire snapped around and grabbed him by the arm. "Who told you that?" + +"No one. I just heard my mommy say it to daddy this morning." + +"Oh she did did she? Claire sat back in the chair and pulled Darren up on her lap and wrapped her arms around him. "And what else did your mommy say this morning?" + +"About you? I think she said "You're anxious." + +"Do you even know what anxious means?" + +"Momma said you're anxious cause you want to know bout the hertiance." + +"How old are you Darren?" + +"I'll be six soon." + +"And your mother told you I was nervous about an inheritance..." + +"No she said anxious." + +"Right. Anxious. Because..." + +"Because you won't be getting any money." + +Darren's mother was looking out at Claire from behind the sliding glass door, she waved from behind the glass, comfortable in her air conditioned cocoon; Claire smiled and waved back stifling the urge to mouth bitch at her. Her aunt openned the door and beckoned Darren inside. He climbed off of Claire and wandered toward the door. Claire took another sip of the cheap boxed chardonney she had poured earlier, it tasted a bit like peach juice, but it was slowly having the desired effect. She stood up and wandered through the yard and out into the river gully running just beyond the back fence. There was a trail leading down in the general direction of the river and Claire followed it walking slowly and keeping an eye out for rattlesnakes and scorpions. A breeze had begun almost as soon as the sun sunk behind the Catalina Mountains, not strong enough to bend the stiff twiggy branches of desert trees, it moved though in whispers, puffs of air brushing against her cheek. She thought of airports, hospitals, departure points, the shuffling of human feet moving in and out of rooms like last quiet sighs of breath. Claire watched the river and wondered vaguely what its name actually meant. It seemed odd to her that she had lived next to or around the Rialto River for so many years without ever wondering what the word meant. She felt as if she were herself a desert only recently become aware that someone had flung a river down on her. Or with desert ambivalence she had always had a river running around her but had simply never noticed it. What then does the desert make of the river? As she studied the scene that was cascading down the slope and away from the organization of the manicured patio and yard, she decided that the desert seemed to ignore the river entirely. The river was starting to flood again, somewhere far upstream three days rain had been feeding until it swelled like a Christmas ham, but ten yards on either side and it was sand again. Stagnant pink sand interspersed with prickly plants and clumps of sagebrush and Mesquite trees, ironwood her grandfather called it. The sand didn't care for the water, didn't hold onto it, didn't even try, just let the water flow right on over it, puddle and collect, run off and feed into the river. Farther in the distance there were the mountains ringing the desert, keeping watch over it, making sure it behaved in some general way. + +She could see a figure emerge from the house and begin to slowly pick its way through the cacti and palo verde up the sloop toward the rock where Claire sit. It wasn't until he was halfway to her that she recognized Jimmy. He climbed up on the rock, but didn't say anything. + +She leaved her head on his shoulder. "Can I ask you a question Jimmy? It's a stupid question, but I read it in a magazine yesterday and I can't stop thinking about." + +"Shoot." + +"If you were going to do something for the sole purpose of getting in the Guiness book of world records what would it be?" + +Jimmy laughed. "That's easy. Land speed record. currently held by my uncle who drove a rocket powered car at 457 mph across a dry lake in Nevada." + +"Seriously? I mean your uncle is really in the Guiness Book of world records?" + +"Seriously." + +"Huh." + +"And you?" + +"I would skydive from the stratosphere like that guy did a couple years ago, only, obviously, I'd have to start higher." + +"Yes you would. Did you go through an astronaut phase when you were younger?" + +"Not really. Maybe. I don't remember." She took out another cigarette and lit it. Jimmy snagged it from her lips and took a drag. She watched him awkwardly puff out the smoke. "You know what I read once? The first thing an astronaut said the first time he orbited the moon... He said 'well, it's pretty gray.' It's pretty gray, Jimmy. It's pretty fucking gray. This asshole is the first fucking human to see the moon close up, to orbit around it in it's own gravity and he says it's pretty fucking gray. Fuck him." + +"He had an impoverished imagination." + +Her head snapped up from where it had been resting on her knee. "Life is a collision of imagination and observation, Jimmy, and he fucking failed." + +"Maybe." + +"No Jimmy. He failed. He was one of about thirty people that have seen the moon up close and all he got out of it was that it's gray. He fucking failed." + +"You're assuming that gray meant nothing to him, but what if his mother had gray eyes and that was the one memory that came back to him when he was overwhelmed by being that close to the moon?" + +She rested her cheek on her knee again and rocked back and forth for a minute before speaking. "You're sweet Jimmy. You always defend people and want to think the best about them. I love you for that. In spite of the fact that deep down you're cynical too. But you try and that's what I love about you." + +Neither of them said anything for a while. The watched the balloons drift slowly across the sky. + +"Are you okay?" he asked finally. + +"I think so. I mean she basically told me she was going to do it. I did my crying a few days ago, now..." She stopped. "I can't cry around them for some reason." + +"Yeah." + +"You know I once cried so hard I swallowed a moth." She giggled. "I was supposed to go out with this guy. This was junior high. Maybe high school. No junior high. Anyway we were supposed to ride our bikes to the park in the evening and he never showed up and I waited and waited. I was so in love with this guy. So at about 10 o'clock I'm out on the porch-sobbing... You know those huffing snorting kind of sobs that women make when they're really upset? Hyperventilating sobs... anyway, I was chewing gum. I always used to chew gum. So I'm in the rocking chair sobbing, arms around my knees... this is so pathetic... I inhaled a moth somehow and before I realized it I chewed him right into my gum. It was crackly at first, but then more like chewing feathers. I remember running in to tell my grandmoter I had eaten a moth... I can't believe she didn't laugh at me." Claire smiled and looked a Jimmy's brown eyes shielded from the sun by a red socks hat. "I had a lot of disturbing, uh, incidents in childhood. I used to kidnap cats when I was little." + +"Kidnap cats?" + +"Gamma wouldn't let me have a cat. She actually told me years later that she she didn't want the cat because she didn't want to become an old lady with cats. I mean after the plane went down... I dunno. She could occasionaly be quite vain. I think she felt awkward raising me at her age." Claire stopped. Jimmy could feel her body shudder against his. He pictured her face distorting, trying to swallow back tears like she had the night before. + +"Anyway," She sniffed and drew herself up laughing softly. "I would go out and steal them from neighbors... At first I just petted them you know. Then I got one to follow me home. I felt like he loved me more than his owners and I cried when Gamma took him home. I was probably seven or eight when this happened. After that I went farther from home, several blocks away where I knew Gamma wouldn't know whose cat it was and I would have to post signs, found: cat. That sort of thing so, you know, I would have the cat for longer." + +"Right." + +"But these cats wouldn't follow me home. Too far I guess. So I would save my lunch money and on the way home from school I'd stop at Circle K and buy myself a slushy and Moon Pie and can of cat food. Then I'd ride my bike past my house, way back into the subdivision and lure cats home by dragging the cat food on a string behind my bike. One time I pulled into my driveway with three cats running behind me." + +"You were a cat rustler." This drew a laugh. + +"Yeah. I guess I was. One time, after I posted a bunch of found cat signs and stuff this old lady came to our house to pick up her cat and she was so excited that I had found her cat she gave me twenty dollars -- which was a lot of money at that age -- and bells went off in my head. So then I started kidnapping the cats for profit. I mean, when I could. I tried to pick cats that looked pampered or that were sitting in front of old lady houses. You know lots of papers collecting on the porch. Beat up seventies sedans. Maybe that was me subconsciously realizing my grandmother's fears or something. Anyway I was pretty good at casing a block and finding the old lady cats. When they would come over I'd put on a cute little dress and smile and play dumb and they would give me a reward. One month I made $200. That's when my Gamma caught on." + +"What'd she do?" + +"Bought me a cat." + +"Smart." + +"Yeah, but by then I didn't want one." They sat in silence again. The balloons were higher now. AT some length Claire collapsed onto Jimmy's shoulder and sighed deeply sliding down so that her head was on his chest. "My family thinks I'm on drugs." + +"Of course you're on drugs, you have a tattoo." Jimmy smiled at her and she through her arms around him suddenly punching him softly in the back. "What? your aunt already grilled Sil and I about it. Plus Claire, you do take drugs twice a week." + +"That's different. And besides my aunt's been popping Somas since her car accident, that was two fucking years ago and she still acts like it's no big deal, but get a tattoo... Jesus. You know her own mother couldn't stand her?" + +"I'm sure that's not true..." + +"Wait until the executor reads the will... Oh and that's another thing, they're all gonna hate me... Gamma gave me everything, I asked her not to, I even threated to give it all to my aunt if she did, but she said it was for me." + +"So you have a house now and everything?" + +"I guess so, yeah. I don't want it though, I can't live there without her. It would be weird. Wrong. Why do I need it? I already have everything from my parents..." She turned on her back and let her head rest in his lap. She looked up at him; his eyes were shadowed by a Red Sox hat that Sil had given him. His lips were red and seemed suddenly incredably close. She drew in a breathe, closed her eyes and slowly lifting her head until her own lips pressed against his softly. + +When they returned to the house Sil was in the backyard engaged in some sort of complex war-like game of super soaker mayhem with Darren. Sil stood in the middle of the yard with a super soaker in each hand looking not unlike the cover of Rambo firing dual streams of water at Darren who also had two super soakers, but was crouched behind a cactus biding his time. When Sil's streams fell short darren was up in a nearly identical fashion, hosing Sil down. Sil made no effort to dodge out of the way instead he resolutely pumped the super soakers building the pressure back up. Claire noted from the look of Sil's suit this had been going on for some time. She and Jimmy stepped through the gate just as Sil rose up, super soakers recharged. He half turned and faced both barrels toward them, a wicked grin crosed his face. She and jimmy both froze. "Don't even think about Sil," Claire warned. "I will not be laighing." + +"This is Armani man," Jimmy added. + +"Okay. Darren, the war is over, you win." Sil walked over to the table and laid down the guns. Darren tore about the yard in circles, "I win! I win I win I win!" + +Sil stripped off his jacket and wrung it dry. "Not Armani," he said drily. He fished a pack of cigarette out of the coat pocket and lit one. "So Claire... Do you know a friend of your grandmother's named Ambrose?" + +"No." + +"Hmmph. Neither does anybody else here. Well. When we were leaving the cemetery, this man came up to me, greeted me by name and asked me to give you this." Sil produced a slightly soggy business card and handed it to Claire. + +She looked down at the tattered peice of paper. "There was a finely drawn image of two fingers about to grasp the tail of a dragonfly. To the left of the drawing was a partially smeared scrawl of handwriting that read: "Call me." Claire turned the card over and read a local number. "Did he say what this was about?" + +Sil took a drag and eyed her suspiciously, she blushed slightly under his gaze. "No. He just said he was an old friend of your grandmother's and that he wanted you to get in touch with him as soon as possible." Sil sat down in a patio chair. "At the time I didn't think much of it, but then when I was inside talking to your aunt about it... the fat one, what's her name again?" + +"Debbi." + +"Right, Debbi. Anyway I was asking her if she knew if your grandmother had any friends by that name and it suddenly occurred to me that he had greeted me by name. Granted a lot of people know my name from the bar, but I didn't recognize this guy and all the sudden it creeped me out. I dunno, maybe he just overheard someone else say my name or something... he was at the funeral. He stood in the back opposite us. I vaguely remember him. Probably he just heard you call my name... Anyway, I relayed the message. My work here is done." + +"Yeah. Thanks." Claire stuffed the card in her pocket and went inside. Jimmy sat down next to Sil and bummed a drag. + +"So." + +"So." + +"Oh fuck off man. I was out here chasing that little monster with super soakers for the last half hour. That hill might seem like it's far away, but it isn't." + +"What do you want me to say?" + +"That it wasn't what it looked like." + +"What if it was?" + +"Then you need to pay your tab." + +"What?" + +"Your tab at the bar. Pay it." + +"Fuck you Sil. It wasn't me." + +"Funny. It sure looked like you." + +"Whatever man. It could just as easily have been you if you'd wandered up there." + +"Mmhmm. But I didn't." + +"And so what? no one else can either?" + +"What happened to objectivity?" + +"Is that what this is about?" + +"No." + +"Well." + +"All right. Sorry. It's none of my business." + +"Then why..." + +"Forget it." + +"She'll go home with you anyway." + +Sil sniffed sarcastically. + +The glass door slid open and Claire emerged with another drink in hand. "What are you talking about?" + +"Jimmy's love life," Sil chuckled. + +"Oh." Claire turned crimson and sat down next to Sil. + +"So he told you?" + +"Told me what?" Sil asked cautiously. + +Claire looked back and forth at them suspiciously. She sighed. "Jimmy's heart belongs to an online porn star." Claire collapsed in giggles which she tried to contain in the harsh glare of Jimmy's scowl. + +"She is not a porn star. And she has a name." It was Jimmy's turn to blush. + +"Oh yes, her name Sil, is Haley Wilde -- wild with an e mind you," Chloe giggled again momentarily. "So tell us Jimmy," Claire straightened her back with an audible popping noise, "does she or does she not earn a living by video taping herself having sex and then posting those videos on web?" + +"She does, but she only has sex with her boyfriend..." + +"Whom she claims to be much in love with..." + +'...and other girls." + +"And other girls" + +Sil's eyebrows shot up his forehead accenting the fact that a good half inch of the left one was missing, "wait, you're in love with a lesbian who loves her boyfriend?" + +"Yeah." + +"Shit." + +"Shit is right." Chloe drained her glass and looked at Jimmy cockeyed. "Jimmy you're an idiot and I mean that in the best way possible." She reached over and grabbed Sil's drink. "Oh and the best part is she has a tattoo of dolphin where her pubes should be." + +"Lasers. Problem solved." Jimmy waved his hand. + +"You're better off learning to love it." Sil snatched his glass back from Claire and in spite of it's obvious emptiness, tipped it toward his mouth. + +"I kind of already have," Jimmy smiled sheepishly. + +Night drew up like the pony express, expected on time. Claire's relatives slowly trickled out the sliding glass door to reiterate their condolances and drive back to their lives, clucking along the way. As Jimmy predicted, Claire got out of the car at Sil's house. Sil stood in the drive watching the Falcon disappear in a cloud of dust down River road. Claire had already gone inside. Sil walked up to the porch and sat down in the dilapidated rocking chair left behind by the previous tenant. After a while Claire's head poked out the door and she informed him that she was taking a shower and going to bed. He nodded. The bats were darting across the glowing, city-lit horizen. He heard the water running. Sil stood and walked in to the kitchen to retreive a bottle of Stags Leap Petite Syrah he had been saving for some time. He returned to the parch and sat down with the corkscrew. He popped the cork and took a draw from the bottle. + +After a while Claire came outside wrapped in Sil's robe. She sat down on his lap and picked up the bottle. She tilted her head back and let the wine run freely down her throat. Sil watched her face. She set the bottle back down on the porch. + +"Was Jimmy serious about that girl?" + +"What? The porn star? Yeah pretty serious. He made me watch a few videos and asked what I thought. It was weird, like when you meet someone's new girlfriend only this was just a girl on a screen talking dirty, but not really dirty, more like cutsy dirty. And touching herself. It faded out as she was licking her fingers." + +"Hmm." Sil shrugged. "Does she seem like a good person?" + +"Well... I must admit there is something about her... I mean I haven't seen a lot of pornography, but she doesn't strike me as someone cut out for it, which probably means she's a decent person. And she's goregous. But I mean, she's trying to internet sex star and she already has a boyfriend -- can you really be in love with someone that unattainable?" + +"Love doesn't seem to abide hopelessness." Sil reached down and started to take a pull from the bottle of wine, but Claire stopped him and pulled the bottle from his hands. She cupped bother her hands around Sil's stubble covered cheeks. She held his face like that for a moment and then shifted her wieght on his legs and let go of his face. He reached down and picked up the bottle again. She sighed. "I'm sorry Sil. I don't know why I kissed him..." + +"How did..." + +"Sil. You don't exactly have a poker face. Well, actually your face is pretty good, but your eyes give you away." She lay back against him and nuzzled her head under his chin. "It doesn't matter... his lips were just there... I needed to feel them, to feel something..." Her voice trailed off into the stoic stillness of the desert night. They watched a small lightning storm on the horizen, thin little bolts zig-zaged down into the sodium glow of the city. Sil thought about something his uncle had once said about lightning being six times hotter than the surface of the sun and yet generally less than three-eights of an inch thick. + +Later Claire stood up and lightly kissed his cheek, lingering for a moment to feel the roughness of his beard against her own skin. And then she stood and disappeared inside. After a while Sil rose drunkenly from the chair and stretched his back. He leaned down to grab the bottle of wine and stumbled toward the grassy desert unzipping his fly as he walked. Leaning his head back to swig from the bottle he paused to stare at the particles of starlight sneaking through the bruised clouds. He began to piss on the grassy desert sand, thinking that you adjust your breath to the one who breathes beside you. You lie very close, still and alone. + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +Sil was up with the sun fumbling in the half dark kitchen trying to find a grinder to go with the coffee beans already measured out in a cup sitting on the counter. He recalled with some amusement the apartment in Boston that he and Waiben had shared for four years, something his girlfriend as the time has considered exceedingly strange, "he's like what, sixty?" she used to say and then nothing more until Sil would correct her, "sixty-two actually." Sil used to wake up to Waiben singing "you got to get behind the mule every morning and plow" while he hunted around the kitchen for coffee beans. At that time they still had the old icebox that Waiben had found on the side of the road and patched up. Since it did the job neither of them thought to replace it for the better part of a year. When Waiben drank too much and passed out before sundown, he'd forget to restock the ice. The melted remnants of the previous day's block of ice would eventually force open the door and the contents of the icebox, including the bag of coffee would go crashing to the kitchen floor, skittering about on the icy water until they found their way into all kinds of strange places. "You got to get behind the mule every morning and plow" Waiben would sing while he slowly gathered everything up and restocked the icebox. When he invariably found the coffee lying in the farthest crack, he would squat down and scoot it along the floor over to the table, laughing and singing "...every morning and plow...every morning and plow..." Once Sil had crept up quietly to watch and he witnessed Waiben do a little dance, all crooked and insane owing to a bad knee that made his dancing hover between pathetic and comical. He would start gyrating at the waist, flopping his arms about while he sang. That first morning when Sil saw him do it, he momentarily thought Waiben was having a seizure the way he convulsed wildly about. Later Sil found out the line was a Tom Waits' lyric. + +Sil shivered as the grinder spun and he lit a cigarette waiting for the kettle to boil. He stepped gingerly across the freezing floor to stand by the open flame of the the stove. He glanced back toward the bedroom where he could see Claire sleeping. A ray of sunlight shot through the uncovered window to the right of the bed and the light slowly expanded, covering first the table and then worked it's way toward the white sheets where Claire lay. Her face was obscured in a swirl of coppery hair that spread out over her back and onto the pillow next to her, but her back was exposed and revealed her ivory skin marked here and there by the lines of pale brown, evidence of a spaghetti strap top worn in the sun, perhaps a bathing suit worn by the pool, the cholrine smell of summer suddenly washed over him and he was lost contemplating the linguistic transition from bathing costume to bathing suit until she stirred slightly in the bed and sheet moved to reveal the preternatually bright ink of the tattoo on Claire's lower back. The color of water and Lotus leaped up out of the white sheet as if heliotropically seeking the nearby patch of sun. Claire shifted again arching over and the tattoo moved into the sunlight. Sil momentarily closed his eyes and bit down on his already tightly clenched fist until it hurt far more than he had intended and the desire to leap on the bed and somehow dissolve himself over her somehow like a liquid banket of skin until he sunk into her, obliterating himself in the process like a stream ducking into the mouth of a cave bound for underground and never to return, had passed. Eventually he retreated back to the kitchen lest he act on impulse, though he was dimly aware that he wasn't so much restraining himself as merely postponing the inevitable with the vague promise of the indefinite. + +Coffee in hand he swung open the front door and stepped gingerly out onto what had once been the porch, but now served mainly as a means to inject splinters in his cold bare feet. The truth was Sil wasn't impervious to pain, he simply ignored it. He stepped slowly over the brittle gray wood and out into the sandy yard. He lit another cigarette and stretched his back in the sunlight. He turned and looked back at the house. The roof was rotten from termites and an extended family of rats lived in the ceiling panels. The walls were paper-thin, insulated with spider webs and the only heat came from the anceint pot bellied stove that spit sparks on his living room floor every time he opened it. He sat down in the middle of the desert driveway and watched a plume of dust forming in the distance, near the highway. That would be Jimmy he decided. The only thing that brought anyone out to this godforsaken stretch of land was necessity or occasionally the desire for something that could not be eaily obtained elsewhere. Sil sipped his coffee and waited. Eventually Claire emerged from the house behind him, coffee in hand and speaking in a slightly higher than normal pitched morning voice that drove Sil to parodoxical spasms of lust and tenderness. Before he could achieve the sort of niranic state he felt the voice would one day lead him to, the phone rang. Sil continued to sip his coffee but stepped inside to listen to the machine when it picked up. A crackling voice hestitated and then begin to ask for Claire. Curious Sil walked in and picked up. The man from the cemetery greeted him once more by name and asked for Claire. Sil hesitated but leaned out the front door and handed her the phone. He wandered off to the kitchen and began making breakfast. Claire came in just as Sil slid the eggs out of the pan onto the black beans and tortilla's already piled on two plates. "Everything okay?" + +"That man. The man you met yesterday... he wanted to know about Gamma's things..." She stared out the kitchen window at the clouds, thinking about the man's voice, something in it seemed to ooze and flow like sap or the sludge at the bottom of a cup of Turkish coffee, lavish with timbre and an opacity that reminded her curiously of the way her own voice sometimes sounded when she first made the leap into the hyperreality of DMT, as if he were speaking not with his toungue and lips, not even with his throught or diaphram but from someplace much further down, someplace anchored in rock and mode of words, as if he were caling them up. Aware suddenly of how long she had fallen silent she watched Sil carry the plate over to the table where she sat and tried to make her voice sound commonplace, "and then I dunno, he wanted to know if it would be alright to come by my grandmother's house and look for some book." + +"How does he know your grandmother again?" Sil sat down and began eating. + +"He said he knew her when she was a girl, but he didn't really elaborate." + +"So did you say he could come by?" + +"Yeah, but I didn't say when. He said he'd call next week. He's quite nice. I can't place his accent though." + +"Did he have an accent? I didn't notice." + +They ate and then Sil turned on the stereo and busied himself cleaning up the dishes. Claire lit a cigarette and stared out the sliding glass door at the desert. The clatter of dishes mixed with the music, violins and spoons, bass lines and sautee pans, snare drum and water mingling like sand paintings held together in precise stillness. The songs of time passing, the rattle of dishes wiped dry on the counter and laid up in mahagony cupboards, the green paint on the walls and French cafe poster over the shelf where Sil stacked his herbs. Claire had always admired Sil's house, which, in spite of being nearly abandoned in outward appearance, or perhaps because of its outward appearance seemed to her somehow ceremonial in its inner fasticidousness, which is not say that Sil was organized or neat by any means, but rather that everything felt as if it were exactly where it was supposed to be, regardless of where that might be, the dust on the bookshelves, the towel curled round the back of the sink to stop a leaky faucet, she tried and failed to imagine any of it changing. *Your grandmother had something that belongs to me, something I gave her a long time ago, but which I would like to have back.* The voice seemed to be in her own head she realized suddenly, that was what reminded her... it had the same quality of the voices that spoke inside her own head but which she was fully away where not "her," the only way she had ever been able to explain it to Jimmy was to compare it with an echo, your voice, but no longer in your possession, as if it were merely using you as a canyon in which to bound about like a child bouncing a ball off the walls of a corridor. + +Around noon Sil dropped Claire off at her grandmother's house. It wasn't until she stepped inside that the full force of it hit her, the air was stiffling, she felt as if her lungs were collapsing, a supernova of yellow kitchen walls, blue daisy curtains collapsing in on her, a bowl of rotten grapes on the counter, her stomach turned at the sunken orbs, already flakes of white mold spreading across them. She felt herself trying to suck in air and finding none, began to choke, a bit of bile in her mouth. The windows seemed to bend with caustic desert light, the glass warped and laughing at her. She felt herself gasping for air and retreated sobbing to the porch to where she spit out an orange gray bile and collapsed on the steps. "Once something dies you can't make it live," her grandmother was pulling out a dead basil plant accidentally left out and caught in a frost, it's gray wrinkled leaves made crisp crinkling sound against her skin. "It's the same with people Claire, once they're gone you can't get them back. Well, usually anyway." She chuckled lightly. Claire turned to look at her. "Everynow and then you might run across some people that do come back after they're gone the first time, but they're rare." + +Claire stopped crying and went back inside to get a tissue and blow her nose. Something about the mundanity of her mission perhaps, but this time the house felt neutral as if it no longer cared who came and went within it's walls. Claire stood at the kitchen window looking at the Sahorro cactus in the yard. She remembered planting it as a child, digging the hole with her shovel and how the man from the nursery helped them lower the small cactus in the hole, all of them gingerly avoiding the downward hooked thorns. In the twenty five years since the cactus has grown over six feet, but still somehow Claire felt, looked younger than her and she was sure would outlive her and then some. + +She avoided the closets, started in the bathroom where there was only one photograph, her great grandfather in an gilded oval frame. She studied it for a while thinking how strange to see someone she was directly descended from and yet might well have been an image in a textbook, so utter without connection or reference to her own life. He looked like a statue, something used a basis for fountain sculpter, his shoulders draw up sharply, the antiquated upright posing style of the day, trapped without color on a photographs stool, cursed to yellow with age. A small crack in the photograph had begun to peel and the left side of his face was cripped white and obscured. She spent the afternoon pitching lotions and powders in a trashbag, dried out, crusted Lancome bottles, Tylenon that had solidified to a single clump, hemroidal creme that she refused to touch without the aid of a tissue, Windex and Clorox, bottles of pills and medicines long expired, a deck of cards she kept, she shut her mind down and nothing produced any emotion save a frizzled and frayed toothbrush which should have been replaced months ago and Claire remembered saying as much to her grandmother and how she had simply shrugged. Claire sighed heavily and went outside for some air. + +It was well past dark by the time she went home. There were four garbage bags out front of the house, when Jimmy picked her up. They drove in silence and didn't say a word walking up Claire's steps. Inside the door she turned and they tore at each other's clothes. + + + + +# +It was the first warm day in ages when Sil rode down to the campus. He parked the bike outside the science library and as he walked over toward the administrative building he took in all the girls dressed prematurely in their summer clothes and tried to remember why it was he had dropped out of college so many years ago. He lingered outside the double door for a minute listening the Waiben's voice, trying to gauge the reaction before he opened them slowly and slipped in without a sound. He stood against the wall in the back and eyed the panel, three men and two women sat majesterial at long table directly in front of Waiben who was talking about pyscology and the breakdown of the bicameral mind, the dislocation of the voice, the I from the position of external, the internalizing of the self and creation of the ego was an evolutionary necessity, but there is much that can be learned about consciousness by stepping backward..." Sil could tell the panel was unimpressed, the large man in the center who Sil thought would have looked more fitting in mutton chops, was pouring himself a glass of water. The woman on the end tapped her Parker on a legal pad and constantly pushed her glasses back up the bridge of her slender and apparently ineffective nose. Sil slipped out again and sat down on a folding chair in the hall. Waiben emerged with a clearly beaten look on his face. +"Syris," Sil called out as he walked out into the desert warmth. +"Sil. Was that you I heard come in?" +"Yeah." +"At least I can finish out the semester. I'm not going to, but I still get the money." +"That's good. How have you been?" +"I'm tired. And hungry, would you join me for lunch?" +The walked across campus to a small diner that served breakfast all day and Waiben ordered an omlette. Sil watched him eat and sipped a warm beer. "Do you remember Von Hock at Cambridge?" +"Was that the nut job that thought Yuri Gellar was visionary mystic?" +No. That was Von Statler, you're confusing your Germans. Von Hock was the one that thought Alexandrian Library was actually saved and squirreled away in the vault in Venice or something." +"Oh yeah. With the grad student..." +"Corrinne. Yeah. She spoke seven languages, did you know that?" +Waiben raised his eyebrows. "Well, I did hear she was quite talented with her tongue, but to be honest I didn't take it that way." +"Very funny. No. She was brilliant." Sil temporarily drifts. "But the reason I ask is that." He stops to take a sip of beer. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a cigarette. +"You can't smoke in here." +"No, you can't get caught smoking in here." Sil lit his cigarette, holding it between his thumb and forefinger the rest of his hand curled over it. He took a drag and thrust his hand under the table. He exhaled down to his left and waved his hand to clear the smoke. "This is going to sound a bit crazy, which is why I'm telling you." +Waiben noticed for the first time that Sil looked slightly different, exhausted perhaps. There were dark rings around his eyes, his cheeks slightly sunken, his hand shook slightly when he reached for his beer. Waiben watched him as he talked thinking of the day, several weeks past that he had taken off his headphone and stood up from his desk to retrieve a book from his shelf and he had heard grunting and moaning. Waiben had been in academic setting long enough to know that the best course of action was to put on his headphones and go back to work, but he'd also been in academic settings long enough to not need to do anything more than that. Sil knew he realized, had probably known a lot longer than Waiben given Sil's preternatural intuition. +But as he listened to Sil's story he slowly began to doubt that his sleeplessness had anything to do with Claire. At some point a familar chill passed down his spine the likes of which he had not felt in years, probably since Paris. +"You think it's him?" Waiben said finally. +"Yes I do." + + + + +# + +It was summer. A dry scratchy heat hung around the porch where Claire sat sweaty and sipping a beer. + +The man wore a black suit that Claire immediately sensed was probably more expensive than the car sitting in her driveway. His face was partially obscured by noontime shadowes cast by the brim of an understated fedora, but when he smiled she could see perfectly straight, white teeth. + +"Claire?" + +"Yes." + +"It is a pleasure to meet finally." + +"It is?" + +"Your grandmother spoke of you constantly." + +" + + + + + + -------------- + +segue to end with the mention of the book and Ambrose's contact info he leaves. start Romanian section. + + +Sil runs into jazz musicians in NEw York at some point. + + + +leap backward in time to Sil and Waiben in Massachusetts. + + +Ambrose dangled hand over the edge of the boat until the river tickled the hairs on his wrist. He straightened the oar against his chest and shifted the hat over his eye to shade the afternoon sun. He closed his eyes and heard the lazy progression of guitar chords echoed by bass notes and strummed in time to asdkfj;k kl;asdfj klj, he could still picture her on the stage, the over-dramatic sweep on an arm, the singular wrechedness of the lines that echoed out of her mouth, the shockingly blond exotica of her hair that seemed to toss about her in the dim candlelit stage and the gruff hand on his shoulder jaring the whole vision to a close. + +From the shore he could hear the occasional bleet of sheep and coppling of horses hooves stamping the dusty road that paralleled the river. He though her riding in some expensive coach, footman atop next the driver waiting to dismount and open her door with a flourish and bow. + +He smiled and fell asleep. The boat continued to drift with the current justling occasionly against the sides of the river where overhanding limbs scratched at the his hat and the bow rebounded lightly off sunken rocks and gnarled watery roots entrapped by last year's flood. + +The noice of the city awoke him from the river dream far before he actually passed beneath the monolithic and slightly charred remains of the parliment building and the wakes of small steamers forced him to once again man the oars. took the lee side of the island keeping an eye out for his mother ont he bank but she appeared to have already left. He lay low against the gunwale peeking up a bit to see if his brothers had come in yet, but their boats were nowhere to be seen and he knew that his brothers had already gone with their father to the Bastich. To drink whisky on the square and wouldn't be home until late with the sounds of breaking glass and cursing coming out of the forested darkness as he had heard late at night all his life. + +He brought the boat downstream past the dock and then expertly dug one oar into the current as a fulcrum while windmilling the other to excute a nearly perfect circle on a dime. He then put his eight against both oars in the relative lee of the dock pausing only to cast the line to the man on the dock who caught it and pulled him the rest of the way in. + +At the Bastich Tavern he found his father and three brothers drunk in the corner he grabbed a mug at the bar and went to drain a bit from each over the surly cries of theif and good for nothing, which like the + +Sil is in nicaragua leading sailing tours fighting the malaria he picked up in India. When the season ends he sails through the canal and over to Thailand and works that season. + +Jimmy owns the bar the opening scene is Claire and Waiben discussing the trip. She goes to say goodbye to Jimmy, who is heading out on a motorcycle trip around the world. She wants him to find Sil. He delays his trip for two days to go to funeral. Claire is the one who goes to meet waiben at the funding meeting. The man from budapest approaches her at the funeral. Says he will pay her way to Paris and set them up with what they need to continue the research. She goes to the funding meeting with Waiben and meets with him to tell him about the opportunity in Paris. + +So we track Jimmy up through Canada and down Russia into Mongolia where he finds Sil. Claire to Paris. Sil is with scratch in thailand looking for the legendary angkor hallucinogen, he goes from Thailand to Europe. Theodore and Isabella across the Cacuses and down through india with the book. + +Sil as an corporate assassin? His connection to the man who visits Claire? + +The man is father to both Theo and Isabella, Theo's mother died and Isabella's father died and the man takes care of both. They end up marrying and Theo and Isabella still fall in love. That's gross, but hey it happens. + + 2-piece sequin decorated heavy cotton lace over silk satin, black chiffon flounces, velvet ribbon trim & diamante brooch on wired black velvet cockade, label stamped in gold on black petersham, "Mody i Platji S Peterburg Fontanka u Chernysheva mosta" Translation: "Fontanka Fashions & Dresses St. Petersburg at the Chernysheva bridge", black silk taffeta linings, long skirt train, Sh-Sh 13", B 38", W 24", Skirt L 39"-60", (minor sequin loss) excellent. +# +Sil is lying back on the bed watching the dim glow of an untouched cigarette buring in the ashtray next to him and wondering when he began to smell of sour milk. Another trickle of sweat runs down the side of his neck and pools with the rest on his chest. The thin white mosquito netting wafts slightly from the ineffectual ceiling fan whose white blades glint with the moonlight streaming in from the window. The netting does a far better job of keeping out the breeze than the mosquitos which Sil has long since ceased to swat. +Malaria is not that bad, or at least doesn't seem that bad once you've had Dengue Fever. Or so Scratch said this morning when he brought juice and another round of Malarone, which Sil is convinced is far more debilitating than the actual Malaria. In some ways Scratch is right. Sil's never experienced Dengue ("You'll love it, same sweats plus internal hemoraguing, bleeding gums, bleeding nose, bleeding asshole… god, I thought I was gonna die." Scratch sat down in the chair next to the bed and stared right through Sil for some time before retreating back outside into the morning heat), but so far Malaria isn't much worse that the really bad bout of Measles he had as a child. +But the smell of his body is beginning to worry him. Sour milk at times. Then something more like onion with occasional accents of moldy Stilton. Sil took some comfort in the knowledge that he was beginning to produce the olfactory bouquet of nineteenth century France, but at night, when the shivers and fever had draind the humor out of him he knew on some level that he smelled like death. Perhaps not death. The approach of death. Like the curious smell of a cow Sil had once seen, bloated, dying in the streets of Jaisalmer, its intestines a tangle of the plastic bags and Dixie cups Indians were forever throwing to the side of the road where half starved animals scarfed them down. Or it could be that he's finally begun to absorb the smell of the jungle lurking all around their half-constructed base camp of moldy canvas tents and clap board shacks that hardly slowed the decent of the relentless afternoon rains. +The Indians Scratch had hired to help in their endeavor had taken to avoiding Sil, going so far as to move around the primiter of the camp so as to avoid passing by him in the mornings when he sat on the ground in the shade leaning against the shack, but always unsure if he were sweating from fever or just the endless heat. One day he spent several hours dropping an unlit cigarette from his knee and became half convinced that he could tell it fell slower here than he remembered, as if the humidity might somehow have a palpable effect on the powers of gravity. + +# +He turn and disappears into the sea of crowd
\ No newline at end of file diff --git a/veryold/Paranoid City/paranoid city.txt b/veryold/Paranoid City/paranoid city.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a7ab223 --- /dev/null +++ b/veryold/Paranoid City/paranoid city.txt @@ -0,0 +1,218 @@ +paranoid city + + Its the way the afternoon light filters through the rubber trees and gently grazes the white wrought iron railing that made her love the apartment. Its an attic really, second story entrance up a staircase which was added some years ago when the old house was renovated and subdivided to take advantage of the escalating price of apartments. + It was her friend Halley that found the place several years ago. Then, when Halley moved to Paris, Andrea took over the lease and, for a time, had the place to herself. Then around Christmas time last year a persistent boy kept asking her out on dates and she finally said yes. To make a long story short, the boy professed his undying love for her and moved in. It all happened so fast that she never really had time to processes it all, and unfortunately she never put her foot down and said no. After a month or so she tried to end it with him, but everything turned ugly and messy and he cried and cried, clinging to her legs in the most pathetic of prostrations and she just couldnt handle it. + Would you have done any better? Its much easier to give in to whims and, quite frankly, she would do anything to keep the poor bastard from crying like that again. It wasnt all bad. She had regular sex at her disposal, although curiously she was always the one who initiated it, which left her strangely unfulfilled no matter how powerful her orgasms might be. There is something, as much as the strong feminist streak in her protested, to be said for a man who will grab you from behind, catch you unawares and fuck the shit out of you. But hey you cant have everything, she told herself as she lit another cigarette. And what do I have? I have a great roommate, someone to cover half the bills, someone that is willing to accommodate my style and sense of place. +But still, on these afternoons when the sun streamed gently through the rubber plants and warmed her face as she smoked, she missed the solitude that she had once had. There was now an ever-present stress in the back of her mind, not a tension, nothing that concrete, but simply the knowledge that he would be coming home from work soon and quite frankly, while it had nothing to do with him, liking or not liking his presence, she didnt want to deal with it. She simply wanted to be alone for the remainder of the evening. She didnt want anyone asking how her day was, she didnt want anyone telling her how much their job sucked, she didnt want anyone asking her what she wanted for dinner. She didnt want anything at all, save to sit here in silence and feel the sun caressing her face, a touch much gentler and more beautiful than any human hand could ever be. It was here, amidst that geraniums and ivy that sprouted out of mossy basket on the wall above her, that she felt most alive and most at peace. She had never picked up those books that adorn the front tables of the enormous chain bookstores, which purport to tell you how to find sanity and a personal space with in the world, but she was pretty sure that this porch/balcony was in fact the sort of thing that said books would encourage. This bothered her somewhat. It cheapened the sanctuary that she had created and in some sense made it not so much hers, but everyones. This thought however, was quickly shoved aside. + She propped her legs up on the railing, nestling her heels in two depressions of the wrought iron pattern that seemed to have been bent expressive for this purpose. She pulled her dress up over her waist and let it bunch up on her stomach. Her legs were brown and smooth. She shifted to pick her underwear out of her butt and readjusted herself unselfconsciously positioning her underwear to match the tan lines of her bikini. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. + The truth of the matter was that excitement was coursing through her veins. He was coming into town. She hadnt seen him in over three years, though lately she talked to him all the time on the internet. She told herself a million times that she was over him, that she only wanted to see him because the were friends after all, but deep down she wasnt so sure about it as she let on. She knew that she would drop everything and go with him if he asked, but she also knew he wasnt going to ask. She sighed deeply and took a swig of her flat tasteless Mexican beer. She lit another cigarette and tried not to think about him. + She surrendered and went inside. She picked up the phone and dialed his number. She knew he was still on an airplane and she knew he wouldnt answer the phone. She left a message with her number even though he already knew it. She hung up the phone feeling sheepish and silly. It isnt going to be like you want she told herself. And why, she wondered did she want to go back to him? He had broken her heart, utterly destroyed her emotionally. She had punched him square in the face the last time she had seen him. She laughed to herself at the memory. The look on his face. + But the laughter quickly dissipated because she missed him and not just him, but their life together the whole thing, she had been very happy. She thought that they would get married, but then something in him freaked out and he had just up and left. She still didnt understand why. She hated him for all the nights she had laid in bed crying, wondering what she had done wrong. In the end she knew it had nothing to do with her, he had left for reasons of his own, reasons she could not fathom, did not want to fathom. + And now he was coming back. She had to balance him against the relationship she was in now, which lately had seemed increasingly like a burden, like baby-sitting. She was always going out of her way to make sure that John was happy and comfortable and secure. They rarely went out. John didnt like crowds, didnt like people much at all. They went to parties and he sat in the corner glaring at her for having a good time. She tried to encourage him to mingle, but he refused. He was tight lipped, wouldnt let his hair down so to speak, he was reserved with his emotions and his affections, and it left her feeling empty and wanting. But then there were the good times, and when they had good times everything seemed perfect and she had even for a while thought that perhaps they would get married. After all she was not getting any younger and she wanted to have children. Perhaps they still would get married. + It was quarter till five. She didnt want to be home when John got home. She didnt want to talk to him. She wanted to be alone, to continue to sit undisturbed on this porch, but she couldnt. She decided to go for a walk. She thought she needed the exercise anyway. She needed to loose a couple of pounds before she got rid of him. This thought made her smile briefly in the face of her own inner honesty, but she felt bad immediately. It was going to crush his spirit; there was nothing funny about that. She turned off the stereo, closed napster and shut down the computer. She made sure to delete the message that Scott had sent her the day before. She had never told John her passwords, but she still wasnt taking any chances. Strange, she thought, that she would sooner marry him than reveal her passwords. Thats the real measure of trust in a relationship, the true measure of how open an honest you are. +* * * * + +She crushes out her cigarette and walks inside to throw the empty bottle of beer in the recycling bin, because that is the sort of woman that she is. She changed into a t-shirt and jeans and sat meditatively down to pee. Is the world always going to be this hard? Does it ever become clearer? At say eighty does the light finally shine? Or do older people just seem wiser because they have learned to keep their mouths shut? +She stood up and flushed the toilet, catching her reflection in the mirror as she walked out of the bathroom. She stopped for moment and contemplated her reflection. Not bad she thinks running fingers through silky hair, a few laugh lines on her cheek she noticed ruefully, but what the hell that just means you smile a lot right? Thats good right? Kind of sexy even. Mean I have a good time. Means I know how to not take things too seriously. I need a walk. A good stretching of the legs. +The sun is just disappearing behind the rubber trees when she desends the steep and somewhat rickety stairs. Her pace is quick, almost a run; she wants to get around the corner and down 19th street before Johns car happens across her. The sidewalks are neatly trimmed and hard, bold lines divide the grass lawns from the sterility of the ground underfoot, but even the lawns are sterile, perfect, smartly trimmed and hyperreal iridescent green. +The city is made of concrete, the sidewalk is made of concrete a half mile south the ocean is paved cerulean concrete. Cement pilings hold up concrete piers. At the club with the concrete walls men circle around some sex goddess like flies trying to untangle from a spiders honey web. She is completely indifferent to their attention. She lives upstairs in the old dance hall. Its been shut down for years. Only open on Saturday nights like these, when the red velvet gets hung from the ceilings and covers the cold concrete walls, but wait where are we? Were in Los Angeles the twenty first century and it is cold in Los Angeles. It is cold in Los Angeles and hot in New York. In New York the walls are pulsing with same music. Music from a party that we have never been to. A party that lurks just beyond the event horizon, that party that is always ending just as you arrive wanting to take your partner by the hand and walk out on to the dance floor and morph into the indifferent sex goddess to ignore all that which is not worth paying attention to, to that which is stuck and dying, suffocating in warm, sticky honey, blood, death. + But the truth is that she is only going for a walk. She is not really think9ing of parties which none of us have ever been to. She is only walking under the cool evening of spring. But it is Los Angeles and yet it is not, it is only Costa Mesa, a sad suburb, the tail end of dream. Not a beach resort not a thriving metropolis, just a little nowhere block, just a quiet street, just a small house or two. And inside maybe she dreams of big cities and maybe she is walking on cobblestones in Paris or maybe it is only Tribeca. Maybe she dreams of eating at a Tapas restaurant on Canal where the flamenco guitar player flicks his strings like kissing cigarette ash and maybe she is dancing in a swirling dress head filled with sangria and after midnight fantasies of Spanish men. Maybe but she is on the small street in the small town. Everything is beautiful here. She is here her head is nowhere but here, but she id deeply confused. She is feeling too many things all at once. The paper the essay the words about the words about the words that was the echo loop into which she had lost herself for the majority of the day that was the endless feedback lope of prerecorded tape in which she found however temporarily a way to get her mind off it. So to speak. Or perhaps so you dont speak as the case may be. Dont think. +Just walk. Dont think. No thinking. No think. No shirt no shoes no think. No shirt. No shoes. No think. No think. We do not serve that here senorita. +A little boy with bags over his shoulder is walking in slow motion up a flight of stairs. Several weeks ago downtown where Vignes crosses over the railroad tracks. It is Ned's house it is backed up against the railyards in shadow of the Vignes bridge. It is not a house at all it is a loft, it is subdivision of an old immense meatpacking plant. She does not know that never need to, she knows that Ned lives here. She knows that she is here to see Ned, but she is drunk and standing outside the front door watching the crazy boy with two large sacks counterbalanced over his left shoulder. He is climbing the concrete stairs that lead up the side of the Vignes St. bridge. He does not seem aware of her. She is standing fifty yards away in the flooding yellow light of the sodium doorway. The boy is singing a song to himself as he climbs the steps. Its a Spanish song, very rhythmic and soothing, but she does not speak Spanish. Little boy with bags slung over his shoulders slowly marches up the water stained stairs, his hair flutters in the backwash of diesel busses roaring over head; the bags sway with each step. His head is bowed intently studying the various oblique shapes of black that were once gum in somebodys mouth. One hand balancing him on the green wrought iron railing, he stops, briefly his head bobs lightly left to right, and then one foot in front of the other until he reaches the top. The boy stops at the top of the concrete steps and laughs out loud. Laughs at nothing she thinks. Laughs at something only he can see. She does not see anything funny. He laughs because he can. After looking both ways his shape disappears across the bridge. He is gone. He will never be seen again and she is laughing now. Laughing because she can, laughing because she does not know what else to do. And then there is the flood of music washing out the door as it open and John emerges from the party. What are doing out here he asks? She doesnt know she says. I really dont know. She tries to kiss him, but he wants to bring her back inside. Fuck me she says, fuck me right here in the middle of street. Fuck me under the warm sodium lights. Fuck me where the boy with balanced sacks can see us. Fuck me under the glow of moonlight. Fuck me right here on the concrete steps with concrete sidewalk under our feet. Fuck me standing up so I can feel the solid ground underneath me. Fuck me so that I can feel the concrete lightposts splitting me in two. Fuck me so that the telephone pole crucifixes can cry warm tears of blood from the conversations of saints and martyrs flying through the wires. Fuck me so that we can laugh. Fuck me because I cant stop laughing. +But he wants to go inside. He only snickers at the suggestion. He thinks she is kidding. He wont fuck her here on the street, the concrete is dirty, there are no trees, there is not life everything is paved over there is nothing fecund and warm to make him think of sex; everything is cool, smooth, but rough and causing rashes when rubbed against and there is the screaming teeth of trains grinding to halt in the rail yard behind the building and this is not a sexy place he thinks. This girl is out of her head he thinks. This is not where I want to make love to her; this is not where I want to fuck. There is no love here there is only hard, painful surfaces. This is not a place for sex. This light is so mineral and harsh and full of hate like Indian killing prospectors, murders fighting over pyrite. This light is criminal. This light is not warm, it does not bath us, it scraps at our skin, it does not want to see us naked, it wants to sear our flesh and serve us on a bed of nails with a side dish of fetish and snuff salad. +But there is beauty in this hard cold world she says. Can you not see it? Can you not see the way men have fought battles here and shed blood and sweat tears and given their lives to create this hard metallurgic light and much thought and hope and prayer has gone to create the concrete wonderland for us to play in and everything that is here is a work of glorious art. Everything here is pleasure. Everything here is begging to fuck. The telephone poles are fucking the sidewalk and pylons of the bridge are fucking secretly, fingering the ground between tracks, and the wires are licking the whipping the air with cat-o-nine tails and everything here is fucking but us. We are outside. We are free. Please she begs why wont you fuck me? +But he didnt fuck her and it made her think. It swam in among other drunken thoughts. Thoughts that one only has when one is drunk and now as she crosses Irvine Ave and heads down toward the bluffs where there is park that overlooks the upper Newport bay ecological reserve, she is wondering if drunken thoughts are her true thoughts, her true feeling freed by alcohol or if they are some kind of demon thoughts conjured out of a narcotic haze? But is alcohol narcotic? If its not, are they true thoughts? She smoked a bit of marijuana before she left the house and so she is in the sort of trance state that forces one to think endlessly in unanswerable questions, annoying loops of thought that always return back exactly where they started. Why are we here? What does it mean? This sort of nonsense but she is older and does not ask questions like that anymore. She has moved on to personal introspective questions. She is a twenty something struggling to define herself and her place in the world. She is prone to aimless walks. She sees a figure approaching on the opposite side of the street. She quickens her pace slightly and does not look over as they pass each other on opposite sides of the street. Out of the corner of her eye she sees that it is a boy about her own age, but she can not tell if he cute or not. + + + + + + +Send her on walk go a little detail +Work in that she walks a lot these days +Set myself up for the same when I walk home from bar +We run into each other walking and use the thing where leah and I fucked in the house under construction up in palo verde + + + +John is sitting on the 405 freeway somewhere near the Laguna Canyon Road off ramp, cursing the gridlocked evening traffic and wishing that he could be anywhere but here. All day the line she had custom colored eyes/ and smiles when she sighs has been running through his head. This sort of thing happens to him a lot, line pop out of know where and circle about his mind until he finds somewhere to put them. This allows him to think of himself as a writer. That the line spreads her thighs also fits his rhyme scheme has not occurred to him and very likely never will. +He desperately wants a cigarette, but possesses a strange self flagellating mind that gives him overwhelming (though, as Claire would say, non denominational) guilt that overrides his brains pleasure centers which, as we said, are desperately craving a cigarette. Cigarettes make him feel dirty and he hates the fact that he is addicted to them. John likes to pride himself on his fierce sense of independence and anything that makes him feel dependent is to be avoided. + Of course John does not actually think of things this way. Like the rest of us, he covers these underlying motivators and concerns with carefully constructed veneers, which allow him to look in the mirror at four in the morning and smile. He is wise to do so. These are trying times and we all like to smile at ourselves in the mirror; he thinks what he has to think. + Right now, as we are so brazenly deconstructing him, John is lost in the rearview mirror, watching a beautiful Persian girl touching up her makeup in the car behind him. She makes him think about a website that he visits every Tuesday and Thursday while April is at night school: persiankitty.com. Persian women have the most beautiful, pristine skin, he thinks absently, wondering as he does what it would be like to nibble at her earlobes and bite the tender flesh of her delicately carved neck. He thinks that perhaps he has a fetish for Persian women, but this thought causes that non denominational guilt to kick in again, because he does not see himself as the sort of man that judges women solely on their appearance. That is he does not want to be the sort of man who judges women on their appearance. John likes to think of himself as sincere and understands, able to relate to women on a deep emotional level. He was not raised to think of women as sexual beings, and culture has only taught him how to see them as sexual objects. Thus with these conflicting emotions he completely rejects the sexuality, seeing as he does all sexuality as objectifying, and chooses instead to relate to them emotionally. Typically in high school this earned him the moniker: pussy. + Fucking jocks. + Fucking traffic + Fucking grown up jocks causing this traffic because there in a rush to get home to objectify their wives who dont really love them and are only in the marriage for the financial comfort and stability that it offers them. + These are thoughts that raise through our friend Johns head as he slowly creeps north toward the 55 freeway where he will head west, stop at the signal at 19th street, turn left and then left again on Fullerton avenue and arrive home to find his girlfriend gone. +But John does not know this because he only possesses limited omniscience, which in the case of this book means that he does not know what is about to happen to him, but in real life, as it were, this means that he does not have control over anyones thoughts but his own, and even that is somewhat debatable depending on the extent of your education and tolerance for philosophers whose end points ultimately mean nothing when youre sitting on the toilet staring a picture of Latieca Casta in lingerie. In either case he doesnt yet know that she is gone. Coincidentally, as you know, she is not yet gone. She is fact on the phone. But she will be gone. We are quite sure of that now arent we? Its easy for us to feel superior. Its just a story, but this poor bastard John really has to go home and really has to find his house empty. Now how would that make you feel? +Would is make you notice the girl in line next to you while youre ordering a chicken dinner; would you pay a little closer attention to her? Shes someone too. A whole life that you know nothing about. Would you have even gotten off the freeway at Jamboree and gone to that chicken restaurant that coincidentally is owned by one of Aprils ex-boyfriends? John doesnt think about that as he parks in the last available spot, in fact he doesnt even know that April and Ned dated because April never thought of them as dating and therefore left him out of the conversation that John started that night while they were listening to Modest Mouse, sitting outside on the balcony watching the stars and smoking cigarettes. How many people have you slept with? Um, I dont know. Not a lot. Why do you want to know that? She looked at him puzzled, annoyedthe ultimate early relationship faux pas. I dunno +No you wouldnt think of it either. You wouldnt be paying to much attention to details because it is just another day. An ordinary day. Nothing special about it. It was just like this yesterday, it will be just like this tomorrow. You might be thinking, as John is, that stopping to pick up dinner is nice thing to do. You might be thinking that April would really like that because she worked hard all day long and she has to go to school tonight and shes probably tired and doesnt want to cook. You might be thinking that this will be one small way to show her that even on an ordinary day like this one, you love her and you care about her and you take the time to show her that. You might even feel a passing moment of self-righteous (but fully condonable) pride for being the sort of person who can stop and water the roses, so to speak. +Isnt it such an ordinary group of people standing in line with you? So ordinary that you can not see them. They register only as noise, static on the radio. They blend into the background of your life like the innocuous paintings on the wall behind you, paintings you did not even notice because they are so well chosen. They are not too striking, not too dull, they fill the emptiness of the wall but they do not draw attention to themselves. Like the people in line with carefully chosen muted gray or blue suits, prosaic dull-colored shirts with matching, understated ties, blending them into careful homogeny. +You might have noticed the girl next to you if she had been wearing her helmet, but she left it with the cat in the sidecar of her motorcycle. +It takes something out of the ordinary to catch Johns attention at this point. He is tired he has been paying attention to things all day at work, he has filled out forms, run flow charts, emailed and phoned important clients, his blood sugar levels are too low to be receptive to the full range and diversity of the thriving society that surrounds him. At some level it is just too overwhelming, and to his mind, not worth the time. Perhaps if he had eaten more protein at lunch he might have noticed the girl with the dark hair and severe bangs ordering at the register next to him. +He might have noticed that she too was order two meals to go. He might have seen the common bond between them, that they are both the kind of people that go out of their way to do nice things for other people. Or, as we pointed out earlier, if she had been wearing her helmet with its blinking lights and extended rearview mirrors sticking out the sides, he would surely have noticed her. Certainly if he had seen her on the motorcycle with the cat in the sidecar his head would have turned. Perhaps then he would have slowed a bit on the onramp to get a better look and perhaps by then April would have been back from her walk and things would have turned out very different than they did. +But John just ordered two chicken plates with steamed broccoli and spinach souffl and paid for them and then milled around the square, thoroughly uninspired, trash bins, glancing at the headlines on a disorderly stack of newspapers, and keeping his head down to avoid making eye contact with anyone. Everyone around him, all those also waiting on orders, keep their heads down as well. No one makes eye contact with anyone around them. They are tired. we are all tired. + + * * * * + +Claire ordering food for herself. She is ordering two meals worth because she owns a microwave and does not want to leave the house tomorrow. Claire lives alone. she like to be alone. she job means she spends every working hour around people, strangers even, and she does not like to be around them in her spare timeunless that is her specific choosing to do so. She is not antisocial nor is she hideously ugly. She is in fact very pretty. She has the look of a rockabilly girl, but she is not a rockabilly girl. She has long black hair with bangs as was fashionable in the 1950s and as it still is today in circles which are generally refered to as rockabilly by those that are not part of them. Those that are part of them do not call themselves anything, except perhaps their names. Claire knows all this as well as any of the rockabilly kids because she used to be one of them. She did not one day choose to be one of them, nor did she one day stop being one of them. She simply has friends, many many friends, which is why she so dearly loves to be alone. +Claire is ill, she has a sickness. She has learned to live with her illness. She has been to the hospital. Twice she has been to a hospital. There she learned that she was different than most people, she was hit on by the orderlies who were unaccustomed to having what they called such a hot chick in here. What are you in here for darling? When are you getting out? Do you need a ride home? How about you and I get a drink when you get out and I get off? I bet I can arrange it so that those two things happen at the same time His breath smelled like corned beef or meatloaf or pate or some other mashed beef product, but he was sort of cute and he made her smile with his earnest sincere, and yes, stupid, attempts to pick up on her. She blew him off, not because she didnt like him but because in the context it was the only decent thing to do. +The doctors were sympathetic people. They wanted to understand her. They wanted her to feel like more than just a chart, but they worked for the state. They did not make a lot of money, they did not drive Mercedes Benzes; they had not been able to afford the nice medical schools whose graduates do not have to work in state funded hospital. They wanted to understand but they were tired. Claire came along at the end of the day. And they could tell that her wrists were not too deeply cut. They did not think that she wanted to die. She did not want to die. Nor did she want attention. She want to see what death felt like. She wanted to feel herself dying. she was curious. She had voices in her head that asked questions. Lots and lots of questions. She read a lot. She wrote. She was ill. +Claire had a cat named Bob. He wore motorcycle goggles and road in the sidecar of Claires motorcycle. Bob like to feel the rush of the wind through his fur. He liked to listen to conversations at the stoplights. He could hear people talking and fighting and fucking two blocks away. Cats have very good hearing and Bob was no exception. He meowed for her to speed up when they road on the toll roads where Bob knew there would be no cops lurking in the bushes. Bob loved to ride in the motorcycle. +Claire and Bob met when Claire was getting out of the hospital the second time. He was stalking a mouse in the bushes, he was just about to pounce when Claire came through the sliding doors and startled him and mouse took the opportunity to dart inside the doorway. Claire felt bad and took Bob in her arms and walked with him to the supermarket and bought him a can of food. She sat on the curb and watched him eat it. She petted him for a while and when she got on her motorcycle to leave Bob jumped on the back and refused to get down. Later she bought him goggles and then a sidecar so that he could see better. +Claire noticed John standing next to her in line at Koo Koo Roo. She had seen him in pictures. He was at Neds house up in LA. He was dating April. She knew this because Bill was friends with April and Bill was also one of Claires lovers. But Claire did not say anything to John because it was easier not to. She wanted to be alone. She did not want to talk to him. She did not think she liked him. He looked timid. Something in the way he carried himself implied a meekness that instinctively turned her off. Claire did not believe that the meek shall inherit the earth. She believed that this was something that meek people told themselves to make them feel better when the got their asses beat. Claire was not meek, she was guilt, but not meek. We are all guilt. +But she did not keep her eyes on the ground or pretend to be absorbed in the indistinguishable painting on the wall. She studied John intently. She watched him out of the corner of her eye careful not to stare and attract his attention. She watched him like a hawk, like hawk on a wall. + + * * * * + +She watched the rest of the patrons as well. It felt to her like they were all trapped together in an elevator. A midget with coke bottle glasses and little sniffle was pulling the lever the elevator lifted them upward. Fifth floor. Ladies shoes, perfumes, gardening supplies and home electronics. Sixth floor. Pedophiles, accountants, brokers, and ladies handbags And so on through the eternity the it takes to cut to wings and legs off a chicken dish up some sides into those neat little subdivided styrofoam trays with fold over lids and secure closing flaps that had been thought of by a man named Timothy, who lived with a wife and two and half children in Irvine CA. The half child was a bloody mess and had to be re-bandaged nearly every day lest he become infected. He committed suicide in spite of the fact that he was heir to the fortune that his father had received for inventing the neat little subdivided styrofoam trays with the folding lids and the secure flaps. His name was timothy jr and all he ever wanted out of life was to go to the senior prom with Sara Warmington the most beautiful girl in school, but she did not want to go with the bloody half a boy. she laughed and he pulled the trigger shortly thereafter only to find that there was no bullet in the chamber. He locked the door to his room and did not change his bandages. His father knocked the door down, but it was too late, the gangrene had already set in. +Miss? Miss? Your order? +Claire gets her over active imagination from her mother, who, god rest her soul, departed the earth when Claire was still a little girl. Her job as a conversational prosititute has done little to tame her imagination, quite the opposite it gave her the opportunity to so something constructive with it. Well, at least she makes money off it. Conversational prostitute is not her official title, but it is somewhat more descriptive than hostess, which traditionally implies a restaurant atmosphere when in fact Claire works a club. A club that caters to older wealthy gentlemen looking not so much for sex, but for a companion, someone to talk to, men who long ago lost the desire to chase after beautiful women, but nevertheless enjoy the company of beautiful women. It is not Claire is quick to point out, a strip club, nor is it a whorehouse, in fact those girls that do try to take on extra ciriculare work are promptly dismissed. It is a club modeled after many others like it in the far east, Tokyo, Hong Kong, Casablanca just happens to be in West Hollywood. +The ad said: wanted attractive blond females for hostess position. Call Madame Shuiroo. The rest, as they say without perhaps understanding what they are saying, is history. + + + * * * * + +Have you ever gotten a blowjob from a pregnant woman? Perhaps you have. Charles is getting his first. She is quite skilled. She is also his wife, which eases Charless conscience somewhat because he like many people considers motherhood a sanctified chapel of purity and does not like to think that perhaps once his mother swallowed his fathers load and thus certain proteins may well have entered his own prenatal blood stream. He puts the thought out of his head and is soon adding his own protein to his unwitting childs blood stream. His wifes head stops bobbing and he can feel himself go limp in her mouth. She raises her head and curls her lips mischievously. He groans something idiotic and thankful and she stands up and smiles at him. Her teeth are coated in a creamy glaze. She kisses him and they crack the storeroom door and when they are sure no one is around they sneak out. Charles is not technically paid to get blowjobs, he is rather paid to serve addictive legal drugs. Hope stopped by for a bite to eat and since the bar was nearly deserted and the owner not around they had sneaked off for the aforementioned blowjob, but now she had errands to run and so after another kiss or two and some words of affection, Hope stepped out into the hazy sunshine of Venice beach. +Her belly still made normal motions extremely awkward. Getting into the crammed drivers seat of her late model Jetta was an act of unusual strain. She wondered if at some point in the next three months she would adjust to this condition. She always referred to it as a condition, very matter of fact as if it were something that would not have been helped. Truth is that it could have been avoided, Hope knew the exact moment at which it had occurred. Christmas party at her office, they were a little drunk and wanted to do it on the copy machine, they hadnt thought to bring protection. Protection. Hope was pretty sure that she did not need protection from Charles. In any case that was how they got pregnant. And, as in the case with any loving couple, they got pregnant together. Charles was the love of her life and it never bothered her that she was unmarried and perhaps some might think young. Her parents even, despite their conservative approach to life and moralistic tendencies had not so much as batted an eye. In the true fashion of parental insanity they had flipped their lids when she and Charles bought a house and moved in. Pregnant out of wedlock was apparently no great obstacle to their morals, but living together before marriage was more than they could swallow. But dad, she had pleaded I mean isnt it kind of pointless not to move in? I am pregnant you heard that part right? +Strange rules govern parental unit behavior in matters such as these, rules that Hope did not care to learn or understand. She and her parents were not on speaking terms, but she knew they would come around, what choice did they have? They certainly werent going to be shut out of there only childs life forever. Such overly dramatic behavior is limited to fools and celluloid fantasies neither of which describe Hope or her family situation. They will come around. +She pulled out of the parking lot of the bar where Charles made more money than lots of college graduates and turned left on Venice boulevard heading south toward their new house. Afternoon fog was hovering off the coastline, trapped somewhere between the coast and Catalina island. The sun sliced through in ray of light that looked as if they ought to be falling on church spire or Gethsemane itself, but instead and perhaps more beautifully they struck the black depths of the Pacific and illuminated patches of water creating cerulean puddles of light on the churning sea. It reminded Hope of the perfect moment when Charles had proposed to her. They had gone on a quick trip to the mountains, it was just after she told him she was pregnant. He had surprised her by picking her up for lunch and promptly driving high up the Angeles Crest where at the top of a short trail, he had dropped to one knee. The sun had been stabbing rays of light behind him, she was so transfixed by the sight she didnt notice that he had knelt. He tugged her arm, Hope? +Oh my god. + + * * * * + +John rounds the corner of 19th street and does not notice April walking swiftly in the opposite direction. The entirety of his being is consumed in the mouth watering smell of grilled chicken. He is glancing at the floor of the passengers seat to make sure that the Styrofoam trays have not slid around or fallen over in the course of turning when he passes April. He continues down the street and turns left on Fullerton and parks in front of the old house under the jackeranda trees. The yard is a sea of little blue flowers. John does not put the car cover on even though he is fully aware of the fact that it will be covered in little blue flowers and hideous black sap before morning. He is too hungry and tired to bother with the car cover. The cement light posts are just turning on behind him as he runs up the driveway, he is full of hope and love as he begins up the stairs. So full in fact that he attempts to skip several and does for most of the way, but at the top, that inevitable last step, his feet fail him and he misses. The bag of chicken goes flying from his hand and skids across the porch scattering pieces of chicken, pumpkin souffl and beans from one end to the other. His forearms crash into the edge of the top step and his face splats on the porch with a sickening thud. He cries out in shock and pain, but then again even louder and with some less than literary embellishments bore of a tremendous sense of frustration. The cat bounds from its perch on the far end of the porch scattering to the relative safety of the roof. + + + + I would like to say that it was a cold and wet December day when the plane touched down at JFK, but was reasonably warm, fairly dry and the plane touched down three thousand miles west of JFK, in a pathetic little suburban community bearing the innocuous moniker: Orange County. Nevertheless, I always like Bonos line about cold and wet December days. I think about it every time I fly. Todays flight was uneventful, a few minutes in Chicago where I was forced to wander what felt like miles through a darvoset haze to the opposite end of the terminal where the continuing flight to Orange County waited. I nearly missed the last boarding call when I stopped to check out aldjfdf .com to see how likely it was that it would be crashing between Chicago and OC. They have a little search engine on the site that purports to weigh such factors as weather and plane maintenance schedules, but more likely it just trigger a graphic and then randomly selects a rating number based on some generic algorithm whose results are solely designed to scare the shit out of those of us with morbid curiosities that force us to do such things. My flights prognosis was generally favorable, but once on the aircraft, I took another darvoset just to make sure I wouldnt feel the horrific plummet to death. I do not fear death, mind you, I fear dying. I figure if I can avoid the whole dying process with a few simple pills then, hey, why not? + Thus you find me here in Orange County International airport, not five miles from my childhood home gnawing desperately at disgusting peppery piece of nicorette and cursing myself for quitting smoking two days ago. Im not quitting for health reasons or money or loved ones or any other do-gooder crap, Im quitting because I want to prove that I can. Once Ive proved it Im going to go out and reward myself with nice pack of Black Death, with the skull and crossed bone emblem on the front. +I cant tell if my head is spinning from the lack of nicotine or the darvocet or the banality of the travelers around me. Generally airports are the most fascinating people watching spectacles in the world, but here everybody looks the same. The travelers at Orange County International are homogenized milk fat, but really secretly they all have names and they all have stories and they are all beautiful people they just happen to resemble each other in particularly innocuous ways. I hate them all. In spite of the fact that they all have names and stories and are all beautiful people. I wish that this was Beirut and there were sand bagged gun turrets pointing at all our heads. I wish that I could then leap over the sandbags and seize the guns and start shooting and not stop until there was nothing left alive, except for the girl that sat two rows in front of me on the flight who was very cute. And then when the shooting stops and the dust settles she would come running over and put her arms around me and we would kiss and walk off into the sunset and make babies in the thatched hut in Rangiroa and where the fuck is Bill? +Bill is notoriously late. I should never have saddled him with this responsibility. I should never have depended on his worthless ass. I should never have thought for one minute that he could be anything other than totally unreliable and worthless goddamn it. +Oh there he is. +Scott. Bill is standing against a pillar arms folded. +Here we are going to embrace, but I wont describe it. Its really kind of awkward. Neither of us is the touchy feely type, but neither of us are cold hearted assholes either. The question is to hug or not? There are maybe fifteen paces separating us, decisions have to be made, nothing is worse than one person trying to shake and the other hugging. (14 paces) I have a bag over my shoulder, could I be forgiven for a simple extension of the arm? But no perhaps he would think that too little, not appreciative of his effort, or feel that I did not really miss him, which I did. (13.3 paces) Besides I could drop the bag, in fact dropping the bag would be perfect, it would demonstrate a distinct lack of concern for material possessions on my part. It will show that I am concerned with people and not things, which of course I am. Yes 12.4 paces left and a decision has been made, hugging, it will definitely be hugging, but then when hugging, how much force should be applied? There is, for instance, a different amount of force applied when saying goodbye to a lover who will never be seen again, as opposed to hugging a disgusting hare-lipped aunt that you wish you would never have to see again. And here with Bill and I in the airport in less than 9.6 paces I have to find that happy medium. I cant stand the pressure. There is also the issue of slapping the back or patting or neither? Some find slapping to be distasteful as if secretly apologetic for hugging when one would really rather be shaking hands or is otherwise not comfortable with the hug. (6.7 paces) Others find it a male bonding show of affection and therefore a good thing; they tend to be closeted homosexuals (known more commonly as frat boys or occasionally: businessmen) and neither of us are closeted about anything. (5 paces) Patting I supposed is really more reserved for grandmothers and hare lipped aunts to remind them when its time for the embrace to end, so the question is slap the back or no? 4(no I suppose not) 3(only if he does it first) 2(but then will that look unoriginal?) 1 I notice as we hug that Bill has worked out roughly the same pressure application formula as me. Neither of us slaps the others back. Neither of us is gay. Decisions have been made. We stand back slowly and I notice that he is clean shaven. Last time we saw each other he was grizzly, depressed, a broken hearted man. Now he looks refreshed, reborn even. He looks like Nixon back from the Bahamas. No tan though. Better looking than Nixon too. Actually he looks nothing like Nixon, I just wanted to work that line in because I thought it might be funny. It was funny right? Right. +Good to see you +Good to see you too Bill. +You have luggage? +Oh hell no. +Good man. Lets get the fuck out of here, airports arouse my jealousy... +You up for a drink? +Am I up for a drink? Bill arches his eyes. Remember, SARCASM: IT WORKS. +Okay good. +As we walk down the stair and out into the underground parking structure I am suddenly struck with the idea that next time I will do a slow motion prance across the room to Bill, like in Chariots of Fire, that is should we ever happen to meet again in an airport after a long separation. It will be gloriously funny. I hope you are there to see it. You should be. You should travel more. Stop buying all that stuff that weighs you down. And stop taking the advice of writers youve never metbuy all the stuff you want. +I travel extensively, but I rarely leave the house. This is an exception. This is an interlude in reality; a slight tear in the fabric of life. This is happening because of Ned. Yes his name is really Nedward. Im not making this up, if I were making this up I would be a writer, and Im not a writer Im just some guy that you only met two pages ago. And, look at you, already thinking that Im lying, that Im inventing all of this to amuse you, to entertain you, to Infinite Jest you, shame on you. Im hurt. I need a tissue. Have some decency. Let me at least explain. +I have no idea why Ned. Hell we arent his parents are we? Its a good enough name I guess. A little strange perhaps I guess Ed would have been too run of the mill. Anyway its not important. His name being Ned I mean, what is important is that hes getting married next weekend, yes my friends, that is very important. That is life altering. It is huge. It is the biggest thing that Ned will ever do until thirty years from now when the first kidney stone breaks loose and begins its cruel, jagged journey down the urethra. Marriage is big. +I guess. +Im not married so I really have no way to judge the affair, but it seems big enough that Ive dragged myself three thousand miles to light two candles and bear witness to the scene. It is big. Bill thinks its big. But its not that big because Bill did it once and then undid it two months later. So its not as big as the kidney stone will be. There is no undoing the kidney stone. Pissing blood is pissing blood; there is no way around that. (Although I like to think that someone is working on a way around it.) +Still marriage is big enough. Ned is breaking from the pack. Ned is going to nest and make babies and do the sorts of things that Bill and I find unfathomable. (Though I also find it unfathomable that Bill finds is unfathomable since he has been married and has a daughter (not with the same woman eithershame shame or wink wink depending on your religious orientation and general outlook on life), but Bill dreams his way through life. Nothing that happens to him is very real for him. It happens. He watches. He moves on.) Ned is going to join in holy matrimony with a woman named Georgina. They will be Ned and Georgina Mooslin. They will live in Los Angeles and make babies and be happy. If all goes according to plan. And it will because thats why we have plans so that everything will go according to them. (Here the writer is again making use of sarcasm. Because it works.) +Ned is two years older than Bill and I making him a staggering thirty-three (which is nothing next to Strom Thurmond who is a whopping ninety-eight and still works for the good but stupid people of North Carolina). Ned is older than we are, he is always where we will be hence (although we tend to usually think of it in less shakespearean phrases). Ned has always been where I know I will be, though this marriage thing is throwing a monkey wrench in the whole scene. It is highly unlikely that I will be married in two years. I dont even have a girlfriend. I forget what its like to have a girlfriend, an intimate, someone who shares your head with you. Someone that gets under your skin, someone you cant live without. I thought about getting married once along time ago, but I never got around to it and we drifted apart. Bills single too, but hes weird about women. Obsessive some would say. Bill could well be married again tomorrow. With him I never know. +So big things are afoot, but right now all we know is that I want a drink and I want to catch up with Bill. Although, actually, since we tend to spend at least two hours a day on the IM, there is very little to catch up on. The chief difference tonight will be that were talking in the same room. Since both bill and I are the writing types, communication with mouths and tongues is often not a high priority. We speak very rarely and only after much twisting and turning internal debate over how to best phrase something. Or in our case how to make sure that whatever were saying doesnt have a hideously exposed backdoor through which the other can launch a surprise attack. Which is not to say that we argue a lot, but rather that we demand precise language because we know that words can be twisted and turned and interpreted however the listener chooses. Whether or not you understand these words written in this style with this tone of voice is just as much dependant on you as it is on my delivery of them. Bill would say more so on you. +We pile in Bills nondescript Japanese import and head out for The Helm, the one redneck bar in all of Orange County. Well actually thats not true theres plenty of white trash redneck bars in orange county, The helm happens to be the only one I like. And not entirely by coincidence it happens to be within walking distance from my parents house, which will be nice later when I slipped into a near comatose drunken stupor. The Helm is also the one bar in the area that I know no one I know will set foot in. Not that I have enemies, but I have friends and sometimes thats much much worse. +Bill orders a round and I secure a corner table. Always sit in the corner the very back corner with my back against the wall, the Dons seat. The seat that every guy in the bar secretly wants to be in. The corner implies power, quiet strength, a dont-fuck-with-me superiority that more often than not is highly misplaced. Corner dweller like to think that they are mafia Dons or aloof tough guys, but the truth is Mafia Dons reside in the even more elusive back-room-behind-closed-doors and aloof tough guys dont hang out in bars because if they did they would turn into friendly drunken slobs like the rest of the folks milling about in the Helm. Enough already. Tonight is a cause for celebration, it is Sunday, the sabbath, the day the lord createth and taketh away shortly there after. See I have been living in the south, in the thick of bible belt and believe it or not, even now in the twenty first century, you still can not drink liquor on the sabbath. This is home though, this is Los Angeles (or close enough) we are debauched, unholy, drunken, satanic, statutory rapists (yes roman polaski is back) and dont give a rats ass what day of the week it is. God is dead. The movie of his life just wrapped, and a more accurate accountworking title: GOD: I WORK(shot mock documentary style) is still in the works. We just want a drink and by god (lowercase not referring to his passed Almightyness) the good woman with missing teeth who is pouring our drinks understand this. Or maybe she doesnt maybe she takes it all for granted whos to say really? It is good to be back amongst my people. I take a deep slow breath through my nose sucking in all the cigarette smoke and stale sloshed beer vapors I can fit in my newly smoke free lungs. (its true you really can breath better even after only two days) +Bill sets down my bourbon and climbs up on the stool next to me. He shoots me a loaded glance. So have you ever said anything to Ned? +Hell no. And you? +Of course not. +I guess we take that to the grave huh? +Ya I think thats for the best. +We lapse into silence. This is how we catch up. We sit in silence and stare at the patrons milling about. Playing pool or pinball or feeding money in the jukebox. Occasionally one of us breaks the silence to comment on someones resemblance to a movie star or a friend, Bill asks absently what I have been up to, but knows that there is really nothing to tell. What is anyone up to? I could tell him about my job. Its there. I do it. Thats about all I have to say. I dont like or dislike it. Im not dating anyone so theres no racy stories to tell. I have a few half baked plans whirling in the back of my mind, but I see no real reason to bring them out into the light of day until they solidify, take on relevance or substance. You speak an idea too soon and it dies like a preme poped out at mere six months. Ideas have gestation periods, best to keep them to yourself and only give birth to them when there time has come. Ideas have expiration dates too, but well get to that later. +Bill could tell me about his life. He could tell me that he works everyday from 8 am to 5 pm, he could tell me that his job is not that bad, but hed rather not need it. He could tell me that hes seeing an emaciated rockabilly girl named Rachel. He could tell me that their relationship is more playing house than anything. Its even true that he could pull out a few ideas whirling about that back of his head. We could discuss the weather. We could plan some trip that well never get around to. It possible that we could discuss politics. I could (some might say should) invent some conversation and use witty dialogue as a means to convey some idea to you the reader. Some idea which I feel the need to show both sides of and I could use Bill to argue one side and me to argue that other and then there would be something right here at the beginning that critics might call literary ambitions. But Id rather not insult your intelligence. The truth is were just two guys sitting in the corner of a bar drinking beer and people watching. The truth is the important thing, even when its not glamorous. +We steadfastly avoid the truth of our lives most of the time. We live in alternate universes, we live vicariously through the television, through movies, magazines and books. We imagine ourselves to be famous, to be staring in our own movie, to be a spotlighted figure on our own little stage, but were not. We are simply human. Nothing less. +Bill pantomimes something amounting to do you want another beer. I nod. I am thinking about plot development, how to inject something of interest into out evening. As one who works with words I rarely think of things to do, places to go, I think rather in terms of how to move the plot. My life and yours are after all at times high brow novels and then b-movies and then sitcoms and then magazine articles. Tonight will be a newspaper article built mainly of the reports filed by the white house press pool. +Hey I think Im gonna call Andrea and go ahead and get a little trouble stirringyou mind? I ask because my article is my article and I always hesitate to force it on the public at large. We would much prefer the evening news to preface itself thus: Tonight ladies and gentleman we have a story of murder death and blight Inc.s latest foray in the streets of [insert your town here], followed by a touching, heartwarming story of two slum tenants who overcame great legal and financial odds to put their corrupt landlord in prison and start a watchdog collective for an inner city housing project, after which we will discuss yet another finding in health and science (which will be contradicted by a segment were running next week), and, lucky viewer, throughout the entire broadcast we will be advertising a tantalizing story of sexual scandal which we will hype for the next twenty minutes, but not air until the last five and then it will be rather shoddy and not live up the hype we gave it That way you could flip through the channels and only hear the stories that interest you, but that would be bad for business. Flipping the channels does not generate revenue; honesty is bad for business and we dont want to make things bad for business do we? +Of course not. Andrea and I are friends you do whatever you want to do Ah Bill how adult of you, how admirable we might say, that he would set aside his own designs for the evening and allow my terribly childish ones to dominate. We love Bill dont we? We do but secretly we wish he would stop us because we cant stop ourselves sometimes. +I finish the beer and dial up Andrea. Andrea and I have known each other since Junior high. Well kind of, I lusted after her throughout high school (she did not know I existed) she lusted after me after high school (I forgot that she existed). One night be both existed at the same point in space and time. We lived together for four or five years (hazy now). Anyway the point is we know each other about as well as two people can, or at least as well as Id ever want to know another person. We dont keep in touch as much as we should, but lately we have been hooking up through that most modern of communication toolsthe Instant Messenger. Mainly I talk about how great my life is going and she talks about how poorly hers is going. The cast majority of her problems seem to revolve around her boyfriend. John is a long story and I refuse to dignify him with much space in this chapter, but suffice to say that John and Andrea get along rather um, poorly shall we say. But they are in love yep we all been there. John. Poor bastard. Hes really a nice guy, but hes so easy to pick on none of us can stop ourselves. Hes a poet. Hes a poet in all the ugly clich ways that one can be a poet. He doesnt wear a beret, but Im convinced he has one somewhere in the closet that he pulls out when no ones around and masturbates with it cocked to one side, reading Ginsberg aloud and drinking port from the bottle. You can see how much fun it would be to make fun of someone like that. Now compound that with him dating your ex-girlfriend youre telling me youd pass that up? Youre lying damn it. No one passes that up. Its like shooting fish in a barrel, it shouldnt be fun, but it is, its okay you can admit it. We wont tell. +Several things must be kept in mind when one is about to see the ex, one, she is single, even when her boyfriend is standing right next to her she is still single. She is single because you want her to be single, because youre not entirely sure why it is that you arent with her. +Single. Dating. Married. Words, just words. Words designed to make sense out of world that is not so black and white. But a world where things must have clear delineation so that we can tell the difference between them. +The second thing you must keep in mind is that you do not want to have a relationship with her again. Ever. Ever ever? Ever ever ever? Yes. You want the pleasure of picking her up in a bar, you want this very much, but you do not want to be (ser or with her. No matter how much that little voice in the back of your head says otherwise you do not really want to be with her. If you really wanted to be with her you would never have broken up with her in the first place, and you did, and there was a good reason for it. Even if you dont recall what it was, trust me, it was a good reason. +Okay I cant help it, more about John. Now see in every circle of friends there is the troll. By troll I dont mean short guy living under a bridge, I mean he who trolls through the scarlet waters of heartbreak heaving aboard the wrecked souls of recently dumped women. In our circle this character is ably portrayed by John Sutton (WEEPY EYED POETS and ANGRY YOUNG MAN co-starring Ian McKay). For instance, when Bill broke up with his girlfriend, John, the beret masturbating poet, swooped in, lent her a shoulder to cry on, and was soon in bed with her. They had a happy little relationship for six months, built out the crumbs and droppings of her relationship with Bill. Then she woke up, realized what had happened and ditched the poet. Fast forward six months (1999 if I remember properly), I broke up with Andrea the situation repeated itself. Once is forgivable, twice despicableevidence of habits and patterns. John loves broken wings. Women in the midst of emotional instability, women vulnerable, women who have temporarily lost their bearings on lifebroken wings. If youre a woman and need a rebound, hes great for that, but the trouble is that once youre back to feeling good, he gets jealous, he cant stand an emotionally health woman, a strong woman, a woman like that could devour him over a light salad, get tired of waiting for the meal and split while hes in the toilet. Weve all dated broken wings. John is not some spectacularly evil creature; hes just immature and insecure. I have taken this opportunity to point this out because of the fact that we have all been there, but we have moved on and in doing so earned the right to vindictively mock those who have not. (which is also something I have moved on for and therefore have the right to write the aside vindictively mocking myself for being so immature and childish as to take pleasure in the discomfort of others. Despicable damn it I amas Dr. Suess must have felt every time he put down the brush and step backed to admire his latest work of erotic art. An author a childrens book painting naked ladies in his spare time Im not condemning Im just saying it makes you wonder, or, if youre a cynical bastard ,it makes you sayI knew it. But in his defense let us here add that those were some particularily twisted childrens books. Im not sure if that makes it worse or better.) +But back to John and his broken wings. Some men fish for broken wings others follow around beautiful birds and wait patiently for their demise. Michael too loves broken wings. Hes dated enough of them to open his own KFC franchise. But Michael finds his own broken wings (orders them from a distributor in the midwest I believe) he doesnt stalk them with the patience of a saint. John is a troll, a Colonel looking for a dead bird to fry up for dinner. You can chock it up to jealousy if you want, but really, I dumped her, I have no jealousy, only pity, disgust and smug amusement (which again, I find despicable and hate myself for). +Andrea arrives sans masturbating beret poet, which is just as well because by the time she arrives the Bourbon has taken hold and theres no telling what sort of mischief might have ensued with Bill and I well sauced in the presence of a known poet. +As it is things are bad enough. My resolve and willpower are withering in the face of shiny blond hair, moist, succulent lips, heaving breasts sir please try to maintain decorum? My chief of staffalways there to get my back. He directs my attention to the teleprompter scrolling in the window. +How are you hon? I give her a tender but not too tender embrace extrapolated without too much debate from the memory of my greeting with Bill. She responds by clutching tightly to my neck for what feels like an eternity. I want to break away, but I dont. My Security adviser fidgets nervously in the wings. The chief of staff whispers in my ear: just roll with it for now. Were still gathering up all the reports. We havent had time to synthesize all the data +Right. Good. Roll with it. . I am thinking of employing the grandma back pat, but just when I am ready to resort to that she backs away, kissing my cheek lightly. +She gives Bill a hug and sits down. +Im alright, to answer your question. Luminous green eyes bore into me. John and I were fighting again. He really didnt want me to come down here but you guys are my friends; if he has a problem with that than thats his problem. You know? she looks back and forth at us as if needing some reassurance. +We have no idea what such a thing would be like, but we nod anyway. +He should have come down too, Bill says. +Uh I dont think that would have been good. I wouldnt be able to be myself you know? More nodding. +Okay screw your boyfriend, how are you? You need a drink? +Id love one? +Wild turkey? +Uh no, Id love a beer though. +I go to the bar to get more drinks for all of us. +Sir why did you offer to buy her bourbon? You arent thinking to get her drunk and take advantage of that are you? Because as your chief of staff I can say that that would be a tremendously bad idea. +Uh hrugh? +Sir you have been in town all of one hour and youre already hitting on your ex I find this troubling. The senate is not going to approve any kind of executive action at a time like this. +Fuck those bureaucratic bastards thats why were in charge. +Sir I agree with the sentiment, but this is a delicate situation. She has a boyfriend. He is a friend of yours right? +Well ya, but I got too many friends around here anyway. +What can I get for you? the bartendress nasally voice cuts through that debate and demands attention. I place my order trying hard not to stare at the gap on the side of her smile where several cuspids and at least one molar have decided to retire early. She doesnt seem to understand the concept of neat bourbon. I reach behind the bar and pull up a two-ounce glass. Just pour a double shot in this glass please. She shrugs and nods. +Incidentally sir this is why weve be pushing for the development of a portable sterilization devise +Look Chief youre outta line. You dont know her, just because she doesnt know the term neat and happens to be missing a few teeth does not mean she has to be eliminated from the gene pool. Thats just mean. Ugly dirty and mean. I cant support that kind of legislation. Though, at times I do admit I get a cheap laugh out of it. But I always feel guilt afterwards. +Whatever. Youre avoiding the issue. +Hey you brought it up +I know, but it was only a passing comment. The issue at hand is Andrea. +Oh. yes I know. +I want your word on this one sir, before we go back in there. I need to know that youre not going to do anything rash tonight. +Okay. Nothing rash. Now step aside damn it. +Your word? +I give you my word. +Okay. +I gather up the three beers and take them back to the table. The bourbon I let sit on the bar in all its mahogany glory. +Andrea and Bill are deep in the midst of a conversation that seems heavily laced with sexual innundoes. I go back for the bourbon hoping theyll be done by the time I get back. But the first thing I hear is: so when are you going to bend me over the table? +I try to lean against the wall and maintain an ambivalence about all of it. I try to maintain the distance that I have always created between myself and what is happening around me. +I was four when I started kindergarten, my parents believe that I was ready for school, they believed I was an EXCEPTIONAL CHILD and should do exceptional things. Up until that point I had only one friend, his name was Richie and I remember next to nothing about him. His parents moved to Colorado and opened a campground for seniors that year. Later when I was about twelve we were in colorado camping in the rockies and my parents thought it would be nice for me to visit him. It turned out that he was away for the summer. I remember looking at the photos of him on the mantelpiece and drawing a complete blank. But none of that is very important, the point was that I had very few friends. One. And so walking to my first day of kindergarten at the tender young age of four I was terrified. Terrified at the thought of having to be around other children. I didnt like children. I didnt have anything to do with them, they were all rather silly vapid creatures in my opinion, but being only four I didnt think of it that way. I only knew that I didnt like to be around them, because I had to do things, I had to play, I had to well do stuff that I didnt want to do. it seemed like they were always laughig and playing and doing things while I was not. I played by myself (later I learned to play with myself, but that is a different story, and I admit a cheap and predictable place to insert this rather juvenile and assinine aside, the sort of thing that would be left out of a great piece of literature, axed by an image conscious editor or style minded agent). So in order to deal with my rabid and irrational fear of my peers I created an inner monologue a kind of metanarrator in my head. It allowed me to detach myself from myself. To see myself in the third person and with this tool, gradually refined through the subsquent years I was able to get so distance from myself and behave in ways that I would never have been able to do without it. Essentially I started writing very early, though I did not know that was what I was doing. I only knew that it was easier for me to have fun and be involved with other people when I was not actually myself, when I could see it all from the readers perspective so to speak. +Psychologists call this sort of thing disassosiative behavior and consider it to be a vague beginning of neurosis, but to hell with pschologists, damn drop out med students anyway. Freud: hell of an author, terrible scientist. Nevertheless I will be the first to admit that this distance from the self, the ability to act and live from the third person viewpoint is a very rare thing. So rare in fact that I have only met two other people that even understood what I was talking about. Bill is one of them. Bill has been living this way for nearly as long as I have, and like me he is trying to stop. But knows (because he is third person omniscent in his own life) that he never will be able to stop it. He like me, can only hope to channel it in what might beto somebodys way of thinkingslightly more constructive, or at least creative, areas. That there is a clear example of exess verbiage. It would have been much simpler to state that Bill is also a writer. This would have been the preferred method of editors who live by the strunk and white implied motto that less is more. Most certainly such people would be absolutely horriefied that not only did it take me so long to explain that Bill is also a writer, but then I went on to do this, explain why I needed to be long winded. That I am going to go further and explain why I think it is that one ought to be long winded (but not before announcing as I just did that I am going to do it) will no doubt find them hurtling this book across the room. [But not you dear reader, you are sticking with it because you understand, because you too were an eceptional child andyou too have many many voices running amuck in your head. And because you spent a fair amount of meny on this book and all your friends told it was great (except for that one guyalways has to be one guywho was already too cool for it, who sort of snicked whenyou mentioned that you wanted to read it Just like youll be doing in a few years when you get what you are going to get out of it and move on, cruelly mocking me for what I have written, but its aright, I understand, Ive done it a million times myself. You should move on eventually. I am not so arragant as to believe that I am capable of standing the test of time. After all the authors of our favorite books moved onw whenthey were done, shouldnt we?] as for being long winded, well take a look around you is life short and simple and concise? Is it easily reduced to subject verb predicate and what not? Or is it more likely to have some hilarious dangling modifiers and horrendous emotionally scarred fragments? Complete sentences are not. The only possible way to tell the story. Are they? +You can probably by now begin to see how three decades of this incoherent inner narration has left me at something of distance from most of my fellow humans. Many people esteem this sort of inner cacophony, they call it genius, they call it creativity, the call it drive or brilliance, they admire it and wish that they had it. They are the true fools. The hangers on, the unafflicted, the healthy and whole they want so bad to have this ceaseless voice torturing them. Fools. I would give my left nut to science (or anyone else with a justifiable use for it) to get rid of this voice, it is a curse, a ruin, a plague on my chances of ever being happily assimilated into society. Sure when I was younger and dumber and playing earnest heartfelt folk music I thought that I was blessed to be different, better even. Far superior. Now Im older and I know that I am truly and deeply fucked. My ownly chance of survival now is to assume that everyone was lying to me, that I am not and never was different. That we all have this inner cacophany or if not all at least enough to find some common ground on which to bond. Im a mammal youre a mammal isnt that enough? It is for my dog, but he never reads. No matter how many beef treats I leave sticking out of the dictionary he just never seems to take an interest. +But enough of this digression let us get back to the scene at hand for now everything has fettered away. Andrea and Bill are not talking about sex anymore, although from the look in her eye I suspect that she is still thinking about it. +(For the record: I did not ever see myself as an exceptional child, smart yes, but revolutionary most certainly not. Cheated through high school spanish, never really understood physics and dropped out of college after only two years. This is not an exceptional child or if I was than I insisted on growing up into an unexceptional adult. And so far have succeeded quite nicely) +Okay no more digressions I promise. And yes as all this time has passed we were having conversations, but they were really not all that interesting. Andrea and I were talking about what we do for a living, in our spare time, when no one is looking, that sort of thing. Bill is picking songs on the jukebox. Andrea and I have fallen silent, we are both staring at each other each without realizing that we or the other are doing so. When we do become aware that this has happened we chuckle nervously and smile sheepishly and blush and do things that two people still in love tend to do after years and years. But love be damned this is life and we dont live it with each other any more, but yes I guess we still are in love, just to many irreproachable differences between us. She would have me do as Ned is doing, get married, nest have babies that sort of thing, which as I get older I am not necessarily opposed to, but still make habitual efforts to avoid. +There is a moment of awkwardness into which I try to inject a little self depreciating humor by asking her is she ever noticed that I have no chin. + What do mean you have no chin? Claire laughs and bites on the end of her straw. +Well look. I turn my head to give her a profile view +Its true, I have no chin. Not that I have no chin in the way Mark Pledger's younger brother Dave has no chin, because Dave really has no chin, Triumph speed tripleOrtega highwaycrouched forwardlowdeep in the pocketknees inches off the asphalt and then a rock (or could it have been an acorn?), and then no more pocket and then helmet first onto the concrete, breaking kevlar safety platinglawsuit pendinghelicopter airliftthe whole ugly messy bit. At the hospital one of the doctors was so horrified he threw up and someone took a picture and it all ended up on rotten.com. Dave has no chin. He has no mouth either. Its all some sort of plastics and maxiofacial genius that allows him to continue living. +When I say I have no chin I mean simply that it doesnt come to a defining point, it just kind of vague indistinctly merges into my neck which has led me over the years to grow a lot of strange facial hair patterns designed to heighten the appearance of having a chin. To add definition. Like makeup. +My no chin routine is an old one though Andrea never heard it. I made it up one night when I was living in New York with Claire. It was after we broke up and we were doing the meet on polite terms for a drink thing that women insist on doing to remind you of the pain that you have so carefully and recently extracted from yourself. +Claire and I were in kllfjlkdjf a trendy new hot spot in Manhattan. The place was all blue lights and private booths with black curtains robing off the surrounding room. Private. Sexual, but not. Stupid really, but with the one benefit of screening out the pretentious and annoyingly New York scenester thing that is happening all around us when all I wanted was a drink and the opportunity to use self-depreciating humor to make Claire laugh, which I believed might get her in bed later. +Most likely this plan would fail. Most likely there was already some beefcake amazonian waiting for her to get through with this sympathy gig, scratching his chin and trying to form a thought, but not being capable of such higher mammalian functioning. (It is precisely this kind of thinking that we use alcohol to avoid, but which ultimately leads to the above mentioned acts of less than sane behavior. Ya right and youre telling me youve never sat smoking cigarettes on the tortured steps of a building you dont live in waiting for someone that would probably prefer not to see you sitting, smoking tortured cigarettes on the steps of a building you dont even live in? what did you do smoke pot all your life?) +Claire gets special treatment here at kkkkjlk. She came here one night when the first opened (probably with the aforementioned beefcake amazonian) and sat upstairs drinking vodka and whiskey, and at some point she and the aforementioned beefcake decided to steal a stuffed chicken. The chicken turned out to be some sort of priceless heirloom or symbol of something to the pretentious and quasi-mysterious owners of this joint. After they apprehended Claire and her accomplice, they received a lecture on the notorious significance of the chicken which was so inane that we will spare you it here, but the next day they (the pretentious and quasi-mysterious owners) sent a note the saying they thought the whole thing funny and that Claire was always welcome and the drinks were on the house. She is a kind of celebrity here. But in our snide opinion, the way Tattoo was a celebrity. Painful. Embarrassing. +We should not have come here tonight. Or any other night for that matter. We should go out and get laid. We should be out in Brooklyn picking up the rich girls that slum down at kkfjlaj and trying to forget about Claire. But we are gluttons for punishment, we love the pain. And we naively believe that Claire still loves us. We are grasping at straws. +Clarie is sucking on a straw, sucking up the last little bit of vodka. Its one of those tiny little black straws that come with Vodka on the rocks, the kind of straws that only come with vodka on the rocks if youre a girl because men do not use tiny little black straws to drink vodka with. +So Claire, we try to sound as casual as possible and even while trying to sound causal we realize there is no masking the desperation in our voice, you want to get out of here? +Why? Are you not having fun? +Danger! Danger! +This is where truth is the wrong angle to play. Its true. But we are only not having fun because there are other things wed like to be doing. There is not way to properly articulate this without a) seeming like a depressed shithead, b) sounding like desperate moron, or c) reminding Claire of why we broke up in the first place. +Wait a minute now, why did we break up in the first place? Well we decided that we didnt want to live in New York anymore and so we moved back to Athens, GA where we had been living prior to New York. We were unaware that doing so would mean that we were breaking up with Claire. Actually we had never for one nanosecond ever stopped to consider what life would be like without Claire. As a matter of fact we still havent. We live on the banks of denial. I spent a lot of my time thinking about what Claires life would be like without us, which is shear conjecture on our part and always subject to self-abusive whims involving beefcake men, which it should be obvious by now, we are not. Beefcake that is. But we can form thoughts. And articulate them in complete sentences. Subordinate clauses and semicolons. Colons even. Good lord you should see me with a colon. I love that, when you purse your lips, and your brows furrow up all sexy like, Claire said once when I was in the middle of colon sized pause. +No, Im having a great time, I just thought maybe we could go somewhere, big tempting smile here, and maybe, trailing off into mumbles here, but from the look on her face the implication has been implied. +You want me? Mischievous smile. +Jesus Christ. Isnt that obvious? +Why dont we do it right here? +She slides around the booth until her mouth is breathing in our ear. We are unsure how to respond to this; is it a trick? Are we just too paranoid to have a good time? We cautiously slide a hand between her legs and glance at the curtain, which is open just a couple of inches. She responds to the hand, responds rather well actually, climbing astride us and kissing us full on the mouth. A hot smoky tongue darts between our lips. + But here is where everything starts to fall apart. For one thing she is wearing black leather pants which add immense complications to things and at the same time, we do not want to be the cheap sex in the bar and suffer the ignominy of going home alone. We want to possess body and soul, and we have no patience. None. At all. + Claire pulls back and the curtains part to reveal a blushing waitress. + Oh sorry, um, can I get you anything else to drink? + Claire orders more vodka, we order more Wild Turkey and then change our mindsoda waterwe must keep our wits about us. + The kissing continues. Blood begins to rush just south of our belt buckle. The waitress returns with the drinksstill blushing. After she departs, Claire lets her hair down and uses her hair clip to hold the curtains together. The kisses become more heated, frantic, our hands stray up shirts down pants. But we feel cheap and used and unsure why. + +Tomorrow is the desert. Tomorrow is a million things. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, but today we are eating pancakes in an old diner downtown los angeles. The toast is fried in oil and the eggs are running and we are going to have heart attacks if we eat anymore. The windows are smeared with childrens hand prints, little grubby hands clawing at the outside world. Corrie and I slept maybe tw hours and now its time to drive. Bill and some emaciated thing whose name I have already forgotten are slouched against the window. Ned and Gorgina are on their way to mexico to fuck and get great tans and sip fruity drinks by the pool or on the beach or from the tops of high mountains and no one will bother them there. Andrea and John are on there way to meet us at Neds house. The sky is hazy overcast gray, the coastal fog is stretching all the way in to downtown everything is mucky like the childrens handprints. Rob and Erin are driving seperately. The plan is to go a day early and camp it out at some sort of motor lodge and head to the concert around noon tomorrow. I want to stay at something called the blah blah blah oasis motor court or the palm motor court or some sort of motor court. The kind of place that raked in the cash before the motel 6s and howard Johnsons came along and homogenized the american motel scene. I want to stay somewhere that humbert and lolita would have stayed in their cross country journey. I dated lolita for a while. Was going to make her my wife, but she said she had to go. She daid not to contact her anymore. She was over eighteen though so it was legal, but she was a nyphet alright. Oh yes she was one of those. + Satchel is not coming to desert. It is too hot and we dont think they will allow cats at the concert. NO CATS ALLOWED. He has too much fur anyway, fur and sun do not mix well together. This fog means it will be hot out there in coachella valley. The fog is drawn in by the desert heat, it creates a kind og vacumm that frags it off the ocean and over the city. It makes me want to be in hawaii where the humidty is genuine and the clouds only hang on the rainforests that creat them. Of perhaps in mexico with Ned. Watching them make sweet love while I smoke bitter cigarettes. Except that I quit smoking damn it. I hate not smoking. Its forcing me to find more things to keep me occupied. I can no longer sit here at breakfast lingering over food scraps ashing in pools of syrup and feeling perfectly content to do nothing. This is very likely a good thing that I can no longer find contentment in nothing, but at the same time what else is there? Is something happening? Is their a great big party to which we are all invited? There is? Oh yes the concert, but its a concert not a rave and all the magic has been drained out, the sponge squeezed dry, raves are done, techno is over this is only a last gasp, an attempt by Perry Ferrel to pay rent on his house in Venice. We used to go to parties there, dance parties that he through to help raise the money to pay rent. He had DJs and our friends hung their art on the wall and Perry paid rent. At least thats what I was told. I dont really know Ive never spoken to him. He has nice teeth. + This is los Angeles and everytime I tell any on Im from here the first question I get asked is: do you know any celebrities. I used to say no, but people seemed disapointed by this and I hate to burst peoples illusion that somewhere ther is place where they too can party with rock stars. Nowadays I give out two phone numbers, brad pitt for the ladies and julia roberts for the guys. Both numerbs I give out are my own cell phone. No one has called yet. I have winona riders phone number. I met her along time ago at a Posies concert. I was young. Ive never dialed it. She probably moved. Once upon a time in my youth I hung out with movie stars every night. They bothered me. I felt uncomfortable around them. They were always sitting in the corner. Thats my spot. The corner. Like the one Im in right now. This is where I sit. The corner. + Nothing but normal pedestrians in here. No movie stars. No rock stars. No porn stars. Well actually porn stars you never know. Porn stars are every where. I figure the amount of porn on the internet, at least five or ten percent of population is now undercover porn stars. They are all just doing it to put them through las school. Or to put there kids in a nice private school. They dont mind it. it helped them get over some of their hangups. They are not addicted to crack. They like sex. They are healthy. They are not being forced into it by pimps in cheap leather and fake gold. They have chosen this life. They suck dick like the pros. They are the pros. They are on the screen, in the telephone wires, on the cable television shows. They are in rock videos and work part time as a teller at the local branch of a national bank. They will not run for office. + Corrie is petting the cat. Bill is petting the emaciated thing. I am pushing toast around in a sea of ketchup with a three pronged fork. A three pronged fork is an awfully classy thing for a diner. Usually three prongs forks are the result of designer silverware and hide in swanky joints across town. In brentwood at caf Luna or the like. Designer silverware makes the food taste better at caf luna, it make the girl you are with imperceptibly more desirable, it complements the white linen tablecloth and sparkles in the halogen lights that very fashionably dangle from the ceiling on long thin wires. This is just a diner. They do not need designer silverware here. Corriw slides a knife, a fork and a spoon in her purse. The cat give her a questioning look. She take it out and puts it back on the table. We all laugh. This is monstrously funny. Even the emaciated little thing has to sit up and laugh. The cat turns its head and appears absorbed in sparrow flitting on the side walk. Corrie very discreetly slides the designer silverware back in her purse. We all smile at each other. WE are in on something together. We are pulling a fast one on the cat. We have bonded at the expense of cat. He just watches the sparrow and looks for all the world like he has forgotten that we exist. + +Later in the car: we drive out the ten freeway. Or rather bill drives and the rest of us ride. We have borrowed a minvan to hold all of us. There is bill and the emaciated waif in the front, then corrie and I and then bills sister shirley who doesnt like it when I write about her and chris in the back. Andrea and john are driving seperately. Rob and Erin ride with them. That is a couples car. This is a swinging singles car. Except for bill and waif. After breakfast he and I were standing out in front of the diner waiting for the ladies to finish up in the restroom and he asked me: + Hey man + Ya? + If I was to get married again would you make the trip out for my wedding? + No + Why not? + Because youre not getting married again. + I dunno man this girl is really something + They all are arent they? + This is different. + Uh huh. + The conversation more or less ended here, but the gist I took away from it was that Bill thinks hes getting married again. He is mistaken. Again. Bill was married once and engaged three times since then. Im holding my breath. She holds his hand while he drives. Corrie and I talk loudly about being single and loving it. We turn around frequently and sneer at the couple car. Fools. Except maybe for rob and Erin because there swingers and fuck different people all the time, but really thats even worse we decide. + + + I subleased a place right off the 405, a venado, one exit past sunset. I had a splendid view of the new getty museam or at least what my neighbor told me was the new Getty museum. Its a very white building on a very green hillside. The apartment is fully unfurnished and rather drab on the whole, but strangely it has hard would floors, which you rearely find in LA. They ran out of wood around here very early on. My neighbor is Hope, a gorgeous actor-waitress with stars in her eyes (you were expecting something else? Perhaps an orthodotist? Sorry, no). Already I have an enormous crush on her and all she said was youre new here? My name is hope. Nice to meet you. Great view of the Getty today huh? 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Entering the hall of breathing walls-The Oconee disappears between its banks-Los Angeles-Mexico City-Byzantine elephants choke to death in a smog-filled valley- memories hiccup-twilight of the intercellular broadcast-divided and squared with bantam jewels in the center-glittering back-lit walls-look like lava just starting to crust-pie filling eaten by rodents-1910 bankers and thieves in huddled whispers-don't get out-turn the page- disengage-
The door is pounding.
I live in a cottage. Athens. Georgia. 01010.
Between.
My head hurts.
I was named after an imaginary boat.
A cigarette.
Pounding. Rhythmic thump thump. Thump thump. Ghosts dragging chains through the cellar. Which I don't have, a cellar that is. Demons maybe. Phantoms. Apparitions. No. Not those. Ghosts then. Simplicity. Razors.
She often gives that look. But I'm never around.
She's up there.
I'm down here.
It could be Jimmy. No. Not Jimmy then. Could be Dean. Dean wouldn't. Couldn't. Won't. Not yet. Eventually. Just ghosts. Pissed off ghosts. Happy ghosts seeing if I want to come out and play. Indifferent ghosts, sitting around smoking, absently throwing rocks at the wall. Malicious ghosts, the ghosts of falling buildings, ghosts with nowhere to haunt, haunted by a yearning to haunt.
Chloe has a globe from the dark ages, East and West Germany, the USSR, North and South Dakota. Chloe also has a dog. Chloe's dog, tail wagging thump thump thump. A branch. An Oak wanting breakfast. A bird wanting shelter. No.
That look, that half devilish awareness, half coy innocence, that look where I don't know what is going on in there. Or out here. In the larger world. Smaller world. Some world. I'm not sure, I don't know, but I don't think I know.
I live alone.
She's not in. She is never in. She is up. He is also up, but less significantly. In fact a lot of them are up. Almost everything is elsewhere. Echoes reach me down here. Someone yelling down the cellar to a third cousin sent to retrieve apricot preserves from last summer's canning extravaganza. Dull reverberations off the beams rattling the preserves ever so slightly, but enough so that every so often a jar falls and shatters in the blackness that comes after the door at the top of stair blows shut from a gust of August wind. And the slow trickle of preserves running down the sloped dirt of the cellar floor, pooling between your toes as the first clap of thunder rumbles above.
From: Dean O'Leary <do@morpheus.net>
To: sil@kali.org
Subject:
I have a fish tank. Melissa bought it, but I have it. It's here right in front of me right now. There is a fish in it. We put it in yesterday. Melissa named him Dean Jr. Dean Jr. has a plastic castle and a plastic treasure box. He's swimming back and forth between them. He never goes anywhere else. It's like every two seconds his memory expires and he has to go back and see what these damnable things are that he just swam by. Or perhaps its merely that I feel that way, swimming through the city, by the castle, by the rocks, by the crumbling pink stones in the park. We once had gills. I don't mean eveolution, I mean I think we once had gills. Atlantis isn't a mythical city that sank into the sea, it was always under the sea. We lived there, we swam by, and abscent of memory swam by again. A sort of daze. + +I envy you down there, you don't have to swim, you can merely sit. The water is still. Or that's how I imagine it. The surface of the pond, not yet distrubed by the ripless of what is emerging below. You are higher up, in the sunlight filled waters near the surface. Down here things are not well, the memory is fading, senility is survival. + +I finished a novel the other day that you would like. A hungarian author Lazlo Tikos, the book is Midnight. He has another, Dawn. But it's difficult to come by. So is Midnight actually, a friend of mine in the city happens to be the translator so I read an early draft. It's a very strange convoluted story that I don't want to ruin, should you decided to read it (the packagge is one its way to your house), but there was + + + +It made me think, should I set Dean Jr free? I don't think he would last long in the ocean or the sewers, though he's not really worth eating. Perhaps he would survive in the sewers, like the aligator pets that go to large and flushed down the tiolets by enough distrate owners, fearful that the once cute beasts would now eat the children they were purchases for -- you can imagine, those reptile eyes, old, pre-Cambian thoughts lurking down there, a level we perhaps remember on some levvel, some dark spot of our own genentic makeup still carrying markers, the primordial fear that comes from staring at any nearly unblinking creatures, but especially one that's covered in scales and has a flickering tongue that tastes information in the air -- it's similtaneously so forgien and so familiar as to be distrubing, a familiar memory that won't die, like the smell of blood drying in the grass or + +And so down the toilet for poor pet aligator caught up in a fade it neither wanted nor understands, but then the revenge of the sewers where the pet becomes what it was always meant to be -- king. It could be the same for fish I believe. The scales are the same, the + +
Last night: little blue pills from points unknown, brand name Percocet I believe. Jimmy. Yes. It was him. Known points. His little blue pills that go tickticktick when they scatter out on the glass table. We took a couple each, and a glass or two or five of Scotch, and maybe a bump of cocaine-swooshing velvet sound on that table-we went downtown. Downtown. We are not uptown, but we went downtown or maybe in town. Here we are not in town, but we're not quite out either. Between then, but we go downtown. Amid the one-way streets and crisscrossing throngs of young people. Dizzy blue people stumbling on caustic sidewalks. Pills. Dizzy blue pills. Brown people or off white or cream, and maybe some mauve from the sun, but wearing their colored ribbons and threads as is customary, some delightful and brilliant colors and other dull grays, blues and taupe. The streets carved among lights and shadows and covered wagons hauling pianos or trucks with pianos. People exchanging glasses of elixir for paper tickets the way old men used to in cellar bars, rotting wood ceilings and dirt walls, roots exposed, in countries long forgotten or never known, and either way not here. The theatre is crowded, sticky bodies pressed together with scrunched shoulders and craning necks, little trickles of sweat tickling necks and earlobes until a arm wiggles loose to relieve, but an elbow here and there meeting a face, accidentally, like friends late at night under gas lamps in those countries no one can remember. Amid little grunts of pain, whispers of apology and finally finally a margin of relief, the show starts. Several of the people are wearing jeans and shirts and boots and hats. Or one of them near the back, seven bodies removed with a luxurious amount of space around her and no one daring to step into it. She is on to me. Goddamn it she knows. She is looking at me down a perfect row of misshapen, deformed shoulders, hunchbacks lined for execution or waiting for tables at a hunchback diner, or a line outside a hunchback restroom, all the shoulders and stooped backs turned just so, perfectly aligning the emptiness between so that our eyes meet and cannot avoid but meet again. She is looking to let me know that she has that look too. But she is looking at me, not with that look, but a warning look. She can use that look any time, but she won't, she can't. Only Maya can use that look with any effectiveness, but still I have to be ready. I'm sweating and cold. A writhing serpentine woman upfront, spiraling around the man with the metal chest. Metal attached to his chest. To his face. To his lips. It sounds like Paleolithic cave drawings-dueling sculptors chipping at the same stone, part horrific cacophony, and part terrifying clarity. Lights out. Bumbling darkness.
The pounding on the door. Yes, but fainter still.
Outside is America. The down part. Down here. You can hear it in the wires. A buzz. A hum. America. Wires and cables and fiber optics and pipes and hoses and tubes. Tubes. Millions of tubes. Fading now to resistors and capacitors. Even as the hippies were sleeping with visions of sugarplums and dancing fairies singing happy happy joy joy, Bell Labs was suffering a different dream. Resistors. Capacitors. On. Off. Zero. One. America.
Another cigarette. I could lie here all day. Lying down, remaining down.
Outside is America. Up right now, but down later. One, but then Zero. I am indifferent to it. Why shouldn't I be? America is one. To be America you are doing something. I am not. America is growth. Then stasis. Then growth, and so on, like a cancer mutating in bursts-a pulsar, a cancerous pulsar. There are others like me. We watch it. We like to watch. We huddle together, in small groups, holding each other because it's all we remember, mutual warmth. Every season the Technicolor cancer blooms anew, this year with violent reds and oranges and angry purples, yes purple gets angry from time to time, when the king becomes too fat for the plush velvet chair that purple has given him or he neglects his humility in private, purple gets angry like a wife. It's a cheery cancer though, purple is never mad for long and, the make up sex-oh the makeup sex. Then there is dancing and singing, girls running, silk ribbons trailing behind, a carnival, spinning pinwheels, gaudy whores in petticoats, elixirs for what ails ya, sculptures of tubing and wire to delight delight delight the whole family. Whores for the kids, pinwheels for the parents, a marvelous vision trotting into New Orleans say 1894, electrons spinning-a bric-a-brac carnival for paranoids. The king riding high in his purple couch, the queen by his side, the actors in trail, patchwork wagon covers and barrels of mead and moonshine. The crier out front: You have never seen anything like this. Step right up. Step right up. Step right. Up. This the greatest show going. This is the greatest show in the land. This is. This is the greatest show in this county. At the moment. Get your programs. Get your programs here. A hymnal for the perverts. Hey ya.
I remember remembering. Too much quantum physics-interference patterns, recorded static played back in scripts-the sixties were bleak, the nineties were worse. You. The other. Them. The ones on the streets blinking on and off. Christmas lights in the background-indeterminacies. When I was young there were seven dimensions and that was weird, but Rod Serling walked us through it. Now there are twenty-six and Rod Serling is dead.
I start the day with a cigarette because it kills you early, slowly and relentlessly. Gets me off my back and living, one, lest death come before lunch, zero.
The pounding is over.
I stumble to the kitchen, the fridge is harboring only one grapefruit. The ritual goes: cigarette, grapefruit, shower and shave, croissant or bagel, coffee and another cigarette. Later or earlier, depending on where you are exactly, I came to sitting in a barstool in the lobby of the theatre. She was gone. She did not use that look, but she could have, or she did and I didn't notice. The show was over, the Christmas lights were filtering out. Flickering. That was the bar. The Flickering Bar only it was a theatre in one room with all the ghosts of rats imported from elsewhere because it wasn't old enough to have its own rat ghosts, just a couple of rats that had their own theatre up in the balcony where no one goes anymore. There were Christmas lights flickering, they were not people, they were lights. Some of them I knew. Jimmy. That was how I got there. Stumbling down alleys and rolling in garbage. Jimmy, he is familiar. He has no dog and no globe-Chloe has those. Jimmy has a girl, a girl friend, but I suspect they are more than friends. They are not friends like he and I are friends. They are something more. They hold each other very close by the fire and then often slip into darkness as if they are unafraid. But she is called his girlfriend, he calls her the girlfriend, but when she says it she is a girlfriend. And he is a boyfriend.
"I'm Brooke. Jimmy's girlfriend."
"It's very nice to meet you."
"Sil, I met you six months ago."
"Yes but it is still nice isn't it?"
"Yes. Is suppose it is. Are you okay?"
"Yes. I'm fine. Why?"
"You seem strange tonight."
Tonight seems strange too. Difficult to sort out. Lights and people. Glittery mugs foaming, slick ice spit back in rattling glasses, crunching gravel or sawdust in the street. She is holding his hand. They are walking in front of me. Their feet are in time, light-footed marching, a relaxed cadence. We drove home. Up. But not all the way, just surfacing perhaps, but still in the water, level and floating between. We were here or at Chloe's house, I don't know. There is not much difference. Fifty yards between them, but dense jungle, vines and trees and dead wood, lots of rodents and birds, one dumpster. They are worlds apart really. We sniffed and snorted through the lingering sniffles of a once glorious semantic insanity. We like to talk. One or Zero... still an indeterminacy.
Jimmy is a lunatic, one of the last great lunatics. Maybe that last one. I don't know. He paced about the room like a caged cat gesturing, gesticulating, gestating and hatching forth the most marvelous rants ranging from the workings of internal combustion engines, to the trajectory of a V-2 rocket dropping down on Pynchon's London. Its not a simple arc, it's a parabola, it approaches a point, passes by scorched like Icarus, and continues on. Everything is going for Jimmy. No stopping no waiting no inertia. Always on. Just one giant phallic object screaming across the sky until it blows a giant hole in the earth. Nothing was left when he finished; he swallowed the whole world, a fantastic thing to listen to, an inversion of Jonah and the whale, phrases connecting to one another to hint at gargantuans of thought that unravel and remind you of what might have been or maybe even was. Ideas come out of him at thinking speed with no real care for how they are arranged or whether one leads to the next, tangents appear and he runs them down, pureeing with shrill incisors and grounding sinewy shreds with pulpating molars. His voice itself often has a staccato quality, chopping and pounding the air. He blasts it out of his chest in radiowave bursts and suddenly the bottom drops out and he shifts to soft sighs and pants... wheezing sorrow. He coughs some at the end of long sentences when he runs hard after the words, tracks them down with such enthusiasm that he can't hold them anymore. You can see it in his eyes-the words are an atomized blizzard of fallout, lust and hunger.
Dean would have loved it, he gets off on it too. The words though. And it doesn't matter where they come from, so long as they are words, and maybe forming ideas and eventually stories if that is still possible. I get off on it too. We all do. But Dean is up there too. Way up. There are little ups and downs and bigger ones you see, gradations of up and down, but still up and down, rising and falling, heaving and thrusting and sighing-later smoking-but just words.
Dean will come back. Dean always comes back. And then he leaves. He is here and then there. Every time there are spaces in between in which I give him up for dead, but he never dies. He comes back. Or dies a little and then comes back. He writes a lot. Not many people do that. But more will. Email. The return of the letter. The post office collapsed in conspiracy and viruses, but we find ways. Bell Labs found one. Dean writes a lot about the sex he is having. Jimmy talks a lot about the sex he is having. Chloe talks a lot about the sex she isn't having. Brooke has never mentioned sex to me. But she does to someone. Sex is all there is really, and it's enough, it's more than enough, it's all there is. And food. But most of us don't talk about food.
Dean is writing a letter. He has been writing a letter for some time now. He wants to know about things for his letter. He wants to know what I know. He wants to know about pre-natal psychology. He wants to know about venomous fish. He wants to know about nanomachines. He wants to know what lies on the other side of the great divide. I don't know about any of these things, but he tells me and then I know what he knows, but I'm not sure if I know about the things themselves or just what he knows. Jimmy is also a writer. I don't know what Jimmy writes. I've seen him with lists. I know he writes lists and he once made signs for work. He writes signs. Perhaps other things as well. Chloe writes in her journal. One spiral bound notebook a month. On the thirty-first of the month or thirtieth sometimes and once a year on the twenty-eighth, she shuffles down with a spiral notebook and we build a bonfire with fallen tree limbs and she burns the spiral notebooks. Always the next morning I get up and dig through the ashes looking for a scrap or two. Cotton candy, I found in February. And, but I guess, in March. April was particularly rich, this is the last time, it said. But May and June there was just the charred coil of wire, stretched and distorted by the heat.
Maya writes letters. I get letters. Several a week on good weeks. But Maya does not have to write, she chooses to write. She could just use the look, but I can't see it. So she sends it in cuneiform or sometimes hieroglyphs, but it doesn't translate well. Sometimes she too writes about sex, but not always. Often she writes about hunger or longing or walking or resting. Mainly she calls, but it's that look I love, that look that could be a bad movie I'd still watch.
Most of the time I am Sil Hawkard. When creditors or ex-wives are calling I am no longer Sil Hawkard, I morph. People who want things from me find that I have just stepped out. I am often just stepping out. Outside. America. Wires. Buzz and hum. I'll be right back. Just going for the papers. I come from a long line of steppers-out-for-the-papers, gypsy strands of DNA, whorish blood crawling over the eastern European hills looking for a place to call home. I am a mongrel by birth. I have olive-brown skin and no culture. I have hazel eyes but not many friends. I am five feet ten inches, but I lack cohesiveness. I weigh around one hundred and fifty pounds, but I am often unaccountably heavier. I live in self-imposed exile, but I was born in exile, so I'm used to it... comfortable even. I haven't the slightest idea how I got here; I only know that I have been here as long as I can remember.
I'm not sure that you care about this sort of thing. I'm not sure that you should. I'm not sure if I should tell it or not. There are various schools of thought which say different things. I have gone to most of them at one time or another. One in particular stands out because of the bully with the harelip who was mad because he had a harelip and took it out on the rest of us, even the girls. He nailed their pigtails to desks and stuffed the boys in trashcans. A terribly abusive wretched little kid, he will ascend the bell tower just a few days past twenty-two with a scattergun he will steal from under his father's porch and he will rain down death with his box of shells and eat two Snickers bars as the SWAT team moves into position on the rooftops of nearby buildings. He will be crying when the bullet hits him. But I still won't know what I shouldn't say.
Window shopping, perhaps stepping in to try on a shirt or two or some pants or whatever snags your eye, but never buying anything, just looking and feeling the textures of fabric rolling between your fingers. Dragging silk or lace or satin over the back of your arms to feel the chillbumps shiver down your spine. But noncommittal when the clerk smiles and unsure whether to tell her about the lipstick on her teeth or to just move on. And usually deciding to move on until one day when maybe you don't, maybe you grab her arm softly and say excuse me miss, and hand her a tissue, you have some lipstick on your teeth. And maybe she blushes and demurely turns to wipe her teeth, but thanks you and then smiles with soft, creamy teeth. And you smile back when she hands you the tissue.
I was born out of time. I had intended to be here at the beginning, but I didn't make it. In the beginning, if there was such a thing, there were no words, only phantoms wandering forested mountains. That's where I would like to have come into the show. There were enormous mountains back then, around here it would have been the tail end of the Appalachians, bigger than the modern Himalayas. Monkeys and lemurs and men in funny hats. I would have made something different. But I didn't make it in time. Still, don't ever let them convince you that you were thrown out of anything, no, it's still here. Hidden from casual glance, camouflage netting, but if you look long enough and at the right angle, you will find it. Right where you left it.
I started as a thought, a complex, vivid thought in my mother's head. The night before I was born, my mother dreamed that she and my father were sailing through the Panama Canal. The jungles cackled with lemurs while my parents drifted silently through the moonlight. It was a particularly vivid dream, the sort that tugs at your sleeve while you're trying to drink your morning coffee. When her contractions began the next day, the dream was still in my mother's mind, lulling her, a welcome memory to alleviate the growing pain. I was a tough one; I had no interest in entering this world. In the end, they cut me out. As she faded out under anesthetic, the dream grabbed my mother and led her off again, it had something to say. She looked up at my father who was holding her hand, smiling as his face faded into a tropical night sky. This time they were sailing around the Cayman Islands. Shorelines sparkled in the distance, throngs of tourists were carrying candles along the shoreline, a procession was in progress, my mother turned the till and a puff of wind drew the boat along following the line of flickering candles. She would never say where they led. Whenever she told the story a far away look would come over her eyes she would murmur to herself, tuck the covers around my chin and get up to go. She did tell me that the last thing she saw before coming to was the stern of another boat, the Silmond.
I was born in the midst of a fierce tropical storm-I'm not making this up-one of the worst on record in southern California. The recovery room that my mother was given had a broken window and she came down with pneumonia. Once, when I was about five, I heard her tell someone that I was born on a boat in the middle of a hurricane. Tall tales abound in my family. My wife used to say that that she could see clouds in my eyes when I was thinking. When I got mad she claimed they flickered like tiny thunderheads, but I can't vouch for this observation. I don't look at my reflection very often; half of my left eyebrow is missing. It had a disastrous meeting with a windshield. They were introduced by a telephone pole on highway 10 somewhere in New Mexico. For a while I was very self-conscious about it. I used to apply Rogaine to it every morning, but it never helped. I stopped looking in mirrors.
I enrolled in another school where all the children were drab and gray, but they wore the finest clothing, hand-tailored in the finest European shops, slowly measured by grandfatherly old men, stooped with age and arthritis, but possessing of delicate hands worn smooth like driftwood by years of handling the luxurious linens. The boys wore three-piece suits with little button down vests and the girls wore elaborate dresses with corsets and garters and stockings. The teachers were always talking about being naked, but really they wore the finery too. I was kicked out for hugging. Hugging was distasteful to them, the contact wrinkled their finery and the production or secretion of sweat and warm mucus was frowned upon. They were sterile people, but beautiful to look at. I learned much about what you could wear or say if you chose to, but often I chose not to and this was frowned upon. One day a beautiful teacher wearing only a corset and loose skirt with a choker around her neck and thighs that whispered when she walked, asked me to leave.
For a long time after that I wandered about aimlessly. Solving crimes in my spare time or shooting large automatic pistols with some friends on a porch outside of Wichita. I dreamed of living in a book without a plot. We shot holes in four by eight sheets of plywood, sometimes at random and other times trying to create patterns with the holes. Often the patterns looked random and the randomness smiled or frowned in distinct faces.
I grew up in Los Angeles choking on money and diesel exhaust. It was embarrassing. From the time I was old enough to dream I dreamed of leaving, but I didn't really leave until I was twenty-seven and missing half an eyebrow. Before we got divorced, my wife and I went on a three-month drive; it was our form of therapy. We had decided to 'work things out,' as she put it. We thought spending time alone, just the two of us, would bond us together. We crisscrossed the country looking for epoxy; from LA to Denver, back to Boise, down to Salt Lake City, through the Rockies again, across Kansas, down to New Orleans, up the eastern seaboard to Boston, then Canada, and eventually back to LA. My overwhelming memory of the trip is the warm smell of all night diner bathrooms, the sinks scratched from the oversized belt buckles of enormous putrefied trucker drivers. And then I forgot about her in New Orleans and drove most of the way through the Florida panhandle. I was eating take out steamed oysters on a nude beach when I realized something was missing. She got back to LA a week later. I was at Dean's house when a man with a star by his name asked me to sign papers. I poked about in LA for a while longer, working odd jobs, Dean and I tried to shoot holes in four by eight sheets of plywood, but the man with the star by his name came back and asked us not to. Eventually I decided to move to Athens with Dean and his sister Betty-to see if anything would happened. They lasted about a year. He went up, she went left.
I remember driving down a dirt road in Arizona; I couldn't have been more than five or six. I asked my father if we could drive through a magical time warp. The way I envisioned it happening, the road would suddenly just disappear, my father and I would crash into a giant cactus, we would be unhurt, but the car would be destroyed and steam would hiss out of the radiator, there would be an incredible silence, a huge overwhelming moment where we would just sit in nostalgia for the shock, listen to the hissing steam, not believing what had happened. We would drown in disbelief, but then that would give way to endless possibility; it would just be us and an uncharted, virgin planet. My father smiled at me, but there was a jaded sigh in his eyes. We traded our magic for science, skepticism for precision-no trade backs. We eroded the mountains for strip mines, the forests were clear-cut for timber, and the men with funny hats destroyed by small pox and syphilis. The phantom dreamers all packed up and headed on down the line to some other universe just a few tracks over from ours. What's left is America. One, zero, one. I can't march and that intangible future in which all the words are perfectly prearranged and you take your place at the banquet....well... I used to want something to happen-on the far side of Bell's polyparabolic vision. I used to wait with hope. There was a moment or two of naivet, but now the old nuclear foreboding has returned with gusto. Now we nervously finger magazines in the doctor's office waiting for the test results. A bric-a-brac carnival for paranoids.
The cottage I live in is a dump. The roof is rotten from termites; an extended family of rats lives in the ceiling panels. The walls are paper-thin, insulated with spider webs. I scavenged for furniture. I found a couch back when I was living with Dean, and then one day another appeared in the dumpster so I grabbed it too. The tenants before me left a bookshelf, which still has nothing on it. I've been here six months and I'm still living out of my suitcases. The sink leaks, the toilet never flushes, and there's a two-foot square hole in the middle of the living room wall. My landlord was nice enough to tack a scrap of screen over it, "keep out the 'squiters," he said. He also hired me to maintain the cottages in exchange for rent, which might explain their dilapidated state, though I do try to fix things. For the other tenants anyway. If nothing happens then nice living quarters are unnecessary. Saves me the work.
It was the last night I was in LA. I was working. It seems appropriate. Around eight o'clock, still light out, Maya sauntered through the yawning doorway. She wore a Mona Lisa smile, a turquoise shirt and tight black pants. She ruffled her dyed black hair and asked if she could have a large coffee. Her voice could have stirred the Marquis de Sade from his grave. I gave her an extra large and didn't charge her for it. I felt compelled to quit the job to have a cup of coffee with her. Later that night when I crawled out of her bed and dragged myself home, I knew that something big was coming, the way old men with trick knees can sense the storm before it arrives. Her lack of nuclear foreboding was addictive and enchanting. She smiled like nothing was wrong. She has that look. I felt like it was all going to be okay. Maya left for New York the next day. I arrived in Athens a week later. Then Maya moved back to LA, and now she is back in New York. My phone bills are more than my rent, but I don't pay rent so that's a poor comparison.
This morning the world is farm-fresh. The Twilight Zone faceless men have assembled reality to perfection-thank you Rod, it meant so much. They work feverishly all night long hauling in raw materials from the Future and building the Now. They have no identity save the ability to create. Now they are hard at work on Now they are hard at work on Now they are hard at work on.... A new manicure from early morning thundershowers adorns the streets and houses- everything is freshly washed. Athens lies in the hilly, forested region of north central Georgia, and on days like today, after a morning thundershower, the heat steams the rain back up into the air. Everywhere is a soft fog like an overgrown patch of Argentinean real estate. Everything feels tropical and sweltering; all you want to do is get some sort of fruity drink and sit on the porch. That's my plan for the day, but first I want some food.
The door bursts open and a streaking out of focus but distinctly human shape rockets across the room with such speed that a second or two elapses before it cools and condenses into the recognizable form of Jimmy. He flops down on the low-rent antique chair to a cloud of feathers screaming out the side of the velveteen pillow. They waft in the still air and slowly swan dive through the thermal of nicotine that hovers near the floor.
"You should open a door, Sil. It's smoky in here."
"Someone was knocking."
"Knocking?"
"Yeah. About an hour ago. When I first got up. There was a pounding on the door."
"Huh."
"So I couldn't open it."
"What if it was me?"
"I wasn't ready yet. I had to load."
He giggles his little Jimmy giggle, which involves an index finger brought to the lips, luxuriantly hovering over them and a downward stare as if perhaps sharing a private joke with his feet. Sometimes the whole ritual is accompanied by a slow shaking of head, but not just now.
"It was good to hang out with you last night man. I was kinda feeling like we never see each other anymore. Which is stupid since we live fifty feet away, but you know with work and all... and your gig."
"Yeah. It was good. I been locked up in here for the past couple weeks." My business card says 1066 productions: we make stuff. Lately it's been light on the make and heavy on the revise. Technical Editing they call it when they outsource. All these strange words. Technical. Outsource. Mostly I sit around all day and bill people for it.
"How is the freelance world?"
"Free. And I mean that. I gotta stop doing favors. That's the problem with this town, I know too many people and can't bring myself to bill them."
Jimmy's eyes are focused on something near the Pleiades and he is nodding and repeating yeah with Buddhist intent. When I stop talking he keeps nodding his head for a minute. "So do you remember anything about last night?"
"It was noisy. And glittering."
"Okay, cool," he practically doubles over shaking his head and laughing, "cause I don't remember much of anything except that I was on a rampage."
"You were in high form. I think you scared the shit out of Scratch."
"Naw. That man ain't scared of anything least of all some punk ass kid like me." He pauses for a minute. "Do you think we'll be that wise when we get that old. Have that weird sage intensity he's got? How old is he anyway?"
"I have no idea. Old enough to know what the word vagabond means."
"You know what I remember him saying at some point? He was talking to Brooke about something...I dunno... they were having their own side conversation and I was saying something inane to you and I remember hearing him say to her 'I do the best I can not to worry about things. Summers days are here. I have never known where I'm going, but here I am.' It blew my mind. Some people could have said that and I would have slapped them, but from him... shit. He hates poetry because he's living it."
"He hates poetry?"
"Yeah that's what he said. I just kinda looked at him. I went over to his bookshelf and there was William Carlos Williams. I didn't say anything. I just pulled it off the shelf and read the famous one...no way was I going to read something cleverly obscure... he's too old to stand for that kinda pretension..." Jimmy jumps up and grabs the William Carlos Williams sitting on my bookshelf. He flips through it for a minute and then reads aloud.
"This is just to say"
"I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast"
"Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold"
He smiles at the page, it's in on something, caught in some private joy and his shoes. Jimmy reads with neither the amateurishness nor pretension that have driven poetry readings to the far corners of New England. His voice is a plum. He swallows, "do you realize that that poem is everything I've ever wanted and never found?" He tosses the book back on the table and doesn't say anything else.
Jimmy reads like James Joyce wrote. There is nothing to say. Do you realize that that poem is everything I've ever wanted and never found? We sit in silence. I put my feet up on the coffeetable and am embarrassed by the noise.
Chloe strolls in a few moments later, dog in tow, right in the middle of the silence that follows Jimmy's restoration of sense in the universe. Chloe has thin lips like 1965 white walled radial TA's fresh off the showroom floor, painted red to match a rising coronary sun. She suffers from arthritis at the tender age of - too many cigarette years spent clutching darts and nervously twirling hair around her naked ring finger. She's wearing jeans and cowboy boots.
I am very popular in the compound because I have the only shade. I am several measurable degrees cooler until about three in the afternoon when trees or no trees the air is on the edge of barking flames. So mornings happen here and then we head for a nice apartment complex with a pool or a caf with air conditioning. Not that I mind the heat. The heat is tolerable, it's the oil that bothers me. The humidity expels a continuous slick of grease from the pores, as if cellular oil tankers were constantly wrecking all over your body.
"James. Sil. Looking like you boys had a nice evening." She sits on the couch next to me and raises an eyebrow to encourage storytelling, but I remain silent and Jimmy mutters something about jazz.
"Oh. I see. Well. I had another bad date."
Chloe loves bad dates. She prefers to go out with men she finds both visually disgusting and mentally challenged. "This one had a tattoo of a chicken on his calf that jiggles when he flexes it, which of course he just had to show me in the middle of dinner by standing up and putting his leg on the table." She chuckles. "There is absolutely no shame in your brains, you know that don't you?"
"I love you Chloe, but your generalizations do not include me." Jimmy stands up. "I'm going to work on the Falcon."
"See." The white walls grin triumphantly.
I close the door behind Jimmy and pour myself a glass of water.
"Are you drinking wine in the morning? In this heat?"
"It's not that hot in here."
"Yes, but at some point you will have to face the outside world where it is hot."
"I guess. But it's not wine. It's water."
"Oh. Well, if you get some wine tell me, I'd like to have a glass."
"But it's over a hundred outside."
"Sil it's wine. We all have our weaknesses. You really shouldn't put water in wine bottles, it teases me in uncomfortable ways that force me to confront yearnings and desires my young mind tries desperately to avoid. I went to catholic school you know." Impish smile. But she didn't really. She just likes to say it and then smile impishly.
I got sick of running out of cold water in the Brita and I had all these empty wine bottles so one day I washed one of them out and filled it up with water. But that proved insufficient because inevitably, in my laziness, I didn't fill it up again right away. I have to get the funnel you know, and it's too much effort when you just want a glass of water at three in the morning to wash down the egg sarnie you fried up in a drunken, desperate, last ditch effort to not wake up with a pounding headache the next morning. Right then all you want is a tall refreshing glass of water that tastes like a French girl you once saw standing in the doorway of some terracotta apartment building with a luxurious courtyard of ferns and fig trees and clay pots full of honey, all of which you never noticed because you were transfixed by the French girl who was actually a Polish immigrant who moved to Paris just two months earlier to work for an internet design firm. That's the kind of water you want with that bacon egg and cheese burrito. Or with tomatoes and maybe potatoes too. Maybe all sorts of leftover vegetable that ordinarily might be tossed out but appear edible and even lovely to your teetering, alcohol soaked, three in the morning eyes. So I decided to up the number of bottles. This way the filling, while more cumbersome and time consuming when done, can be done with much less frequency. Two bottles sufficed until a week ago when the same tragedy occurred concerning a glass of water that this time was intended to taste like cuddling Eskimos, but ended up far too warm and straight from the tap to ever conjure Eskimos and now I have three bottles which I just refilled yesterday afternoon and so will taste however I desire.
"Have you ever heard Jimmy read?"
"You mean like read out loud? No. Do people still do that?"
"Yeah some of them. You should hear him some time."
"Okay. I will" She turns sideways and throws her legs up on the arms of the couch. Chloe is as tall as I am and she occupies the entire couch. I take refuge in the chair.
"What should we do today?" Chloe lights a Camel.
"Try to take over the world."
"Oh how witty." Fluttering of the eyes. "Which, when you think about it, is all we've really got. But no. What would we do once we took over?"
"I don't know. Sit back and tell everyone they're free."
"Maybe. But, don't you think we'd be corrupted by the system and we'd want to cling to our pathetic little construction of power?"
"I like to think not."
"Yeah well I don't think most people grow up saying 'mommy I want to be a despot when I grow up.'"
"I bet Idi Amen did."
"Maybe.
"Can't you see a little Idi Amen chopping grasshoppers heads off and scheming designs on the birds while he's played outside his hut or whatever. The kind of scheming that's cute in three-year-olds."
Chloe's head collapses back when she laughs, and it's a guttural laugh, but high pitched and her left arm twitches a little when she really gets rolling, but right now it doesn't because she only chuckles and then her head snaps back forward. "Yeah I can see that. But I was thinking maybe we could get a jigsaw puzzle or something."
"A jigsaw puzzle?"
"Yeah. Why not?"
"Frustrating. Very very frustrating."
"But fun because you're struggling."
"Maybe."
"Well I'm going to go to K-mart and get a jigsaw puzzle and you're going to help me with it."
"Okay, but I'm not going to K-mart, florescent lights scare me."
"I understand. I'll be back in a bit."
Scratch used to sing "you got to get behind the mule every morning and plow" when he was hunting around the fridge for coffee grounds. The "fridge" was an old icebox that Scratch had found on the side of the road and patched up. When he drank too much and passed out before sundown, he'd forget to restock it. The melted remnants of yesterday's block of ice would eventually force open the door and the bag of coffee would go sliding across the kitchen floor, skittering to all kinds of strange places. "You got to get behind the mule every morning and plow" Scratch used to sing when he looked for the bag. When he invariably found the coffee lying in the farthest crack, he would squat down and scoot it along the floor over to the table, laughing and singing "...every morning and plow..." He would do this little dance, all crooked and insane. I lived with Scratch for a while after Dean left. He had a bad knee that made his dancing comical. I used to sit there and watch him do that hypnotic, crooked little dance of his. He would start gyrating at the knees, flopping his arms about while he sang. The first time I saw him do it I thought he was having a seizure the way he convulsed wildly about. In India they teach that dance to snakes and, in the sewers of America, cockroaches feasting on radioactive waste have begun to learn it on their own. Like terrible creatures from a Kafkian nightmare, they sit quietly underground. We go about our lives while they are learning that dance, passing it on to their children, teaching them how to use it. One day a properly evolved cockroach will crawl out of a sewer drain just as the head of state is stepping to the podium to address the nation... devour the president raw as the live internet streams feed the blood soaked scene. The cockroach will scurry to the podium, strain himself to an upright position and address the nation... "Behold I am." He will dance and spin and enchant... the numbers will explode. Scratch was one of kind. Later I found out the line is a Tom Waits lyric.
I am sitting outside the caf smoking and sweating. It's two days hotter. Jimmy pulls up in the Falcon, all grinning like he's getting away with something. He is freshly shaven; he looks like a Unix cultist. He has close shaven hair and thick framed, black, sixties style glasses, but he's more gearhead and really he's neither geek nor gearhead. He revs the engine a few times before getting out. He's wearing a greasy, oil-stained jumpsuit and racing gloves. He leaves the motor running and sits down at the table with me.
I have been occupied with trying to reconstruct Jimmy's descriptions of Williamsburg and Brooklyn in my head, trying to assimilate a whole city from them, trying to put Maya in them, but she won't fit. Unfortunately, Up There will have nothing to do with Down Here, they dance and dance, but Up There can never get her hands into Down Here's pants. I give up. Even Jimmy says he can't remember what living in New York was like and he's only been back a year. I've never lived there, just a handful of visits, weeks here and there, but I'm moving someday. I try to picture Maya running down the street to greet me-her with that Breakfast at Tiffany's smile.
"I installed a four barrel carburetor after I left your place the other day...increased power," he grins at me, but the grin fades to a sheepish curl. "You want to get some lunch?"
It's nearly dinner, but maybe that's only time speeding up. There is a plethora of food not five feet from where we are sitting, but I want to go for a ride in the Falcon. The custom headers he installed last week make it roar like a primordial beast-something slinky and covered with scales that crawled out of the Ford plant back when great steel dinosaurs ruled the land. A beautifully sleek environmental nightmare in the midst of disposable soda cans on wheels. Jimmy wants to drive. Heads turn at every corner, herbivores gawking at the revving, roaring carnivores with a mixture of admiration, envy and fear. The Falcon howls from a standstill to breakneck speed, the force neatly ashing my cigarette in the process. The impenetrable jungle across the road steams like a freshly washed beggar, thick kudzu itches at elms and maples. The Japanese revenge on the Americans who chased them around the South Pacific jungles. War stories are always set in jungles this century-New Guinea, Cambodia, Guatemala, Columbia; soldiers march in jungles, hacking vines, contracting microbes unknown. Sultry jungles that should have steamed up history with lovers, sweaty and exhausted, but instead turned to horror and death, and still stink of centipede nibbled bones. Rot. Blurs of grass waving in the wind of cars ahead, shopping centers, mini malls, open fields, bovine genetic research centers next to botanical gardens followed by apartment complexes. The homogenized sanitized landscape of America. I long for the desert, the candyland Gaudi imitated, to roar across the dinosaur bones of Utah, the sandstone caverns harboring the remains of a drip sandcastle youth.
I see you standing in front of the bay window that looks out from the bedroom into the courtyard of your building on Minetta. I watch you from the bed languishing on stained white sheets. You are wearing nothing, leg propped up on the sill, standing and swaying slightly to the beat of a thick base drum. Your flesh is soft milk froth; you walk back to the stove and light a cigarette off the burner, swinging your ass to the music, mainly for my benefit. Do not worry Maya. I am not so far away as memory, I will come to the city soon, but it must be the right moment. Be on edge; be aware. I am letting you grow inside me Maya; I am incubating you for a little while longer so that when you hatch it will be like stepping into a cage with lions, no club, no gun, only naked and trembling.
Jimmy is heading out of town, down farther, we pass signs for the interstate, and he turns in the opposite direction. Neither of us speaks, the stereo does not work. There is only the rush of humid air. The wind carving in violent eddies around the side mirrors, a primitive whistling tune, the first amplified song-telegraphs heard in the distance, coming from far on the other side of the rockaway-wind blasting down ancient conifers and cycads, dusty meteor backdrafts carving fresh sandstone into parabolic arches that begin far below the surface. My oldest memory is of walking down a trail in Canyonlands National Park. I am singing a song as I walk, but I'm not really walking, I'm on my father's shoulders. He is walking and I am singing a song with him and my mother. We are hiking down from the mesa tops to the Green River, I can see the clumped fringes of the junipers, smell fecund woodrot and fresh desert air, feel the bruised and sullen thunderheads in the sky above me as I bounce and sway with my father's lurching downhill gait, but I can't make out the words or identify of the song. I just have the fuzzy outlines of it all. Memories shrouded in gauze and muslin, filters that color and tone the past with the palate of the present. Mexico City: I remember Mexico City in a hazy, brown, discolored way, but it's not the smog-scenes of dust, carbon excrement overlaying each other-a photomontage of choking, exhausted skies. In flickering stills, twenty four frames per second, here and there a frame or two missing, little glitches...jagged cut to a subway shot, brown faces black hair ... lay on top an image of pyramid excavation, digging up to solve the Mayan Caper... years ago, you understand... she was standing right next to me and then...a warm, sweet smelling cab and my father said, "Hey, look-a Kentucky Fried Chicken," a kaleidoscope of disappointment and guilt... the shock of fried chicken. Everything focusing into the sun; burnt in fantastical visions-not fear in the sense of a threat, much worse, a lingering in the back of the mind occasionally eliciting a paralysis that haunts indefinitely, then fades again in the face of day to day activities-it's all going to stop someday.
It's a fear that leaves you like a woman I saw once, stone still, shell-shocked, and stuck in the middle of an enormous red rock arch in Canyonlands. She was paralyzed on a narrow strip of sandstone, a fragile bridge hundreds of feet in the air. The digging hooks of unbridled terror had burned into her brain and created a spellbinding feedback loop that forbade her to move. It's a fear that anchors your mind back in the primate body because you feel, you cannot rationalize it away. It rips you out of the very fabric of collective reality and propels you into strange space where there is only you. I watched her stuck there, unable to help herself, no doubt staring at the four-hundred foot drop-off on both sides of her and the meager four-foot wide sandstone arch that held her frail existence in place. Suspended in mid-air, she saw herself for the first time the way we are: naked, cold and deathly afraid.
"Here in Mexico City there is no Kentucky Fried Chicken, maybe Kentucky Fried Cat, Kentucky Fried Dog, but definitely no Kentucky Fried Chicken," the cab driver smiles crooked piano key teeth, gold caps and black octaves over moist gums that crawl down hiding the strings. He sternly advises against eating there.
It's near dark and another lazy thunderstorm drifts in from the southwest. The clouds are somber and premature darkness closes over the world. Could easily be the Northeast-New York- Brooklyn-fall-the East River slips by without a sound, the streets corral throngs of people-onlookers too drunk to remember what they are there to look at. They lurch out of bars and bounce against doorways like grenades rolled out on the street. Inside the steel doors, a reserve of surplus energy is released in muscular spasms that pulse rhythmically-her breasts pool salt onto my tongue. Her flesh is hard and metallurgic, turning brittle under my hands. The fear is slowing slipping out of her, out of the sewers, up celestial heights, among the eagles, the screaming eagles, hovering like 1910 bankers awaiting the thief. The tape is endless, looping across eons, cultures, genetic hardwired connections to the galaxies, interstellar abbreviations of life. Cool hard water distills in my mouth and then she falls from my arms like a collapsing supernova and I am cast down a tube, a tunnel, endlessly falling, clattering off the walls, building speed in a vacuum with no terminal velocity. Reach out for limbs, for human hands to catch me.... Scream and there is no sound; settle in, the twinkling light shining above. Surrendered eternity forever to remain here now and then the light goes dim... the taxis in Times Square... An auburn haired girl I loved in seventh grade... Radio broadcasts of unknown origin pulling down the multiverse's own information superhighway at a genetic tilt, coming across the galaxy without static, pure unadulterated signal, and, through it all, ash keeps falling. Fragments of history written on burnt paper and cast about in a hurricane. Whitewashed ceilings hanging low and ominous.... Bubble-headed figures crawling like the Michelin Man across an insurmountable mountain of tires, wounds agape, thick clumps of oil leaking from his mouth. And the autistic child pointing at you, laughing, unable to fathom how you cling to your definitions. Must delineate between abnormality and those of us who.... breeding like rats unconsciously conscious and aware of our disorganization. Cold fusion dreams of the anarchist are breeding in the minds of the oilmen. The continual settling of dust weighing down...the Mayan priest laboring slowly up endless steps.... Kevlar definitions constructed to make a better shampoo. Squander your paperbacked slavery bills. After all these years Tide still gets your socks whiter. It's a wonder ...that they aren't transparent by now ...that evolution did not anticipate the advent of the opposable thumb.... The unopposable domination of the thumb, leading to an insect superiority, mating rituals stolen from a textbook on damselflies ...darning needles, sewing shut your lips. Shit from the sky. Taxman comes for your baby. Unpaid balance. You understand. Nothing personal, just doing our job. Same as the next guy. From Auschwitz on down the line. The puncture wounds... Only taking orders you understand, just doing our job from Independence on down the line. A sad money grubbing hunter gathers up his children and thanks his gods they are his and he their god. Only taking orders you understand. Got a family to feed.
And then the dirt driveway. Shifting to park. The keys slide from the ignition. The last crackle of radio. Pop. Hiss. Silence. Open the doors. Crush out the cigarette. End transmission.
TWO
Blinking fire flies-twenty four frames per second-do da do dada-roosting-hear we go again- charred steel drooping-sniffing-bagpipes wheezing-stuttering the future-glistens and sparkles by design-can you hear-the morning line-the polyphony-new everyday-falling off your tongue-was it good for you?
It's huge and it looks like nothing. Just tiny flecks of color dissected into purposefully nonlinear shapes. It's maddening. It looks like nothing and it's everywhere. All over the porch, scattered on the kitchen table, and some still in the box. There are baggies with tape and cyptic markings indicating things about what will go into the baggies. There is a taxonomy of chaos at work here, a kind of organization forming out of the primordial color-flecked soup of cardboard. It will still look like nothing when it's fully assembled, when the taxonomy has made the inevitable trudge from system to working explanation, and this of course delights Chloe to no end. Even when it's done we will have to sit back and stare at it with out-of-focus eyes to see what it is.
We are sitting on the edge of the porch and it is behind us. Looking at it was giving me a headache. We haven't said a word. She gets up and goes to the fridge for beer.
"What did you do today?" Chloe gives me a beer and sits back down. She straightens the hem of dress across her knees and rubs at some unaccounted for redness on her elbow.
"Nothing. Played myself in backgammon."
"Did you win?"
"I'm not sure. It's hard to tell."
Annie is running circles around the tree with her characteristic antelope bounding. Dogalope. She seems to believe she has treed a squirrel. Chloe twists the cap off her beer and throws it at Annie. She swallows and leans back away from me studying the phrenology of my close-cropped scalp. "Don't you get lonely dating someone in New York?"
"I guess so. I mean it wasn't always that way."
I drift off watching Annie huffing and digging at some sort of rodent hole.
"Yeah I know. But you could move there."
Whatever is down the hole has become a quest. Perhaps a rabbit. Maybe a gopher. Or some other burrowing type animal I've never heard of.
"No. I can't afford it. Besides, I like the woods." a moment later I change my mind. Actually it was always this way. Or was it? If it was then is it? If it is then was it? If the gopher is down the hole, was the gopher ever not down the hole? If the gopher is not down the hole, was he ever down the hole? Can I say for sure whether one or the other is true? Or is it simply that the gopher changes of its own volition and I can only guess at it's secrets?
When I snap to for a cigarette Chloe is clearly expecting an answer.
"What?" With nervous guilt.
"Have you listened to anything I've been saying?"
"No." Less nervous, increased guilt.
"See?"
"What?"
"Exactly." She leans her head on my shoulder. "Sil I was trying to explain that I know I'm deliberately avoiding intimacy by only going out with men that repulse me, but I can't bring myself to risk anything anymore."
"Oh."
A cascading silence ebbs in. Crickets. June Bugs. Cardinals. Squirrels. Mosquitoes.
"Risk. Is that what it is?"
"Of course. And its silly, but I fear it. I really do. It's not even that I fear it, well, I don't know. In my mid twenties I went through that cynical phase, you know, where I just wanted to get laid and stay single and have my freedom or whatever. And sure I went to my friend's weddings and I acted happy and everything, but inside it hurt me to see them give up. To settle into the same suburbia we tried to get out of, or at least I thought we we're trying to get out of." Chloe purses her lips, juts out the lower one and half blows half spits a stray clump of hair back up toward its brethren which are pulled back in a loose, and apparently somewhat ineffectual, ponytail.
"I lived like a 60's astronaut." She laughs. "And now that nearly everyone I know has gotten married or at the very least is so obsessed with their career-whatever the fuck that word means-I find myself alone. Don't take that the wrong way Sil, you know I love you. And James. And Scratch. And everybody else too. But I feel like the last woman on the moon. I feel like there was supposed to be more. I feel like saying, 'I feel like there was supposed to be more' shouldn't be such a clich. Kinda reinforces the original sentiment."
"Maybe there really did use to be more."
"You believe that?" Her skeptic eyes are measuring.
"Does it matter?"
"Maybe. But all this is just abstraction, what I started out to say was that I don't fear intimacy, I fear lack of independence. But I'm thirty now and I already know I'm not going to do anything with my life. I don't think I'm going home. I think I'm the last woman on the moon and I'm waving off the lander. Go home. I'm staying. I like it here. You know what the first thing an astronaut said the first time the orbited the moon? He said 'well, it's pretty gray.' It's pretty gray, Sil. It's pretty fucking gray. I'm trying to come to terms with the world not living up to my ideals and this asshole orbiting the moon says it's pretty fucking gray. Fuck him." Chloe wraps her hands around her legs pulling them tight to her chest and rests her cheek on her knees.
"He had an impoverished imagination."
Her head snaps up. "Life is a collision of imagination and observation Sil. He fucking failed."
"Maybe."
"No Sil. He failed. He was one of about thirty people that have seen the moon up close and all he got out of it was that it's gray. He fucking failed."
"You're assuming that gray meant nothing to him, but what if his grandmother had gray eyes and that was the one memory that came back to him when he was overwhelmed by being that close to the moon."
She rests her cheek on her knee again and rocks back and forth for a minute before speaking. "You're sweet Sil. You always defend people and want to think the best about them. I love you for that. In spite of the fact that deep down you're cynical too. But you try and that's what I love about you." Chloe stands and turns to go inside and fix lunch. She looks down at me with eyes I don't remember. "You know I once cried so hard I swallowed a moth." And she walks inside without another word.
After a while I follow her into the kitchen. Annie trots behind sniffing invasively at my butt. "Need help?"
Chloe shakes her head. I sit down at the table and try to ignore the puzzle pieces screaming at me in tinny squeals: we all fit together. We all fit together. We all fit together.
Chloe is chopping shallots with more force than is necessary, I can see her tricep flexing as her arm rapidly minces the shallots. "I was supposed to go out with this guy. This was junior high. Maybe high school. No junior high. Anyway we were supposed to ride our bikes to the park in the evening and he never showed up and I waited and waited. I was so in love with this guy. So at about 10 o'clock I'm out on the porch-sobbing now." She stops cutting and turns toward me. "You know those huffing snorting kind of sobs that women have when they're really upset? Hyperventilating sobs." She briefly demonstrates and ends up snorting like a warthog with emphysema. It's tragic and not a little bit funny. "And I was chewing gum. I always used to chew gum. So I'm in the rocking chair sobbing, arms around my knees... this is so pathetic... I inhaled a moth somehow and before I realized it I chewed him right into my gum. It was crackly at first, but then more like chewing feathers."
Her attention returns to the shallots. "I had a lot of disturbing, uh, incidents in childhood. I used to kidnap cats when I was little."
"Kidnap cats?"
"My parents wouldn't let me have a cat so I would go out and steal them from neighbors. At first I just petted them you know. Then I got one to follow me home. I felt like he loved me more than his owners and I cried when my parents took him home. I was probably seven or eight when this happened. After that I went farther from home, several blocks away where I knew my parents wouldn't know whose cat it was and they would have to post signs, found: cat. That sort of thing so, you know, I would have the cat for longer."
"Right."
"But these cats wouldn't follow me home. Too far I guess. So I would save my lunch money and on the way home from school I'd stop at Circle K and buy myself a slushy and Moon Pie and can of cat food. Then I'd ride my bike past my house, way back into the subdivision and lure cats home by dragging the cat food on a string behind my bike. One time I pulled into my driveway with three cats running behind me."
"You were a cat rustler."
"Yeah you know maybe that was the Texan coming out. Got to steal animals... I don't know. But one time after my parents had posted found cat signs and stuff this old lady came to our house to pick up her cat and she was so excited that I had found her cat she gave me twenty dollars, which, when we were kids was a lot of money. And bells went off in my head. So then I started kidnapping the cats for profit. I mean when I could. I tried to pick cats that looked pampered or that were sitting in front of old lady houses. You know lots of papers collecting on the porch. Beat up seventies sedans. I was pretty good at casing the block and finding the old lady cats. When they would come over I'd put on a cute little dress and smile and play dumb and they would give me a reward. One month I made $200. That's when my parents caught on."
"What'd they do?"
"Bought me a cat."
"Smart."
"Yeah, but by then I didn't want one."
Chloe has made a variation of a salad Scratch taught her how to make. Chloe can take an already good idea and transform it into something even better than it was. She is a shallot among onions. We eat spoonfuls of tuna tartar on toasted bread crusts and sip now warm beer. We sit under the tree away from the screaming puzzle, on what passes for a lawn. Here and there are tufts of grass, but mainly it's dirt, good digging dirt. Later we take the dishes inside and head off to the river. After a few cookie-cutter suburbs and a quick duck along the side of a house, sneaking over the back fence, heaving the dog and all, a shortcut Jimmy found a few months back, we join the river trail. Annie is fifty yards ahead darting about sniffing, endless sniffing, there must be a whole universe of smell that we never experience owing to evolutionary prioritizing, specialization, some such idea, certainly there seems enough to drive her insane with smell lust. We stick to the trail along the river's edge, walking absently, single file, paying little attention to each other. About half a mile's walk from the bridge where the road crosses the river, there is a rocky outcropping that juts out to the middle of the Oconee. Ever since the first warm days of spring we have been walking down here and lying on this rock, shirtless, basking in the sun like pink fleshy lizards. It's beautiful here, trees in bloom, sun warm and bright, air thick with river humidity, birds chattering in the bushes. Dragonflies flit in the middle of the sun-drenched stream; water striders dart about in pockets of glassy water stagnant from the sheltering rocks and fallen tree limbs. It is nothing but beautiful here, except that it's ugly. The old growth forests are gone, the river polluted with old tires, plastic baggies, and pesticides, and the sky choked with dirty brown haze and crisscrossed by streaking jet contrails. Still if you lie down and close your eyes, listen to the water and the insects and the birds and carefully edit out the cars back on the bridge, it sounds Mesozoic. It sounds inviting and warm. Careful editing. It's something you learn from film or television, you know just when to turn, just when to cut, just when to fade out, when the sunset imperceptible begins to wan, when the moment has reached apex, when the crescendo is tapering, and you turn away, spin the dial, change the channel. The couple is standing on the bluff with the setting sun behind them, maybe it's a tight shot, their faces two stories high and her moist lips backlit by a heart attack red in the sky, gentle purple clouds between their lips. The circle swooping pelicans and power lines and passing cars have been excluded from our view, or maybe it's a medium shot, from the waist up, them leaning on the black iron railing, the tops of the bluff in the distance keep your eyes from drifting off into the curtains, they draw you in, and the heart attack and the purple, she purses her lips so you know they are wet, inviting, soft. Maybe it's a long shot, they are smaller yet, only shadows now, happening against a background of pelicans and power lines and foreshortened cars passing in front; they are background now, noise around the edges of the scene, and yet they pull you forward, you demand the camera move in, you want it so badly, you want to be closer, you want to move in microscopic close-ups, the pores of her skin, the follicles of his stubble, the cracks of lipstick, the oil in their glands, the beautiful flaws they must have. Maybe they are shot from a boom, from above because you are better than them, you know their isolation is illusory, you sense them as you sense a computer is on the instant you step into a room, and you never forget that light is projected, your imagination drifts to dust in the beam, floating particles, they are part of the story too, because it is the same story, it is the only story, the only story there will ever be, the only story there is, forcing you to take it all in, to see everything-polluted and pure in one breath without looking. And Maya, where are you breathing? I am coming to you in a sweeping pan. In a long, low-flying, forward-looking shot that sweeps in, skimming over the Bronx, tenement bricks and children playing in empty lots, a bottle rocket shoots up and away, and across the river in a blink, the coughing brownstones of Harlem, then straight over the park, panning down with no foresight now, blindly buildings pass faster and faster and then sweeping up, screaming higher up and slowly falling over, a barnstorming backward loop and then diving down in jerky frames of cloud, distant skyscrapers, and a close up falling, down the bricks of a building fourteen stories high to the window on the north side of the third floor. And she is backlit by the evening sun reflected in the mirror, and it is too bright to see clearly, she is a shadow and then we move up again, gliding now like a bird, a falcon, a peregrine falcon roosting among the high rises of Wall Street, setting off hunting, skimming the wires and cables of the Manhattan Bridge, down Flatbush Avenue over the fire escapes of Seventh and First where one day, years from now, it might all make sense, dipping down to see the soft caressing bars of the railing where we will play games in the hot sun and laugh and not know what has become of ourselves but like where we come from, from these long running memories that look beautiful in the dark velvet draped room where no one is looking as the camera sweeps out now, over Coney Island, the lapping waves, and then finally the mouth of the river and only the endless rippling of sea, skimming closer, swells merging into one continuous mass that screams the same story again. We all fit together. We all fit together. We all fit together.
THREE
Slice life like bread gets stale faster-music gets rid of voice-guitar retires- faster newer smaller stuff-emotional plague hits west coast-thousands lost-Mayan caper inferred-ancient city found-new reality tunnel finished-down the driveway-next to the old rabbit hole-heads on tails-significantly more anxious-needed every day-sweeter than this-
Jimmy is sweeping the porch as I stroll up, his thin frame lost in a dusty cloud. He stops and coughs a minute or two. The haze settles a bit. He takes off his glasses and wipes them on the inside of his shirt. He is covered in dust with eyes ringed lemur white. Jimmy is a carpenter. A post-graduate carpenter because sawdust is more complex than the simple stuff of library shelves. Sawdust is soft tallow, a malleable tonic, and open to further disintegration, wood chips from rough planing, smaller particles expelled from whirling blades, the sugary whisper of dust expelled from sandpaper. Libraries have only one flavor of dust. Human debris. Tiny flecks of shedding skin accumulating around the glacial increase of perfect-bound knowledge, the decay of people, slowly falling apart in alphabetic lives. Sawdust is the evolution of form. Termites eat sawdust. Destruction and digested rebirth. Jimmy builds things with his hands. Sometimes pocked, slapshod things, framing and roofing to restore dilapidated houses. Once he spent two weeks digging in the crawlspace of a cinderblock shotgun house, thinking the whole time it was going to fall and squash him with the cockroaches and rats that scurried over his legs. His more exciting projects are the highly skilled woodworking ones-the gorgeous black walnut wine cellar he built last fall. He took me over to see it when it was done, sanded down to 220 grit, satin and specular, obsidian. It lives in the basement of a restaurant owner. It harbors vintage grapes from around the world behind its temperature-controlled, walnut-framed, glass doorway. There is a vacuum fan to suck out the dust and a once-a-week maid to free those particles too stubborn for wind.
In the process of building things, Jimmy goes in and out of many people's houses, under them, on top of them, and once, accidentally, through one of them. He sees an endless variety of lives revealed in collectibles, faded magazines, dolls, signs of defunct companies, pictures of children, vacations, friends, works by artists known and unknown, technological gadgets galore, and once, accidentally, his own contribution to an otherwise ornate living room-a ceiling, a fan, and a Jimmy deposited by gravity on a nice wooden coffee table covered with miniaturized food which had been set up for a dinner party. Jimmy invades people's lives. But they invite him in. And pay him for the invasion. Sometimes they pay him in things rather than money. Today he came home with a truck full of castoff furniture he has accumulated over the last several months. He has been storing it in his parents' garage, but now he is taking the plunge toward permanence, toward admitting residence. His truck is piled high with heavy objects, a sofa, a table, several chairs, a pinball machine recovered from his parents garage, and boxes of records that are too scratched to play.
"The only one I know for sure works is this Dylan album." He pulls out Blonde on Blonde.
"Never heard it."
"Really? Shit man. This is perhaps the greatest album ever made. I mean I might say that if I were the sort of person who said such things. Of course it's not true, but it is. Possibly. You have got to listen to it."
"No record player."
"Oh I have it on CD. Remind me."
As we unload the furniture Jimmy talks about Bob Dylan. When Jimmy is on a roll, it's best to just settle in and listen. He doesn't talk, he orates. There is no space in the conversation, no silence into which you might interject your own thoughts. Nor is there any discussion until he finishes the initial thought, and by the time you've let that one sink in, he's off on another. Eventually they pile up on each other, an enormous anthill, and you can only stand back and admire the scurrying echoes of his verbal architecture.
He has the history of Dylan seemingly wired to his tongue. He knows things about Dylan that Dylan doesn't know. He can do the same thing with jazz musicians that were dead before either of us were born.
"That album man, you have got to get that one...." He gives me this intense look as if my very life depends on it. "Whew. Man. It's the most amazing thing you have ever heard...again, if I were prone to making definitive statements like that, which I'm not. But, still it's incredible, a man at his most honed, unselfconsciously sharpened point, pure honesty, just telling it the way it is, and you know it is because you've been through the same things in your own life, or you can see them coming down the road. Ya know? It's Dylan just laying it all out on the table and you know that he's been there because you've been there too. That's what I'm trying to say. We've all been there and that is the underlying thing on the whole album, I mean fuck the music-well no, because it's great too-but you know what I mean? Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands... you have got to hear that man, you have got to hear that song." We put down an enormous toolbox in the middle of the living room. "And the images, man the fucking images, you can't fake images with that kind of power. They aren't just words cleverly strung together, it isn't some bullshit cleverness strung out on a hook, lying in wait for some beret to bite or anything of that sort. To sing what he does, whew, man," he blows a long slow exhale of admiration. "You have to feel it. You have to fucking feel it. Otherwise..."
"Otherwise you wouldn't feel it."
"Exactly." He smiles eyeing the toolbox, "I think I'll just use this as a coffee table. Is that too white trash gearhead? To have a toolbox as a coffee table? I broke up with what's her name you know. She's crazy. Or I am. There was something crazy about us. It didn't work. The point is if I have a toolbox as a coffee table I'm going to stay single, that much is clear. But is it going to hamper my getting laid? Is it a little too much? Do I need to soften the room a bit? Something that will make a woman more at ease?
"Chloe won't be over."
"She's not over now. She hangs out at your place. She only comes over here when she's out of weed."
"I don't think having a toolbox in the middle of your living room will effect your getting laid at all. I mean, if you actually get a girl back here, I'd say she's already into you. Or she's too scared to run."
"Hey now."
"I just mean, you know, when you drive in here at night... hell I expect to get killed every time I come home. Its all dark and foresty back here. We all live in the serial killer's house. Think about it, Jason started in cabins in the woods. Every late night skinnemax movie has one of these places in it."
"Hey maybe we could make some cash letting low-budge films shoot around here."
"Maybe. But the point is you're better off going to her house anyway."
"Yeah."
We drink beer and unload furniture. Jimmy keeps going back to Dylan every time we're standing at the tailgate because the record is sitting on top of the box and he avoids the box in favor of much heavier, bulkier items. A glass table for the kitchen. A bookshelf in one corner. An antique pinball machine with the tilt alarm blinking stupidly as we half drag half carry it inside. He rediscovers the album every return trip. But Dylan is only the launch pad, there is only so much one can say, from there he slings out along the Saturn line shouting down echoes of the view. His eyebrows arch up when he tries to talk and lift something at the same time. When he's not carrying something, his arms dice up the air trying to drive his point home. His voice leads out the door down the steps and back to the album.
"I'm telling you, you have got to hear that album. I can't believe you lived this long without hearing that album. But it's not just an album. It's a verb, an act in which the artist connects with the audience and transcends this kind of stale artificial reality that says we're all separate and individual and what not. We're hung up on this individuality kick you know, the freedom to do your own thing. You only go so far. Your mind maybe infinite but your body is not. That's the essential mystery maybe. And we need community to go further. And I don't mean some West Virginia hippy crap kind of community. I mean meaningful relationships with other people. And not just like-minded people, because that's the clause that's often at the end of that line. You need to know people you hate. People that make you cringe. People that stir violence in you. You need them. You need them because you are them. Them is you. Ugly and sweet."
It is one of those Octavio Paz nights where the sky speaks Spanish and looks surly, doubly purple its usual self, and the stars are a Navaho sand painting stretched across the ceiling of the world. Serpentine eels wiggling around in the electrical storm of the mind. Lightening strikes somewhere, a thought in an architect's head, suspension bridge wires, wink and smile.
The Falcon roars. It is our fading youth, but not middle aged or mid-twenties crisis sort of fading youth. Such things having come and gone with the uncomfortable realization that nothing ever happens. Tall buildings are raised. Then razed. You go on. You don't want to. You want it to be painful, you want it to be so fucking gloriously painful it makes you cry. But it doesn't. And even if it did, what then? Space changes. Time fluctuates. But it plods on, the purr and growl of cylinders roaring, then settling, then roaring. In the intermittent silence of shifting gears the questions loom, perhaps it is all a lie and you are alone, perhaps the questions are only slow, insidious dribbles of propagandacid trickling from your oil filter, leaving thick meaningless splotches on the asphalt, a slow drain needing only a new filter. Perhaps you are sitting in the machine, on the machine, perhaps the machine is you, the acceleration an extension of femur to tibia, to talus, to phalanges and fading slowly from flesh and bone to leather and rubber, and then metal rods, a cable snaking through the firewall, an exposed and surprisingly flimsy extension from mind to throttle in one unbroken line, room for silence only in the space between sole and accelerator.
Downtown. The Manhattan. We are in the Manhattan. There are drinks on the table, drinks poured in the mismatched helter-skelter collection of glasses used to transfer the goods into the service. Jimmy is talking, no longer his animated self, a brief pause, his second wind will kick in soon. He is saying things quietly. Excuses I believe. Excuses for the excuses that have grown weary of dragging around. He feels nothing is getting done and he knows why. It isn't going to get done. Lullabies. Turn the page. When you look in his eyes, his moving lips, they look just like yours, how you imagine yours to look, how yours must look when you spit out your own excuses for the excuses that are excusing things you perhaps ought not to have been trying to do in the first place and you wonder if people look at your teeth when you talk or do they look at your eyes with the arrogance of complacency and contentment, watching smugly as your teeth begin to fall out, and you chew them, bleeding gums, torn lips and chunks of tooth choking back the words.
And all the while the shuffling of indie rock feet scuffing from door to bar, the awkward brush of corduroy pants, the stealthy screaming fibers of too tight t-shirts stretching to meekly collect drinks and shuffle off to a corner table. But we are in the corner table. We have your corner table. You are in the open now. You are exposed. All of you. We're staring at you. Do you feel on stage? Isn't it what you've always wanted? The thing too dangerous to be dreamed, the thing you have denied yourselves for so long. Slouching, weepy-eyed, meekly waiting to inherit? This is what you want. We are giving you the opportunity. You are seizing it, I can see it in your hunched shoulders, the semi-permanent curvature of the spine developed from too many years spent bending over thrift store racks, record bins, eyes squinted from reading the imprints of limited edition vinyl. You will come here soon. Soon the filters will spring leaks. Thick warm liquid will begin to ooze out, cigarette breath grow hotter, hearts sputter, and you will want to feel, you will want so fucking bad to feel. But it doesn't come. It is leaking out from under you, crumbling from the inside. Violent smugness is leaking from drinks, hazardous waste collecting and pooling, seeping across the floor.
Maya has a picture of me. A picture of me which she routinely photoshops with various outfits stolen from other pictures. She dresses me as a cowboy, as a superhero with a mahogany colored cape, as a handyman with a tool belt after I fixed the leak in her sink last summer, as a prizefighter in the ring with Ali after I got thrown out of the Incandescent for beating up the bouncer, as a eurotrash tourist to remind her of my obsessive habit of taking pictures of garbage, in buckskin fringed pants for the time I dragged her off to the mountains to club her and have my way with her, as she requested, the fire crackling with the sizzle of dripping fat from steaks, as a marine for my protective move when the potato exploded and the white hot chunks covered my body instead of hers. She had been using a picture she took of me lying in bed. We were running late to one of our rich daddy dinners with her possibly rich daddy who lives in a mysterious state of fabulously wealthy poverty. Other people's money tastes better.
She was doing her impish young artist act and I was playing along, but trying to reverse things. I have a very peculiar look on my face, one I have never seen before. I have lecherous eyes and my body is a clumsy anticipation of movement. She took the picture the instant before I leapt out of bed and wrestled the camera from her
"My turn."
"Who said anything about turns?"
"Take off your clothes"
"You're unbearable." But. Licorice lips part, half-moon, and she begins to disrobe- trickles of silk and lace sliding down smooth shale arms, rivulets of rye whiskey piling on the floor-nipples like soft serve.
"What-no panties? The pile is incomplete."
"You haven't even kissed me. Shouldn't you be making some kind of move?"
"Move?"
"Yeah. You know seduction, game, something...?"
"We're too old. Just take off your panties."
"Why?"
"Cause your pussy's tired of being caged in panty prison. Its been locked up for too long, it's like Nelson Mandela-end apartheid. End Apartheid!"
"Nelson Mandela? My pussy is Nelson Mandela?"
"Yes Nelson Mandela. Now take off your panties and let that pussy make a speech."
And she did.
Of course I don't have the photographs.
But tonight. After more purring and roaring and a little more drunken careening on the down trip, we are up here. Home again. And there is new email. A photograph of me taken across a table, a checked cloth and jar of syrup apart, I can see her smiling, though it could be any table, any syrup, I can see her smiling, a detached mouth hanging from the lens, a little nymph hanging off her teeth as the shutter whispers.
And here I am all pixilated and dressed in black with a Jesuit wide brim hat. Give me a new religion.
Chloe disrupts the indie rock calm of the Manhattan. She sashays Saturday night with glittering toenails wrapped in heels with more strap than is necessary-excess is best-and the nearly unheard of skirt. Heads turn as heads do whenever the door slams shut behind someone, but then heads snap back to whatever they were doing lest the girlfriend across the table in the paint stained overalls detect a pique of interest-the girlfriends' glitterless scornful glares-you bitch you tramp you whore you porn-enjoying feminism-destroying carnivore...
"Damn girl." Jimmy shits bolt upright when Chloe comes over, "you be looking fine tonight."
Chloe turns red. "I hate this town sometimes. In New York I'd be getting stared at for looking like a librarian."
"No trust me Chloe, New York couldn't miss you tonight. Or maybe New York is missing you tonight."
Our friend Jason the bartender, pulls up a chair and looks Chloe up and down. "You are aware of course that you're upsetting some carefully constructed mopishness here."
"No shit. Sil and I were just about to water down our drinks with a tear or two and suddenly it's a fucking party in here. I mean good lord Chloe I think I might want to sleep with you." Jimmy murmurs the end of his sentence, the top of his half raised bottle and then quickly puts it to his lips before anything less leaks out. But his head tilts to side, eyebrows shoot up and it's plain to see that it's only a joke if Chloe wants it to be.
Her head sinks down a touch and she sighs like someone suddenly exhausted.
"Or play with your breasts or something." He adds after swallowing.
"Jimmy if you are a good boy maybe someday you can play with these babies." She juts her chest out and then bounces her breasts for effect.
Jason the bartender is a mixture of aghast and unbridled lust. "What about me?"
"Actually you have a far better chance than Jimmy, who I was actually lying to just then. And now that I think about it Jason, I'm lying to you too in hopes that maybe you'll bring me another drink." She sucks her straw playfully.
He sighs. "Anybody else need anything?" He leaves to retrieve another round.
"So why were you about to cry in your beer boys?"
"Same reason you dressed up like that."
"But come on its satanic anagram night... you have to dress up for anagrams..."
"Right. I had forgotten about that little adventure..."
Jason returns with three more drinks. "What little adventure?"
This is the part where Chloe is supposed to explain it very innocently, and Jason is supposed to giggle or at least smile, but Chloe hesitates and Jimmy jumps in with a cover story-our anagrams are of dubious legality you see, not to mention ethics or taste or any number of other things.
"Oh we were just talking about going up to some of the party bars and turning it up a notch... there was some discussion of dancing." Jimmy manages to get this all out without a smile and then glues the beer to his lips and takes a long, probably too long, pull. Jason looks unconvinced, but he buys in.
"There's a good DJ tonight at whatever Mean Mike's is now." Most people in Athens refer to establishments by what they used to be before the scene took a dive-with bars coming and going with the semesters, it's hard to keep track of what things are called. The Manhattan on the other hand soldiers on. "You know next week we're having Moroccan night... Ya'll should come. I was skeptical at first but it seems like it might actually be fun. Gonna clear out the tables... get a bunch of pillows and some hucas and maybe even a belly dancer."
Jimmy hunches over in concern, "ya'll aren't going bankrupt are you?"
"No. Not yet. But it's definitively geared toward avoiding that."
"You know what you really need to do is implement the plan." Jimmy tilts his bottle as if toasting some abstraction.
"You love your plan don't you James." Jason weaves slightly in his chair he has a habit of doing what Chloe endearingly calls the body laugh. He wears a blank smile and almost imperceptibly rotates his torso without moving anything below his hips. It's a subtle but brilliant laugh, it makes entire rooms spin with him. Fake candle lights that have been fake flickering above our head suddenly leap out of the wall at me and start a conga line with their arms on each others' backs, kicking their legs out to alternating sides, clogging to the beat of Lola. And then he stops.
"Hey man, I'm telling you, bikini bartenders will draw in a hell of lot more people than Moroccan night or whatever."
"Not if I'm the one in a bikini."
"Hey Jason don't under-estimate yourself. I'd be in here more if you wore a thong." Chloe crosses her legs and grins at him. "But you know this is one of the few towns in the world where sex doesn't seem to sell."
"Girl you be talking crazy." Jimmy screws up his forehead into the self-conscious knot he favors when he attempts to propel himself out of his skin color and into the rainbow world of rants. His arms come up from his sides, called into the service of emphasis, and he launches into a diatribe, volume escalating as he takes off. "Just cause ya'll aren't trying to sell sex does not, emphatically does not, mean that it wouldn't work if somebody in this town had the balls to do it. Look here, all you gotta do is have one night a week with Kelly and Brittany in bikinis-or better yet-no offense to them-you know I love them-they're my girls-but recruit a couple of girls from the club and get them to serve wearing bikinis and this place will be fucking packed," He stands up and sweeps his arm across the room, "I mean look at these guys," he lowers his voice, waves to friend, "these guys are desperate for half-naked female flesh. They can't go down to the club because they'd loose face, but damnit they want to see naked women, and they'll settle for half, everybody wants to see half naked women, half naked women want to see half naked women... I'm for real Jason. And I know what you're gonna say it'll draw in the wrong crowd and that will alienate the cool people and whatever, but shit you only do it one night a week and that pays for the rest of the nights so it can just be a good bar and not end up bankrupt. Or you know what you could do..." he pauses for a minute and studies the conspicuous bamboo thrones chairs-king square backed, queen triangle-as if suddenly mulling over their significance. "What you could do is start a backroom game... Cards man. Get a couple of poker tables, maybe a blackjack table for the amateurs, girls in bikinis serving drinks and making the rounds with the cigarette trays... man that would be so fucking cool and of course you just charge twenty bucks for entrance and keep it real low-key. People would pay twenty dollars to sit in on a nice backroom game. Shit ask Sil people are fighting to get into our game-am I right Sil?-I mean that's what's wrong around here there isn't enough corruption-everything has been sanitized and made PG and damnit the people want R. Fuck it man the people want X, but they can't come out and say it. I mean ferchristsakes you can't even serve on Sunday-what the fuck is that about-it is the twenty first century isn't it? Sometimes I'm walking around downtown on a Sunday night and I have to pull out my checkbook and double-check the year... This town, this whole fucking country is begging for sex, corruption and debauchery. Of course I have to add the caveat that we don't need the racism and sexism and all that shit, but really have we gotten rid of that? Shit man try working construction for a few days, those mutherfuckers are every bit as racist as their daddys' were, they just whisper the jokes to each other now... and the sexism well I guess you could argue that my bikini bartenders idea is a touch sexist, but shit I mean the line between exploitation and enjoyment is a dicey one and frankly I think it would be a good idea to have you in a bikini as well, Jason. Maybe you should just hand them out at the door, everybody could be in bikinis and we could all just sit back and admire each other as the over-sexed, lecherous, debaucherous, and damn good lookin monkeys that we are." Jimmy sinks back down to the cushion-finis.
"It is a plan." Jason deadpans.
"See I like the end where the men are in bikinis... I'm an equal opportunity lecher." Chloe giggles at her own wit.
"Yeah, but," I do a quick survey of the room and then look down at my stomach, "are you sure you want to see a bunch of fat skinny guys in bikinis?"
"Fat skinny guys?" Jason looks at me quizzically.
"People like you and I, who do not, as our lean mean Jimmy over there, work construction or otherwise exercise and have the dreaded slightly pot-bellied body of the fast skinny guy. Scratch being the one who actually caused me to notice the phenomenon."
"Sil you are not fat. Have some respect. How do you think it makes people who really are fat feel when you say you're fat?" Chloe looks at me crossly. Her sister is over-weight. Everyone we actually know is over-weight, only strangers are fat.
"You're missing the point. I'm not saying I'm fat. I'm saying I'm fat for a skinny guy. It's a very important distinction."
Jason heads back to work,, pausing briefly to look at his profile in the mirror hanging between the throne chairs. He looks back at me and smiles and pats his stomach.
"Besides a little stomach is sexy. I wouldn't worry about it until you have handles." Chloe folds her legs up under her, sitting Indian style and lights a cigarette.
Jimmy, who has been silent for a few minutes, suddenly seems to snap back from where ever his mind has been. "Man I was just thinking about something or other... temporarily lost track of where I was and then I noticed Chloe and for a split second between synaptic firings I thought goddamn who is that?"
"Jimmy lay off. I let you get away with it for the novelty, but you're bordering on annoying now."
"Chloe you're lookin' so good I'm thinking maybe we should go for a ride..."
"Alright." She downs the rest of her drink in one long suck. "Yeah let's go for a ride."
It's heaven. No other way to say it. Complete with feathers, though here they are carefully stuffed. Only he-whose-name-may-not-be-uttered knows what divine substance they put on top of this mattress which, in other ways, resembles the one I have, although it's unlikely this one was left behind by a man moving to Australia. This one was purchased in all its consumer glory at some star-spangled mattress dealer-probably in Atlanta-probably by parental units desperate for some way to dispense love to the daughter who is not following the plan.
Whatever the case, the soft billowing pillow-top is the perfect thing to lie on, with your head hanging off the edge, after tying a few on as Jimmy puts it. We three are fallen dominos lying head to toe such that Chloe and I are separated by Jimmy's feet. Chloe has shed the skirt and strappy shoes in favor of sweatpants and converse. We are waiting. Waiting for the witching hour when all satanic things stir and muck about rearranging letters and such. Which is why we have all recently taken an internet quiz to determine which Norwegian Death Metal Band we are. On the stereo...may the good lord... shine a light on you...make every song... your favorite tune...
Darkthrone: Without religion there would be no kinky sex.
Enslaved: Without that strange Norwegian phrase which you didn't understand anyway you wouldn't be Darkthrone.
Darkthrone: Like you know one way or the other. The point to this whole thing- considering tonight's adventure-is that, in spite of mocking religion and yes being somewhat condescending toward it, without it half of the kink in this world would not exist. And like you said at the bar, there are those that think a totally healthy approach to sex would be a good thing, but personally I think it's a little boring. And I think religion deserves some credit here and there. The soft brush of the whip... [a descent into laughter]
Enslaved: Maybe. And Chloe, I have to say if anyone is having kinky sex it's Sil and Maya. You know they're freaks...
Darkthrone: Freaks? What do you mean freaks?
Enslaved: I mean you know they into some freaky shit. I mean come on. Look at the guy.
Cradle of Filth (aside): Jimmy laughs what I take to be a knowing laugh though I haven't the faintest idea why he proposes to be knowing. Mark Twain pointed out that, not only are humans the only animal capable of blushing, we're the only animal with the need to.
[M: Why do you want to fuck me in the ass so badly?
S: Because it won't go in. If it went in easy, all pornstar style, I'd be bored with it. Maybe. After twenty or thirty times
M: You want to go to a forbidden place...
S: Yeah I guess. Do we have to analyze it? I guess your ass is like Kubla Khan and shit.
M: (laughs)
S: I want to dine on honeydew and drink the milk of paradise.]
Darkthrone (evaluating): Is it true Sil? Wait, actually, I don't want to know.
Cradle of Filth: I have no idea what he is talking about. I own no whips.
Enslaved: Yeah but does your girlfriend?
Cradle of Filth: Of course. I mean why would I have them? She never comes down here and that whole thing can be embarrassing at random luggage search.
Darkthrone: Why is it that she doesn't come down here.
Cradle of Filth (after too much silence): I'm not sure actually. To tell you the truth, at first I didn't care because I love going up to Manhattan, but lately I have been thinking about that.
"Sorry. I wasn't trying to make you feel bad... I just assumed there was some good reason." Chloe sits up and turns to leans against the pillowed wrought iron of her headboard, she rests her legs on Jimmy's and lights a cigarette.
"Sometimes you can see the proverbial writing and just stare at it until it's meaningless letters and never read what it says." No one responds to this thought and I sit up and study Chloe's bedroom. Somewhere in here Noah turned the helm to its final unknown destination and abandoned ship. My own bedroom suddenly feels cold, hard and inadequate. Chloe's bedroom is colorful and soft, full of pillows and comforters and enormous mattresses buttressed against the mythology of the pea. The enormous candles and antique perfume sprayers feel loved, if they were in my bedroom they would look deliberate, items for sale in a junk store. Here they are transformed in the waves of candle light that break across the mottled crimson walls. Above the dresser pinned and peeling back from the wall is a portrait of William Blake. The conjunction of ceiling and wall is interrupted by a string of tiny blue lights causing the wall to fade from crimson to purple to the blue ocean of ceiling. Even Maya's bedroom lacks this kind of continuity, her antique hat rack draped with boas and chemises and nightgowns has always seemed slightly out of place-posing for a photograph. The only thing in my bedroom that means anything to me is a bag of rocks, a leather pouch I got at a tourist stand in New Mexico filled with the small stones they pulled out of what used to be my eyebrow. After that I started periodically adding rocks, pebbles really, to the pouch, pebbles that had never been a part of me. When I die I want the mortician to put them all back in my skin.
"Shall we?" Chloe stubs out her cigarette.
Suburbia three A.M. We have left the relative cool of Chloe's bedroom for the sticky streets of Athens.
"You think god wants to hang around heaven with a bunch of christians? How much fun is blind acquiescence? I mean look at celebrities, that's the closest thing we have to godheads right? So? Look who the smart interesting ones are always hanging around with... need I call to attention RS? I mean when you see him around town who is he with? People that don't give a fuck who he is... People that have know him long enough to know he's just another guy with personal problems. God wants to sit around with atheists and have a decent discussion. He wants dialogue. If he actually exists that is."
"Uh, hold up a minute, you lost me." Chloe shakes her head side to side as if it's going to clear up the bottle of wine her brain is swimming through. "Who is RS?"
"Resident Rock Star, slightly shortened..." Jimmy's voice has the faked patience of one explaining geometry to a sixth grader.
"Oh right. Sorry. Wasn't down with the lingo." She starts walking again. "But wouldn't it be pretty stupid to be an atheist and sitting in the same room with god?"
"Maybe. But what does it take to be god? I mean is god all-powerful because he just is? Or does his power come from people believing in him? In other words wouldn't god be most threatened by, and therefore interested in, those who would or do deny him the power to exist? I guess my idea of an atheist isn't someone who doesn't believe in god, but someone who isn't willing to accord him the power he demands. So in that sense, no I don't think it would be stupid... the world is a self-created phenomenon. And so is god's power."
"That's actually quite beautiful Jimmy." Chloe lets us pass her and then comes running up behind Jimmy and jumps on his back. "You make me want to be an anarchist." She kicks her heels against him and they take off down a long sloping hill that leads toward the graveyard. I walk alone through the darkness.
About a year ago Chloe decided that the propoganacid of Southern churches had eaten enough useless holes in her brain and she was going to fight back. She enlisted Jimmy and I in her efforts and now every Saturday night-after consuming copious amounts of alcohol-we go out and rearrange the letters on the signs. Last Christmas was my favorite. It was the same church we're going to do tonight, we changed JESUS IS THE REASON FOR THE SEASON, to SEASON THE FETISH, USE FOR REASON. We had a left over H several R's from another church on the other side of town, which Jimmy thinks is cheating, but he's outnumbered. Season the fetish was up for three days before anyone at the church noticed or bothered to change it back. It feels good to see your words in a marquee, luminous and two feet high. It feels even better to rid the world of banality, however small and insignificant a gesture it might be. Tonight's objective is PRAYER WORKS, which is going to be altered to GET YER HORSES, which is exactly the counter-intuitive kind of dissidence that Chloe loves. I thought, as long as we're adding letters, why not go with FUCK YER HORSE, but we agreed to no obscenities.
To get to this particular sign we have to pass directly through the church's cemetery, Cemeteries are best at dusk when the ghosts are just getting up, still sleep-eyed and prone to making noises, whispers of wind when there is no wind, rustles of grass where no animal is running, fingers scraping headstone marble, covered in lichens and half obscured by leaves, readable now in the moonlight ...died 1910...died 1947...died 1892...died....
Chloe and Jimmy are crouched silently behind a crypt, monstrous and out of place, a monument to the arrogance of a bloodline hiding behind the name Fortson, streets, parks, probably a non-profit agency for the advancement of southern quilting.... But it does make for good cover in our situation-dead Fortsons stacked on the other side of the concrete wall we lean against, unwittingly aiding and abetting the bored anarchism of fast retreating summer nights. Bodies, perhaps nothing but bone now, the last remnants of human debris having been sluffed off, skin and fingernail bits dusting the bottom of the worm eaten fabric liners, only bones, worn out and no longer needed, encased in wood or fiberglass or some polymer designed to spare the living the thought of what mess must be left after eighty years of decay. Synthetics, each the highest technology of its day desperately trying to hide the one inevitability we know, the failure of the organic in the field of permanence and yet even in death unwilling to return to organic origin, separate even in our rotting, still useless and detached. In myths we hide in the sky, Orion, the Pleiades, the Horsehead Nebula, clusters bloated with grandparents, great aunts, uncles from the revolution, tragic children in ribbons blowing pinwheel constellations, rotating galaxies, black holes of bitter pious old men, neutron stars for lonely celluloid fatales, dressed in silver and longing, but knowing all the while that the scaffolding is wood and fiberglass and workmanship. Constructs of carpenters and architects, city planners and funeral directors, sawdust and sweat from the living.
A quick game of rock/paper/scissors sends me scrambling up the terribly exposed grassy hill toward the sign, sweaty palms gripping the extra letters.
Prayer may work but you better get yer horses just in case.
At home I put in Jimmy's cd and stare at the phone. Maya. The phone. Bellsouth a bastard son of Bell labs. Maya all tangled in wires and switches and routers and gates and filters and then there she is. Maybe. No way to really know for sure. A voice. Flattened and dribbling out, amplified by more circuits and switches and more zeros turned to one and back again, but always one or the other. This to a background of mumbles and rasps. Mr. Dylan doing his naivist. The reverberations of something ancient and universal, perhaps a touch overwrought, but warm nonetheless. More zeros and ones and lasers and laboratory genius to span time and space. Not tonight. Only flesh will do tonight or the imitation of flesh through some archaic means. I want to hear you on an old crystal quartz, tinny speakers and Roosevelt having just signed off, a commercial for Burma Shave and Murray's Cream and then Maya, warm soft lips pressed to the silver screen of the condenser, to be able to see her, headphone clasped to one ear, just from the tone of her voice, the background rustle of sateen skirts and flower embroidered cashmere... To drive home a Model A, fedora cocked back, suspenders loosened, flowers wrapped in yesterday's newspapers... smile my way home to some Indiana farmhouse and find her waiting at the end of the dirt road, jumping on the running board and kissing the length of the driveway, holding her widebrimmed hat with one arm, the other wrapped around the rearview, lips suckled to mine and just keep driving and driving make wide open circles through rows of corn and elms and maybe a straight unbroken line as far as the eye can see, we stay like that clear through to the badlands of Wyoming...
I turn out the lights and walk in the bedroom. Mr. Dylan continues to... well it's not 'sing' is it... he makes up for it somehow... with shear will. Gut and will. Turning on the fan by the window, movement in my peripherals makes me jump back. Trapped between the helterskelter outside screen and the window is the most enormous, grotesque cockroach I have ever laid eyes on. It's over two inches in length and possesses a magnificent pair of wings, which click against the window as it tries to free itself. Hideous mini-arms extend from its head, enormous pincer-like implements that dredge up classic sci-fi monsters and celluloid nightmares of a thousand shapes and sizes, the auxiliary limbs are scraping at the liquid sand, a futile attempt to construct a glass pyramid or escape its condition or maybe one leads to the other. The screen which traps him against the window does not actually fit the window; it was too tall so I simply wedged it in place, knowing full well that this sort of entomological invasion would not be stopped by my makeshift buttress. Some instinct has driven him upward to the top of the window where the screen is closest to the glass. I watch him struggling to find an escape. You need to go down I tell him. I tap the glass and try to herd him on a downward path, but this only goades him to attempt flight, tearing his wings against the screen. They flake apart, crumbling piecrust wings sliding softly down the windowpane. And your saint-like face and your ghostlike soul, Oh, who among them do you think could destroy you... Mexico City: the blind beggars gouge out their children's eyes upping the pity ante and reach into those pockets a little bit deeper. Irony the petty buttressing of a child's sandcastle against a cresting tsunami, the last ditch architecture of those unused to confronting the raw, the unpitted, the full size ear of corn, the olive pre-canning, the reek of half fermented cheese, too far gone milk, rancid butter, the raw and its tendency toward, its preference for, the rot. Somewhere there are great piles of children's eyes, some horrifying physical monument, empty eye sockets through the sticky haze, the red and white tattered woven blankets on which the beggars sit, old women starving in the shadows, the gasoline sunrise in Guatemala, cresting over the decomposing bodies of mass graves...flying right out of gaping empty eye sockets. Something to stop the leaks. Something that feels like it will never die but is transient, malleable, and divinely human. Something holy to sift through our garbage and find the discarded gems languishing on piles of steaming filth. No one goes down anymore. Everything at once delicate and obscene and the phone unplugged.
Lying down on the bed, back against the wall, cigarette between the lips, ashtray cradled on the stomach... There is a pounding again. Indistinct, from far off, the beating of wings in the distance-wind working the leaf-chimes, water on the percussion and our very special guest this evening, please give him a warm welcome...all the way from Peking on the back of a butterfly... the same temperature as the sun...crowd goes wild... But it all serves as clutter to hide the silence, the darkness just outside the careful window, the translucent edges of Dylan's nasal protest, between the safer glimmering of distant windows, Jimmy's windows, vaguely Chloe's, voyeur glimmers, other safely walled eyes watching the darkness but unable to bear it on the skin, the dreadful doubts and opposition held at bay by the baptismal liquid, fire roasted sand to keep us from having to...But the beating of wings, the distant rumble of was-it-only thunder, or something more watching in the shadows our cartoon lives, zoo exhibits behind glass...There are rumors. And bones. Bones of the roman churches-stronger than any prophet's stuttering murmurs-bones that never turned to dust, preserved and immobile to make you wonder, did their owner only step out for the papers? Did a whole culture step out for the paper together? Do the ghosts of mass graves congregate together to huddle and hold to watch the fearful show carry on without, huddled all together, hoarse voices in the shadows decided to make it impossible to leave-don't think that because you never pulled the trigger you're innocent-as if culpability required action-to get clear of this you see... cacophonous sine waves, disarrayed, and carrying in our wake the sewage of useless entrails falling from the butcher's block. Men in black robes and others in white coats all singing glory glory hallelujah around a glowing metallurgic altar. Ambulance sirens wailing as they round the corner... faces fade into the road, beaten, bruised and swollen. Others watch from distant buttes spattered in blood, endless blood; rivers of blood running down the chopping block as the butcher frantically dices ever smaller... roasts into steaks, into filets, into shish-ka-bobs, into hors d'oeuvres, into mashed paste, pate, and finally only watery blood, running off the block and out into the street gathering speed as it moves over hills, lifting up, pooling in the great valleys and lapping at the butte shores as they dance naked around bonfires.... Geysers of blood sprout from a ground that can no longer contain itself; blood bank employees hang hoses into the street and collect a year's worth before they drown in it. Towns and cities are swallowed whole, the blood oozes down from the north, from the land of the bleached-skin cave dwellers, trickling over the Mediterranean drowning the Elysian Fields and then the Nile runs red. Africa is laid waste and the oceans swell and wash over Canada and America. Tidal waves of blood a thousand feet high and moving 200 miles an hour fueled by the energy of a comet that lands in the midst of the riparian blood-world and blows it all back out into space, powders all life into a fine dust that settles over everything, over the mountains and valleys and oceans, and the remaining rivers of blood, until what is left is absorbed into the heart core of history leaving behind fresh cool water that pools and settles slowing to a gentle meander, out to the sea, shiny brown bodies glistening from the humidity, from the endless sweat that pours off...the sky was screaming a cerulean sound... I want to be baptized, to be held down under the muddy red water until I can no longer hold my breathe and inhale the murk in desperate gulps...the metallic taste enveloping me...and never go to sleep.
FOUR
Vague vulgarities-nothing so meaningful-all this around us-disassociated translucent film from the dentist X-ray-orgonomic sunshiny day-rats creeping across the ceiling in bibelot herds-rattle of bones-do-make-say-think-sweat-buzzing-insects-
fumbling-cigarette-lighter-flame-inhale-exhale.
What is that far off hideousness? That infernal twang drifting out of the otherwise solemn jungle? It's leaking in between the chinks of rotten caulk around the window. Or maybe it has always been in here just waiting for the right moment to switch itself on. All it needed was that last little E that it found this morning under the curious lichen clump that has sprung up around the toilet, one little E and it's on-one. No I have to get out of bed and find a Z and R neither of which are where I thought I left them, just an empty plastic bottle with a peeling sticker...leve... V is so close to Z but right now I need a Z and V's just won't cut it. Soldier heavily to the fridge. Pour tall glass of water. Consume without breathing. Pant for a moment. Wait, stop. The twang is gone. Must have been a Z or two in that water. I like to think its all H's and O's, but ground water is unpredictable. Liable to be most anything lurking in there and the carbon filter of the Brita is a good defense but some things, like Z's, are damn sneaky.
Most likely it was Scratch. He is convinced he can play the banjo he got from his mysterious absentee girlfriend, who, from what we gather, is somewhere down there. How far is inconclusive, though Jimmy claims its Costa Rica. But that could just be an assumption he made because with Scratch everything ends up in Costa Rica sooner or later.
Scratch is the poorest millionaire I've ever met. Like most people I met Scratch because of a bad set of directions. This morning Scratch looks part lunatic, part sage. He is sitting in the tire swing in front of his house, a wistful look on his face; he reminds me of a potatohead toy with a pasted on goatee and slightly askew lips, eyes that look out of order, screwed up and glinting earnestly. He's stripped to the waist with his T-shirt wrapped around his head like a turban. He's hunched over plucking at the banjo looking a touch toward the dwarf end of the spectrum, though he would be some freakish dwarf who tipped back one too many rBGH laden pints -He's six feet tall and going bald-but with his butt hanging down his legs appear foreshortened and silly swinging a couple inches off the ground.
Scratch is a self-inflicted nickname, but sometimes you have to do that to avoid something much worse coming your way, pre-emptive strike. Harm reduction the Pentagon calls it. I always figured the name came from the way he itches his head when he's trying to find the words he needs, or the way his hands wipe over his face when he sits back on the couch. It's like he's making sure he still has skin.
Scratch's house is not technically on the same land as mine, I have to traverse the outer edge of the ridiculously large chunk of land that a poor unsuspecting yuppie thought would be a good investment. Technically, Scratch has told me, the yuppie owns everything within about ten feet of the back of my cottage, but he put his fence in about a hundred yards further back, which means that I can cut around the back of my house, drop down in the gully and follow it for about a half mile and I come to Scratch's doorstep. This is the long way around but it's easier than marching across the yuppie's back lawn, tangling with his dogs and pregnant wife. Scratch and his banjo are high on the yuppie's to do list.
"You're late." He barks when I hear me.
I sit down on his chopping stump. "Late night."
"Girls?" He sets down the banjo.
"Does Chloe count?"
"Does Chloe count? The gem of Athens? For you no. For me no. For everybody else...." He ducks under the top of the tire and leans back arms extended. He emits a long groan that doesn't quite cover up the crackle of vertebrae.
"The gem of Athens...? Scratch do you have a thing for Chloe?"
"The appreciation of beauty is my life Sil. Chloe is second only to Leah." He pulls himself back up and ducks under the top of the tire again. He hesitates for minute and then executes a weird, but graceful bodyvault from the tire swing, landing on his left leg, right one hovering just off the ground. He lowers it slowly and smiles at me. "Eh? Pretty good for a guy that fell fourteen thousand feet huh?"
"Graceful as ever." I shiver whenever Scratch mentions the accident.
"Where is our beauteous one this morning?"
"Dunno. You woke me up with the banjo... I didn't go over there. Jimmy did say he had to work today though."
"That's okay you'll do. It's not that hard. Just need someone to hold the bottles."
Jimmy weaseled the spare bottles from Five and Ten. They weren't watching when he installed the air conditioning in the kitchen. They were busy vomiting from the heat of summer afternoons, compounded by ovens, rangetops, a dozen burners, an open grill, a sanitizer, the thermometer below his ladder was spiked at 130 and people were trying to cook. He slipped out with a case of red table wine-3.99 a bottle at the store. Perhaps they did see him and just figured drinking them would be punishment enough.
Scratch has a habit of muttering things under his breath. At first I figured it was just an eccentricity of age and I paid little attention, but I quickly learned that these half-heard fragments were the real gems.
"How's that?" I have, after much rehearsing, come up with a series of open-ended questions for extracting repetitions of his cryptic mumblings. Asking "what" all the time frustrated him and stalled our friendship until Chloe pointed it out to me. She was also the one who informed me that Scratch was fabulously wealthy.
"Oh," He says waving his hand dismissively, "I was just thinking about blind pigs."
"Blind pigs? Is that some southern kink?"
He chokes on barnacles again. "No, actually I don't think it was regional, but maybe. I dunno. Blind Pig was a name... or actually I think it was the password maybe... it was either what you called or what you said to get into a speakeasy during prohibition. I was just thinking perhaps I should institute a password for the game... blind pig came to mind." He claps his hand to his forehead, fingertips on his hairline, and slowly drags them down pulling his jaw and stretching his cheeks until his fingers reach his chin. "Come on I got a new sculpture."
Two things assured our friendship after our first curious meeting in the gully. The first was Ford trucks, specifically 1969 Ford trucks which he owns and I covet, and the second was a penchant for shooting pieces of wood, though, admittedly, Scratch's shooting is far more beautiful than anything Dean and I ever created. At some point in the distant past Scratch embarked on an artistic endeavor he calls Stump-Shots, which involves him finding fallen trees, chain sawing off the body, leaving the intact stump, and then blasting away at them with a sawed off shotgun full of rock salt. The forest is dotted with these weird pockmarked carvings of his. His newest is a birch stump about two hundred yards past his house. Six months ago, far too early in spring for electrical storms, the tree was nevertheless hit by an errant bolt of lightening, which also fried Scratch's lamps, toaster, iron and chandelier-the sum total of his electrical devices-and split the tree neatly in two. This tree however, did not fall down, or rather it did not fall on its x-axis, it fell straight down into itself. Scratch thinks there was a nail or bolt or some kind metal in it that grounded the lightening about four feet off the ground. Whatever the case, it blew apart a section of the trunk and the rest of the tree fell straight down onto the spiked, fragmented stump and stuck there. Somehow it manages to continue living, and so Scratch has been sculpting the jagged extrusions that spike out from the trunk. Some of them are four feet long and over a foot wide. Today's project is on the mossy north side of the trunk a curving, open-wound looking protuberance that Scratch takes aim at and blasts away. Scratch and the shooting are also high on the yuppie's to do list.
After the second shot he absently unhinges the gun and studies his work. "Kinda looks like that barrier island area off Belize doesn't it?"
I nod, unwilling to admit I'm not that familiar with the coast of Belize.
"Or a reclining woman. Course that would be a Degas girl..." Chuckling ensues followed by a thoughtful pause while shoving more cartridges in the gun. "Isn't it strange that our ideal of female beauty couldn't get laid to save her life a few hundred years ago...? Kinda makes you wonder about the source of your desires huh?"
"Not really, Scratch." He turns toward me as if I have undercut some profundity he has been waiting all morning to distill. "I mean I know my ideals are cultural hand-me-downs... everybody know that, but what does that mean?"
"See all ya'll have all this information and no understand of what it means. Those of us who came to these conclusions for ourselves don't have that problem."
"Okay then old man, what does it mean?"
"Nothing." He raises the gun to his shoulder and laughs pulling the trigger. The salt completely misses the target and scatters through the undergrowth wagging branches and puncturing leaves. Scratch can't stop laughing. He points the gun straight up, pulls the trigger and takes off hobbling back toward the house. There is a split second in which I am profoundly disoriented and then I take off after him.
I pass Scratch about fifty feet from the house and spy Chloe swinging in lazy circles on the tire swing. She looks up, startled by our ruckus approach.
"Are you okay?"
"Huh? Yeah why?" The sad truth is that a two hundred yard run is desperately stretching my physical capabilities. I bend over hands on my knees greedily sucking humid air.
"Well I heard the gun and then you're running..."
"Oh no. It's cool. Scratch was just overemphasizing a point."
Scratch lopes up laughing and out of breath. "Everything is wonderful Chloe," he manages between pants. He collapses down on the chopping block. Sweat trickles down his face. "I got a letter from Leah yesterday... She said to tell you hello and many thanks."
This is clearly some element of Scratch's life that I am not privy to. I can't stop myself from thinking it's sexual. Some personal confusion between the sexiness of secrets and the sexuality of my friends. I know it's not sexual, but yet it feels sexual-clandestine, vague, whispered-everybody is having an orgy but you.
"That's nice of her. Tell her I said it was nothing." Chloe closes the book in her lap and jumps off the tire. "Are we going to do this or what?"
"Yes yes." Scratch lumbers to his feet and limps off toward the door. "Come on you two..." he hollers over his shoulder.
"Have you ever had mead?" Chloe asks as we walk inside.
"No."
She drops her voice to a whisper, "it's very sweet." She sticks out her tongue.
"I can't stand the stuff myself." Scratch grumbles having heard Chloe's whispers.
"Then why did you make it?"
"It's fun." He drags two enormous clear jugs out from the shadowy recesses of his pantry. His house is dark enough that he probably could have left them in the middle of the living room and they would have fermented just as well. The musty linen draperies of the bay window are perpetually drawn shut and what light that does filter through is diffused to the point of seeming confused about its role in the room. It feels extraneous and steps lightly around the upturned walnut stump on whose roots an abstract glass shape is precariously balanced. Delicately now against the cedar walls-not wood paneling, actual cedar, splinters and all- slinking along the far wall, edging over the couch, meeting with its cohort that took the other wall and had to navigate a collection of books that shames many Oregon libraries, teetering in decayed peach crates, collapsing against each other until it's hard to tell whether they are holding up the books or the books them. Light sneaking over the cracked spines and curled paperback covers, under the watchful eyes of Alfred Stiglitz and Georgia O'Keefe who've been waiting in the recesses between the crates where the light was not expecting them, where once there were indeed crates in their place but now in lustful ambush Alfred and Georgia groping after the light in ways that make the light uncomfortable and anxious to be off and there it is... its glowing brethren from the other wall...the two sides meet up like Victorian gentlemen, blushing, but tipping their stovepipe hats, as they nearly bump into one another in the brothel hallway, and then it's a hasty retreat to the kitchen window where they slink back out into the afternoon sun.
Above the couch is a shelf of bric-a-brac photos mostly of buildings and a handful of people standing in front of stoves or arms extended holding plates of food. There is a clipping of Scratch dressed sharply in a chef coat and checkered chefware pants smiling on the cover of Food and Wine magazine. Separated by an antique bird cage complete with a stuffed finch Scratch calls Mabel, are another collection of photographs of people standing in front of airplanes, some smiling, some looking a touch nervous. One small picture in a frame whose borders are decorated with notes from the crescendo of the fourth movement of the ninth symphony is a rather terrified looking Debra Winger with her arm bravely wrapped around Scratch's waist.
Hung prominently above the shelf and never escaping comment by first time visitors is a giant picture of Scratch buck naked save the parachute on his back, plummeting toward the out of focus grey-brown desert below him.
Chloe is stacking the bottles in rows on the kitchen table. Scratch is attaching what looks like surgical tubing to the rubber stoppers at the mouth of each jug. The mead is a tawny amber that looks archaic against the antiseptic stainless steel table. I lean up against the monstrous stove, complete with rangetop and massive ceiling vent, which Scratch took out of the kitchen of his last restaurant.
"The secret," Scratch says pinching and squeezing the tubing down in the bottle, "Is to make sure you don't get the bottom inch or so into the bottle."
"Is that the bad part or something?" Chloe sets down the last bottle and sinks into a chair.
"Well, personally I don't think any of it is that good, but yeah the bottom is what you really don't want." Satisfied with the work he heaves the jug up to the table thumping it down on a six-inch stack of newspapers. From my vantage point, the far side of the jug reflects a skewed convex headline-better things are coming.
Scratch commences sucking until the mead is running into the first bottle by means of miraculous suction. Once in Mexico I saw a bus driver use the same method to retrieve gas from a taxi, which came rushing out faster than he had anticipated and exploded out the sides of his swollen cheeks. He had the presence of mind to put the hose into the jug before turning green and commencing the vomit. Scratch just coughs and his eyes puddle up.
"Whew... Damn." He gasps and spits in the sink. "Still needs a week or two." He cracks the primitive icebox and retrieves a carton of orange juice. "Not that bad though. He drinks straight from the carton and smacks his lips "not bad at all with a chaser."
There comes a far off lowing sound that tickles my leg. "What the hell...?" Scratch sets down the carton, "Is there a cow out there?"
"No. Sorry, that's my phone." I dart out the back door into the caustic white of afternoon. I have to squint and feel slightly dizzy as I answer.
"Sil? It's me." Her voice crackles with digital lust, but all curl and Q's flattened to hiss. The treetops are swinging around me, the bleached dry sand crunching under my disoriented stagger.
"Maya? What are you doing?"
"Well," she giggles, "I was just calling to tell you that I'm at home and I'm naked and lonely..."
I try to find something to say, but standing in the middle of boring midday sun of Scratch's backyard nothing comes. Somewhere thousands of miles up from here Maya is naked and wanting me. I have an urge to bolt into the woods and not stop running until I get to her or far enough away from her that I'm full circle to her.
"I have my hand on my pubic mound..."
She breaks through my awkward silence. "Ick. Don't say pubic mound." I shake my head as if she can see me.
"Why?"
"I dunno it sounds like something Teddy Roosevelt and the Rough Riders are going to come charging up... bayonets glinting and whatnot..."
"Kinky. I like men on horseback... Can you be my cowboy this afternoon? We haven't done that one yet."
"I can't right now. I'm kinda in the middle of something."
Her voice thins out, no longer clipped by compressors, simply flat. "That sucks."
"Can I call you later?"
"What if I said I have my hand down inside my panties?"
"I thought you were naked."
"I am. Except for my panties."
"How many times do we have to..."
"You know you like it when I say panties." There is a pause. "I want you to say it and then I'll let you go."
"Okay. I like it when you say panties."
"That's what I thought." The line goes dead.
I shoot a glance back toward the house, but if they heard my end of the conversation, I'll never know. The door is open but the darkness inside is impenetrable. I don't care anyway. Or I don't want to care. I walk back inside and they are sitting on the couch drinking Pabst.
"Maya?" Chloe arcs her eyebrows.
"Yeah"
"Of course it was," Scratch laughs and looks at me with a mischievous green jello glint in his eyes, "who else calls him on that phone?"
"Every now and then my dad calls." This sounds lamer than I intended. They say nothing. "Mead all bottled?"
"Yup. Be ready in a week or two." Scratch seems over enthusiastic about it as if incredibly relieved to be out of an awkward silence.
I stare at him willing the awkward silence back. Scratch sits forward on the couch wipes his hands vigorously up and down his face and retrieves a tupperware container from the coffee table. He sits back resting it on the crest of his fat-skinny-guy belly. Out of it he produces a bud of marijuana and pair of scissors, which he uses to trim off a few leaves and buds. As he begins to roll a joint, the light in the room seems to perk up. It starts to pool around him, enveloping his body, wrapping it like a mummy. He leans forward again for the remote, and, after a bit squinting and face rubbing, the speakers emit a gentle finger-plucked guitar sound crawling all the way from Nebraska across the hand woven Mexican rug on the floor. Soft eighth notes tiptoeing through the room, jumping on the table to a scatter of ash and dust and errant leaves of weed, but steadily and with direction and purpose, heading for Scratch. A corporeal mosaic forms around him, sound and light interwoven... and I haven't smelled anything in while... drawing to him, a film running backwards, a battery being charged, the book shelves are leaning in... this is how Stiglitz and O'Keefe were found... the plants bending to the Scratchtropic influence, leaves fanned out in hopes of some future expulsion, some radiation, some giving back, the necessary exhale to this massive huffing and huffing of all available resources, stalk gone turgid bracing for the future force of it... knowing that when he finally lets go, when he talks his voice will be a howling wind peeling off glacial peaks, ducking over the pitiful bottling company and its liquor store displays carving valleys in a single blast the sound following afterward in a wake. Or. Maybe it will leak out slowly, in the way he moves, steady and deliberate, he will mumble or whisper echoing the wind beating the roof, and whole Serengetis of meaning are lost in the silence of his hand. He saves them for later. He eats them when he is alone. His mouth is a microwave. He re-heats, re-charges his words under his tongue, little kernels of corn erupting as he chews them around in silence, mashing light and sound, wave and note, oceans and deserts.... He goes to talk to himself and nothing but popcorn spills out.
"Why is it that you don't come visit me?" Late April we're lying in bed, hooked and crooked around the rumpled clothing and sheets which are scrunched down to pillowcase size and bunched between her legs. A leather boot is trying to crawl up my ass, and I head it off by rolling on my side which sends Maya's head up off my chest just as I reach the end of my question. They are shooting a movie on the street downstairs. It's a what's-his-name action vehicle. Every so often we here "action" and "cut" over the ambient discord of Sixth Avenue.
"You know my life is here in New York... this is where I need to be right now." She speaks with the conviction of any recent immigrant. She has absorbed the vertical velocity of ninty-nine story buildings. She wants that cinematic sweep from the Bronx to the Fire Island breakers, sketching indigo and pulsing with the semen of six million teeming... old grade school jokes about the depth of the vagina and length of the penis and the resulting imbalance that yields six hundred feet of virgin pussy just outside the window and everyone, every man woman and struggling model in this city believes it's out there, just waiting for them to push through the Hymen Tunnel and into the unfurrowed promised land. "Anyway, you were the one who said we needed to have our own lives. I thought independence was 'the most important thing' to you. You know you broke my heart when you left LA."
"When I left LA? You're the one who got on an airplane the night after we met."
"For a month Sil. I came back and then you left for god knows how long it's been now... I'm starting to think that I must have some alienation abandonment issue with my father because I sure seem willing to... nevermind what does it matter? All this is past and conjecture and meaninglessness... you're here another forty-eight hours and this is how were going to spend it?" She sits up on her elbow and looks accusingly through the dissolving plume of cigarette smoke.
"No it's not. I just wanted to know why you never come down to visit me. I'm not asking you to move in with me or to drop your life or anything. I just thought maybe you know... we could spend some time together in my world."
"You act like I'm some kind of high maintenance city girl." She flicks her ash out the open window. "I came down there four months ago Sil. I like your life down there. I had a good time, but right now there are so many things going on it's just crazy... I barely have time to drop everything and spend time with you this week."
Busyness. Flickers and flashes, action and cut. Subways storming the bridges, greedy tendrils, roots clawing up out of the ground. "You act like I'm some kind of backwoods hick. You know I lived in LA for over twenty years... Forget it. I like New York. I like coming to see you here. I like to get away from Athens every now and then. Wait. Did you say you think you have abandonment issues with your father?"
She giggles. "The thought has occurred to me. I mean I live in a city with no shortage of bachelors and I'm with you... I mean I'm in love with you, that's why I'm with you, but I'm just saying if someone else, some outsider were looking at my life what would they think."
"Did your father abandon you?"
"No. But he was out of town a lot."
It's difficult to tell how long we have been this way. For some time I have been able to hear the mead. It's a long low moan, a lovesick bovine moan, some final protest of sugar against the decay into alcoholic oblivion. The jars gently rattling as if patiently rocking a crying child, running fingers through hair It's alright now, it won't be that bad thoughtful but meaningless, perhaps secretly thinking to themselves that they would like to crawl up in a ball and let the springworks go like a Panama City hotel on fire. Through the primordial haze now a light penetrates, the first rays after the nuclear winter of the comets, just three mammals around to witness. And of course a fourth to break the spell with style.
"Godamnit what the hell is going on here?" I can see Jimmy's silhouette in the doorway or at least I am aware that the silhouette in the doorway must be Jimmy, but I can't really see anything, the setting sun is not afraid of Scratch's house at all, it's Roman red pushing through the door in search of Christians for hungry kitties... none in here you sick fucks...
"Sil, there are cowboys on the roof. I cannot work with cowboys on the roof. I can't get the cowboys off the roof." Jimmy again. He is insistent on this communication thing... great gods in heaven he has turned off the music... Jesus what is this noise...its...its...punk rock. Time to give in. Straighten up. Fly right. Bathroom. Close door. Drain. Zip, for the love of god do not forget to zip and even more important-damnit should have thought of this first-tuck, but its okay the tucking appears to be ingrained. Ah yes, there it is, water on the face, down the gullet, engage in some Scratch-esque face wiping. Alright. Now how was that? Why are there cowboys on the roof? Who put cowboys on the roof?
"These mutherfuckers are crazy," Jimmy is pacing, "I can't fucking deal with cowboys on my roof. Stupid fucking south Georgia hicks.... Red. Man I tell you these are some red mutherfuckers." He smiles. "I mean shit it's kinda funny I guess, but damn. I just can't work with them around. And they're wearing cowboy boots... who the fuck," he extends his arms incredulously, "wears cowboy boots on a slick, tar-papered, forty-five degree slope?" He gestures toward the tupperware, "Scratch you mind if I roll one?"
"Help yourself. What are you doing to the house with cowboys on the roof?"
"I'm supposed to be putting a porch off the back, they got these steps... it's about six feet off and sloping downhill so I gotta run out some joists from the floor beams...you know through the wall and then built a little screened in deck and ninety degree turning stairs... pretty complicated carpentry you know? I mean not really it's all brute force shit, but I can't fucking work with goddamn south Georgia redneck cowboys clomping back and forth on the roof all day talking about niggers and whores and dripping tar all over my joists-what is wrong with these people? Have you seen cowboys on roofs before? I have never seen a cowboy on a roof."
"No. Never seen a cowboy on a roof... you're sure they were cowboys?" Scratch hobbles to the icebox and grabs a six-pack.
"I mean... I guess. They had the boots. They had the hats. The had the twang. They drove Chevy trucks...
"'Nuf said." Scratch smiles at me. "Well smoke that and try not to think about it."
Can you feel the fingers in your hair? Try not to think about it... there is nothing in the closet... do you want me to open it? For the love of god no. Don't open it. I'm not thinking about her. It. I'm not thinking. Heel-clicking there are no cowboys on the roof... there are no cowboys on the... there are no cowboys at all.
"The mead's all bottled? Yeah? How long?"
"Well normally two weeks in the bottle, but I had to gulp a little getting the siphon working and think a week will do."
"Won't the fermentation create pressure? I mean won't it burst the bottles?"
Jesus. That low moaning again. Maybe it's a groaning, maybe it's not the decay but the pressure...we want out... we never asked to be fermented. The original recipes call for ergot, a hallucinogenic fungus on certain grains. We left that out. Most of us never get over memories salted with distance and snapshots kept in ghosted albums on dusty shelves anyway. Fermentation is the slow breakdown of structure over time. Help! I'm melting! The sugar in honey is slowly changed by the acidity of the citrus. It's like snow melting from and ground up by the heat and decay of last falls leaves. Eventually there would be only a thin shell of snow, were it not for the cataclysm of the sun crashing down on the other side. In the end, sweetness becomes mead. Yellowed photographs crumble. Bedsheets stain and crust. Old Fords too long in the driveway choke and sputter charcoal, engine chaises rust, valve seats loose their youthful bounce... even your bones turn brittle-unless you fall out of an airplane first.
Chloe slowly sits up and reaches for a beer. "Just take the next couple of days off, wait til the cowboys are gone."
"Oh I took the next two weeks off. I mean no point in putting down a nice deck and then having tar dripped on it." Jimmy lights the joint and exhales slowly. He offers it around but gets no takers. "Solo? Alright. I need it."
The cave-like silence returns for a minute or two. Jimmy seems to create some sort of energetic opposite to Scratch's vacuum, neutron stars orbiting each other. Jimmy smokes the joint about half way down and then gently taps it out in the ashtray. He smiles for minute and then decides to share. "Okay so this isn't like something I normally do, but it had interesting results so I'm gonna share... After getting hot tar dripped on me for the millionth time I went inside to see if they had some solvent or something right? Well nobody's home. I holler around for a bit and then I think fuck it... forget all about the tar-which, as it turns out comes off pretty easy with tar-off-start snooping around the house. It's one of those old houses off Boulevard, but the couple that owns it are nuevo-rich... you know Scratch, saucing it up with the Truffle oil like it's ketchup?" Scratch grimaces and nods. "So at first I'm digging through the medicine cabinet for anything interesting, actually I lifted a couple darvocets..." Jimmy giggles.
"Jimmy that's horrible." Chloe with her mock angry voice. "Can I have one?"
"Yeah sure, but wait... It gets much worse." He bends forward laughing and then scratches the back of his head and screws up his face as if building courage for a new level of confession.
"Did you sniff her panties?" Scratch beams like a jewel thief passing on the secrets of the trade. "You sniffed her panties didn't you?"
Jimmy falls off the edge of the couch laughing. "Yeah. I did."
"Jimmy!" I can't believe..." Chloe grabs a magazine, roles it up and starts swatting him on the head.
"Wait! Hold up ya'll!" He rolls out of Chloe's range. "Damn girl... Look I know it's fucked up..." backward glance at Chloe, some attempt at suppressing laughter. "Damn... But you know, I was standing there in the bathroom when the idea occurred to me and to tell you the truth I started laughing the minute I realized I was gonna do it. It's just one of those things that you never think to do, I mean unless your actually fucked up enough to get off on that sort of shit, but most guys, like myself, A) never have the opportunity to do something like that and B) when they do have the opportunity to do that don't think to do it... cause you know it's not like I wanted to get off on it... I just wanted to know..."
"James William Miller..."
"Oh come off it Chloe. You're not my mom. You wanted a pill damnit. I stole the pill. I mean suppose the woman was in pain and needed those pills... that's all fine and good, but sniff some panties and you're all pissed? Don't get high and mighty with me. Besides you've sniffed a few jock straps yourself haven't you?"
"Actually no. I haven't." Chloe crosses her legs and glares at him. But then a smile breaks over her face. "But I have stolen underwear from a few guys because I wanted to have a souvenir."
"See I knew it. But you have totally distracted me from my original point, which was the magazines... No not those magazines, damn ya'll are some repressed mutherfuckers... National Geographic Magazines..." Jimmy inches by Chloe and sits back down in the middle of the couch. "I sat there reading National Geographic for like two hours, well, actually not reading just leafing through looking at the pictures. But after two hours of that I started wondering about everything I know...Do you ever get the feeling that tribal people sitting around swatting flies or sticking sticks in anthills to get grubs...or is that monkeys? I forget, whatever, but do you ever start to suspect that perhaps these people are leading much fuller lives? Look at the eyes of the people in National Geographic sometime and tell me you don't start to wonder if perhaps we have missed the point of life entirely." No one says anything, his voice gets quieter, "and in some weird way I think that's why I had to do it, even though it's a reversal of cause and effect, I had to do it because I need to be that close, not invasive, though we perceive it as such now, but think about it, smell... smell is the original identity, the animal scent, the recognition of one's fellow creatures. I smell you and therefore you are not me and then, I mean goddamn, that's what opens the door to everything."
"You think we'd all be better off sniffing each other?"
"Scratch I'm serious here. I think that the reason we're so distant from each other is that we've walled ourselves up. We got hung up on the threat response-you are not me and therefore I must guard against you-rather than the hey how you doing response that I see in other animals. I mean Chloe, Annie sniffs crotches right? It's her way of understanding... of knowing." Scratch hands Jimmy the joint which is once again burning. He takes a long drag and speaks as he exhales, "I'm not saying we should sniff each other's underwear, I'm just saying that's the kind of closeness we're going to need if we're all ever going to get along in this world. Well, that and the collapse of the whole religion and nation-state concepts, but I think those are inevitable in a world with the kind of closeness that I want."
Scratch takes the joint back from Jimmy and stares intensely at him for awhile taking little hits of smoke into his lungs in quick succession. "When I go Jimmy, I want you to come."
"It's beautiful isn't it Sil?" Maya in her painfully stylish charcoal overcoat, the recent dry chill rustling them, a few falling off here and there. Thanksgiving in Central Park, playing frisbee and watching the cirrus turn pink and lavender and now tightly hugging against the faint but persistent breeze. "But kind of sad too don't you think?" She shivers and pulls tighter. "Did you know leaves aren't their true color until they die? I mean the leaf is green because the tree give it chlorophyll and stuff, but then when the tree stops, then the leaves reveal themselves."
"That's a depressing thought."
"Maybe. But it's beautiful too." She has a wistful look of absolute satisfaction with the world that makes me uncomfortable.
"The leaves are the tree though. The tree is the leaves. They aren't separate from each other. They don't exist in some vacuum. We're the ones who are seeing them as separate."
"Maybe. But if that's my perspective then isn't the oneness just yours?"
"Perhaps." We start to walk back across the fields toward the subway. "But we monkeys seem to be the only ones with this overly acute sense of self. I mean if you set aside the usual way of thinking about it couldn't you say that you and I are in fact one entity?"
She smiles. "That sounds great and all, but we're not. Especially not us. I'm here, you're down there."
"Maybe our loneliness is in failing to see that we aren't apart at all. Maybe loneliness and longing are just the result of some isolation from ourselves. Maybe if we stop breaking things into pieces based solely on our own distortions and isolation, we would see through this parts/whole dilemma... we'd see something interconnected, a kind of ever-evolving beauty of process-poetry through motion, through seeing the through."
"But we are separate Sil. It doesn't matter how eloquent you want to get about. The leaves still die every year."
"How do you know they die? Changing color could be only the beginning for the leaves. The leaves don't die because they're still part of an ongoing process. Thinking of brown leaves as dead is only our misconception of what life is. Or even if they do die, everything that dies comes back. These leaves lying there on the ground, breaking apart into food for the tree, soil nutrients, that sort of stuff... It gives the trees the material to produce new leaves for a new year. Are the new leaves actually new? In a sense, the dead brown leaves are climbing back up the trunk of the tree and emerging out of it green again."
"Maybe. I kind of like that idea. The leaves fall for the tree so it can survive the winter and then help it grow in the spring.... But the tree is still never going to fall for the leaves."
FIVE
Trust bed-eponymous arrivals-perishables-wild honey-summer's by the sea-here comes the argument-geography's ants-implications-dissemination-the grid-through which-an ideal world gains-increasing the frequency-clear endless borders-the sound has so much body-dum dee dee der der dee-becoming-oom duh oomp-unbecoming-click de clack de clack de click de clack oom dee oom dee oomp-
The hum the hum the fingers the beat the whining dance the drip drip drip tick tick tick here they come spilling out the sand the pills the time the mold on the tortillas the notes dripping down the speaker cones treble to middle to bass the electric whirl of fans exhaust turbines the spin of molecules the carefully calibrated smoothness of glass the sterility of architecture the depression of low-lit mornings walloping the darkness into submission the glare the piercing of sun on distracted fingernails doing something doing something not right now doing something.
It has been some time.
But the pounding remains.
And the letters keep on following me.
Perhaps they are building something.
And the clicking.
And the far away fingers clicking.
That could well be the finish work.
Molding. Rain gutters. Lightening rods.
Click click click amplified butterfly wing strokes slowed down, sine waves elongated for closer study zoom in zoom in zoom in zigzagging diggy diggy da momenoff. Chaos is not you see. There are patterns repetitions, beats underlying beats, polyrhythms diving in and out over and under the more obvious backbeats. This is not in time, not in time as we are accustomed to it, out of time, very nearly out of time, but the pattern repeats, waves join and harmonize the tick tick tick blends to the drip drip drip, one wonders if they weren't always the same thing.... Have you not noticed the shplocks? The shplooks? The dings? The clacks? The toings? The tongs? The sprongs? Sounds that work by committee? Sounds that need umlauts...? Diphthongs...? Tildes...?
Things are always as they have ever been but somehow incredibly difficult-what seemed simple in the end, to get their, to get where? Oh yes the molding. The finishing touches that soften the architectural foxfires. Stamps of individuality hiding the corners, ramps for the windup toys-fate death dream decay. The decay. The little green growths on the end of the day, the shower a blacker shade mixed with red, different sorts you see... more molds than people when you come down to it. Spawning spreading, eschewing organization, a kind of atonal repetition of function without regard to form. This means something right? It all means something right? This turning on, turning off, repetition of the beat, the caged smoke crawling up the walls from cigarettes and the ashtray says you been up all night like the man on the radio said it would say? Slaves to the pattern, to the beat, the rhythm of blood and circuitry now inexplicably mixed and unable to synchronize without each other. The simultaneous march of time and faucets and showerheads-this will be good come winter you know-clicking their way through time the variable, the frequency modulation of life.
Outside is. Haven't been there lately.
Mainly it's the hum. The whine. The sound of speed. Spinning. The hunch of my back seen from afar trying to get the fucking mold off the fucking tortillas and the hum that won't stop and I love it I want to crawl up in and become it I want the murmur of lips going mmm mmm mmm do do do da da da hmm. Hmm. Tick tick tick all over the table again. Blue and white and pink. Boys and girls and indeterminacies all playing together between the ketchup and syrup and butter and mustard and half full glasses of water with dust and strange protozoa floating on the surface, some so large you can see them with a magnifying glass, which is right there by the bills that haven't been paid, sticking out from under the magazines I haven't read and held down by the mustard as evidence of last night's hamburger.
Oh yes. Last night-they were red and pink and blue and subversive and locked up. But we freed them, we did, Jimmy with the double helix reflection of throbbing candles in his eyes, spilling them everywhere. The last of them. Chloe in her silk pajama bottoms, legs tucked up under, and the walls leaning in and the windows gone convex to get a better view, everybody wants to see this, everybody is down for the spill, the collision of chemical surfaces, the cohesion of colors not found in your more academic theories... The backbeat is the thing, the tick tick tick. That's the approaching point, the coming nonesuch... The room had organ tones, the kind of fullness that only an organ can convey, we're sitting on the inside of an organ, stops and levers heaving and sighing, the rush of air, sucking in the windows, chairs and couches bent forward, leaning over on their knees and then the low exhale, the groan, but here it's something difficult, something in B flat, but still upbeat, punctuated by a muffled, distorted snare beat, a bass drum with a fresh head on it, flat and claustrophobic, swallowing the echo before it gets a chance to breathe and then the sucking in again, the stops pulled out for a c-chord, the upper arch, the melody note of an atonal progression.
It was after the enchiladas.
I like mold. In small qualities. When baked it always has the potential to form some mind-altering substance, which is not something I want, but it would be interesting you understand... Food should be an adventure fraught with peril lest it become routine, shoveling coal into a furnace. And neither of them mentioned a moldy taste, though I noticed it a little here and there, gave everything a more organic, perhaps whole-grain, sort of flavor. Dean would have lost it, gone on a hippie exterminating rampage, but he remains up there, sends long metalic letters, whole grain remains unmolested.
The mold was eclipsed by the beat. By the melody. By the claustrophobia. By the tick tick tick. Hold up. Slow that moment down a touch. Maybe to a tock tock tock or even plong plong plong like a cue ball in slow motion striking the two ball with a crack slowed down to an explosion, and then reaching in to grab them, but here Chloe seems to be moving in reverse as if the film just reached the end of the reel and some lazy attendant-James didn't you work the projectors for a while?-has just hit reverse rather than rethread for a rewind. Yes Chloe is not picking them up, she is re-putting them in her mouth, they have always been in her mouth. They came out to have their moment to let the windows and wall bend and breathe in jealous gasps and then back in they go where they have always been. Everything woozing back into Chloe, gulping air, drinking in the claustrophobic air returning to where it always was. And the windows draw back in horror as if to say I can't believe you've played the tease, we always knew you had it in you, but here? Now? Like this? To give. And then take away. So cold so inhuman so... wait when is your birthday? We know chart people, we have suspicions about you.... September is it...? Yes, thinking you have it all in balance, eh? Well have you ever noticed that the scales are tipping? Yes seems that they aren't quite balanced when their in your hands eh? Not quite balanced...
From: Dean O'Leary <do@morpheus.net>
To: sil@kali.org
Subject:
Dean junior can be lured to the surface for food. But otherwise he remains alternating between castle and treasure. I found out from Melissa that he would not last long at all in the ocean. He is a fresh water fish. I had a glass yesterday. It was a little stale, but definitely not salt water. Melissa says not to drink it anymore as it has strange chemicals in it. But this morning I had another glass. It was almost fishy.
I have the hiccups and my leg is ringing but otherwise it's a statuesque day. Today I think we should all play harmonicas and live in sun-faded slate-gray shacks without indoor plumbing. Everything leaving all at once in all directions. Would your life seem more meaningful in duotone? A kind of warm brown wash to color your eyelids like the thunderstorms, flash flooding down the Rialto, right by that house on the sharpest bend of River Road, that one with the mailbox perpetually down, victim to countless corrosive glasses of gin? My mailbox has been down for some time. On the edge of autumn where the last fireflies still tango in time changes and the hush that comes after the last beat drops and you stumble it down the line to the head-hanging hour at which all regrets are cashed for last minute glimpses in cruel reflective toilet water, here we- and the beat is dropping into slate-gray outhouses where we sit waiting for the paper, the news the leaves of grass that we used to use.
Eventually I will answer my leg. It will be Maya. We will talk amongst ourselves. Try to batten down the hatches of our hopes and fears, but it won't work for either of us. She will hang up and go for a walk around the east village, stop in St. Marks and read a few more pages from a Rilke biography and then down Delancy for a couple of drinks at sakdlfjkj where the hipsters will shoot pool and drink Brooklyn Lager because that's what hipsters do, and Maya will push the ice around in an empty glass of Vox and stare out the window at the people that aren't walking by and dream of couples huddled close against the cold, but it's August and it isn't cold. Then on the way home she will stop in at Rice and have some of that curious black grains with stir-fried vegetables and maybe a gelato from the place next door for the long walk back to the Village. And I will eat the last of Jimmy's pills and feel pretty good until dinner time at which point I will go for walk and end up at Scratch's house where he will serve me some strange couscous and tofu dish because he considers tofu the last culinary challenge of his nearly complete culinary career, after which he will swear that as soon as he masters the art of tofu, invents his one perfect dish, he is closing up shop and heading to Costa Rica. He will mock my posture, but in a good-humored way. Jimmy will stop by and hatch a plan. It will be a grand plan. It might even involve motorcycles and bandits. Chloe will be suspiciously absent.
Later I will find myself at home. I will smoke idle cigarettes and pour myself a glass or two of brown liquor and dream of someplace I could go and be surly.
From: Dean O'Leary <do@morpheus.net>
To: sil@kali.org
Subject:
Melissa is at work. I think she is beginning to tire of me. I am a drain to her. But with her working all day, who is going to look after Dean Jr.? I feed him every morning and evening. Just after she leaves and just before she gets home. I didn't plan it that way. At first I just noticed that my days began and ended with feeding Dean Jr.
Every morning while I am asleep she opens all the curtains and draws the blinds in the bedroom. I think she is sending me a message, but I don't understand a word of it. All I know is that every morning I have to let down the blinds again, draw the curtains and drop a few little gray-green pellets in Dean Jr.'s tank. It takes a while for the food to be consumed or to settle to the bottom, between the florescent pebbles-why are his pebbles florescent? Are there florescent peddles in streams? Are there actually florescent rocks out there, and I have just been too blinded to see them? It's usually well into the afternoon before I can have my first taste.
The water is getting musty. I suspect it's fish shit, but I don't like to think about that. I prefer to taste it as the essence of fish. I have acquired a taste for it. Tap water no longer excites me like it used to. I get no thrill out of turning the knobs anymore. I went across the street to a flea market yesterday and bought a ladle. I keep it hidden under the bed so Melissa won't find it. I have taken to covering the tank with an old black shirt. The water level hasn't dropped noticeably yet, but I want to establish a pattern before she gets suspicious. If she finds the ladle I plan to tell her it's a sexual thing. I think I'll tell her I like to have my balls ladled while getting head. She can't find out. If she finds out she'll kick me out.
I wish you could see him Sil. The way he stops moving entirely. He rotates one of his swivelly eyes upward and watches me as I dip and ladle in and draw it up to my mouth. He knows. He understands. We have moments during the day. He will catch me doing silly things and laugh his mouthy little laugh. Or I will lie down on the floor and crawl over so that he can't see me and sneak up around the side of the tank, wedge my head between the tank and T.V. and pop up suddenly to surprise him. It startles him a little, but I think he's come to expect it a little now. I'll have to think of something new. I don't want him to get bored with the routine.
From: Dean O'Leary <do@morpheus.net>
To: sil@kali.org
Subject:
I don't think you should worry about me Sil. Things are winding down here. I'll be coming down soon; I just have to stick this thing out with Dean Jr. I have to see it through. Melissa is suspicious definitely. And I did check. The only fish to human transference I could find was from eating the fish-worms and stuff like that. I'm not really in a bad way. It's just the process of ending that intrigues me. I always have to stay to the bitter end just to see if everything wraps up the way I thought or if there is that last minute twist we all love, that unexpected moment.
This weekend was fun. Melissa had to go to a conference in Atlantic City. Of course I brought Dean Jr. I put him in a tupperware bowl for the train ride (I had a hard time trying to think of reason to bring my bag to the bathroom so I could open the tupperware and give him a fresh dose of oxygen-water gets stale-he can use up all the oxygen in the water-did you know that? I didn't, but the girl at the pet store told me that. She gave me her number too, but I think I threw it out. Luckily I hadn't shaved, so on the train I told Melissa I was going to shave and I brought my bag and gave Dean Jr. some air. Maybe he could have made it all the way, but I didn't want to risk it. Anyway I came back unshaven and forgot that shaving was my excuse, and Melissa stared me down real ugly and then it hit me and all I could think of to say was that there was no hot water. I know she went later and checked and of course there probably was hot water.)
I lost fifty dollars at the blackjack table.
"So he's coming down again?" Chloe is cleaning up the back of my neck with the clippers. Already I feel slightly cooler, but this is a feeling that will pass shortly.
"Seems that way."
"Did he say when?"
"No."
"Huh. You know Sil, I still don't understand what you're doing here. And I understand even less why Dean is coming down again. You know I'm still trying to get out of here..."
"Yes, but you were born here. Everyone is trying to get out of where they were born. But to tell the truth, I'm not entirely sure why Dean is coming down." I consider mentioning the aquarium drinking, but decide against it since he and Chloe have had only the briefest of encounters in the past, and it might, well, color her opinion of him some unsavory shade of disgust. "I think maybe he's coming to get out of the living situation he's been in with his girlfriend and such, but knowing Dean there is probably a good deal more to it than that." Chloe is staring at my head in a distracted, unsettling way. "What?" I turn slightly to look her square in the eyes.
"Um, I think your ears are a little lopsided."
"What?"
"Well at first I thought I was messing up the back of your neck, but it's clearly straight and yet, when compared to your ears, it still looks slightly lopsided, so I think maybe your ears aren't quite even." She smiles. "Sorry."
"But the hairline on the neck looks okay?"
"Oh yeah it's fine."
"Well that's all I care about."
"Okay. Well then you're done." She switches off the clippers and brushes off my neck with an old t-shirt. I run my fingers over the remaining eighth inch of hair on my scalp and come away with an unsettling mixture of sweat and hair clippings.
"You might want to take a shower before you go out."
"Yeah I plan to."
"Are you going out tonight?"
"Maybe. What are you doing?"
Chloe's face grows slightly flushed as she sits down beside me on the porch steps. "I have a date."
"Bicycle Man?"
"Lord no." She turns her head, "why? Do I look that hard up?"
"No. He's just my favorite."
"Really? I would think he might be slightly intimidating... at least Jimmy seems slightly intimidated, or defensive of me, or something when he's around."
"Why? Because he could snap Jimmy and me in half like a toothpick?" She chuckles slightly. "No I like him because he is totally non-threatening. There is no chance in hell you would ever want anything more out of him than sex. He represents no threat to our friendship so for me he's the least threatening. But that's not why I like him. I like him because he doesn't mind being called Bicycle Man. Anthropology Man just never seemed to really accept the name, every time we called him that he would get this mortified look on his face and remind us of his name, like we were calling him that because we had forgotten his real name. What was his real name?"
"Robert."
"Oh yeah, Bob, see I knew there was a reason we called him Anthropology Man..."
"Scratch dubbed him that because Bob told him some long story about being in Costa Rica and going to all the Indian ruins or whatever."
"Really? I always thought he was an Anthropology professor or something?"
"No. He owns a construction company. Or landscaping company... I forget exactly."
"But you're not going out with him either huh?"
"No. He's engaged now. I'm going out with The Professor."
"Oh god Chloe. Again?" The Professor is, naturally, a professor, though his diminutive statue and total lack of problem-solving skills set him apart from the more familiar Gilligan's Island variety. We took to calling him the professor because none of us can ever remember his name. And because he's well, such a professor. He tries hard to be cool, you can see it in his eyes, he wants to scream, but he can't, or if he does, it comes out a murmur, a stumbling awkward line that usually only reveals him for the overeducated mousish man that he is. He seems genuinely concerned with things like literature and poetry, but only because he is involved in them, he is good at them, he lacks the natural enthusiasm of Jimmy or Scratch. He would have written the poem, but never dared to touch the plums. Unlike the famous professor on that deserted isle, he can't seem to make a radio out of coconuts to broadcast distress signals with. I don't even think he could crack a coconut open, much less transform it into something usable. He's New England. Coconuts are obtained in cans at specialty Asian Markets which always share a wall with some sort of adult video establishment because the Asian community understands the needs of white New Englanders. He has pasty skin, anemic eyes, and a disgusting habit of carefully evaluating risk before proceeding. He's more or less dead, and frankly, he scares me to death. He's so far gone he's never coming back, and he's only a year or two older than me. Chloe seems genuinely smitten with him. But then again he is the first person Chloe has dated, at least in the time I've known her, that has a functioning mind. He has a certain depth, however bookish and ill-formed it may be, that Chloe needs, but is afraid of being attached to, of becoming dependant upon, of needing. In his twisted way he does have an element of danger to him that Chloe no doubt finds irresistible-he's married.
"I know it's horrible, I know I'm doomed to live through some horrible karmic payback for all of this, but really I think I'm in love with his mind," She claps her hands on her knees. "It's the first time there's something more than just attraction. I'm not even really attracted to his body. I mean he isn't bad looking you know, but he's kind of...well... he's short. But I'm not going to swallow a moth for him, already promised myself that. There will be no moth eating."
"It must be wonderful for him to live out the fucking the babysitter fantasy
"Stop Sil. There will be no mocking in my presence. And that isn't how it started. We met because his younger daughter is in my class..."
"Fucking the third grade teacher fantasy... see this goes way back...."
"That's enough Sil." She brandishes a cigarette and threatens to burn my arm. "It wasn't until we were already friends and he had moved out of the house, that his wife asked if I would watch the girls."
"He actually moved out?" This surprises me, but somehow endears the man to me. "Wow. I wouldn't have thought he had it in him."
"He caught his wife with her personal trainer or something clich like that. He had to move out. But it made me more comfortable knowing that he didn't do it for me or because of me... it didn't have anything to do with me. I wouldn't want him to do it for me. But won't say that I'm not glad it happened-is that selfish of me?"
"Selfish? No I don't think so. But you are walking into a minefield Chloe." I run my hands over my head in a manner reminiscent of Scratch. "You Chloe, who professes to detest entanglements... I mean... you couldn't find someone more entangled if you tried."
"I know, I know." Her head slumps dejectedly. "But it's important to me Sil that you understand I didn't plan this. I didn't go into it like a nave little girl, but I certainly didn't want to split up his family and so far I haven't. And part of me even hopes that he and his wife will get back together..." She lets out a long sigh. "Even if that will be the end of my relationship with him."
"She has no idea? I mean she must not if she asked you to baby-sit."
"I can't tell. Maybe she does, but it's not like he and I have even had sex... we just talk. We talk kind of like you and I talk, and we care about each other... and we've had plenty of opportunities to have sex now that he's living at The Downtowner."
"He's staying in a motel?"
"Yeah. See, I don't even think he wanted to move out. He's been in the hotel for two weeks now and not only have we never had sex, but he hasn't even picked up a rental listing or anything. Besides, I love their daughters and I have to provide them with some modicum of female sanity lest they turn out to be like their mother... She actually drives all the way to Atlanta to buy organic vegetables... I mean, do you see the... never mind... it just disgusts me."
"Yup. I mean never mind the hypocrisy, we're all hypocrites, but some of us are at least aware of our hypocrisy..."
"I know. That's what I'm saying. This woman is insane. I mean she was fucking the personal trainer or something and into organics and asks me to baby-sit three days a week so she can go to yoga, meanwhile her family is disintegrating around her, her daughters are closer to me than her and she seems to think its just a phase in her marriage or something. And the worst part is she's a black belt in jiu-jitsu or shuiru or some horribly obscure form of martial arts and could probably kill me in less time than it would take to form the idea of killing me." Chloe shivers and leans her head on my shoulder.
"And you're fucking around with her husband..."
"And I'm fucking around with her husband..."
From: Dean O'Leary <do@morpheus.net>
To: sil@kali.org
Subject:
I don't know why Sil. I know it's disgusting. I don't even like doing it, but I have acquired a taste for it. I can't stop now, it bookends the days. Melissa has been yelling an awful lot lately. I'm not sure what she yells about exactly because I don't hear it. It's over. I gather that much. Presumably she wants me out of here. I do try to stay tuned enough to distinguish a date or something equally real, but usually she stops yelling after a while and we fuck like angry teenagers. She found the ladle yesterday. She didn't even ask what it was for. She was already yelling and picking up my clothes and throwing them in the hamper, and she reached under the bed and pulled out the ladle and just set it on the nightstand. After the yelling we were having sex, and she asked me to slap her ass with the ladle, so I did. I got tired after a while and couldn't have sex and operate the ladle at the same time and so I just sat on the side of the bed, and whacked her ass until she came. Or I think she came. This morning her ass was black and blue, but she acted like it never happened.
Dean Jr. is running out of water. He seems to know what is happening. I vomited twice yesterday from the drinking. I don't know for sure if I can finish. I went outside today for the first time since Atlantic City. It's very hot out, Sil. Is it hot there as well? I'm disappointed in myself. I can't seem to finish. And just this afternoon while I was out I bought a bottle of water. I cheated Sil. It was so clean and pure and tasteless. Not the slightest odor of fish. How do they get all the fish taste out of the water? Think how many fish are in streams... even weird blind fish that live way underground in caves and water tables... so many fish and yet when we get a bottle of water from the store we never taste them. But they're there. It's their water. We just borrow it. We take it, we filter it, we use it, we piss it out, we flush the toilet, we filter it again and then we send it back to the fish. We never even thank them. At least I don't know of anyone thanking them.
From: Dean O'Leary <do@morpheus.net>
To: sil@kali.org
Subject:
It's over thank god. I drank the last inch this morning by sticking my head in and sucking it up with a straw. Dean Jr. flopped around on the florescent gravel for about an hour or so. And then he was dead. I gathered up my clothes and put them in the suitcase. It took me most of the afternoon to find my car. I'll see you soon.
"It's not bad." Jimmy sounds surprised. "I don't know that it's all that good, but it isn't bad."
"Yeah. It's not the best I've made, but it's not the worst either." In a display of startlingly bad posture, Scratch is slouched down on the couch, cradling a ceramic mug on his stomach. He groans, props his bad leg up on the arm of the chair. "Fall is coming. This Indian Summer thing is always the first sign, and lucky me, I get to feel it in my bones." His lips curl sarcastically, and he takes another sip of mead. "The humidity's dropped anyway."
Jimmy lights a cigarette and exhales in the too-fast manner of people who don't actually smoke. I stretch my legs out and lie back prone on the floor, staring up at the tapestry ceiling. "Where's Chloe?"
"Out to dinner with the professor..." Jimmy exhales too hard again.
"She's been here what? Ten years?" Scratch shifts himself and lies down now occupying the entire length of the couch. "She knows how small this town is, how long does she think she can keep this on the down tip when they go out all the time?"
"I think she believes that as long as they don't have sex they aren't doing anything that needs to be hidden. Or at least that was the impression I got."
"He's obviously still in love with his wife. Guys like that are always going to stay in love with their wives because they don't have the imagination to move beyond it-not saying that's a bad thing mind you-just that he's going to go back to her, and Chloe is going to be left holding on to something that was never there." Scratch sits up and rummages around in his pockets to produce a small bag of weed and some rolling papers. He tosses them at Jimmy and lies back down. "You've met him haven't you Sil? Am I right?"
"Probably. But then I didn't think he'd move out."
"He had to move out. He didn't want to move out, but the script dictated that he had to move out. Wwhen you walk in on her, you have to move out. You don't even want to usually. Everything right then becomes very surreal, but your options at that point are pretty much murder or move out. I think he did the right thing. I mean, it was the personal trainer right...?" Scratch laughs heartily for a minute and it's not until I see the smile spread over Jimmy's face that I remember Scratch was a personal trainer for a while. "Yeah it's never anything more than sex with the personal trainer."
"Did you ever..."
"No. Never did. I've always figured that there are so many wonderful single women in the world there is no reason to get involved in that sort of situation. Not every guy chooses to move out you know.... Not that it wasn't offered.... I guess, and maybe this is just me inventing excuses for Chloe because she is our friend, but I guess for women there are less ideal single men. In this town anyway." Scratch accepts the joint from Jimmy. "I still think it's a bad idea."
We lapse into silence as they pass the joint back and forth. There is the sound of tires on gravel and the slamming of car doors.
"Oh, by the way, Dean is coming down." I sit up again. They don't response to this news. I follow their eyes out the window where the last glow of sunset silhouettes what appears to be Chloe and The Professor walking down the path toward my front door. There is a knock at the front door. A sound so rare it takes me a minute to grasp what it is, but Scratch is already yelling come in.
Chloe opens the door and walks in with a faint ducking motion that is immediately nervous and timid, two things Chloe rarely seems to experience. She seems to be, rather than just nervous, nervous about being nervous. Scratch bounds off the couch and is shaking hands with The Professor and hugging Chloe before I can even move. Jimmy is hurriedly crushing out the joint and steps over me to shake hands with The Professor. When the daze finally lifts I here Chloe saying, "...and you remember Sil."
"Yes. Yes I do. How are you Sil? Nice place you have here, like camping kind of..."
"Yeah thanks." I stand up finally. "Come on in, have a seat."
"Is that pot I smell?" The Professor sniffs suspiciously as he and Chloe sit down on the couch next to Scratch. Chloe is in between them, and The Professor places his hand on her leg and she puts hers over it. "Man. It's been years since I smoked pot."
"Well here you are Professor..." Scratch extends the half smoked joint to him, and Chloe turns roughly the color of a Cardinal at the mention of the word professor.
"Oh no. That's okay I don't think I should..."
Scratch's hand snaps back, and he cocks his head to the side. He shrugs, thrusts the joint between his lips and fumbles with my Zippo for a minute before producing a flame so large it nearly takes off his eyebrows. He chuckles and leans back on the couch. "Well the least you can do is indulge in some of my homebrewed mead here." He picks up the bottle and pours a little in his ceramic mug and passes it over to The Professor who takes a sip and proclaims it, "a little on the sweet side, but good."
"Wait, did you call me professor? Please don't do that, only my students call me professor..."
"Well you are a professor aren't you?" Scratch screws his face up into his potatohead stuck on smile look.
"Yeah I am, but..."
"Well that settles it, Professor." Scratch grabs the bottle and takes a long pull. "Can you make a radio out of coconuts?"
"Excuse me? Oh yeah. Uh... I don't know, I've never tried."
"Sil do you have any coconuts?"
"No."
"Damn." There is laughter and merriment, and everyone seems to think The Professor is being a good sport and a likeable guy and I keep staring at his hand which is resting on her knee, no, actually it's a little bit back from her actual kneecap, it's at the end of her thigh, it's right about where muscle gives way to tendon, the last extension of conscious control, he's right there at the edge and he's laughing and now he's taking the joint from Scratch, now he thinks he's one of the gang so why not and he's inhaling and laughing and everybody is having such a good fucking time and we're all in on this aren't we? We're all friends aren't we? We all fucking fit together don't we?
"So how's this thing with your wife?" An ugly pallor of silence casts itself across the room. The Professor seems unable to speak. He stutters and mumbles something about not wanting to talk about it. Jimmy is curled into a ball in the chair trying not to burst out laughing, and Chloe is staring at me with visions of disembowelment and meat-cleavered penises dancing across her pupils. Scratch takes a long drag and holds it.
"Never mind Sil," Scratch begins talking as he slowly exhales "he's had a few to many nips of the mead." Scratch rubs Chloe's back. She gets up to leave and The Professor follows mumbling things about nice to meet you and you...
The door closes behind them, and we listen to footsteps disappear into the night. No one says anything until we hear the sound of car doors. "I think that went well." Scratch grins.
"That was fucking amazing." Jimmy lets loose his pent-up laughter, pent so far that he seem to be spitting a bit in the midst of it. "I've never seen someone stop having a good time in that short... damn Sil. That really was brilliant."
"Of course you know Sil," Scratch eyes me thoughtfully, "tonight's the night they actually have sex... you've driven her into his arms, you know that, right?"
I shrug. "It's what they wanted isn't it."
Six
This is the room- these days run away like-treasure chests of pomegranates-nightfall on the savannah-we had no idea- be more like the ocean-visualize action-all that is waiting-the problem-understanding at the expense of ambiguity-pulling in the shells-red plumes of blue-something to move-turbulent somnobulist in the air-this is the room-
Something strange is amiss, hitting its pointed beak on the roof in time to the squirrels scampering feet, up there with the fallen limbs of pecans and maples and the disgorging of wings, cardinals and warblers and wrens and somewhere way up there, really up, straight fucking up, canadian geese in the marshmellow tuffs and syrupy blue ether-feathers raining through the pecans and maples and little Leda, wiping an impish grin on the back of her hand, tosses the club amidst a great splash of feathers that billow around her, listing slowly to the ground like gentle warm snow,-this is the room where we are waiting.
Perhaps Jimmy is not waiting.
Perhaps I am the only one waiting. Watching the scenery out the window of a train car still sitting in an empty railyard. Everyday the same scene, but hoping for motion.
Jimmy and I are just making some headway on a bottle of Scratch's and there it is-another train car pulling along side ours-the innocuous blue-green tint of Dean's soda-can sedan pulling to a rickety halt on the rutted driveway. I go the window and watch as he gets out and sets down his battered suitcase. Dean has wings, but they're black and someone has swallowed all his halos as if to say there is only pleasure with pain, only balance in contradiction. I've seen him dine on buddhists, put bullets through honeydew and mix gin with the Khan's famous after dinner treats. Dean was miscast. Given the wrong physical build, some paper work mix-up on the way down, departmental records secretary spills the coffee, papers snowing off the edge of desk some requisition order slides under the filing cabinet where it's still gathering dust and Dean gets here looking like an underweight Dempsey. He's done well with it though, he's grown into into it in spite of himself.
This morning he's wearing his trademark pin-striped suit and fedora with his hair greased back like it's 1957 and he's slightly ahead of his time. He scratches his head and surveys his surroundings, craning to inspect the treetops and sapphire twinkles of sky poking between leaves. Then he puts his hat back on and marches down the driveway. He looks like an enemy of the people, but only as a tag, a tag they would give to Dillinger or Mitnik, a tag that belies the warmth of men who know the odds and aren't putting any money on the table. They look best as a smiling Xerox on the post office bulletin board, never a sketch, never a half remembered glimpse, no Dean would do it all in broad daylight, the sort of criminal that is no longer permitted. There's a glamour to that sort of crime, crime which may steal, or destroy, but never does any real harm. An innocent criminality that got lost somewhere along the way, a formal criminality, an innocence that makes you believe that crime is as noble an art as any.
He looks like something from a tall tale told by a drunken leprechaun tugging at your coattails in a Dublin alley. But Dean is a darker sound than most, one with a heavy backbeat, something bass driven, with accordian melodies. The innocent criminal and lighthearted formality can collapse like bellows and exhale a different man, a heartbreaking melody then, dark and heavy-a gypsy song or a curse-half-muttered words. One day in New York City.... But even in the watery darkness of Dean's quiet moments the formalitity and innocence remain in little things, like words, always aeroplane, juncture, sonombulist, never airplane, time or zombie, or his clothing, always suits, antiquated, out of style, yet fitting on his wiry frame, always a zippo, never a bic, or his near reverant love of silence and thought. You can see thoughts folding in on themselves behind his eyes, train wrecks he will never describe for you, locked forever in a half curl of lips or rise of an eyebrow, entire railyards with meticulously inlaid switching systems with cars to carry you as far as Bangledesh or as near as the very stop your own train is pulling into just now, and yet he remains gulping in the silence, the beauty of saying nothing. I have seen Dean vanish, become so silent, so still that he disappeared right in front of me.
Everything is always on or off, there is no mediocrity or in between state- everything or nothing at all. When he drinks, and Dean often does, his eyelids droop slightly and his head teeters about on the end of his neck, but just when you think he's skunked, he'll snap to and ask you about something you casually mentioned two weeks ago, wanting to know the finer details of your off hand remark-razor sharp.
He doesn't knock, artificial formality is not his style. He moves through the door with more grace and sense of comfort in his surroundings than I can manage after four years. Jimmy and I sit silently waiting while Dean carefully lays the battered suitcase on the dining table and fishes out and lights a cigarette in one long fluid motion. He exhales and breaks into a broad smile.
"Sil my old friend," he walks around the divan and clasps his arms around me, "you ought to unpack... it will be good for you."
"I will my friend. I will."
We do not pat each other on the back. Eventually he pulls back, and, still grasping my shoulders, says, "You look well. You look marvelous actually." His attention shifts to Jimmy who, realizing he's next, has risen off the couch, glass of mead still in hand, "James... Good to see you."
While they embrace and clap each other on the back, I walk into the kitchen and grab Dean a glass and pour him some mead.
"Mead huh? Never had it."
"A Scratch specialty. It's not bad actually." Jimmy takes another sip as if to encourage Dean along.
"Scratch? Is that a person?" Dean flops down on the couch with his glass carefully raised and counterbalanced to avoid spilling.
"Scratch was discovered shortly after you left. You'll love him."
"Not bad. A little sweet for my taste but not bad." He sets the glass on the table and smacks his lips. "And where is Little Miss?"
"Sil pissed her off last night... Maybe you can retrieve her and assuage the feminine irk"
Dean's smile droops to a frown and he cocks an eyebrow at me.
I shrug. "Long story. Married people were in the house."
He winces. "Things are falling apart in my absence.... Fear not my friend. I'm back to save the universe." The smile returns, and he reaches again for the glass. "Get's better the more you drink..." He raises his glass and Jimmy and I follow, clinking our glasses against his "to a new dawn in the dark night of the soul..."
His toasts are always twinged with a melodramatic glamour that makes sense only after you have raised the twelfth one and come to see that, far from artifice, melodrama is the last glimmering of false hope, the desert hallucination of shimmering water that turns out indeed to be the water, shimmering and half-eclipsed by date palms.
"Okay man... hey let me get one of those..." Dean hands him a cigarette, and Jimmy lights up and exhales with his non-smoker aggressiveness. "So lay it on me... What have you been up to?"
Dean signs and lights another cigarette off the cherry of the former. He looks over at me with a twinkle on the corner of his lips. "When was my last email...? Oh yes. Okay that was a few days ago." He rubs his goatee ruminating on the elapse of time. "It's pretty vague... wait, hold on now, a couple of snapshots are developing. I remember looking up from a formica bar at thousands of blinking lights, like getting off a Ferris wheel and realizing that it was still and the rest of world is what's spinning." He nods to himself as if pleased with the recollection. "I have an image of an alley, two dumpsters labeled United and a cocktail waitress with extracurricular monetary schemes. I remember trying to buy cigarettes from this old man with a tray around his neck and I had no money, so he gave me a pack provided I left the building. I'm just not sure where the building was... Virginia maybe...?
"Yes. Yes it was somewhere by a river, I remember the smell and empty bottles floating in the water. Yes. I put them there. I drank them and then I lobbed them into the river and watched them bob around and list over on their sides and then they would slowly fill up with water and sink. But a couple of them righted themselves before they reached that critical mass, or equilibrium, or whatever, and they just floated off with the current..."
"Right," Jimmy interrupts impatiently, "but I meant up in Brooklyn... How did the city treat you?"
"Oh that part. Well let's see. I never really got a job. I mostly sat around the house smoking... let myself be a fucktoy for Melissa... naturally that wore thin after a while... I worked for two weeks tending bar at one of those Williamsburg joints that doesn't close... Working class place, where the night shift comes in around eight AM and wants to get ripped after work... So I did pay rent for a couple of months off that, but then I got fired for tapping the till... So I went back to being a fucktoy... I had a fish, but he died...
He pauses and stares intently at me. He starts to sit back and cross his legs, but then changes his mind and jerks to his feet. He paces a circle around the coffee table and then goes into one of his abstract-theoretical rants. He stops pacing to light a cigarette, the smoke maces him and he squints for a minute, rubs his eyes and lurches off again.
"Do you remember, when we were living out in LA, how it seemed like everything was so important and everyone had something they were working toward, but we always knew there was nothing and never would be? Well it's the same thing... same types of people, same types of jobs, ... everything exactly the same... except for the houses... I love the brownstones, take that over stucco any day, but it's pretty much the same sorts of people, the same caricatures that they present... real people mind you and plenty of interesting ones, though too many jogging and pushing baby strollers and that sort of nonsense... on the whole sharper than most in OC or LA, but not really all that different when it comes down to fundamental things like outlook on life, or maybe what I mean is lack thereof... plenty of shock at the notion that I don't want to work. I remember at this one party, one of Melissa's more yuppyish friends cornered me and started grilling me about what I did and all this stuff and I kept hemming and hawing and whatnot... finally she says, 'well what do you really love?' 'Everything,' I said. Absolutely everything. Except for onions and insects... and work. I hate work. I don't want to work. I want to absorb. I want to breathe in and out and understand. You know... run of the mill stuff. Anyway so Brooklyn was a lot like going back to LA, but with better restaurants. Not that I had expected it to be different, but the thing is, I've changed so much that I couldn't relate to it anymore. Couldn't even get that old superior amusement out of it.... I kept losing track of time... time is very important in that city. Never seems to be enough of it or something, everyone's trying to find it, the only place you can forget about time is in the parks. I would take wonderful naps in Prospect Park every afternoon. I got into letter writing. I spent most of my days writing letters to Sil and some folks on the west coast... I would find myself moving my fingers over the keyboard... I realized that I was playing it like an instrument, that the keys were what I was paying attention to, not the words or even the screen but the rhythm of the keys as my fingers danced over the..." He sighs wearily and crushes out his cigarette. "Who's the gimp?"
Out the front window we can see Scratch hobbling along with a pack on his back and what looks like ten or fifteen plastic shopping bags clutched in each hand. Jimmy bounds outside to help him.
"That, is Scratch." I smile at Dean. "I sort of thought that perhaps you wouldn't want me to share those emails with anyone..."
"Yeah maybe so." He sits down on the throne chair. "I've been feeling much better by the way..." His voice is swallowed by a bellowing laughter and Scratch limping through the doorway with Jimmy just behind him holding the screen open.
"Sil," he barks my name like a director unsure of his actors, "you're having a party. We forgot to have a summer solstice party, so, damnit, were having one now."
"Okay. Should we wait for the autumn equinox?"
"We haven't got that kind of time." He heaves the bags up onto the dining table. "Beside who knows when that is... just doesn't have the ring of summer solstice. Autumn Equinox is very awkward to even say, let alone have a party for. This is going to be an Indian Summer party if it really must have a name. But damn it, you better get on the horn and call yer friends cause old Scratch is putting on the chef coat and it's feeling like grilling season..." He then reaches into one of the bags and extracts from it a starched white, double breasted chef coat and begins to theatrically pull his arms through the sleeves. That accomplished, he snaps the collar smartly to his neck and shrugs several times as if adjusting his body to the coat rather than the other way around. He drops the theatre display when he notices Dean. "Hey...You must be Dean... how ya doing? I'm Scratch."
They shake and Scratch mumbles something about not really being this weird most of the time, which Jimmy vehemently denies, assuring Dean that Scratch is indeed always this weird. "He hit his head you know..."
"James," Scratch is back to barking, "thanks so much for organizing these fine young lads to retrieve the double wide grill which you will find right beside the tire swing in my back yard."He dangles the keys to his truck on his outstretched finger. I leap up and grab them grab. We set off with Dean through the forest along the river trail.
"Little different than Brooklyn eh?" Jimmy is still smoking the same cigarette and keeps stopping to inhale.
"Hmm... Yeah... So what did you mean when you said he hit his head?"
Jimmy laughs and then stops. "I guess it really isn't funny. He had a rather severe accident. We should probably let him tell you the story..."
Almost and hour has passed before we get back with what turns out to be the largest barbeque known to man and takes all three of us gasping and struggling to get it in and then out of Scratch's truck. In the mean time Scratch has converted my kitchen into something resembling a Cossack encampment shortly before crossing the river to descend upon the Turks. Plastic bags are hanging in a curtain-like semi-circle around the sink, suspended by hooks I didn't know I had. The tiny four-burner stove has disappeared beneath a barracks tent worth of pots and skillets, which on closer examination reveal several bubbling brown liquids with various herb clumps protruding from them. The oven door is propped slightly open and its insides are laden with skillets full of sauted vegetables richly coated in butter or oil or some mysterious glaze made from butter and oil.
Scratch is bent over the sink sharpening his knives. The sink has been buried beneath an enormous, two-inch-thick cutting board that must weight thirty pounds and came from god knows where. It certainly wasn't carried in a plastic bag. He straightens up and turns around when he senses me inspecting the stove. "Keep back." He growls. "No sampling. This is a professional operation you are witnessing here." Then he relaxes for a moment. "I think perhaps you should go up and talk to Chloe and make sure that she and The Professor feel welcome this afternoon..."
"I sent Dean and Jimmy on that mission. If she's really mad at me then maybe I will talk to her, but I was kinda hoping it would just blow over."
Scratch snorts and goes back to sharpening, the deft scraping of steel and stone echoing dully off the stainless steel sink below it. I pour myself a glass of mead and retreat to the couch. I flip on the stereo and put on some music. Scratch requests a deeper backbeat. "Some fucking hip hop I said... I can't cook to this morose crap... it's the middle of the day fer godsakes Sil."
I give up and put on the radio.
Mystical is bumping his way over those strange haunting Spanish guitar licks of his when I spot the entourage heading down the walkway. I can make out Jimmy and Dean in front and what looks like The Professor behind them. But there are far too many girls behind that to be Chloe. Unless she has divided into different bodies. They come through the door like a carnival troupe laughing and Jimmy starts singing the end of the song the minute he hears it. Dean breaks into an entirely inappropriate Irish jig sort of routine dragging one of the Chloes, who it's now clear is in fact an entirely separate entity named Nancy, at least according to Jimmy, who is attempting introductions over the sound of laughter and music. Nancy immediately wins my admiration by branching off from Dean's ridiculous dance into an even more spastic and disorienting careening series of movements, managing to draw a reluctant Professor into the routine. She stops abruptly, laughing as the professor continues with an awkwardness that, unlike Nancy's, is not faked. "There you go Professor." She claps and scrunches up her face and unleashes a voice that is one-part British nanny and one-part Shirley Temple "Oh you're sooo fabulous Professor. Run with it baby."
Scratch is momentarily spellbound and ceases his ceaseless movement as if stuck on pause by the touch of an unseen remote. Suddenly the ground gives way beneath him, and he hobbles forward to hug everyone and then gently shoo them outside. I climb up from the couch and move the speakers around to that they face outside.
Jimmy has already lit the grill, and everyone is gathering chairs around the fire pit.
"Let's burn something Sil... this is so great... You have a fire pit in your front yard... We have to have a fire." Nancy's enthusiasm is contagious, and before I can protest, she and Jimmy have disappeared on a wood gathering expedition.
Dean takes off to get beer. The mead is not to his liking he says. By the time he returns there is an alarmingly large pile of wood next to the pit, and Jimmy seems to have every intention of setting it on fire. Chloe is generally ignoring my presence, though The Professor has been making small talk and seems to want me to understand that he is not holding against me whatever it is that Chloe might be.
Conversations swirl in little whirlpools, like dust devils circling the yard, joining together in tornado, and then breaking off again. Though Jimmy and Nancy distinguish themselves with voices that rise in volume and enthusiasm like long rolling tidal waves finally making the beach, crosshatching and threatening to drown us all.
Chloe retreats and is standing by the doorway wearing a blue spaghetti strap dress, shaking her head slowly as she eats carrots and listens to Jimmy ranting. "Oh come on," I can hear him saying though I am trying to catch her eye at the same time, "there is no conspiracy..." his voice momentarily is swallowed by thumping bass and then returns, "...enlightened, wealthy, uber-powerful people living lives of extraordinary decadence at the expense of shmucks like you and I...."
The radio sings "hell was a place I knew long ago/is where I am/ is where I was/ is where I don't want to be/hell was a place I found by mistake..."
"There was a rainbow and we drove right under it and looked up at it... I swear we were right in the middle of it." Nancy's eyes get wider as if to emphasize the truthfulness of her story.
"I don't think you can be in a rainbow...."
"No one cares what you think Dean." She exaggerates, rolling her eyes and turns her around toward Chloe and the other girl. "We were in a rainbow weren't we?" They both nod.
"Fair enough."
"You wouldn't have been able to see it unless you were at a right angle to it," Jimmy breaks off from whatever he was ranting about and dives into the perilous waters next to Nancy.
"Ugh Jimmy. Didn't you hear what I said to Dean here? No one cares what you think... we were there. I think then that really, the authorities in this situation, would be, um, us." Her lips plaster on a sickly sarcastic smile. "Ohoh how you like that boy?" She weaves side-to-side imitating her dance from earlier, and Jimmy gives in laughing.
"Scratch kicks the screen open with a thunderous crash. Every one stops talking and turns toward him. He sniffs the air for moment and disappears back inside and returns carrying an enormous tray of meat. "It's grilling season," he bellows. "Let the grilling begin." He enlists my help in carrying the tray over to the frill and the rest return to what they are doing. I follow Scratch back inside and he sits down for a moment.
"Can I bum a smoke from you Sil?"
"You serious?"
"The only time I smoke is when I cook. When I was actually running the restaurant I was a two pack a day guy and for some reason every time I actually cook, I mean cook for a half dozen or so, I have to smoke." He accepts the cigarette and inhales deeply. "Been almost a year since the last one."
He smokes about half and puts it out and returns to cooking. I sit on the couch watching the rest of them talking and goofing around with Annie in the yard. Jimmy and Chloe break off together and head toward the house. She goes straight into the kitchen to investigate Scratch's cooking. I can hear ingredients being listed over the thump of the bass. Jimmy is making gestures and such that seem to indicate he wants me to talk to Chloe, but actually I have lost all urge. He sits down beside me on the couch.
"If she wants to be mad, who am I to deprive her of the satisfaction?"
He shrugs and nods.
She steps back from the kitchen chewing a haricot vert and smirking at Scratch's scrambling figure darting back and forth, stirring pots, now tossing a pan of braised beans, now whisking an emulsion..."You know Scratch in your life you've spent more time in the kitchen than most women. You might as well be pregnant by now..."
"Yeah," Jimmy stands up to pour more mead, "and those clogs you chefs wear mean you're basically barefoot." He laughs.
"Your point being..." Scratch's head pokes around the corner and glares at him.
Jimmy shrugs, "You'd make a good wife...?"
"What I am doing here James is art. You build things out of wood and call it art. Well, I build things out of food and call it art."
"Hey take it easy Scratch." Jimmy is a little taken aback "I was just trying to make a joke. Everyone knows there are lots of great male chefs."
Chloe groans. "Does it have to be like that?"
"What? Almost all the great chefs are men." Jimmy stares at her blankly.
"Oh god."
"What? They are. I mean almost all the ones I see on the Food Network are. Don't get all feminist on me Chloe."
"Oh this isn't feminism James, this is just pathos. You're pathetic. You force women to be these domestic servants for god knows how long, then just to prove you could do it better, you create this elitist snobbery around the very same thing when you do it."
"Hey I didn't do any of that. And I'm not gonna feel guilty for it. History is a rubbish heap of wrongs Chloe... we've all heard this one before...."
"Have we?" I try to warn Jimmy off with eyebrows, but he ignores me and soldiers on.
"In essence, yes. Very familiar pattern here... the dominator culture... the repressed... the horror. The horror."
"I don't know man, patterns are in the eye of the beholder. Patterns are misleading. Lots of times we think they indicate order, but they don't necessarily. They only indicate patterns."
"Yeah, but patterns within disorder implies a kind of order, wouldn't you agree?"
"No. It depends on what you mean when you say order. Order as an inherent discoverable phenomenon is fiction..." Chloe storms outside and Jimmy and I watch as she sits down next to The Professor, her back toward the house. I continue watching her as Jimmy and I carry through our conversation, which by now, neither of us cares about.
"Imposing order seems to work for certain reducible things... But I think patterns simply imply something outside the disorder is trying to make sense of it.... It doesn't have anything to do with the order or meaning of real nebulus thing. It has to do with us. Not the other... Where one person can find the pattern 'Jesus is the reason for the season' another person finds 'season the reason. Bake for twenty minutes'
Jimmy's voice is flat and distracted "You know as well as I do that those are not anagrams drawn from the same set of letters..."
"Okay sure we keep spare letters around for times when we want them, but isn't that just a further example of that fact that the order isn't there... we invent it?"
"Touch. OUCH!"
"FUCK!"
Scratch slaps us both in the side of the head with metal turners.
"I understand that all that was some misguided attempt to make Sil look good there, James. But I thought maybe a good crack on the head would remind you morons that Chloe isn't as stupid as you two can be." Scratch looks as close to mad as I have ever seen him. He thrusts a pitcher of sauce into Jimmy's hand and a brush into mine. "Now go outside and baste the chicken... And for the love of god keep the sauce off the pork. I didn't soak it in brine for twenty four hours to have goop all over it."
Outside the Professor is trying to coax Dean into some philosophical debate. "So what are you saying? That we can make a difference or that we can't?"
"Neither." Dean lights a smoke. "I have nothing to say on that one because once you start debating that you have already digressed out of life and into the realm of ideas. Ideas are just words, words are just abstractions all you, no offense, do-good intellectuals are missing the point. Yes, life could use some tinkering, it certainly isn't fair, but the problem isn't recycling, it isn't pollution, the problem is you and I and the solution is individual and has to be dealt with on that level. As long as you ignore the individual and focus on the abstract you not only miss the problem, but you delude yourself into thinking that you can find solutions for everyone."
"Oh God," Chloe cuts in with an exasperated voice, "you would think by now with the number of times we have failed to change things that we would be able to look ahead, put two and two together, and stop even talking about this crap." She shakes her head.
"Well yes, that's what I'm saying," Dean points to her with his cigarette. "Everyone has to face up to himself or herself first. And don't pull any psychological mumbo jumbo on me either because there will never be enough therapists to go around until we realize that we are our own therapists, and our own patients and that all the solutions we will ever need are already there in our own brains." He stabs his index finger into his forehead. "And as long as you are going to approach the world as, on one hand, a concrete thing in front of you, and on the other, some fanciful, abstract set of possible solutions, you are never going to realize that the power of words is not in the words themselves, but in what they can create. I mean, come on Professor, you know your surrealists I'm sure, what do think they were saying...? That the world is fanciful? Well sure, but lets scratch the surface a little shall we? Want it to be a better place? Try being a better person. Try thinking with your heart instead of your head. Your imagination can do things we haven't even dreamed of yet. And that's where all our ideas and solutions and future problems will come from. And I don't mean just the dreams you have when you're sleeping. I mean dreams... love, hope, the true work, all these are products of the imagination, all of this, everything around us, even each other, all springs from the interplay of our imaginations...."
"Yeah but Dean, most people just want to be happy..." Jimmy is yelling in my ear as he swabs chicken breasts with barbeque sauce. "People don't have the time or energy in their lives to think or talk about the kind of complexities you're talking about."
"Sure they do. We do. What makes us different than anyone else?"
Scratch swings the door open again with the same silence-inspiring crash. "What makes us different is that we know how to have a summer solstice party long after summer solstice is past."
There are whirls of color balanced on theories dreamed from the Fibonacci sequence, balanced on the harmonics of a root two rectangle... a salad like a dancing lady from a Toulouse-Lautrec poster advertising the greatest carnival of all in some Parisian back alley, the girl's skirts all atwirl and sucking on a bottle of sodium pentothal... eyes circle the table in blurs of mead settling on the green of the haricot verts in just about the place that fanciful Italian would have placed them, and yet Scratch probably doesn't know Fibonacci's name or even if he does the coincidence is a dance of intuition and formal logic hand in hand, skirts atwirling, painted faces glowing, the mirrored windows and the laughter three stories above where the madam is stringing her stockings across the open sliver of sky that you can see when your head flies back, heavy with absinthe and the dizziness of the endless spiral... and if we hesitate it is only of a desire not to disrupt, to preserve the golden garden, but damn if that isn't one fine looking apple over there by the pork and its honey gastrite accompaniment, and now the gold rush is on, down the alleyway come the miners and it's all the dancing girls can do to get up on the steps of the doorways before the stampede of miners comes clamoring down the cobblestone, greedy hunger in their eyes... dividing amongst them the finest of both homely honesty and Parisian fantasy... met here on a table of modest proportions... giggling girls in petticoats pretending modesty and impropriety while gold-rush ruffians wreck havoc on what was once a peaceful alley.
Outside. Dirt and folding chairs. Chairs open. Chairs close. Mandibles move up and down. It's inescapable. And it tastes so good when it waltzes between the lips, the way the honey sweetens the front taste buds, and the camisole meat dances backward as the slight bite of mustard hits the sides of the tongue and a street band strikes up something in the key of G, something anyone can move to, a hypnotic dance that even cartoon animations moving frame by meticulous frame, can replicate and your eyes roll slightly back as you swallow, crescendo and then here comes the augment...
Mead. Or in Dean's case beer. Sweetness piled on thick with no shame. Gluttony. Fucking in the streets. On the roads. In the middle of the interstates. Everything drawn out of the alley into the open night air, and by the time most of us have finished eating, the sun is gone and night fast approaching. Nancy is petitioning for the fire, which Jimmy obliges and they embark on a ritual of twig snapping and branch breaking. Dean and I attempt to put my kitchen back in some semblance of order. He carefully wraps all the leftovers, intuitively realizing that this is all the food we have in the house and we had better make it last no matter if the camisole turns to chamois. By the time we finish and look outside a volcano has erupted in the front yard.
While some people might throw a few sticks on the ground, strike a match and call it a fire, Jimmy has other ideas. Jimmy has approached the thing more from an architectural angle. He is back with that famous Italian and his wonderful spirals. This is no fire, it's more of a pyre. It's the kind of thing pagans used to dance around in the woods. It's the kind of thing the Romans used to heat the great palaces with, back in the days when fire meant life. It's the hissing, raging swirl of motion that makes you want to understand it, to be able to recreate it at any moment. It's alive, that much is obvious, but more importantly, Jimmy has given it life, he has set it in motion down that spiral path ever-increasing. He appears to have started with the remnants of the bamboo fence that I noticed earlier in the pile. Bamboo burns hot and fast and explodes as it does. He has combined it with fallen limbs of oaks and pecans and then reassembled the elements in a drip sandcastle formation that is flooded inside and out by a ferocious roaring sound that twists itself up, turns blue, then red, then yellow and disappears into the lower branches of the pecan tree, singeing the leaves and causing them to fall. It's fantastically loud, and it's sending flames over eight feet into the air.
He and Nancy are the only ones even close to it. They are both still feeding yet more wood into the already excessive heights of flame. The Professor looks downright terrified by this spectacle and is clearly re-evaluating what sort of madmen he has fallen in among. Even Scratch looks mildly alarmed, but he isn't saying anything. Dean heads straight for the woodpile and begins to throw more logs up on the top. Jimmy and Nancy have moved back from the heat, but Dean seems unfazed. He keeps at it until the entire woodpile has been fed to the flames. Even at ten or twenty feet, the heat is nearly intolerable and clearly no one is in control of the fire. Nancy runs inside and turns down the stereo and emerges from the house with two fresh bottles of mead. Jimmy retrieves the remaining chairs and he and Dean even carry the couch outside offering it to Chloe and her friends. We sit around listening to the roar, in awe of Jimmy's creation. Every so often, as the wood burns down, we draw our chairs closer.
"We used to have fires like this out in Humboldt..." Scratch rubs his head, and Dean perks up, glances over at me and nods.
"You lived in Humboldt?"
"Yeah back in the late seventies I used to go out there in the spring... some friends of mine had a regular crop... then in the fall I'd pack it into a VW bug and haul it back here to sell to the college kids... ya'll are lucky... man, back then, there was nothing to do in this town..." He drifts off into some private world for moment. "Yeah Humboldt was something back then, maybe it still is, I dunno, but back then growing was part of the economy, nobody messed with you. The car dealerships would put up billboards advertising 'harvest specials' on trucks and 4X4's. It was hilarious. But why was I telling you this? Oh yeah, the fire, man out the middle of the redwood forests we used have huge bonfires and big parties... all the growers would get together after harvest..."
A silence momentarily settles over us, but Jimmy interrupts it, asking Scratch to tell the thump story. "You don't want these people to leave tonight think you just limp for no good reason do you?"
Scratch snorts. "Like I was handicapped by some fate of nature rather than my own stupidity?" He sits up and straightens his pants. "No I guess we wouldn't want that."
"I didn't notice you limped." Nancy leans forward in her chair and inspects Scratch's leg.
"That's sweet of you to say my dear, but it doesn't put your powers of observation in a good light. So yes, I do limp. And I limp because I'm missing about an inch and a half of bone in my left leg." He lights up a joint and passes it to his right.
"Okay so as you might have guessed I used to cook for a living. I started doing that in LA back when I was your age probably, maybe a little younger, but anyway, I worked in some nice places and developed a bit of a reputation... I got to the point where some friends and I were able to put together a catering company, and we worked movie sets because that was where the good money was at."
"What movies did you do?"
"Oh shit, lots of stuff that never saw the light of day, but we eventually did get some big ones, Reality Bites was probably the biggest and definitely one of the worst, I should have given them more protein on that set. But the thing in Hollywood is that the money isn't necessarily in the big productions, those things have tight fixed budgets, and if they run over their budgets they cut things like catering so we actually tried to avoid them except when we thought it would be a good resume builder.
"Anyway in the course of a few years I became friends with Debra Winger, who honestly is one of the nicest, sweetest women I've ever met. So as time goes on I get tired of the business end of things and I was bitching to her about it one night and she offered me a job making good money just cooking for her. A personal chef basically. So I sold out of the catering company and was going to work for her...
"Now the other thing you need to know is that I was an avid sky diver. We used to go all the time. Pretty much whenever we weren't working we were jumping out of airplanes. So when I sold the company my friends decided to have this big party for me out in the Inland Empire... Dean and Sil know where that is, but the rest of you just have to imagine a big, dry, grassy area where LA stores its smog during the day... So there was this community house out there that we sort of crashed at when we weren't on location or whatever... the key point being that it was in the middle of nowhere and it had a barn with a corrugated metal roof. So we decided that about half of us would jump and try to land at the house and the other half would stay behind and cook."
At this point Scratch stands up and hobbles toward the fire and turns around facing us. "So I was the last jumper. It was a perfect afternoon. Nice and warm even at fourteen thousand feet. Everything about the day was just lovely... and I know what you're thinking and no the 'chute opened fine, just like it was supposed to, everything was great the whole way down..."
Scratch looks around to make sure everyone is edged up on their seats. He stalls everything from this point on to build it up because we can see from his obviously twisted, scarred kneecap that something goes horribly wrong at some point, but Scratch likes to amplify the suspense.
"Well, about a hundred feet off the landing, everyone else is already down. Most of them in the yard though a couple are down the street, but they're all down and I'm kind of half steering half watching them pack up their chutes and half thinking, in the very back part of my brain, at some level I don't normally pay attention to, that something is not right. The first few guys are in the yard and the last three are spread out down the street."
He pauses to take a long drag.
"What this tells me is that there is a nasty gust somewhere between me and the ground. And that is the last thought I remember half-forming. Three months later I woke up in a hospital."
He passes the joint on.
"What happened is that I started to drift and I tried to correct, but something in the way I moved and the way the wind was blowing... one in a million kind of thing... one of those variables that you don't get to control." Dean is wincing and Chloe puts her hand over her face. Jimmy gives a little ironic laugh. "Anyway," Scratch continues, having built it up enough, "basically the 'chute twisted and the gust caught me about twenty feet above the ground and threw me into the extended edge of the barn's corrugated metal roof. The tops of my ankles hit the edge of it square on at about forty miles an hour."
He looks down at his legs.
"It cut almost all the way through to my Achilles tendon, smashed my ankle joint to smithereens; understand of course, I don't actually have any memory of this.... It's just what people have told me, people who were there.... They're not sure if that's what did the knee too or if the knee was from the truck I landed on," Scratch chuckles. "Lucky for me, after I got dragged free of the roof with my feet flopping behind me, the 'chute caught another gust and blew over the house. I fell two stories and went right through the front windshield of a pickup truck." He laughs heartily.
"And that," Scratch looks over at me with a green jello twinkle in his eye, "is why I don't walk quite right."
"Jesus Christ," Dean exclaims, "I can't believe you lived through that."
"Well that makes two of us... and I'll tell you, I don't remember it happening, but to hear my friend Dave tell it, it sends chills down my spine. He saw the whole thing, he was the one that drove me to the hospital... they were afraid to move me so I was half hanging out the windshield of the truck all the way to the hospital."
Scratch leans back, wipes his hands over his face and sighs deeply. "It just sounds so funny to me you know? There's times when I think I might have made the whole thing up... like I never did cater films, never lived in Hollywood, never went sky diving, never knew Debra Winger, never did any of it... I've been lying the whole time and I just made this stuff up to impress you guys." He trails off. But his story is true. He showed Chloe and I pictures of his ankles. The reconstructive surgery and use of sheep tendons was very experimental at the time, and Scratch is actually in the medical books as a case-study complete with horrifying photographs.
The fire has subsided to levels that might be considered normal. After a while The Professor announces he is leaving. Chloe gets up to walk him out, and Nancy and the other girl take the opportunity to walk back to Chloe's house where they are staying. Scratch mumbles something about age and he enlists Jimmy to help him carry things back to his house. When everyone else is gone. Dean stands up and announces he is going for a walk.
I just keep staring at the coals, imagining they are little cities seen from a great height. I get lost in architecture. The fire. The road. The echo of words settling at the departure of their speakers, slowly winding down in familiar spirals. The architecture of language paints these pictures and somehow, despite the fact that they exist only as vibrating air, they still exert influence over everything in reality. Dean, for instance, is going for a walk down the road. Road is very specific, it is not a street, it's a road. The word road has specific connotations. The Empire State building is not on a road, the mansion on the hill is not on a street, and Rue Montapassat is not Montpassat drive. Street is a clean simple word, inspiring clean simple lines, right angles, mirrored super-smooth surfaces, liquid sand... Drive is more suspicious, stucco and suburbs, but neglected suburbs, remodelled track homes straying from their architect's intentions. Lane's are ambiguous, they can go either way. But the word road winds, switches and curves around in your mouth. Its jaw-stretching vowels inspiring things like graded dirt, bumpy potholes, fallen-down mailboxes, sagging porches and bullet-riddled stop signs. Streets always have people walking down them, roads do not. But tonight they do. Tonight Dean is walking down a road. Tonight he is walking and listening to trees, perhaps even talking to them.
The fire is only glowing embers, echoes of its once towering self, fallen silent and the sound of the crickets roars in over my thoughts. Neanderthals. A glowing fire in a cave, wrapped in the warmth of bearskin, wondering what it would have been like, to have been there-have I been there? Have we all been there and just don't remember it? Is it the very fire that kindles the imagination? The fire crackles, and an opposable thumb grasping for more fuel, a twig, a branch. An idea is born, the night sings. The same crickets, cicadas, and hooting night owls fill the air-the distant sound of dawn. Was there music? Drumming? Chanting and singing filling the night air for miles?
"Everybody gone?" the voice startles me and I have to turn around before I realize that it's Chloe.
"Yeah. I think those girls are at your house or something..."
"Yeah. They're old friends from Atlanta."
"Oh."
She is standing beside my chair arms crossed, looking down at her foot, which she drags back in forth making an arc in the dirt and leaves. "Where'd Dean go?"
"Uh. He said he was going for a walk..."
"Lets go find him." She tugs on my sleeve until I stand up.
We walk out and down the dirt driveway trading kicks on pecans and pinecone sized rocks.
Finally I decide to deal with it. "Chloe, look I'm sorry if I pissed you off, but damn I was just asking him a question."
She doesn't respond at first. "That's the worst apology I've ever heard." And then she giggles, "but since I was never mad at you, it's okay."
"I got the impression that you were."
"What from Scratch and Jimmy?"
"Partly. But also because you seemed to be avoiding me."
She laughs. "I wasn't avoiding you..."
"Seemed like it to me..."
"I wanted you to rise above it." She stops and rolls the rock under her shoe.
"Above what?"
"Above the fact that Jimmy and Scratch were telling you that I was mad at you. And it did actually piss me off for a minute that you let Jimmy try and dupe me into some sympathy thing." Her leg rises up behind her poised to send the rock scattering into the tree. "Jimmy is a sweetheart and I wasn't mad at him for trying I was mad at you for thinking I would buy that shit."
"Yeah," my head droops involuntarily, "sorry."
"That appology I like. I forgive you." She begins to giggle again. "You guys thought you were so clever... I couldn't let you get away with that." She turns slightly, and kicks the rock about twenty yards straight down the road, and we both instinctively take off after it.
We come up over the rise in the driveway, and there is Dean, head thrust back, neck craned, inspecting the uppermost limbs of a pecan tree or perhaps the sky.
"Hey kids." Dean's voice is near a whisper.
Chloe's instinctively drops her own voice as she walks up beside him and tilts her head back to stare upward with him. "Why are we whispering Dean?"
"I don't know, but it seems like the right thing to do."
"It does, doesn't it?"
I hang back a bit and watch them staring upward trying to resist the temptation to do likewise. It's very hard to watch someone watching something without instinctively bypassing them to see what it is they are watching.
"You know you want to Sil..." Chloe's head never turns.
I give up and stare upward at a sliver of moon. The soft white glow reveals phantasmal basket spider webs poised in the upper branches of the trees. The baskets baskets are errie and enormous, silohetted against the star-specked sky, they are beautiful, almost alive, waiting to crawl across the trees, dodging glitters of moonlight and disappearing into the purple blackness of shadows.
"Okay my neck hurts." Dean turns and reaches in his pocket for a cigarette. I gesture and he hands me one as well. The dancing flame of the lighter momentarily blinds me.
"How long have you been doing that?"
"Dunno." He takes a long drag. "So um, can I ask you guys a question? Well, I was asking around about jobs, you know, kinda hoping Jimmy had some work..."
"Did the cowboys ever get off the roof?" Chloe asks.
I shrug.
"Cowboys? I didn't hear anything about cowboys..." We start walking back toward my house. "But he did mention something about pills...?"
"He can get more? That greasy little weasel said he couldn't get any more."
"Calm down Chloe. That's what I want to know. He wants me to go get them because he found out the feds or somebody are watching the guy's house and they already have his license plate and whatever... So I'd be willing to do it for a fee of course, but is he putting me on? What's the deal?"
"Yeah he told me about the cops." Chloe nods her head. "Basically this guy he was getting them from was a pharmacist or assistant or something... anyway he got a ton of pills somehow or other and he got caught, but for some reason they can't do anything to him, I don't know this all down in a little town south of here, and it's a very small town so it's hard to really know why, but the story is that the town couldn't do anything, to him, but for some reason the feds got involved... the rest of the details are hazy but I don't think he's putting you on Dean." She jumps on his back and throws her arms around him. "Please please Dean, go get them... you get some money we get the extra pills, Jimmy makes his money, it's a win win win situation...please..." She slides off and puts her arm around his shoulder. They embrace, and then she says goodnight to me and disappears into the incandescence of her doorway.
Back beside the fire, Dean and I sit in silence on opposite sides of the shimmering coals. I shift in my seat and lean forward, arching my back to stretch it out. Dean and I are from a different universe than the rest of them, that is, we have our own universe, one that we share with no one else in Georgia. A universe born out of many years spent sitting silent together, each respectful of the other's contemplation. It is rare to be able to sit around with someone and not have a conversation. That is the true measure of friendship, the silence in between words, the boredom between the adventures, with Dean and I it is always a light carefree silence, no matter how heavy our thoughts might become. A silence where even the cricket hesitate. An underwater silence where thoughts are mute but travel forever in ripples, expanding slowly and lapping at distant shores. I can hear Dean's thoughts like the surface of a pond roils and surges just before some enourmous creature climbs up out of it. But before it can climb up out on to the land, Chloe shuffles up in her pajamas holding a spiral bound notebook.
Her face is shy in the glimmering, irregular dance of light that surrounds us. She says nothing, but her mission obvious and determined. One more to be consumed. Dean looks up and smiles. There is a muted atmosphere which cannot be disturbed. I nod, and she carefully spreads the notebook open atop the pyramid formed by the last two semi-intact logs. At the weight of the pages, they finally give in and lay themselves flat. Slowly new and hungry flames curl up, reach out from beneath the glowing logs to accept this new gift, this ever so susceptible nourishment of paper.
First a hesitant lick, but soon a more daring dance, a courting of the soon to be consumed, a slow waltz of charred hardwood floors, the ruins of some mid century dance hall... The sucking out of air, the consumption of oxygen flutters and ruffles the pages, Chloe's handwritten scrawl is visible for fleeting seconds, words leaping out of the fire, the silent tongues of Shatterack, Meshack and Abendago. There is no comprehension, only the sense that here is the truth, slowly licked up and down in long caresses of tonguing flame, turning amber and smoking with desire.
Chloe waves and shuffles off into the darkness. In the distance there is the sound of a starting motorcycle, faintly in the background, the river-like sound of cars on the highway. The stereo inside has long since fallen silent. Dean shifts and leans forward to stir the fire with a branch that was spared. He throws it on top. After a while orange flames are again kissing the darkness and sending up embers, messengers off into the night, fading into the blackness and disappearing, and I'm never sure if they continuing upward or turn to ash and disolve into the air. Here and there a particularly courageous or lucky one can be seen carried off into the depth of the forest by a fortunate breeze.
Dean goes to bed leaving me alone beside the fire. A few minutes later I head inside as well. I lie down in my bedroom and stare up at the moon, trying to bath in its light, but the angle is wrong. It hits the edge of the window and refuses to come into my room. I get up to use the bathroom, but the bathroom is in shambles. Clothes, towels, magazines, books, scraps of paper and other trash litter the floor. Outside seems easier, so I return to the chill of the night. I am more than a little drunk. I sigh inwardly and pee on the nearest tree.
Seven
Drip sandcastle dreams hang on a wire-hear it on the national news-Los Angeles still like Mexico City-ocean of light-hanging on by a thread-photographs of the living dead- electronic reality-computer saves man-regrets act-one up-two down-five up-squirrels scamper trees-disappointment-click clack- trees-wheels-tuffs of white cotton-the rumble of thunderheads-cigarette ash-rain holding off-huddle around Roman fires-the roots-scatter cameos-finger scrap rock-tiny handholds-Palisades like valley below-roadside conversations-we'll wait here-morning-cigarettes-lighters-flames- inhale-exhale.
Everything is working.
It's on.
Or the talk of it is on. There is talk of it being on, or going on, or being ongoing. It's hard to say the way they circle around it. Dates come up. Things approach a plan but then the crest of on receeds, a wake of variables trailing ocean debris across the sand. And sand it will be. The plan has come that far. It will be sand and it will be foreign sand. In the background there will be the murmur of languages against the farther off babble of surf and there will pool, Scratch is insistent on pool, though none of us are sure why when there is an ocean right there, but no, Scratch must have his cabana and his pool and his divorcees. He is going on about the splendor of expatriate divorcees, loaded down with bags of money and free time and lusting after cabana boys who are reluctant because they fail to see the money tied to the sagging skin and diamonds in that are trapped in the wrinkles of bone-shrunk flesh.
Chloe wants mangos and papayas and passion fruit and guava and coconut necture tickled with rum to wash them down, to lounge in the warm tropical breezes that blow in from spice islands, jungle laced beaches bejeweled with palm fronds, brown skinned natives in clinking abalone necklaces walking down jungle trails, the foliage is glistening, the moonlight reflecting off the beads of water on the leaves... the chirping twilight of cricket dreams....
Dean isn't so limited, he believes in the whole world. We swill syrah in dark country cellars... We sit on latticed patios in the Italian countryside drinking chianti... We pick olives and play chess with the Greeks and take a ferry out to Crete... We walk the dusty camel choked streets of Morocco and catch the Marrakech Express across the desert... We fly biplanes low over African savannas out to the Ivory Coast where we catch freighters to Brazil and sail up the Amazon to take Yage with the natives....
This afternoon the air is a harem dancer bejeweled in sequins and dripping opium honey from her succulent breasts. She slides slippery wet through the front door, traces of her slick the doorknob and the house smells of white orchids, pomegranates and peach blossoms. She weaves through handing out mosquitoes and the drifting off with gusts of a passing hurricane whose wake has left a lingering, crisp sadness, biting at the afternoon with frosty shark teeth.
A map of central america is spread bethenth the coffeetable glass and between hands Scratch taps and points at roads and towns like a child at the smithsonian.
Poker then strip club then sex scene with Maya. End.
Chapter eight
Cards keep flipping up and money changes hands. Brown liquor flows down my throat and my little pile of ones quickly diminishes. I had intended to clean them all of a few dollars-damn beginner's luck. I borrow a twenty from Jimmy and then another. Not only am I not getting the cards, but also, for once in his life, Dean is. He takes hand after hand, a beaming smile lights his face each time he leans over the coffee table and drags a big pile of quarters and ones over to his end.
Dean's in one of his expansive moods, he's feeling free and reaping the rewards of not caring about his actions. He rattles on about a book I loaned him. He has a fresh-faced enthusiasm for the book's subject-memes. Memes are the idea counterpart of genes. The book argues that ideas, like physical characteristic, are passed on hereditarily, but with a little more leeway than genetics. For instance racism is hereditary, it's passed down from parents to children just like a gene, so they call it a meme... It traces a lot of western thought that way, the way in which thoughts are replicated from one generation, or even person, to another... Dean is arguing that our memes, our very thoughts are not our own; we are merely replicating the ideas of our ancestors.
"So, wait a minute now," Ulric cuts in, "in the old nature vs. nurture you're coming down on the nurture side?"
"Well yes and no. I don't think it's either exclusively, a happy marriage of both, but that's not the point..." Dean has a puzzled look on his face and I can tell that even he isn't sure what the point is. "What I was getting at is that there is finally a language for talking about how ideas are transmitted; how the virus of language does it's work, how it moves from host to host..." Dean licks his lips in satisfaction.
Ulric sits back in heavy thought. "Who cares though? I mean it may or may not be true, and there may or may not be ways of proving it in either direction, but none of that has on any consequence on how you live life... Oh and it's your bet there memeboy... what's it gonna be?" He gives Dean a sarcastic look.
Dean stares him down, throws in three dollars and continues without pause. "That's where you stop though. What I want to know is how the screws turn... how you disassemble reality for someone and put it back together in a new way? Essentially," he draws long on his cigarette, "how do you make a lasting change in your beliefs?"
Ulric grunts, "Try a thousand mikes of liquid acid...."
Dean smiles. "I mean without drugs. Although maybe that would help me loosen up a bit... I don't know what I think about memes yet. I need to give it more thought. Besides I got this hand." With three aces, he most certainly does.
Ulric throws his cards down in disgust and leans forward to light a cigarette. For the time being, Jimmy and I are resigned to silent losing. It suits me. Ulric takes a drag and seems to be sizing up Dean. "Alright Dean, how would you go about making a permanent change in your beliefs or should I say approach to life?"
"Either or." He picks up the cards. "Well," Dean says shuffling as he talks, "for instance when I was in Maryland I tried on a set of beliefs to see how they fit me...." He puts his cigarette in the ashtray and slowly deals out two cards to each of us. "What I found," he says, "was that I couldn't live that so-called normal life... white picket fence that sort of thing, but interestingly enough, I'm still in love with Alexis. I realized that in order for me to be with Alexis I had to get my shit together first and at this juncture I don't really want to do that. So the question arises why don't I want to do that? Where did I get the belief that I shouldn't do that?"
"What do you mean by get your shit together?" Jimmy interrupts.
Dean shrugs and lies back on the couch. "You know what I mean- figure out what I want out of life and how I'm going to go about getting it."
Jimmy sits up excited and starts waving his hands as he talks. "See that's what I mean when I keep saying I need to figure something out in my life. What am I going to do, that's what I keep asking myself... Do I want to be with Chloe and do that life or do I want to... you see what I'm getting at?"
"Is your relationship with Chloe that involved?" Dean asked. "I don't mean to pry, but it seems like all you two do is fight... I mean maybe you should start exploring other directions." Dean runs his fingers through his hair, coating them with grease, and flips up three cards-the nine of clubs, the six of hearts and the queen of diamonds. Jimmy studies the flop before answering Dean. The silence is uncomfortable, I think maybe Dean has overstepped his bounds with Jimmy and the look on Dean's face says he's thinking it too. Or else he doesn't have a hand.
"Well see," Jimmy's voice betrays no irritation at the question, "With Chloe and I there's no growth, no forward movement of the relationship, and for a while I thought it was because I'm this ambitious person and she's not, but lately I've realized that it's me. I'm all ambition and no direction" Jimmy's eyes take on the preternatural glow that he gets when he's about to launch into one of his passionate diatribes against himself. He seems to be hovering right on the edge of illumination, but he's unable to take that last step. I know the feeling. Someday something will happen to push him up it. Or someone...
Jimmy over-analyzes his life, picking it to pieces, thinking he can reassemble it back to some greater whole when really what he needs is more pieces to build with. "At this point," he says, "Chloe is the one that's growing, not me." Dean nods his head and Jimmy closes his eyes and begins to speak very slowly, as if picking through the rubble of a demolished building. "I keep thinking that I'm having these grand realizations, and maybe I am, but I have the same realization everyday and I don't act on it. I need to act, to move forward so that I have something to bring to the table so to speak. And maybe it's as simple as finding a career or a job or whatever I don't know. I only know that I have to change something in me."
Dean flips up the queen of spades and suddenly the hand takes a turn. I have the queen of hearts as a down card. They are lost in conversation and I quietly raise the stakes to three dollars. Jimmy is the only one who hesitates.
Ulric sits up and checks his hand before throwing in his money. "See with Rose and I, we both started growing in opposite directions, and the hard part was that it was because I changed the things in me that I didn't like. Now I keep trying to change her even though I know I can't. So changing things in myself changed things in our relationship and ultimately, I now know that we aren't meant to be together." His voice drops to a tragic whisper, "But that doesn't make it any easier to let her go."
Dean nods, "Of course not, that's a totally separate thing." He lights a fresh cigarette and cocks his head back staring at the ceiling. "People advance mentally throughout life," he goes on, "they pass through life in steps, accomplishments, experiences, epiphanies...pick a word. When two people meet that are advancing at the same rate, a bond is formed. A union of the minds so to speak." He blows smoke rings up to the ceiling clearly enjoying his role of analyst. "What happens to me is I keep advancing, sometimes speeding up, or slowing down, but usually speeding way up, and the other person is left behind. Thus there's that separation feeling at one point where you wake up saying what the fuck is going on, why am I here? For me, no matter what I do, that seems to happen after about two years..."
The last card dealt is the king of spades. I again put in three dollars. Jimmy raises me another three and I raise him two more. He calls me and I lay down the queens and win the hand-finally.
"But do you think it's possible that two people can move at the same speed for longer than two years?" Ulric asks
"Personally? No. However, my addition to that theory is that two people can move at different paces, but they still move together. In different directions, same direction, whatever, but there is still a continuity. And these two people make up the middle ground by learning from one another. If you're not learning from someone, it's hard to love them. But, more often than not, what happens to me is we move at the same pace, and then two years down the road they want to stay there, thus the huge schism." He smiles to himself for minute, "And then you meet a Muslim who makes you reevaluate... or maybe that just happens to me." He laughs.
Ulric and Jimmy have very earnest, sad looks on their faces. I can tell Dean is enjoying his role as the teacher perhaps some good has come out of two failed marriages and three broken engagements. "See, as a relationship progresses you go from meeting in the middle somewhere to being in the middle. Once you're together as one so to speak, there is no middle to meet in and that's what chokes that life out of the relationship." He glances over at Ulric and sees the pain in his face, "Sorry, if you don't want to talk about this, I understand, and shit, look who you're talking to...like I fucking know... I mean the older I get the less I know. Or maybe getting older really isn't anything other than being alive long enough to see people's patterns repeat, terminate, and regerminate-especially your own. If I've learned anything its that you control your position and whatever you choose is just that. Empty or not at the end of the day you face your own reflection in the toilet water, if it makes you feel better and more complete to have attachments hanging off that reflection, more power to 'ya, and good luck. I'm a narcissist, I only want to see my glowing sexy image in the off white piss-water." He laughs at himself and shakes his head. "Love is emotional alchemy. You're trying to take things that don't tangibly exist and apply to them to so much flesh and hair. So to get back to what Ulric asked, I love her... I still do, but we aren't on the same page." Dean cracks a smile in my direction. "I can't be on the same page with someone if I'm not even numbering my pages. There's no way for them to even know who, what, or where I'm coming from."
No one is paying attention to the game anymore. I shuffle quietly, flipping the cards from hand to hand trying to make every fourth one an ace, trying to arrange the deck to deal myself a winning hand. They are spinning words of pseudo-wisdom, as if they actually know what they're talking about, but really they're just thinking outloud. I deal out the cards clockwise and check my hand. I have a two of diamonds and a three of clubs. I clearly know nothing.
Jimmy starts back on his self-depreciating rant. He wants to figure out what to do with his life. He wants direction. "I mean what's the point of coming to a realization about yourself or having some insight into your behavior if you can't do anything with it?" He asks.
"Jesus Jimmy, you're the one whose always talking about parabolas and that sort of thing," Dean says. "You just approach that point, pass by it and move on again, what you come away with is only a glimpse."
"But how do I turn the glimpse into a meaningful action?" Jimmy asks.
Dean shrugs, "I have no idea. Like the genie in Aladdin said.... INFINITE POWER itty-bitty living space." He laughs and takes a drag of his cigarette. He tilts his head to one side as if in deep thought and then, after a moment, he continues, "Well I tell you what... I've had a realization or two recently and I have to tell you gentleman that I will be leaving next week. I took my old job back in California."
They both look up in shock.
"Well damn. Really?" Jimmy sits up. "You're leaving us? I mean that's great man, I'm happy for you, but shit we're gonna miss you. It won't be the same without your lunatic ass around here." Jimmy throws his arm around Dean and gives him a bear hug.
"Ya Dean, I feel like I just got to know you and now you're leaving." Ulric looks hurt again. "It's not Sil is it man? Because if he's kicking you out, you're more than welcome to stay at my place for a while."
"No, but I do appreciate the offer Ulric." Dean flicks his cigarette in the ashtray. "I'm leaving because there's nothing here for me to do. I feel like I need to accomplish something. I finished my book, of course no one wants to publish it, but at least I did it. That's what I've been working on for the last year or two and now that it's gone I feel a sense of emptiness in my soul. Not to get too hippified on you, but it really does feel that way. Like I broke up with a girl or something. So, being in limbo, I thought why not go out and make some money? I can't do that here so I took the old job. I'm gonna live with my dad and do some saving. At least that's the plan, who knows though...."
For a while all attention returned to the game. The sound of cards skidding softly across the table holds all the memes I need right now. Jimmy finds the map that Dean and I had been looking at earlier and he spreads it out on the floor again. He sees the red lines we drew tracing the ideal route from New York to Paris by ship and then down the Africa...
"You going to Europe Sil?" he asks pointing at the big red dot in the middle of France.
"Europe?" I say, thinking it over, "that's about the last place I'd go right now."
"Really?" Ulric looks surprised. "No desire to go to France? I can see you in France Sil." Ulric is cross-eyed from the scotch and his attempt to size me up is comical; I can't help laughing.
"Well, I mean if a ticket were handed to me I'd take it," I say, "but it's not my first choice by any means. If I were to go somewhere I'd go to India or China, South America maybe, Brazil, Chile, Costa Rica...." I get lost in private thoughts. Dean finishes dealing the hand and gets up and pours himself another drink. "Not me," he yells from the kitchen, "I gotta see Paris. I've read too many books, seen to many films... I need to set foot in Paris... live there for while... I'm working on this one guy who likes my writing... I'm trying to get him to put me up over there... the trick is going to be getting there."
The trick is always getting there. The destination is the easy part. Play that game you used to play as a child; spin the globe and see where your finger stops it. That's the way to go. The gypsy blood in my veins makes me want to travel constantly, I can only stand to be in one place for about three months and then I have to leave... sometimes I come back and sometimes I don't. I'm starting to feel the itch again myself, the bones wanting to wander.... I have been in Athens almost six months without a vacation. I'm overdue.
I check my down cards-two aces. I bet a quarter. They all raise me. I stay in. Ulric throws the flop-a queen of hearts and the other two aces. "Goddamn," Dean comments, "that's a rich hand somebody has." I smile at him. I bet a quarter and he folds. Ulric and Jimmy both raise me two dollars and so I raise them again. Dean throws out another card. More money cascades into the pot. Another card. More money. I keep raising their raises until the pot's well over fifty dollars. They call and I lay my aces with all the pomp and ceremony my little ego can manage. I rake it in.
The thing with playing cards with your friends is that it's less about reading people than it is about good old-fashioned luck.
After saying goodbye to Dean and giving him their phone numbers and addresses, Ulric and Jimmy both head home for the night. "Nice fucking hand," Dean says when they're gone. "You stop to think how that happened?" He looks at me and a mischievous grin spreads over his face. I shrug. "For the record," he says, "I saw you trying to arrange the deck that one hand... but did you see me?" I have to laugh.
Dean and I stay up a while talking about cheating at cards and friendship and the meaning of all of this.... Before turning in we embrace and say goodbye. This time I don't think I will see him again for a quiet a while. We make one final bet for the night -we will meet in Tangiers, Morocco on September 10, 2002. No matter what happens we will be there. By the time I fall asleep, I'm already there.
The strobe overwhelms the blue glow and the girls begin the writhe, ellish wirthing serpentine bodies, no longer names, no longer girls no longer human, but gliding gilded serpents, movements caught in flickers of blinging whiteness and inky blue darkness, stop motion film, hair, skin, patterns of movement until the light and the shadows beome one. In the glimpses of faces across the catwalk I can see male teeth, shiny pale faces, tongues flick here and there, pass across lips and snake back down throats, and then a blue aquarium darkness, film slowed down. Twenty four to twelves and then six and the three, advancing three glimpses at a time in stop motion time lapse, bodies appearing not far from where they were left. And you can feel her movements, a girl caught in three frame bursts, she is never where she just was always one step ahead of her body and you can it passing into your guppy mouth, snaking down your throat, swallowing swollen calves, slender thighs, choking on garters, weakened by the memory of silk and spice and crusades abandoned long ago to the darkness of continets moving and her cunt tickling across your lips, catch in your throat, a gulp of air, some scent of dark blue shadow and the stomach and breasts, hard nipples that catch on the way down and head and hair swirling across your chin, gulps of cool blue shadow, down, all of it down, drink all of it down, blue and white and flesh and to see it from above... pictures spread across the floor. Sitting cross-legged in the near darkness of late night shadow and gaslamp glow, light and shadow becoming one across the bedroom floor, giant shadows cast across a series of black and white photographs all taken from above. And you arrange the faceless heads in a half circle around the one, the one with the legs careening out from under the birds-eye view of blond and cinnamon and cardemore. Out of focus and caught in flight, she moves in orbits, she holds a key and the knob is turning, light and shadow, digital and analog... the pictures caught in gusts, blowing up in little dust devils and then here onstage, whirling and weaving between her legs, circling under skirts, tugging at stocking and garters, caressing soft brown skin and disappearing into corset shadow, tugging electric nipples, still rising in ever widening circles up to the ceiling and disappearing through it, returning to the vantage point of origin, the vanishing point, right there on the horizon of what just happened and what hasn't yet,. And she takes you by the hand and leads through the beaded curtain of the doorway with hinges still attached, but door and knob and key long since vanished in to some murky ocean memory, a current welling toward the back, toward the corner, and into the shadow, the absense of light, a finger curling, something to follow, a motion trail, a wake of smoke enveloping you in octopus shadow, tentacles reaching out and pulling you into a chair where you are tied to watch.
If you were to see this from a long way a way flickering light on a screen to reveal ashes flying off your skin in trumpet blasts... but you cannot, you will not, it is not. There are only the hurricanes to stir the coffee and bend the telephone poles, to warp the voices of far away, to call up secrets that are sleeping in dazzling peace behind a doorway far up from here, so high up that the knob is just out of your child arm stretch, but how wonderful it is just to see it floating there, out of reach and beautiful, glistening in this light, this artificial sun of closing time.
I go in the bedroom and lock the door.
Outside. Falling leaves clink against the windowpane like broken china dolls. A half moon breast is visible through the clawing twig-arms scratching at the void. I'm thinking of Maya and the first night we spent together. Later, after we had coffee. I walked her to her house. I remember the smell of Jasmine or Frankincense or Myrrh, a beautiful pungent odor that wafts through this world all the time -you catch it in the fall air, tangible but just barely, it hangs on the edge of the known and unknowable.
I open the window and study the frosted-flake remnants of Kudzu crisping on the vine, under the bushes, under the trees, under the stars-a stale brown rug slick with freezing rain. The faint light of Jimmy's window silhouettes a branch and its remaining leaves, the hangers, the ones who won't let go-car crashes, heart attacks, train wrecks. The light looks warm-toward the light coma-stumbling, blind-eyed memory.
And then she kissed me. There was the taste of hot cigarette smoke on her tongue; I caught it greedily the way plants grow to the sun, drawn by the familiar. She tasted like orange blossoms or smelled like them or felt like them, powdered sprinkled orange blossoms. They were in her eyes, the smell came out of her eyes and then she opened them and stared at me for a while hanging on the edge of my lips. Enormous arcing eyebrows of perfume.
The steady erratic pelting of rain sounds like a thousand drunken crystal goblets pelting a Russian fireplace, Cossacks dancing in circles, Dostoyevski dreams. Bearskin rugs. No fireplace-hearth. Gas lamps. And powdered crystal sprayed on a stone floor.
Earlier a letter: I'm on the limp dehydrated grass of Central Park, gnats swarming under this tree. I have gnats for you Sil. The shade seems hotter than the actual sun. Perspiring. Parched. And yet all my discomfort disappears when I read these carefully typed pages-read in full-twice. You are my own private breeze.
There was no word, no sound, just lips resting together, sticky, warm, honey kiss. We went inside and sat on the couch talking for a while. We went upstairs and lay down on her bed. She rose up in tight leather pants out of a sea of flowering colors-Jasmine, Sunflower, Scarlet Sage, Rocket Larkspur, Lupines, and Butterfly Weed. There were rollicking colors everywhere in my mind, indigo and vermilion, violet, lavender, and softer tones, pastels and baby's-breath-white.
It's a toy scene-Russian hearth, nutcrackers dancing, plastic soldiers huddled in the dark shadows of vines. A steady backbeat thuds through the wall. The living room has rhythm. Little percussive grunts and muffed squeals accent and fill. 4/4. Marching toward climax.
I'm working at Garden on the Green... sold my soul for the table scraps... another hireling. on a smoke break. Armed with pen and paper to defend the travesty of wanting to feel loved. The lake is spiked with moonly light, sharp and jagged on thousands of ripples. Once- there is the kiss, then the cycle becomes inevitable. Nipples turn to jagged granite and everything pools and secretes as if waiting for sensual annihilation-a mingling and mangling of identities. A death of one? Or both? A devouring and subordination? No-a polarizing rather-a balance of two integrities, charging electrically, on with the other, yet with centers hard as diamonds-like stars. Do you feel loved? Do I?
She grabbed a handful of my hair and held it, her lips bit at my neck. I could feel heat panting in my ear. Her smooth breasts pressed softly against my chest. She rolled off me, pulled her pants down and climbed on top of me. She swayed there for a few seconds, murmuring to herself. She bird-picked at my belt, peeling the husk from a coconut and then in one gruff movement she fished out my cock and squeezed it with the tips of her fingers. Her lips pressed together and she leaned her head against it and closed her eyes. It was then that I heard the bass fading in and the sharp tap of a snare drum, and I felt her tongue circling.
The cat girl enshrouded in black lace accented with a notorious red feather boa rises to one elbow-need a ray of hope-from where she has been reclining on a velvet divan. She cocks her head lazily and after a yawn full of boredom and nastiness, calls for another martini.... Do you think that when you want everything you're dangerously close to nothing? I wanted to thank you for feeding me the inspiration to question, if only for the insatiable taste of a question...
After a few minutes I pulled her up to my lips. A devouring insubordination amid the tumbling slow-motion sound of shattering glass, falling leaves, splintering moonlight, distant living room backbeat, icy rain crying into hail...Water pouring in through the ceiling, sleet and hail collapsing back to water, rivulets on the window, pelted kudzu pulling the stars under. Her nipples like soft puffs of rain sliding down my tempered, glass fingers. The roof gives way, the ground opens up and the earth will swallow us one day. Its better that way. Inverted love carry you up on the way down, riding tidal waves, tiny moon sheared ripples across centuries and continental drifts and shifts and up and down and over. Carry me to the mountains, to a cave on a wind-howling ridge, rape me like Lilith. Glaciers receding. Gnats swarming out of the caves. Fecund warm diseases licking there way up your spine. Its okay. Its necessary. The rainsleethail still tickles desire. The snapping snare drum echo of time oozes through the walls. Pop pop-pop pop-pop pop-feel you more the less you know. Cossacks setting up camp in a deserted farmhouse and Fyodor calls for another martini... One more drink for the diseased, one more sleep, one more lover until your up with the sun .and the acrid burnt smell of sidewalk.
Sticky tapioca squirting thick on stomachs and breasts.
Reach over and grab a pack of cigarettes off the floor. Pull one out and light it.
Lilith had to go. Nothing was left to the imagination and so he sent her away. Or she left. Packed her suitcase and caught a clipper-ship to where the continents were shifting. Wrote letters and fell in love with a man in the sky. Went blind staring at the image.
Look at her now. Pass her the cigarette and wonder how this happened-tangled up in metaphor and cool blue love-diving off the shores of lost continents. Walk naked to the kitchen and pour another glass of vodka or whiskey or water or wine or change one from the other on your proud way back to the bed.
She has an earthy ethereal mixture to her skin, makes her seem at once detached and warm. Her lips purse teasingly around the filter of her cigarette and eyebrows arc off gray-blue eyes, dyed black hair tussled atop her head. Blue-gray eyes clouded with the same thing you can feel, something trance-like-consummate excitement. She puts the cigarette to your lips and you inhale deeply.
Later: dream about staring at the sun.
Waitress #34 misses you.
Eight
Starts with tapping at the window, ends with this section which itself needs to end with Jimmy and Chloe all bleary eyed... hell yes we're going to new york Dean has pills with a street value of fifteen thousand dollars on him I'm going to new york....
The faceless monster-power-no one person- group-control everything-multi-headed monster-biting itself-information potential exists-attacking heads-destroying itself-end times-space and word alone-unsettling thought-dependency-things start to think-how do you draw the lines then-where does the word go-in the beginning-sure- what about at the end-
Morning- I am standing in the doorway smoking a cigarette. Fall is playing with Winter in the front yard. I'm watching the near freezing rain pelting through the trees. A strange thing has happened in Dean's absence-I no longer need sleep. For two weeks now my brain has not stopped running in loops. It refuses to rest. It used to take an alarm to inspire movement before noon; now I wake up at five in the morning and stare at the ceiling. This morning I have decided to admit defeat. I am up before sunrise. I am watching the sun poking over the horizon to the east, where the storm has not yet hit. There is an infinite sadness to the way the trees glisten in the light. The gleaming raindrops look like a miniature skyline, buildings at night, little twinkling windows, like Manhattan seen from Williamsburg. Reflected microcosms glitter off falling leaves, reds, browns, and oranges, sparkling like the abode walls of a pueblo-New Mexico or Old.
In Mexico City back alleys-soot-covered adobe walls-dark eyes peer from shadowy doorways. It's late in the evening, warm orange smog-light paints the sky and suffuses the city with an alien glow. The air is brisk, but not freezing. You run your fingers along the crumbling walls like a child, dragging at the chips of loose plaster and looking up absently at the sky. Nothing separates you from the peering eyes, the doorways and the tables littered with scraps of food retrieved by boys selling Chiclets in the streets downtown. Beans, slops of meat, ground dog bone, porridges boiled cheap over smoky wood fires. Stalks of plants grow here and there in the tiny yards between buildings. Chilies hang drying in the eaves. Second story railings are a riot of sapphire, indigo, vermilion and emerald; the smell of sage, rosemary, and cilantro wafts out open windows. The flat roofs feed the dripping ceilings, rain gutters leak to water plants hanging from the rafters and balconies. The plants suffer through life, gasping in the ozone and covering over with smoggy dust. The pavement turns to dirt farther out, and is eventually overgrown by trees on the slopes of the mountains. This is the one street, the street, the mainline artery running through and carrying the heart of the matter of matter. This is how it goes and goes and goes. Marching in twos, little children jump and play in an alley off to the right. Two blocks north they are digging up the newest pyramid in the Aztec caper and the ghosts are swimming through the ether. You can see their pallid shadows sailing across the crimson glow of the sky. The ghostly, billowing sails catch century old winds tugging them like clipper ships through the Panama Canal. Phantasmal chatter fills the street like lemurs cackling in the jungle.
Your fingernail catches in a chip of plaster still clinging to the wall. The ghosts light up against the clouds, climbing and dancing in the sky. Priestly ghosts offer still-beating human hearts up to the gods, clamoring at the silent sky and then turning to look at you. Look what we have done. Here is my heart... eat... it is good. Take, this is my body... Mysterious ceremonies carried out amongst a cacophony of meaningless gibberish; indistinguishable figures twist and turn and carve until there is an order and meaning to it all. The priest drives his blade into the chest of a sacrifice, splitting the sternum in one smooth blow. Out comes the heart and in a delicate pirouette the priest turns, pauses, looks for an instant, and then screams, hurling the bloody heart down the side of a pyramid. The gods give an empty laugh. Splattering, lopsided, bounces carry the heart to it's rest in the dirt, under the floorboards of time, the telltale heart beating under the pavement of centuries. The archeologist's pick finds the priest's sacred knife as a token reminder, wrapped in muslin or gauze, mummified at 17,000 feet atop Machu Pechu in Peru, or here, rotting in the middle of the street. The children in the alleyway laugh and play. Their language is like pancakes, laid out flat and easy to hear, smeared by syrupy tongues. The priest smiles sadly down at the watching masses, realizing that he will be dust under the boots of centuries and no one will know what he knows.
We think we will wake up. We think there will be a point at which everything is made clear. The whole world will transform itself into a crystalline diamond plateau on which all the answers are self-evident and you will understand. Your feet will be light as air. You will dance over the diamond floors and glide in perfect, truthful bliss. You will dance quietly to the sound of Frank Sinatra crooning about autumn in New York.... But the image will fail you; the crystal will crack and shatter in a million diamond drill bits, piercing your flesh as you scream deafly, in silent agony.
We think that we will wake up. There is vast machinery purporting to wake us up. There are religions, sciences, methods, prayers, and wheels of karma and darma. Men hang from crosses. Men flagellate themselves on mountaintops. Men twist into pretzels on street corners. Men proclaim the illusion of the world. Men offer salvation. Men sell trinkets for distraction. Men teach meditation techniques. Men douse themselves in gasoline and burn before our eyes. Men crawl on their knees because their legs have been amputated to keep us free. Every path to enlightenment has been tried. Every shriek has been screamed. There are fifty thousand roads diverging in the woods and they all lead nowhere.
There are no gates of heaven, but there are gates to heaven. There isn't a hell, but there is hell. There are no sins, but there are sins. There is no love, but there is such a thing as love. No one is there, but everyone is waiting. You are feeling overwhelmed, paranoid and misunderstood. You want to think that you are not alone. You want to band together, to bond, to hide out, and to mark yourself with primitive lingual tattoos, so that the angel of death will pass over you in a momentary lapse of reason. You don't understand what is taking so long. You don't understand why, if things are possible, they don't happen now. You want to know when the synergy of life will reach out to your neck of the woods. You want to go out. You want to be with your friends. You want to go out Friday and you want to go forever. Forever back or forever forward, somewhere into that brave night, that tired, old, bored allegory. You know you bought into a lie, and you know you're perpetuating it. You know that everything is a lie, but it all means something. Did I say you? I mean me.
I am hungry, restless and deeply confused. I can smell the streets of Mexico and remember the beat of Aztec heart-sacrifices. It courses through the house, driving me mad. I pace the living room like a caged cat, circling in big arcs that bend strategically at the vortices of two ashtrays. The afternoon is a priest hearing confession, masturbating to the maid's obscene tales as she drags them out in full regaling detail. There are only us now, you and I. If this has meaning then it can only be that we are we, and I, I, and you, you, and us, us.
I see Maya. I see Dean. I see Sean and Katherine, Jimmy and Chloe, Ulric, Scratch, and everyone I have ever known. I think of how much all of us have suffered and how great the sorrow of the earth must be. So immense a thing as to defy imagination, to smash metaphors to bits and completely eradicate the word. To render words trite and useless. I feel it come on in a terrifying rush. Adrenaline floods my veins, my heart speeds up, beating so fast that it feels motionless. My palms coat with sweat, my skin flushes, and for the first time I am afraid. I fear for my life. I fear death and what it could bring. I fear the voices I hear. I fear the growling and singing and whispering and chattering of the dead. I look out the window fully expecting the Aztec shaman to be standing there, holding up my heart, smiling. I smell something. The smell hits me like a sledgehammer, there is something blood curdling familiar about it. It is the smell of death. The smell of my death. You can get it without dying, you can smell it lurking around the corner and feel it closing in on you. Death is a thick smell, a reminder that the body is temporal and hangs by a thread, liable to snap without a moment's notice.
The Tibetans claim demons will prey on you as you enter the gates of the afterworld. Those who don't know where they are, the ones that came in on bus wrecks or an earthquake, they don't stand a chance. Neither do those that never realized what is going on in this life. The ones who refuse to let go of the uniquely human games, the politics, the barter system, the Madison Avenue rewrite department, the beggarly, sickly creatures, the religious, the lawmakers, the law upholders, the money greasers, the shit in the wind who have forgot their human roots-that human is humility. Arrogance grows like a cancer, breeds with money and mutates, until the body turns rigid and crusts over with hubris. Their bodies are stiff prisons of hatred that can only be escaped when the winds blow in the atomic smell of death, scorching them clean-salvation. Steady...wait 'til you see the whites of their eyes... the end of history. Everything has an ebb and flow, surges come in waves. There is nothing to be saved from except yourself.
Smoking filterless cigarettes, listening to the voices trailing in from the neighborhood around me, voices from the cottages up the hill, voices of wheels winding down the road, voices leaves in the wind, voices of rain pelting the ground, a masterpiece composition of harmonized waves, sound, the trigger behind the motion. Dancing eyes, hungry and spiral with giddiness... I throw out the tired old man mind. A blur of images, swirling words, sounds, smells, miraculous warmth, crawling embers on the flesh... Digging, keep digging. We're all great tunnelers, mining after the beautiful, but now I see the ugly creeping in around the edges, the black on the starry night. Van Gogh and his goddamn ear always creeping in at the edges. Digging fast and furious: tunnelers. Roots and the little blooms-the moment -the purity -the wavelength- the transitions burned like hydrochloric acid onto memory film. Scar tissue that will never go away.
I'm in the middle of an afternoon drink when I notice the rainbow in the kitchen. At first I think it looks wrong because of bad indoor lighting, but then I notice that it's a reverse rainbow, the spectrum in the opposite order-purple on top. I watch it from the couch for a while, but as it begins to fade, I get up, walk to the kitchen and sit down underneath it. I lean back against the wall and light a cigarette. The sun shifts and the rainbow disappears, replaced by a simple, clear, beam of sunlight, that strikes the wall about eight inches above my head and climbs slowly, but noticeably, upward. The cigarette dangles in my hand. I watch the thin trail of smoke separate into two shades of gray. One is light and salient, like clouds wisping across the summer sky. The other is darker, a somber thundershower in the evening-carcinogenic tars. They separate in the relative darkness near my hand, rise up, and then explode into the light. There is visible burst where the particles of smoke suddenly pitch the beams of light back to my eye. An explosive nanosecond that happens so fast that by the time you notice it, it's long gone past. The two trails of smoke swirl and mingle gradually, dancing through the sunbeam like two girls in the dark corner of a nightclub. The ominous blue stream wears a black leather corset, laced tight in the back. It moves boldly, stiffly, constrained in ribbed fabric. The ethereal gray stream wears a silk robe with embroidered Chinese designs. It moves feathery soft and loose, seductively spinning in the light. As they continue up toward the ceiling, they lose their distinction and disappear into the chaos. Cloud patterns bursting in spring skies, a gurgling stream circling around rocks, the leaves of an aspen tree seen from a distance, the movement of migratory herds, the rise and fall of the Nile over millennia, the smoke from a cigarette... Everything has a pattern. The pattern has a pattern, which forms a fabric where time pools like a glacial lake. It tickles off slowly, minute by minute, second by second, but the reservoir always remains the same.
I am falling into a whirlpool of time. It consumes me and spins me around the room. I am dripping off the precipice into the dark unknown. I have to run to smooth the change... feels slow motion... diving... hit the water like a torpedo... the waves slip out in a circular arc. My eyes smart from the smoke. Body electric, fluidly suspended in time, carried slip-slow, up into the magic of the beyond. Echoes abound like a caged sun gone supernova. It atomizes and re-forms as the cool wave hits the skin, smooth blue skin.
Cut below and use for drive with
jimmy and Chloe
Nine
I have to start moving, and start moving right now. It's around nine. I throw some clothes in a bag and drag them out to the car. I start the engine; it coughs and sputters to life. I go over and say goodbye to Jimmy and Chloe. "When are you going to be back?" He asks. I don't know... "Where are you going?" She inquires. I don't know... "How are you getting there?" That I know...
The engine hums. I keep it at fifty miles an hour. I can hear the noises of the individual pistons pulsating in controlled, rhythmic, patterns. The wind roars around me, but I don't hear it. There is only the steady purring of chaos harnessed, slipping through the air, sliding across the land. Over hills, valleys, and mountains, across bridges, rivers, and railroad tracks, through cities, towns and farms, under rain, sleet, and hail-the open road. The road goes on forever, scorched by the burning sun, it chaps and cracks, bleeding headlights like shooting stars or comets. No one ever drives quite like I have in mind-road as in nowhere-never ending dreams.
It's a beautiful little country road, a peaceful Georgia night, I haven't seen another car for hours. I have no idea where I am. The back of my mind is in New York. It's dragging the rest of me with it. I have the passing thought that hearing the roar of the engine over the rush of the wind might not be a good sign, but I like the way it sounds. It gives the car an organic quality. Faintly, in the background, the sound of classical strings set to the pulse of a techno beat-the ancient modern, the archaic revival. I eschew the interstate in favor of two-lane blacktop. I am in no hurry to get anywhere. I just want to drive. To drive long distance is to meditate; there is nothing to do, nothing that requires any more than the animal function of the brain, the hard-wired instinctual circuits that I don't control anyway. The creative mind, the thinking mind, is free to roam the open road. I avoid interstates. They gloss over the details; they are wide and fast with no time for minutiae. The fabric of life is thinnest in the middle of an interstate highway. I trade speed for peace, convenience for time, and cold comfort for risk. I hang my arm out the window, and let it go limp to bounce with the wind.
Just outside of Gordian, South Carolina, a canopy of oaks and red elms arch over the road, a dizzying rush of treetops sprays overhead. I slow down to thirty, set the cruise control and lean my head back. I'm gliding under the canopy, looking up at a fantastic blur of moonlit leaves. Silver swords cutting up the sky, sleek, and motion blurred. It looks like a high-speed film montage where you can almost tell what things are, but they move too fast to fully comprehend, always lingering just beyond the threshold of recognition. I feel myself lying on my back in a canoe sliding along the banks of the Amazon... They're not leaves at all, they're signposts, clues to the mystery, and every bit the key.
A boarded up fruit stand-boiled-peanut vendors-an ancient downtown of false storefronts-it's impossible to tell if the inhabitants are asleep or deserted long ago. Go where the money is... it's a universal migration from here to the interstate highway. Human culture always following after it's own inventions. Eight hundred generations, six hundred and fifty thousand spent in caves, wombs, and incubators, hydroponically fed dreams from underground rivers. Then the dreamer woke to create a world with electric can openers, shrink-wrapped by a haggard thirteen year old girl in between enduring her uncles' assembly line gang rapes.... All this for that or all that for this?
The air behind me holds the tragedy of fall turning to winter. It offers backseat driving tips, whispering softly in my ear like a barroom parrot hissing the mimic of the voice-box smoker ordering another scotch on the rockssss. I stop for gas. I am higher in elevation; it's colder here. I put on my jacket and start the pump. I walk up the street to look at the old buildings. Faded, worn paint is shedding off the brick-framed buildings in giant sheets like lizard skin. I step back and admire the chaotic structure as I light a cigarette. Old advertisements are stapled to a board at crazy, maddening angles, pictures of cans, black eyed peas, peaches, moon pies-faded and whitewashed by years in the sun. Across the street a window reads: Ace Appliance Store. I wander over and put my face to the glass. I see televisions, radios, washing machines, drying machines, refrigerators, freezers, ovens, microwave ovens, convection ovens, alarm clocks, computers, headphones, video games, laser disc players, DVD players, record players, compact disc players, cordless telephones, wireless phones, digital phones, cellular phones, two way radios, short wave radios, car stereos, home stereos... Tons and tons of stuff. Endless stuff out here in America. I crush out my cigarette and walk back to the car. In the back seat is my single bag. I have four shirts, two pairs of pants, two pairs of shoes, socks and underwear, toiletries and a laptop computer. I don't have any stuff.
Feeling weary and defeated, I follow the signs to the interstate to find a motel. The interstate isn't here for you and I. No one built this road so we could drive on a convenient, straight, fast thoroughfare. It's wide and straight because Eisenhower was an army man. He wanted a way to move tanks, land fighter jets, and transport troops about the country. Should the need arise.... Driving it takes the rest of the wind out of my sails. I pull off at the first motel I see, plunk down my $40 to a sleepy looking attendant, and pass out for the night.
I dream that I'm in New York, living with Maya. Everything is wonderfully happy. I am lying in bed and she is on top of me, arms extended, back arched. Her face is perched above mine, blond locks framing a warm, joyous smile... and then something changes, she rears her head back and laughs like Satan when Hitler rolled into Hungary. My body is stiff as a board; she picks me up and heaves me out the window. I scream as I fall, but I don't hit the ground or wake up. Eventually I stop screaming. I keep falling and falling. A sickening feeling overwhelms me-vertigo-I can't see the ground below me. Eventually I turn over and look up. Maya's face is still clear, leaning out the window, as if I had not fallen at all, but only hovered just below her balcony. She is smiling again, but now it's a sad, crestfallen smile. I realize that she never threw me, it was my imagination. I jumped. She is crying because I am gone. I have made a tragic mistake. Floating in mid air, body wracked with sobs, I am overwhelmed by the realization that I will have to live the rest of my life with this mistake. There is no way to undo it-only move forward. I wake with a start.
It is just before dawn. I fumble for my cigarettes and light one. The dream leaves me feeling depressed and angry with myself. I smoke grimly, scowling at the walls. The room is nondescript, a common dresser, an ordinary mirror and two generic paintings hanging on the wall above my head. It feels like a prison cell. The acidic insides of my stomach gnaw at the fleshy walls begging for eggs, bacon and hash browns. I get up and look out the window; it's nowhereville, faceless buildings, ordinary landscaping, and second-rate views of the cold, insensitive freeway overpass.
I pull on my pants, light another cigarette and flip on the morning news. People are cheating, stealing and dying all over the world. Glitter-faced entertainment hosts parade in fashionable clothes for my amusement. It's the same blue world. Nothing ever changes inside the box. Its comforting and horrifying at the same time. A cheap coffeemaker languishes on the bathroom counter, it seem energized the minute I turn it on. It rattles and gasps and makes gurgling noises as if waking from a long slumber. The television drones out the latest and greatest pop music as chosen by the careful market research groups at MTV. It's a terrible desolate scene this room, but it makes me happy. It is not nearly as bad as the dream landscape.
Around ten I check out at the front office. I skim the newspaper as the clerk prints out a receipt. According to the newspaper, Washington DC is the most violent city in the country. In the hills around Sarejevo, land mines still blow off limbs as a brutal reminder of the never-ending price of war. In India and Palestine the same religious zealots continue fighting the same wars their ancestors fought. In Madagascar eighty-five percent of the forest has been clear-cut for timber, the soil washes uselessly into the sea. In Washington State fifty four percent of the population still thinks clear cutting is a good idea. Sixty-five percent of the population of Zimbabwe has AIDS or HIV. Such happy things in the morning.
In Burma a Shaman is praying and wondering how long until the monsoons arrive to heal the parched farmland. In Tangiers a dying old man in a hospital bed is think about the American junky that used to buy groceries from his father's store.
The road leads up into the capital. The tourists are thick as Florida sand fleas. The streets, the very concrete and asphalt beneath me, are laughing at all of us as they bear the silly game on their back day in and day out.
I make my way out of town and start heading north again. My plan is to spend the night in Jersey and tackle New York tomorrow, but maybe I ought to just keep going. Maybe I ought to skip New York. Maybe I should just drive right on up to Maine, and then Canada, and then whatever is north of Canada; drive right into the arctic sea and jump out at the last moment. Maybe build an igloo, live off polar bear fat and never see anyone again. Maybe find the little hole that leads down into the hollow core where the dark-skinned survivors of Atlantis took refuge...
Day fades to evening, fades to night. The ancient mistress hunger sings her siren song around nine and I stop at an all night diner in Pennsylvania. I sit in the corner and order up a plate of grease. Hard formica counters rise out of cold, concrete floors, scuffed and worn from trucker boots, treading season after season across the threshold, into the orange glow to rest the weary eyes. It calls up visions of lost highways, long gone past, dredges up images, blurring them together. Passing seasons traced out in the ark of headlights dragging across concrete freeway miles.
There aren't very many people in this diner-a couple of truckers with ten-gallon hats, belt buckles, extend-a-bellies, and the requisite butt cracks. There is a thin, old man in a booth-the sort of man that's thin, and old, that you would expect to find in a diner booth. Three waitresses linger behind the counter. One is cooking on a giant grill while the other two gab and stare at their fake pink fingernails. As I get up to go to the restroom, I notice another man next to the truckers. He's a westerner. He has an extra-wizened face that can only be acquired by spending some time in the desert. I figure him for a Texan. He looks like he has been around the block. I notice him because he glares at me. His eyes challenge me as I walk past. I stop on my way back and spin a few tracks on the jukebox. Willie Nelson floats across the room, burying the ghosts of highway noise-the freeway semi-trailers flinging themselves through the night, headlights pulling the past into the future.... Lazy houseflies crawl up the wall reminding me of Ben's Broasted Chicken.
I was headed up to the Tahoe area back in my hiking days. I went by way of the back road, 395, a rickety operation that gives you fantastic views of the eastern escarpment of the Sierra Nevada. About three-quarters of the way to Tahoe you pass through Bishop. It's a logical place to eat. The only place really. There was a roadside dive called Ben's which advertised broasted chicken and corn on the cob for two dollars a plate. I wanted to know just what one did to a chicken to make it broasted. I ordered some up but I hardly ate, the enormous, lazy flies that crawled up the column next to my table distracted me. I can't recollect the chicken, but the flies were slothful, indolent creatures that didn't move when you swatted at them. They just gave up and died. I may have been the first person to swat at them. They might not have known what death was; they might have had free run of the world their entire lives. I might have created a fly culture myth of the grim reaper-the broaster.
I try to put it all together, the passing seasons, the glaring Texan, and free-spirited flies squishing under the thump of newspaper. The Texan keeps craning his head and looking over at me suspiciously. Perhaps my fingernails are too clean, or my clothes not stained enough, to merit his respect. By the time I finish eating and light a cigarette, the truckers are gone. The thin old man evaporates leaving a trail of smoke. It's just me, the waitresses, and the Texan. All the sudden the Texan stands up and coughs loudly. The waitress, who had been grilling burgers, turns around and comes out from behind the counter. As their eyes meet, his face melts from a suspicious glare to a warm, loving smile. They hug and kiss each other and say some sort of goodbye. I see his face over her shoulder as he hugs her; he has a tender look in his misty eyes. He is no longer a glaring, suspicious stranger, but a simple, weather-beaten man escaping into the arms of a soft, plump waitress. He catches me staring at them; he smiles at me and rubs her back. For a flashing second everything in the world seems perfectly fine and sensible. They kiss again and he walks out the door without turning around.
Nine
Get rid of Chloe and Jimmy start letter to chloe thing put Dean on an airplane for Costa Rica.
ten
All points bulletin-universe in retreat-wasteland poets die of heartache-epiphany-no spacemen-detour-dinosaur bones churn under wagon wheels-future excavated-time bound memory-never happened-non-event-heart beats-broken timepiece-lonesome thoughts- stave off chill-to be free-red white blue disease-surrender-blazing failures-defeat-set free- Christ-Joan of ark-Gandhi-Montezuma-world paused-infinitesimal second-watch them fall-nothing but continual drumming-beating through African congas-you alone-get your life preserver-cut out the poetry-cut to the main artery-
Manhattan goes helter skelter the minute I emerge from the Holland Tunnel. The first thing I encounter are detour signs, which send me uptown when I want to go across town. Everything is moving too fast. I'm used to walking the streets, not driving them. Street signs whip past in a blur. I look in vain for a landmark, something I recognize, but I see nothing. Every street I try to turn on is blocked off or a dead end. Finally, at some length, I get across to the Lower East Side only to find myself heading off the island on the Manhattan Bridge. I encounter more detours in Brooklyn. I'm completely lost now; I roll down the window and ask an old man with a tuba for directions back to the bridge; he plays me a guttural song. I manage to make it back into Manhattan, but this time I end up way down by Battery Park. My frustration is mounting. I decide to admit defeat. I pull over somewhere in the financial district and call Maya. After her initial shock wears off, she gives me directions and I set off again. But the minute I get back in the car, the streets are all jumbled up in my head. Did she say Houston or Canal? Was it West on Houston or East on Canal? Was it right on Essex and past Delancy? Or was it right on Essex left on Delancy? I pull over again about ten minutes later and call her back. She laughs and tells me I'm closer this time, even headed in the right direction. I just haven't gone far enough. Maya promises to come out and flag me down. I'm exasperated by now, Manhattan was not designed with cars in mind. I feel like I'm driving in a maze at the bottom of the Grand Canyon. I can never see more than two blocks ahead. I drive right by Maya, but luckily I see her jumping up and down in the rearview mirror, and I flip a U-turn. I park in a loading zone in front of her building and get out to drop off my bag. I am frustrated and angry.
Snow is just starting to fall on the icy blacktop. The street is already a sea of snow, slush, salt, and ankle-deep puddles from earlier storms. Maya is wearing a long, black, down parka. Her hair is tucked under a knit hat and she has on wool mittens. She smiles at me and comes running up to give me a hug. I rudely brush her aside. She balks and slowly, nearly imperceptible slides toward the curb. She draws up and crosses her arms. "you aren't even going to give me a kiss?" I want to find parking I want to get rid of the car I want to make the lights stop flashing I want to turn down the noise I want to make the cars slow down I want to paint lanes in the street. I want to kiss Maya in a dream, running into her arms, a celluloid reunion, the hero and heroine see each other at a distance and start running. To Have to Hold, and yet one brush something closer to The Shining has emerged. I apologize and give her an obligatory hug and kiss.
I lug the suitcase upstairs and Maya goes with me to park the car, lest I get lost walking home. She is miffed at me. She has a hurt expression on her face, but we struggle onward trying to pretend nothing is wrong. To cheer her up, I tell her that I think I'm going to stay. Her face breaks into a smile, "Are you going to live with me?"
I tell her I am. "Now and forever," I say, thinking as I do that I've said that before. Twice.
"God," she exclaims, "I have been waiting to hear that for two years now. I can't believe you're actually here." She cups her hands around my face. Her eyes are younger than in my lantern lit memories. Her mittens catch in my stubble. She leans over and we kiss. Her nose and cheeks are icy cold, but her lips part and her mouth is warm. Our tongues circle each other, the light turns green, a car honks.
We find a temporary parking spot two blocks over and we run home through the falling snow. When we get in the apartment I finally pick her up in my arms and for a little while everything is perfect. We kiss and start ripping each other's clothing off. Clothes fly about the room, covering furniture and floor. We fall in bed naked and groping.
Later, we sit in bed smoking cigarettes, resting. She is naked, legs crossed, wearing a red feather boa around her neck. Her now blond curling locks are ruffled from sex. She puts the filter tip to her lips and softly takes a drag. She smiles at me. "Sil," she says, "are you sure this is what you want?" I nod and look at her eagerly. She looks at me with a face I don't recognize.
"You're going to need a job up here," she says. "New York's expensive, are you sure that's what you want?"
"I only want to be with you," I say, but the word job forms a black cloud over my head and panic sets in. I start to see myself wandering the streets of New York penniless and insane, begging for food in alleyways. I drag harder on my cigarette, but the fear is already rising up the back of my spine, it lodges at the base of my brain. This is New York; New York is not a cross-eyed dream you had even though it seems that way the minute you leave. This is real, steel and breathless concrete real. There is rent to be paid and food costs a fortune. My savings is nearly depleted. I have to find a job. My heart speeds up at the very mention of the word let alone the action it entails.
"I think I have job you might like," she offers. "We need a graphic designer at the agency. You would be doing comp card layouts... You know how to use PhotoShop right?"
"I could do that," I say thinking that I probably can't. but the job searching panic I feel means I always take the first one offered. I never stop to think whether or not I will like doing it. Having a job relieves the stress of having to find a job. There is no job as bad as needing a job.
I start kissing her again. Her mouth becomes a warm sanctuary and I climb right in. My hands stray to her breasts, her ass, and then, cupping her face in my hands, I lay her back on the bed again and kiss my way down to her smooth cunt.
We stay up until the early morning hours exploring all the nooks and crooks of each others bodies, making sure that we remember them, that we know them in the biblical sense. Maya falls asleep around four; I sit up smoking and thinking what a great thing this will be. I am going to stay in spite of the panic. I fall asleep with visions of perpetual happiness lodged in my brain. But in the back of my mind, a spellbinding feedback loop begins to start spinning, softly, slowly, round and round.
When I wake up Maya has already gone to work. The note on the pillow says that she wants to meet me for lunch, but it is already past the time she wants to meet. I jump out of bed and call her. "No big deal," she says, "I got busy anyway. Let's meet in half an hour." I hang up and walk around the apartment for while, getting a feel for it. It's an absolute dump, but Maya had already told me that many times on the phone. She is merely subleasing it. The real owner is in New Orleans. Maya's friend, the permanent resident of this place, has the absolute worst taste I have ever laid eyes on.
Maya has done her best to get rid of the atrocious ornamentation that filled the place when she moved in two months ago. The closets are choked full of the girl's knickknacks, shoes, purses-the girl had twenty-seven purses, and those are just the ones she left behind-and of course clothes. Awful punk rock memorabilia-posters, patches, buttons, record covers-is stuffed under the couch, along with the rest of the girl's abominable artwork and decorative trinkets. But even still, the furniture itself is enough to send you into fits. Chairs are held together with twist ties from last year bread bags, antiques the girl called them when Maya first looked at the place. The living room is dominated by a pink couch that was probably red, maybe even nice, in 1932. Opposite the couch, where one would have expected a television, there is instead a massive chest of drawers dominating the wall. The bedroom is so small it can hold only the bed. In the living room, against the wall and between the windows, is a table, well chewed by some mangy dog. And the dog, ah the dog... I see a picture of the dog on the refrigerator; it's the kind of Tijuana mutt that no one in their right mind would actually let in the house. The psoriatic mutt has left behind double its weight in shedding, little clumps of ratty hair and flakes of dead skin are everywhere. The worst part of the place is the Persian rugs. All three of them look like centuries worth of Persian kings and queens have danced countless nights, and maybe even played a few games of polo, on them.
I go in and start the water for a shower. At first it's nice and hot. I get in and lather up my hair, but then just as I am going to rinse the soap from my eyes, the water turns frigid and I scream in shock. I prance to other end of the tub, trying to escape the icy claws, but the tub is too small to escape. Soap burns my eyes. I slip and grab out for something to hold onto. I accidentally pull down the shower curtain, trip on the tangled mass and fall on my ass right in the middle of the ice-cold stream of water. I fumble frantically with the knobs, turning off the cold water, but before I can get the knob for hot turned off, a scalding blast of hell hits the back of my neck. I scream again and jump out of the tub.
I rinse my hair in the sink and put a cold towel on the back of my neck to sooth the burn. I sit down on the cold kitchen floor, naked and defeated. I light a cigarette and try to believe that the world is not marshalling all it forces against me. Eventually I get dressed and go out to meet Maya.
Outside the air is a Moroccan dagger stabbing at the tiny slivers of my exposed flesh that my scarf fails to cover. I round the corner at the subway station and a blast of wind goes right through all my layers, as if I have on nothing at all. Maya and I have a late breakfast at the Waverly. I mention nothing about my disastrous shower. Instead I pretend to be eager to start work. Money, I am thinking, must make money. It turns out that there is nothing for me to do yet, so I go home to take a nap.
I walk in the door wanting to do something-clean, rearrange, douse with gasoline- anything. But every time I set about to do it I become overwhelmed by the scope of what needs to be done. I give up before I lift a finger. The excess of trinkets and knickknacks drives me up the walls and makes me claw my way across the ceiling like a terrified cat. The same horror starts to carry over out into the city when I go for an evening walk. The cold just adds to the overwhelming din and confusion of the city. There is too much, everywhere there is just too much. Too many shops selling the same things, too many restaurants serving the same things, too many people screaming hollering for cabs, too many honking horns, too many yelling kids, too many roaring trains, too many buildings, to many smells wafting in the street, too much garbage, too much slushy snow, too much sound and sight and noise.... I walk in a stupor. My body is in shock; sensory overload has shut all my circuits down. I am not ready for this. This is not the summertime New York that I know where everything is a shining celebration, everything is warm and inviting. The city I thought I loved has turned to a hideous leviathan, baring it's teeth and snarling at me.
I meet Maya later for dinner and already I feel like the whole city is against me. We go out for sushi and, as if to prove that New York has no love for me, I come home with food poisoning. Instead of making love, I spend the night retching my guts up in the toilet and talking to the mouse that lives behind it. Maya checks on me periodically to make sure my fever doesn't increase. I put on smile for her, string of vomit running down my chin. I look in the mirror for the first time in ages. My eyebrow is still missing. My hair is turning grayer. I wipe the vomit from my lips and drink from the faucet. The water hits my churning stomach and I realize I have made a mistake. I pitch forward, and stagger back to the toilet. The mouse scurries out of the way, into the wall. The mouse is my only friend, cousin to the rats in my ceiling back in Georgia.
I spend the better part of two days alternating between lying in bed and hugging the toilet bowl like it's the son of God.
Eventually I get better and start to try working on the composite cards. I am supposed to lay out photographs, create a design for them, and then pass them along to the printer in Brooklyn, named Lenny, who doesn't like me because he wants my job. This is all I know. I have no experience and not even the vaguest understanding of what I'm supposed to do. I know the basics of the situation, that is, I know how to use the computer program, but I don't know what to do to the cards to make them look good. I've never even seen a real composite card before. Maya gives me some tips and pointers. I look at lots of magazine ads and try to copy them, but the photography I have is subpar. Everything I do looks like a two-bit hack job, which, of course, it is.
Maya and I are both working for a woman named April, the master of ceremonies for the Real North Modeling Agency. April is in her early forties, her hair is a red mane and she has an infectious laugh. She has managed models before for big companies I've never heard of, but Maya assures me they are a big deal. Somewhere along the way, April decided that she wanted more control, so she is starting her own agency. I meet her for the first time in a midtown steak and drinks type of place. I take one look at her and my heart sinks. She's insane, you can tell by the the way her lips move and words come out but no meaning accompanies them. I smile a lot and try to match her hair brained enthusiasm. She doesn't listen very closely to what I say. She keeps asking me what South Carolina is like even after I tell her repeatedly that I'm from Georgia. I can't decide if it's some sort of insult or if she genuinely doesn't hear me. Maybe she thinks there's no difference. Maya has the utmost respect and faith in April. She assures me that April is a good woman and that she really knows what she's doing. I really can't say because I don't have a clue what April or I are really doing. I know what Maya is doing. Maya is the director of new faces, she finds the models. She works around the clock and she isn't even getting paid. She and April exist day to day on the money they get from signing up new models. April and Maya start going out for drinks every night. I prefer to sit at home.
They talk about renting a space to run the agency out of, but in the mean time all five hundred models have Maya's phone number. They call the house at all hours of the day. The phone rings during dinner, during sex, while we're trying to take bath, as we're walking out the door, as we're walking in the door, as I'm working on the computer, as I'm trying to fall asleep... And when we don't answer the phone they hang up and call Maya's cell phone. Maya spends so much time on the phone that I have to go out and get a cell phone just to be able to talk to her.
Maya has left the building, metaphorically speaking. I hardly ever see her and when I do, she's on the phone the whole time or we're running from one errand to the next. We eat together and we sleep together, but beyond that she is out of the house and I'm stuck at home staring at a fuzzy flat screen populated by smiling idiots from Ohio with clichs in their eyes. She has found something in her life-direction. For Maya, something is happening, something that I'm not a part of. For the first time we start fucking. In the old days we had great sex. Sometimes nasty sometimes sweet, but we never fucked. We start fucking. Great pornstarstyle fucking. Hair pulling ass slapping heart attack fucking. It's the best sex we've ever had and it scares me to death. Afterwards I sit in the kitchen thinking how strange it is to have break-up sex before you break up. I'm an optimist though so I ignore the implications.
After a few weeks a routine forms. Maya leaves before I wake up. I get up and meet her for breakfast at the Waverly. Then she goes back to work and I go home to work on the cards. I sit at home staring at a computer screen. I remove skin blemishes, correct photographic errors, lose weight when it's need, reshape faces, re-color eyeballs, reshape and enlarge eyes, slim butts and enlarge breasts... everything in advertising is a lie from beginning to end... Part of it makes me sick every time I sit down to work; the other part has fun chasing clever rationalizations around the feeble nether regions of my atrophied conscience. The sad part is that I actually like the people. I like the models-as people I mean. They are all good people, sure their vain shallow and think they look a lot better than they do, and sure most of them will never be Rhodes scholars and sure you could have a more interesting conversation utilizing a telephone pole and decent imagination, but it's not their fault. they work in the modeling industry its their job to be vapid and intellectually feeble. Their the sagebrush at Los Alamos, scorched without knowing why.
Maya gets home nights around nine or ten and talks of nothing but models. Everything we do has became models, which are good, which are bad, what stage of production they are in, how well the business is doing, what more needs to be done... models, models, models. Nothing else. There are some vague and ill-conceived attempts on my part to express the growing jealousy I feel, but to no avail. I begin to be increasingly hurt by every word coming out of Maya's mouth-not one of them has the slightest acknowledgement of my existence. In the past when Maya and I had spent time together we were the center of each other's lives and now that we are finally living together we are farther apart than we have ever been. One morning decide to walk home from breakfast and on the corner of Bleeker and McDougal I pick a bundle of sagebrush and start burning it whenever Maya walks in the door.
The job only makes it worse. Every time I sit down at the computer to work on retouching the images I am reminded of how miserable things are. I stare at the faceless models and they stare emptily back at me from the screen. I can hear them laughing at me, flaunting how much more important they are to Maya. I am descending into a hellish nightmare of self-doubt, whirling around an abysmal sense of worthlessness. And I'm losing my sense of humor. I stare at the photographs for hours trying to figure out what the hell to do with them.
The phone rings and suddenly I have the brilliant idea to clog the line with an Internet connection. I get a reprieve from the incessant ringing. Out of habit I checking my email and find that Dean has been trying to get a hold of me for two weeks. I email him my new phone number, but make no mention about the state of things. He too is in a terrible state, almost as bad as I am. He quit his job after only a month back in LA. He fled back to DC where he has taken up again with Alexis. He claims in his email that he is only staying there because he has nowhere else to go, but we both know that isn't true. It's quite a document, the email he sends, it starts without even an introduction. "I fear normalcy in any shape. Anything that has been agreed upon by enough people to actually be called 'normal' is something I am not interested in. Primarily, because in my assessment of the world's population, you could fit the intelligent peoples of the earth on the head of the proverbial pin. You said once, while I was staying with you, that 'a genius only knows he's a genius if he's surrounded by idiots.' After my brief return to LA, I concluded that I am in fact a genius by simple default, everyone around me was a grade A moron. I will always be grateful to LA for showing me that there was place where I could surround myself with millions of examples of what I try to destroy in myself.... The niche I attempted to carve out, or should I say that the niche society attempted to carve out for me, fit about as well as an airline seat does a five hundred-pound man's ass. My parameters lie outside the curriculum of everyday thought.... I have now decided that genius must find a societal outlet for at least one thing they create -otherwise they are doomed... The good things that happen are a flood of orgasmic joy and I cling to them. I don't believe in depression. Depression is a tag put on someone who is 'positive' impotent... When it comes to having faith in a positive future I'm as limp as a seventy-year-old porn star. Positive things happen occasionally by the flick of a flint, but counting on them is time I can no longer waste. Let it all come down. Expect the worst and you'll relish the best. Expect the best and you'll wallow in pain. So I went looking for the worst. I came back here to DC to be with Alexis.... In truth I have been enjoying myself, but that feeling is fading fast... I heard from Jimmy that you were in New York so I wanted to send you this ASAP. I may need to spend a little time on your couch in the near future. The money I had is nearly gone so I can't get much farther than New York at this juncture."
I feel woozy. I lie down to take a nap but I can't sleep. I lie there like a somnambulist, staring at the wall thinking of nothing. Maya comes home at ten and finds me in the darkness. My fever is back and my lungs are clenched up tight as a boxer's fist. I hack and cough all night long spitting chunks of brown phlegm in the sink. I can't sleep. By morning dark rings have formed under my eyes. I look and feel exhausted, but I still can't sleep. The anxiety attacks return in the midst of my illness. I am feverish, coughing, sniffling, sneezing, and contending with a racing heart that seems intent on pounding right out of my ribcage. I forget to log on to the Internet and the phone rings incessantly. I hear the neighbor's television through the walls. The mouse is scratching at the ceiling. I hack up blood into a tissue. My fever climbs to 103 degrees. Giant moving cranes roar and screech across the street. The bleat of construction vehicles in reverse is ceaseless. The phone is still ringing; the room spins in circles around my head. Maya is no where to be found; she hasn't returned my phone call. My stomach growls, I am starving, but I can't bring myself to eat. There is no food in the house except grapes anyway. I flip through afternoon talk shows watching 'fat women and the men who love them.' The phone rings again and I can hear Maya's voice on the machine, but I'm too weak to get up and answer it.
When my cell phone rings, I assume it will be Maya. I desperately want to hear her voice, but when I answer it, it turns out to be Dean.
"Sil! It's good to hear your voice." He sounds frantic. "I'd love to chat but I don't have the change... got a cell phone huh? Did you read my letter? I hope it's all right, I bought a train ticket for tomorrow morning... I'll be in the city around noon. Can I hang for a couple of days until I can find some cash and get out?"
"Sure Dean. You're always welcome..." I am thinking of how to phrase the situation. The last thing in the world that I want to add to an already desperate situation is another desperate person. "Great," he says before I can get a word in edgewise, "see you tomorrow." He hangs up without giving me time to fully explain things, but I figure that's his mistake not mine.
Morning finds me still feverish and shaky, but I get up anyway. I meet Maya at the Waverly for breakfast. I see her off to work and head uptown to meet Dean. I stagger along in a feverish nightmare. Gargoyles and fiends stalk me from shadowy buildings. They prowl the streets in mobs. Their claws ripping and tearing everything to shreds. They hide around corners; I lurch across the street. They leap from cabs and busses, claws extended, teeth bared, trying to rip me limb from limb and drag me down with them into the fiery pits of the underworld. The world moves in stop motion film, blurred out of focus and intent of tripping me up as I walk. Things that aren't there keep darting in my peripherals and I can here Mayan priests, the chiclet boy, fiends, demons, and phantoms growling and chattering in the shadows.
Dean is sitting on a bench across from the newsstand in Grand Central. He looks haggard from lack of sleep and excessive facial hair. "Sil..." He looks up weakly.
"Dean..." I sound like a weather beaten sixty-year-old man. "It's almost noon, you want a drink?"
"Ya," Dean tries to smile, " that might raise my spirits."
We head across the street to a bar. I keep my head down to avoid the devilish creatures swooping down from above. We sit down at the bar and order a couple of beers. Dean takes off his coat and slumps his head down on the bar. "Things are bad back there. She doesn't even know I'm here. Neither does my job." He raises his head when the bartender sets down the beer. "But none of that matters a wit," he sighs. "What's wrong is what's always been wrong, and what that is remains an absolute mystery to me. Did you read my letter?"
"Of course. Always such cheery words you send."
"Yes, well, you know how much easier it is to write than to talk. Anyway, I meant most of that stuff. I'm lost and alone. He stares at his haggard reflection in the mirror behind the bar. "Do you ever feel that the whole world has turned against you?"
I want to say that I do, that I feel it right now, but the boy with chiclets is glaring at me, calling me a worthless gringo and kicking my leg under the counter. I lie to Dean and tell him that he's alone. I tell him that things will brighten up. I tell him that the world is getting better. The Mayan priest throws his head back and laughs hysterically.
"No it's not," Dean shakes his head. "The world is getting worse Sil. It's never going to get any better. This whole country is certifiably insane. I have to get out of here somehow. I think maybe I'll go to France." He lights a cigarette and groans. "Oh god, what the fuck am I talking about? We both know I'm never going to France." He laughs ironically and drinks down his beer in one long gulp.
I light a cigarette. I blow the smoke back behind me. The boy with the chiclets goes into fits from the smoke. He runs out of the bar and comes back with giant growling, snarling beast in tow. It has alligator eyes and long fangs dripping carnage. Its leathery hide is covered in warts. It snorts and shakes its head. It looks at me and licks it's lips. The boy laughs. The Mayan priest comes over and rubs its head.
The bartender brings Dean another round of Guinness without being asked. He is listening in on the conversation. Everyone is listening in. A crowd of half-decomposed bodies lines up at the end of bar groaning and moaning and waiting for Dean and I to be put in the gallows. They drag a guillotine out of the bathroom. They are screaming for our heads. The priest whispers in our ears, when the blade falls, get up and run, get up and run, get up and run... I can hear them placing bets on how far our headless corpses will run.
Dean turns and claps his hand on my shoulder and looks intently in my eyes. "Sil," he says, "I want out of this nightmare."
I consider it for a moment. Get up and run, get up and run, get up and run... "I got news for you Dean, there is no way out." He turns away from me, "you can't do it, you have to walk through the nightmare to come out the other end." The priest doubles over in fits of laughter and the little boy throws his chiclets out in the crowd. The ghastly decomposing figures clamor over each other trying to get at the gum. They rip each other to shreds; shrieks and howls fill my head. I start to shake.
Dean drinks his beer in one long gulp again. He motions to the bartender for more. "Fuck that," he says angrily, "I'm gonna find a way out. And who the hell are you to say that anyway?" He looks at me with fire glowing in his eyes. "Where do you get off telling me that? I thought you would be the one person who would understand where I was coming from?"
I shrug my shoulders and sigh deeply. "If you want to go, you just go. It's that simple, you don't have to debate it with yourself; you don't have to get approval; you don't have to ask; you don't have to plan. You go out for the paper one day and you don't come back. You book a flight, a boat, a train and you just go... like we did last time. I just don't think it's going to help."
Dean is silent. The room is spinning around my head. Lights streak from the motion. Faces stretch out sideways and take on hideously evil dispositions. Time speeds up. I am thrown forward. The fabric of reality is ripping and I'm falling through into some other place-some great inferno of perdition. I run to the bathroom and splash water on my face. I feel like drugs are coursing my veins, but none are. My heart is beating like a jackhammer. The priest is staring at me from the mirror. He lifts his blade to my eyebrow and pushes it against my flesh. I feel a sharp pain and bead of blood begins to form. The thin rivulet runs down my cheek like a tear. The mirror wobbles and shakes. The priest leaps forward driving the blade into my head. I'm too weak to scream.
I come to on the floor. An old man is shaking my shoulder. He asks if I am okay. I stand up uneasily and look in the mirror again. There is a cut on the scar of my eyebrow; I must have hit my head when I fell. I thank the man, and he leaves, shaking his head. I wash off the blood and put a paper towel to my head to stop the bleeding. I open the door and step back into the bar. The priest is gone, so is the chiclet boy and all the rest of the hideous, clamoring monsters. Halfway across the room, I stop and study Dean. He is staring emptily at the mirror behind the bar. I notice for the first time Dean, as he really is, I feel all his dilemmas as if the net of synchronicity is merging us into one single entity. It occurs to me that he may be right. Perhaps he should run again.
"Dean," I say as I sit down. "If it makes you feel any better, my life is at the bottom of a toilet bowl too. I'm losing Maya. I can't stand the thought of it, but it's already too late." I finish my beer and order a couple of shots of whiskey.
"Shit Sil, I'm sorry. If I had known that I wouldn't have come up here and laid my shit on you."
I glance over at him and do both shots myself. I order two more and let Dean have one this time. "That's not the point," I tell him. "It actually makes me feel a better knowing I'm not the only one screwing up my life. Besides I might be able to help you. Why don't we go down to the airport and book a flight? Why don't you go to France right now?" I raise my shot. Dean looks helplessly at me, but raises his shot to toast. "Let's go right now no more talk no more contemplation, no more words. From here on out only actions, pure honest actions," I throw back the whiskey; it burns down my throat. Dean does the same. I order more. And more. We drink faster and faster.
"I can't just disappear to Europe on Alexis," Dean complains. "I have to at least call her."
"No you don't," I glared at him, "come on let's go." He's losing his nerve. I grab him by the arm and start to drag him out. He consents and lets me pull him out of the bar, but in the vestibule he stops. I fear he will change his mind, but he only wants my assurances that I will explain everything to Alexis. I swear to him that I will and push him out into the street. I hail a cab.
As we ride out to La Guardia International, I double-check the one potential flaw in my plan. A plan which I now see leading Dean high into the Himalayas where he can at long last gain the secret of the universe from some ancient Tibetan shaman, so old he remembers the time before Buddhism... "Hey, you still carrying your passport at the bottom of that bag?"
Dean lurches drunkenly down and pulls the suitcase to his lap. After rummaging though it for a tedious eternity, he produces the tatter document and smiles. I sit back, but Dean leans over and drunkenly grabs me by the shirt. He gets right up in my face, "now Sil," he growls, "you promise to me that you will go to Alexis and explain the situation to her, tell her that I love her and I look forward to being with her again someday, but for now, I have to do this. You'll tell her all that won't you?" Tears are streaming down his face, from what I'm not quite sure, but I feel compelled to lie to him.
"Of course I'll call her as soon as you're safely in the air."
"No! You can't call, that won't work." He shakes me by the shirt. "You have to go to DC tonight and tell her in person, someone needs to be there so that she has a shoulder to cry on."
The thought of Alexis crying on my shoulder sends homicidal shivers down my spine, but I agree just to shut him up.
It takes about forty minutes to get to the airport. I shove some cash through the window like a madman and I jump out of the cab, dragging Dean behind me. I steer him straight to the Air France desk. I leave him to the side and step up the attendant. "I need a one way ticket to Paris," I say proudly, "on the next flight."
She looks the two of us over and seems to be trying to decide whether or nor we are serious. I pull out my wallet to encourage her on. She types something in the computer and then smiles at me. "I have a few seats on the one o'clock," she says, "but its already started boarding, you'll have to hurry." I smile at her and demand that she sell me one. She seems flustered by my enthusiasm and urgency.
"How much?" I ask as if it's unimportant.
"One person," She hesitates and I glance over at Dean. He is slumped down sitting on the floor with his hands in his face. "It's going to be eleven-eighty with taxes and airport fees," she says.
"Done," I smile, whip out my credit card, and hand it to her.
"Can I see the passport of the travelling party?" She looks at me triumphantly as if she thinks I will have overlooked this detail. I grab it out of Dean's hand and shove it under her nose. While she runs the credit card I start Dean in the direction of customs. I run back to finish up the paper work. He is through customs by the time I come over with the ticket. I hurry him down the concourse, thrusting the ticket in his hand. I give him the rest of my money. It's only about two hundred dollars after I take out return cab fare for myself, but at least he'll have a few days to figure something out. He'll probably hate me in about three hours when he sobers up at thirty five thousand feet over the Atlantic, but it'll be too late by then. At the entrance to the ramp I stop and give him a hug. We hug for moment, the way straight men are not supposed to hug in an airport concourse, and then I turn and march out without looking behind me. I'm not sure if he'll go through with it or not, but either way I figure as long as I don't see then he'll always have gone in my mind.
I go outside and sit down for a cigarette. It takes a few minutes to find a cab that won't mind my nicotine habit, but eventually an Islamic looking man motions for me to hop in. It's a spectacular feeling that sweeps over me as the cab emerges from the Lincoln tunnel. The sky seems immense and wide open, as if imported from Montana. The first rays of orange are painting the tops of the skyscrapers and the whole world seems turned upside down and shaken. Loose change clatters on the sidewalks as worldwide pants are emptied and all the hopes and dreams of eight hundred thousand years fall down on me and pick me up on their shoulders. I feel boundless, timeless and completely, utterly divinely free. I feel like I am the one on my way to Paris.
Eleven
-reductive and mechanical-world gains grid-microscopic speck of immensity-deep space bubbles-twinkle like gin-elaborate effigies-the bare essentials-negatively charged collisions-moving on a crowded street-a stubbornly persistent illusion-the trouble is-you see it don't you?
The phone. Ringing. The phone is ringing. The phone is not ringing. The alarm is going off. The alarm is not going off.
Dean is gone.
Fumbling fingers twisting a flint of happiness. Inhale sharply. Feel the pain in charred lung tissue. Where is Dean? Where is Jimmy? Where is Maya?
I get up and crush out the cigarette in the Persian rug, letting it burn a good size hole in the exposed padding once covered by luxurious threads. I feel better already. The steel bars masking the window do not bother me. The whine and bleat of the cranes is symphonic. Dean got out. Dean is free. I have realized it. The computer comes to life. I open Photoshop and try to work. The disks from yesterday's shoot are sitting on the table along with a note from Maya. It's a terse reductive note. Here's yesterday's discs. Dinner? Informal poetics.
Last night I passed out before Maya got home-realization slipping through an intravenous drip-questions spring up and are dismissed. Dean got out. I throw in the discs and open up the first set of pictures. Three girls carrying shopping bags and laughing in way that real people never do, but seems to make sense to real people when they sit down and thumb through magazines. Shop. I make you want to shop. I make you want. Things. Things you can't have.
I put in the next disc and my heart crashes.
All the precious irreverent little bytes still wafting in the glory of Dean's departure are instantaneously expunged from my information superhighway all skittering. There is an older thing than computers, a scaly viperous thing, a part of the reptilian brain that remains in touch with the more up to date mammalian one. They communicate along the lines of the old show-the string to tin can trick. Simple and effective. The reptilian brain is slithering slow behind the scenes making sure that the worst is being avoided, even as the mammalian brain seems intent on seeking out the most serosanguineous reality tunnel around.
A face is staring at me. A face swelling significantly out of an ocean of monotonous faces. Disc two contains a face I know. An Athens face. A face that has no business being in this part of my life, a separate face. Judah is staring at me. Judah with his rooftops and roughhewn tables and Cuban dreams is here in New York on my computer. There is no way that this disc could contain a picture of Judah. It is impossible for him to have been at yesterday's modeling shoot without Maya mentioning it.
Unless.
Unless the bitten apple on the front of the disc is not just a brand symbol.
My heart gets the three-fingered salute and after running a hasty hard disc scan, restarts with minimal data loss.
Except.
The priest is back and has a battered suitcase with ancient Pan Am and Trans World emblems plastered on it. He leans over my shoulder to get the scoop on this latest development and launches into a hysterical, uncontrollable, post-orgasmic fit of laughter.
You are so fucked.
Spring Street. Coat buttoned tight, scarf catching involuntary nose drip, feet skating on icy concrete and the old Jewish tailors huddle on the crooked, half-spiral steps whispering Yiddish, smoking cigarettes and decoding the cabalistic name of god which they plan to evoke in swirl of incense, candlelight and chanting in some universe just three doors down-unmarked entrance in an alley. Waiting for the F train to Broadway, a fat junkie woman with a stroller shivers and rolls her eyes at me. The priest marches up and down the platform, hunched slightly, like Napoleon contemplating strategic moves, hands behind his back, twirling a menacing blade, long, curved and enlarged at the front. The better for splitting my dear.
Roaring sounds, squeals, heart attack brakes, suicide doors open. Two street kids huddle in the corner of the car arguing over Delotid stolen from an uptown pharmacy where the old neighborhood druggist is losing his sight and easy prey to opportunists-forgets that two boys came in and only one is in front of him now asking for drugs for the the hiv, what is the hiv? The boy laughs. They dash out the door and into the station, all the way to Brooklyn and then back, but only one Delotid. The priest looks at me and smiles, gesturing to the boys with the engorged tip of the scythe. Necessity is mom, where is dad?
Door opens at 125th, in come the dealers and out go the boys. These are dangerous types don't you know. Black hearts. Black skin. Even the priest is silent. I stare them down. One nods. "buds?" I smile no. TV has these images. It told you all you needed to know. Just another show. My eyes are bleary from staring at the screen its all too much and there must be someone on this train. Stand up. Walk to the next car. The priest holds the door as I stumble through.
"You talk too much"
"Stupid old fuck"
"Get your piles out"
"This is my car you coggy old fucker"
Two bums half heartedly pushing each other, bustling in the back and a prim woman in a business suit on her way to the Bronx, the north Bronx, out of the city and sure he keeps telling her we'll move soon, just as soon as I put together this next deal, you know Charlie says he can move this stuff and she spends her nights chain smoking at the window thinking of home in Baltimore and the last time she had an orgasm. A thin old man with newspaper folded under his arm uncrosses his legs and motion to me to sit down.
"Going uptown?"
"Yes"
"Lots to do uptown?"
"I think maybe. Yes."
"Be careful. These aren't safe neighborhoods you know. Make sure you know where your friends are."
"Thank you."
The terror of wheels flogging metal rails. Nothing personal. Stop. Lurch. Complete stop. The priest motions for me to get off. I follow him reluctantly. There are some things that are better left alone, but you never do. You can't see? Get on a plane. Get out while you can. Echoing voices. A little Puerto Rican boy tap dances on a tattered sheet of cardboard. The Mayan priest pitches him a nickel. Gee thanks mister...wrong fucking century asshole. I can't help but laugh. This is so fucking stupid but I can't stop. These are bad neighborhoods you know. Outside again, the projects, enormous brick edifices erected on minimal budgets with zero inspiration. We thought of that you know the priest interjects, zero, the Mayans, the nothing thing. Try that one on.
Some things are too horrifying to look directly at, some things scorch the eye before the brain can react and force you to turn away. These are the horrors, the pains, the absolute zero of emotional tolerance. Zero. Nothing. The absence of all. The void. The space between. Zero. These are the things I want-to see the things I can't bear to see. I see Judah. I see his curly eyes glazed with alcohol and Cuba. An entire fucking island and millions of people tiny little dreams in his eyes. But not people just words, Spain, Neruda, sugarcane, wood tables, old men playing jazz, pounding out beats on drawers pulled from bedroom armoires. Words. Zero. Judah has never been to Cuba. Zero. Never been to Spain. Zero. Been to the bottom of bottle dreams and talking gibberish, meaning astray, ashtray, lost his way. Just making it up as he goes. Did we ever sit on the roof? Did I make that up? Did we climb that precarious fire escape rusted ladder to the top, did my feet almost slip on the way down; was the building two doors down really burnt out, charred, roof sagging like leprechaun dreams under the weight of mythical bridges? Did Maya come to Athens that spring and were we walking by the patio of the Flicker Bar where Judah was having drinks with some friends? Did I call out to him and ask him to come over and meet Maya? Did we chat briefly, Judah too drunk to see? Did Maya casually mention that he was cute? Did I know then what I know now?
Yes my memory constructs all that as having happened and yet. And here, standing at the entrance to a building I haven't entered in over a year, my mind is wallpapered with the image. Stacked on infinite repeat and it won't go away. It is a needle raked over an already festering wound. A porcupine administering morphine to an amputee still feeling the absent limb. The endolithic articulation of zero.
This won't hurt a bit.
Nuclear buzzer shatters fragmented reflection before I remember the door is open. The door never locks. Here we are not lying until you are inside. The antechamber where Judah's dull amplified voice is echoing off tile mosaics and sets the Jamaican landlord's crazed dreadlocked lakdsjflkasdjf into a frenzy, it throws its body against the downstairs door, snarling and growling undog noises. The hair on the back of my neck curls and retreats back into the follicle. Down periscope. Dive. I streak up the stairs lest the nearly mythical predator somehow loose itself from the bounds that hold it to this mortal coil. Behind me the priest scrapes his heart carving blade against the orange chipped paint of the door to further antagonize the beast.
Judah is already opening the door as I bound the last stair. His face wears a look of feigned surprise trying to hide the fact that he has been waiting for this moment ever since. I will not give, nothing is wrong.
"Sil! Holy shit. What are you doing here?"
"Judah! I came to see my old friend Judah." I advance on him, arms extended and we embrace, clapping each other's backs hard. Too hard.
"Come in come in. I was just doing some recording upstairs. I thought maybe you were John coming home from work and I was pissed off thinking he had forgotten his key again...."
"Ah, recording. Music?
"Ya drums"
"Tribal drums? African drums? That sort of thing?"
"Uh... not exactly.... So why are you in New York?"
"I came up to be with Maya."
"That's the girl you were dating?"
"Uh huh." I follow him into the kitchen and he offers me a seat at the kitchen table. I glance around and surmise that little has changed since my last visit. The one talented member of this living arrangement has added a few new painting to the living room wall. Strange stained glass looking paintings that are catching the last glow of the sun in such a deliberate way that I realize he must have purposefully painted them and then hung them at exactly that spot on the far wall of the kitchen so that they would catch the light exactly as they are right now.
"Yes Judah. The girl I have always been dating. As long as you have known me. Longer than you have known me."
"I thought you guys broke up." He picks up a bowl of roasted peanuts and I can't help but see the inescapable southern upbringing coursing through his veins. He peels back the soft shell and pops one arrogantly in his mouth.
"Is that why you fucked her?"
He pretends like it comes out of nowhere, but we both know it didn't. We both know it's the only reason I'm here.
"Excuse me?"
"Don't try to bullshit me Judah. It's unbecoming. At least be quick on your feet... I was drunk... I'm sorry... it just happened... you know how it is... these are the phrases of carefully constructed cinematic excuses that you have to choose from. Come on man... 'excuse me'? That's the best you can do? You and your Neruda and your Cuba and all your fucking bullshit and 'excuse me'? That's the fucking best you can fucking do?"
"Calm down Sil. You want a beer?"
"No I don't want a fucking beer you asshole. I want a story. And it better be a really fucking good story." I can feel my eyes darting about the kitchen, dishes in the sink, purple cupboard door open, dishrags on counter, trash overflowing bottles, refrigerator covered, magnets and pictures, disarrayed pots on stove, framed Charles Bukoski holding beer on wall opposite oven, bread atop fridge, two bananas and a mango ripening in a wire basket hanging from the bottom shelf above the window that looks out onto a brick wall three feet away, and the priest hands me the blade. "Actually, yes, I would like a beer," I run my finger along the edge of the blade, a tiny rivulet of blood appears accompanied by a dull far off ache in my fingertip. I wonder absently if such a thing could permanently alter the identification of my fingerprints.
Judah retrieves two Coronas from the fridge, along with a lime, all of which he carries awkwardly over to the table, setting one beer in from of me and another in front of the empty chair he presumes he will sit in. He turns around and rummages through a drawer, presumably looking for a knife, but I chop the lime in half with a loud thwacking sound that causes him to stand bolt upright and look at me wide eyed. I smile, wipe the blade clean and put a sliver of lime in his bottle and then one in mine. I twirl the blade on the tip of my finger.
"Sorry. Bought it in Chinatown. This is the first chance I've had to use it."
"That's quite a knife..."
"Ya it is isn't it? So about you fucking Maya...?"
"Look Sil. Shit. I'm sorry. I thought you guys broke up. I didn't mean to. I was drunk. She called me...fuck." His face has a look of sorrow on it but I'm not buying. Regret is cheap-from here to Hanoi. "Sil... to be honest... when she called, I didn't know who she was talking about...you know she said this is Maya, a friend of Sil's... I had forgotten all about you. It didn't dawn on me until the next day."
His voice sends me reeling.
"I mean. Shit, I'm sorry man, but I didn't know we were that good of friends. I mean its been what-like two years?"
"So...uh... essentially our friendship was all in my head?"
Judah shells another peanut, pops the soft fruit in his mouth and chews slowly and deliberately. "Well, uh, don't you have to see someone, you know... hang out with them in order the be friends with them?"
I see Dean in Paris pissing in an alleyway three sheets to the wind. I see Jimmy in Athens bent over the falcon engine tinkering with the carburetor. I see Scratch in Miami ogling a divorcee. I see Ulric behind the drum kit that holds the world together beating out the rhythm of now.
"No. No you don't. That would be an acquaintance, which it seems you and I are. Acquaintances. It seems that friendship is too advanced of a concept to apply here.... Or at least that's how you would like to see it...."
"What do you mean?"
"I can see the guilt in your eyes Judah. It haunts you. You have been waiting for me. You want forgiveness from me..."
"I want forgiveness...?" He laughs mock wickedness.
"Yes. You want nothing more... but you're a drunk. You're nothing but a drunk with delusions. You sit around here recording music no one will ever hear, thinking that you're some kind of forgotten genius, another overlooked Van Gogh... and believe me we all want that for you, but the sad truth is that you're not. You're a drunk. No more no less."
Judah watching the Zapruder films dreaming of having the inside track on something that the rest of us have missed. Judah is a foreshortened life. He is not Neruda, he is not Cuba, he is a man who reads poetry by candlelight because he knows it is how you are supposed to read poetry, he dreams of Cuba because it is where he cannot go. Cuba is not a place at all to Judah; it's a concept. It's all empty talk, a tumbleweed caught in the grill of a 53 mercury, not even that, in the grill of late 70's pinto, liable to blow the fuck up the first time something rams him in the ass.
I can see him buried to the hilt in her warm depths with that stupid drunken Neruda grin on his face. Perhaps we could go up to the roof. Perhaps he could walk in circles while I sit on the brick ledge that separates his building from the next. Perhaps all of Manhattan is behind me and Judah will pace in circles to excuse poor behavior. Perhaps he will tell a story of an out of blue phone call, a meeting for drinks with that slithering slug April. Perhaps he will model-waving his bottle of corona as he talks of drinks-martinis extra dirty three olives and then the stumbling subway ride home. Perhaps its was one of those nights when I waited by the phone for Maya to call. Perhaps it was the night Scratch blew through. Perhaps the priest will laugh-taunting me. Perhaps he will kneel behind Judah, crouch on all fours. Perhaps the punch will come for Judah, perhaps my good natured honesty will have disarmed him. Perhaps the punch is centered square in the solar plexus and is followed by the full weight of my body. Perhaps there is an indeterminable second in which Judah will teeter and try to throw his foot back to regain his balance, but a heating vent will be in the way. He will spin off balance, stumble and disappear over the edge. I will run to the edge of the building and look down. His body will be contorted in a distorted, inhuman shape, a pool of blood already forming under his head. I will glance around to see if anyone might possibly have seen us. I will feel a rather extravagant calm. I should be panicking, but I won't. I'll feel relieved, beautiful even. I'll gather up the bottles I touched, glance around to see if there are any other items which might lead one to believe that there was second person present. I'll smooth over my footprints in the rooftop gravel. I'll climb down the ladder and onto the fire escape, glancing down at Judah's body and taking care to wipe away my fingerprints. The pool of maroon below will run toward the fence, dripping out the spaces between the white pickets. I'll climb back in the window and methodically ransack his room, looking for my phone number or Maya's, but taking care not to mess things up. I'll gather up my things, carry the bottles downstairs and place them in the neighbors trashcan. I'll walk out back and examine the body. I'll put my hand over his mouth, but before I can feel a breath I'll notice the bits of mashed skull and what I think are brains lying several feet away-clearly there will be no breath. This man is dead. His eyes are still open, they wear a slightly shocked expression, but there is something else there, a Mona Lisa smile, as if laughing at some inner joke. I'll want to stomp that smile right off his face. I'll want to feel the satisfying crunch of bone under my foot, I'll want to squish his brains, to smear them about the yard. Instead I'll rise and walk out the front door. A roommate will find him. Judah is a known alcoholic. He's also the only smoker in the house. He frequently goes up of the roof to drink and smoke. It will be a no brainer, an open and shut accidental death. His blood alcohol level will tell the story. An intern from the Bronx observer will be dispatched to the scene, he will take a picture of the legs protruding from beneath the yellow tarp. The headline will read: Youth killed in Drunken Mishap. No question will ever be asked because this story is perfectly believable. My story is far fetched, irrational, and difficult to believe. Who would do such a monstrous thing? As I leave I will notice some boys playing basketball at the court across the street. I will sink my hands deep in my pockets, smile up to the sky, take a resonant breath and walk on. People are murdered everyday in the Bronx. Drunk people falling off rooftops are not a cause for alarm. I wish I could say that I would be haunted by images of Judah. I wish that I could say I would feel guilty, but I know I will not. Judah is right, our friendship was all in my mind. And he, bless his nearly departed soul, already got out. His death will be a mere a formality to mark his passing.
The wheels of the BDFQ begin the screech halfway down the stairs, I jog the rest of way and dart through the door at last minute, sliding into a seat facing an old man whose face is half obscured by a down-turned fedora. I jerk my sleeve out of the door and sit down opposite him. He glances up at me clears his throat and mumbles to no one in particular-these things happen you know. The woman seated next to him raises her eyebrows at me. I smile and shrug. Who is to know the idiosyncrasies of other people?
The bar is really more of a lounge, but a lounge in the worst New York hipster sense of the word. The street front consists of tacky two story glass windows designed to make sure that those on the outside feel left out and sense their lacking chic, which turns up the volume of self-satisfied panache playing on the black turtleneck turntables that spin giddily from table to bar to toilet and back again. A woman at one of the window tables raises a thinly plucked eyebrow at me as her flighty white fingers twirl through blond curls; her white skin is tightly stretched as if approaching escape velocity, narrowly eeking out of the blackhole of her attire. Her scorn makes me smile. I turn on my loudest non-participatory amplifiers, light a fresh cigarette and open the door with trembling hands. Inside is a dimly lit underwater blue emanating from strands of twinkling sapphire Christmas lights balanced and slightly thinned by candles flickering on small tables. A hostess looks at me expectantly but I can't speak. She scowls at my cigarette and asks if she can help me. "Meeting people," I mumble, eyes ignoring her existence, scanning desperately for a familiar face.
The back wall is lined with a series of enormous crescent shaped booths, and at the center of one, surrounded by a horde of male models, I spy Maya and April, giggling in each others ears. Maya catches my eye and waves me over. She tries to introduce me to the men-boys really- surrounding her, but I don't bother to acknowledge their flaccid hands. A couple I recognize having digitally liberated their complexions from acne scarred childhoods. One of them gets up and pulls over a chair so that I can sit next to Maya. Maya and April are talking emptily of big plans. Big buildings with big offices, big name photographers shooting on account for big name clients, big money going around the world, Frankfurt to Paris, Milan to Cape Town,, New York and back. I stare at April's teeth as she talks. Her pretension chokes the air with gasping hoarse laughter. Black boutique blouse with matching runway toss-off pants she dress like she spends too much time dressing. Her forty year old teeth dripping pinot grigio, held in place by a Miami-tanned hide hanging from cheek bones that all the retouching in the world wouldn't subtract a year from. Must have been boom years-gone bust to land her here. Gone bust in the warm Florida a sun, tarnished the red-gold mane and she had to split. Why I'm not sure, but I suspect it would have something to do with these big puppy-love dreams ringing her head like penny dreadfuls. April's unwarranted arrogance lectures like a cockstrong teenager sermonizing on the ways of the world and what you need to do to succeed. One of the models is wearing a t-shirt that reads: no day but today. And April's pinot grigio is half empty, her vulture eyes already search for a carrion waiter to flutter eyes at secure another free glass because she hasn't the money to buy a drink. She wants to be rich so badly it makes her smell-wouldn't know Rothschild from gutter port and can't buy either.
Maya's lips purse around a thought, but then her head leans back and shakes-disengage turn the page, working hard for some distant reward in white picket tomorrowland all the while convinced: no day but today. She wants me to share in the dream conversation. I'd sooner chew my leg off-saut my ambivalence. I am in no hurry. She gives up on me for bit but like a flea-riddled canine just can't let it go.
"What did you do today Sil?" Maya leans in, stabbing at some form of intimacy, but it feels forced to me. I am not fun. I am the thing that must be dealt with at this table, in this bar, in this city.
"I realized that you fucked Judah behind my back," I smile and take a sip of scotch.
It would be a relief to see some sort of reaction, to see the color drain from her face, to see a look of horror in her eyes, but there is nothing. A sarcastic curl lifts her top lip off her teeth and she lowers her eyes at me, "this is neither the time nor the place."
"The proper form calls for indignant protest at such an outrageous accusation and then the time and place bit." I cross my legs and feel an unhealthy calm descend upon me. I light a cigarette and lean back to blow smoke in April's face. We lock eyes and scornful little daggers spit out of her pupils. My heart is racing in spite of the pills, but everything is beautifully clean and calm. The air is sterile, too full of ozone, it sucks up my cigarette smoke and filters it faster than I can drag more into my starved lungs. The room smells like the science fiction future-barren and callous. It feels perfect. The first dawn after the nuclear holocaust.
Maya turns her back on me and whispers something to April. I wish that I had a Moroccan dagger or scythe with which to carve this place, these people, carve their bodies into apocalyptic sculptures, monuments to the futility of arrogance. To leave them alive to carry on their shallow existence in these blanched white bodies, but with deep heineous scars the wounds left by the day the words returned to act upon them. I survey the room and realize that the words aren't coming back justice is down the hall blindfolded, gagged and bound, being fucked in the ass by a lonely old man and loving every minute of it while the play masks laugh and cry at the sight of it all.
I feel righteous and holy.
I want to vomit on myself.
I want Mexico City.
Waking to static on the radio, fat man singing in the shower next door, paper thin walls. The pain is chipped and peeling, lingering in cobweb corners. Mattress with no sheets, stained by countless faceless visitors. Get out of bed and shave with cold water and dull razor, cuts bleed. Outside cadaver weather, smoky haze obscures dawn, stumble down Calle de la Plaza. Your head hurts. Machine gun guards seal off banks. Tomorrow the man in the pinstripe suit will walk in shooting and not stop for days.
Both agents wearing cheap black suits and stained white shirts, rings of sweat visible when they lift the cups to their mouths. Gristle mouths, swollen lips, spit flies as they talk.
"Now you understand..."
"You understand nothing about our country..."
"You can't possibly hope to..."
"We are trying to use the utmost discretion..."
Not hearing a word, looking off the balcony at the shanty town below. Constructed on an old landfill site. The men are still talking. One hand washes the other. A little girl in tattered t-shirt drags a stick in circles about the dirt driveway.
In America she is millions of miles away. Jerking camera visions, clipped images of sidewalks, men in ragged army coats begging for change. The agents ask for papers, identification, passport still stuffed in the mattress. Leaving. They follow at a safe distance.
"Understand that the matter may well come to trial seor..."
Streets spinning with cars, a dizzying sound. Street urchin selling chiclets, you wanna good time mister? eh? no?
Last time, board room door all closed, sealed up lies. The agents are still trailing behind. Pulse racing-open the door to the hotel. Three whores in gaudy lipstick wait in the lobby. Pass. Lie down. Feverish dreams. Radioman selling something in Spanish, bursts of static mixed with dream. Malaria epidemic in the Quarter two years ago. Same room, different hotel. Same agents still here. Standing in the corner. One crouches down, smoking at the foot of the bed. In America she is a million miles away.
"Sir why do make this hard on yourself...?"
"You must let us help you..." They smile gold teeth.
Nausea without warning.
There is always warning. It has all been said. She just laughs and pretends and smiles and tries so hard for a Breakfast at Tiffany's cleanliness. The kind of posturing with no accounting for severed limbs, atrocities at all, arm so carefree with its gentle flicks of ash, kissing cigarettes for soft cinedramatic inhales, all-knowing and never acknowledging the prehensile origins. She is smugly young. She has always been smugly young. We are all smugly young. But not you. You have been so old for so long that delusion and illusion and artifice are transparent in the tips of lotioned fingers, Lubridermed against chapping winds. She falls apart with every drag.
I skip the subway. Overground. Stepping lightly on grates, slender metal held up by the wisps of subway air. Wind blows through the morgues and into the streets, lashing ice, snow, tongues, voices-everything is beautiful everything if fine. This is the time. This is the place.
But.
Nevermind.
I want that hotel Bob Dylan lived in. I want to walk in the room and kick his teeth in. Bob Dylan hasn't got shit on me. Mutherfucker couldn't sing worth a damn. All my favorite singers couldn't sing. Kick his fucking teeth in. Stomp his head to mush. Fuck Bob Dylan. Fuck Fuck Fuck. Fuck Bob Dylan. It's in way he sings the power and resonance-horseshit. Its all horseshit. Posturing. Affecting. Jeff Mangum-let Jeff Mangum kick Bob Dylan's teeth in. Jeff is in his prime. He is now. Bob is over and done. Fork stuck. Roasted. I want that hotel. I want those teeth. I want them to rattle in a pouch that I carry on my belt, tied with leather straps and I pull them out in bars and tell the story of How I Kicked in Bob Dylan's Teeth. Jeff Mangum is in an aeroplane over the sea and he is on his way to kick Bob Dylan's teeth in.
I want my money back. I would like to return the following items for a full refund: One set of teeth (lost rattling quality), one tongue (no longer working, cat got), two year subscription to Tomorowland (gift), one heavily used Persian rug (symbol kind of shaky from the get go), one organ donor card (no one buying), one nation (under god), one lamppost (working, caustic light on a street begging for a Bogart darkness-huddled, but cheerfully bitter), and one young girl (no longer young).
I can forgive everything.
Room 319. No Bob Dylan. No top hat. No Jack Kerouac (kick his teeth in too for good measure). No guitar. But it a beautiful room and it should be since the money was April's. I want to go shopping. I want a new suit. Designer shoes. Kiehl's shaving cream. Seven bottle of scotch. Greater self understanding. Peace on Earth and goodwill toward Jeff Mangum.
Judah said: We spent all the time talking about you.
I said: Why.
Judah said: Because she loves you.
I said: Nothing.
She is crying when I call. I can't cry. I want to cry. I want to feel. It's awkward. I should not have called. I should have gone home. I should give Bob his teeth back before he tries to gum that steak. This is how I hurt.
Maya and I meet for dinner at a Brazilian restaurant in the village. We both quickly get quite drunk on fruity cocktails. I don't want to tell her I am leaving until later. I don't want to spoil the evening that way. Maya is apologetic. I feel apocalyptic and out of control. I am funny. I am attentive. She is exuberantly telling me all about the agency for the five thousandth time, what they had done today and what they still needed to do tomorrow and in the future. I am enthralled with her teeth. I want to dream about her teeth. Her baby teeth falling out. Her adult teeth coming in. I want to dream the history of her teeth. The Rum is warm and friendly and she is very happy and we are forgiving each other for something or other, it isn't important. I interrupt her to tell her about Dean. She can't believe he actually just got on a plane and left. The whole thing is starting to sound surreal to me too, a dream I had-Dean's teeth flying to France, rotting on cheap wine and the chewing the rind because he is a polite traveler. But when I try to charge dinner on the credit card, the reality of his departure comes roaring home. I am sitting on almost three thousand dollars that I'm giving to April tomorrow. Maya pays the bill. As we walk home through Chinatown, I tell her that I have to leave. I feel like an absolute fool. I try to explain that I can't be in New York right now and that I can't do the job and that I don't know why-but above all it has nothing to do with her and certainly nothing to do with Judah or even Bob Dylan.
Her eyes fill with tears, but she keeps saying that she wants me to do what I need to do. She's lying. She wants me to stay. I can see it in her eyes, she desperately wants me to stay. Late at night I feel her get out of bed. I hear the broken chair squeak and the flick of lighter. She is fumbling absently with the twist tie; her nails pick at it making a sound like a harp.
In the morning there is a note. I want to spend more time with you, will you meet me for lunch? I gather up my things, drag them down stairs and pile them back in the Maxima. Upstairs I sit at the kitchen table and smoke a cigarette. I crush it out on the Persian rug.
Twelve
I wake up just before dawn with tears streaming down my face. I can't remember the dream, but I know it was horrible. All I retain is a vague sense of foreboding. I get up for a glass of water and notice that Dean is still asleep on the couch. I go back in my room and lie in bed for a while. It dawns on me that I am probably not at the bottom yet-I am still falling. I start thinking about Los Angeles, where I began. I see those I love stumbling in self assured darkness. At the time I thought it was sad, but now I see beauty in it. For once I'm not thinking of books or words of wisdom; I undergo no introspection, analyze nothing... I see only the people. They are standing in the streets rummaging for yesterday's newspapers in a kaleidoscope of garbage. I see Dean's cigarette droop between his lips and burn a hole in his favorite shirt. I see his sister doubled over in laughter and shaking her head at me. I hear the beat of Dean's headphones over the drone of freeway miles. I see the mattress lying in the middle of the sidewalk when I needed a place to sleep. I see my high school sweetheart sitting down for dinner with her family. I see my wife's tears stain the pillow of our bed. I wrap my arm around Maya in the corner booth of the Harbor house caf-no food for days. I feel the warmth of the sun and squint at the glare from the ocean. I swerve to avoid a tumbling boulder only to hit anther skid off the road coming to rest in front of a sign: CAUTION FALLING ROCK. Everything is just as it should be and I know it will never look the same again. I am gone from there and even if I return, something remains forever gone. I stumble back to bed, wiping the tears from my eyes. I fall to my knees staring up at the ceiling fan rewinding...
The beginning that started with endings. The end of the century-1999-a crash-landing year skittered off the runway and exploded in the grandstands, a year that chased itself atop railroad cars like the Pinkertons after the James Gang in old western films. Los Angeles was a thirty-one year long slow motion crash. Three recollections rise out of the nauseating sauted cacophony. They are the sound of Dean typing, the sound of disjointed and constantly arguing voices-from the television and from Sean and Katherine-and the feeling of vomit that was so sudden I nearly choked on it.
After my wife and I split up, I moved in with Dean and his sister. The three of us got along as if I were part of the family. It's the only living situation I've encountered where I actually spent time with my roommates. We were tight, we did everything together, we survived Sean and Katherine together and later we moved to Athens together. The trouble started when the lease on our apartment expired. We were desperate to find somewhere to live. Why we chose Sean and Katherine's place, I still don't know. In hindsight, I suspect it had more to do with Dean than anyone. Dean had a strange little thing for Katherine, I never understood it, she wasn't his type. Katherine was beautiful, face like an angel, but she was a full figured girl with auburn hair; Dean liked waifs with blond hair... Katherine had ambition and a real job; Dean liked strippers and waitresses... Katherine was homely; Dean liked class and glamour.... But, as the man said, there's no accounting for taste.
Sean was two years younger than me and about two inches shorter with the barrel-chest build of a swimmer. He swam every morning and worked as lifeguard all afternoon. He wore his hair closely shorn so it would stay out of his eyes in the pool. He perpetually reeked of chlorine. He and I lived together right after high school, in a trailer park of all things. We were very close back then, but eventually I got married and moved on with my life-you can't live in a trailer forever. Katherine entered his life shortly after I left and he moved out of the trailer park too. They lived together in an enormous old house that they shared with three other girls. It was the only house in Costa Mesa that predated 1950. I always wanted to live in it after I got back from my first trip to Athens because it reminded me of the South-though it didn't have a porch, just a cement stoop. Sean and I saw each other from time to time, but I rarely made any effort to talk. Sean represented a part of my life that I wanted to avoid, but when their roommates moved out and the three bedrooms were suddenly available we jumped on it. The plan was to stay a while until something better could be had, better turned out to be three thousand miles away. By the time Dean, his sister, and I moved in, I hardly knew Sean at all. By then I was more fond of Katherine, but I only got close to her one night and by then it was too late.
Most of all what sticks out was the sound of everything-the typing-the television-the constant fighting-Los Angeles humming in the background. The mad clicking of Dean's flying fingers was always present, ticking off the seconds in feverish bursts. Dean never stopped typing, it was a furious noise, he would pound the keys and nod his head to the headphones. He drowned out the world to escape it. He drowned out his own fingers. He never realized the force with which he pounded the keys... dispatching mad telegraphs, electrostatic love notes spitting out like lizard tongues... flung on wires to Maryland where another pair of fingers responded. The thing itself, so-called love, was flying back and forth over the wires -maddening. Dean had just met Alexis on the Internet, they spent hours on instant messenger-love in ones and zeros.
To tell the truth, I remember the television more than the people. Throughout all of the madness that ensued, the television reigned-we never tuned it off. Dean's sister and I stationed ourselves like zombies before the one god and it's eerie blue aura. The outside world was pandemonium-wars in Europe, trade deals in Mexico, sex scandals in Washington... what filtered in on the TV was reflected back all around us, cold, insensitive, innocuous suburban delight... detachment... Douglas Copeland's nightmares. It wasn't just us. The perpetual warm blue glow of television emanated from the windows of all our neighbors' vinyl sided endura-homes-guaranteed to last a lifetime or your money back! The television was a great luminous third eye... I could never decide if we were watching it, or if it was watching us. It presided over the world with the indifference of God. Every house glowed blue light, the streets bathed in its iridescence, cobalt sidewalks and sapphire lawns under midnight purple skies-everything glowed blue. Blue noise hummed softly and in the background, blue people stumbled about their lives. Turquoise silhouettes danced in kitchen windows and cerulean shadows lurked in open garages. The blue was grating, irritating, got under your skin like the flesh eating virus, boils sprung up bursting to reveal slick teal puss oozing from the open sores. In the background, faint at first, but then growing in decibels, was the maddening chant of the newsman and the Maytag man and all the talking heads of television disembodied and floating in the sky, singing choruses....
The sound of Los Angeles was deafening. Waves of music, horns, engines, electricity, spinning warbles of neon lights echoing the asphalt dreams of sanity. The whole city was a deafening roar. Vibrations spun off the turn of espresso handles, the pull of yogurt machines, the spinning of laundry mats, the ring of cash registers, the click-clack of skateboard wheels on the sidewalk, the roar of surf, the thump of landing gear, the clang of trash cans in the alley, the rattle of the homeless people's shopping carts, the chopping of the Chinese cook's knife atop the trash can, chunks of chicken fat accumulating on the floor; all of it whirled in a hurricane melee reverberating throughout the Los Angeles basin. The smoggy air offered no resistance to the pealing clamor. It carried it about, still as a tomb, withholding comment on the meaning of it all. Los Angeles is cancer-the insidious beat of death.
Dean's sister and I were sitting on the couch, television blaring to drown out the sounds of Sean and Katherine fighting. They never stopped arguing. Dean's sister shifted uncomfortably in her seat and I looked over at her. We both sighed and then laughed. We were thinking of the old house, of the old times, we didn't say a word, we didn't have to, it was in our eyes. Asshole! Bitch! Motherfucker! Stupid bitch! Dick! -These were the punctuated words we could hear above the television, but by then we were used to it. Dean, as I said, kept to himself; he was in the other room, headphones cranked to ten, blissfully going about the business of falling in love. His sister and I were the ones that had to see the door swing open and Sean ducking with his arms clasped over his head. The shoe hit the wall above the couch and then Katherine's voice roared in anger. On the television Chandler was broken up over Joey moving out and that mousy guy that's always 'the other guy' in movies, was moving in. Homoerotic jokes stuck like flies to vellum walls.
The shoe hit the wall above us and tumbled down between us. I looked at it; I looked over at Sean. He was standing in the dining room crying; he looked like a tortured animal pleading for it's life. I looked at the television-it was trying to sell me deodorant. Then Katherine emerged from the same direction as the shoe, also crying and looking like a tortured animal begging for it's life. Sean fell to his knees and grabbed her legs as she walked by him. They looked like the cover of the movie Vacation where Chevy Chase is standing proud and defiant while Beverly De'Anglo clings to his knees. I wanted to laugh great peals of bitter laughter, laughter sinking into the floor, into the walls, up to the roof. The place reeked of suppressed bitter laughter, mine, Dean's, his sister's, the studio audience, the children of the war in Kosovo. I looked at Dean's sister to see if she saw the humor in it. Her eyes met mine and they twinkled as she took a drag off her cigarette. I smiled and she started hacking and coughing smoke. A bit of spit flew out of her mouth and she tried to stop it, to regain some composure, but it was too late. The madness was upon us, it all started with the shoe.
Katherine's sobs quieted to weeping; Sean still had his arms around her legs. She was trying to kneel down, but he wouldn't let go so she just lay down on the floor weeping on her arm. He crawled over her body and knelt by her head. He tried to put his arms around her, to hold her, but she was indifferent. Her head rested apathetic against his knees, her eyes had a thousand-yard stare. Mascara ran down her cheeks leaving a black tail of tears. I felt helpless. "Are you guys okay," Dean's sister ventured half hearted. Sean nodded. Katherine just moaned a low growling sound that vibrated the wood floor and sounded utterly inhuman. Sean looked over at me for help, but I pretended to be engrossed in the television. I stole sideways glances to make sure that they weren't going to hurt each other. Sean stood up and Katherine's head dropped listlessly to the floor. They flip-flopped emotionally and now she clutched at his legs. Sean had a defiance to his posture that looked wholly artificial and it occurred to me that he ought to have remained on the ground. He ought to be begging, not to Katherine, but begging God to give him his humility back.
Sean was cold, calculated psychology, distilled out of textbooks, until it fermented in his soul and all the vital organs of his body were filled with poisonous effluvium. The chasm between the idealized and the realized versions of his life built up tension inside him. Katherine had become the way he released it. Sean was a flood of meaningless gibberish that he had internalized and now it bounced endlessly about like knives thrown in a vacuum. His soul was soaked with formaldehyde, preserving him eternally, choking out all feeling. He had lost all traces of humor and ran from his life madly chasing after an invisible spirit that he thought would somehow enlighten him, give his life the meaning, the purpose, the joy that it lacked. A problem that could be solved, that's all Sean wanted from life, something to which he could point and say "See it is all better now.' He was convinced he had all the answers for everyone around him, but he had none for himself. He had no use for whole people, just the ragged, torn edges of the pages-preferably dripping fresh blood, new wounds to cauterize and in the process open old ones. He poked at Katherine's soft emotional scar tissue, inducing hemorrhages to leech the life out. Like the Marquis he stood bleeding, asking-was good for you? His idea of life was crumbs; the confetti strew about after the parade passes. Christ all the way. Quick, get us a tree, somebody make two boards... hurry before he loses the courage and does it himself. Christ was on a suicide trip; he'd have gone with or without the Romans... how else do you end a story like that? I wanted to punch Sean. I wanted to make his nose explode and rain blood over all of us.
The news came on... Peace talks continued in Kosovo today with both parties saying that progress was made, but meanwhile fighting continues in the countryside where sporadic violence and snipers continue to take their toll on the morale and hope of the people who live here....
And then there was silence, an editing snafu at the station. The television went blank. Katherine was still weeping. I heard the air rushing out of my lungs with an asthmatic hiss. Sean was breathing hard. Dean's sister was holding her breath. In the other room the tapping stopped and Dean came teetering through the kitchen. He stopped in the doorframe, slightly hunched, holding a beer and squinting his eyes.... "What?"
There was peace between the news of Kosovo, Katherine's mournful sobbing, and Dean returning from the bathroom, pausing again like a half-cocked gun, squinting, observing and withdrawing. The sound of fingers tapping reached us again, the television cut to commercial and the cartoon man wanted me to buy his paper towels....
Two weeks later the war was over, rich people's financial interests were secured and Katherine and Sean had patched things up. Friends' reruns had come and gone with dinner and Katherine was cuddled up on Sean's lap. She was serene and beautiful that night because she fucked Dean in the closet of her office that afternoon. Sean was happy because he thought that he was the one making Katherine happy. He was so happy he was trying to fuck her in the chair right in front of us. They started making out when the television said the war was over. Dean, his sister and I tried to ignore the dry fucking session going on next to us, but secretly we were all for it. It was a nice change from the constant fighting. Katherine had his pants down, but was sitting in his lap to conceal the fact. When the television got quiet we could hear sound of lips mashing together and little grunts and groans escaping from them. Then Sean's little half-chubbed dick poked out from under Katherine's mini skirt like a miniature cobra. Dean and I both noticed it at the same time and we started laughing hysterically. Sean reached down and tried to tuck it back under Katherine's skirt, but the thing had a mind of its own. Dean, his sister and I figured it best to vacate for a while, so we headed to the bar. Sean and Katherine went at with increasing intensity.
Down the street at the bar, the talking head from CNN was telling us that the people were safe and the world was somehow better, but I knew nothing had changed because the fingers were the thing that held it all together and they kept at it every night. I thought of the presidents and tyrants of the world celebrating, just like they did when the war started... The man behind the counter wanted to know what I wanted and the girl in the booth behind us wanted to know why I hadn't noticed her yet-everything was spiraling out of control.
War in Kosovo. War in our streets. War in our houses. War in our heads. Nothing will ever come of it-save death. And the Mexican urchin selling Chiclets for the dead says no good, no bueno, your pictures sanitized, worth no words. Wouldn't give you ten words, worthless gringo words don't mean shit. No good no bueno, not worth the blood they're written in. The blood of all peoples not yours, not your peoples in your death camps, your slave labor factories, your assembly line gang rapes....
Gotta keep that in house, screams the commander in chief. Yes must remain forever sealed in baby pissshitguts. No, that's not true. No comment. No need for comment, I will not dignify... somebody cut to shots of smart bombs... Couldn't get fifty words for those now gringo-over exposure-sanitized-nobody buying. Same old stinking shit. No Good. No Bueno. Gringo go home in a thousand languages, in a million words. Why don't you crawl back in your cave get your tail so far between your legs it goes half way up your ass? Words can not hurt me...
But have you heard the words? Watch out for the bloody words, sharp words that hang in the air like knives and when uttered returned to slit the throat of their speaker. If every word you have spoken returned to act upon yourself would you survive the experience? Situation getting sticky, humid like vaporous blood hanging in the air... The urchin stands in the middle of the street preaching...In the beginning was the word and the word was made flesh by a cacophonous blast out of heaven's pearly cum-stained ass creating the father, the son, and the holy spigot ... spigot drains all gringo excrement away from gringos and into our countries, our cities, our homes... Follow me to the holy spigot and we'll show them the bidet of death, constructed for gringos, to flush out gringos, to show them all what you do behind closed doors. Can't close them all -we have our technicians as well and they're getting to be better than yours. We got the money rolling in.
The little street urchin with the chiclets was at the bar now, he couldn't be shut up, hawking wares for death, little powders, potions, and peppers hanging from his arms, but the CNNhead said all was well, justice was served. The television was close circuit captioned for the hearing impaired. The little boy was adamant -no captions only pictures for the blind. The rustling of paper behind boardroom walls sends him into fits.... I gotta picture for you... I go on vacation in your country, go to hear senators speak, but all doors are closed, all sealed. So I gotta fiber optic and fed it in from the roof, show all the senator's mad with sexual lust, blood thirsty, clamoring for war and stealing souls and bodies and driving them off wherever they see fit. There are thousands of them now, a chorus of little brown boys singing, chanting like Benetine Monks.... The boys are chanting to the beat of drums... I got pictures for you gringo... pictures you hear? The commander in chief of the NATO forces in Europe was fucking a small refugee boy in the ass, the boy cried for his mother. The general laughed, 'your mother's down the hall boy. She's busy with the president of Germany right now, but maybe later you'd like to lick his cum off her dead face...?' And you say ban those words. Tear them right out. Snip snip. Can't say that-war a snuff film for the rich. Ya wanna spoil all their fun...?
A tape rolls and we hear behind the boardroom doors: "We gotta step up the bombing chief, the public's losing innarest in us," screams the staff officer running in circles jerking off and slapping his ass until it turns a bright purple. And with all seriousness, General Jesse Helms pauses to reflect: "I remember a time when life was good. No one got in our way. Why in Europe, under Patton, I musta raped twenty thirty little boys and a handful of nuns too..." He smiles, lost in memory... "But God hath given us these trying times." "Yes it is a bit hard to get cunt these days isn't it," mumbles the chief of state as he strokes his wife's cock...." Yes dear start a war. Get me some cute refugee boys. I so love snapping their necks when I'm coming," she growls affectionately. "That's it gentlemen were going to war," the president stands and ejaculates on a map of the world, "Kosovo it is," he says as his thick oatmeal consistency sperm all but covers the former republic of Yugoslavia.
You like? You like, no? Too bad. You can't have those words, too strong. I get power, you give me power, I steal power from you, too expensive to buy it. I get power and you get pictures and maybe I tell you how to cure it? Eh? Eh? Eh?
The man behind the counter turned off the TV and we left. By the time we got back to the house the coffee table was on its side, the lamp was broken, glass all over the floor, an enormous dent in the plaster wall, but the television remained undisturbed. We sat down on the couch and I flipped idly through the channels. Sean and Katherine's screaming voice float through the bedroom walls. Words were disembodied and floated in the air looking for a throat to slit. I heard Katherine screaming...
-What do you want from me? I try so fucking hard to love you. You say you don't want me, and then you want me back, and then you tell me to go again.... WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT?
-I want you... I want... I don't fucking know what I want. Why are you always harping on what I want? Why can't we just live and exist and be... like Sil and Dean and every other fucking person on this planet...why can't we just be happy? Why do we have to have these issues...why do we have to have these things to work on? What are these things? What the fuck is going on around here? When did this start?
-What do you mean? What are you talk...
-WHAT DO YOU MEAN 'WHAT DO I MEAN?' You know what I mean, this! All of this... look at us...
-Why are you bringing Dean and Sil into this? Why do you have to live up to some manly ideal that you think they embody? I got news for you, they don't embody shit! The two of them would be living in a goddamn dumpster if we hadn't let them move in...
-Why does this have to be about my friends? Why is it a problem? I asked you if it was alright for them to move in here and now you say it's not?"
-It has nothing to do with them.... It's you I'm talking about. You say we used to be happy, we used to not be like this, we used to 'just live' as you put it.
Police said the suspect was dressed in a business suit and may be armed/ Do you have time to cook a meal every night in the midst of balancing/ So this guy comes up to me/ guaranteed to last a lifetime/
-Katherine, what the fuck are you talking about?
-This indecision... this fucking shit...
-My indecision? My fucking indecision? And who, pray tell, FUCKED SOMEBODY ELSE? Who is indecisive? It's not me. I know exactly what I want. I want to be with you, but you won't let me just be. You question my every fucking move, want to know my every thought, every feeling. Don't you ever not have a feeling? Isn't it ever just a blank page of white with little blue lines? Little fucking blue lines and not a word? Not a fucking thought in sight? Do you ever get that? Or is it just constant fucking emotional input from the far fucking reaches of the earth all pouring in your precious little heart? Your heart that occasionally seems to feel the need for some other guy's DICK?!
-Yes, Sean, I made a FUCKING MISTAKE, and I said I'm sorry. I'm as clueless as you are.... You know sometimes, in the midst of this insanity, I think that I see and feel you loving me, but you won't let me in...
-What are you talking about?
-You won't let yourself be happy and love me. I can't figure out if it's because you're scared or because you just don't have a fucking clue. Do you even care about me? Or am I just some sort of ornament that you have been pursuing over the last four fucking years because it happened to interest you and now...
-Fuck you.
-Fuck me? No FUCK YOU! I don't know if I was some whim, something you wanted to try on in the dressing room and then when you thought it was out of style, you could just hang it back up on the rack... I'm sorry, I want to be with someone who isn't fucking clueless about how they feel about me. You can't decide if you want me or not. You said fifteen minutes ago that you forget about sex sometimes. How is that supposed to make me feel?
-I just meant that I have such a good time talking to you, that... oh what the fuck, what the fuck do you know about love?
-Jesus Christ! Okay, I don't know anything about anything and neither do you, but that doesn't mean anything, right? If nothing you say means anything, how am I supposed to feel when you say you love me? IT DOESN'T MEAN ANYTHING!
-No that's not what I said. Everything means something, it may not make any difference, but goddamn it all means something. Who you fuck, who you eat dinner with, what time you get up, what kind of fucking bombs they drop on everyone, the jails, the murders, it all fucking means something. All of this, everything that is happening, it all means something. Maybe none of it matters, but it all means something goddamn it! I just don't know what it is. I just need some time to figure out what the hell I am, what I am doing, what this life is, we're all trying to figure it out. I don't fucking know what I want, okay? I can't give you some pat little answer that's going to explain exactly how I feel. Some days I want to be with you and some days you drive me up the fucking walls....
Researchers have concluded that including a glass of wine with your regular meal may actually increase your life span/But Jim, we can't just leave them here/We're tiny we're toony we're all a little loony/the initial results indicate HIV/We will be appealing your case/Mr. president a girl from Arkansas is on line two/Did you or did you not ?/The White House denies/Tide gets your colors looking brighter/Guaranteed to last a life time/I'd like to buy a vowel/What is-the Serengeti?
-Oh great! Fucking great, now I drive you up the walls!
-Why the fuck do you focus in on the negative? See, that's what I'm talking about. I say that some days I want to be with you and some days I don't and why do we have to get into the days I don't? Because little fucking alarms go off in your brain... ehew I drive him up the fucking walls? This must be explained. There is a reason for this. This is what needs to be fixed.... Has it ever occurred to you that I must just want to be alone some days? Has it ever occurred to you that I can love you without liking you every now and then?
-You're such an asshole Sean.
-Fuck you! I said I love you. You dumb fucking slut....
-You don't know what love is! You're a little child...
-You're a cold bitch! Don't you have any feeling in that dried hard little cuntheart of yours!?
-Do not call me a cunt!
-I didn't call you a cunt! I said you have a fucking hard little fucking CUNT HEART!
-Fuck you! You wouldn't know what to do with a cunt anyway!
There was the sound of skin striking skin-a sickly slapping, stinging, slicing, horribly thin sound. The unmistakable sound of hatred and self-doubt bring itself into the world like an airborne virus.
-I'm sorry... I didn't mean to hit you...
-Then how the fuck did you HIT ME? How can you not mean to hit someone? There is no such thing as ACCIDENTALLY hitting someone, that doesn't happen nooneaccidentallyhits anyone youmeanttohitmeyou FUCKING PRICK!
There was the sound of crashing porcelain and electricity popping and the light streaming under the door disappeared.
-Oh that's FUCKING great! You stupid bitch!
There was a dull thud followed by a low moan and Dean and I looked at each other. By the time we turned on the hall light and opened the door they were wrestling on the floor. Katherine jumped up to run for the bathroom knocking down Dean and forcing me to jump on the bed to get out of her way. Sean went out after her. Before we could stop him, Sean grabbed Katherine's arm, dragged her kicking and screaming across the floor and threw her out the front door. She was wearing only a thin nightgown. It was February and raining and they were in hysterics. Tears streamed down Sean's face. He managed a thin, strained smile as he collapsed against the front door. Dean and I just stood there unsure what to do.
"She really fucked some guy this time," he muttered. I tried not to move or show any signs that might have given it away, obviously Katherine had left out a few details.
"The BITCH FUCKED SOME OTHER GUY," He yelled at the door but there was no answer. "You hear me you dumb bitch? I hope you fucking freeze to death." His voice trailed off into mumbles. "I hope his cock keeps you warm out there!" He screamed, pounding his fist against the door. A male voice from somewhere outside yelled "shut up," and Sean cracked the door and yelled, "fuck off," at the unknown man. "Jesus Christ," he muttered to himself.
He smiled stupidly at us and Dean went over and helped him to his feet. "Fuck man, what am I doing?" He straightened his shirt with one hand and used the other to steady himself against the wall. He came over and sat down on the couch. "What did you do?" he asked looking at me. "Did you do this? I mean with your wife, you loved her, and she left you, and now look at you, you're fine, what did you do?" He asked. His face held an expression of absolute wonder. "How did you fill this hole that I feel growing in me? Do you just harden yourself? She thinks I'm already hardened because I pushed her out the door, but that wasn't the hard part of me that was the raw nerve endings.... That was me trying to find love or fight love or something." He stared up at the ceiling and I followed his gaze, the fan was spinning slowly, indifferently, like a tape recorder rewinding. "That was my love for her that pushed her out the door." He said.
"Uh, no it wasn't," Dean interjected.
"Oh, but it was," Sean smiled depravedly. Dean just shook his head. "The cold, hard,
part of me," Sean went on, "is the part that will go over there in a couple of hours and talk to her. The hard part of me is the part that will make love to her later." He stopped and scratched his head "You know, the horrible thing about losing love isn't that it makes you hard, it's that you realize or you start to realize that love can be lost...." He wore the serene face of a philosopher dispensing wisdom.
"That's what is tearing me up right now. There is no sacredness to love like they want you to believe, and once you realize that love can be lost, once you know that this can happen, it's doomed to happen again. I will never again be able to look at someone and see a relationship that doesn't end. I know now that for every beginning there is an ending already written." He shook his head in disgust and then started sobbing in despair again. "Oh god," he cried, "how the fuck do you get out of this? How do you find hope again? And even if you do, what do you do when it's dashed yet again?"
He got up and went to the door; he opened it and looked outside. Then he shut it again and started laughing; it was distorted sickly laugh. He no longer looked human; he was a caricature of human. He laughed like the power drunk maniac. "How many times can you do this? Is there a limitation to the number of times you can have your heart broken?" The serene face of the philosopher returned and he retreated into the abstract world where he felt comfortable. "Is it like one of those Lithium batteries that never recharges all the way? It starts looping back until there is nothing and then right when you think you have it, oh I underst...WHAM! And then it's gone, you're gone, the thing is gone." He smiled a thin, taunt, smile. "She really hates me now doesn't she?" He looked up at Dean and I. Neither of us spoke. Dean shrugged, but I was rooted to the spot with horror. Horror at the thought that this caricature exists in all of us, that none of us would stand up to the death camp marches of our personal lives. I felt weak and woozy.
"And the horrible thing." He went on, "is that somewhere deep down I wanted her to fuck that guy, whoever he is. It doesn't matter. God I want a whole gang of giant-cocked porn stars to gang fuck her through eternity if that's what it takes for me to feel something. I'm not feeling anything anymore; the only time I feel anything is when I hurt her. Then I feel hate. I feel her hating me, but when she's not hating me I don't feel anything. I don't feel loved."
He was on the floor weeping with his hands over his face. I tried to move him, but he punched wildly, lashing out at nothing, landing a solid blow on my jaw. Out of anger, I kicked him in the ribs, but he made no protest. I grabbed him by the hair, slammed his head into the door and threw him to the side. I went outside and slammed the door. My head felt light. I became very dizzy and I leaned over the planter and threw up in it. It was still pouring rain. I slumped down in the vomit and mud and lay there for an eternity sobbing quietly for myself, for Sean, for Katherine, for the whole world. I began to shiver so I stood up. I stepped out from under the stoop and lifted my head up, letting the water wash the vomit and mud from my face. I began shaking uncontrollably and then as the shaking subsided, an eerie sense of calm descended upon me.
I set off to look for Katherine. She didn't go far. She was next door sitting on the neighbor's couch; the neighbors were in bathrobes, obviously woken up by the screaming. The woman sitting next to Katherine held her, rubbed her back and rocked her gently back and forth on the sofa. Katherine looked like a scared child. She was shaking like a leaf. The man came at me with hate in his eyes, but I quickly explained my innocence. Katherine looked up and told him not to hurt me. She put her head down between her knees. "What's wrong with him Sil?" She asked. "Why is he doing this? I am good to him aren't I?" I didn't say anything and she looked up at me with glistening red eyes, pleading for some kind of answer. I just nodded my head. "I shouldn't be putting up with this," she went on. "This is bullshit, I can't keep doing this.... What the fuck is wrong with him? What's wrong with you, with all of you?" Her eyes filled with hatred and burned through me. Black tears ran down her face. "There is this thing in me that can't let go, can't admit that I'm wrong about him," she sniffled and wiped her cheeks. "And all of you, you're so damn sure that your little feelings and your little emotions have to be so goddamn right. You think that you can just pull them down like shades over the whole fucking world." She was yelling now, glaring up at me with wild eyes. "Every emotion, every thought, every fucking little thing can be broken down and analyzed and dismissed with some cynical diatribe that you think is so witty and fucking funny... goddamn all of you!" She jumped off the couch and lunged towards me. Her arms hit me square in the chest and knocked me down. She landed on top of me and taking the wind out of me. I heaved for breath and tried to get out from under her, but she went limp and I didn't have the breath to move her. She lay on top of me and great sobs wracked her body. Her tears burned on my neck. Her sobbing frame trembled and shook. After a few seconds I caught my breath and I put my arms around her. She nestled her head into my neck.
Her voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, "I'm sorry I didn't mean to hurt you." She raised her head and looked in my eyes. I put my hand on her head and stroked her hair. "He makes me sick," she said. "I make me sick for letting myself be involved with him. I can do better than this, if this is love... this... this... fucking..." She climbed up off me and sat back on her ankles. "This is not love... I don't know what I'm doing. Do I have to be the strong one here? Do I have to be the one to walk away when I'm the one being hurt? Why is it always me?" She wiped her eyes again. I thought about my wife and I realized Catherine was right, women are always the ones who have to cross the final threshold. Sean didn't want her, but he kept pulling her back. His ego couldn't let go. He went right back in like a rat pulling the lever in the control studies that Philip Morris wakes up sweating to in the middle of the night.
I pulled Catherine to her feet and put my arms around her. We held each other for what seemed like a long time. I heard someone clear their throat and, realizing that two other people were in the room, I apologizing profusely and thanked them while I guided Catherine out the door. We sat down on the stoop of our house and stared out at the rain. We both had our legs tucked up under our chins and Katherine rocked back and forth slowly while she talked. "I had sex with Dean." Her voice was flat and even as if ordering food from a drive thru window. I told her I already knew. She nodded and a painful smile passed her lips. "And I don't know why I did," she stared at the ground. "I just wanted to feel close to someone," tears welled up in her eyes. "It doesn't mean anything, right?"
I told her it didn't and she leaned her head on my shoulder. "And I know Sean has fucked around," she went on. "I know he fucked around in Europe, but he won't admit it. That's the thing that makes me so fucking mad is he won't admit it, and why? Why? Because if he admitted that then he'd have to face up to the fact that he's as weak as I am. Now he can call me a slut and make himself out to be better. That's all I am to him, this thing against which he can measure himself, this thing..." She stopped for a moment. The rain pelted against the concrete driveway, chipping away on a geologic time scale. The sound roared in protest.
"Do you know what this is doing to me? I'm losing my mind..." She looked me in the eyes. "I'm not going to go nuts over him. I knew I should have run away right after we made love for the first time... I should have just run, because now I'm here and he's throwing me out the door in my fucking nightgown..." I put my arms around her and she started to cry again. Her tears were warm on my arm. She thanked me for listening to her. I told her to wait for minute while I went inside to make sure Sean was under control.
He and Dean were smoking a cigarette on the couch. Dean's sister was in the chair dispensing wisdom that sounded like it would have solved all of Sean's problems, but Sean, being a man can't hear a word that she's saying, just like women can't hear a word that men are saying. The whole so-called battle of the sexes could be stopped if only there were an interpreter around that could translate. Solve the riddle. Translate the emotion and feeling into logic and predictable precision, and then back out into the chaotic no-mans-land of feeling again. Some guru, some pygmy, some monk, some alien that can add it all up and give us some kind of answer. But the aliens aren't coming.
Sean glared at me and said, "Get the fuck out of my house." I shrugged and asked Dean and his sister if they were coming. The three of us left. We gave Katherine a ride to her friend's house where she could stay for the night. She and Dean stood beside his car in the pouring rain and kissed lightly like friends; he wiped a tear from her eye and got back in the car. The three of us rented a room for the week at local motel. Dean's sister fell asleep the minute she laid down. Dean and I went and got coffee to steel us against the insanity. I remember leaning against Dean's car gulping lukewarm coffee, the rain had stopped abruptly and dry winds were already whipping the clouds away. It was a Santa Ana wind. Dean threw his cup into the vacant lot and it blew in little circles, round and round in eddies of wind-miniature tornadoes.
At the end of the week we left Los Angeles for Athens. We stopped the second night in Arkansas where I had a very strange dream, I dreamed in third person, I was being forced to watch. I dreamed that I saw an aborted fetus hanging out of Katherine. It was covered in shiny afterbirth with the umbilical cord still attached; the cord was just dangling out of her. I saw Sean with scissors, trying to cut it while Katherine screamed tried to stop him. A doctor took the fetus and threw it in the incinerator; the furnace flared and was silent as a slaughterhouse. Then they were in a windowless room. Katherine lay naked on a table, spread eagle as Sean circled her holding a blunt, tubular object. It was black and plugged into the wall. Words passed like water though a screen. Sean stood next to her with the cattle prod, walking slowly in circles around Katherine. A symphony started up. Marching bands... fingers tapping... tapping... violins... rhythm of kettledrums... and his arm raised up. He was floating, watching, choking on gasoline-napalm sores that seared off his tongue. Flames licked up his body. The air was hot and thick like the worst humidity, his scorching flesh sizzled. A little red light came on to signal that the cattle prod was fully charged. In front of him was Katherine, beautiful, serene. Her arms were restrained above her head. His face twisted into a sick smile. The symphony reached a feverish pitch with the clash of horns and strings and drums and Sean looked into Katherine's eyes and watched her pupils dilate. And it fell; his arm fell, the cattle prod fell, her body went rigid and she shot up off the table as if suddenly turned into a stiff board. He kept his eyes locked on her as she collapsed back onto the table. I saw something flash through them and I felt a tremor in my gut. Then big uncontrollable sobs wracked Sean's entire body and he fell on his knees and curled up in little ball on the floor. He lay like that for a while, until the sobs worked themselves out. A lone lunatic flute solo floated over the scene. Katherine got up and began to undress him. She started by unbuttoning his shirt. When she undid his belt she reached down and rather gently held his rigid cock as she eased his pants down over it. She stood embracing him tightly with her arms around his neck, and she pulled herself up and then slid down on his cock. Sean fucked her but she couldn't feel it. Her cunt was a burnt, charred hole. She couldn't feel anything and then the strings returned and the crescendo built again.... She laid him on the table and spread his legs, restraining them and then his arms. She stroked his cock hard and teased him by biting his nipples. All at once her eyes went black and she thrust the cattle prod into his balls... Sean was blown up off the table by ten thousand volts of electricity. He didn't even feel his cum splash on his face. He landed back on the table, his scream a violin, an inhuman screeching wail.
* * * *
I go into the kitchen to make myself some coffee. Dean is gone. The house feels empty. There is a rainbow in the kitchen. I notice disinterestedly that the house is a mess, that my knees hurt and that I am in unquestionable poor physical condition. In the shower I marvel that I once thought that that was the bottom, but that was someone else's bottom, that was Katherine's bottom. I dry off and walk back into the kitchen. I dig around for food. Got to get behind the mule every morning and plow...
Twelve
The atlanta airport is warm...
Thirteen
There's a cure in sight-soul unease-suspension wires-wink and smile-windblown newspapers-advert scrapes-sardines in a kipper snack tin-abandoned train station-wind rips dirt off the road-sagebrush where it belongs-the songs of Solomon-tumbling along the melody lines-voice echoing-everyone walks with unshakable self-confidence-pretend to be unafraid-This isn't you-This isn't me-what do you talk about when you talk about love-
I regret leaving the minute I get out of the Holland tunnel. But I knew I would. I regret coming. But I knew I would. I regret that I regret. But I know that I will.
I stop for gas on the Jersey turnpike and almost turn around. I can't decide what would make me a bigger fool, trying to correct the mistake or trying to live with it-or drinking heavily and ignoring the question altogether?
I drive the interstate straight through to Athens. I get to the cottage in the early hours of morning. I go to bed and don't get out of it for a week.
I try to maintain things with Maya; I call her all the time. I smoke cigarettes and stare at the ceiling for days on end. I cry. I punch the concrete wall. I agonize over the poetry of it all. I am the apologist. I write a long letter to April explaining how bad I feel about stealing her money, but half way through I notice that its more about how much I enjoy having her money. I throw the letter in the trash.
I am positive impotent.
After a few weeks, Maya stops returning my calls.
Maya is gone.
The Mayan priest and his demonic escorts hold court daily in my bedroom. He has taught me how to master pain. He tells me that mastering pain puts you next to the gods. The snarling creature is always outside the door. I am scared to leave the house. I go out for food and nothing else. Waves of nausea overwhelm me whenever I think of Maya. The priest says this will pass. He tells me that everything will pass. But I knew that it would.
It's the middle of the afternoon and I haven't gotten out of bed. Torturous visions of Maya making love to other people are crackling through my head like static on an AM radio. Jimmy knocks at the door and I reluctantly let him in. I haven't seen anyone since I got back. I have been hiding out. I tell him the whole story and make him swear to never repeat it. He's losing his job, and overall seems to be about as depressed as I am. He insists that we go out and get a drink. I reluctantly accompany him to Five and Ten. After a couple shots of whisky and a few beers, the priest is nothing but an incoherent mumble and the repulsive visions of Maya taper off.
I drink more. I don't stop. Eventually Jimmy heads home and I walk downtown. I end up passing out in the alley behind the Flicker Bar. Morning finds me covered in garbage and smelling like a dead fish. I catch the bus home to take a shower. The boy is selling chiclets in the living room; the priest is siting on the couch. Giant eels circle around his feet. The priest has constructed a giant labyrinth around the couch, extending out past the coffee table. Ten foot long serpentine beasts circle through the labyrinth, gnashing their teeth and hissing at my feet. I quit the house for Five and Ten. Several nights in a row I wake up in the midst of plastic garbage bags. I regret the intense happiness I feel. Alternately I feel like a sponge wrung dry, discarded like yesterdays newspapers. I love the pain.
Weeks turn to a month. Just like they always do. I feel nothing. But. Yes. One day the eels get loose and in an effort to destroy them I burn everything I own in the fire ring. The billowing black smoke draws Jimmy over. He stops short in the driveway and stands back, watching me mutter and curse as I drag everything out of the house and into the fire. I burn my books, my furniture, my heirlooms, my artwork, and most of my clothes. Jimmy helps me get the mattress in the fire and then he heads off to buy me some alcohol. We sit around the rest of the afternoon drinking and smashing the bottles against the living room wall. Then we start in on the plates, then the glasses, then light bulbs, then clay pots. We wrap towels around our hands and punch out the windows. There is pile of glass several inches deep and several feet wide, extending out from the wall. Dean would have loved it.
At the end of the night, just before he leaves, Jimmy mentions that he is concerned about my mental health. I assure him that I share his concern. He offers me the use of a cabin that his family owns. He says it's situated on a hill overlooking the surrounding area, he says you can see downtown glowing at night.
I vacate the cottage the next morning. Jimmy gives me a map and a key. I am going deeper into retreat. I stop at the liquor store and stock up. I buy fifteen bottles of scotch, a case of canned beans, five dozen eggs, six pounds of bacon, and ten cartoons of cigarettes. I ask for polar bear fat, but the pimple-faced clerk says they don't have any.
The cabin is quiet and peaceful; there is no stereo, no phone, no mail, no running water. It's a single room with a sliding glass door in the back. There is a kerosene stove, an icebox, and a pump handled sink against one wall. To the side there is a dilapidated old couch and a tiny forty-watt lamp. Jimmy brings out a table and few chairs. Everything is coated with in a layer of dust and smells of mildew. In the cupboard above the sink I find a jar of moldy, fermented fruit and a key to the outhouse down the road. I sit around drinking, smoking and wallowing in self-effacing pity. I have a nervous tick in my leg that makes it bounce incessantly, but the priest and his host of fiendish consorts can no longer find me. I am not a pretty sight, but at least no one is watching. The cabin is on an outcropping overlooking the hills. The leaves still cling to the trees, the hills are a riot of color. Everything is hanging on to some slender thread of life, shuddering at thought of deep winter chill. Everything except for one charred, lightening struck, tree about two hundred yards down the hill. Its craggy blackened remains disrupt the otherwise pastoral scene. The tree is my best friend. Everyday I sit on the back porch, drinking scotch and staring out vacantly at the tree. Trying to make it mean something. A burnt charred tree. Lightening, careless matches, smokey the bear ads... But. It looks like lightening. As hot as the core of the sun. I can do this forever.
Jimmy and Ulric come out to visit me and bring provisions. I give them wrinkled twenties stained with manicured fingerprints and Lubriderm.
Today Ulric tells me that his girlfriend has left him. He is broken up over it, but he says he is too busy to deal with it.
I'm happy for him.
"Ya I can't really say I miss her. I have more time, I don't have to call anyone when I show turns into a late night party or something you know."
"Oh I know." I pass him the bottle and we drink in silence. We drink like prospectors, like miners, like forty-niners. We drink like breaded men. We drink the way whisky was meant to be drunk. We are so ridiculously male.
"Next time you come will you bring me some dip? Or chewing tobacco? Or something really manly-Drum?
Is that all you want for Christmas?"
"Shit Christmas?"
"day after tomorrow"
"Jimmy, damnit. Why haven't you mentioned this?"
Jimmy shrugs. "You're not religious."
"You're right. Well then yes bring me some dip, some snuff, some chaw, some Drum and another case of whiskey and I'll give you double what its worth and we'll consider that a holiday exchange."
"Sounds good." Ulric laughs.
"We thought maybe we'd come out for new years..." Jimmy looks at me as if waiting for me to okay this idea.
"Its your house man. I'm just stealing it."
They make plans. I hear Chloe's name mentioned. But I keep thinking about a book I read years ago, Things Fall Apart, by somebody or other. In it thing fall apart. But I had expected that when I bought it.
A new year is dawning. We barbecue chicken and talk about old times. I enjoy the nostalgic sense of everything ending; it's a step up over sardonic heartache and confusion. Over dinner, Ulric tells us he is moving to Florida to do some recording. His band is under contract to produce their second album by the end of next summer. Jimmy is moving to Boston to go to law school, and out of nowhere, Chloe announces she's going to Europe in March. I tell them all about Dean and Paris. I tell Chloe to look him up. It is the end of the gang. I am to be the sole straggler.
It is quite a feast they bring out, chicken, greens, and corn on the cob, a real southern meal. In the center of the table is an enormous pile of well-gnawed bones with little chunks of cartilage and caked nuggets of barbecue sauce clinging to ends. Jimmy and Chloe are polishing off the last two pieces of chicken. Ulric is gnawing feverishly at a nearly naked corncob. I'm sucking on the ice from my empty glass. You wouldn't have even known it was New Year's, except for the box of illegal fireworks that Ulric brought back from a trip to South Carolina. Jimmy leans back in his chair and works his gums over with a toothpick. Chloe takes some plates and walks back inside the house. I watch her dress swirl about her knees until she disappears through the sliding glass door.
They all want to cheer me up and they all have their own little patented methods for it. Ulric favors humor, Jimmy the big picture, and Chloe just tries to listen. "Well, I know it does no good to say it," Jimmy shrugs, "but I have to anyway... there's plenty more of them out there." Jimmy has said very little else since I returned. He seems to believe that I need a little mantra to occupy my mind.
Ulric leans over and lightly smacks him in the back of the head. "Oh brilliant man, that really helps...." Ulric takes a big gulp of his drink and set his glass down hard with a clattering noise. "Oh Jesus I'm sorry, I forgot about the glass table," he smiles sheepishly. "I think the alcohol is a little ahead of the food right now."
It's a beautiful Georgia evening, unseasonably warm, probably in the fifties. We all have on light jackets, but no one's cold. We're on the back deck, overlooking the descending hills which, after three or four miles, surrender to the urban sprawl of Athens. With the binoculars Jimmy brought out you can see the two tall buildings of Athens poking out of the treetops.
Jimmy is clearing the scattered remnants of chicken off the table; Ulric and I smoke. Ulric stands up and goes over to the box of fireworks. He rummages around, talking to me in the process. "You can come down to Florida with me when I move, stay a while if you like. I got some friends I could introduce you to... maybe set something up for you. I could get you work that's for sure. Keep you busy." He smiles at me and pulls out an enormous three-foot long skyrocket.
I shrug and say maybe. Chloe comes back outside and sits down next to me. She puts her hand on my knee. It feels heavy and foreign, but I stop bouncing my leg.
Ulric tosses the rocket back in the box, picks up some sparklers and sits back down at the table. He lights one of sparklers and twirls it around making phosphorescent figure 8's in the air. His expression is serene. Chloe goes inside to help Jimmy. Shortly after, Jimmy comes outside again and sits down. There is a smear of lipstick on his cheek and Ulric throws a napkin at his face. Jimmy blushes and wipes it off. The sparkler fizzles out and Ulric sets the burnt stick on the table. He coughs and mutters something to himself. He fumbles in his pocket for another smoke.
Chloe brings out a fresh round of drinks. "I baked a pie," she says, "it'll be warm in a few minutes." She pulls her chair over and sits down between Jimmy and I.
"What I'd really like to know...." Ulric leans back in his chair and takes a long drag off his cigarette before continuing. "What I'd really like to know," he begins again, "is what happens to all this, well, call it 'love,' that I still have trapped in my heart? I can't express it, can't get it out, but eventually it goes away... where does it go?"
"Wilhelm Reich said it builds up tension and eventually leads to cancer." I chuckle and reach over the table and lift a cigarette out of Ulric's pack.
"That's great Sil, that's exactly what I wanted to hear." Ulric coughs as he exhales
"Well if it makes you feel any better Ulric, none of his colleagues believed him." I say. "He died disgraced and in seclusion." I light my cigarette and then a sparkler.
"Of cancer?" Ulric smiles at me.
"I don't know."
"But you know what I mean, I mean, after a little while its not the person you cry for feel bad about, it's the fact that you don't really care about the person that bothers you- right? I mean getting over someone is easy, getting over the fact that you got over them is the hard part"
No one says anything. Chloe straightens her dress over her crossed legs. I hand her the sparkler. She waves it about like a paintbrush, filling the air with glittering designs. Jimmy narrows his brows and eyes us all like a scolding mother. He sets the binoculars on the table and I snag them. I watch Ulric's mouth through the binoculars as he smokes, his lips are chapped and they crack revealing enormous fissures when he smiles. "What the hell are you looking at Sil?"
"Nothing. You need some chapstick." I was thinking about something Maya had said on the phone one night. I'll always love you, you always be in my life. I want to be the one you call when your old and you pull the winning hand in bridge....
"You okay Sil?" Chloe has an anxious look on her face.
I nod, take a deep breath and try to laugh. I put the binoculars back up to my face to hide the excess of fluid that suddenly appears in my eyes. Downtown I can see the leafy tops of the birches and elms. I imagine the clamoring of already drunk crowds moving from bar to bar shouting happy new year, but there is nothing, just trees listing in the gentle wind.
"This is stupid," Ulric says.
"Let's talk about something else," Chloe sits up and crosses her legs the other way in her chair. The sparkler burns down in her idle hand. Her attention has shifted to the other hand, which is lightly stroking Jimmy's head.
Ulric slouches back in his chair and crosses his arms over his stomach. "I mean how do you do that? Just shut yourself down, stop on an emotional dime? Christ I still love girls I dated for two weeks in high school... but I don't care about them" He looks at me.
"I still love women I saw on the street and never even spoke to." I am thinking of one I had seen at the bar last month or has it been longer?
"Oh god, that's the purest kind of love there is," Ulric sits up excited. "That look... you're walking down the street in a crowd of people, not paying any attention to them. Then suddenly you meet eyes with some girl just by chance, pure accident, but you both know there is some connection in the eyes." He stares off at the hillside as he speaks. "A look, that's all it takes, and you recognize something in each other in that instant."
"You mean love at first sight?" Chloe asks.
"Well, I don't know about love," Ulric says.
"I think what Ulric means is intimacy at first sight." They all look at me. "You don't act on it because of fear, because intimacy and strangers don't mix." My voice sounds tired to me. "You think you recognize something in them, and they in you, but you don't want to risk finding out. You don't know if they can be trusted or not. You feel vulnerable. You give up before you even start. Or at least I do, but it's not even that conscious, you just keep walking."
"Okay, now even I'm getting depressed," Chloe says. "How about the weather? It's a beautiful day...? The government...?" We all stare at her. No one says a word. She get up to get the pie.
The sun is an orange garnish on the edge of the horizon. Down the hill the lightening struck stump catches the last reddening glow. Jimmy and Ulric are both looking out at the hillside. Neither of them speaks; I can hear the clattering of the glass pie pan against the stove inside, the noise drifts out the door and crackles sharply in the stillness of the evening. Up the hill, a Poorwill tests it's song for the approaching night. Ulric rattles the ice at the bottom of his glass and throws his head back with it. He chews it loudly with his mouth open.
"You know why I left?" I say to no in particular. "The crowning achievement of the human experience is getting to share those little moments with each other, the minute by minute miracle. That's the only thing that makes us human; otherwise we're no different than any other creature. We have time and time allows us memory and perspective, which allow us love, but I left because it's more powerful in hindsight. I get nostalgic for the present. Once I realize that I have to step back and enjoy it." I light a fresh cigarette and take a long swig of scotch. I pitch the empty bottle into the trees. I see Maya standing by the window in that abominable apartment. She is smoking a cigarette, smiling at me. I keep her there in my memory, but right now I'm nostalgic for the memory of her, not her.
Chloe brings out more drinks. They are trying to keep me away from the bottles damn them. She goes back in and brings out four slices of warm apple pie with ice cream slowly melting on top of them. I take a couple bites, but my stomach turns at the sweetness. They devour theirs in silence. I rearrange mine, pushing it around like a child does with peas. After waiting a few minutes, so as not be rude, I stand up. "I'm going for a walk. I'll be back in little while," I say.
"Are you okay?" Ulric asks.
"I'm fine. I just need a walk." I say.
I hear them discussing me in whispers as I walk down the lawn and out the gate-nostalgic fools. There is a faint trail from the gate leading down the hill. It's rough going outside the yard; the hillside is choked with dogwood trees and other spindly, naked shrubs. It takes me ten minutes to get to the charred tree. I run my hands over the burnt wood, smearing the dusty charcoal around on my palms. I sit down leaning my back against the tree. The sun is gone now, a blue-gray twilight is settling in over the hills. The moon is to my back, but in front down, near the horizon stars are becoming visible. The spaces between the stars aren't dark. It's a void, but it's pure white light, that's where life started, in the nothingness. We live in the spaces in between.
I hear them laughing up the hill. I hear some distant pops and then one enormous bang, which jars me enough to look up and see the last twinkling sapphire remnants of the big skyrocket fading out above me. Little fragments of ash begin showering down toward me. I think of the tree, and the flashing cataclysm that tore it apart and set it on fire. I wonder what it looked like, the pure white light? Afterwards there is only empty silence and the gentle snowing of ashes. The world gives birth behind our eyes, not before them. Years ago Maya was staring up at the night sky. She propped herself up and kissed me. We made love on the roof... poetically nostalgic at the time.
The fireworks show downtown commences just as the last flakes of ash settle down around me. Showers of light burst up, temporarily outshining the stars and then gradually fading to darkness, only for another brilliant explosion to take its place. As I stand up to go back, I notice a small shoot of growth springing up from between the burnt roots. I run my fingers along the ground, circling the space around it, in between the roots. The light from the fireworks fades to blackness again. I turn up the slope, walking back toward the house. Fireworks fill the sky behind me, illuminating the path with flickering bursts of light.
I skirt around the house and go in the front door. I take a few long draws off a bottle of Wild Turkey. They are all still sitting at the table smoking and talking. They look beautiful, perfect, just the way I want to be, living in the spaces in between the temporal world. They are in the infinitude of my imagination, next to which my existence feels flat and tasteless as a junkyard tire, cracked and torn in the sun. It smacks you in the face when you perceive something in a moment that you know is not tangibly present and yet, it's there. A moment that you know will one day be a great memory, the fluid transmission of emotion across time. The hurricane of the unconscious whirls up to the surface for moment, imagination leaks into the real world, some interaction of the personal with the infinite, a stabbing at perfection transcends the ordinary moment. The world gives birth before our eyes and takes us spinning down reveries and private waterslides of imagination through the twisting spiral corkscrew of delirium. You know it in the present, nostalgia for now.
Eventually they notice me and insist that I come with them downtown. I don't really want to, but I consent because they are still here and already I miss them. At the bar it's scotch on the rocks followed by neat bourbon. Then I have a shot or two of whiskey and start in on the beers. The clink of pool balls, conversations of foreigner and gradually we are assimilated.
Later I ditch the gang and wander down toward the old house that Dean and his sister and I used to live in when we first arrived two years ago. Along the way, walking down Polaski, I cross over the railroad tracks. Out of nowhere I feel the urge to climb up on the cars. The steel ladder is cold as ice, and my fingers cramp before I get to the top. I balance on the metal grating, teetering drunkenly on the roof of the boxcar. The world is spinning and I decide it's best to sit down. The roof of the car is cold, so I slide back a little hatch and look inside. The darkness is impenetrable. I extend down a hand. I can't feel anything. I decide to climb in, slowing lowering myself down until my feet touch something about waist deep. I bend down and grab a handful of the unknown substance and pull it out in the moonlight-soybeans. I sit down in the darkness of the boxcar with the intention of having a rest before I walk on. I settle back, shifting about, making a seat for myself in the soybeans. I light a cigarette and look around the car; raw soybeans are everywhere around me. Maya suddenly feels farther away. She is living in her universe and I am here in mine. My illusions of her waiting for me are crushed beneath me as I sink into the soybeans. I stare up out of the hatch at the stars, lying flat on my back. The stars never judge one way or the other. They see no right or wrong, only what is happening. Everything else is an illusion of the human mind. The stars get to see now and forever. Everything is just as it should be. The soybeans absorb me and take me into their presence as the father greets the son. You got to get behind the mule every morning and plow. The night sky fades into dream.
Fourteen
Wake up-chew-swallow-regurgitate-newborn-you are free-to the bottom-cast yourself-sunrise on Cyprus-blind woman-something out there-one thing ignored-existence is love-smell it in the air-those who came before- preternaturally alive- moves you out of bed in the morning-carries you out the door-gives courage in moments of weakness-attacks conceited strength-quiet evening-walk under Alder trees-autumn light-scratches at the door-lost cat- forlorn hound-it's the only reason you're here-
I don't hear anything; I'm sound asleep. I don't feel anything because the soybeans are shifting anyway. What amazes me is that it's so quiet it doesn't wake me. You would think something as big as a train would be loud when it starts moving, but it's not. I passed drunk and by the time I realize I'm moving, it's a done deal. No backing down. I figure I'll ride to Atlanta and then take a bus back, but the train doesn't stop in Atlanta. In fact it doesn't stop until Memphis. I take one look around and decide I'm better off going all the way to California. Somewhere in the plains, I get a fever, delirium tremors. I shake uncontrollably and fear returns as I sit huddled in the corner of the dark boxcar. The Mayan priest comes back to preside over my death. I see marching columns of the dead bearing down on me. Shadowy, decomposing skeletons, hunks of chewed flesh clinging to the limbs, rattle bones and chatter teeth in the blackness. The priest dances in the corner shaking his death rattle and waving brightly colored feathers around the horrific skeletons. His arms swoop through the air and calls up the legions of the dead. Acrid smoke fills the boxcar and I start to choke, the smell of burning sulfur fills the air. The priest is wailing and fluttering his arms as more and more decomposed bodies fill the boxcar. The thick smell of death hit my nostril. It's a nauseating smell, my empty stomach recoils in horror and I retch involuntarily, trails of spit heave out and run down on my chin. I hear the chanting of legions, get up and run, get up and run, get up and run... The bodies are enveloped in smoke and I can no longer clearly see them, I hear a voice, a child crying. Out of the haze of acrid smoke steps a boy. Tears are running down his smudged face and he walks over to me with a box in his arms. Would you like to buy some chiclets meester? I kneel beside him and he smiles sadly at me. The boy selling chiclets sits down and says that he is sorry, that he does not want me to go. He tugs at my leg and his eyes go wide with terror. There is a horrible shrieking sound and the priest emerges out of the sulfuric fog, blade raised, his teeth chattering. I try to stop him, the boy covers his face, but it's too late. The blade rams home into the boy's throat. Gurgling sounds escape his mouth. The priest shrieks and twists the blade down, snapping the boy's sternum and splitting his chest open. The priest reaches in and rips out the boy's beating heart. He holds it out and turns toward me; his eyes are glowing embers. I shrink back in horror and stumble to my feet. The hatch lifts up and I climb up out into daylight; the priest is grabbing at my legs. I stand on top of the train, teetering in the icy rush of wind. We are pulling alongside another train. I carefully walk to the end of the boxcar and wait for a flatbed to come along side. I see the priest's feather headdress poke up out of the boxcar. He sees me and disappears below for a moment. He comes shooting up and out, landing a few feet from me. The train next to this one is much slower. I try and estimate the difference in speed, calculating when to jump. The priest charges at me, knife extended, a blood curdling scream echoes across the plains. I jump. I land on a flatbed car. A jarring pain shoots up through my legs and I pass out.
I come to with a hand shaking me.
"Hey kid wake up."
I open my eyes to a tiny bunk and take in a grisly, bearded, old man with heavy creases in his brow.
"Jesus Christ son... at least you're alive." He shakes his head from side to side and turns away from me. I sit up and hit my head on the ceiling. He turns around and chuckles. "Low ceiling there kid, you're on a train, remember?"
The pain in my head gives way to dull, throbbing ache in my leg. I look down and notice that it has been splinted. The old man is watching me. "I was a medic in the war," he offers. "I splinted it up for you, but you need to get to a hospital." He pauses and scratches his salt and pepper beard, "what the hell were you thinking?"
I shake my head.
"Well, here's the deal kid, we'll be in Denver sometime tonight and I can give you a lift down to the hospital, but until then, you'd best get some rest. There's some Delotid in this chest over here." He reaches in a toolbox and throws me a bottle of pills. "That'll cut the pain," he says.
He opens a door and I catch a glimpse of whirling lights and strange glowing computer screens. He closes the door leaving me alone in the room. I take one of the pills and lie back down on the bunk. Almost immediately a warm tingly sensation sweeps over me and everything fades slowly to black.
I come to again under the glare of white lights. I am lying on a bed; men in white coats are standing over me. A tube is sticking out of my arm. A woman is standing at the end of the bed dressed in a black gown with a veil over her face. I can see her thin lips moving. I pass out again.
This time I come to in the bunk. I sit up and look down at my leg. It's wrapped in an air brace. I slowly ease myself up on my elbows and swing my legs out, gingerly stepping down on the good one. I hobble to the door and open it. I step into a room filled with blinking lights and flashing screens, the old man is sitting on a stool staring out the window. He turns around and looks at me, "so you're up huh?" He extends his hand, "Joe."
I shake it and tell him my name.
"Sil? That's a new on me. How's the leg?"
I shrug.
"The doctors said you should take it easy for a while."
"We already went to the hospital?"
"Oh yes, last night. You don't remember? That Delotid must have done a number on you. They set your leg and then I was trying to leave and you started screaming and babbling hysterically," he laughs. "I signed you in, so they let me sign you out. I figured you needed a quiet place to come to your senses so I brought you back here."
He pours me a cup of coffee out of an old thermos and I hobble over to the window. Outside is a blurry rush of trees and rocks. There are patches of dirty, old, brown snow tucked back in steep ravines.
"Rocky Mountains," Joe says.
I nod. After a while I finish the coffee and ask Joe if I can go outside.
"Not the brightest idea in your condition, but ya sure." He slides open the side door and I step out onto a narrow metal grating. I steady myself against the cold steel of the engine compartment and, using the handrail as a crutch, I hobble back to the rear. After making my way around two more engines I come to the flatbed car that I landed on. I gingerly step over the coupling, trying not to look down at the dizzying blur of train tracks. I stretch out on my back and stare up at the sky. I dig through my pockets and find a half a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of unknown painkillers. I swallow one dry and chase it with a cigarette.
The train is not moving very fast, maybe twenty or thirty miles an hour. Towering snow covered peaks lean in on all sides. The air smells of pine forests, occasionally I catch a whiff of industrial scents from the engines, oil, fuel, and exhaust. I take a nap basking in the sun. I wake up under a canopy of Douglas furs and ponderosa pines. The air smells of needles and sap, there is a pinecone lying next to me.
I walk back up the engine and talk to Joe for a while. Joe is a rustic, agrarian man. He looks about sixty, he may be younger, but the years have taken their toll. He has piercing blue eyes. His skin is rough, like rawhide, tanned from a life spent outdoors. He keeps talking about the war, by which I think he means the Second World War. He has a wife in Utah somewhere and two daughters, both married, living back east. We spend the better part of the afternoon trading stories. His words come out in growling whispers, just loud enough to hear over the noise of the wheels and the engine, but without yelling or even appearing to raise his voice. He talks with the rhythm of the train, we go around a bend and Joe goes in on the beach at Normandy. We start up an incline and Joe moves out west after the war. We roll through a tunnel, Joe falls silent mid sentence, and when we emerge back into the blinding midday sun he starts up again without missing a beat. I guess, for Joe, when you're underground, it is best not to talk.
I begin to see a pattern emerge out of his stories. Joe is the kind of man that inhabits the backwater towns of this country, ornery you might say, but he is not ornery. He is simply inhuman, like me, which is to say that humanity has no hold on Joe. False modesty, false politeness, and false pretense have been shed like dry useless skin. Joe hails from somewhere older, livelier and healthier. His ancestors are the men who lived beside ponds and didn't write books, who held court with the mysteries of the universe and never say a word, who know what life has taught them and have no use for anyone else's ideas about morality, reality and humanity. I don't say much. He should have had me arrested back in Denver, or at least dumped me at the hospital, but he didn't because he felt it wasn't right. Joe doesn't seem to care at all what the rest of the world is doing; he simply lives his life and is content with that.
I step outside for a cigarette. The hood of the engine, or what would be the hood if it were a car, has a four-foot wide piece of metal grating on top of it. It makes an excellent seat and allows me to lean my head back against the window and enjoy the scenery. I light a cigarette and throw an old army surplus sleeping bag around my shoulders. It's February, I think. The air is biting cold. I let my good leg dangle off the side of the grating. We are doing about fifteen miles an hour I would guess, climbing up over the continental divide, or at least as close to the divide at these tracks get. Joe slides door open and hands me up a bowl of chili. I eat it greedily, watching the sun set in front of me.
I am thinking of Dean, wondering what his fate is... I am thinking of two years ago when we arrived in Athens, his hair was jet black, greased back, in a fashion that was at once a 1950's greaser, and not. He looked as if he were completely at ease in his own skin. We both had on suits, not expensive ones like we wanted, but ones handed down or purchased at thrift stores. I think of a photograph that I took at a bar in Los Angeles years ago. Dean was in the same pinstriped suit, carefully greased hairline framing his face, making it stand out, luminescent in the midst a black background. His eyes were laughing, but the lips barely curled, something intangibly wrong was lurking under his skin and bones. Another from the same night caught Dean unawares, as he leaned against the wall and watched the crowd. His arm was blurred, lifting the ever-present cigarette to his lips. All around him was the swirl of women's hair, the exited waving arms of men; it was all a faceless blur. In the middle there was Dean, standing still like a hummingbird.
As night falls, the wind picks up, howling through the canyons and whipping through my sleeping bag. We start to head downhill, picking up speed. I hobble back inside to warm up. Joe brews coffee and asks me if I like it. I shrug and tell him its fine. "Just wondering," he says smiling at me, "it's decaffeinated... I'm Mormon you know." He gives me a look as if this is his greatest hoodwinking surprise. I raise my eyebrows to encourage him; he looks like he needs to get it off of his chest.
"You know a lot of my friends were pretty hard on me for converting. They were downright pissed when I got hitched in the Tabernacle," he chuckles ruefully. "I tell ya, Mormons may have some strange beliefs, but on the whole, they are some of the best people I've ever met. Sure it's a little ridiculous, their bible and all, what with zebra's running around here -imagine that! Zebras! Here!- and I don't think the old Mr. Young really carried those gold tablets under his arm... and why god called himself Moroni I have no idea." He nudges me in the shoulder. "But in spite of all that ridiculousness, which really is no more ridiculous than the Catholic's eating wafers, or Jew's giving things up once or twice a year... it's all ridiculous when you think about it objectively." He stops for a bit and ponders his own words. "I'll tell you what I have noticed having a Mormon wife, and a lot of Mormon friends. They build real communities. They're good people at a level that is very basic; they know their human roots. Your average Catholic will walk by the poor bum on the street and give him a nickel or a quarter, but your average Mormon will invite the man to their home for a meal, offer them a shower, and of course, give them a little counseling on the true church of God." He nudges me again. "But when a man's belly is full and his body clean, he can listen to that sort of nonsense. I don't believe a word of it, but I took the vow because it made my wife happy and I would do anything to see that woman smile." He pulls out his wallet and extracts a faded, creased photograph. He hands it to me and I see a plump, smiling woman. Her cheeks are ruddy and she looks about fifty, maybe older, but I can tell that she was once very beautiful, and still is for that matter. I nod and smile, handing it back to him.
We talk a while longer. I try to elicit some sort of wisdom from him, but Joe is not the type to give it out. He knows what he knows, and he knows what he knows because he learned it the hard way. Words mean nothing. Joe helps me back to the rear engine, shining a flashlight along the grating while I swing between the railings. I sit up in the bunk for a while, skimming through The Book of Mormon. I notice the Mormons have ignored the Anazazi in their rewrite of history. I fall asleep with vision of Zebras running across the Utah desert.
I wake up before dawn, not having slept much, but that isn't out of the ordinary these days. It takes me a minute, after climbing out of the bunk, to find my balance and reorient myself to the sensation of movement. I stretch and yawn greedily, like an insomniac. Outside the eastern sky is pale green, not long until dawn. My precarious journey to the engine is rewarded with the smell of bacon, eggs, coffee and biscuits. Joe smiles his craggy grin, in the electric lights his teeth are yellow and stained from coffee and cigarettes. He hasn't always been a Mormon I note.
"I was just going to blow the whistle to let you know that breakfast is served." He smiles at me. He hands me a cup of coffee and I thank him, wrapping my freezing hands around the warm ceramic cup. "Sleep well?" He asks.
"Yes I did," I lie. The truth is that my life is all knotted up in my head and I have yet to untangle it, but I feel silly saying that to Joe. I realize suddenly that I think too much. I try to sip the coffee, but it is still too hot.
"Here," he hands me a plate full of greasy bacon and eggs with two biscuits perched on either side. We go out to the front of the engine and eat in silence. All around us the sky is a color show. The green begins to fade, replaced by the first crimson rays reflected on the bottoms of the wind carved clouds. I'm chewing on the last piece of bacon when the first direct rays of the sun strike me. I close my eyes and we welcome each other across the ninety-three million mile void. I open them to a squint and turn around. Behind us lie the Rocky Mountains. In front lies windswept eastern Utah, an endless sea of brown grass dancing like senoritas at the town fiesta. To our north there is the Escalante wilderness, which contains the La Salle Mountains, and the largest uninhabited area in North America. To the south and west lies Canyonlands National Park, the confluence of the Green and Colorado rivers, and somewhere, a tiny speck of a town called Moab. The end of the line for this train.
"They'll load quartz and sand mostly, bound for Memphis," Joe talks between mouthfuls of eggs. "But, whatever the case, I want to invite you to my house to have a home cooked meal with my wife and I. She's a real looker and great cook too." He laughs and nudges me in the ribs. "She was a beauty queen in high school. She was Miss Hoboken and might have been Miss America if she hadn't decided to give the whole thing up and go to college," he raises his eyebrows to accent the significance of these things. "Course I'm glad she did, because that's where I met her." He laughs.
I hem and haw, thanking him for the offer, but not agreeing to it just yet. I head back down to do the dishes. I splash cold water in my eyes in the tiny bathroom and study my face in the cracked tarnished little mirror. The scab from where I cut myself in New York is nearly gone. I lean in closer and my jaw drops. I notice that around the scab, where the old scar tissue has been torn open again, little hints of hair have started sprouting back. I stare at them in amazement. I run my fingers over them, trying to encourage their growth.
I smoke a cigarette outside while Joe calls into the Moab station. After a while he climbs up to tell me that the yard will be empty when we arrive. Today is Sunday, he informs me, and this is Mormon country, nothing happens on Sunday. Joe says that I can stay on the roof of the engine so long as he is down below. That way anyone watching will think that I am Joe. So I sit, letting the wind hit me in the face, sunning myself across Utah, land of Mormons-for now. One day I suspect the Tabernacle will fall; the religion will dwindle and disappear like every other, but for now they reign over God's last great piece of land. What a land this is here. The tracks are heading down into the canyon country. The desert sky is immense, it threatens to swallow the whole landscape. Tufts of white clouds float lazily across the blue background.
Soon we are on the mesa tops, cruising at thirty-five miles an hour, heading toward The Big Switch, as Joe calls it. The Big Switch is apparently the only non-computerized part of the journey. Joe will have to stop the train, get out and actually throw the heavy iron handle to switch us over to the track that heads down to Moab. Once he drives the train past it, he will stop again, walk back, and switch it back so that the next train can pass on by. It remains manual because most trains do not stop in Moab anymore, most of them pick up a few cars that have been hauled up or just don't even slow at all. We're going back in time, to the days when, if you wanted something happen, you had to do it yourself.
We hit the big switch around two o'clock. I talk Joe into letting me stay behind and throw it back so the next train can go by. It takes about ten minutes to move ours out of the way and then I throw the switch. It makes a piercing metallic screech and then slides back to let the next train pass. Part of me wants to leave it, to sidetrack the whole world down to Moab for a great gathering of trains, but I know it would only get Joe into trouble. I walk back up to engine. From here it is only about half an hour down into the canyon that the Green River carved long ago, where the empty loading yard waits. The desert plain is silent and peaceful. The gravel crunches under my feet. I feel like the only living thing in world. I decide that I will go out into the desert, go camping for a night. My life feels stripped clean of baggage, everything is falling away like great sheets of burnt skin, revealing shiny, pink, newborn flesh beneath the crusted surface.
It's four in the afternoon when I say goodbye to Joe and head down Moab's main drag. My life is like Utah, laid bare in the afternoon sun. Harsh and forlornly beautiful, the canyon walls lull me, spreading out my thoughts like the dotted Juniper trees, creosote bushes, and gnarled, twisted trunks of the mesquite that cover the landscape.
I go the bank and withdraw the last of my money. I eat lunch at a Mexican restaurant in an old adobe building. An ancient, wizened, Navaho woman serves me beans and handmade flour tortillas. I watch her as I eat. Two smudge-faced Indian girls, maybe four or five years old, help her stir an enormous pot of beans. The girls watched me intently, silently, with enormous liquid brown eyes that seemed irrigated with understanding. As the old woman wraps up my leftover tortillas and beans in foil, I try to absorb all the sights, sounds, and smells of her strange hobbit-like universe. The secret of life is revealed as beans and tortillas seen through the eyes of a child.
Next door is a mountaineering shop. I go in and ask around for a ride up to Canyonlands. I get one from two hippies, rock climbers. They seem out of place and foolish after the old Navaho woman. They are wearing the fashions of earth first and other environmental activists who share a fetish for Kakhi's, Tevas, Tofu, and flat tasteless foodstuffs. They mock a young couple in an SUV while we sit on the porch. The radical tree camping, pottery-making, hemp-weaving, Dave Foreman-worshipping, mushroom-eating, toms of Maine-consuming, hippie-environmental-social-consciousness-raising, guitar-playing radical of the outback is essentially the same as the BMW-driving, Starbucks-drinking, software-writing, technology-worshipping, juice-drinking, spa-loving, health club-hopping, sandals-wearing, dog-walking, family-raising, white picket fence-building, church-attending, drug-abstaining, yuppie, evil consumer, destroying the world, capitalist pig. One uses Tom's of Maine and the other Crest, but we're all still fundamentally lost.
My hippie climber friends stop at the supermarket for trail mix and candles. I opted for steak, beans, potatoes, and a bag of chemically enhanced briquettes that will light with the butt of my cigarette. It's just a matter of taste. I request paper bags and roll them down so the hippies won't abandon me for not being one of their own. I ride in the back of their VW bus, which turns the half hour drive from Moab to the east entrance of Canyonlands, into a two hour long crawl. As we switchback up the canyon walls to the top of the Mesa country, the hippies tell me their story. They're both college students on a semester long vacation. They are astonished to learn that I didn't vote, that I never have and I never will. They ask if I'm disillusioned or bitter. Strange question to ask a stranger. I tell them none of it matters one way or the other. I'm just trying to live. I light a cigarette and let them do the talking, and they do, all the way across the grasslands right on into the campground.
Finally we arrive and I escape their refrigerator drone into the peaceful silence of the campground, picking a spot at the opposite end of the loop from my sandal-shod friends. I proceed to build a fire in the light of the fading sun. The afterglow licks across the thunderheads to my back. Sizzling fat drips into the fire. It takes quite a while to cook the enormous side of beef bought. I kneel down beside the fire on the old sleeping bag that Joe gave me. I'm thinking of the woman I have never been able to see, staring at that well in Cyprus. She's there, she's always been there and now for the first time I realize who she's waiting for. I feel an effluence of enthusiasm; a taproot breaks through the dry soil and is swamped with underground water. I pull the meat off and through it on a paper plate. I sprinkle on salt and devour it with my hands. My plate is stained a greasy Moroccan-pink color. The potato swims in the greasy blood, trailing it's own gooey mixture of butter and pulverized potato flesh like a tanker ship leaking crude oil in the pristine sanctity of the ocean. Damn good food.
I finish the steak and potato. I save the beans for breakfast. I toss the plate in the fire and rinse my hands in the faucet near the entrance. Walking back I absorb the grandeur of the desert. It requires a careful tuning of the eye to detect beauty and life out here, like waking up in the gutter of a trash strew alley behind a bar in Athens, or noticing that the smog lifts slightly, almost imperceptibly, off the mountains in Mexico City everyday around seven o'clock. Life hangs on even in the toughest spots, like a juniper tree, alone, clinging to the side of the canyon wall. It's able to exist in the slightest, most overlooked, fissure, surrounded by a monolith of compressed sandstone, which yields nothing, there is only the one tree. That this tree could be able to survive is miraculous, but that I should be here, that I should be right here, in this place, at this moment, staring at this tree, is truly miraculous.
Pregnant memories swell up, miraculous moments, like when the light of the sun breaks through the sullen clouds of an afternoon thunderstorm and hits the steeple of an old church just as you come up over a crest in the road. You catch them when she stirs at night and tosses her hair so that so that it falls across your face with the delicate odor of peach blossoms and perfume mixed with the earthiness of her warm breath. You hear it when the crescendo of thundering drums climbs up out of the ninth symphony and lodges in the back of your brain, sending chills down your spine. Some interaction of the personal with the infinite, a stabbing at perfection transcends the ordinary moment. Every one of us has moments of transformation when we feel, if only for a mere second, that something larger than the present is in the sky or the music. How long must ancient man have wondered 'where do these feelings come from?' He must have ruminated over this for centuries and finally he invented language in order to describe how he felt to other domesticated monkeys. With language that great caveman Thak separated us from the entire animal kingdom. Not by virtue of communication, for any one who has ever observed even the simplest of animals, knows that they communicate. Thak gave us something entirely different, a means of creating memories. He forever severed us from time.
But memory has a price, it creates belief. Out of memory came dissention, other monkeys did not agree Thak's feelings. Time moved on and more voices from more and more places were heard and the general became divided and localized. Those that believed one explanation tended to associate with only those that agreed with them, they had their gods, and they were the only gods, the others, on the other side of the proverbial river, lacked THE TRUTH.
Today there are more gods than ever and even less comprehension of godliness. All of this dissention has not in anyway helped us to understand that initial question-where are emotions coming from? All the philosophizing rants of all the arrogant monkeys can not answer the simplest of questions: who am I? Where is this vitality teeming from? What is emotion? What the hell is really going on down here? Why?
The wonder and amazement that greeted our forebear's is lost for us. We have explained it away, dissected, mapped, catalogued, and miniaturized it. Unable to comprehend the universe we carefully construct a replication that could be understood. We ignore all the rest, saying in essence, that anything not comprehensible to the human mind does not exist. But it does. Maya knows what I am thinking before I say it. The light continues to pour through the clouds onto steeples, rocky pinnacles, and the front porch of a now vacant cottage in Athens. It is time we floated our way back up to the surface of the pond. Time to start over, to assimilate rather than dissect, to feel rather than speak, to live rather than abstract....
What good is knowing without feeling? Those moments when I am confronted with the essential mysteries of my life and yours, all of our lives, are not something that can be taken apart. I can not break it down, understand the smaller bits individually, and then hope they add up to the same thing I started with. If we stop taking things apart for a minute and just breathe in slowly, one breath at a time, it will flood the hatches and buoyantly draw us up to the surface of things. Not many people do. We have found a distraction, which eases the anxiety that unanswered questions provoked in us-ourselves. We wrote a lullaby called God and put ourselves to sleep.
Only an egocentric monkey would dream of being able to understand the orbit of the planets let alone the vastness of all existence. Only a very confused and disoriented creature would throw himself into a corner and examine every little microscopic piece of dirt without first discovering what a monkey was. Herman Hess once said that the only job of man was to find the road that led back to himself. But we, being the tragic creatures we are, doomed forever to a life lived in melodrama and confusion, seldom do such things. Seldom do we celebrate love or transcendence. At our best we celebrate the by-products-music and art. At our worst we record those who were farthest from themselves, the emperors, kings and queens, generals, bishops, monks, people who led the most perverted and hideous of lives. We have created a cult of worship to our egos, to the things that we think are so unique about ourselves at the inescapable expense of the things that we have in common. There are very few lovers rattling around in the tomes of recorded history, we haven't paid too much attention to them, or to what they knew, our editing is slanted in favor of violence and destruction. We have driven ourselves mad in the midst of a garden of delights.
But fear not, the subconscious mind is in the act of creating... always and forever.... It is creating even the conscious mind. Everything that you think you are is a dream that some other part of you is having. Only next to god are all the political games that divide men stripped away out here you arrive naked and proud. Only then do you see every man and woman as your ally and your love, only scorched clean of the petty differences of race, creed, and belief, do we draw together huddled in fear of insanity which we ourselves have wrought upon each other. Forged and smelt in the dry heat of rock furnaces, the charnel ovens brew alchemal liquid, souls fuse, combinations arise, the experiment of which we are all part, continues onward. No hope save love. No cure, but love and death and then, Quien Sabe?
The final rays of sun disappear, the chill of night settles in. I take my fresh pack of cigarettes and wander down to the edge of the canyon. I sit with my legs dangling off a rock that's perched on the rim and extends out into space. All around me there is nothing but air and under me only a brief moment of rock and then more timelessness we call air.
The internal merges with the external, the timeless with the unique. I go roaring back through memories of childhood, selves that I was truly, but am no longer today. I see all the marauding personalities, which have governed this thing called I. I cast off all doubts. I am ready. A thousand faces pass like the jerky photomontages of Man Ray, each pair of eyes radiant unto itself. Delicately, in the corners of a stray glance, I catch the recognition of understanding in other's eyes. Only love brings us any closer.
I watch a feast of thoughts and personalities coming together for the first time, yet dining like old friends. It's a reunion, a chance to catch-up on where each has been, what has happened, and what they have felt. It turns to a smorgasbord of love, but there is endless debate, dissention, and rising voices. A circus dine roars around my head, the wave crests at cacophony and breaks over me leaving only silence. Silence that carries on its back a poignant nostalgia for the past and a calm understanding of the future. I touch for a moment the void, the nothingness into which you must cast yourself if you wish to tap the source of everything. Riddles that once seemed ridiculous to me are solved with simplest of maneuvers of truth. They gleam like diamonds. In the blinking, blank-look of the deer just before impact, there is understanding, the look of recognition that it is all nothing. No thing. What do I want out of this life? Nothing. Nothing at all. I understood suddenly and with sharp focus the difference between understanding how something works and understand what it is. I see that even the void of understanding is not the end, but only a means to something else, which would also be yet another means, until the final thought was had and the conversation between self and the other ceases forever, wedding them together.
And the two shall be joined as one. A net was cast over the side of the ship and the wheel turned starboard to trawl the giant net through the waters of the past. It plays out in slide show fashion. Endless images of my own arrogance play themselves onto the back of my closed eyelids like a cinema of embarrassment. I go to myself, as stranger might go, out of pity, to reach down a hand and help myself up. And then love flows through me and makes everything hyperreal and tactile, as if feelings were rock and trees. Desert silence is the answer to the endless question of the universe. The transitory nature of my own existence is illuminated and I am washed with feelings of warmth and celebration. The embarrassment fades and is replaced by the sheer hilarious joy. My own folly falls along side the folly of all those I have ever know and ever will know, a giant heaping ball of laughter. Coiled up tight like yarn, batted about by the kitten of the universe, it dances nightly behind the moon, all our selves playing as children, endlessly.
The moon rises from the east; I watch in silence. My life unfolds behind my eyes. I watch memories I had no conscious knowledge of, like a father watching his son play in the yard. They start off recent memories, of Maya, of Dean, of Jimmy, of moments shared with each and then it races backward, to college classes, high school girlfriends, playground friends.... Until I am in utero listening to my mother's heart beating steadily. And then farther back to a point of no consciousness, other stories unfold-genetic memories. I see the light of the fifteen-century breaking through the night, hitting church spires and scorching the brass coffers of foreign temples. Wild and scenes from Arabian Nights appear with silken tapestries, women's arms entwined in gold bands; and then sagas of Hassan I Sabbah, all the wisdom seekers of the Fertile Crescent. I fade into a background of Egyptian palaces. I am carried about by the wafting fragrance of spices and silk from the orient. There was a warm glow of light at the end of hallway that slowly, as the eyes adjust, reveals itself as a temple of splendors. The walls are adorned with rugs and woven tapestries in designs that act out the living myths of the sun gods. The floor is blanketed in pillows and a sweet incense smoke floated in wafts of Jasmine and myrrh. In the center of the room slightly elevated on steps was an alter upon which lies a beautiful and naked goddess, a statue, an answer, a testament to any question that you might ask. In her silence I swim the thalassic of sorrow and joy in placid, caressing laps. I learn infinite things, make them finite, knowable. I build great castles, great monuments, great societies, great people, and tear them all down again to start over. I live a thousand lonely, huddled nights, from bearskin to tapestries, to the silk sheets of Manhattan penthouses. I climb every mountain peak, slide down the scree and talus slopes, and meet with pharaohs and voudans, with Moses and God. I hold a billion women lovingly in my arms and give birth to a trillion children through all history's wombs. From Sarah to Satan, all fill themselves with my nourishment. A spiraling double helix of love corkscrews all about my mind.
She is waiting by the fountain, in the park, just outside of the town in Cyprus where I have never been. I watch her sit for hours, staring at nothing, or so it looks to me. She wears a black dress with a matching veil. Her eyes are fixed on the pump handle of the well. She sits motionless with the quiet smile of a woman in rapture, a woman in private, mysterious thoughts. I see Maya's face in the background, in that indeterminable second after where everything is. I see the source of my unhappiness, being so overwhelmed with consciousness of myself I lost myself. Everything is laid unequivocally bare in the austerity of that truth, the contradiction finally fades. All things are true and not true all at the same moment, a place indescribable, incommunicable precisely because it exists below the refinement of words. It is too raw to be explained in words, it must be devoured with the intensity of an animal ripping at its prey. I feel it for what seems like an eternity. I remember coming back to fire in dazed kind of trance like state that held me like a loved one returned from a long voyage at see. I want to feel this always to live in this mindscape-whole world be damned.
I eventually fall asleep in a huddled pose beside the fire; I sleep fitfully under the starscape dreaming of the Mayan shaman riding a silver gelding, like Icarius, out of the fiery sun-gilded gates of hell. The Shaman swerves and bears down on the I that is me with menacing intent, jolting the dream element awake and into a sleepnonsleep trance on the isthmus of reality. I am bewildered, but not afraid. He growls and leaps at me, but I stand my ground. He rattles bones and conjures hideous demons, but I don't move. He stops and smiles at me. He clasps his hand over mine and leads me outside. We are on the corner of dusty street in Cyprus, pedestrians are frozen in time, nothing moves save the Shaman and I. Not a breath stirs, there is no wind, we are in a vacuum. The shaman motions for me to sit on a fallen tree and he pulls out a cigarette. He lights it and inhales. From the smoke of his cigarette there emerges a pattern, loose at first, but then it begins rapidly organizing itself. He keeps smiling at me as he smokes. The smoke it still, it hangs in the air. He's about half way done with the cigarette before I recognize that the smoke is turning to the ghost figure of the woman. She steps out of the smoke and sit down beside me. She has a face of smoke and mirrors, more beautiful than any human face could be. I have to squint to look at her. She smiles and a thousand angel trumpets blast. She takes my hand in hers. She stands and leads me across the street to the town well. She leads me right up to the edge of it so that I can look down into it. I can't see the bottom. I grow afraid, but she squeezes my hand again and I relax. Slowly at first, scenes begin to appear in the well. Opulent scenes play themselves out for us. I see great Persian empires laid out, expanding and retracting, moving across time in slow molasses-like motions, cities where the sun stands still and bow to monstrous creations of the mind, horrifying and seductive at the same time. Like ancient Tibetan art, there is no distinction between the province of my mind and the province of my body. Women swim in south china seas of ambient warmth, moving in playful erotic motions, cresting like dolphins. Creatures of all forms walk streets of ancient origin; I see cobblestones and whitewashed buildings with European wrought iron balconies. Tapestries hang out from the window beckon the passersby to climb up into untold pleasures of body and mind. Everything is beautiful beyond the limits of imagination. The woman turns and wraps me in her arms, her lips never move but I hear a voice say, "see, I love you."
I wake up several times during the night and put more wood on the fire. It's freezing when I get up at dawn. I do jumping jacks and run in circles to warm myself up. I realize I don't have can opener for the beans so have nothing for breakfast. I decide to walk back to Moab. I take the road most of the way in case the desert or fatigue should get the better of me. About half way there, around noon a young couple in a camper picks me up. They drop me off just outside of town, on the banks of the Green River. I go down to the shoreline and sit down for a while. I smoke a couple of cigarette and spend some time without thinking of anything. My mind is completely blank. Dean is gone, Jimmy and Chloe are leaving, there is nothing for me in this world to return to. I feel free of everything. I kneel down by the edge the Green River and lean over a pool of still water to washing my face. My reflection stops me. I sit on my knees, staring at my face, as if meeting it for the first time. My eyebrow has completely grown back. I run my fingers through the thick black hair. My reflection smiles up at me.
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Entering the hall of breathing walls-The Oconee disappears between its banks-Los Angeles-Mexico City-Byzantine elephants choke to death in a smog-filled valley- memories hiccup-twilight of the intercellular broadcast-divided and squared with bantam jewels in the center-glittering back-lit walls-look like lava just starting to crust-pie filling eaten by rodents-1910 bankers and thieves in huddled whispers-don't get out-turn the page- disengage-
The door is pounding.
I live in a cottage. Athens. Georgia. 01010.
Between.
My head hurts.
I was named after an imaginary boat.
A cigarette.
Pounding. Rhythmic thump thump. Thump thump. Ghosts dragging chains through the cellar. Which I don't have, a cellar that is. Demons maybe. Phantoms. Apparitions. No. Not those. Ghosts then. Simplicity. Razors.
She often gives that look. But I'm never around.
She's up there.
I'm down here.
It could be Jimmy. No. Not Jimmy then. Could be Dean. Dean wouldn't. Couldn't. Won't. Not yet. Eventually. Just ghosts. Pissed off ghosts. Happy ghosts seeing if I want to come out and play. Indifferent ghosts, sitting around smoking, absently throwing rocks at the wall. Malicious ghosts, the ghosts of falling buildings, ghosts with nowhere to haunt, haunted by a yearning to haunt.
Chloe has a globe from the dark ages, East and West Germany, the USSR, North and South Dakota. Chloe also has a dog. Chloe's dog, tail wagging thump thump thump. A branch. An Oak wanting breakfast. A bird wanting shelter. No.
That look, that half devilish awareness, half coy innocence, that look where I don't know what is going on in there. Or out here. In the larger world. Smaller world. Some world. I'm not sure, I don't know, but I don't think I know.
I live alone.
She's not in. She is never in. She is up. He is also up, but less significantly. In fact a lot of them are up. Almost everything is elsewhere. Echoes reach me down here. Someone yelling down the cellar to a third cousin sent to retrieve apricot preserves from last summer's canning extravaganza. Dull reverberations off the beams rattling the preserves ever so slightly, but enough so that every so often a jar falls and shatters in the blackness that comes after the door at the top of stair blows shut from a gust of August wind. And the slow trickle of preserves running down the sloped dirt of the cellar floor, pooling between your toes as the first clap of thunder rumbles above.
From: Dean O'Leary <do@morpheus.net>
To: sil@kali.org
Subject:
I have a fish tank. Melissa bought it, but I have it. It's here right in front of me right now. There is a fish in it. We put it in yesterday. Melissa named him Dean Jr. Dean Jr. has a plastic castle and a plastic treasure box. He's swimming back and forth between them. He never goes anywhere else. It's like every two seconds his memory expires and he has to go back and see what these damnable things are that he just swam by. Or perhaps its merely that I feel that way, swimming through the city, by the castle, by the rocks, by the crumbling pink stones in the park. We once had gills. I don't mean eveolution, I mean I think we once had gills. Atlantis isn't a mythical city that sank into the sea, it was always under the sea. We lived there, we swam by, and abscent of memory swam by again. A sort of daze. + +I envy you down there, you don't have to swim, you can merely sit. The water is still. Or that's how I imagine it. The surface of the pond, not yet distrubed by the ripless of what is emerging below. You are higher up, in the sunlight filled waters near the surface. Down here things are not well, the memory is fading, senility is survival. + +I finished a novel the other day that you would like. A hungarian author Lazlo Tikos, the book is Midnight. He has another, Dawn. But it's difficult to come by. So is Midnight actually, a friend of mine in the city happens to be the translator so I read an early draft. It's a very strange convoluted story that I don't want to ruin, should you decided to read it (the packagge is one its way to your house), but there was + + + +It made me think, should I set Dean Jr free? I don't think he would last long in the ocean or the sewers, though he's not really worth eating. Perhaps he would survive in the sewers, like the aligator pets that go to large and flushed down the tiolets by enough distrate owners, fearful that the once cute beasts would now eat the children they were purchases for -- you can imagine, those reptile eyes, old, pre-Cambian thoughts lurking down there, a level we perhaps remember on some levvel, some dark spot of our own genentic makeup still carrying markers, the primordial fear that comes from staring at any nearly unblinking creatures, but especially one that's covered in scales and has a flickering tongue that tastes information in the air -- it's similtaneously so forgien and so familiar as to be distrubing, a familiar memory that won't die, like the smell of blood drying in the grass or + +And so down the toilet for poor pet aligator caught up in a fade it neither wanted nor understands, but then the revenge of the sewers where the pet becomes what it was always meant to be -- king. It could be the same for fish I believe. The scales are the same, the + +
Last night: little blue pills from points unknown, brand name Percocet I believe. Jimmy. Yes. It was him. Known points. His little blue pills that go tickticktick when they scatter out on the glass table. We took a couple each, and a glass or two or five of Scotch, and maybe a bump of cocaine-swooshing velvet sound on that table-we went downtown. Downtown. We are not uptown, but we went downtown or maybe in town. Here we are not in town, but we're not quite out either. Between then, but we go downtown. Amid the one-way streets and crisscrossing throngs of young people. Dizzy blue people stumbling on caustic sidewalks. Pills. Dizzy blue pills. Brown people or off white or cream, and maybe some mauve from the sun, but wearing their colored ribbons and threads as is customary, some delightful and brilliant colors and other dull grays, blues and taupe. The streets carved among lights and shadows and covered wagons hauling pianos or trucks with pianos. People exchanging glasses of elixir for paper tickets the way old men used to in cellar bars, rotting wood ceilings and dirt walls, roots exposed, in countries long forgotten or never known, and either way not here. The theatre is crowded, sticky bodies pressed together with scrunched shoulders and craning necks, little trickles of sweat tickling necks and earlobes until a arm wiggles loose to relieve, but an elbow here and there meeting a face, accidentally, like friends late at night under gas lamps in those countries no one can remember. Amid little grunts of pain, whispers of apology and finally finally a margin of relief, the show starts. Several of the people are wearing jeans and shirts and boots and hats. Or one of them near the back, seven bodies removed with a luxurious amount of space around her and no one daring to step into it. She is on to me. Goddamn it she knows. She is looking at me down a perfect row of misshapen, deformed shoulders, hunchbacks lined for execution or waiting for tables at a hunchback diner, or a line outside a hunchback restroom, all the shoulders and stooped backs turned just so, perfectly aligning the emptiness between so that our eyes meet and cannot avoid but meet again. She is looking to let me know that she has that look too. But she is looking at me, not with that look, but a warning look. She can use that look any time, but she won't, she can't. Only Maya can use that look with any effectiveness, but still I have to be ready. I'm sweating and cold. A writhing serpentine woman upfront, spiraling around the man with the metal chest. Metal attached to his chest. To his face. To his lips. It sounds like Paleolithic cave drawings-dueling sculptors chipping at the same stone, part horrific cacophony, and part terrifying clarity. Lights out. Bumbling darkness.
The pounding on the door. Yes, but fainter still.
Outside is America. The down part. Down here. You can hear it in the wires. A buzz. A hum. America. Wires and cables and fiber optics and pipes and hoses and tubes. Fading now to resistors and capacitors. Even as the hippies were sleeping with visions of sugarplums and dancing fairies singing happy happy joy joy, Bell Labs was suffering a different dream. Resistors. Capacitors. On. Off. Zero. One. America.
Another cigarette. I could lie here all day. Lying down, remaining down.
Outside is America. Up right now, but down later. One, but then Zero. I am indifferent to it. Why shouldn't I be? America is one. To be America you are doing something. I am not. America is growth. Then stasis. Then growth, and so on, like a cancer mutating in bursts-a pulsar, a cancerous pulsar. There are others like me. We watch it. We like to watch. We huddle together, in small groups, holding each other because it's all we remember, mutual warmth. Every season the Technicolor cancer blooms anew, this year with violent reds and oranges and angry purples, yes purple gets angry from time to time, when the king becomes too fat for the plush velvet chair that purple has given him or he neglects his humility in private, purple gets angry like a wife. It's a cheery cancer though, purple is never mad for long and, the make up sex-oh the makeup sex. Then there is dancing and singing, girls running, silk ribbons trailing behind, a carnival, spinning pinwheels, gaudy whores in petticoats, elixirs for what ails ya, sculptures of tubing and wire to delight delight delight the whole family. Whores for the kids, pinwheels for the parents, a marvelous vision trotting into New Orleans say 1894, electrons spinning-a bric-a-brac carnival for paranoids. The king riding high in his purple couch, the queen by his side, the actors in trail, patchwork wagon covers and barrels of mead and moonshine. The crier out front: You have never seen anything like this. Step right up. Step right up. Step right. Up. This the greatest show going. This is the greatest show in the land. This is. This is the greatest show in this county. At the moment. Get your programs. Get your programs here. A hymnal for the perverts. Hey ya.
I remember remembering. Too much quantum physics-interference patterns, recorded static played back in scripts-the sixties were bleak, the nineties were worse. You. The other. Them. The ones on the streets blinking on and off. Christmas lights in the background-indeterminacies. When I was young there were seven dimensions and that was weird, but Rod Serling walked us through it. Now there are twenty-six and Rod Serling is dead.
I start the day with a cigarette because it kills you early, slowly and relentlessly. Gets me off my back and living, one, lest death come before lunch, zero.
The pounding is over.
I stumble to the kitchen, the fridge is harboring only one grapefruit. The ritual goes: cigarette, grapefruit, shower and shave, croissant or bagel, coffee and another cigarette. Later or earlier, depending on where you are exactly, I came to sitting in a barstool in the lobby of the theatre. She was gone. She did not use that look, but she could have, or she did and I didn't notice. The show was over, the Christmas lights were filtering out. Flickering. That was the bar. The Flickering Bar only it was a theatre in one room with all the ghosts of rats imported from elsewhere because it wasn't old enough to have its own rat ghosts, just a couple of rats that had their own theatre up in the balcony where no one goes anymore. There were Christmas lights flickering, they were not people, they were lights. Some of them I knew. Jimmy. That was how I got there. Stumbling down alleys and rolling in garbage. Jimmy, he is familiar. He has no dog and no globe-Chloe has those. Jimmy has a girl, a girl friend, but I suspect they are more than friends. They are not friends like he and I are friends. They are something more. They hold each other very close by the fire and then often slip into darkness as if they are unafraid. But she is called his girlfriend, he calls her the girlfriend, but when she says it she is a girlfriend. And he is a boyfriend.
"I'm Brooke. Jimmy's girlfriend."
"It's very nice to meet you."
"Sil, I met you six months ago."
"Yes but it is still nice isn't it?"
"Yes. Is suppose it is. Are you okay?"
"Yes. I'm fine. Why?"
"You seem strange tonight."
Tonight seems strange too. Difficult to sort out. Lights and people. Glittery mugs foaming, slick ice spit back in rattling glasses, crunching gravel or sawdust in the street. She is holding his hand. They are walking in front of me. Their feet are in time, light-footed marching, a relaxed cadence. We drove home. Up. But not all the way, just surfacing perhaps, but still in the water, level and floating between. We were here or at Chloe's house, I don't know. There is not much difference. Fifty yards between them, but dense jungle, vines and trees and dead wood, lots of rodents and birds, one dumpster. They are worlds apart really. We sniffed and snorted through the lingering sniffles of a once glorious semantic insanity. We like to talk. One or Zero... still an indeterminacy.
Jimmy is a lunatic, one of the last great lunatics. Maybe that last one. I don't know. He paced about the room like a caged cat gesturing, gesticulating, gestating and hatching forth the most marvelous rants ranging from the workings of internal combustion engines, to the trajectory of a V-2 rocket dropping down on Pynchon's London. Its not a simple arc, it's a parabola, it approaches a point, passes by scorched like Icarus, and continues on. Everything is going for Jimmy. No stopping no waiting no inertia. Always on. Just one giant phallic object screaming across the sky until it blows a giant hole in the earth. Nothing was left when he finished; he swallowed the whole world, a fantastic thing to listen to, an inversion of Jonah and the whale, phrases connecting to one another to hint at gargantuans of thought that unravel and remind you of what might have been or maybe even was. Ideas come out of him at thinking speed with no real care for how they are arranged or whether one leads to the next, tangents appear and he runs them down, pureeing with shrill incisors and grounding sinewy shreds with pulpating molars. His voice itself often has a staccato quality, chopping and pounding the air. He blasts it out of his chest in radiowave bursts and suddenly the bottom drops out and he shifts to soft sighs and pants... wheezing sorrow. He coughs some at the end of long sentences when he runs hard after the words, tracks them down with such enthusiasm that he can't hold them anymore. You can see it in his eyes-the words are an atomized blizzard of fallout, lust and hunger.
Dean would have loved it, he gets off on it too. The words though. And it doesn't matter where they come from, so long as they are words, and maybe forming ideas and eventually stories if that is still possible. I get off on it too. We all do. But Dean is up there too. Way up. There are little ups and downs and bigger ones you see, gradations of up and down, but still up and down, rising and falling, heaving and thrusting and sighing-later smoking-but just words.
Dean will come back. Dean always comes back. And then he leaves. He is here and then there. Every time there are spaces in between in which I give him up for dead, but he never dies. He comes back. Or dies a little and then comes back. He writes a lot. Not many people do that. But more will. Email. The return of the letter. The post office collapsed in conspiracy and viruses, but we find ways. Bell Labs found one. Dean writes a lot about the sex he is having. Jimmy talks a lot about the sex he is having. Chloe talks a lot about the sex she isn't having. Brooke has never mentioned sex to me. But she does to someone. Sex is all there is really, and it's enough, it's more than enough, it's all there is. And food. But most of us don't talk about food.
Dean is writing a letter. He has been writing a letter for some time now. He wants to know about things for his letter. He wants to know what I know. He wants to know about pre-natal psychology. He wants to know about venomous fish. He wants to know about nanomachines. He wants to know what lies on the other side of the great divide. I don't know about any of these things, but he tells me and then I know what he knows, but I'm not sure if I know about the things themselves or just what he knows. Jimmy is also a writer. I don't know what Jimmy writes. I've seen him with lists. I know he writes lists and he once made signs for work. He writes signs. Perhaps other things as well. Chloe writes in her journal. One spiral bound notebook a month. On the thirty-first of the month or thirtieth sometimes and once a year on the twenty-eighth, she shuffles down with a spiral notebook and we build a bonfire with fallen tree limbs and she burns the spiral notebooks. Always the next morning I get up and dig through the ashes looking for a scrap or two. Cotton candy, I found in February. And, but I guess, in March. April was particularly rich, this is the last time, it said. But May and June there was just the charred coil of wire, stretched and distorted by the heat.
Maya writes letters. I get letters. Several a week on good weeks. But Maya does not have to write, she chooses to write. She could just use the look, but I can't see it. So she sends it in cuneiform or sometimes hieroglyphs, but it doesn't translate well. Sometimes she too writes about sex, but not always. Often she writes about hunger or longing or walking or resting. Mainly she calls, but it's that look I love, that look that could be a bad movie I'd still watch.
Most of the time I am Sil Hawkard. When creditors or ex-wives are calling I am no longer Sil Hawkard, I morph. People who want things from me find that I have just stepped out. I am often just stepping out. Outside. America. Wires. Buzz and hum. I'll be right back. Just going for the papers. I come from a long line of steppers-out-for-the-papers, gypsy strands of DNA, whorish blood crawling over the eastern European hills looking for a place to call home. I am a mongrel by birth. I have olive-brown skin and no culture. I have hazel eyes but not many friends. I am five feet ten inches, but I lack cohesiveness. I weigh around one hundred and fifty pounds, but I am often unaccountably heavier. I live in self-imposed exile, but I was born in exile, so I'm used to it... comfortable even. I haven't the slightest idea how I got here; I only know that I have been here as long as I can remember.
I'm not sure that you care about this sort of thing. I'm not sure that you should. I'm not sure if I should tell it or not. There are various schools of thought which say different things. I have gone to most of them at one time or another. One in particular stands out because of the bully with the harelip who was mad because he had a harelip and took it out on the rest of us, even the girls. He nailed their pigtails to desks and stuffed the boys in trashcans. A terribly abusive wretched little kid, he will ascend the bell tower just a few days past twenty-two with a scattergun he will steal from under his father's porch and he will rain down death with his box of shells and eat two Snickers bars as the SWAT team moves into position on the rooftops of nearby buildings. He will be crying when the bullet hits him. But I still won't know what I shouldn't say.
Window shopping, perhaps stepping in to try on a shirt or two or some pants or whatever snags your eye, but never buying anything, just looking and feeling the textures of fabric rolling between your fingers. Dragging silk or lace or satin over the back of your arms to feel the chillbumps shiver down your spine. But noncommittal when the clerk smiles and unsure whether to tell her about the lipstick on her teeth or to just move on. And usually deciding to move on until one day when maybe you don't, maybe you grab her arm softly and say excuse me miss, and hand her a tissue, you have some lipstick on your teeth. And maybe she blushes and demurely turns to wipe her teeth, but thanks you and then smiles with soft, creamy teeth. And you smile back when she hands you the tissue.
I was born out of time. I had intended to be here at the beginning, but I didn't make it. In the beginning, if there was such a thing, there were no words, only phantoms wandering forested mountains. That's where I would like to have come into the show. There were enormous mountains back then, around here it would have been the tail end of the Appalachians, bigger than the modern Himalayas. Monkeys and lemurs and men in funny hats. I would have made something different. But I didn't make it in time. Still, don't ever let them convince you that you were thrown out of anything, no, it's still here. Hidden from casual glance, camouflage netting, but if you look long enough and at the right angle, you will find it. Right where you left it.
I started as a thought, a complex, vivid thought in my mother's head. The night before I was born, my mother dreamed that she and my father were sailing through the Panama Canal. The jungles cackled with lemurs while my parents drifted silently through the moonlight. It was a particularly vivid dream, the sort that tugs at your sleeve while you're trying to drink your morning coffee. When her contractions began the next day, the dream was still in my mother's mind, lulling her, a welcome memory to alleviate the growing pain. I was a tough one; I had no interest in entering this world. In the end, they cut me out. As she faded out under anesthetic, the dream grabbed my mother and led her off again, it had something to say. She looked up at my father who was holding her hand, smiling as his face faded into a tropical night sky. This time they were sailing around the Cayman Islands. Shorelines sparkled in the distance, throngs of tourists were carrying candles along the shoreline, a procession was in progress, my mother turned the till and a puff of wind drew the boat along following the line of flickering candles. She would never say where they led. Whenever she told the story a far away look would come over her eyes she would murmur to herself, tuck the covers around my chin and get up to go. She did tell me that the last thing she saw before coming to was the stern of another boat, the Silmond.
I was born in the midst of a fierce tropical storm-I'm not making this up-one of the worst on record in southern California. The recovery room that my mother was given had a broken window and she came down with pneumonia. Once, when I was about five, I heard her tell someone that I was born on a boat in the middle of a hurricane. Tall tales abound in my family. My wife used to say that that she could see clouds in my eyes when I was thinking. When I got mad she claimed they flickered like tiny thunderheads, but I can't vouch for this observation. I don't look at my reflection very often; half of my left eyebrow is missing. It had a disastrous meeting with a windshield. They were introduced by a telephone pole on highway 10 somewhere in New Mexico. For a while I was very self-conscious about it. I used to apply Rogaine to it every morning, but it never helped. I stopped looking in mirrors.
I enrolled in another school where all the children were drab and gray, but they wore the finest clothing, hand-tailored in the finest European shops, slowly measured by grandfatherly old men, stooped with age and arthritis, but possessing of delicate hands worn smooth like driftwood by years of handling the luxurious linens. The boys wore three-piece suits with little button down vests and the girls wore elaborate dresses with corsets and garters and stockings. The teachers were always talking about being naked, but really they wore the finery too. I was kicked out for hugging. Hugging was distasteful to them, the contact wrinkled their finery and the production or secretion of sweat and warm mucus was frowned upon. They were sterile people, but beautiful to look at. I learned much about what you could wear or say if you chose to, but often I chose not to and this was frowned upon. One day a beautiful teacher wearing only a corset and loose skirt with a choker around her neck and thighs that whispered when she walked, asked me to leave.
For a long time after that I wandered about aimlessly. Solving crimes in my spare time or shooting large automatic pistols with some friends on a porch outside of Wichita. I dreamed of living in a book without a plot. We shot holes in four by eight sheets of plywood, sometimes at random and other times trying to create patterns with the holes. Often the patterns looked random and the randomness smiled or frowned in distinct faces.
I grew up in Los Angeles choking on money and diesel exhaust. It was embarrassing. From the time I was old enough to dream I dreamed of leaving, but I didn't really leave until I was twenty-seven and missing half an eyebrow. Before we got divorced, my wife and I went on a three-month drive; it was our form of therapy. We had decided to 'work things out,' as she put it. We thought spending time alone, just the two of us, would bond us together. We crisscrossed the country looking for epoxy; from LA to Denver, back to Boise, down to Salt Lake City, through the Rockies again, across Kansas, down to New Orleans, up the eastern seaboard to Boston, then Canada, and eventually back to LA. My overwhelming memory of the trip is the warm smell of all night diner bathrooms, the sinks scratched from the oversized belt buckles of enormous putrefied trucker drivers. And then I forgot about her in New Orleans and drove most of the way through the Florida panhandle. I was eating take out steamed oysters on a nude beach when I realized something was missing. She got back to LA a week later. I was at Dean's house when a man with a star by his name asked me to sign papers. I poked about in LA for a while longer, working odd jobs, Dean and I tried to shoot holes in four by eight sheets of plywood, but the man with the star by his name came back and asked us not to. Eventually I decided to move to Athens with Dean and his sister Betty-to see if anything would happened. They lasted about a year. He went up, she went left.
I remember driving down a dirt road in Arizona; I couldn't have been more than five or six. I asked my father if we could drive through a magical time warp. The way I envisioned it happening, the road would suddenly just disappear, my father and I would crash into a giant cactus, we would be unhurt, but the car would be destroyed and steam would hiss out of the radiator, there would be an incredible silence, a huge overwhelming moment where we would just sit in nostalgia for the shock, listen to the hissing steam, not believing what had happened. We would drown in disbelief, but then that would give way to endless possibility; it would just be us and an uncharted, virgin planet. My father smiled at me, but there was a jaded sigh in his eyes. We traded our magic for science, skepticism for precision-no trade backs. We eroded the mountains for strip mines, the forests were clear-cut for timber, and the men with funny hats destroyed by small pox and syphilis. The phantom dreamers all packed up and headed on down the line to some other universe just a few tracks over from ours. What's left is America. One, zero, one. I can't march and that intangible future in which all the words are perfectly prearranged and you take your place at the banquet....well... I used to want something to happen-on the far side of Bell's polyparabolic vision. I used to wait with hope. There was a moment or two of naivet, but now the old nuclear foreboding has returned with gusto. Now we nervously finger magazines in the doctor's office waiting for the test results. A bric-a-brac carnival for paranoids.
The cottage I live in is a dump. The roof is rotten from termites; an extended family of rats lives in the ceiling panels. The walls are paper-thin, insulated with spider webs. I scavenged for furniture. I found a couch back when I was living with Dean, and then one day another appeared in the dumpster so I grabbed it too. The tenants before me left a bookshelf, which still has nothing on it. I've been here six months and I'm still living out of my suitcases. The sink leaks, the toilet never flushes, and there's a two-foot square hole in the middle of the living room wall. My landlord was nice enough to tack a scrap of screen over it, "keep out the 'squiters," he said. He also hired me to maintain the cottages in exchange for rent, which might explain their dilapidated state, though I do try to fix things. For the other tenants anyway. If nothing happens then nice living quarters are unnecessary. Saves me the work.
It was the last night I was in LA. I was working. It seems appropriate. Around eight o'clock, still light out, Maya sauntered through the yawning doorway. She wore a Mona Lisa smile, a turquoise shirt and tight black pants. She ruffled her dyed black hair and asked if she could have a large coffee. Her voice could have stirred the Marquis de Sade from his grave. I gave her an extra large and didn't charge her for it. I felt compelled to quit the job to have a cup of coffee with her. Later that night when I crawled out of her bed and dragged myself home, I knew that something big was coming, the way old men with trick knees can sense the storm before it arrives. Her lack of nuclear foreboding was addictive and enchanting. She smiled like nothing was wrong. She has that look. I felt like it was all going to be okay. Maya left for New York the next day. I arrived in Athens a week later. Then Maya moved back to LA, and now she is back in New York. My phone bills are more than my rent, but I don't pay rent so that's a poor comparison.
This morning the world is farm-fresh. The Twilight Zone faceless men have assembled reality to perfection-thank you Rod, it meant so much. They work feverishly all night long hauling in raw materials from the Future and building the Now. They have no identity save the ability to create. Now they are hard at work on Now they are hard at work on Now they are hard at work on.... A new manicure from early morning thundershowers adorns the streets and houses- everything is freshly washed. Athens lies in the hilly, forested region of north central Georgia, and on days like today, after a morning thundershower, the heat steams the rain back up into the air. Everywhere is a soft fog like an overgrown patch of Argentinean real estate. Everything feels tropical and sweltering; all you want to do is get some sort of fruity drink and sit on the porch. That's my plan for the day, but first I want some food.
The door bursts open and a streaking out of focus but distinctly human shape rockets across the room with such speed that a second or two elapses before it cools and condenses into the recognizable form of Jimmy. He flops down on the low-rent antique chair to a cloud of feathers screaming out the side of the velveteen pillow. They waft in the still air and slowly swan dive through the thermal of nicotine that hovers near the floor.
"You should open a door, Sil. It's smoky in here."
"Someone was knocking."
"Knocking?"
"Yeah. About an hour ago. When I first got up. There was a pounding on the door."
"Huh."
"So I couldn't open it."
"What if it was me?"
"I wasn't ready yet. I had to load."
He giggles his little Jimmy giggle, which involves an index finger brought to the lips, luxuriantly hovering over them and a downward stare as if perhaps sharing a private joke with his feet. Sometimes the whole ritual is accompanied by a slow shaking of head, but not just now.
"It was good to hang out with you last night man. I was kinda feeling like we never see each other anymore. Which is stupid since we live fifty feet away, but you know with work and all... and your gig."
"Yeah. It was good. I been locked up in here for the past couple weeks." My business card says 1066 productions: we make stuff. Lately it's been light on the make and heavy on the revise. Technical Editing they call it when they outsource. All these strange words. Technical. Outsource. Mostly I sit around all day and bill people for it.
"How is the freelance world?"
"Free. And I mean that. I gotta stop doing favors. That's the problem with this town, I know too many people and can't bring myself to bill them."
Jimmy's eyes are focused on something near the Pleiades and he is nodding and repeating yeah with Buddhist intent. When I stop talking he keeps nodding his head for a minute. "So do you remember anything about last night?"
"It was noisy. And glittering."
"Okay, cool," he practically doubles over shaking his head and laughing, "cause I don't remember much of anything except that I was on a rampage."
"You were in high form. I think you scared the shit out of Scratch."
"Naw. That man ain't scared of anything least of all some punk ass kid like me." He pauses for a minute. "Do you think we'll be that wise when we get that old. Have that weird sage intensity he's got? How old is he anyway?"
"I have no idea. Old enough to know what the word vagabond means."
"You know what I remember him saying at some point? He was talking to Brooke about something...I dunno... they were having their own side conversation and I was saying something inane to you and I remember hearing him say to her 'I do the best I can not to worry about things. Summers days are here. I have never known where I'm going, but here I am.' It blew my mind. Some people could have said that and I would have slapped them, but from him... shit. He hates poetry because he's living it."
"He hates poetry?"
"Yeah that's what he said. I just kinda looked at him. I went over to his bookshelf and there was William Carlos Williams. I didn't say anything. I just pulled it off the shelf and read the famous one...no way was I going to read something cleverly obscure... he's too old to stand for that kinda pretension..." Jimmy jumps up and grabs the William Carlos Williams sitting on my bookshelf. He flips through it for a minute and then reads aloud.
"This is just to say"
"I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast"
"Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold"
He smiles at the page, it's in on something, caught in some private joy and his shoes. Jimmy reads with neither the amateurishness nor pretension that have driven poetry readings to the far corners of New England. His voice is a plum. He swallows, "do you realize that that poem is everything I've ever wanted and never found?" He tosses the book back on the table and doesn't say anything else.
Jimmy reads like James Joyce wrote. There is nothing to say. Do you realize that that poem is everything I've ever wanted and never found? We sit in silence. I put my feet up on the coffeetable and am embarrassed by the noise.
Chloe strolls in a few moments later, dog in tow, right in the middle of the silence that follows Jimmy's restoration of sense in the universe. Chloe has thin lips like 1965 white walled radial TA's fresh off the showroom floor, painted red to match a rising coronary sun. She suffers from arthritis at the tender age of - too many cigarette years spent clutching darts and nervously twirling hair around her naked ring finger. She's wearing jeans and cowboy boots.
I am very popular in the compound because I have the only shade. I am several measurable degrees cooler until about three in the afternoon when trees or no trees the air is on the edge of barking flames. So mornings happen here and then we head for a nice apartment complex with a pool or a caf with air conditioning. Not that I mind the heat. The heat is tolerable, it's the oil that bothers me. The humidity expels a continuous slick of grease from the pores, as if cellular oil tankers were constantly wrecking all over your body.
"James. Sil. Looking like you boys had a nice evening." She sits on the couch next to me and raises an eyebrow to encourage storytelling, but I remain silent and Jimmy mutters something about jazz.
"Oh. I see. Well. I had another bad date."
Chloe loves bad dates. She prefers to go out with men she finds both visually disgusting and mentally challenged. "This one had a tattoo of a chicken on his calf that jiggles when he flexes it, which of course he just had to show me in the middle of dinner by standing up and putting his leg on the table." She chuckles. "There is absolutely no shame in your brains, you know that don't you?"
"I love you Chloe, but your generalizations do not include me." Jimmy stands up. "I'm going to work on the Falcon."
"See." The white walls grin triumphantly.
I close the door behind Jimmy and pour myself a glass of water.
"Are you drinking wine in the morning? In this heat?"
"It's not that hot in here."
"Yes, but at some point you will have to face the outside world where it is hot."
"I guess. But it's not wine. It's water."
"Oh. Well, if you get some wine tell me, I'd like to have a glass."
"But it's over a hundred outside."
"Sil it's wine. We all have our weaknesses. You really shouldn't put water in wine bottles, it teases me in uncomfortable ways that force me to confront yearnings and desires my young mind tries desperately to avoid. I went to catholic school you know." Impish smile. But she didn't really. She just likes to say it and then smile impishly.
I got sick of running out of cold water in the Brita and I had all these empty wine bottles so one day I washed one of them out and filled it up with water. But that proved insufficient because inevitably, in my laziness, I didn't fill it up again right away. I have to get the funnel you know, and it's too much effort when you just want a glass of water at three in the morning to wash down the egg sarnie you fried up in a drunken, desperate, last ditch effort to not wake up with a pounding headache the next morning. Right then all you want is a tall refreshing glass of water that tastes like a French girl you once saw standing in the doorway of some terracotta apartment building with a luxurious courtyard of ferns and fig trees and clay pots full of honey, all of which you never noticed because you were transfixed by the French girl who was actually a Polish immigrant who moved to Paris just two months earlier to work for an internet design firm. That's the kind of water you want with that bacon egg and cheese burrito. Or with tomatoes and maybe potatoes too. Maybe all sorts of leftover vegetable that ordinarily might be tossed out but appear edible and even lovely to your teetering, alcohol soaked, three in the morning eyes. So I decided to up the number of bottles. This way the filling, while more cumbersome and time consuming when done, can be done with much less frequency. Two bottles sufficed until a week ago when the same tragedy occurred concerning a glass of water that this time was intended to taste like cuddling Eskimos, but ended up far too warm and straight from the tap to ever conjure Eskimos and now I have three bottles which I just refilled yesterday afternoon and so will taste however I desire.
"Have you ever heard Jimmy read?"
"You mean like read out loud? No. Do people still do that?"
"Yeah some of them. You should hear him some time."
"Okay. I will" She turns sideways and throws her legs up on the arms of the couch. Chloe is as tall as I am and she occupies the entire couch. I take refuge in the chair.
"What should we do today?" Chloe lights a Camel.
"Try to take over the world."
"Oh how witty." Fluttering of the eyes. "Which, when you think about it, is all we've really got. But no. What would we do once we took over?"
"I don't know. Sit back and tell everyone they're free."
"Maybe. But, don't you think we'd be corrupted by the system and we'd want to cling to our pathetic little construction of power?"
"I like to think not."
"Yeah well I don't think most people grow up saying 'mommy I want to be a despot when I grow up.'"
"I bet Idi Amen did."
"Maybe.
"Can't you see a little Idi Amen chopping grasshoppers heads off and scheming designs on the birds while he's played outside his hut or whatever. The kind of scheming that's cute in three-year-olds."
Chloe's head collapses back when she laughs, and it's a guttural laugh, but high pitched and her left arm twitches a little when she really gets rolling, but right now it doesn't because she only chuckles and then her head snaps back forward. "Yeah I can see that. But I was thinking maybe we could get a jigsaw puzzle or something."
"A jigsaw puzzle?"
"Yeah. Why not?"
"Frustrating. Very very frustrating."
"But fun because you're struggling."
"Maybe."
"Well I'm going to go to K-mart and get a jigsaw puzzle and you're going to help me with it."
"Okay, but I'm not going to K-mart, florescent lights scare me."
"I understand. I'll be back in a bit."
Scratch used to sing "you got to get behind the mule every morning and plow" when he was hunting around the fridge for coffee grounds. The "fridge" was an old icebox that Scratch had found on the side of the road and patched up. When he drank too much and passed out before sundown, he'd forget to restock it. The melted remnants of yesterday's block of ice would eventually force open the door and the bag of coffee would go sliding across the kitchen floor, skittering to all kinds of strange places. "You got to get behind the mule every morning and plow" Scratch used to sing when he looked for the bag. When he invariably found the coffee lying in the farthest crack, he would squat down and scoot it along the floor over to the table, laughing and singing "...every morning and plow..." He would do this little dance, all crooked and insane. I lived with Scratch for a while after Dean left. He had a bad knee that made his dancing comical. I used to sit there and watch him do that hypnotic, crooked little dance of his. He would start gyrating at the knees, flopping his arms about while he sang. The first time I saw him do it I thought he was having a seizure the way he convulsed wildly about. In India they teach that dance to snakes and, in the sewers of America, cockroaches feasting on radioactive waste have begun to learn it on their own. Like terrible creatures from a Kafkian nightmare, they sit quietly underground. We go about our lives while they are learning that dance, passing it on to their children, teaching them how to use it. One day a properly evolved cockroach will crawl out of a sewer drain just as the head of state is stepping to the podium to address the nation... devour the president raw as the live internet streams feed the blood soaked scene. The cockroach will scurry to the podium, strain himself to an upright position and address the nation... "Behold I am." He will dance and spin and enchant... the numbers will explode. Scratch was one of kind. Later I found out the line is a Tom Waits lyric.
I am sitting outside the caf smoking and sweating. It's two days hotter. Jimmy pulls up in the Falcon, all grinning like he's getting away with something. He is freshly shaven; he looks like a Unix cultist. He has close shaven hair and thick framed, black, sixties style glasses, but he's more gearhead and really he's neither geek nor gearhead. He revs the engine a few times before getting out. He's wearing a greasy, oil-stained jumpsuit and racing gloves. He leaves the motor running and sits down at the table with me.
I have been occupied with trying to reconstruct Jimmy's descriptions of Williamsburg and Brooklyn in my head, trying to assimilate a whole city from them, trying to put Maya in them, but she won't fit. Unfortunately, Up There will have nothing to do with Down Here, they dance and dance, but Up There can never get her hands into Down Here's pants. I give up. Even Jimmy says he can't remember what living in New York was like and he's only been back a year. I've never lived there, just a handful of visits, weeks here and there, but I'm moving someday. I try to picture Maya running down the street to greet me-her with that Breakfast at Tiffany's smile.
"I installed a four barrel carburetor after I left your place the other day...increased power," he grins at me, but the grin fades to a sheepish curl. "You want to get some lunch?"
It's nearly dinner, but maybe that's only time speeding up. There is a plethora of food not five feet from where we are sitting, but I want to go for a ride in the Falcon. The custom headers he installed last week make it roar like a primordial beast-something slinky and covered with scales that crawled out of the Ford plant back when great steel dinosaurs ruled the land. A beautifully sleek environmental nightmare in the midst of disposable soda cans on wheels. Jimmy wants to drive. Heads turn at every corner, herbivores gawking at the revving, roaring carnivores with a mixture of admiration, envy and fear. The Falcon howls from a standstill to breakneck speed, the force neatly ashing my cigarette in the process. The impenetrable jungle across the road steams like a freshly washed beggar, thick kudzu itches at elms and maples. The Japanese revenge on the Americans who chased them around the South Pacific jungles. War stories are always set in jungles this century-New Guinea, Cambodia, Guatemala, Columbia; soldiers march in jungles, hacking vines, contracting microbes unknown. Sultry jungles that should have steamed up history with lovers, sweaty and exhausted, but instead turned to horror and death, and still stink of centipede nibbled bones. Rot. Blurs of grass waving in the wind of cars ahead, shopping centers, mini malls, open fields, bovine genetic research centers next to botanical gardens followed by apartment complexes. The homogenized sanitized landscape of America. I long for the desert, the candyland Gaudi imitated, to roar across the dinosaur bones of Utah, the sandstone caverns harboring the remains of a drip sandcastle youth.
I see you standing in front of the bay window that looks out from the bedroom into the courtyard of your building on Minetta. I watch you from the bed languishing on stained white sheets. You are wearing nothing, leg propped up on the sill, standing and swaying slightly to the beat of a thick base drum. Your flesh is soft milk froth; you walk back to the stove and light a cigarette off the burner, swinging your ass to the music, mainly for my benefit. Do not worry Maya. I am not so far away as memory, I will come to the city soon, but it must be the right moment. Be on edge; be aware. I am letting you grow inside me Maya; I am incubating you for a little while longer so that when you hatch it will be like stepping into a cage with lions, no club, no gun, only naked and trembling.
Jimmy is heading out of town, down farther, we pass signs for the interstate, and he turns in the opposite direction. Neither of us speaks, the stereo does not work. There is only the rush of humid air. The wind carving in violent eddies around the side mirrors, a primitive whistling tune, the first amplified song-telegraphs heard in the distance, coming from far on the other side of the rockaway-wind blasting down ancient conifers and cycads, dusty meteor backdrafts carving fresh sandstone into parabolic arches that begin far below the surface. My oldest memory is of walking down a trail in Canyonlands National Park. I am singing a song as I walk, but I'm not really walking, I'm on my father's shoulders. He is walking and I am singing a song with him and my mother. We are hiking down from the mesa tops to the Green River, I can see the clumped fringes of the junipers, smell fecund woodrot and fresh desert air, feel the bruised and sullen thunderheads in the sky above me as I bounce and sway with my father's lurching downhill gait, but I can't make out the words or identify of the song. I just have the fuzzy outlines of it all. Memories shrouded in gauze and muslin, filters that color and tone the past with the palate of the present. Mexico City: I remember Mexico City in a hazy, brown, discolored way, but it's not the smog-scenes of dust, carbon excrement overlaying each other-a photomontage of choking, exhausted skies. In flickering stills, twenty four frames per second, here and there a frame or two missing, little glitches...jagged cut to a subway shot, brown faces black hair ... lay on top an image of pyramid excavation, digging up to solve the Mayan Caper... years ago, you understand... she was standing right next to me and then...a warm, sweet smelling cab and my father said, "Hey, look-a Kentucky Fried Chicken," a kaleidoscope of disappointment and guilt... the shock of fried chicken. Everything focusing into the sun; burnt in fantastical visions-not fear in the sense of a threat, much worse, a lingering in the back of the mind occasionally eliciting a paralysis that haunts indefinitely, then fades again in the face of day to day activities-it's all going to stop someday.
It's a fear that leaves you like a woman I saw once, stone still, shell-shocked, and stuck in the middle of an enormous red rock arch in Canyonlands. She was paralyzed on a narrow strip of sandstone, a fragile bridge hundreds of feet in the air. The digging hooks of unbridled terror had burned into her brain and created a spellbinding feedback loop that forbade her to move. It's a fear that anchors your mind back in the primate body because you feel, you cannot rationalize it away. It rips you out of the very fabric of collective reality and propels you into strange space where there is only you. I watched her stuck there, unable to help herself, no doubt staring at the four-hundred foot drop-off on both sides of her and the meager four-foot wide sandstone arch that held her frail existence in place. Suspended in mid-air, she saw herself for the first time the way we are: naked, cold and deathly afraid.
"Here in Mexico City there is no Kentucky Fried Chicken, maybe Kentucky Fried Cat, Kentucky Fried Dog, but definitely no Kentucky Fried Chicken," the cab driver smiles crooked piano key teeth, gold caps and black octaves over moist gums that crawl down hiding the strings. He sternly advises against eating there.
It's near dark and another lazy thunderstorm drifts in from the southwest. The clouds are somber and premature darkness closes over the world. Could easily be the Northeast-New York- Brooklyn-fall-the East River slips by without a sound, the streets corral throngs of people-onlookers too drunk to remember what they are there to look at. They lurch out of bars and bounce against doorways like grenades rolled out on the street. Inside the steel doors, a reserve of surplus energy is released in muscular spasms that pulse rhythmically-her breasts pool salt onto my tongue. Her flesh is hard and metallurgic, turning brittle under my hands. The fear is slowing slipping out of her, out of the sewers, up celestial heights, among the eagles, the screaming eagles, hovering like 1910 bankers awaiting the thief. The tape is endless, looping across eons, cultures, genetic hardwired connections to the galaxies, interstellar abbreviations of life. Cool hard water distills in my mouth and then she falls from my arms like a collapsing supernova and I am cast down a tube, a tunnel, endlessly falling, clattering off the walls, building speed in a vacuum with no terminal velocity. Reach out for limbs, for human hands to catch me.... Scream and there is no sound; settle in, the twinkling light shining above. Surrendered eternity forever to remain here now and then the light goes dim... the taxis in Times Square... An auburn haired girl I loved in seventh grade... Radio broadcasts of unknown origin pulling down the multiverse's own information superhighway at a genetic tilt, coming across the galaxy without static, pure unadulterated signal, and, through it all, ash keeps falling. Fragments of history written on burnt paper and cast about in a hurricane. Whitewashed ceilings hanging low and ominous.... Bubble-headed figures crawling like the Michelin Man across an insurmountable mountain of tires, wounds agape, thick clumps of oil leaking from his mouth. And the autistic child pointing at you, laughing, unable to fathom how you cling to your definitions. Must delineate between abnormality and those of us who.... breeding like rats unconsciously conscious and aware of our disorganization. Cold fusion dreams of the anarchist are breeding in the minds of the oilmen. The continual settling of dust weighing down...the Mayan priest laboring slowly up endless steps.... Kevlar definitions constructed to make a better shampoo. Squander your paperbacked slavery bills. After all these years Tide still gets your socks whiter. It's a wonder ...that they aren't transparent by now ...that evolution did not anticipate the advent of the opposable thumb.... The unopposable domination of the thumb, leading to an insect superiority, mating rituals stolen from a textbook on damselflies ...darning needles, sewing shut your lips. Shit from the sky. Taxman comes for your baby. Unpaid balance. You understand. Nothing personal, just doing our job. Same as the next guy. From Auschwitz on down the line. The puncture wounds... Only taking orders you understand, just doing our job from Independence on down the line. A sad money grubbing hunter gathers up his children and thanks his gods they are his and he their god. Only taking orders you understand. Got a family to feed.
And then the dirt driveway. Shifting to park. The keys slide from the ignition. The last crackle of radio. Pop. Hiss. Silence. Open the doors. Crush out the cigarette. End transmission.
TWO
Blinking fire flies-twenty four frames per second-do da do dada-roosting-hear we go again- charred steel drooping-sniffing-bagpipes wheezing-stuttering the future-glistens and sparkles by design-can you hear-the morning line-the polyphony-new everyday-falling off your tongue-was it good for you?
It's huge and it looks like nothing. Just tiny flecks of color dissected into purposefully nonlinear shapes. It's maddening. It looks like nothing and it's everywhere. All over the porch, scattered on the kitchen table, and some still in the box. There are baggies with tape and cyptic markings indicating things about what will go into the baggies. There is a taxonomy of chaos at work here, a kind of organization forming out of the primordial color-flecked soup of cardboard. It will still look like nothing when it's fully assembled, when the taxonomy has made the inevitable trudge from system to working explanation, and this of course delights Chloe to no end. Even when it's done we will have to sit back and stare at it with out-of-focus eyes to see what it is.
We are sitting on the edge of the porch and it is behind us. Looking at it was giving me a headache. We haven't said a word. She gets up and goes to the fridge for beer.
"What did you do today?" Chloe gives me a beer and sits back down. She straightens the hem of dress across her knees and rubs at some unaccounted for redness on her elbow.
"Nothing. Played myself in backgammon."
"Did you win?"
"I'm not sure. It's hard to tell."
Annie is running circles around the tree with her characteristic antelope bounding. Dogalope. She seems to believe she has treed a squirrel. Chloe twists the cap off her beer and throws it at Annie. She swallows and leans back away from me studying the phrenology of my close-cropped scalp. "Don't you get lonely dating someone in New York?"
"I guess so. I mean it wasn't always that way."
I drift off watching Annie huffing and digging at some sort of rodent hole.
"Yeah I know. But you could move there."
Whatever is down the hole has become a quest. Perhaps a rabbit. Maybe a gopher. Or some other burrowing type animal I've never heard of.
"No. I can't afford it. Besides, I like the woods." a moment later I change my mind. Actually it was always this way. Or was it? If it was then is it? If it is then was it? If the gopher is down the hole, was the gopher ever not down the hole? If the gopher is not down the hole, was he ever down the hole? Can I say for sure whether one or the other is true? Or is it simply that the gopher changes of its own volition and I can only guess at it's secrets?
When I snap to for a cigarette Chloe is clearly expecting an answer.
"What?" With nervous guilt.
"Have you listened to anything I've been saying?"
"No." Less nervous, increased guilt.
"See?"
"What?"
"Exactly." She leans her head on my shoulder. "Sil I was trying to explain that I know I'm deliberately avoiding intimacy by only going out with men that repulse me, but I can't bring myself to risk anything anymore."
"Oh."
A cascading silence ebbs in. Crickets. June Bugs. Cardinals. Squirrels. Mosquitoes.
"Risk. Is that what it is?"
"Of course. And its silly, but I fear it. I really do. It's not even that I fear it, well, I don't know. In my mid twenties I went through that cynical phase, you know, where I just wanted to get laid and stay single and have my freedom or whatever. And sure I went to my friend's weddings and I acted happy and everything, but inside it hurt me to see them give up. To settle into the same suburbia we tried to get out of, or at least I thought we we're trying to get out of." Chloe purses her lips, juts out the lower one and half blows half spits a stray clump of hair back up toward its brethren which are pulled back in a loose, and apparently somewhat ineffectual, ponytail.
"I lived like a 60's astronaut." She laughs. "And now that nearly everyone I know has gotten married or at the very least is so obsessed with their career-whatever the fuck that word means-I find myself alone. Don't take that the wrong way Sil, you know I love you. And James. And Scratch. And everybody else too. But I feel like the last woman on the moon. I feel like there was supposed to be more. I feel like saying, 'I feel like there was supposed to be more' shouldn't be such a clich. Kinda reinforces the original sentiment."
"Maybe there really did use to be more."
"You believe that?" Her skeptic eyes are measuring.
"Does it matter?"
"Maybe. But all this is just abstraction, what I started out to say was that I don't fear intimacy, I fear lack of independence. But I'm thirty now and I already know I'm not going to do anything with my life. I don't think I'm going home. I think I'm the last woman on the moon and I'm waving off the lander. Go home. I'm staying. I like it here. You know what the first thing an astronaut said the first time the orbited the moon? He said 'well, it's pretty gray.' It's pretty gray, Sil. It's pretty fucking gray. I'm trying to come to terms with the world not living up to my ideals and this asshole orbiting the moon says it's pretty fucking gray. Fuck him." Chloe wraps her hands around her legs pulling them tight to her chest and rests her cheek on her knees.
"He had an impoverished imagination."
Her head snaps up. "Life is a collision of imagination and observation Sil. He fucking failed."
"Maybe."
"No Sil. He failed. He was one of about thirty people that have seen the moon up close and all he got out of it was that it's gray. He fucking failed."
"You're assuming that gray meant nothing to him, but what if his grandmother had gray eyes and that was the one memory that came back to him when he was overwhelmed by being that close to the moon."
She rests her cheek on her knee again and rocks back and forth for a minute before speaking. "You're sweet Sil. You always defend people and want to think the best about them. I love you for that. In spite of the fact that deep down you're cynical too. But you try and that's what I love about you." Chloe stands and turns to go inside and fix lunch. She looks down at me with eyes I don't remember. "You know I once cried so hard I swallowed a moth." And she walks inside without another word.
After a while I follow her into the kitchen. Annie trots behind sniffing invasively at my butt. "Need help?"
Chloe shakes her head. I sit down at the table and try to ignore the puzzle pieces screaming at me in tinny squeals: we all fit together. We all fit together. We all fit together.
Chloe is chopping shallots with more force than is necessary, I can see her tricep flexing as her arm rapidly minces the shallots. "I was supposed to go out with this guy. This was junior high. Maybe high school. No junior high. Anyway we were supposed to ride our bikes to the park in the evening and he never showed up and I waited and waited. I was so in love with this guy. So at about 10 o'clock I'm out on the porch-sobbing now." She stops cutting and turns toward me. "You know those huffing snorting kind of sobs that women have when they're really upset? Hyperventilating sobs." She briefly demonstrates and ends up snorting like a warthog with emphysema. It's tragic and not a little bit funny. "And I was chewing gum. I always used to chew gum. So I'm in the rocking chair sobbing, arms around my knees... this is so pathetic... I inhaled a moth somehow and before I realized it I chewed him right into my gum. It was crackly at first, but then more like chewing feathers."
Her attention returns to the shallots. "I had a lot of disturbing, uh, incidents in childhood. I used to kidnap cats when I was little."
"Kidnap cats?"
"My parents wouldn't let me have a cat so I would go out and steal them from neighbors. At first I just petted them you know. Then I got one to follow me home. I felt like he loved me more than his owners and I cried when my parents took him home. I was probably seven or eight when this happened. After that I went farther from home, several blocks away where I knew my parents wouldn't know whose cat it was and they would have to post signs, found: cat. That sort of thing so, you know, I would have the cat for longer."
"Right."
"But these cats wouldn't follow me home. Too far I guess. So I would save my lunch money and on the way home from school I'd stop at Circle K and buy myself a slushy and Moon Pie and can of cat food. Then I'd ride my bike past my house, way back into the subdivision and lure cats home by dragging the cat food on a string behind my bike. One time I pulled into my driveway with three cats running behind me."
"You were a cat rustler."
"Yeah you know maybe that was the Texan coming out. Got to steal animals... I don't know. But one time after my parents had posted found cat signs and stuff this old lady came to our house to pick up her cat and she was so excited that I had found her cat she gave me twenty dollars, which, when we were kids was a lot of money. And bells went off in my head. So then I started kidnapping the cats for profit. I mean when I could. I tried to pick cats that looked pampered or that were sitting in front of old lady houses. You know lots of papers collecting on the porch. Beat up seventies sedans. I was pretty good at casing the block and finding the old lady cats. When they would come over I'd put on a cute little dress and smile and play dumb and they would give me a reward. One month I made $200. That's when my parents caught on."
"What'd they do?"
"Bought me a cat."
"Smart."
"Yeah, but by then I didn't want one."
Chloe has made a variation of a salad Scratch taught her how to make. Chloe can take an already good idea and transform it into something even better than it was. She is a shallot among onions. We eat spoonfuls of tuna tartar on toasted bread crusts and sip now warm beer. We sit under the tree away from the screaming puzzle, on what passes for a lawn. Here and there are tufts of grass, but mainly it's dirt, good digging dirt. Later we take the dishes inside and head off to the river. After a few cookie-cutter suburbs and a quick duck along the side of a house, sneaking over the back fence, heaving the dog and all, a shortcut Jimmy found a few months back, we join the river trail. Annie is fifty yards ahead darting about sniffing, endless sniffing, there must be a whole universe of smell that we never experience owing to evolutionary prioritizing, specialization, some such idea, certainly there seems enough to drive her insane with smell lust. We stick to the trail along the river's edge, walking absently, single file, paying little attention to each other. About half a mile's walk from the bridge where the road crosses the river, there is a rocky outcropping that juts out to the middle of the Oconee. Ever since the first warm days of spring we have been walking down here and lying on this rock, shirtless, basking in the sun like pink fleshy lizards. It's beautiful here, trees in bloom, sun warm and bright, air thick with river humidity, birds chattering in the bushes. Dragonflies flit in the middle of the sun-drenched stream; water striders dart about in pockets of glassy water stagnant from the sheltering rocks and fallen tree limbs. It is nothing but beautiful here, except that it's ugly. The old growth forests are gone, the river polluted with old tires, plastic baggies, and pesticides, and the sky choked with dirty brown haze and crisscrossed by streaking jet contrails. Still if you lie down and close your eyes, listen to the water and the insects and the birds and carefully edit out the cars back on the bridge, it sounds Mesozoic. It sounds inviting and warm. Careful editing. It's something you learn from film or television, you know just when to turn, just when to cut, just when to fade out, when the sunset imperceptible begins to wan, when the moment has reached apex, when the crescendo is tapering, and you turn away, spin the dial, change the channel. The couple is standing on the bluff with the setting sun behind them, maybe it's a tight shot, their faces two stories high and her moist lips backlit by a heart attack red in the sky, gentle purple clouds between their lips. The circle swooping pelicans and power lines and passing cars have been excluded from our view, or maybe it's a medium shot, from the waist up, them leaning on the black iron railing, the tops of the bluff in the distance keep your eyes from drifting off into the curtains, they draw you in, and the heart attack and the purple, she purses her lips so you know they are wet, inviting, soft. Maybe it's a long shot, they are smaller yet, only shadows now, happening against a background of pelicans and power lines and foreshortened cars passing in front; they are background now, noise around the edges of the scene, and yet they pull you forward, you demand the camera move in, you want it so badly, you want to be closer, you want to move in microscopic close-ups, the pores of her skin, the follicles of his stubble, the cracks of lipstick, the oil in their glands, the beautiful flaws they must have. Maybe they are shot from a boom, from above because you are better than them, you know their isolation is illusory, you sense them as you sense a computer is on the instant you step into a room, and you never forget that light is projected, your imagination drifts to dust in the beam, floating particles, they are part of the story too, because it is the same story, it is the only story, the only story there will ever be, the only story there is, forcing you to take it all in, to see everything-polluted and pure in one breath without looking. And Maya, where are you breathing? I am coming to you in a sweeping pan. In a long, low-flying, forward-looking shot that sweeps in, skimming over the Bronx, tenement bricks and children playing in empty lots, a bottle rocket shoots up and away, and across the river in a blink, the coughing brownstones of Harlem, then straight over the park, panning down with no foresight now, blindly buildings pass faster and faster and then sweeping up, screaming higher up and slowly falling over, a barnstorming backward loop and then diving down in jerky frames of cloud, distant skyscrapers, and a close up falling, down the bricks of a building fourteen stories high to the window on the north side of the third floor. And she is backlit by the evening sun reflected in the mirror, and it is too bright to see clearly, she is a shadow and then we move up again, gliding now like a bird, a falcon, a peregrine falcon roosting among the high rises of Wall Street, setting off hunting, skimming the wires and cables of the Manhattan Bridge, down Flatbush Avenue over the fire escapes of Seventh and First where one day, years from now, it might all make sense, dipping down to see the soft caressing bars of the railing where we will play games in the hot sun and laugh and not know what has become of ourselves but like where we come from, from these long running memories that look beautiful in the dark velvet draped room where no one is looking as the camera sweeps out now, over Coney Island, the lapping waves, and then finally the mouth of the river and only the endless rippling of sea, skimming closer, swells merging into one continuous mass that screams the same story again. We all fit together. We all fit together. We all fit together.
THREE
Slice life like bread gets stale faster-music gets rid of voice-guitar retires- faster newer smaller stuff-emotional plague hits west coast-thousands lost-Mayan caper inferred-ancient city found-new reality tunnel finished-down the driveway-next to the old rabbit hole-heads on tails-significantly more anxious-needed every day-sweeter than this-
Jimmy is sweeping the porch as I stroll up, his thin frame lost in a dusty cloud. He stops and coughs a minute or two. The haze settles a bit. He takes off his glasses and wipes them on the inside of his shirt. He is covered in dust with eyes ringed lemur white. Jimmy is a carpenter. A post-graduate carpenter because sawdust is more complex than the simple stuff of library shelves. Sawdust is soft tallow, a malleable tonic, and open to further disintegration, wood chips from rough planing, smaller particles expelled from whirling blades, the sugary whisper of dust expelled from sandpaper. Libraries have only one flavor of dust. Human debris. Tiny flecks of shedding skin accumulating around the glacial increase of perfect-bound knowledge, the decay of people, slowly falling apart in alphabetic lives. Sawdust is the evolution of form. Termites eat sawdust. Destruction and digested rebirth. Jimmy builds things with his hands. Sometimes pocked, slapshod things, framing and roofing to restore dilapidated houses. Once he spent two weeks digging in the crawlspace of a cinderblock shotgun house, thinking the whole time it was going to fall and squash him with the cockroaches and rats that scurried over his legs. His more exciting projects are the highly skilled woodworking ones-the gorgeous black walnut wine cellar he built last fall. He took me over to see it when it was done, sanded down to 220 grit, satin and specular, obsidian. It lives in the basement of a restaurant owner. It harbors vintage grapes from around the world behind its temperature-controlled, walnut-framed, glass doorway. There is a vacuum fan to suck out the dust and a once-a-week maid to free those particles too stubborn for wind.
In the process of building things, Jimmy goes in and out of many people's houses, under them, on top of them, and once, accidentally, through one of them. He sees an endless variety of lives revealed in collectibles, faded magazines, dolls, signs of defunct companies, pictures of children, vacations, friends, works by artists known and unknown, technological gadgets galore, and once, accidentally, his own contribution to an otherwise ornate living room-a ceiling, a fan, and a Jimmy deposited by gravity on a nice wooden coffee table covered with miniaturized food which had been set up for a dinner party. Jimmy invades people's lives. But they invite him in. And pay him for the invasion. Sometimes they pay him in things rather than money. Today he came home with a truck full of castoff furniture he has accumulated over the last several months. He has been storing it in his parents' garage, but now he is taking the plunge toward permanence, toward admitting residence. His truck is piled high with heavy objects, a sofa, a table, several chairs, a pinball machine recovered from his parents garage, and boxes of records that are too scratched to play.
"The only one I know for sure works is this Dylan album." He pulls out Blonde on Blonde.
"Never heard it."
"Really? Shit man. This is perhaps the greatest album ever made. I mean I might say that if I were the sort of person who said such things. Of course it's not true, but it is. Possibly. You have got to listen to it."
"No record player."
"Oh I have it on CD. Remind me."
As we unload the furniture Jimmy talks about Bob Dylan. When Jimmy is on a roll, it's best to just settle in and listen. He doesn't talk, he orates. There is no space in the conversation, no silence into which you might interject your own thoughts. Nor is there any discussion until he finishes the initial thought, and by the time you've let that one sink in, he's off on another. Eventually they pile up on each other, an enormous anthill, and you can only stand back and admire the scurrying echoes of his verbal architecture.
He has the history of Dylan seemingly wired to his tongue. He knows things about Dylan that Dylan doesn't know. He can do the same thing with jazz musicians that were dead before either of us were born.
"That album man, you have got to get that one...." He gives me this intense look as if my very life depends on it. "Whew. Man. It's the most amazing thing you have ever heard...again, if I were prone to making definitive statements like that, which I'm not. But, still it's incredible, a man at his most honed, unselfconsciously sharpened point, pure honesty, just telling it the way it is, and you know it is because you've been through the same things in your own life, or you can see them coming down the road. Ya know? It's Dylan just laying it all out on the table and you know that he's been there because you've been there too. That's what I'm trying to say. We've all been there and that is the underlying thing on the whole album, I mean fuck the music-well no, because it's great too-but you know what I mean? Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands... you have got to hear that man, you have got to hear that song." We put down an enormous toolbox in the middle of the living room. "And the images, man the fucking images, you can't fake images with that kind of power. They aren't just words cleverly strung together, it isn't some bullshit cleverness strung out on a hook, lying in wait for some beret to bite or anything of that sort. To sing what he does, whew, man," he blows a long slow exhale of admiration. "You have to feel it. You have to fucking feel it. Otherwise..."
"Otherwise you wouldn't feel it."
"Exactly." He smiles eyeing the toolbox, "I think I'll just use this as a coffee table. Is that too white trash gearhead? To have a toolbox as a coffee table? I broke up with what's her name you know. She's crazy. Or I am. There was something crazy about us. It didn't work. The point is if I have a toolbox as a coffee table I'm going to stay single, that much is clear. But is it going to hamper my getting laid? Is it a little too much? Do I need to soften the room a bit? Something that will make a woman more at ease?
"Chloe won't be over."
"She's not over now. She hangs out at your place. She only comes over here when she's out of weed."
"I don't think having a toolbox in the middle of your living room will effect your getting laid at all. I mean, if you actually get a girl back here, I'd say she's already into you. Or she's too scared to run."
"Hey now."
"I just mean, you know, when you drive in here at night... hell I expect to get killed every time I come home. Its all dark and foresty back here. We all live in the serial killer's house. Think about it, Jason started in cabins in the woods. Every late night skinnemax movie has one of these places in it."
"Hey maybe we could make some cash letting low-budge films shoot around here."
"Maybe. But the point is you're better off going to her house anyway."
"Yeah."
We drink beer and unload furniture. Jimmy keeps going back to Dylan every time we're standing at the tailgate because the record is sitting on top of the box and he avoids the box in favor of much heavier, bulkier items. A glass table for the kitchen. A bookshelf in one corner. An antique pinball machine with the tilt alarm blinking stupidly as we half drag half carry it inside. He rediscovers the album every return trip. But Dylan is only the launch pad, there is only so much one can say, from there he slings out along the Saturn line shouting down echoes of the view. His eyebrows arch up when he tries to talk and lift something at the same time. When he's not carrying something, his arms dice up the air trying to drive his point home. His voice leads out the door down the steps and back to the album.
"I'm telling you, you have got to hear that album. I can't believe you lived this long without hearing that album. But it's not just an album. It's a verb, an act in which the artist connects with the audience and transcends this kind of stale artificial reality that says we're all separate and individual and what not. We're hung up on this individuality kick you know, the freedom to do your own thing. You only go so far. Your mind maybe infinite but your body is not. That's the essential mystery maybe. And we need community to go further. And I don't mean some West Virginia hippy crap kind of community. I mean meaningful relationships with other people. And not just like-minded people, because that's the clause that's often at the end of that line. You need to know people you hate. People that make you cringe. People that stir violence in you. You need them. You need them because you are them. Them is you. Ugly and sweet."
It is one of those Octavio Paz nights where the sky speaks Spanish and looks surly, doubly purple its usual self, and the stars are a Navaho sand painting stretched across the ceiling of the world. Serpentine eels wiggling around in the electrical storm of the mind. Lightening strikes somewhere, a thought in an architect's head, suspension bridge wires, wink and smile.
The Falcon roars. It is our fading youth, but not middle aged or mid-twenties crisis sort of fading youth. Such things having come and gone with the uncomfortable realization that nothing ever happens. Tall buildings are raised. Then razed. You go on. You don't want to. You want it to be painful, you want it to be so fucking gloriously painful it makes you cry. But it doesn't. And even if it did, what then? Space changes. Time fluctuates. But it plods on, the purr and growl of cylinders roaring, then settling, then roaring. In the intermittent silence of shifting gears the questions loom, perhaps it is all a lie and you are alone, perhaps the questions are only slow, insidious dribbles of propagandacid trickling from your oil filter, leaving thick meaningless splotches on the asphalt, a slow drain needing only a new filter. Perhaps you are sitting in the machine, on the machine, perhaps the machine is you, the acceleration an extension of femur to tibia, to talus, to phalanges and fading slowly from flesh and bone to leather and rubber, and then metal rods, a cable snaking through the firewall, an exposed and surprisingly flimsy extension from mind to throttle in one unbroken line, room for silence only in the space between sole and accelerator.
Downtown. The Manhattan. We are in the Manhattan. There are drinks on the table, drinks poured in the mismatched helter-skelter collection of glasses used to transfer the goods into the service. Jimmy is talking, no longer his animated self, a brief pause, his second wind will kick in soon. He is saying things quietly. Excuses I believe. Excuses for the excuses that have grown weary of dragging around. He feels nothing is getting done and he knows why. It isn't going to get done. Lullabies. Turn the page. When you look in his eyes, his moving lips, they look just like yours, how you imagine yours to look, how yours must look when you spit out your own excuses for the excuses that are excusing things you perhaps ought not to have been trying to do in the first place and you wonder if people look at your teeth when you talk or do they look at your eyes with the arrogance of complacency and contentment, watching smugly as your teeth begin to fall out, and you chew them, bleeding gums, torn lips and chunks of tooth choking back the words.
And all the while the shuffling of indie rock feet scuffing from door to bar, the awkward brush of corduroy pants, the stealthy screaming fibers of too tight t-shirts stretching to meekly collect drinks and shuffle off to a corner table. But we are in the corner table. We have your corner table. You are in the open now. You are exposed. All of you. We're staring at you. Do you feel on stage? Isn't it what you've always wanted? The thing too dangerous to be dreamed, the thing you have denied yourselves for so long. Slouching, weepy-eyed, meekly waiting to inherit? This is what you want. We are giving you the opportunity. You are seizing it, I can see it in your hunched shoulders, the semi-permanent curvature of the spine developed from too many years spent bending over thrift store racks, record bins, eyes squinted from reading the imprints of limited edition vinyl. You will come here soon. Soon the filters will spring leaks. Thick warm liquid will begin to ooze out, cigarette breath grow hotter, hearts sputter, and you will want to feel, you will want so fucking bad to feel. But it doesn't come. It is leaking out from under you, crumbling from the inside. Violent smugness is leaking from drinks, hazardous waste collecting and pooling, seeping across the floor.
Maya has a picture of me. A picture of me which she routinely photoshops with various outfits stolen from other pictures. She dresses me as a cowboy, as a superhero with a mahogany colored cape, as a handyman with a tool belt after I fixed the leak in her sink last summer, as a prizefighter in the ring with Ali after I got thrown out of the Incandescent for beating up the bouncer, as a eurotrash tourist to remind her of my obsessive habit of taking pictures of garbage, in buckskin fringed pants for the time I dragged her off to the mountains to club her and have my way with her, as she requested, the fire crackling with the sizzle of dripping fat from steaks, as a marine for my protective move when the potato exploded and the white hot chunks covered my body instead of hers. She had been using a picture she took of me lying in bed. We were running late to one of our rich daddy dinners with her possibly rich daddy who lives in a mysterious state of fabulously wealthy poverty. Other people's money tastes better.
She was doing her impish young artist act and I was playing along, but trying to reverse things. I have a very peculiar look on my face, one I have never seen before. I have lecherous eyes and my body is a clumsy anticipation of movement. She took the picture the instant before I leapt out of bed and wrestled the camera from her
"My turn."
"Who said anything about turns?"
"Take off your clothes"
"You're unbearable." But. Licorice lips part, half-moon, and she begins to disrobe- trickles of silk and lace sliding down smooth shale arms, rivulets of rye whiskey piling on the floor-nipples like soft serve.
"What-no panties? The pile is incomplete."
"You haven't even kissed me. Shouldn't you be making some kind of move?"
"Move?"
"Yeah. You know seduction, game, something...?"
"We're too old. Just take off your panties."
"Why?"
"Cause your pussy's tired of being caged in panty prison. Its been locked up for too long, it's like Nelson Mandela-end apartheid. End Apartheid!"
"Nelson Mandela? My pussy is Nelson Mandela?"
"Yes Nelson Mandela. Now take off your panties and let that pussy make a speech."
And she did.
Of course I don't have the photographs.
But tonight. After more purring and roaring and a little more drunken careening on the down trip, we are up here. Home again. And there is new email. A photograph of me taken across a table, a checked cloth and jar of syrup apart, I can see her smiling, though it could be any table, any syrup, I can see her smiling, a detached mouth hanging from the lens, a little nymph hanging off her teeth as the shutter whispers.
And here I am all pixilated and dressed in black with a Jesuit wide brim hat. Give me a new religion.
Chloe disrupts the indie rock calm of the Manhattan. She sashays Saturday night with glittering toenails wrapped in heels with more strap than is necessary-excess is best-and the nearly unheard of skirt. Heads turn as heads do whenever the door slams shut behind someone, but then heads snap back to whatever they were doing lest the girlfriend across the table in the paint stained overalls detect a pique of interest-the girlfriends' glitterless scornful glares-you bitch you tramp you whore you porn-enjoying feminism-destroying carnivore...
"Damn girl." Jimmy shits bolt upright when Chloe comes over, "you be looking fine tonight."
Chloe turns red. "I hate this town sometimes. In New York I'd be getting stared at for looking like a librarian."
"No trust me Chloe, New York couldn't miss you tonight. Or maybe New York is missing you tonight."
Our friend Jason the bartender, pulls up a chair and looks Chloe up and down. "You are aware of course that you're upsetting some carefully constructed mopishness here."
"No shit. Sil and I were just about to water down our drinks with a tear or two and suddenly it's a fucking party in here. I mean good lord Chloe I think I might want to sleep with you." Jimmy murmurs the end of his sentence, the top of his half raised bottle and then quickly puts it to his lips before anything less leaks out. But his head tilts to side, eyebrows shoot up and it's plain to see that it's only a joke if Chloe wants it to be.
Her head sinks down a touch and she sighs like someone suddenly exhausted.
"Or play with your breasts or something." He adds after swallowing.
"Jimmy if you are a good boy maybe someday you can play with these babies." She juts her chest out and then bounces her breasts for effect.
Jason the bartender is a mixture of aghast and unbridled lust. "What about me?"
"Actually you have a far better chance than Jimmy, who I was actually lying to just then. And now that I think about it Jason, I'm lying to you too in hopes that maybe you'll bring me another drink." She sucks her straw playfully.
He sighs. "Anybody else need anything?" He leaves to retrieve another round.
"So why were you about to cry in your beer boys?"
"Same reason you dressed up like that."
"But come on its satanic anagram night... you have to dress up for anagrams..."
"Right. I had forgotten about that little adventure..."
Jason returns with three more drinks. "What little adventure?"
This is the part where Chloe is supposed to explain it very innocently, and Jason is supposed to giggle or at least smile, but Chloe hesitates and Jimmy jumps in with a cover story-our anagrams are of dubious legality you see, not to mention ethics or taste or any number of other things.
"Oh we were just talking about going up to some of the party bars and turning it up a notch... there was some discussion of dancing." Jimmy manages to get this all out without a smile and then glues the beer to his lips and takes a long, probably too long, pull. Jason looks unconvinced, but he buys in.
"There's a good DJ tonight at whatever Mean Mike's is now." Most people in Athens refer to establishments by what they used to be before the scene took a dive-with bars coming and going with the semesters, it's hard to keep track of what things are called. The Manhattan on the other hand soldiers on. "You know next week we're having Moroccan night... Ya'll should come. I was skeptical at first but it seems like it might actually be fun. Gonna clear out the tables... get a bunch of pillows and some hucas and maybe even a belly dancer."
Jimmy hunches over in concern, "ya'll aren't going bankrupt are you?"
"No. Not yet. But it's definitively geared toward avoiding that."
"You know what you really need to do is implement the plan." Jimmy tilts his bottle as if toasting some abstraction.
"You love your plan don't you James." Jason weaves slightly in his chair he has a habit of doing what Chloe endearingly calls the body laugh. He wears a blank smile and almost imperceptibly rotates his torso without moving anything below his hips. It's a subtle but brilliant laugh, it makes entire rooms spin with him. Fake candle lights that have been fake flickering above our head suddenly leap out of the wall at me and start a conga line with their arms on each others' backs, kicking their legs out to alternating sides, clogging to the beat of Lola. And then he stops.
"Hey man, I'm telling you, bikini bartenders will draw in a hell of lot more people than Moroccan night or whatever."
"Not if I'm the one in a bikini."
"Hey Jason don't under-estimate yourself. I'd be in here more if you wore a thong." Chloe crosses her legs and grins at him. "But you know this is one of the few towns in the world where sex doesn't seem to sell."
"Girl you be talking crazy." Jimmy screws up his forehead into the self-conscious knot he favors when he attempts to propel himself out of his skin color and into the rainbow world of rants. His arms come up from his sides, called into the service of emphasis, and he launches into a diatribe, volume escalating as he takes off. "Just cause ya'll aren't trying to sell sex does not, emphatically does not, mean that it wouldn't work if somebody in this town had the balls to do it. Look here, all you gotta do is have one night a week with Kelly and Brittany in bikinis-or better yet-no offense to them-you know I love them-they're my girls-but recruit a couple of girls from the club and get them to serve wearing bikinis and this place will be fucking packed," He stands up and sweeps his arm across the room, "I mean look at these guys," he lowers his voice, waves to friend, "these guys are desperate for half-naked female flesh. They can't go down to the club because they'd loose face, but damnit they want to see naked women, and they'll settle for half, everybody wants to see half naked women, half naked women want to see half naked women... I'm for real Jason. And I know what you're gonna say it'll draw in the wrong crowd and that will alienate the cool people and whatever, but shit you only do it one night a week and that pays for the rest of the nights so it can just be a good bar and not end up bankrupt. Or you know what you could do..." he pauses for a minute and studies the conspicuous bamboo thrones chairs-king square backed, queen triangle-as if suddenly mulling over their significance. "What you could do is start a backroom game... Cards man. Get a couple of poker tables, maybe a blackjack table for the amateurs, girls in bikinis serving drinks and making the rounds with the cigarette trays... man that would be so fucking cool and of course you just charge twenty bucks for entrance and keep it real low-key. People would pay twenty dollars to sit in on a nice backroom game. Shit ask Sil people are fighting to get into our game-am I right Sil?-I mean that's what's wrong around here there isn't enough corruption-everything has been sanitized and made PG and damnit the people want R. Fuck it man the people want X, but they can't come out and say it. I mean ferchristsakes you can't even serve on Sunday-what the fuck is that about-it is the twenty first century isn't it? Sometimes I'm walking around downtown on a Sunday night and I have to pull out my checkbook and double-check the year... This town, this whole fucking country is begging for sex, corruption and debauchery. Of course I have to add the caveat that we don't need the racism and sexism and all that shit, but really have we gotten rid of that? Shit man try working construction for a few days, those mutherfuckers are every bit as racist as their daddys' were, they just whisper the jokes to each other now... and the sexism well I guess you could argue that my bikini bartenders idea is a touch sexist, but shit I mean the line between exploitation and enjoyment is a dicey one and frankly I think it would be a good idea to have you in a bikini as well, Jason. Maybe you should just hand them out at the door, everybody could be in bikinis and we could all just sit back and admire each other as the over-sexed, lecherous, debaucherous, and damn good lookin monkeys that we are." Jimmy sinks back down to the cushion-finis.
"It is a plan." Jason deadpans.
"See I like the end where the men are in bikinis... I'm an equal opportunity lecher." Chloe giggles at her own wit.
"Yeah, but," I do a quick survey of the room and then look down at my stomach, "are you sure you want to see a bunch of fat skinny guys in bikinis?"
"Fat skinny guys?" Jason looks at me quizzically.
"People like you and I, who do not, as our lean mean Jimmy over there, work construction or otherwise exercise and have the dreaded slightly pot-bellied body of the fast skinny guy. Scratch being the one who actually caused me to notice the phenomenon."
"Sil you are not fat. Have some respect. How do you think it makes people who really are fat feel when you say you're fat?" Chloe looks at me crossly. Her sister is over-weight. Everyone we actually know is over-weight, only strangers are fat.
"You're missing the point. I'm not saying I'm fat. I'm saying I'm fat for a skinny guy. It's a very important distinction."
Jason heads back to work,, pausing briefly to look at his profile in the mirror hanging between the throne chairs. He looks back at me and smiles and pats his stomach.
"Besides a little stomach is sexy. I wouldn't worry about it until you have handles." Chloe folds her legs up under her, sitting Indian style and lights a cigarette.
Jimmy, who has been silent for a few minutes, suddenly seems to snap back from where ever his mind has been. "Man I was just thinking about something or other... temporarily lost track of where I was and then I noticed Chloe and for a split second between synaptic firings I thought goddamn who is that?"
"Jimmy lay off. I let you get away with it for the novelty, but you're bordering on annoying now."
"Chloe you're lookin' so good I'm thinking maybe we should go for a ride..."
"Alright." She downs the rest of her drink in one long suck. "Yeah let's go for a ride."
It's heaven. No other way to say it. Complete with feathers, though here they are carefully stuffed. Only he-whose-name-may-not-be-uttered knows what divine substance they put on top of this mattress which, in other ways, resembles the one I have, although it's unlikely this one was left behind by a man moving to Australia. This one was purchased in all its consumer glory at some star-spangled mattress dealer-probably in Atlanta-probably by parental units desperate for some way to dispense love to the daughter who is not following the plan.
Whatever the case, the soft billowing pillow-top is the perfect thing to lie on, with your head hanging off the edge, after tying a few on as Jimmy puts it. We three are fallen dominos lying head to toe such that Chloe and I are separated by Jimmy's feet. Chloe has shed the skirt and strappy shoes in favor of sweatpants and converse. We are waiting. Waiting for the witching hour when all satanic things stir and muck about rearranging letters and such. Which is why we have all recently taken an internet quiz to determine which Norwegian Death Metal Band we are. On the stereo...may the good lord... shine a light on you...make every song... your favorite tune...
Darkthrone: Without religion there would be no kinky sex.
Enslaved: Without that strange Norwegian phrase which you didn't understand anyway you wouldn't be Darkthrone.
Darkthrone: Like you know one way or the other. The point to this whole thing- considering tonight's adventure-is that, in spite of mocking religion and yes being somewhat condescending toward it, without it half of the kink in this world would not exist. And like you said at the bar, there are those that think a totally healthy approach to sex would be a good thing, but personally I think it's a little boring. And I think religion deserves some credit here and there. The soft brush of the whip... [a descent into laughter]
Enslaved: Maybe. And Chloe, I have to say if anyone is having kinky sex it's Sil and Maya. You know they're freaks...
Darkthrone: Freaks? What do you mean freaks?
Enslaved: I mean you know they into some freaky shit. I mean come on. Look at the guy.
Cradle of Filth (aside): Jimmy laughs what I take to be a knowing laugh though I haven't the faintest idea why he proposes to be knowing. Mark Twain pointed out that, not only are humans the only animal capable of blushing, we're the only animal with the need to.
[M: Why do you want to fuck me in the ass so badly?
S: Because it won't go in. If it went in easy, all pornstar style, I'd be bored with it. Maybe. After twenty or thirty times
M: You want to go to a forbidden place...
S: Yeah I guess. Do we have to analyze it? I guess your ass is like Kubla Khan and shit.
M: (laughs)
S: I want to dine on honeydew and drink the milk of paradise.]
Darkthrone (evaluating): Is it true Sil? Wait, actually, I don't want to know.
Cradle of Filth: I have no idea what he is talking about. I own no whips.
Enslaved: Yeah but does your girlfriend?
Cradle of Filth: Of course. I mean why would I have them? She never comes down here and that whole thing can be embarrassing at random luggage search.
Darkthrone: Why is it that she doesn't come down here.
Cradle of Filth (after too much silence): I'm not sure actually. To tell you the truth, at first I didn't care because I love going up to Manhattan, but lately I have been thinking about that.
"Sorry. I wasn't trying to make you feel bad... I just assumed there was some good reason." Chloe sits up and turns to leans against the pillowed wrought iron of her headboard, she rests her legs on Jimmy's and lights a cigarette.
"Sometimes you can see the proverbial writing and just stare at it until it's meaningless letters and never read what it says." No one responds to this thought and I sit up and study Chloe's bedroom. Somewhere in here Noah turned the helm to its final unknown destination and abandoned ship. My own bedroom suddenly feels cold, hard and inadequate. Chloe's bedroom is colorful and soft, full of pillows and comforters and enormous mattresses buttressed against the mythology of the pea. The enormous candles and antique perfume sprayers feel loved, if they were in my bedroom they would look deliberate, items for sale in a junk store. Here they are transformed in the waves of candle light that break across the mottled crimson walls. Above the dresser pinned and peeling back from the wall is a portrait of William Blake. The conjunction of ceiling and wall is interrupted by a string of tiny blue lights causing the wall to fade from crimson to purple to the blue ocean of ceiling. Even Maya's bedroom lacks this kind of continuity, her antique hat rack draped with boas and chemises and nightgowns has always seemed slightly out of place-posing for a photograph. The only thing in my bedroom that means anything to me is a bag of rocks, a leather pouch I got at a tourist stand in New Mexico filled with the small stones they pulled out of what used to be my eyebrow. After that I started periodically adding rocks, pebbles really, to the pouch, pebbles that had never been a part of me. When I die I want the mortician to put them all back in my skin.
"Shall we?" Chloe stubs out her cigarette.
Suburbia three A.M. We have left the relative cool of Chloe's bedroom for the sticky streets of Athens.
"You think god wants to hang around heaven with a bunch of christians? How much fun is blind acquiescence? I mean look at celebrities, that's the closest thing we have to godheads right? So? Look who the smart interesting ones are always hanging around with... need I call to attention RS? I mean when you see him around town who is he with? People that don't give a fuck who he is... People that have know him long enough to know he's just another guy with personal problems. God wants to sit around with atheists and have a decent discussion. He wants dialogue. If he actually exists that is."
"Uh, hold up a minute, you lost me." Chloe shakes her head side to side as if it's going to clear up the bottle of wine her brain is swimming through. "Who is RS?"
"Resident Rock Star, slightly shortened..." Jimmy's voice has the faked patience of one explaining geometry to a sixth grader.
"Oh right. Sorry. Wasn't down with the lingo." She starts walking again. "But wouldn't it be pretty stupid to be an atheist and sitting in the same room with god?"
"Maybe. But what does it take to be god? I mean is god all-powerful because he just is? Or does his power come from people believing in him? In other words wouldn't god be most threatened by, and therefore interested in, those who would or do deny him the power to exist? I guess my idea of an atheist isn't someone who doesn't believe in god, but someone who isn't willing to accord him the power he demands. So in that sense, no I don't think it would be stupid... the world is a self-created phenomenon. And so is god's power."
"That's actually quite beautiful Jimmy." Chloe lets us pass her and then comes running up behind Jimmy and jumps on his back. "You make me want to be an anarchist." She kicks her heels against him and they take off down a long sloping hill that leads toward the graveyard. I walk alone through the darkness.
About a year ago Chloe decided that the propoganacid of Southern churches had eaten enough useless holes in her brain and she was going to fight back. She enlisted Jimmy and I in her efforts and now every Saturday night-after consuming copious amounts of alcohol-we go out and rearrange the letters on the signs. Last Christmas was my favorite. It was the same church we're going to do tonight, we changed JESUS IS THE REASON FOR THE SEASON, to SEASON THE FETISH, USE FOR REASON. We had a left over H several R's from another church on the other side of town, which Jimmy thinks is cheating, but he's outnumbered. Season the fetish was up for three days before anyone at the church noticed or bothered to change it back. It feels good to see your words in a marquee, luminous and two feet high. It feels even better to rid the world of banality, however small and insignificant a gesture it might be. Tonight's objective is PRAYER WORKS, which is going to be altered to GET YER HORSES, which is exactly the counter-intuitive kind of dissidence that Chloe loves. I thought, as long as we're adding letters, why not go with FUCK YER HORSE, but we agreed to no obscenities.
To get to this particular sign we have to pass directly through the church's cemetery, Cemeteries are best at dusk when the ghosts are just getting up, still sleep-eyed and prone to making noises, whispers of wind when there is no wind, rustles of grass where no animal is running, fingers scraping headstone marble, covered in lichens and half obscured by leaves, readable now in the moonlight ...died 1910...died 1947...died 1892...died....
Chloe and Jimmy are crouched silently behind a crypt, monstrous and out of place, a monument to the arrogance of a bloodline hiding behind the name Fortson, streets, parks, probably a non-profit agency for the advancement of southern quilting.... But it does make for good cover in our situation-dead Fortsons stacked on the other side of the concrete wall we lean against, unwittingly aiding and abetting the bored anarchism of fast retreating summer nights. Bodies, perhaps nothing but bone now, the last remnants of human debris having been sluffed off, skin and fingernail bits dusting the bottom of the worm eaten fabric liners, only bones, worn out and no longer needed, encased in wood or fiberglass or some polymer designed to spare the living the thought of what mess must be left after eighty years of decay. Synthetics, each the highest technology of its day desperately trying to hide the one inevitability we know, the failure of the organic in the field of permanence and yet even in death unwilling to return to organic origin, separate even in our rotting, still useless and detached. In myths we hide in the sky, Orion, the Pleiades, the Horsehead Nebula, clusters bloated with grandparents, great aunts, uncles from the revolution, tragic children in ribbons blowing pinwheel constellations, rotating galaxies, black holes of bitter pious old men, neutron stars for lonely celluloid fatales, dressed in silver and longing, but knowing all the while that the scaffolding is wood and fiberglass and workmanship. Constructs of carpenters and architects, city planners and funeral directors, sawdust and sweat from the living.
A quick game of rock/paper/scissors sends me scrambling up the terribly exposed grassy hill toward the sign, sweaty palms gripping the extra letters.
Prayer may work but you better get yer horses just in case.
At home I put in Jimmy's cd and stare at the phone. Maya. The phone. Bellsouth a bastard son of Bell labs. Maya all tangled in wires and switches and routers and gates and filters and then there she is. Maybe. No way to really know for sure. A voice. Flattened and dribbling out, amplified by more circuits and switches and more zeros turned to one and back again, but always one or the other. This to a background of mumbles and rasps. Mr. Dylan doing his naivist. The reverberations of something ancient and universal, perhaps a touch overwrought, but warm nonetheless. More zeros and ones and lasers and laboratory genius to span time and space. Not tonight. Only flesh will do tonight or the imitation of flesh through some archaic means. I want to hear you on an old crystal quartz, tinny speakers and Roosevelt having just signed off, a commercial for Burma Shave and Murray's Cream and then Maya, warm soft lips pressed to the silver screen of the condenser, to be able to see her, headphone clasped to one ear, just from the tone of her voice, the background rustle of sateen skirts and flower embroidered cashmere... To drive home a Model A, fedora cocked back, suspenders loosened, flowers wrapped in yesterday's newspapers... smile my way home to some Indiana farmhouse and find her waiting at the end of the dirt road, jumping on the running board and kissing the length of the driveway, holding her widebrimmed hat with one arm, the other wrapped around the rearview, lips suckled to mine and just keep driving and driving make wide open circles through rows of corn and elms and maybe a straight unbroken line as far as the eye can see, we stay like that clear through to the badlands of Wyoming...
I turn out the lights and walk in the bedroom. Mr. Dylan continues to... well it's not 'sing' is it... he makes up for it somehow... with shear will. Gut and will. Turning on the fan by the window, movement in my peripherals makes me jump back. Trapped between the helterskelter outside screen and the window is the most enormous, grotesque cockroach I have ever laid eyes on. It's over two inches in length and possesses a magnificent pair of wings, which click against the window as it tries to free itself. Hideous mini-arms extend from its head, enormous pincer-like implements that dredge up classic sci-fi monsters and celluloid nightmares of a thousand shapes and sizes, the auxiliary limbs are scraping at the liquid sand, a futile attempt to construct a glass pyramid or escape its condition or maybe one leads to the other. The screen which traps him against the window does not actually fit the window; it was too tall so I simply wedged it in place, knowing full well that this sort of entomological invasion would not be stopped by my makeshift buttress. Some instinct has driven him upward to the top of the window where the screen is closest to the glass. I watch him struggling to find an escape. You need to go down I tell him. I tap the glass and try to herd him on a downward path, but this only goades him to attempt flight, tearing his wings against the screen. They flake apart, crumbling piecrust wings sliding softly down the windowpane. And your saint-like face and your ghostlike soul, Oh, who among them do you think could destroy you... Mexico City: the blind beggars gouge out their children's eyes upping the pity ante and reach into those pockets a little bit deeper. Irony the petty buttressing of a child's sandcastle against a cresting tsunami, the last ditch architecture of those unused to confronting the raw, the unpitted, the full size ear of corn, the olive pre-canning, the reek of half fermented cheese, too far gone milk, rancid butter, the raw and its tendency toward, its preference for, the rot. Somewhere there are great piles of children's eyes, some horrifying physical monument, empty eye sockets through the sticky haze, the red and white tattered woven blankets on which the beggars sit, old women starving in the shadows, the gasoline sunrise in Guatemala, cresting over the decomposing bodies of mass graves...flying right out of gaping empty eye sockets. Something to stop the leaks. Something that feels like it will never die but is transient, malleable, and divinely human. Something holy to sift through our garbage and find the discarded gems languishing on piles of steaming filth. No one goes down anymore. Everything at once delicate and obscene and the phone unplugged.
Lying down on the bed, back against the wall, cigarette between the lips, ashtray cradled on the stomach... There is a pounding again. Indistinct, from far off, the beating of wings in the distance-wind working the leaf-chimes, water on the percussion and our very special guest this evening, please give him a warm welcome...all the way from Peking on the back of a butterfly... the same temperature as the sun...crowd goes wild... But it all serves as clutter to hide the silence, the darkness just outside the careful window, the translucent edges of Dylan's nasal protest, between the safer glimmering of distant windows, Jimmy's windows, vaguely Chloe's, voyeur glimmers, other safely walled eyes watching the darkness but unable to bear it on the skin, the dreadful doubts and opposition held at bay by the baptismal liquid, fire roasted sand to keep us from having to...But the beating of wings, the distant rumble of was-it-only thunder, or something more watching in the shadows our cartoon lives, zoo exhibits behind glass...There are rumors. And bones. Bones of the roman churches-stronger than any prophet's stuttering murmurs-bones that never turned to dust, preserved and immobile to make you wonder, did their owner only step out for the papers? Did a whole culture step out for the paper together? Do the ghosts of mass graves congregate together to huddle and hold to watch the fearful show carry on without, huddled all together, hoarse voices in the shadows decided to make it impossible to leave-don't think that because you never pulled the trigger you're innocent-as if culpability required action-to get clear of this you see... cacophonous sine waves, disarrayed, and carrying in our wake the sewage of useless entrails falling from the butcher's block. Men in black robes and others in white coats all singing glory glory hallelujah around a glowing metallurgic altar. Ambulance sirens wailing as they round the corner... faces fade into the road, beaten, bruised and swollen. Others watch from distant buttes spattered in blood, endless blood; rivers of blood running down the chopping block as the butcher frantically dices ever smaller... roasts into steaks, into filets, into shish-ka-bobs, into hors d'oeuvres, into mashed paste, pate, and finally only watery blood, running off the block and out into the street gathering speed as it moves over hills, lifting up, pooling in the great valleys and lapping at the butte shores as they dance naked around bonfires.... Geysers of blood sprout from a ground that can no longer contain itself; blood bank employees hang hoses into the street and collect a year's worth before they drown in it. Towns and cities are swallowed whole, the blood oozes down from the north, from the land of the bleached-skin cave dwellers, trickling over the Mediterranean drowning the Elysian Fields and then the Nile runs red. Africa is laid waste and the oceans swell and wash over Canada and America. Tidal waves of blood a thousand feet high and moving 200 miles an hour fueled by the energy of a comet that lands in the midst of the riparian blood-world and blows it all back out into space, powders all life into a fine dust that settles over everything, over the mountains and valleys and oceans, and the remaining rivers of blood, until what is left is absorbed into the heart core of history leaving behind fresh cool water that pools and settles slowing to a gentle meander, out to the sea, shiny brown bodies glistening from the humidity, from the endless sweat that pours off...the sky was screaming a cerulean sound... I want to be baptized, to be held down under the muddy red water until I can no longer hold my breathe and inhale the murk in desperate gulps...the metallic taste enveloping me...and never go to sleep.
FOUR
Vague vulgarities-nothing so meaningful-all this around us-disassociated translucent film from the dentist X-ray-orgonomic sunshiny day-rats creeping across the ceiling in bibelot herds-rattle of bones-do-make-say-think-sweat-buzzing-insects-
fumbling-cigarette-lighter-flame-inhale-exhale.
What is that far off hideousness? That infernal twang drifting out of the otherwise solemn jungle? It's leaking in between the chinks of rotten caulk around the window. Or maybe it has always been in here just waiting for the right moment to switch itself on. All it needed was that last little E that it found this morning under the curious lichen clump that has sprung up around the toilet, one little E and it's on-one. No I have to get out of bed and find a Z and R neither of which are where I thought I left them, just an empty plastic bottle with a peeling sticker...leve... V is so close to Z but right now I need a Z and V's just won't cut it. Soldier heavily to the fridge. Pour tall glass of water. Consume without breathing. Pant for a moment. Wait, stop. The twang is gone. Must have been a Z or two in that water. I like to think its all H's and O's, but ground water is unpredictable. Liable to be most anything lurking in there and the carbon filter of the Brita is a good defense but some things, like Z's, are damn sneaky.
Most likely it was Scratch. He is convinced he can play the banjo he got from his mysterious absentee girlfriend, who, from what we gather, is somewhere down there. How far is inconclusive, though Jimmy claims its Costa Rica. But that could just be an assumption he made because with Scratch everything ends up in Costa Rica sooner or later.
Scratch is the poorest millionaire I've ever met. Like most people I met Scratch because of a bad set of directions. This morning Scratch looks part lunatic, part sage. He is sitting in the tire swing in front of his house, a wistful look on his face; he reminds me of a potatohead toy with a pasted on goatee and slightly askew lips, eyes that look out of order, screwed up and glinting earnestly. He's stripped to the waist with his T-shirt wrapped around his head like a turban. He's hunched over plucking at the banjo looking a touch toward the dwarf end of the spectrum, though he would be some freakish dwarf who tipped back one too many rBGH laden pints -He's six feet tall and going bald-but with his butt hanging down his legs appear foreshortened and silly swinging a couple inches off the ground.
Scratch is a self-inflicted nickname, but sometimes you have to do that to avoid something much worse coming your way, pre-emptive strike. Harm reduction the Pentagon calls it. I always figured the name came from the way he itches his head when he's trying to find the words he needs, or the way his hands wipe over his face when he sits back on the couch. It's like he's making sure he still has skin.
Scratch's house is not technically on the same land as mine, I have to traverse the outer edge of the ridiculously large chunk of land that a poor unsuspecting yuppie thought would be a good investment. Technically, Scratch has told me, the yuppie owns everything within about ten feet of the back of my cottage, but he put his fence in about a hundred yards further back, which means that I can cut around the back of my house, drop down in the gully and follow it for about a half mile and I come to Scratch's doorstep. This is the long way around but it's easier than marching across the yuppie's back lawn, tangling with his dogs and pregnant wife. Scratch and his banjo are high on the yuppie's to do list.
"You're late." He barks when I hear me.
I sit down on his chopping stump. "Late night."
"Girls?" He sets down the banjo.
"Does Chloe count?"
"Does Chloe count? The gem of Athens? For you no. For me no. For everybody else...." He ducks under the top of the tire and leans back arms extended. He emits a long groan that doesn't quite cover up the crackle of vertebrae.
"The gem of Athens...? Scratch do you have a thing for Chloe?"
"The appreciation of beauty is my life Sil. Chloe is second only to Leah." He pulls himself back up and ducks under the top of the tire again. He hesitates for minute and then executes a weird, but graceful bodyvault from the tire swing, landing on his left leg, right one hovering just off the ground. He lowers it slowly and smiles at me. "Eh? Pretty good for a guy that fell fourteen thousand feet huh?"
"Graceful as ever." I shiver whenever Scratch mentions the accident.
"Where is our beauteous one this morning?"
"Dunno. You woke me up with the banjo... I didn't go over there. Jimmy did say he had to work today though."
"That's okay you'll do. It's not that hard. Just need someone to hold the bottles."
Jimmy weaseled the spare bottles from Five and Ten. They weren't watching when he installed the air conditioning in the kitchen. They were busy vomiting from the heat of summer afternoons, compounded by ovens, rangetops, a dozen burners, an open grill, a sanitizer, the thermometer below his ladder was spiked at 130 and people were trying to cook. He slipped out with a case of red table wine-3.99 a bottle at the store. Perhaps they did see him and just figured drinking them would be punishment enough.
Scratch has a habit of muttering things under his breath. At first I figured it was just an eccentricity of age and I paid little attention, but I quickly learned that these half-heard fragments were the real gems.
"How's that?" I have, after much rehearsing, come up with a series of open-ended questions for extracting repetitions of his cryptic mumblings. Asking "what" all the time frustrated him and stalled our friendship until Chloe pointed it out to me. She was also the one who informed me that Scratch was fabulously wealthy.
"Oh," He says waving his hand dismissively, "I was just thinking about blind pigs."
"Blind pigs? Is that some southern kink?"
He chokes on barnacles again. "No, actually I don't think it was regional, but maybe. I dunno. Blind Pig was a name... or actually I think it was the password maybe... it was either what you called or what you said to get into a speakeasy during prohibition. I was just thinking perhaps I should institute a password for the game... blind pig came to mind." He claps his hand to his forehead, fingertips on his hairline, and slowly drags them down pulling his jaw and stretching his cheeks until his fingers reach his chin. "Come on I got a new sculpture."
Two things assured our friendship after our first curious meeting in the gully. The first was Ford trucks, specifically 1969 Ford trucks which he owns and I covet, and the second was a penchant for shooting pieces of wood, though, admittedly, Scratch's shooting is far more beautiful than anything Dean and I ever created. At some point in the distant past Scratch embarked on an artistic endeavor he calls Stump-Shots, which involves him finding fallen trees, chain sawing off the body, leaving the intact stump, and then blasting away at them with a sawed off shotgun full of rock salt. The forest is dotted with these weird pockmarked carvings of his. His newest is a birch stump about two hundred yards past his house. Six months ago, far too early in spring for electrical storms, the tree was nevertheless hit by an errant bolt of lightening, which also fried Scratch's lamps, toaster, iron and chandelier-the sum total of his electrical devices-and split the tree neatly in two. This tree however, did not fall down, or rather it did not fall on its x-axis, it fell straight down into itself. Scratch thinks there was a nail or bolt or some kind metal in it that grounded the lightening about four feet off the ground. Whatever the case, it blew apart a section of the trunk and the rest of the tree fell straight down onto the spiked, fragmented stump and stuck there. Somehow it manages to continue living, and so Scratch has been sculpting the jagged extrusions that spike out from the trunk. Some of them are four feet long and over a foot wide. Today's project is on the mossy north side of the trunk a curving, open-wound looking protuberance that Scratch takes aim at and blasts away. Scratch and the shooting are also high on the yuppie's to do list.
After the second shot he absently unhinges the gun and studies his work. "Kinda looks like that barrier island area off Belize doesn't it?"
I nod, unwilling to admit I'm not that familiar with the coast of Belize.
"Or a reclining woman. Course that would be a Degas girl..." Chuckling ensues followed by a thoughtful pause while shoving more cartridges in the gun. "Isn't it strange that our ideal of female beauty couldn't get laid to save her life a few hundred years ago...? Kinda makes you wonder about the source of your desires huh?"
"Not really, Scratch." He turns toward me as if I have undercut some profundity he has been waiting all morning to distill. "I mean I know my ideals are cultural hand-me-downs... everybody know that, but what does that mean?"
"See all ya'll have all this information and no understand of what it means. Those of us who came to these conclusions for ourselves don't have that problem."
"Okay then old man, what does it mean?"
"Nothing." He raises the gun to his shoulder and laughs pulling the trigger. The salt completely misses the target and scatters through the undergrowth wagging branches and puncturing leaves. Scratch can't stop laughing. He points the gun straight up, pulls the trigger and takes off hobbling back toward the house. There is a split second in which I am profoundly disoriented and then I take off after him.
I pass Scratch about fifty feet from the house and spy Chloe swinging in lazy circles on the tire swing. She looks up, startled by our ruckus approach.
"Are you okay?"
"Huh? Yeah why?" The sad truth is that a two hundred yard run is desperately stretching my physical capabilities. I bend over hands on my knees greedily sucking humid air.
"Well I heard the gun and then you're running..."
"Oh no. It's cool. Scratch was just overemphasizing a point."
Scratch lopes up laughing and out of breath. "Everything is wonderful Chloe," he manages between pants. He collapses down on the chopping block. Sweat trickles down his face. "I got a letter from Leah yesterday... She said to tell you hello and many thanks."
This is clearly some element of Scratch's life that I am not privy to. I can't stop myself from thinking it's sexual. Some personal confusion between the sexiness of secrets and the sexuality of my friends. I know it's not sexual, but yet it feels sexual-clandestine, vague, whispered-everybody is having an orgy but you.
"That's nice of her. Tell her I said it was nothing." Chloe closes the book in her lap and jumps off the tire. "Are we going to do this or what?"
"Yes yes." Scratch lumbers to his feet and limps off toward the door. "Come on you two..." he hollers over his shoulder.
"Have you ever had mead?" Chloe asks as we walk inside.
"No."
She drops her voice to a whisper, "it's very sweet." She sticks out her tongue.
"I can't stand the stuff myself." Scratch grumbles having heard Chloe's whispers.
"Then why did you make it?"
"It's fun." He drags two enormous clear jugs out from the shadowy recesses of his pantry. His house is dark enough that he probably could have left them in the middle of the living room and they would have fermented just as well. The musty linen draperies of the bay window are perpetually drawn shut and what light that does filter through is diffused to the point of seeming confused about its role in the room. It feels extraneous and steps lightly around the upturned walnut stump on whose roots an abstract glass shape is precariously balanced. Delicately now against the cedar walls-not wood paneling, actual cedar, splinters and all- slinking along the far wall, edging over the couch, meeting with its cohort that took the other wall and had to navigate a collection of books that shames many Oregon libraries, teetering in decayed peach crates, collapsing against each other until it's hard to tell whether they are holding up the books or the books them. Light sneaking over the cracked spines and curled paperback covers, under the watchful eyes of Alfred Stiglitz and Georgia O'Keefe who've been waiting in the recesses between the crates where the light was not expecting them, where once there were indeed crates in their place but now in lustful ambush Alfred and Georgia groping after the light in ways that make the light uncomfortable and anxious to be off and there it is... its glowing brethren from the other wall...the two sides meet up like Victorian gentlemen, blushing, but tipping their stovepipe hats, as they nearly bump into one another in the brothel hallway, and then it's a hasty retreat to the kitchen window where they slink back out into the afternoon sun.
Above the couch is a shelf of bric-a-brac photos mostly of buildings and a handful of people standing in front of stoves or arms extended holding plates of food. There is a clipping of Scratch dressed sharply in a chef coat and checkered chefware pants smiling on the cover of Food and Wine magazine. Separated by an antique bird cage complete with a stuffed finch Scratch calls Mabel, are another collection of photographs of people standing in front of airplanes, some smiling, some looking a touch nervous. One small picture in a frame whose borders are decorated with notes from the crescendo of the fourth movement of the ninth symphony is a rather terrified looking Debra Winger with her arm bravely wrapped around Scratch's waist.
Hung prominently above the shelf and never escaping comment by first time visitors is a giant picture of Scratch buck naked save the parachute on his back, plummeting toward the out of focus grey-brown desert below him.
Chloe is stacking the bottles in rows on the kitchen table. Scratch is attaching what looks like surgical tubing to the rubber stoppers at the mouth of each jug. The mead is a tawny amber that looks archaic against the antiseptic stainless steel table. I lean up against the monstrous stove, complete with rangetop and massive ceiling vent, which Scratch took out of the kitchen of his last restaurant.
"The secret," Scratch says pinching and squeezing the tubing down in the bottle, "Is to make sure you don't get the bottom inch or so into the bottle."
"Is that the bad part or something?" Chloe sets down the last bottle and sinks into a chair.
"Well, personally I don't think any of it is that good, but yeah the bottom is what you really don't want." Satisfied with the work he heaves the jug up to the table thumping it down on a six-inch stack of newspapers. From my vantage point, the far side of the jug reflects a skewed convex headline-better things are coming.
Scratch commences sucking until the mead is running into the first bottle by means of miraculous suction. Once in Mexico I saw a bus driver use the same method to retrieve gas from a taxi, which came rushing out faster than he had anticipated and exploded out the sides of his swollen cheeks. He had the presence of mind to put the hose into the jug before turning green and commencing the vomit. Scratch just coughs and his eyes puddle up.
"Whew... Damn." He gasps and spits in the sink. "Still needs a week or two." He cracks the primitive icebox and retrieves a carton of orange juice. "Not that bad though. He drinks straight from the carton and smacks his lips "not bad at all with a chaser."
There comes a far off lowing sound that tickles my leg. "What the hell...?" Scratch sets down the carton, "Is there a cow out there?"
"No. Sorry, that's my phone." I dart out the back door into the caustic white of afternoon. I have to squint and feel slightly dizzy as I answer.
"Sil? It's me." Her voice crackles with digital lust, but all curl and Q's flattened to hiss. The treetops are swinging around me, the bleached dry sand crunching under my disoriented stagger.
"Maya? What are you doing?"
"Well," she giggles, "I was just calling to tell you that I'm at home and I'm naked and lonely..."
I try to find something to say, but standing in the middle of boring midday sun of Scratch's backyard nothing comes. Somewhere thousands of miles up from here Maya is naked and wanting me. I have an urge to bolt into the woods and not stop running until I get to her or far enough away from her that I'm full circle to her.
"I have my hand on my pubic mound..."
She breaks through my awkward silence. "Ick. Don't say pubic mound." I shake my head as if she can see me.
"Why?"
"I dunno it sounds like something Teddy Roosevelt and the Rough Riders are going to come charging up... bayonets glinting and whatnot..."
"Kinky. I like men on horseback... Can you be my cowboy this afternoon? We haven't done that one yet."
"I can't right now. I'm kinda in the middle of something."
Her voice thins out, no longer clipped by compressors, simply flat. "That sucks."
"Can I call you later?"
"What if I said I have my hand down inside my panties?"
"I thought you were naked."
"I am. Except for my panties."
"How many times do we have to..."
"You know you like it when I say panties." There is a pause. "I want you to say it and then I'll let you go."
"Okay. I like it when you say panties."
"That's what I thought." The line goes dead.
I shoot a glance back toward the house, but if they heard my end of the conversation, I'll never know. The door is open but the darkness inside is impenetrable. I don't care anyway. Or I don't want to care. I walk back inside and they are sitting on the couch drinking Pabst.
"Maya?" Chloe arcs her eyebrows.
"Yeah"
"Of course it was," Scratch laughs and looks at me with a mischievous green jello glint in his eyes, "who else calls him on that phone?"
"Every now and then my dad calls." This sounds lamer than I intended. They say nothing. "Mead all bottled?"
"Yup. Be ready in a week or two." Scratch seems over enthusiastic about it as if incredibly relieved to be out of an awkward silence.
I stare at him willing the awkward silence back. Scratch sits forward on the couch wipes his hands vigorously up and down his face and retrieves a tupperware container from the coffee table. He sits back resting it on the crest of his fat-skinny-guy belly. Out of it he produces a bud of marijuana and pair of scissors, which he uses to trim off a few leaves and buds. As he begins to roll a joint, the light in the room seems to perk up. It starts to pool around him, enveloping his body, wrapping it like a mummy. He leans forward again for the remote, and, after a bit squinting and face rubbing, the speakers emit a gentle finger-plucked guitar sound crawling all the way from Nebraska across the hand woven Mexican rug on the floor. Soft eighth notes tiptoeing through the room, jumping on the table to a scatter of ash and dust and errant leaves of weed, but steadily and with direction and purpose, heading for Scratch. A corporeal mosaic forms around him, sound and light interwoven... and I haven't smelled anything in while... drawing to him, a film running backwards, a battery being charged, the book shelves are leaning in... this is how Stiglitz and O'Keefe were found... the plants bending to the Scratchtropic influence, leaves fanned out in hopes of some future expulsion, some radiation, some giving back, the necessary exhale to this massive huffing and huffing of all available resources, stalk gone turgid bracing for the future force of it... knowing that when he finally lets go, when he talks his voice will be a howling wind peeling off glacial peaks, ducking over the pitiful bottling company and its liquor store displays carving valleys in a single blast the sound following afterward in a wake. Or. Maybe it will leak out slowly, in the way he moves, steady and deliberate, he will mumble or whisper echoing the wind beating the roof, and whole Serengetis of meaning are lost in the silence of his hand. He saves them for later. He eats them when he is alone. His mouth is a microwave. He re-heats, re-charges his words under his tongue, little kernels of corn erupting as he chews them around in silence, mashing light and sound, wave and note, oceans and deserts.... He goes to talk to himself and nothing but popcorn spills out.
"Why is it that you don't come visit me?" Late April we're lying in bed, hooked and crooked around the rumpled clothing and sheets which are scrunched down to pillowcase size and bunched between her legs. A leather boot is trying to crawl up my ass, and I head it off by rolling on my side which sends Maya's head up off my chest just as I reach the end of my question. They are shooting a movie on the street downstairs. It's a what's-his-name action vehicle. Every so often we here "action" and "cut" over the ambient discord of Sixth Avenue.
"You know my life is here in New York... this is where I need to be right now." She speaks with the conviction of any recent immigrant. She has absorbed the vertical velocity of ninty-nine story buildings. She wants that cinematic sweep from the Bronx to the Fire Island breakers, sketching indigo and pulsing with the semen of six million teeming... old grade school jokes about the depth of the vagina and length of the penis and the resulting imbalance that yields six hundred feet of virgin pussy just outside the window and everyone, every man woman and struggling model in this city believes it's out there, just waiting for them to push through the Hymen Tunnel and into the unfurrowed promised land. "Anyway, you were the one who said we needed to have our own lives. I thought independence was 'the most important thing' to you. You know you broke my heart when you left LA."
"When I left LA? You're the one who got on an airplane the night after we met."
"For a month Sil. I came back and then you left for god knows how long it's been now... I'm starting to think that I must have some alienation abandonment issue with my father because I sure seem willing to... nevermind what does it matter? All this is past and conjecture and meaninglessness... you're here another forty-eight hours and this is how were going to spend it?" She sits up on her elbow and looks accusingly through the dissolving plume of cigarette smoke.
"No it's not. I just wanted to know why you never come down to visit me. I'm not asking you to move in with me or to drop your life or anything. I just thought maybe you know... we could spend some time together in my world."
"You act like I'm some kind of high maintenance city girl." She flicks her ash out the open window. "I came down there four months ago Sil. I like your life down there. I had a good time, but right now there are so many things going on it's just crazy... I barely have time to drop everything and spend time with you this week."
Busyness. Flickers and flashes, action and cut. Subways storming the bridges, greedy tendrils, roots clawing up out of the ground. "You act like I'm some kind of backwoods hick. You know I lived in LA for over twenty years... Forget it. I like New York. I like coming to see you here. I like to get away from Athens every now and then. Wait. Did you say you think you have abandonment issues with your father?"
She giggles. "The thought has occurred to me. I mean I live in a city with no shortage of bachelors and I'm with you... I mean I'm in love with you, that's why I'm with you, but I'm just saying if someone else, some outsider were looking at my life what would they think."
"Did your father abandon you?"
"No. But he was out of town a lot."
It's difficult to tell how long we have been this way. For some time I have been able to hear the mead. It's a long low moan, a lovesick bovine moan, some final protest of sugar against the decay into alcoholic oblivion. The jars gently rattling as if patiently rocking a crying child, running fingers through hair It's alright now, it won't be that bad thoughtful but meaningless, perhaps secretly thinking to themselves that they would like to crawl up in a ball and let the springworks go like a Panama City hotel on fire. Through the primordial haze now a light penetrates, the first rays after the nuclear winter of the comets, just three mammals around to witness. And of course a fourth to break the spell with style.
"Godamnit what the hell is going on here?" I can see Jimmy's silhouette in the doorway or at least I am aware that the silhouette in the doorway must be Jimmy, but I can't really see anything, the setting sun is not afraid of Scratch's house at all, it's Roman red pushing through the door in search of Christians for hungry kitties... none in here you sick fucks...
"Sil, there are cowboys on the roof. I cannot work with cowboys on the roof. I can't get the cowboys off the roof." Jimmy again. He is insistent on this communication thing... great gods in heaven he has turned off the music... Jesus what is this noise...its...its...punk rock. Time to give in. Straighten up. Fly right. Bathroom. Close door. Drain. Zip, for the love of god do not forget to zip and even more important-damnit should have thought of this first-tuck, but its okay the tucking appears to be ingrained. Ah yes, there it is, water on the face, down the gullet, engage in some Scratch-esque face wiping. Alright. Now how was that? Why are there cowboys on the roof? Who put cowboys on the roof?
"These mutherfuckers are crazy," Jimmy is pacing, "I can't fucking deal with cowboys on my roof. Stupid fucking south Georgia hicks.... Red. Man I tell you these are some red mutherfuckers." He smiles. "I mean shit it's kinda funny I guess, but damn. I just can't work with them around. And they're wearing cowboy boots... who the fuck," he extends his arms incredulously, "wears cowboy boots on a slick, tar-papered, forty-five degree slope?" He gestures toward the tupperware, "Scratch you mind if I roll one?"
"Help yourself. What are you doing to the house with cowboys on the roof?"
"I'm supposed to be putting a porch off the back, they got these steps... it's about six feet off and sloping downhill so I gotta run out some joists from the floor beams...you know through the wall and then built a little screened in deck and ninety degree turning stairs... pretty complicated carpentry you know? I mean not really it's all brute force shit, but I can't fucking work with goddamn south Georgia redneck cowboys clomping back and forth on the roof all day talking about niggers and whores and dripping tar all over my joists-what is wrong with these people? Have you seen cowboys on roofs before? I have never seen a cowboy on a roof."
"No. Never seen a cowboy on a roof... you're sure they were cowboys?" Scratch hobbles to the icebox and grabs a six-pack.
"I mean... I guess. They had the boots. They had the hats. The had the twang. They drove Chevy trucks...
"'Nuf said." Scratch smiles at me. "Well smoke that and try not to think about it."
Can you feel the fingers in your hair? Try not to think about it... there is nothing in the closet... do you want me to open it? For the love of god no. Don't open it. I'm not thinking about her. It. I'm not thinking. Heel-clicking there are no cowboys on the roof... there are no cowboys on the... there are no cowboys at all.
"The mead's all bottled? Yeah? How long?"
"Well normally two weeks in the bottle, but I had to gulp a little getting the siphon working and think a week will do."
"Won't the fermentation create pressure? I mean won't it burst the bottles?"
Jesus. That low moaning again. Maybe it's a groaning, maybe it's not the decay but the pressure...we want out... we never asked to be fermented. The original recipes call for ergot, a hallucinogenic fungus on certain grains. We left that out. Most of us never get over memories salted with distance and snapshots kept in ghosted albums on dusty shelves anyway. Fermentation is the slow breakdown of structure over time. Help! I'm melting! The sugar in honey is slowly changed by the acidity of the citrus. It's like snow melting from and ground up by the heat and decay of last falls leaves. Eventually there would be only a thin shell of snow, were it not for the cataclysm of the sun crashing down on the other side. In the end, sweetness becomes mead. Yellowed photographs crumble. Bedsheets stain and crust. Old Fords too long in the driveway choke and sputter charcoal, engine chaises rust, valve seats loose their youthful bounce... even your bones turn brittle-unless you fall out of an airplane first.
Chloe slowly sits up and reaches for a beer. "Just take the next couple of days off, wait til the cowboys are gone."
"Oh I took the next two weeks off. I mean no point in putting down a nice deck and then having tar dripped on it." Jimmy lights the joint and exhales slowly. He offers it around but gets no takers. "Solo? Alright. I need it."
The cave-like silence returns for a minute or two. Jimmy seems to create some sort of energetic opposite to Scratch's vacuum, neutron stars orbiting each other. Jimmy smokes the joint about half way down and then gently taps it out in the ashtray. He smiles for minute and then decides to share. "Okay so this isn't like something I normally do, but it had interesting results so I'm gonna share... After getting hot tar dripped on me for the millionth time I went inside to see if they had some solvent or something right? Well nobody's home. I holler around for a bit and then I think fuck it... forget all about the tar-which, as it turns out comes off pretty easy with tar-off-start snooping around the house. It's one of those old houses off Boulevard, but the couple that owns it are nuevo-rich... you know Scratch, saucing it up with the Truffle oil like it's ketchup?" Scratch grimaces and nods. "So at first I'm digging through the medicine cabinet for anything interesting, actually I lifted a couple darvocets..." Jimmy giggles.
"Jimmy that's horrible." Chloe with her mock angry voice. "Can I have one?"
"Yeah sure, but wait... It gets much worse." He bends forward laughing and then scratches the back of his head and screws up his face as if building courage for a new level of confession.
"Did you sniff her panties?" Scratch beams like a jewel thief passing on the secrets of the trade. "You sniffed her panties didn't you?"
Jimmy falls off the edge of the couch laughing. "Yeah. I did."
"Jimmy!" I can't believe..." Chloe grabs a magazine, roles it up and starts swatting him on the head.
"Wait! Hold up ya'll!" He rolls out of Chloe's range. "Damn girl... Look I know it's fucked up..." backward glance at Chloe, some attempt at suppressing laughter. "Damn... But you know, I was standing there in the bathroom when the idea occurred to me and to tell you the truth I started laughing the minute I realized I was gonna do it. It's just one of those things that you never think to do, I mean unless your actually fucked up enough to get off on that sort of shit, but most guys, like myself, A) never have the opportunity to do something like that and B) when they do have the opportunity to do that don't think to do it... cause you know it's not like I wanted to get off on it... I just wanted to know..."
"James William Miller..."
"Oh come off it Chloe. You're not my mom. You wanted a pill damnit. I stole the pill. I mean suppose the woman was in pain and needed those pills... that's all fine and good, but sniff some panties and you're all pissed? Don't get high and mighty with me. Besides you've sniffed a few jock straps yourself haven't you?"
"Actually no. I haven't." Chloe crosses her legs and glares at him. But then a smile breaks over her face. "But I have stolen underwear from a few guys because I wanted to have a souvenir."
"See I knew it. But you have totally distracted me from my original point, which was the magazines... No not those magazines, damn ya'll are some repressed mutherfuckers... National Geographic Magazines..." Jimmy inches by Chloe and sits back down in the middle of the couch. "I sat there reading National Geographic for like two hours, well, actually not reading just leafing through looking at the pictures. But after two hours of that I started wondering about everything I know...Do you ever get the feeling that tribal people sitting around swatting flies or sticking sticks in anthills to get grubs...or is that monkeys? I forget, whatever, but do you ever start to suspect that perhaps these people are leading much fuller lives? Look at the eyes of the people in National Geographic sometime and tell me you don't start to wonder if perhaps we have missed the point of life entirely." No one says anything, his voice gets quieter, "and in some weird way I think that's why I had to do it, even though it's a reversal of cause and effect, I had to do it because I need to be that close, not invasive, though we perceive it as such now, but think about it, smell... smell is the original identity, the animal scent, the recognition of one's fellow creatures. I smell you and therefore you are not me and then, I mean goddamn, that's what opens the door to everything."
"You think we'd all be better off sniffing each other?"
"Scratch I'm serious here. I think that the reason we're so distant from each other is that we've walled ourselves up. We got hung up on the threat response-you are not me and therefore I must guard against you-rather than the hey how you doing response that I see in other animals. I mean Chloe, Annie sniffs crotches right? It's her way of understanding... of knowing." Scratch hands Jimmy the joint which is once again burning. He takes a long drag and speaks as he exhales, "I'm not saying we should sniff each other's underwear, I'm just saying that's the kind of closeness we're going to need if we're all ever going to get along in this world. Well, that and the collapse of the whole religion and nation-state concepts, but I think those are inevitable in a world with the kind of closeness that I want."
Scratch takes the joint back from Jimmy and stares intensely at him for awhile taking little hits of smoke into his lungs in quick succession. "When I go Jimmy, I want you to come."
"It's beautiful isn't it Sil?" Maya in her painfully stylish charcoal overcoat, the recent dry chill rustling them, a few falling off here and there. Thanksgiving in Central Park, playing frisbee and watching the cirrus turn pink and lavender and now tightly hugging against the faint but persistent breeze. "But kind of sad too don't you think?" She shivers and pulls tighter. "Did you know leaves aren't their true color until they die? I mean the leaf is green because the tree give it chlorophyll and stuff, but then when the tree stops, then the leaves reveal themselves."
"That's a depressing thought."
"Maybe. But it's beautiful too." She has a wistful look of absolute satisfaction with the world that makes me uncomfortable.
"The leaves are the tree though. The tree is the leaves. They aren't separate from each other. They don't exist in some vacuum. We're the ones who are seeing them as separate."
"Maybe. But if that's my perspective then isn't the oneness just yours?"
"Perhaps." We start to walk back across the fields toward the subway. "But we monkeys seem to be the only ones with this overly acute sense of self. I mean if you set aside the usual way of thinking about it couldn't you say that you and I are in fact one entity?"
She smiles. "That sounds great and all, but we're not. Especially not us. I'm here, you're down there."
"Maybe our loneliness is in failing to see that we aren't apart at all. Maybe loneliness and longing are just the result of some isolation from ourselves. Maybe if we stop breaking things into pieces based solely on our own distortions and isolation, we would see through this parts/whole dilemma... we'd see something interconnected, a kind of ever-evolving beauty of process-poetry through motion, through seeing the through."
"But we are separate Sil. It doesn't matter how eloquent you want to get about. The leaves still die every year."
"How do you know they die? Changing color could be only the beginning for the leaves. The leaves don't die because they're still part of an ongoing process. Thinking of brown leaves as dead is only our misconception of what life is. Or even if they do die, everything that dies comes back. These leaves lying there on the ground, breaking apart into food for the tree, soil nutrients, that sort of stuff... It gives the trees the material to produce new leaves for a new year. Are the new leaves actually new? In a sense, the dead brown leaves are climbing back up the trunk of the tree and emerging out of it green again."
"Maybe. I kind of like that idea. The leaves fall for the tree so it can survive the winter and then help it grow in the spring.... But the tree is still never going to fall for the leaves."
FIVE
Trust bed-eponymous arrivals-perishables-wild honey-summer's by the sea-here comes the argument-geography's ants-implications-dissemination-the grid-through which-an ideal world gains-increasing the frequency-clear endless borders-the sound has so much body-dum dee dee der der dee-becoming-oom duh oomp-unbecoming-click de clack de clack de click de clack oom dee oom dee oomp-
The hum the hum the fingers the beat the whining dance the drip drip drip tick tick tick here they come spilling out the sand the pills the time the mold on the tortillas the notes dripping down the speaker cones treble to middle to bass the electric whirl of fans exhaust turbines the spin of molecules the carefully calibrated smoothness of glass the sterility of architecture the depression of low-lit mornings walloping the darkness into submission the glare the piercing of sun on distracted fingernails doing something doing something not right now doing something.
It has been some time.
But the pounding remains.
And the letters keep on following me.
Perhaps they are building something.
And the clicking.
And the far away fingers clicking.
That could well be the finish work.
Molding. Rain gutters. Lightening rods.
Click click click amplified butterfly wing strokes slowed down, sine waves elongated for closer study zoom in zoom in zoom in zigzagging diggy diggy da momenoff. Chaos is not you see. There are patterns repetitions, beats underlying beats, polyrhythms diving in and out over and under the more obvious backbeats. This is not in time, not in time as we are accustomed to it, out of time, very nearly out of time, but the pattern repeats, waves join and harmonize the tick tick tick blends to the drip drip drip, one wonders if they weren't always the same thing.... Have you not noticed the shplocks? The shplooks? The dings? The clacks? The toings? The tongs? The sprongs? Sounds that work by committee? Sounds that need umlauts...? Diphthongs...? Tildes...?
Things are always as they have ever been but somehow incredibly difficult-what seemed simple in the end, to get their, to get where? Oh yes the molding. The finishing touches that soften the architectural foxfires. Stamps of individuality hiding the corners, ramps for the windup toys-fate death dream decay. The decay. The little green growths on the end of the day, the shower a blacker shade mixed with red, different sorts you see... more molds than people when you come down to it. Spawning spreading, eschewing organization, a kind of atonal repetition of function without regard to form. This means something right? It all means something right? This turning on, turning off, repetition of the beat, the caged smoke crawling up the walls from cigarettes and the ashtray says you been up all night like the man on the radio said it would say? Slaves to the pattern, to the beat, the rhythm of blood and circuitry now inexplicably mixed and unable to synchronize without each other. The simultaneous march of time and faucets and showerheads-this will be good come winter you know-clicking their way through time the variable, the frequency modulation of life.
Outside is. Haven't been there lately.
Mainly it's the hum. The whine. The sound of speed. Spinning. The hunch of my back seen from afar trying to get the fucking mold off the fucking tortillas and the hum that won't stop and I love it I want to crawl up in and become it I want the murmur of lips going mmm mmm mmm do do do da da da hmm. Hmm. Tick tick tick all over the table again. Blue and white and pink. Boys and girls and indeterminacies all playing together between the ketchup and syrup and butter and mustard and half full glasses of water with dust and strange protozoa floating on the surface, some so large you can see them with a magnifying glass, which is right there by the bills that haven't been paid, sticking out from under the magazines I haven't read and held down by the mustard as evidence of last night's hamburger.
Oh yes. Last night-they were red and pink and blue and subversive and locked up. But we freed them, we did, Jimmy with the double helix reflection of throbbing candles in his eyes, spilling them everywhere. The last of them. Chloe in her silk pajama bottoms, legs tucked up under, and the walls leaning in and the windows gone convex to get a better view, everybody wants to see this, everybody is down for the spill, the collision of chemical surfaces, the cohesion of colors not found in your more academic theories... The backbeat is the thing, the tick tick tick. That's the approaching point, the coming nonesuch... The room had organ tones, the kind of fullness that only an organ can convey, we're sitting on the inside of an organ, stops and levers heaving and sighing, the rush of air, sucking in the windows, chairs and couches bent forward, leaning over on their knees and then the low exhale, the groan, but here it's something difficult, something in B flat, but still upbeat, punctuated by a muffled, distorted snare beat, a bass drum with a fresh head on it, flat and claustrophobic, swallowing the echo before it gets a chance to breathe and then the sucking in again, the stops pulled out for a c-chord, the upper arch, the melody note of an atonal progression.
It was after the enchiladas.
I like mold. In small qualities. When baked it always has the potential to form some mind-altering substance, which is not something I want, but it would be interesting you understand... Food should be an adventure fraught with peril lest it become routine, shoveling coal into a furnace. And neither of them mentioned a moldy taste, though I noticed it a little here and there, gave everything a more organic, perhaps whole-grain, sort of flavor. Dean would have lost it, gone on a hippie exterminating rampage, but he remains up there, sends long metalic letters, whole grain remains unmolested.
The mold was eclipsed by the beat. By the melody. By the claustrophobia. By the tick tick tick. Hold up. Slow that moment down a touch. Maybe to a tock tock tock or even plong plong plong like a cue ball in slow motion striking the two ball with a crack slowed down to an explosion, and then reaching in to grab them, but here Chloe seems to be moving in reverse as if the film just reached the end of the reel and some lazy attendant-James didn't you work the projectors for a while?-has just hit reverse rather than rethread for a rewind. Yes Chloe is not picking them up, she is re-putting them in her mouth, they have always been in her mouth. They came out to have their moment to let the windows and wall bend and breathe in jealous gasps and then back in they go where they have always been. Everything woozing back into Chloe, gulping air, drinking in the claustrophobic air returning to where it always was. And the windows draw back in horror as if to say I can't believe you've played the tease, we always knew you had it in you, but here? Now? Like this? To give. And then take away. So cold so inhuman so... wait when is your birthday? We know chart people, we have suspicions about you.... September is it...? Yes, thinking you have it all in balance, eh? Well have you ever noticed that the scales are tipping? Yes seems that they aren't quite balanced when their in your hands eh? Not quite balanced...
From: Dean O'Leary <do@morpheus.net>
To: sil@kali.org
Subject:
Dean junior can be lured to the surface for food. But otherwise he remains alternating between castle and treasure. I found out from Melissa that he would not last long at all in the ocean. He is a fresh water fish. I had a glass yesterday. It was a little stale, but definitely not salt water. Melissa says not to drink it anymore as it has strange chemicals in it. But this morning I had another glass. It was almost fishy.
I have the hiccups and my leg is ringing but otherwise it's a statuesque day. Today I think we should all play harmonicas and live in sun-faded slate-gray shacks without indoor plumbing. Everything leaving all at once in all directions. Would your life seem more meaningful in duotone? A kind of warm brown wash to color your eyelids like the thunderstorms, flash flooding down the Rialto, right by that house on the sharpest bend of River Road, that one with the mailbox perpetually down, victim to countless corrosive glasses of gin? My mailbox has been down for some time. On the edge of autumn where the last fireflies still tango in time changes and the hush that comes after the last beat drops and you stumble it down the line to the head-hanging hour at which all regrets are cashed for last minute glimpses in cruel reflective toilet water, here we- and the beat is dropping into slate-gray outhouses where we sit waiting for the paper, the news the leaves of grass that we used to use.
Eventually I will answer my leg. It will be Maya. We will talk amongst ourselves. Try to batten down the hatches of our hopes and fears, but it won't work for either of us. She will hang up and go for a walk around the east village, stop in St. Marks and read a few more pages from a Rilke biography and then down Delancy for a couple of drinks at sakdlfjkj where the hipsters will shoot pool and drink Brooklyn Lager because that's what hipsters do, and Maya will push the ice around in an empty glass of Vox and stare out the window at the people that aren't walking by and dream of couples huddled close against the cold, but it's August and it isn't cold. Then on the way home she will stop in at Rice and have some of that curious black grains with stir-fried vegetables and maybe a gelato from the place next door for the long walk back to the Village. And I will eat the last of Jimmy's pills and feel pretty good until dinner time at which point I will go for walk and end up at Scratch's house where he will serve me some strange couscous and tofu dish because he considers tofu the last culinary challenge of his nearly complete culinary career, after which he will swear that as soon as he masters the art of tofu, invents his one perfect dish, he is closing up shop and heading to Costa Rica. He will mock my posture, but in a good-humored way. Jimmy will stop by and hatch a plan. It will be a grand plan. It might even involve motorcycles and bandits. Chloe will be suspiciously absent.
Later I will find myself at home. I will smoke idle cigarettes and pour myself a glass or two of brown liquor and dream of someplace I could go and be surly.
From: Dean O'Leary <do@morpheus.net>
To: sil@kali.org
Subject:
Melissa is at work. I think she is beginning to tire of me. I am a drain to her. But with her working all day, who is going to look after Dean Jr.? I feed him every morning and evening. Just after she leaves and just before she gets home. I didn't plan it that way. At first I just noticed that my days began and ended with feeding Dean Jr.
Every morning while I am asleep she opens all the curtains and draws the blinds in the bedroom. I think she is sending me a message, but I don't understand a word of it. All I know is that every morning I have to let down the blinds again, draw the curtains and drop a few little gray-green pellets in Dean Jr.'s tank. It takes a while for the food to be consumed or to settle to the bottom, between the florescent pebbles-why are his pebbles florescent? Are there florescent peddles in streams? Are there actually florescent rocks out there, and I have just been too blinded to see them? It's usually well into the afternoon before I can have my first taste.
The water is getting musty. I suspect it's fish shit, but I don't like to think about that. I prefer to taste it as the essence of fish. I have acquired a taste for it. Tap water no longer excites me like it used to. I get no thrill out of turning the knobs anymore. I went across the street to a flea market yesterday and bought a ladle. I keep it hidden under the bed so Melissa won't find it. I have taken to covering the tank with an old black shirt. The water level hasn't dropped noticeably yet, but I want to establish a pattern before she gets suspicious. If she finds the ladle I plan to tell her it's a sexual thing. I think I'll tell her I like to have my balls ladled while getting head. She can't find out. If she finds out she'll kick me out.
I wish you could see him Sil. The way he stops moving entirely. He rotates one of his swivelly eyes upward and watches me as I dip and ladle in and draw it up to my mouth. He knows. He understands. We have moments during the day. He will catch me doing silly things and laugh his mouthy little laugh. Or I will lie down on the floor and crawl over so that he can't see me and sneak up around the side of the tank, wedge my head between the tank and T.V. and pop up suddenly to surprise him. It startles him a little, but I think he's come to expect it a little now. I'll have to think of something new. I don't want him to get bored with the routine.
From: Dean O'Leary <do@morpheus.net>
To: sil@kali.org
Subject:
I don't think you should worry about me Sil. Things are winding down here. I'll be coming down soon; I just have to stick this thing out with Dean Jr. I have to see it through. Melissa is suspicious definitely. And I did check. The only fish to human transference I could find was from eating the fish-worms and stuff like that. I'm not really in a bad way. It's just the process of ending that intrigues me. I always have to stay to the bitter end just to see if everything wraps up the way I thought or if there is that last minute twist we all love, that unexpected moment.
This weekend was fun. Melissa had to go to a conference in Atlantic City. Of course I brought Dean Jr. I put him in a tupperware bowl for the train ride (I had a hard time trying to think of reason to bring my bag to the bathroom so I could open the tupperware and give him a fresh dose of oxygen-water gets stale-he can use up all the oxygen in the water-did you know that? I didn't, but the girl at the pet store told me that. She gave me her number too, but I think I threw it out. Luckily I hadn't shaved, so on the train I told Melissa I was going to shave and I brought my bag and gave Dean Jr. some air. Maybe he could have made it all the way, but I didn't want to risk it. Anyway I came back unshaven and forgot that shaving was my excuse, and Melissa stared me down real ugly and then it hit me and all I could think of to say was that there was no hot water. I know she went later and checked and of course there probably was hot water.)
I lost fifty dollars at the blackjack table.
"So he's coming down again?" Chloe is cleaning up the back of my neck with the clippers. Already I feel slightly cooler, but this is a feeling that will pass shortly.
"Seems that way."
"Did he say when?"
"No."
"Huh. You know Sil, I still don't understand what you're doing here. And I understand even less why Dean is coming down again. You know I'm still trying to get out of here..."
"Yes, but you were born here. Everyone is trying to get out of where they were born. But to tell the truth, I'm not entirely sure why Dean is coming down." I consider mentioning the aquarium drinking, but decide against it since he and Chloe have had only the briefest of encounters in the past, and it might, well, color her opinion of him some unsavory shade of disgust. "I think maybe he's coming to get out of the living situation he's been in with his girlfriend and such, but knowing Dean there is probably a good deal more to it than that." Chloe is staring at my head in a distracted, unsettling way. "What?" I turn slightly to look her square in the eyes.
"Um, I think your ears are a little lopsided."
"What?"
"Well at first I thought I was messing up the back of your neck, but it's clearly straight and yet, when compared to your ears, it still looks slightly lopsided, so I think maybe your ears aren't quite even." She smiles. "Sorry."
"But the hairline on the neck looks okay?"
"Oh yeah it's fine."
"Well that's all I care about."
"Okay. Well then you're done." She switches off the clippers and brushes off my neck with an old t-shirt. I run my fingers over the remaining eighth inch of hair on my scalp and come away with an unsettling mixture of sweat and hair clippings.
"You might want to take a shower before you go out."
"Yeah I plan to."
"Are you going out tonight?"
"Maybe. What are you doing?"
Chloe's face grows slightly flushed as she sits down beside me on the porch steps. "I have a date."
"Bicycle Man?"
"Lord no." She turns her head, "why? Do I look that hard up?"
"No. He's just my favorite."
"Really? I would think he might be slightly intimidating... at least Jimmy seems slightly intimidated, or defensive of me, or something when he's around."
"Why? Because he could snap Jimmy and me in half like a toothpick?" She chuckles slightly. "No I like him because he is totally non-threatening. There is no chance in hell you would ever want anything more out of him than sex. He represents no threat to our friendship so for me he's the least threatening. But that's not why I like him. I like him because he doesn't mind being called Bicycle Man. Anthropology Man just never seemed to really accept the name, every time we called him that he would get this mortified look on his face and remind us of his name, like we were calling him that because we had forgotten his real name. What was his real name?"
"Robert."
"Oh yeah, Bob, see I knew there was a reason we called him Anthropology Man..."
"Scratch dubbed him that because Bob told him some long story about being in Costa Rica and going to all the Indian ruins or whatever."
"Really? I always thought he was an Anthropology professor or something?"
"No. He owns a construction company. Or landscaping company... I forget exactly."
"But you're not going out with him either huh?"
"No. He's engaged now. I'm going out with The Professor."
"Oh god Chloe. Again?" The Professor is, naturally, a professor, though his diminutive statue and total lack of problem-solving skills set him apart from the more familiar Gilligan's Island variety. We took to calling him the professor because none of us can ever remember his name. And because he's well, such a professor. He tries hard to be cool, you can see it in his eyes, he wants to scream, but he can't, or if he does, it comes out a murmur, a stumbling awkward line that usually only reveals him for the overeducated mousish man that he is. He seems genuinely concerned with things like literature and poetry, but only because he is involved in them, he is good at them, he lacks the natural enthusiasm of Jimmy or Scratch. He would have written the poem, but never dared to touch the plums. Unlike the famous professor on that deserted isle, he can't seem to make a radio out of coconuts to broadcast distress signals with. I don't even think he could crack a coconut open, much less transform it into something usable. He's New England. Coconuts are obtained in cans at specialty Asian Markets which always share a wall with some sort of adult video establishment because the Asian community understands the needs of white New Englanders. He has pasty skin, anemic eyes, and a disgusting habit of carefully evaluating risk before proceeding. He's more or less dead, and frankly, he scares me to death. He's so far gone he's never coming back, and he's only a year or two older than me. Chloe seems genuinely smitten with him. But then again he is the first person Chloe has dated, at least in the time I've known her, that has a functioning mind. He has a certain depth, however bookish and ill-formed it may be, that Chloe needs, but is afraid of being attached to, of becoming dependant upon, of needing. In his twisted way he does have an element of danger to him that Chloe no doubt finds irresistible-he's married.
"I know it's horrible, I know I'm doomed to live through some horrible karmic payback for all of this, but really I think I'm in love with his mind," She claps her hands on her knees. "It's the first time there's something more than just attraction. I'm not even really attracted to his body. I mean he isn't bad looking you know, but he's kind of...well... he's short. But I'm not going to swallow a moth for him, already promised myself that. There will be no moth eating."
"It must be wonderful for him to live out the fucking the babysitter fantasy
"Stop Sil. There will be no mocking in my presence. And that isn't how it started. We met because his younger daughter is in my class..."
"Fucking the third grade teacher fantasy... see this goes way back...."
"That's enough Sil." She brandishes a cigarette and threatens to burn my arm. "It wasn't until we were already friends and he had moved out of the house, that his wife asked if I would watch the girls."
"He actually moved out?" This surprises me, but somehow endears the man to me. "Wow. I wouldn't have thought he had it in him."
"He caught his wife with her personal trainer or something clich like that. He had to move out. But it made me more comfortable knowing that he didn't do it for me or because of me... it didn't have anything to do with me. I wouldn't want him to do it for me. But won't say that I'm not glad it happened-is that selfish of me?"
"Selfish? No I don't think so. But you are walking into a minefield Chloe." I run my hands over my head in a manner reminiscent of Scratch. "You Chloe, who professes to detest entanglements... I mean... you couldn't find someone more entangled if you tried."
"I know, I know." Her head slumps dejectedly. "But it's important to me Sil that you understand I didn't plan this. I didn't go into it like a nave little girl, but I certainly didn't want to split up his family and so far I haven't. And part of me even hopes that he and his wife will get back together..." She lets out a long sigh. "Even if that will be the end of my relationship with him."
"She has no idea? I mean she must not if she asked you to baby-sit."
"I can't tell. Maybe she does, but it's not like he and I have even had sex... we just talk. We talk kind of like you and I talk, and we care about each other... and we've had plenty of opportunities to have sex now that he's living at The Downtowner."
"He's staying in a motel?"
"Yeah. See, I don't even think he wanted to move out. He's been in the hotel for two weeks now and not only have we never had sex, but he hasn't even picked up a rental listing or anything. Besides, I love their daughters and I have to provide them with some modicum of female sanity lest they turn out to be like their mother... She actually drives all the way to Atlanta to buy organic vegetables... I mean, do you see the... never mind... it just disgusts me."
"Yup. I mean never mind the hypocrisy, we're all hypocrites, but some of us are at least aware of our hypocrisy..."
"I know. That's what I'm saying. This woman is insane. I mean she was fucking the personal trainer or something and into organics and asks me to baby-sit three days a week so she can go to yoga, meanwhile her family is disintegrating around her, her daughters are closer to me than her and she seems to think its just a phase in her marriage or something. And the worst part is she's a black belt in jiu-jitsu or shuiru or some horribly obscure form of martial arts and could probably kill me in less time than it would take to form the idea of killing me." Chloe shivers and leans her head on my shoulder.
"And you're fucking around with her husband..."
"And I'm fucking around with her husband..."
From: Dean O'Leary <do@morpheus.net>
To: sil@kali.org
Subject:
I don't know why Sil. I know it's disgusting. I don't even like doing it, but I have acquired a taste for it. I can't stop now, it bookends the days. Melissa has been yelling an awful lot lately. I'm not sure what she yells about exactly because I don't hear it. It's over. I gather that much. Presumably she wants me out of here. I do try to stay tuned enough to distinguish a date or something equally real, but usually she stops yelling after a while and we fuck like angry teenagers. She found the ladle yesterday. She didn't even ask what it was for. She was already yelling and picking up my clothes and throwing them in the hamper, and she reached under the bed and pulled out the ladle and just set it on the nightstand. After the yelling we were having sex, and she asked me to slap her ass with the ladle, so I did. I got tired after a while and couldn't have sex and operate the ladle at the same time and so I just sat on the side of the bed, and whacked her ass until she came. Or I think she came. This morning her ass was black and blue, but she acted like it never happened.
Dean Jr. is running out of water. He seems to know what is happening. I vomited twice yesterday from the drinking. I don't know for sure if I can finish. I went outside today for the first time since Atlantic City. It's very hot out, Sil. Is it hot there as well? I'm disappointed in myself. I can't seem to finish. And just this afternoon while I was out I bought a bottle of water. I cheated Sil. It was so clean and pure and tasteless. Not the slightest odor of fish. How do they get all the fish taste out of the water? Think how many fish are in streams... even weird blind fish that live way underground in caves and water tables... so many fish and yet when we get a bottle of water from the store we never taste them. But they're there. It's their water. We just borrow it. We take it, we filter it, we use it, we piss it out, we flush the toilet, we filter it again and then we send it back to the fish. We never even thank them. At least I don't know of anyone thanking them.
From: Dean O'Leary <do@morpheus.net>
To: sil@kali.org
Subject:
It's over thank god. I drank the last inch this morning by sticking my head in and sucking it up with a straw. Dean Jr. flopped around on the florescent gravel for about an hour or so. And then he was dead. I gathered up my clothes and put them in the suitcase. It took me most of the afternoon to find my car. I'll see you soon.
"It's not bad." Jimmy sounds surprised. "I don't know that it's all that good, but it isn't bad."
"Yeah. It's not the best I've made, but it's not the worst either." In a display of startlingly bad posture, Scratch is slouched down on the couch, cradling a ceramic mug on his stomach. He groans, props his bad leg up on the arm of the chair. "Fall is coming. This Indian Summer thing is always the first sign, and lucky me, I get to feel it in my bones." His lips curl sarcastically, and he takes another sip of mead. "The humidity's dropped anyway."
Jimmy lights a cigarette and exhales in the too-fast manner of people who don't actually smoke. I stretch my legs out and lie back prone on the floor, staring up at the tapestry ceiling. "Where's Chloe?"
"Out to dinner with the professor..." Jimmy exhales too hard again.
"She's been here what? Ten years?" Scratch shifts himself and lies down now occupying the entire length of the couch. "She knows how small this town is, how long does she think she can keep this on the down tip when they go out all the time?"
"I think she believes that as long as they don't have sex they aren't doing anything that needs to be hidden. Or at least that was the impression I got."
"He's obviously still in love with his wife. Guys like that are always going to stay in love with their wives because they don't have the imagination to move beyond it-not saying that's a bad thing mind you-just that he's going to go back to her, and Chloe is going to be left holding on to something that was never there." Scratch sits up and rummages around in his pockets to produce a small bag of weed and some rolling papers. He tosses them at Jimmy and lies back down. "You've met him haven't you Sil? Am I right?"
"Probably. But then I didn't think he'd move out."
"He had to move out. He didn't want to move out, but the script dictated that he had to move out. Wwhen you walk in on her, you have to move out. You don't even want to usually. Everything right then becomes very surreal, but your options at that point are pretty much murder or move out. I think he did the right thing. I mean, it was the personal trainer right...?" Scratch laughs heartily for a minute and it's not until I see the smile spread over Jimmy's face that I remember Scratch was a personal trainer for a while. "Yeah it's never anything more than sex with the personal trainer."
"Did you ever..."
"No. Never did. I've always figured that there are so many wonderful single women in the world there is no reason to get involved in that sort of situation. Not every guy chooses to move out you know.... Not that it wasn't offered.... I guess, and maybe this is just me inventing excuses for Chloe because she is our friend, but I guess for women there are less ideal single men. In this town anyway." Scratch accepts the joint from Jimmy. "I still think it's a bad idea."
We lapse into silence as they pass the joint back and forth. There is the sound of tires on gravel and the slamming of car doors.
"Oh, by the way, Dean is coming down." I sit up again. They don't response to this news. I follow their eyes out the window where the last glow of sunset silhouettes what appears to be Chloe and The Professor walking down the path toward my front door. There is a knock at the front door. A sound so rare it takes me a minute to grasp what it is, but Scratch is already yelling come in.
Chloe opens the door and walks in with a faint ducking motion that is immediately nervous and timid, two things Chloe rarely seems to experience. She seems to be, rather than just nervous, nervous about being nervous. Scratch bounds off the couch and is shaking hands with The Professor and hugging Chloe before I can even move. Jimmy is hurriedly crushing out the joint and steps over me to shake hands with The Professor. When the daze finally lifts I here Chloe saying, "...and you remember Sil."
"Yes. Yes I do. How are you Sil? Nice place you have here, like camping kind of..."
"Yeah thanks." I stand up finally. "Come on in, have a seat."
"Is that pot I smell?" The Professor sniffs suspiciously as he and Chloe sit down on the couch next to Scratch. Chloe is in between them, and The Professor places his hand on her leg and she puts hers over it. "Man. It's been years since I smoked pot."
"Well here you are Professor..." Scratch extends the half smoked joint to him, and Chloe turns roughly the color of a Cardinal at the mention of the word professor.
"Oh no. That's okay I don't think I should..."
Scratch's hand snaps back, and he cocks his head to the side. He shrugs, thrusts the joint between his lips and fumbles with my Zippo for a minute before producing a flame so large it nearly takes off his eyebrows. He chuckles and leans back on the couch. "Well the least you can do is indulge in some of my homebrewed mead here." He picks up the bottle and pours a little in his ceramic mug and passes it over to The Professor who takes a sip and proclaims it, "a little on the sweet side, but good."
"Wait, did you call me professor? Please don't do that, only my students call me professor..."
"Well you are a professor aren't you?" Scratch screws his face up into his potatohead stuck on smile look.
"Yeah I am, but..."
"Well that settles it, Professor." Scratch grabs the bottle and takes a long pull. "Can you make a radio out of coconuts?"
"Excuse me? Oh yeah. Uh... I don't know, I've never tried."
"Sil do you have any coconuts?"
"No."
"Damn." There is laughter and merriment, and everyone seems to think The Professor is being a good sport and a likeable guy and I keep staring at his hand which is resting on her knee, no, actually it's a little bit back from her actual kneecap, it's at the end of her thigh, it's right about where muscle gives way to tendon, the last extension of conscious control, he's right there at the edge and he's laughing and now he's taking the joint from Scratch, now he thinks he's one of the gang so why not and he's inhaling and laughing and everybody is having such a good fucking time and we're all in on this aren't we? We're all friends aren't we? We all fucking fit together don't we?
"So how's this thing with your wife?" An ugly pallor of silence casts itself across the room. The Professor seems unable to speak. He stutters and mumbles something about not wanting to talk about it. Jimmy is curled into a ball in the chair trying not to burst out laughing, and Chloe is staring at me with visions of disembowelment and meat-cleavered penises dancing across her pupils. Scratch takes a long drag and holds it.
"Never mind Sil," Scratch begins talking as he slowly exhales "he's had a few to many nips of the mead." Scratch rubs Chloe's back. She gets up to leave and The Professor follows mumbling things about nice to meet you and you...
The door closes behind them, and we listen to footsteps disappear into the night. No one says anything until we hear the sound of car doors. "I think that went well." Scratch grins.
"That was fucking amazing." Jimmy lets loose his pent-up laughter, pent so far that he seem to be spitting a bit in the midst of it. "I've never seen someone stop having a good time in that short... damn Sil. That really was brilliant."
"Of course you know Sil," Scratch eyes me thoughtfully, "tonight's the night they actually have sex... you've driven her into his arms, you know that, right?"
I shrug. "It's what they wanted isn't it."
Six
This is the room- these days run away like-treasure chests of pomegranates-nightfall on the savannah-we had no idea- be more like the ocean-visualize action-all that is waiting-the problem-understanding at the expense of ambiguity-pulling in the shells-red plumes of blue-something to move-turbulent somnobulist in the air-this is the room-
Something strange is amiss, hitting its pointed beak on the roof in time to the squirrels scampering feet, up there with the fallen limbs of pecans and maples and the disgorging of wings, cardinals and warblers and wrens and somewhere way up there, really up, straight fucking up, canadian geese in the marshmellow tuffs and syrupy blue ether-feathers raining through the pecans and maples and little Leda, wiping an impish grin on the back of her hand, tosses the club amidst a great splash of feathers that billow around her, listing slowly to the ground like gentle warm snow,-this is the room where we are waiting.
Perhaps Jimmy is not waiting.
Perhaps I am the only one waiting. Watching the scenery out the window of a train car still sitting in an empty railyard. Everyday the same scene, but hoping for motion.
Jimmy and I are just making some headway on a bottle of Scratch's and there it is-another train car pulling along side ours-the innocuous blue-green tint of Dean's soda-can sedan pulling to a rickety halt on the rutted driveway. I go the window and watch as he gets out and sets down his battered suitcase. Dean has wings, but they're black and someone has swallowed all his halos as if to say there is only pleasure with pain, only balance in contradiction. I've seen him dine on buddhists, put bullets through honeydew and mix gin with the Khan's famous after dinner treats. Dean was miscast. Given the wrong physical build, some paper work mix-up on the way down, departmental records secretary spills the coffee, papers snowing off the edge of desk some requisition order slides under the filing cabinet where it's still gathering dust and Dean gets here looking like an underweight Dempsey. He's done well with it though, he's grown into into it in spite of himself.
This morning he's wearing his trademark pin-striped suit and fedora with his hair greased back like it's 1957 and he's slightly ahead of his time. He scratches his head and surveys his surroundings, craning to inspect the treetops and sapphire twinkles of sky poking between leaves. Then he puts his hat back on and marches down the driveway. He looks like an enemy of the people, but only as a tag, a tag they would give to Dillinger or Mitnik, a tag that belies the warmth of men who know the odds and aren't putting any money on the table. They look best as a smiling Xerox on the post office bulletin board, never a sketch, never a half remembered glimpse, no Dean would do it all in broad daylight, the sort of criminal that is no longer permitted. There's a glamour to that sort of crime, crime which may steal, or destroy, but never does any real harm. An innocent criminality that got lost somewhere along the way, a formal criminality, an innocence that makes you believe that crime is as noble an art as any.
He looks like something from a tall tale told by a drunken leprechaun tugging at your coattails in a Dublin alley. But Dean is a darker sound than most, one with a heavy backbeat, something bass driven, with accordian melodies. The innocent criminal and lighthearted formality can collapse like bellows and exhale a different man, a heartbreaking melody then, dark and heavy-a gypsy song or a curse-half-muttered words. One day in New York City.... But even in the watery darkness of Dean's quiet moments the formalitity and innocence remain in little things, like words, always aeroplane, juncture, sonombulist, never airplane, time or zombie, or his clothing, always suits, antiquated, out of style, yet fitting on his wiry frame, always a zippo, never a bic, or his near reverant love of silence and thought. You can see thoughts folding in on themselves behind his eyes, train wrecks he will never describe for you, locked forever in a half curl of lips or rise of an eyebrow, entire railyards with meticulously inlaid switching systems with cars to carry you as far as Bangledesh or as near as the very stop your own train is pulling into just now, and yet he remains gulping in the silence, the beauty of saying nothing. I have seen Dean vanish, become so silent, so still that he disappeared right in front of me.
Everything is always on or off, there is no mediocrity or in between state- everything or nothing at all. When he drinks, and Dean often does, his eyelids droop slightly and his head teeters about on the end of his neck, but just when you think he's skunked, he'll snap to and ask you about something you casually mentioned two weeks ago, wanting to know the finer details of your off hand remark-razor sharp.
He doesn't knock, artificial formality is not his style. He moves through the door with more grace and sense of comfort in his surroundings than I can manage after four years. Jimmy and I sit silently waiting while Dean carefully lays the battered suitcase on the dining table and fishes out and lights a cigarette in one long fluid motion. He exhales and breaks into a broad smile.
"Sil my old friend," he walks around the divan and clasps his arms around me, "you ought to unpack... it will be good for you."
"I will my friend. I will."
We do not pat each other on the back. Eventually he pulls back, and, still grasping my shoulders, says, "You look well. You look marvelous actually." His attention shifts to Jimmy who, realizing he's next, has risen off the couch, glass of mead still in hand, "James... Good to see you."
While they embrace and clap each other on the back, I walk into the kitchen and grab Dean a glass and pour him some mead.
"Mead huh? Never had it."
"A Scratch specialty. It's not bad actually." Jimmy takes another sip as if to encourage Dean along.
"Scratch? Is that a person?" Dean flops down on the couch with his glass carefully raised and counterbalanced to avoid spilling.
"Scratch was discovered shortly after you left. You'll love him."
"Not bad. A little sweet for my taste but not bad." He sets the glass on the table and smacks his lips. "And where is Little Miss?"
"Sil pissed her off last night... Maybe you can retrieve her and assuage the feminine irk"
Dean's smile droops to a frown and he cocks an eyebrow at me.
I shrug. "Long story. Married people were in the house."
He winces. "Things are falling apart in my absence.... Fear not my friend. I'm back to save the universe." The smile returns, and he reaches again for the glass. "Get's better the more you drink..." He raises his glass and Jimmy and I follow, clinking our glasses against his "to a new dawn in the dark night of the soul..."
His toasts are always twinged with a melodramatic glamour that makes sense only after you have raised the twelfth one and come to see that, far from artifice, melodrama is the last glimmering of false hope, the desert hallucination of shimmering water that turns out indeed to be the water, shimmering and half-eclipsed by date palms.
"Okay man... hey let me get one of those..." Dean hands him a cigarette, and Jimmy lights up and exhales with his non-smoker aggressiveness. "So lay it on me... What have you been up to?"
Dean signs and lights another cigarette off the cherry of the former. He looks over at me with a twinkle on the corner of his lips. "When was my last email...? Oh yes. Okay that was a few days ago." He rubs his goatee ruminating on the elapse of time. "It's pretty vague... wait, hold on now, a couple of snapshots are developing. I remember looking up from a formica bar at thousands of blinking lights, like getting off a Ferris wheel and realizing that it was still and the rest of world is what's spinning." He nods to himself as if pleased with the recollection. "I have an image of an alley, two dumpsters labeled United and a cocktail waitress with extracurricular monetary schemes. I remember trying to buy cigarettes from this old man with a tray around his neck and I had no money, so he gave me a pack provided I left the building. I'm just not sure where the building was... Virginia maybe...?
"Yes. Yes it was somewhere by a river, I remember the smell and empty bottles floating in the water. Yes. I put them there. I drank them and then I lobbed them into the river and watched them bob around and list over on their sides and then they would slowly fill up with water and sink. But a couple of them righted themselves before they reached that critical mass, or equilibrium, or whatever, and they just floated off with the current..."
"Right," Jimmy interrupts impatiently, "but I meant up in Brooklyn... How did the city treat you?"
"Oh that part. Well let's see. I never really got a job. I mostly sat around the house smoking... let myself be a fucktoy for Melissa... naturally that wore thin after a while... I worked for two weeks tending bar at one of those Williamsburg joints that doesn't close... Working class place, where the night shift comes in around eight AM and wants to get ripped after work... So I did pay rent for a couple of months off that, but then I got fired for tapping the till... So I went back to being a fucktoy... I had a fish, but he died...
He pauses and stares intently at me. He starts to sit back and cross his legs, but then changes his mind and jerks to his feet. He paces a circle around the coffee table and then goes into one of his abstract-theoretical rants. He stops pacing to light a cigarette, the smoke maces him and he squints for a minute, rubs his eyes and lurches off again.
"Do you remember, when we were living out in LA, how it seemed like everything was so important and everyone had something they were working toward, but we always knew there was nothing and never would be? Well it's the same thing... same types of people, same types of jobs, ... everything exactly the same... except for the houses... I love the brownstones, take that over stucco any day, but it's pretty much the same sorts of people, the same caricatures that they present... real people mind you and plenty of interesting ones, though too many jogging and pushing baby strollers and that sort of nonsense... on the whole sharper than most in OC or LA, but not really all that different when it comes down to fundamental things like outlook on life, or maybe what I mean is lack thereof... plenty of shock at the notion that I don't want to work. I remember at this one party, one of Melissa's more yuppyish friends cornered me and started grilling me about what I did and all this stuff and I kept hemming and hawing and whatnot... finally she says, 'well what do you really love?' 'Everything,' I said. Absolutely everything. Except for onions and insects... and work. I hate work. I don't want to work. I want to absorb. I want to breathe in and out and understand. You know... run of the mill stuff. Anyway so Brooklyn was a lot like going back to LA, but with better restaurants. Not that I had expected it to be different, but the thing is, I've changed so much that I couldn't relate to it anymore. Couldn't even get that old superior amusement out of it.... I kept losing track of time... time is very important in that city. Never seems to be enough of it or something, everyone's trying to find it, the only place you can forget about time is in the parks. I would take wonderful naps in Prospect Park every afternoon. I got into letter writing. I spent most of my days writing letters to Sil and some folks on the west coast... I would find myself moving my fingers over the keyboard... I realized that I was playing it like an instrument, that the keys were what I was paying attention to, not the words or even the screen but the rhythm of the keys as my fingers danced over the..." He sighs wearily and crushes out his cigarette. "Who's the gimp?"
Out the front window we can see Scratch hobbling along with a pack on his back and what looks like ten or fifteen plastic shopping bags clutched in each hand. Jimmy bounds outside to help him.
"That, is Scratch." I smile at Dean. "I sort of thought that perhaps you wouldn't want me to share those emails with anyone..."
"Yeah maybe so." He sits down on the throne chair. "I've been feeling much better by the way..." His voice is swallowed by a bellowing laughter and Scratch limping through the doorway with Jimmy just behind him holding the screen open.
"Sil," he barks my name like a director unsure of his actors, "you're having a party. We forgot to have a summer solstice party, so, damnit, were having one now."
"Okay. Should we wait for the autumn equinox?"
"We haven't got that kind of time." He heaves the bags up onto the dining table. "Beside who knows when that is... just doesn't have the ring of summer solstice. Autumn Equinox is very awkward to even say, let alone have a party for. This is going to be an Indian Summer party if it really must have a name. But damn it, you better get on the horn and call yer friends cause old Scratch is putting on the chef coat and it's feeling like grilling season..." He then reaches into one of the bags and extracts from it a starched white, double breasted chef coat and begins to theatrically pull his arms through the sleeves. That accomplished, he snaps the collar smartly to his neck and shrugs several times as if adjusting his body to the coat rather than the other way around. He drops the theatre display when he notices Dean. "Hey...You must be Dean... how ya doing? I'm Scratch."
They shake and Scratch mumbles something about not really being this weird most of the time, which Jimmy vehemently denies, assuring Dean that Scratch is indeed always this weird. "He hit his head you know..."
"James," Scratch is back to barking, "thanks so much for organizing these fine young lads to retrieve the double wide grill which you will find right beside the tire swing in my back yard."He dangles the keys to his truck on his outstretched finger. I leap up and grab them grab. We set off with Dean through the forest along the river trail.
"Little different than Brooklyn eh?" Jimmy is still smoking the same cigarette and keeps stopping to inhale.
"Hmm... Yeah... So what did you mean when you said he hit his head?"
Jimmy laughs and then stops. "I guess it really isn't funny. He had a rather severe accident. We should probably let him tell you the story..."
Almost and hour has passed before we get back with what turns out to be the largest barbeque known to man and takes all three of us gasping and struggling to get it in and then out of Scratch's truck. In the mean time Scratch has converted my kitchen into something resembling a Cossack encampment shortly before crossing the river to descend upon the Turks. Plastic bags are hanging in a curtain-like semi-circle around the sink, suspended by hooks I didn't know I had. The tiny four-burner stove has disappeared beneath a barracks tent worth of pots and skillets, which on closer examination reveal several bubbling brown liquids with various herb clumps protruding from them. The oven door is propped slightly open and its insides are laden with skillets full of sauted vegetables richly coated in butter or oil or some mysterious glaze made from butter and oil.
Scratch is bent over the sink sharpening his knives. The sink has been buried beneath an enormous, two-inch-thick cutting board that must weight thirty pounds and came from god knows where. It certainly wasn't carried in a plastic bag. He straightens up and turns around when he senses me inspecting the stove. "Keep back." He growls. "No sampling. This is a professional operation you are witnessing here." Then he relaxes for a moment. "I think perhaps you should go up and talk to Chloe and make sure that she and The Professor feel welcome this afternoon..."
"I sent Dean and Jimmy on that mission. If she's really mad at me then maybe I will talk to her, but I was kinda hoping it would just blow over."
Scratch snorts and goes back to sharpening, the deft scraping of steel and stone echoing dully off the stainless steel sink below it. I pour myself a glass of mead and retreat to the couch. I flip on the stereo and put on some music. Scratch requests a deeper backbeat. "Some fucking hip hop I said... I can't cook to this morose crap... it's the middle of the day fer godsakes Sil."
I give up and put on the radio.
Mystical is bumping his way over those strange haunting Spanish guitar licks of his when I spot the entourage heading down the walkway. I can make out Jimmy and Dean in front and what looks like The Professor behind them. But there are far too many girls behind that to be Chloe. Unless she has divided into different bodies. They come through the door like a carnival troupe laughing and Jimmy starts singing the end of the song the minute he hears it. Dean breaks into an entirely inappropriate Irish jig sort of routine dragging one of the Chloes, who it's now clear is in fact an entirely separate entity named Nancy, at least according to Jimmy, who is attempting introductions over the sound of laughter and music. Nancy immediately wins my admiration by branching off from Dean's ridiculous dance into an even more spastic and disorienting careening series of movements, managing to draw a reluctant Professor into the routine. She stops abruptly, laughing as the professor continues with an awkwardness that, unlike Nancy's, is not faked. "There you go Professor." She claps and scrunches up her face and unleashes a voice that is one-part British nanny and one-part Shirley Temple "Oh you're sooo fabulous Professor. Run with it baby."
Scratch is momentarily spellbound and ceases his ceaseless movement as if stuck on pause by the touch of an unseen remote. Suddenly the ground gives way beneath him, and he hobbles forward to hug everyone and then gently shoo them outside. I climb up from the couch and move the speakers around to that they face outside.
Jimmy has already lit the grill, and everyone is gathering chairs around the fire pit.
"Let's burn something Sil... this is so great... You have a fire pit in your front yard... We have to have a fire." Nancy's enthusiasm is contagious, and before I can protest, she and Jimmy have disappeared on a wood gathering expedition.
Dean takes off to get beer. The mead is not to his liking he says. By the time he returns there is an alarmingly large pile of wood next to the pit, and Jimmy seems to have every intention of setting it on fire. Chloe is generally ignoring my presence, though The Professor has been making small talk and seems to want me to understand that he is not holding against me whatever it is that Chloe might be.
Conversations swirl in little whirlpools, like dust devils circling the yard, joining together in tornado, and then breaking off again. Though Jimmy and Nancy distinguish themselves with voices that rise in volume and enthusiasm like long rolling tidal waves finally making the beach, crosshatching and threatening to drown us all.
Chloe retreats and is standing by the doorway wearing a blue spaghetti strap dress, shaking her head slowly as she eats carrots and listens to Jimmy ranting. "Oh come on," I can hear him saying though I am trying to catch her eye at the same time, "there is no conspiracy..." his voice momentarily is swallowed by thumping bass and then returns, "...enlightened, wealthy, uber-powerful people living lives of extraordinary decadence at the expense of shmucks like you and I...."
The radio sings "hell was a place I knew long ago/is where I am/ is where I was/ is where I don't want to be/hell was a place I found by mistake..."
"There was a rainbow and we drove right under it and looked up at it... I swear we were right in the middle of it." Nancy's eyes get wider as if to emphasize the truthfulness of her story.
"I don't think you can be in a rainbow...."
"No one cares what you think Dean." She exaggerates, rolling her eyes and turns her around toward Chloe and the other girl. "We were in a rainbow weren't we?" They both nod.
"Fair enough."
"You wouldn't have been able to see it unless you were at a right angle to it," Jimmy breaks off from whatever he was ranting about and dives into the perilous waters next to Nancy.
"Ugh Jimmy. Didn't you hear what I said to Dean here? No one cares what you think... we were there. I think then that really, the authorities in this situation, would be, um, us." Her lips plaster on a sickly sarcastic smile. "Ohoh how you like that boy?" She weaves side-to-side imitating her dance from earlier, and Jimmy gives in laughing.
"Scratch kicks the screen open with a thunderous crash. Every one stops talking and turns toward him. He sniffs the air for moment and disappears back inside and returns carrying an enormous tray of meat. "It's grilling season," he bellows. "Let the grilling begin." He enlists my help in carrying the tray over to the frill and the rest return to what they are doing. I follow Scratch back inside and he sits down for a moment.
"Can I bum a smoke from you Sil?"
"You serious?"
"The only time I smoke is when I cook. When I was actually running the restaurant I was a two pack a day guy and for some reason every time I actually cook, I mean cook for a half dozen or so, I have to smoke." He accepts the cigarette and inhales deeply. "Been almost a year since the last one."
He smokes about half and puts it out and returns to cooking. I sit on the couch watching the rest of them talking and goofing around with Annie in the yard. Jimmy and Chloe break off together and head toward the house. She goes straight into the kitchen to investigate Scratch's cooking. I can hear ingredients being listed over the thump of the bass. Jimmy is making gestures and such that seem to indicate he wants me to talk to Chloe, but actually I have lost all urge. He sits down beside me on the couch.
"If she wants to be mad, who am I to deprive her of the satisfaction?"
He shrugs and nods.
She steps back from the kitchen chewing a haricot vert and smirking at Scratch's scrambling figure darting back and forth, stirring pots, now tossing a pan of braised beans, now whisking an emulsion..."You know Scratch in your life you've spent more time in the kitchen than most women. You might as well be pregnant by now..."
"Yeah," Jimmy stands up to pour more mead, "and those clogs you chefs wear mean you're basically barefoot." He laughs.
"Your point being..." Scratch's head pokes around the corner and glares at him.
Jimmy shrugs, "You'd make a good wife...?"
"What I am doing here James is art. You build things out of wood and call it art. Well, I build things out of food and call it art."
"Hey take it easy Scratch." Jimmy is a little taken aback "I was just trying to make a joke. Everyone knows there are lots of great male chefs."
Chloe groans. "Does it have to be like that?"
"What? Almost all the great chefs are men." Jimmy stares at her blankly.
"Oh god."
"What? They are. I mean almost all the ones I see on the Food Network are. Don't get all feminist on me Chloe."
"Oh this isn't feminism James, this is just pathos. You're pathetic. You force women to be these domestic servants for god knows how long, then just to prove you could do it better, you create this elitist snobbery around the very same thing when you do it."
"Hey I didn't do any of that. And I'm not gonna feel guilty for it. History is a rubbish heap of wrongs Chloe... we've all heard this one before...."
"Have we?" I try to warn Jimmy off with eyebrows, but he ignores me and soldiers on.
"In essence, yes. Very familiar pattern here... the dominator culture... the repressed... the horror. The horror."
"I don't know man, patterns are in the eye of the beholder. Patterns are misleading. Lots of times we think they indicate order, but they don't necessarily. They only indicate patterns."
"Yeah, but patterns within disorder implies a kind of order, wouldn't you agree?"
"No. It depends on what you mean when you say order. Order as an inherent discoverable phenomenon is fiction..." Chloe storms outside and Jimmy and I watch as she sits down next to The Professor, her back toward the house. I continue watching her as Jimmy and I carry through our conversation, which by now, neither of us cares about.
"Imposing order seems to work for certain reducible things... But I think patterns simply imply something outside the disorder is trying to make sense of it.... It doesn't have anything to do with the order or meaning of real nebulus thing. It has to do with us. Not the other... Where one person can find the pattern 'Jesus is the reason for the season' another person finds 'season the reason. Bake for twenty minutes'
Jimmy's voice is flat and distracted "You know as well as I do that those are not anagrams drawn from the same set of letters..."
"Okay sure we keep spare letters around for times when we want them, but isn't that just a further example of that fact that the order isn't there... we invent it?"
"Touch. OUCH!"
"FUCK!"
Scratch slaps us both in the side of the head with metal turners.
"I understand that all that was some misguided attempt to make Sil look good there, James. But I thought maybe a good crack on the head would remind you morons that Chloe isn't as stupid as you two can be." Scratch looks as close to mad as I have ever seen him. He thrusts a pitcher of sauce into Jimmy's hand and a brush into mine. "Now go outside and baste the chicken... And for the love of god keep the sauce off the pork. I didn't soak it in brine for twenty four hours to have goop all over it."
Outside the Professor is trying to coax Dean into some philosophical debate. "So what are you saying? That we can make a difference or that we can't?"
"Neither." Dean lights a smoke. "I have nothing to say on that one because once you start debating that you have already digressed out of life and into the realm of ideas. Ideas are just words, words are just abstractions all you, no offense, do-good intellectuals are missing the point. Yes, life could use some tinkering, it certainly isn't fair, but the problem isn't recycling, it isn't pollution, the problem is you and I and the solution is individual and has to be dealt with on that level. As long as you ignore the individual and focus on the abstract you not only miss the problem, but you delude yourself into thinking that you can find solutions for everyone."
"Oh God," Chloe cuts in with an exasperated voice, "you would think by now with the number of times we have failed to change things that we would be able to look ahead, put two and two together, and stop even talking about this crap." She shakes her head.
"Well yes, that's what I'm saying," Dean points to her with his cigarette. "Everyone has to face up to himself or herself first. And don't pull any psychological mumbo jumbo on me either because there will never be enough therapists to go around until we realize that we are our own therapists, and our own patients and that all the solutions we will ever need are already there in our own brains." He stabs his index finger into his forehead. "And as long as you are going to approach the world as, on one hand, a concrete thing in front of you, and on the other, some fanciful, abstract set of possible solutions, you are never going to realize that the power of words is not in the words themselves, but in what they can create. I mean, come on Professor, you know your surrealists I'm sure, what do think they were saying...? That the world is fanciful? Well sure, but lets scratch the surface a little shall we? Want it to be a better place? Try being a better person. Try thinking with your heart instead of your head. Your imagination can do things we haven't even dreamed of yet. And that's where all our ideas and solutions and future problems will come from. And I don't mean just the dreams you have when you're sleeping. I mean dreams... love, hope, the true work, all these are products of the imagination, all of this, everything around us, even each other, all springs from the interplay of our imaginations...."
"Yeah but Dean, most people just want to be happy..." Jimmy is yelling in my ear as he swabs chicken breasts with barbeque sauce. "People don't have the time or energy in their lives to think or talk about the kind of complexities you're talking about."
"Sure they do. We do. What makes us different than anyone else?"
Scratch swings the door open again with the same silence-inspiring crash. "What makes us different is that we know how to have a summer solstice party long after summer solstice is past."
There are whirls of color balanced on theories dreamed from the Fibonacci sequence, balanced on the harmonics of a root two rectangle... a salad like a dancing lady from a Toulouse-Lautrec poster advertising the greatest carnival of all in some Parisian back alley, the girl's skirts all atwirl and sucking on a bottle of sodium pentothal... eyes circle the table in blurs of mead settling on the green of the haricot verts in just about the place that fanciful Italian would have placed them, and yet Scratch probably doesn't know Fibonacci's name or even if he does the coincidence is a dance of intuition and formal logic hand in hand, skirts atwirling, painted faces glowing, the mirrored windows and the laughter three stories above where the madam is stringing her stockings across the open sliver of sky that you can see when your head flies back, heavy with absinthe and the dizziness of the endless spiral... and if we hesitate it is only of a desire not to disrupt, to preserve the golden garden, but damn if that isn't one fine looking apple over there by the pork and its honey gastrite accompaniment, and now the gold rush is on, down the alleyway come the miners and it's all the dancing girls can do to get up on the steps of the doorways before the stampede of miners comes clamoring down the cobblestone, greedy hunger in their eyes... dividing amongst them the finest of both homely honesty and Parisian fantasy... met here on a table of modest proportions... giggling girls in petticoats pretending modesty and impropriety while gold-rush ruffians wreck havoc on what was once a peaceful alley.
Outside. Dirt and folding chairs. Chairs open. Chairs close. Mandibles move up and down. It's inescapable. And it tastes so good when it waltzes between the lips, the way the honey sweetens the front taste buds, and the camisole meat dances backward as the slight bite of mustard hits the sides of the tongue and a street band strikes up something in the key of G, something anyone can move to, a hypnotic dance that even cartoon animations moving frame by meticulous frame, can replicate and your eyes roll slightly back as you swallow, crescendo and then here comes the augment...
Mead. Or in Dean's case beer. Sweetness piled on thick with no shame. Gluttony. Fucking in the streets. On the roads. In the middle of the interstates. Everything drawn out of the alley into the open night air, and by the time most of us have finished eating, the sun is gone and night fast approaching. Nancy is petitioning for the fire, which Jimmy obliges and they embark on a ritual of twig snapping and branch breaking. Dean and I attempt to put my kitchen back in some semblance of order. He carefully wraps all the leftovers, intuitively realizing that this is all the food we have in the house and we had better make it last no matter if the camisole turns to chamois. By the time we finish and look outside a volcano has erupted in the front yard.
While some people might throw a few sticks on the ground, strike a match and call it a fire, Jimmy has other ideas. Jimmy has approached the thing more from an architectural angle. He is back with that famous Italian and his wonderful spirals. This is no fire, it's more of a pyre. It's the kind of thing pagans used to dance around in the woods. It's the kind of thing the Romans used to heat the great palaces with, back in the days when fire meant life. It's the hissing, raging swirl of motion that makes you want to understand it, to be able to recreate it at any moment. It's alive, that much is obvious, but more importantly, Jimmy has given it life, he has set it in motion down that spiral path ever-increasing. He appears to have started with the remnants of the bamboo fence that I noticed earlier in the pile. Bamboo burns hot and fast and explodes as it does. He has combined it with fallen limbs of oaks and pecans and then reassembled the elements in a drip sandcastle formation that is flooded inside and out by a ferocious roaring sound that twists itself up, turns blue, then red, then yellow and disappears into the lower branches of the pecan tree, singeing the leaves and causing them to fall. It's fantastically loud, and it's sending flames over eight feet into the air.
He and Nancy are the only ones even close to it. They are both still feeding yet more wood into the already excessive heights of flame. The Professor looks downright terrified by this spectacle and is clearly re-evaluating what sort of madmen he has fallen in among. Even Scratch looks mildly alarmed, but he isn't saying anything. Dean heads straight for the woodpile and begins to throw more logs up on the top. Jimmy and Nancy have moved back from the heat, but Dean seems unfazed. He keeps at it until the entire woodpile has been fed to the flames. Even at ten or twenty feet, the heat is nearly intolerable and clearly no one is in control of the fire. Nancy runs inside and turns down the stereo and emerges from the house with two fresh bottles of mead. Jimmy retrieves the remaining chairs and he and Dean even carry the couch outside offering it to Chloe and her friends. We sit around listening to the roar, in awe of Jimmy's creation. Every so often, as the wood burns down, we draw our chairs closer.
"We used to have fires like this out in Humboldt..." Scratch rubs his head, and Dean perks up, glances over at me and nods.
"You lived in Humboldt?"
"Yeah back in the late seventies I used to go out there in the spring... some friends of mine had a regular crop... then in the fall I'd pack it into a VW bug and haul it back here to sell to the college kids... ya'll are lucky... man, back then, there was nothing to do in this town..." He drifts off into some private world for moment. "Yeah Humboldt was something back then, maybe it still is, I dunno, but back then growing was part of the economy, nobody messed with you. The car dealerships would put up billboards advertising 'harvest specials' on trucks and 4X4's. It was hilarious. But why was I telling you this? Oh yeah, the fire, man out the middle of the redwood forests we used have huge bonfires and big parties... all the growers would get together after harvest..."
A silence momentarily settles over us, but Jimmy interrupts it, asking Scratch to tell the thump story. "You don't want these people to leave tonight think you just limp for no good reason do you?"
Scratch snorts. "Like I was handicapped by some fate of nature rather than my own stupidity?" He sits up and straightens his pants. "No I guess we wouldn't want that."
"I didn't notice you limped." Nancy leans forward in her chair and inspects Scratch's leg.
"That's sweet of you to say my dear, but it doesn't put your powers of observation in a good light. So yes, I do limp. And I limp because I'm missing about an inch and a half of bone in my left leg." He lights up a joint and passes it to his right.
"Okay so as you might have guessed I used to cook for a living. I started doing that in LA back when I was your age probably, maybe a little younger, but anyway, I worked in some nice places and developed a bit of a reputation... I got to the point where some friends and I were able to put together a catering company, and we worked movie sets because that was where the good money was at."
"What movies did you do?"
"Oh shit, lots of stuff that never saw the light of day, but we eventually did get some big ones, Reality Bites was probably the biggest and definitely one of the worst, I should have given them more protein on that set. But the thing in Hollywood is that the money isn't necessarily in the big productions, those things have tight fixed budgets, and if they run over their budgets they cut things like catering so we actually tried to avoid them except when we thought it would be a good resume builder.
"Anyway in the course of a few years I became friends with Debra Winger, who honestly is one of the nicest, sweetest women I've ever met. So as time goes on I get tired of the business end of things and I was bitching to her about it one night and she offered me a job making good money just cooking for her. A personal chef basically. So I sold out of the catering company and was going to work for her...
"Now the other thing you need to know is that I was an avid sky diver. We used to go all the time. Pretty much whenever we weren't working we were jumping out of airplanes. So when I sold the company my friends decided to have this big party for me out in the Inland Empire... Dean and Sil know where that is, but the rest of you just have to imagine a big, dry, grassy area where LA stores its smog during the day... So there was this community house out there that we sort of crashed at when we weren't on location or whatever... the key point being that it was in the middle of nowhere and it had a barn with a corrugated metal roof. So we decided that about half of us would jump and try to land at the house and the other half would stay behind and cook."
At this point Scratch stands up and hobbles toward the fire and turns around facing us. "So I was the last jumper. It was a perfect afternoon. Nice and warm even at fourteen thousand feet. Everything about the day was just lovely... and I know what you're thinking and no the 'chute opened fine, just like it was supposed to, everything was great the whole way down..."
Scratch looks around to make sure everyone is edged up on their seats. He stalls everything from this point on to build it up because we can see from his obviously twisted, scarred kneecap that something goes horribly wrong at some point, but Scratch likes to amplify the suspense.
"Well, about a hundred feet off the landing, everyone else is already down. Most of them in the yard though a couple are down the street, but they're all down and I'm kind of half steering half watching them pack up their chutes and half thinking, in the very back part of my brain, at some level I don't normally pay attention to, that something is not right. The first few guys are in the yard and the last three are spread out down the street."
He pauses to take a long drag.
"What this tells me is that there is a nasty gust somewhere between me and the ground. And that is the last thought I remember half-forming. Three months later I woke up in a hospital."
He passes the joint on.
"What happened is that I started to drift and I tried to correct, but something in the way I moved and the way the wind was blowing... one in a million kind of thing... one of those variables that you don't get to control." Dean is wincing and Chloe puts her hand over her face. Jimmy gives a little ironic laugh. "Anyway," Scratch continues, having built it up enough, "basically the 'chute twisted and the gust caught me about twenty feet above the ground and threw me into the extended edge of the barn's corrugated metal roof. The tops of my ankles hit the edge of it square on at about forty miles an hour."
He looks down at his legs.
"It cut almost all the way through to my Achilles tendon, smashed my ankle joint to smithereens; understand of course, I don't actually have any memory of this.... It's just what people have told me, people who were there.... They're not sure if that's what did the knee too or if the knee was from the truck I landed on," Scratch chuckles. "Lucky for me, after I got dragged free of the roof with my feet flopping behind me, the 'chute caught another gust and blew over the house. I fell two stories and went right through the front windshield of a pickup truck." He laughs heartily.
"And that," Scratch looks over at me with a green jello twinkle in his eye, "is why I don't walk quite right."
"Jesus Christ," Dean exclaims, "I can't believe you lived through that."
"Well that makes two of us... and I'll tell you, I don't remember it happening, but to hear my friend Dave tell it, it sends chills down my spine. He saw the whole thing, he was the one that drove me to the hospital... they were afraid to move me so I was half hanging out the windshield of the truck all the way to the hospital."
Scratch leans back, wipes his hands over his face and sighs deeply. "It just sounds so funny to me you know? There's times when I think I might have made the whole thing up... like I never did cater films, never lived in Hollywood, never went sky diving, never knew Debra Winger, never did any of it... I've been lying the whole time and I just made this stuff up to impress you guys." He trails off. But his story is true. He showed Chloe and I pictures of his ankles. The reconstructive surgery and use of sheep tendons was very experimental at the time, and Scratch is actually in the medical books as a case-study complete with horrifying photographs.
The fire has subsided to levels that might be considered normal. After a while The Professor announces he is leaving. Chloe gets up to walk him out, and Nancy and the other girl take the opportunity to walk back to Chloe's house where they are staying. Scratch mumbles something about age and he enlists Jimmy to help him carry things back to his house. When everyone else is gone. Dean stands up and announces he is going for a walk.
I just keep staring at the coals, imagining they are little cities seen from a great height. I get lost in architecture. The fire. The road. The echo of words settling at the departure of their speakers, slowly winding down in familiar spirals. The architecture of language paints these pictures and somehow, despite the fact that they exist only as vibrating air, they still exert influence over everything in reality. Dean, for instance, is going for a walk down the road. Road is very specific, it is not a street, it's a road. The word road has specific connotations. The Empire State building is not on a road, the mansion on the hill is not on a street, and Rue Montapassat is not Montpassat drive. Street is a clean simple word, inspiring clean simple lines, right angles, mirrored super-smooth surfaces, liquid sand... Drive is more suspicious, stucco and suburbs, but neglected suburbs, remodelled track homes straying from their architect's intentions. Lane's are ambiguous, they can go either way. But the word road winds, switches and curves around in your mouth. Its jaw-stretching vowels inspiring things like graded dirt, bumpy potholes, fallen-down mailboxes, sagging porches and bullet-riddled stop signs. Streets always have people walking down them, roads do not. But tonight they do. Tonight Dean is walking down a road. Tonight he is walking and listening to trees, perhaps even talking to them.
The fire is only glowing embers, echoes of its once towering self, fallen silent and the sound of the crickets roars in over my thoughts. Neanderthals. A glowing fire in a cave, wrapped in the warmth of bearskin, wondering what it would have been like, to have been there-have I been there? Have we all been there and just don't remember it? Is it the very fire that kindles the imagination? The fire crackles, and an opposable thumb grasping for more fuel, a twig, a branch. An idea is born, the night sings. The same crickets, cicadas, and hooting night owls fill the air-the distant sound of dawn. Was there music? Drumming? Chanting and singing filling the night air for miles?
"Everybody gone?" the voice startles me and I have to turn around before I realize that it's Chloe.
"Yeah. I think those girls are at your house or something..."
"Yeah. They're old friends from Atlanta."
"Oh."
She is standing beside my chair arms crossed, looking down at her foot, which she drags back in forth making an arc in the dirt and leaves. "Where'd Dean go?"
"Uh. He said he was going for a walk..."
"Lets go find him." She tugs on my sleeve until I stand up.
We walk out and down the dirt driveway trading kicks on pecans and pinecone sized rocks.
Finally I decide to deal with it. "Chloe, look I'm sorry if I pissed you off, but damn I was just asking him a question."
She doesn't respond at first. "That's the worst apology I've ever heard." And then she giggles, "but since I was never mad at you, it's okay."
"I got the impression that you were."
"What from Scratch and Jimmy?"
"Partly. But also because you seemed to be avoiding me."
She laughs. "I wasn't avoiding you..."
"Seemed like it to me..."
"I wanted you to rise above it." She stops and rolls the rock under her shoe.
"Above what?"
"Above the fact that Jimmy and Scratch were telling you that I was mad at you. And it did actually piss me off for a minute that you let Jimmy try and dupe me into some sympathy thing." Her leg rises up behind her poised to send the rock scattering into the tree. "Jimmy is a sweetheart and I wasn't mad at him for trying I was mad at you for thinking I would buy that shit."
"Yeah," my head droops involuntarily, "sorry."
"That appology I like. I forgive you." She begins to giggle again. "You guys thought you were so clever... I couldn't let you get away with that." She turns slightly, and kicks the rock about twenty yards straight down the road, and we both instinctively take off after it.
We come up over the rise in the driveway, and there is Dean, head thrust back, neck craned, inspecting the uppermost limbs of a pecan tree or perhaps the sky.
"Hey kids." Dean's voice is near a whisper.
Chloe's instinctively drops her own voice as she walks up beside him and tilts her head back to stare upward with him. "Why are we whispering Dean?"
"I don't know, but it seems like the right thing to do."
"It does, doesn't it?"
I hang back a bit and watch them staring upward trying to resist the temptation to do likewise. It's very hard to watch someone watching something without instinctively bypassing them to see what it is they are watching.
"You know you want to Sil..." Chloe's head never turns.
I give up and stare upward at a sliver of moon. The soft white glow reveals phantasmal basket spider webs poised in the upper branches of the trees. The baskets baskets are errie and enormous, silohetted against the star-specked sky, they are beautiful, almost alive, waiting to crawl across the trees, dodging glitters of moonlight and disappearing into the purple blackness of shadows.
"Okay my neck hurts." Dean turns and reaches in his pocket for a cigarette. I gesture and he hands me one as well. The dancing flame of the lighter momentarily blinds me.
"How long have you been doing that?"
"Dunno." He takes a long drag. "So um, can I ask you guys a question? Well, I was asking around about jobs, you know, kinda hoping Jimmy had some work..."
"Did the cowboys ever get off the roof?" Chloe asks.
I shrug.
"Cowboys? I didn't hear anything about cowboys..." We start walking back toward my house. "But he did mention something about pills...?"
"He can get more? That greasy little weasel said he couldn't get any more."
"Calm down Chloe. That's what I want to know. He wants me to go get them because he found out the feds or somebody are watching the guy's house and they already have his license plate and whatever... So I'd be willing to do it for a fee of course, but is he putting me on? What's the deal?"
"Yeah he told me about the cops." Chloe nods her head. "Basically this guy he was getting them from was a pharmacist or assistant or something... anyway he got a ton of pills somehow or other and he got caught, but for some reason they can't do anything to him, I don't know this all down in a little town south of here, and it's a very small town so it's hard to really know why, but the story is that the town couldn't do anything, to him, but for some reason the feds got involved... the rest of the details are hazy but I don't think he's putting you on Dean." She jumps on his back and throws her arms around him. "Please please Dean, go get them... you get some money we get the extra pills, Jimmy makes his money, it's a win win win situation...please..." She slides off and puts her arm around his shoulder. They embrace, and then she says goodnight to me and disappears into the incandescence of her doorway.
Back beside the fire, Dean and I sit in silence on opposite sides of the shimmering coals. I shift in my seat and lean forward, arching my back to stretch it out. Dean and I are from a different universe than the rest of them, that is, we have our own universe, one that we share with no one else in Georgia. A universe born out of many years spent sitting silent together, each respectful of the other's contemplation. It is rare to be able to sit around with someone and not have a conversation. That is the true measure of friendship, the silence in between words, the boredom between the adventures, with Dean and I it is always a light carefree silence, no matter how heavy our thoughts might become. A silence where even the cricket hesitate. An underwater silence where thoughts are mute but travel forever in ripples, expanding slowly and lapping at distant shores. I can hear Dean's thoughts like the surface of a pond roils and surges just before some enourmous creature climbs up out of it. But before it can climb up out on to the land, Chloe shuffles up in her pajamas holding a spiral bound notebook.
Her face is shy in the glimmering, irregular dance of light that surrounds us. She says nothing, but her mission obvious and determined. One more to be consumed. Dean looks up and smiles. There is a muted atmosphere which cannot be disturbed. I nod, and she carefully spreads the notebook open atop the pyramid formed by the last two semi-intact logs. At the weight of the pages, they finally give in and lay themselves flat. Slowly new and hungry flames curl up, reach out from beneath the glowing logs to accept this new gift, this ever so susceptible nourishment of paper.
First a hesitant lick, but soon a more daring dance, a courting of the soon to be consumed, a slow waltz of charred hardwood floors, the ruins of some mid century dance hall... The sucking out of air, the consumption of oxygen flutters and ruffles the pages, Chloe's handwritten scrawl is visible for fleeting seconds, words leaping out of the fire, the silent tongues of Shatterack, Meshack and Abendago. There is no comprehension, only the sense that here is the truth, slowly licked up and down in long caresses of tonguing flame, turning amber and smoking with desire.
Chloe waves and shuffles off into the darkness. In the distance there is the sound of a starting motorcycle, faintly in the background, the river-like sound of cars on the highway. The stereo inside has long since fallen silent. Dean shifts and leans forward to stir the fire with a branch that was spared. He throws it on top. After a while orange flames are again kissing the darkness and sending up embers, messengers off into the night, fading into the blackness and disappearing, and I'm never sure if they continuing upward or turn to ash and disolve into the air. Here and there a particularly courageous or lucky one can be seen carried off into the depth of the forest by a fortunate breeze.
Dean goes to bed leaving me alone beside the fire. A few minutes later I head inside as well. I lie down in my bedroom and stare up at the moon, trying to bath in its light, but the angle is wrong. It hits the edge of the window and refuses to come into my room. I get up to use the bathroom, but the bathroom is in shambles. Clothes, towels, magazines, books, scraps of paper and other trash litter the floor. Outside seems easier, so I return to the chill of the night. I am more than a little drunk. I sigh inwardly and pee on the nearest tree.
Seven
Drip sandcastle dreams hang on a wire-hear it on the national news-Los Angeles still like Mexico City-ocean of light-hanging on by a thread-photographs of the living dead- electronic reality-computer saves man-regrets act-one up-two down-five up-squirrels scamper trees-disappointment-click clack- trees-wheels-tuffs of white cotton-the rumble of thunderheads-cigarette ash-rain holding off-huddle around Roman fires-the roots-scatter cameos-finger scrap rock-tiny handholds-Palisades like valley below-roadside conversations-we'll wait here-morning-cigarettes-lighters-flames- inhale-exhale.
Everything is working.
It's on.
Or the talk of it is on. There is talk of it being on, or going on, or being ongoing. It's hard to say the way they circle around it. Dates come up. Things approach a plan but then the crest of on receeds, a wake of variables trailing ocean debris across the sand. And sand it will be. The plan has come that far. It will be sand and it will be foreign sand. In the background there will be the murmur of languages against the farther off babble of surf and there will pool, Scratch is insistent on pool, though none of us are sure why when there is an ocean right there, but no, Scratch must have his cabana and his pool and his divorcees. He is going on about the splendor of expatriate divorcees, loaded down with bags of money and free time and lusting after cabana boys who are reluctant because they fail to see the money tied to the sagging skin and diamonds in that are trapped in the wrinkles of bone-shrunk flesh.
Chloe wants mangos and papayas and passion fruit and guava and coconut necture tickled with rum to wash them down, to lounge in the warm tropical breezes that blow in from spice islands, jungle laced beaches bejeweled with palm fronds, brown skinned natives in clinking abalone necklaces walking down jungle trails, the foliage is glistening, the moonlight reflecting off the beads of water on the leaves... the chirping twilight of cricket dreams....
Dean isn't so limited, he believes in the whole world. We swill syrah in dark country cellars... We sit on latticed patios in the Italian countryside drinking chianti... We pick olives and play chess with the Greeks and take a ferry out to Crete... We walk the dusty camel choked streets of Morocco and catch the Marrakech Express across the desert... We fly biplanes low over African savannas out to the Ivory Coast where we catch freighters to Brazil and sail up the Amazon to take Yage with the natives....
This afternoon the air is a harem dancer bejeweled in sequins and dripping opium honey from her succulent breasts. She slides slippery wet through the front door, traces of her slick the doorknob and the house smells of white orchids, pomegranates and peach blossoms. She weaves through handing out mosquitoes and the drifting off with gusts of a passing hurricane whose wake has left a lingering, crisp sadness, biting at the afternoon with frosty shark teeth.
A map of central america is spread bethenth the coffeetable glass and between hands Scratch taps and points at roads and towns like a child at the smithsonian.
Poker then strip club then sex scene with Maya. End.
Chapter eight
Cards keep flipping up and money changes hands. Brown liquor flows down my throat and my little pile of ones quickly diminishes. I had intended to clean them all of a few dollars-damn beginner's luck. I borrow a twenty from Jimmy and then another. Not only am I not getting the cards, but also, for once in his life, Dean is. He takes hand after hand, a beaming smile lights his face each time he leans over the coffee table and drags a big pile of quarters and ones over to his end.
Dean's in one of his expansive moods, he's feeling free and reaping the rewards of not caring about his actions. He rattles on about a book I loaned him. He has a fresh-faced enthusiasm for the book's subject-memes. Memes are the idea counterpart of genes. The book argues that ideas, like physical characteristic, are passed on hereditarily, but with a little more leeway than genetics. For instance racism is hereditary, it's passed down from parents to children just like a gene, so they call it a meme... It traces a lot of western thought that way, the way in which thoughts are replicated from one generation, or even person, to another... Dean is arguing that our memes, our very thoughts are not our own; we are merely replicating the ideas of our ancestors.
"So, wait a minute now," Ulric cuts in, "in the old nature vs. nurture you're coming down on the nurture side?"
"Well yes and no. I don't think it's either exclusively, a happy marriage of both, but that's not the point..." Dean has a puzzled look on his face and I can tell that even he isn't sure what the point is. "What I was getting at is that there is finally a language for talking about how ideas are transmitted; how the virus of language does it's work, how it moves from host to host..." Dean licks his lips in satisfaction.
Ulric sits back in heavy thought. "Who cares though? I mean it may or may not be true, and there may or may not be ways of proving it in either direction, but none of that has on any consequence on how you live life... Oh and it's your bet there memeboy... what's it gonna be?" He gives Dean a sarcastic look.
Dean stares him down, throws in three dollars and continues without pause. "That's where you stop though. What I want to know is how the screws turn... how you disassemble reality for someone and put it back together in a new way? Essentially," he draws long on his cigarette, "how do you make a lasting change in your beliefs?"
Ulric grunts, "Try a thousand mikes of liquid acid...."
Dean smiles. "I mean without drugs. Although maybe that would help me loosen up a bit... I don't know what I think about memes yet. I need to give it more thought. Besides I got this hand." With three aces, he most certainly does.
Ulric throws his cards down in disgust and leans forward to light a cigarette. For the time being, Jimmy and I are resigned to silent losing. It suits me. Ulric takes a drag and seems to be sizing up Dean. "Alright Dean, how would you go about making a permanent change in your beliefs or should I say approach to life?"
"Either or." He picks up the cards. "Well," Dean says shuffling as he talks, "for instance when I was in Maryland I tried on a set of beliefs to see how they fit me...." He puts his cigarette in the ashtray and slowly deals out two cards to each of us. "What I found," he says, "was that I couldn't live that so-called normal life... white picket fence that sort of thing, but interestingly enough, I'm still in love with Alexis. I realized that in order for me to be with Alexis I had to get my shit together first and at this juncture I don't really want to do that. So the question arises why don't I want to do that? Where did I get the belief that I shouldn't do that?"
"What do you mean by get your shit together?" Jimmy interrupts.
Dean shrugs and lies back on the couch. "You know what I mean- figure out what I want out of life and how I'm going to go about getting it."
Jimmy sits up excited and starts waving his hands as he talks. "See that's what I mean when I keep saying I need to figure something out in my life. What am I going to do, that's what I keep asking myself... Do I want to be with Chloe and do that life or do I want to... you see what I'm getting at?"
"Is your relationship with Chloe that involved?" Dean asked. "I don't mean to pry, but it seems like all you two do is fight... I mean maybe you should start exploring other directions." Dean runs his fingers through his hair, coating them with grease, and flips up three cards-the nine of clubs, the six of hearts and the queen of diamonds. Jimmy studies the flop before answering Dean. The silence is uncomfortable, I think maybe Dean has overstepped his bounds with Jimmy and the look on Dean's face says he's thinking it too. Or else he doesn't have a hand.
"Well see," Jimmy's voice betrays no irritation at the question, "With Chloe and I there's no growth, no forward movement of the relationship, and for a while I thought it was because I'm this ambitious person and she's not, but lately I've realized that it's me. I'm all ambition and no direction" Jimmy's eyes take on the preternatural glow that he gets when he's about to launch into one of his passionate diatribes against himself. He seems to be hovering right on the edge of illumination, but he's unable to take that last step. I know the feeling. Someday something will happen to push him up it. Or someone...
Jimmy over-analyzes his life, picking it to pieces, thinking he can reassemble it back to some greater whole when really what he needs is more pieces to build with. "At this point," he says, "Chloe is the one that's growing, not me." Dean nods his head and Jimmy closes his eyes and begins to speak very slowly, as if picking through the rubble of a demolished building. "I keep thinking that I'm having these grand realizations, and maybe I am, but I have the same realization everyday and I don't act on it. I need to act, to move forward so that I have something to bring to the table so to speak. And maybe it's as simple as finding a career or a job or whatever I don't know. I only know that I have to change something in me."
Dean flips up the queen of spades and suddenly the hand takes a turn. I have the queen of hearts as a down card. They are lost in conversation and I quietly raise the stakes to three dollars. Jimmy is the only one who hesitates.
Ulric sits up and checks his hand before throwing in his money. "See with Rose and I, we both started growing in opposite directions, and the hard part was that it was because I changed the things in me that I didn't like. Now I keep trying to change her even though I know I can't. So changing things in myself changed things in our relationship and ultimately, I now know that we aren't meant to be together." His voice drops to a tragic whisper, "But that doesn't make it any easier to let her go."
Dean nods, "Of course not, that's a totally separate thing." He lights a fresh cigarette and cocks his head back staring at the ceiling. "People advance mentally throughout life," he goes on, "they pass through life in steps, accomplishments, experiences, epiphanies...pick a word. When two people meet that are advancing at the same rate, a bond is formed. A union of the minds so to speak." He blows smoke rings up to the ceiling clearly enjoying his role of analyst. "What happens to me is I keep advancing, sometimes speeding up, or slowing down, but usually speeding way up, and the other person is left behind. Thus there's that separation feeling at one point where you wake up saying what the fuck is going on, why am I here? For me, no matter what I do, that seems to happen after about two years..."
The last card dealt is the king of spades. I again put in three dollars. Jimmy raises me another three and I raise him two more. He calls me and I lay down the queens and win the hand-finally.
"But do you think it's possible that two people can move at the same speed for longer than two years?" Ulric asks
"Personally? No. However, my addition to that theory is that two people can move at different paces, but they still move together. In different directions, same direction, whatever, but there is still a continuity. And these two people make up the middle ground by learning from one another. If you're not learning from someone, it's hard to love them. But, more often than not, what happens to me is we move at the same pace, and then two years down the road they want to stay there, thus the huge schism." He smiles to himself for minute, "And then you meet a Muslim who makes you reevaluate... or maybe that just happens to me." He laughs.
Ulric and Jimmy have very earnest, sad looks on their faces. I can tell Dean is enjoying his role as the teacher perhaps some good has come out of two failed marriages and three broken engagements. "See, as a relationship progresses you go from meeting in the middle somewhere to being in the middle. Once you're together as one so to speak, there is no middle to meet in and that's what chokes that life out of the relationship." He glances over at Ulric and sees the pain in his face, "Sorry, if you don't want to talk about this, I understand, and shit, look who you're talking to...like I fucking know... I mean the older I get the less I know. Or maybe getting older really isn't anything other than being alive long enough to see people's patterns repeat, terminate, and regerminate-especially your own. If I've learned anything its that you control your position and whatever you choose is just that. Empty or not at the end of the day you face your own reflection in the toilet water, if it makes you feel better and more complete to have attachments hanging off that reflection, more power to 'ya, and good luck. I'm a narcissist, I only want to see my glowing sexy image in the off white piss-water." He laughs at himself and shakes his head. "Love is emotional alchemy. You're trying to take things that don't tangibly exist and apply to them to so much flesh and hair. So to get back to what Ulric asked, I love her... I still do, but we aren't on the same page." Dean cracks a smile in my direction. "I can't be on the same page with someone if I'm not even numbering my pages. There's no way for them to even know who, what, or where I'm coming from."
No one is paying attention to the game anymore. I shuffle quietly, flipping the cards from hand to hand trying to make every fourth one an ace, trying to arrange the deck to deal myself a winning hand. They are spinning words of pseudo-wisdom, as if they actually know what they're talking about, but really they're just thinking outloud. I deal out the cards clockwise and check my hand. I have a two of diamonds and a three of clubs. I clearly know nothing.
Jimmy starts back on his self-depreciating rant. He wants to figure out what to do with his life. He wants direction. "I mean what's the point of coming to a realization about yourself or having some insight into your behavior if you can't do anything with it?" He asks.
"Jesus Jimmy, you're the one whose always talking about parabolas and that sort of thing," Dean says. "You just approach that point, pass by it and move on again, what you come away with is only a glimpse."
"But how do I turn the glimpse into a meaningful action?" Jimmy asks.
Dean shrugs, "I have no idea. Like the genie in Aladdin said.... INFINITE POWER itty-bitty living space." He laughs and takes a drag of his cigarette. He tilts his head to one side as if in deep thought and then, after a moment, he continues, "Well I tell you what... I've had a realization or two recently and I have to tell you gentleman that I will be leaving next week. I took my old job back in California."
They both look up in shock.
"Well damn. Really?" Jimmy sits up. "You're leaving us? I mean that's great man, I'm happy for you, but shit we're gonna miss you. It won't be the same without your lunatic ass around here." Jimmy throws his arm around Dean and gives him a bear hug.
"Ya Dean, I feel like I just got to know you and now you're leaving." Ulric looks hurt again. "It's not Sil is it man? Because if he's kicking you out, you're more than welcome to stay at my place for a while."
"No, but I do appreciate the offer Ulric." Dean flicks his cigarette in the ashtray. "I'm leaving because there's nothing here for me to do. I feel like I need to accomplish something. I finished my book, of course no one wants to publish it, but at least I did it. That's what I've been working on for the last year or two and now that it's gone I feel a sense of emptiness in my soul. Not to get too hippified on you, but it really does feel that way. Like I broke up with a girl or something. So, being in limbo, I thought why not go out and make some money? I can't do that here so I took the old job. I'm gonna live with my dad and do some saving. At least that's the plan, who knows though...."
For a while all attention returned to the game. The sound of cards skidding softly across the table holds all the memes I need right now. Jimmy finds the map that Dean and I had been looking at earlier and he spreads it out on the floor again. He sees the red lines we drew tracing the ideal route from New York to Paris by ship and then down the Africa...
"You going to Europe Sil?" he asks pointing at the big red dot in the middle of France.
"Europe?" I say, thinking it over, "that's about the last place I'd go right now."
"Really?" Ulric looks surprised. "No desire to go to France? I can see you in France Sil." Ulric is cross-eyed from the scotch and his attempt to size me up is comical; I can't help laughing.
"Well, I mean if a ticket were handed to me I'd take it," I say, "but it's not my first choice by any means. If I were to go somewhere I'd go to India or China, South America maybe, Brazil, Chile, Costa Rica...." I get lost in private thoughts. Dean finishes dealing the hand and gets up and pours himself another drink. "Not me," he yells from the kitchen, "I gotta see Paris. I've read too many books, seen to many films... I need to set foot in Paris... live there for while... I'm working on this one guy who likes my writing... I'm trying to get him to put me up over there... the trick is going to be getting there."
The trick is always getting there. The destination is the easy part. Play that game you used to play as a child; spin the globe and see where your finger stops it. That's the way to go. The gypsy blood in my veins makes me want to travel constantly, I can only stand to be in one place for about three months and then I have to leave... sometimes I come back and sometimes I don't. I'm starting to feel the itch again myself, the bones wanting to wander.... I have been in Athens almost six months without a vacation. I'm overdue.
I check my down cards-two aces. I bet a quarter. They all raise me. I stay in. Ulric throws the flop-a queen of hearts and the other two aces. "Goddamn," Dean comments, "that's a rich hand somebody has." I smile at him. I bet a quarter and he folds. Ulric and Jimmy both raise me two dollars and so I raise them again. Dean throws out another card. More money cascades into the pot. Another card. More money. I keep raising their raises until the pot's well over fifty dollars. They call and I lay my aces with all the pomp and ceremony my little ego can manage. I rake it in.
The thing with playing cards with your friends is that it's less about reading people than it is about good old-fashioned luck.
After saying goodbye to Dean and giving him their phone numbers and addresses, Ulric and Jimmy both head home for the night. "Nice fucking hand," Dean says when they're gone. "You stop to think how that happened?" He looks at me and a mischievous grin spreads over his face. I shrug. "For the record," he says, "I saw you trying to arrange the deck that one hand... but did you see me?" I have to laugh.
Dean and I stay up a while talking about cheating at cards and friendship and the meaning of all of this.... Before turning in we embrace and say goodbye. This time I don't think I will see him again for a quiet a while. We make one final bet for the night -we will meet in Tangiers, Morocco on September 10, 2002. No matter what happens we will be there. By the time I fall asleep, I'm already there.
The strobe overwhelms the blue glow and the girls begin the writhe, ellish wirthing serpentine bodies, no longer names, no longer girls no longer human, but gliding gilded serpents, movements caught in flickers of blinging whiteness and inky blue darkness, stop motion film, hair, skin, patterns of movement until the light and the shadows beome one. In the glimpses of faces across the catwalk I can see male teeth, shiny pale faces, tongues flick here and there, pass across lips and snake back down throats, and then a blue aquarium darkness, film slowed down. Twenty four to twelves and then six and the three, advancing three glimpses at a time in stop motion time lapse, bodies appearing not far from where they were left. And you can feel her movements, a girl caught in three frame bursts, she is never where she just was always one step ahead of her body and you can it passing into your guppy mouth, snaking down your throat, swallowing swollen calves, slender thighs, choking on garters, weakened by the memory of silk and spice and crusades abandoned long ago to the darkness of continets moving and her cunt tickling across your lips, catch in your throat, a gulp of air, some scent of dark blue shadow and the stomach and breasts, hard nipples that catch on the way down and head and hair swirling across your chin, gulps of cool blue shadow, down, all of it down, drink all of it down, blue and white and flesh and to see it from above... pictures spread across the floor. Sitting cross-legged in the near darkness of late night shadow and gaslamp glow, light and shadow becoming one across the bedroom floor, giant shadows cast across a series of black and white photographs all taken from above. And you arrange the faceless heads in a half circle around the one, the one with the legs careening out from under the birds-eye view of blond and cinnamon and cardemore. Out of focus and caught in flight, she moves in orbits, she holds a key and the knob is turning, light and shadow, digital and analog... the pictures caught in gusts, blowing up in little dust devils and then here onstage, whirling and weaving between her legs, circling under skirts, tugging at stocking and garters, caressing soft brown skin and disappearing into corset shadow, tugging electric nipples, still rising in ever widening circles up to the ceiling and disappearing through it, returning to the vantage point of origin, the vanishing point, right there on the horizon of what just happened and what hasn't yet,. And she takes you by the hand and leads through the beaded curtain of the doorway with hinges still attached, but door and knob and key long since vanished in to some murky ocean memory, a current welling toward the back, toward the corner, and into the shadow, the absense of light, a finger curling, something to follow, a motion trail, a wake of smoke enveloping you in octopus shadow, tentacles reaching out and pulling you into a chair where you are tied to watch.
If you were to see this from a long way a way flickering light on a screen to reveal ashes flying off your skin in trumpet blasts... but you cannot, you will not, it is not. There are only the hurricanes to stir the coffee and bend the telephone poles, to warp the voices of far away, to call up secrets that are sleeping in dazzling peace behind a doorway far up from here, so high up that the knob is just out of your child arm stretch, but how wonderful it is just to see it floating there, out of reach and beautiful, glistening in this light, this artificial sun of closing time.
I go in the bedroom and lock the door.
Outside. Falling leaves clink against the windowpane like broken china dolls. A half moon breast is visible through the clawing twig-arms scratching at the void. I'm thinking of Maya and the first night we spent together. Later, after we had coffee. I walked her to her house. I remember the smell of Jasmine or Frankincense or Myrrh, a beautiful pungent odor that wafts through this world all the time -you catch it in the fall air, tangible but just barely, it hangs on the edge of the known and unknowable.
I open the window and study the frosted-flake remnants of Kudzu crisping on the vine, under the bushes, under the trees, under the stars-a stale brown rug slick with freezing rain. The faint light of Jimmy's window silhouettes a branch and its remaining leaves, the hangers, the ones who won't let go-car crashes, heart attacks, train wrecks. The light looks warm-toward the light coma-stumbling, blind-eyed memory.
And then she kissed me. There was the taste of hot cigarette smoke on her tongue; I caught it greedily the way plants grow to the sun, drawn by the familiar. She tasted like orange blossoms or smelled like them or felt like them, powdered sprinkled orange blossoms. They were in her eyes, the smell came out of her eyes and then she opened them and stared at me for a while hanging on the edge of my lips. Enormous arcing eyebrows of perfume.
The steady erratic pelting of rain sounds like a thousand drunken crystal goblets pelting a Russian fireplace, Cossacks dancing in circles, Dostoyevski dreams. Bearskin rugs. No fireplace-hearth. Gas lamps. And powdered crystal sprayed on a stone floor.
Earlier a letter: I'm on the limp dehydrated grass of Central Park, gnats swarming under this tree. I have gnats for you Sil. The shade seems hotter than the actual sun. Perspiring. Parched. And yet all my discomfort disappears when I read these carefully typed pages-read in full-twice. You are my own private breeze.
There was no word, no sound, just lips resting together, sticky, warm, honey kiss. We went inside and sat on the couch talking for a while. We went upstairs and lay down on her bed. She rose up in tight leather pants out of a sea of flowering colors-Jasmine, Sunflower, Scarlet Sage, Rocket Larkspur, Lupines, and Butterfly Weed. There were rollicking colors everywhere in my mind, indigo and vermilion, violet, lavender, and softer tones, pastels and baby's-breath-white.
It's a toy scene-Russian hearth, nutcrackers dancing, plastic soldiers huddled in the dark shadows of vines. A steady backbeat thuds through the wall. The living room has rhythm. Little percussive grunts and muffed squeals accent and fill. 4/4. Marching toward climax.
I'm working at Garden on the Green... sold my soul for the table scraps... another hireling. on a smoke break. Armed with pen and paper to defend the travesty of wanting to feel loved. The lake is spiked with moonly light, sharp and jagged on thousands of ripples. Once- there is the kiss, then the cycle becomes inevitable. Nipples turn to jagged granite and everything pools and secretes as if waiting for sensual annihilation-a mingling and mangling of identities. A death of one? Or both? A devouring and subordination? No-a polarizing rather-a balance of two integrities, charging electrically, on with the other, yet with centers hard as diamonds-like stars. Do you feel loved? Do I?
She grabbed a handful of my hair and held it, her lips bit at my neck. I could feel heat panting in my ear. Her smooth breasts pressed softly against my chest. She rolled off me, pulled her pants down and climbed on top of me. She swayed there for a few seconds, murmuring to herself. She bird-picked at my belt, peeling the husk from a coconut and then in one gruff movement she fished out my cock and squeezed it with the tips of her fingers. Her lips pressed together and she leaned her head against it and closed her eyes. It was then that I heard the bass fading in and the sharp tap of a snare drum, and I felt her tongue circling.
The cat girl enshrouded in black lace accented with a notorious red feather boa rises to one elbow-need a ray of hope-from where she has been reclining on a velvet divan. She cocks her head lazily and after a yawn full of boredom and nastiness, calls for another martini.... Do you think that when you want everything you're dangerously close to nothing? I wanted to thank you for feeding me the inspiration to question, if only for the insatiable taste of a question...
After a few minutes I pulled her up to my lips. A devouring insubordination amid the tumbling slow-motion sound of shattering glass, falling leaves, splintering moonlight, distant living room backbeat, icy rain crying into hail...Water pouring in through the ceiling, sleet and hail collapsing back to water, rivulets on the window, pelted kudzu pulling the stars under. Her nipples like soft puffs of rain sliding down my tempered, glass fingers. The roof gives way, the ground opens up and the earth will swallow us one day. Its better that way. Inverted love carry you up on the way down, riding tidal waves, tiny moon sheared ripples across centuries and continental drifts and shifts and up and down and over. Carry me to the mountains, to a cave on a wind-howling ridge, rape me like Lilith. Glaciers receding. Gnats swarming out of the caves. Fecund warm diseases licking there way up your spine. Its okay. Its necessary. The rainsleethail still tickles desire. The snapping snare drum echo of time oozes through the walls. Pop pop-pop pop-pop pop-feel you more the less you know. Cossacks setting up camp in a deserted farmhouse and Fyodor calls for another martini... One more drink for the diseased, one more sleep, one more lover until your up with the sun .and the acrid burnt smell of sidewalk.
Sticky tapioca squirting thick on stomachs and breasts.
Reach over and grab a pack of cigarettes off the floor. Pull one out and light it.
Lilith had to go. Nothing was left to the imagination and so he sent her away. Or she left. Packed her suitcase and caught a clipper-ship to where the continents were shifting. Wrote letters and fell in love with a man in the sky. Went blind staring at the image.
Look at her now. Pass her the cigarette and wonder how this happened-tangled up in metaphor and cool blue love-diving off the shores of lost continents. Walk naked to the kitchen and pour another glass of vodka or whiskey or water or wine or change one from the other on your proud way back to the bed.
She has an earthy ethereal mixture to her skin, makes her seem at once detached and warm. Her lips purse teasingly around the filter of her cigarette and eyebrows arc off gray-blue eyes, dyed black hair tussled atop her head. Blue-gray eyes clouded with the same thing you can feel, something trance-like-consummate excitement. She puts the cigarette to your lips and you inhale deeply.
Later: dream about staring at the sun.
Waitress #34 misses you.
Eight
Starts with tapping at the window, ends with this section which itself needs to end with Jimmy and Chloe all bleary eyed... hell yes we're going to new york Dean has pills with a street value of fifteen thousand dollars on him I'm going to new york....
The faceless monster-power-no one person- group-control everything-multi-headed monster-biting itself-information potential exists-attacking heads-destroying itself-end times-space and word alone-unsettling thought-dependency-things start to think-how do you draw the lines then-where does the word go-in the beginning-sure- what about at the end-
Morning- I am standing in the doorway smoking a cigarette. Fall is playing with Winter in the front yard. I'm watching the near freezing rain pelting through the trees. A strange thing has happened in Dean's absence-I no longer need sleep. For two weeks now my brain has not stopped running in loops. It refuses to rest. It used to take an alarm to inspire movement before noon; now I wake up at five in the morning and stare at the ceiling. This morning I have decided to admit defeat. I am up before sunrise. I am watching the sun poking over the horizon to the east, where the storm has not yet hit. There is an infinite sadness to the way the trees glisten in the light. The gleaming raindrops look like a miniature skyline, buildings at night, little twinkling windows, like Manhattan seen from Williamsburg. Reflected microcosms glitter off falling leaves, reds, browns, and oranges, sparkling like the abode walls of a pueblo-New Mexico or Old.
In Mexico City back alleys-soot-covered adobe walls-dark eyes peer from shadowy doorways. It's late in the evening, warm orange smog-light paints the sky and suffuses the city with an alien glow. The air is brisk, but not freezing. You run your fingers along the crumbling walls like a child, dragging at the chips of loose plaster and looking up absently at the sky. Nothing separates you from the peering eyes, the doorways and the tables littered with scraps of food retrieved by boys selling Chiclets in the streets downtown. Beans, slops of meat, ground dog bone, porridges boiled cheap over smoky wood fires. Stalks of plants grow here and there in the tiny yards between buildings. Chilies hang drying in the eaves. Second story railings are a riot of sapphire, indigo, vermilion and emerald; the smell of sage, rosemary, and cilantro wafts out open windows. The flat roofs feed the dripping ceilings, rain gutters leak to water plants hanging from the rafters and balconies. The plants suffer through life, gasping in the ozone and covering over with smoggy dust. The pavement turns to dirt farther out, and is eventually overgrown by trees on the slopes of the mountains. This is the one street, the street, the mainline artery running through and carrying the heart of the matter of matter. This is how it goes and goes and goes. Marching in twos, little children jump and play in an alley off to the right. Two blocks north they are digging up the newest pyramid in the Aztec caper and the ghosts are swimming through the ether. You can see their pallid shadows sailing across the crimson glow of the sky. The ghostly, billowing sails catch century old winds tugging them like clipper ships through the Panama Canal. Phantasmal chatter fills the street like lemurs cackling in the jungle.
Your fingernail catches in a chip of plaster still clinging to the wall. The ghosts light up against the clouds, climbing and dancing in the sky. Priestly ghosts offer still-beating human hearts up to the gods, clamoring at the silent sky and then turning to look at you. Look what we have done. Here is my heart... eat... it is good. Take, this is my body... Mysterious ceremonies carried out amongst a cacophony of meaningless gibberish; indistinguishable figures twist and turn and carve until there is an order and meaning to it all. The priest drives his blade into the chest of a sacrifice, splitting the sternum in one smooth blow. Out comes the heart and in a delicate pirouette the priest turns, pauses, looks for an instant, and then screams, hurling the bloody heart down the side of a pyramid. The gods give an empty laugh. Splattering, lopsided, bounces carry the heart to it's rest in the dirt, under the floorboards of time, the telltale heart beating under the pavement of centuries. The archeologist's pick finds the priest's sacred knife as a token reminder, wrapped in muslin or gauze, mummified at 17,000 feet atop Machu Pechu in Peru, or here, rotting in the middle of the street. The children in the alleyway laugh and play. Their language is like pancakes, laid out flat and easy to hear, smeared by syrupy tongues. The priest smiles sadly down at the watching masses, realizing that he will be dust under the boots of centuries and no one will know what he knows.
We think we will wake up. We think there will be a point at which everything is made clear. The whole world will transform itself into a crystalline diamond plateau on which all the answers are self-evident and you will understand. Your feet will be light as air. You will dance over the diamond floors and glide in perfect, truthful bliss. You will dance quietly to the sound of Frank Sinatra crooning about autumn in New York.... But the image will fail you; the crystal will crack and shatter in a million diamond drill bits, piercing your flesh as you scream deafly, in silent agony.
We think that we will wake up. There is vast machinery purporting to wake us up. There are religions, sciences, methods, prayers, and wheels of karma and darma. Men hang from crosses. Men flagellate themselves on mountaintops. Men twist into pretzels on street corners. Men proclaim the illusion of the world. Men offer salvation. Men sell trinkets for distraction. Men teach meditation techniques. Men douse themselves in gasoline and burn before our eyes. Men crawl on their knees because their legs have been amputated to keep us free. Every path to enlightenment has been tried. Every shriek has been screamed. There are fifty thousand roads diverging in the woods and they all lead nowhere.
There are no gates of heaven, but there are gates to heaven. There isn't a hell, but there is hell. There are no sins, but there are sins. There is no love, but there is such a thing as love. No one is there, but everyone is waiting. You are feeling overwhelmed, paranoid and misunderstood. You want to think that you are not alone. You want to band together, to bond, to hide out, and to mark yourself with primitive lingual tattoos, so that the angel of death will pass over you in a momentary lapse of reason. You don't understand what is taking so long. You don't understand why, if things are possible, they don't happen now. You want to know when the synergy of life will reach out to your neck of the woods. You want to go out. You want to be with your friends. You want to go out Friday and you want to go forever. Forever back or forever forward, somewhere into that brave night, that tired, old, bored allegory. You know you bought into a lie, and you know you're perpetuating it. You know that everything is a lie, but it all means something. Did I say you? I mean me.
I am hungry, restless and deeply confused. I can smell the streets of Mexico and remember the beat of Aztec heart-sacrifices. It courses through the house, driving me mad. I pace the living room like a caged cat, circling in big arcs that bend strategically at the vortices of two ashtrays. The afternoon is a priest hearing confession, masturbating to the maid's obscene tales as she drags them out in full regaling detail. There are only us now, you and I. If this has meaning then it can only be that we are we, and I, I, and you, you, and us, us.
I see Maya. I see Dean. I see Sean and Katherine, Jimmy and Chloe, Ulric, Scratch, and everyone I have ever known. I think of how much all of us have suffered and how great the sorrow of the earth must be. So immense a thing as to defy imagination, to smash metaphors to bits and completely eradicate the word. To render words trite and useless. I feel it come on in a terrifying rush. Adrenaline floods my veins, my heart speeds up, beating so fast that it feels motionless. My palms coat with sweat, my skin flushes, and for the first time I am afraid. I fear for my life. I fear death and what it could bring. I fear the voices I hear. I fear the growling and singing and whispering and chattering of the dead. I look out the window fully expecting the Aztec shaman to be standing there, holding up my heart, smiling. I smell something. The smell hits me like a sledgehammer, there is something blood curdling familiar about it. It is the smell of death. The smell of my death. You can get it without dying, you can smell it lurking around the corner and feel it closing in on you. Death is a thick smell, a reminder that the body is temporal and hangs by a thread, liable to snap without a moment's notice.
The Tibetans claim demons will prey on you as you enter the gates of the afterworld. Those who don't know where they are, the ones that came in on bus wrecks or an earthquake, they don't stand a chance. Neither do those that never realized what is going on in this life. The ones who refuse to let go of the uniquely human games, the politics, the barter system, the Madison Avenue rewrite department, the beggarly, sickly creatures, the religious, the lawmakers, the law upholders, the money greasers, the shit in the wind who have forgot their human roots-that human is humility. Arrogance grows like a cancer, breeds with money and mutates, until the body turns rigid and crusts over with hubris. Their bodies are stiff prisons of hatred that can only be escaped when the winds blow in the atomic smell of death, scorching them clean-salvation. Steady...wait 'til you see the whites of their eyes... the end of history. Everything has an ebb and flow, surges come in waves. There is nothing to be saved from except yourself.
Smoking filterless cigarettes, listening to the voices trailing in from the neighborhood around me, voices from the cottages up the hill, voices of wheels winding down the road, voices leaves in the wind, voices of rain pelting the ground, a masterpiece composition of harmonized waves, sound, the trigger behind the motion. Dancing eyes, hungry and spiral with giddiness... I throw out the tired old man mind. A blur of images, swirling words, sounds, smells, miraculous warmth, crawling embers on the flesh... Digging, keep digging. We're all great tunnelers, mining after the beautiful, but now I see the ugly creeping in around the edges, the black on the starry night. Van Gogh and his goddamn ear always creeping in at the edges. Digging fast and furious: tunnelers. Roots and the little blooms-the moment -the purity -the wavelength- the transitions burned like hydrochloric acid onto memory film. Scar tissue that will never go away.
I'm in the middle of an afternoon drink when I notice the rainbow in the kitchen. At first I think it looks wrong because of bad indoor lighting, but then I notice that it's a reverse rainbow, the spectrum in the opposite order-purple on top. I watch it from the couch for a while, but as it begins to fade, I get up, walk to the kitchen and sit down underneath it. I lean back against the wall and light a cigarette. The sun shifts and the rainbow disappears, replaced by a simple, clear, beam of sunlight, that strikes the wall about eight inches above my head and climbs slowly, but noticeably, upward. The cigarette dangles in my hand. I watch the thin trail of smoke separate into two shades of gray. One is light and salient, like clouds wisping across the summer sky. The other is darker, a somber thundershower in the evening-carcinogenic tars. They separate in the relative darkness near my hand, rise up, and then explode into the light. There is visible burst where the particles of smoke suddenly pitch the beams of light back to my eye. An explosive nanosecond that happens so fast that by the time you notice it, it's long gone past. The two trails of smoke swirl and mingle gradually, dancing through the sunbeam like two girls in the dark corner of a nightclub. The ominous blue stream wears a black leather corset, laced tight in the back. It moves boldly, stiffly, constrained in ribbed fabric. The ethereal gray stream wears a silk robe with embroidered Chinese designs. It moves feathery soft and loose, seductively spinning in the light. As they continue up toward the ceiling, they lose their distinction and disappear into the chaos. Cloud patterns bursting in spring skies, a gurgling stream circling around rocks, the leaves of an aspen tree seen from a distance, the movement of migratory herds, the rise and fall of the Nile over millennia, the smoke from a cigarette... Everything has a pattern. The pattern has a pattern, which forms a fabric where time pools like a glacial lake. It tickles off slowly, minute by minute, second by second, but the reservoir always remains the same.
I am falling into a whirlpool of time. It consumes me and spins me around the room. I am dripping off the precipice into the dark unknown. I have to run to smooth the change... feels slow motion... diving... hit the water like a torpedo... the waves slip out in a circular arc. My eyes smart from the smoke. Body electric, fluidly suspended in time, carried slip-slow, up into the magic of the beyond. Echoes abound like a caged sun gone supernova. It atomizes and re-forms as the cool wave hits the skin, smooth blue skin.
Cut below and use for drive with
jimmy and Chloe
Nine
I have to start moving, and start moving right now. It's around nine. I throw some clothes in a bag and drag them out to the car. I start the engine; it coughs and sputters to life. I go over and say goodbye to Jimmy and Chloe. "When are you going to be back?" He asks. I don't know... "Where are you going?" She inquires. I don't know... "How are you getting there?" That I know...
The engine hums. I keep it at fifty miles an hour. I can hear the noises of the individual pistons pulsating in controlled, rhythmic, patterns. The wind roars around me, but I don't hear it. There is only the steady purring of chaos harnessed, slipping through the air, sliding across the land. Over hills, valleys, and mountains, across bridges, rivers, and railroad tracks, through cities, towns and farms, under rain, sleet, and hail-the open road. The road goes on forever, scorched by the burning sun, it chaps and cracks, bleeding headlights like shooting stars or comets. No one ever drives quite like I have in mind-road as in nowhere-never ending dreams.
It's a beautiful little country road, a peaceful Georgia night, I haven't seen another car for hours. I have no idea where I am. The back of my mind is in New York. It's dragging the rest of me with it. I have the passing thought that hearing the roar of the engine over the rush of the wind might not be a good sign, but I like the way it sounds. It gives the car an organic quality. Faintly, in the background, the sound of classical strings set to the pulse of a techno beat-the ancient modern, the archaic revival. I eschew the interstate in favor of two-lane blacktop. I am in no hurry to get anywhere. I just want to drive. To drive long distance is to meditate; there is nothing to do, nothing that requires any more than the animal function of the brain, the hard-wired instinctual circuits that I don't control anyway. The creative mind, the thinking mind, is free to roam the open road. I avoid interstates. They gloss over the details; they are wide and fast with no time for minutiae. The fabric of life is thinnest in the middle of an interstate highway. I trade speed for peace, convenience for time, and cold comfort for risk. I hang my arm out the window, and let it go limp to bounce with the wind.
Just outside of Gordian, South Carolina, a canopy of oaks and red elms arch over the road, a dizzying rush of treetops sprays overhead. I slow down to thirty, set the cruise control and lean my head back. I'm gliding under the canopy, looking up at a fantastic blur of moonlit leaves. Silver swords cutting up the sky, sleek, and motion blurred. It looks like a high-speed film montage where you can almost tell what things are, but they move too fast to fully comprehend, always lingering just beyond the threshold of recognition. I feel myself lying on my back in a canoe sliding along the banks of the Amazon... They're not leaves at all, they're signposts, clues to the mystery, and every bit the key.
A boarded up fruit stand-boiled-peanut vendors-an ancient downtown of false storefronts-it's impossible to tell if the inhabitants are asleep or deserted long ago. Go where the money is... it's a universal migration from here to the interstate highway. Human culture always following after it's own inventions. Eight hundred generations, six hundred and fifty thousand spent in caves, wombs, and incubators, hydroponically fed dreams from underground rivers. Then the dreamer woke to create a world with electric can openers, shrink-wrapped by a haggard thirteen year old girl in between enduring her uncles' assembly line gang rapes.... All this for that or all that for this?
The air behind me holds the tragedy of fall turning to winter. It offers backseat driving tips, whispering softly in my ear like a barroom parrot hissing the mimic of the voice-box smoker ordering another scotch on the rockssss. I stop for gas. I am higher in elevation; it's colder here. I put on my jacket and start the pump. I walk up the street to look at the old buildings. Faded, worn paint is shedding off the brick-framed buildings in giant sheets like lizard skin. I step back and admire the chaotic structure as I light a cigarette. Old advertisements are stapled to a board at crazy, maddening angles, pictures of cans, black eyed peas, peaches, moon pies-faded and whitewashed by years in the sun. Across the street a window reads: Ace Appliance Store. I wander over and put my face to the glass. I see televisions, radios, washing machines, drying machines, refrigerators, freezers, ovens, microwave ovens, convection ovens, alarm clocks, computers, headphones, video games, laser disc players, DVD players, record players, compact disc players, cordless telephones, wireless phones, digital phones, cellular phones, two way radios, short wave radios, car stereos, home stereos... Tons and tons of stuff. Endless stuff out here in America. I crush out my cigarette and walk back to the car. In the back seat is my single bag. I have four shirts, two pairs of pants, two pairs of shoes, socks and underwear, toiletries and a laptop computer. I don't have any stuff.
Feeling weary and defeated, I follow the signs to the interstate to find a motel. The interstate isn't here for you and I. No one built this road so we could drive on a convenient, straight, fast thoroughfare. It's wide and straight because Eisenhower was an army man. He wanted a way to move tanks, land fighter jets, and transport troops about the country. Should the need arise.... Driving it takes the rest of the wind out of my sails. I pull off at the first motel I see, plunk down my $40 to a sleepy looking attendant, and pass out for the night.
I dream that I'm in New York, living with Maya. Everything is wonderfully happy. I am lying in bed and she is on top of me, arms extended, back arched. Her face is perched above mine, blond locks framing a warm, joyous smile... and then something changes, she rears her head back and laughs like Satan when Hitler rolled into Hungary. My body is stiff as a board; she picks me up and heaves me out the window. I scream as I fall, but I don't hit the ground or wake up. Eventually I stop screaming. I keep falling and falling. A sickening feeling overwhelms me-vertigo-I can't see the ground below me. Eventually I turn over and look up. Maya's face is still clear, leaning out the window, as if I had not fallen at all, but only hovered just below her balcony. She is smiling again, but now it's a sad, crestfallen smile. I realize that she never threw me, it was my imagination. I jumped. She is crying because I am gone. I have made a tragic mistake. Floating in mid air, body wracked with sobs, I am overwhelmed by the realization that I will have to live the rest of my life with this mistake. There is no way to undo it-only move forward. I wake with a start.
It is just before dawn. I fumble for my cigarettes and light one. The dream leaves me feeling depressed and angry with myself. I smoke grimly, scowling at the walls. The room is nondescript, a common dresser, an ordinary mirror and two generic paintings hanging on the wall above my head. It feels like a prison cell. The acidic insides of my stomach gnaw at the fleshy walls begging for eggs, bacon and hash browns. I get up and look out the window; it's nowhereville, faceless buildings, ordinary landscaping, and second-rate views of the cold, insensitive freeway overpass.
I pull on my pants, light another cigarette and flip on the morning news. People are cheating, stealing and dying all over the world. Glitter-faced entertainment hosts parade in fashionable clothes for my amusement. It's the same blue world. Nothing ever changes inside the box. Its comforting and horrifying at the same time. A cheap coffeemaker languishes on the bathroom counter, it seem energized the minute I turn it on. It rattles and gasps and makes gurgling noises as if waking from a long slumber. The television drones out the latest and greatest pop music as chosen by the careful market research groups at MTV. It's a terrible desolate scene this room, but it makes me happy. It is not nearly as bad as the dream landscape.
Around ten I check out at the front office. I skim the newspaper as the clerk prints out a receipt. According to the newspaper, Washington DC is the most violent city in the country. In the hills around Sarejevo, land mines still blow off limbs as a brutal reminder of the never-ending price of war. In India and Palestine the same religious zealots continue fighting the same wars their ancestors fought. In Madagascar eighty-five percent of the forest has been clear-cut for timber, the soil washes uselessly into the sea. In Washington State fifty four percent of the population still thinks clear cutting is a good idea. Sixty-five percent of the population of Zimbabwe has AIDS or HIV. Such happy things in the morning.
In Burma a Shaman is praying and wondering how long until the monsoons arrive to heal the parched farmland. In Tangiers a dying old man in a hospital bed is think about the American junky that used to buy groceries from his father's store.
The road leads up into the capital. The tourists are thick as Florida sand fleas. The streets, the very concrete and asphalt beneath me, are laughing at all of us as they bear the silly game on their back day in and day out.
I make my way out of town and start heading north again. My plan is to spend the night in Jersey and tackle New York tomorrow, but maybe I ought to just keep going. Maybe I ought to skip New York. Maybe I should just drive right on up to Maine, and then Canada, and then whatever is north of Canada; drive right into the arctic sea and jump out at the last moment. Maybe build an igloo, live off polar bear fat and never see anyone again. Maybe find the little hole that leads down into the hollow core where the dark-skinned survivors of Atlantis took refuge...
Day fades to evening, fades to night. The ancient mistress hunger sings her siren song around nine and I stop at an all night diner in Pennsylvania. I sit in the corner and order up a plate of grease. Hard formica counters rise out of cold, concrete floors, scuffed and worn from trucker boots, treading season after season across the threshold, into the orange glow to rest the weary eyes. It calls up visions of lost highways, long gone past, dredges up images, blurring them together. Passing seasons traced out in the ark of headlights dragging across concrete freeway miles.
There aren't very many people in this diner-a couple of truckers with ten-gallon hats, belt buckles, extend-a-bellies, and the requisite butt cracks. There is a thin, old man in a booth-the sort of man that's thin, and old, that you would expect to find in a diner booth. Three waitresses linger behind the counter. One is cooking on a giant grill while the other two gab and stare at their fake pink fingernails. As I get up to go to the restroom, I notice another man next to the truckers. He's a westerner. He has an extra-wizened face that can only be acquired by spending some time in the desert. I figure him for a Texan. He looks like he has been around the block. I notice him because he glares at me. His eyes challenge me as I walk past. I stop on my way back and spin a few tracks on the jukebox. Willie Nelson floats across the room, burying the ghosts of highway noise-the freeway semi-trailers flinging themselves through the night, headlights pulling the past into the future.... Lazy houseflies crawl up the wall reminding me of Ben's Broasted Chicken.
I was headed up to the Tahoe area back in my hiking days. I went by way of the back road, 395, a rickety operation that gives you fantastic views of the eastern escarpment of the Sierra Nevada. About three-quarters of the way to Tahoe you pass through Bishop. It's a logical place to eat. The only place really. There was a roadside dive called Ben's which advertised broasted chicken and corn on the cob for two dollars a plate. I wanted to know just what one did to a chicken to make it broasted. I ordered some up but I hardly ate, the enormous, lazy flies that crawled up the column next to my table distracted me. I can't recollect the chicken, but the flies were slothful, indolent creatures that didn't move when you swatted at them. They just gave up and died. I may have been the first person to swat at them. They might not have known what death was; they might have had free run of the world their entire lives. I might have created a fly culture myth of the grim reaper-the broaster.
I try to put it all together, the passing seasons, the glaring Texan, and free-spirited flies squishing under the thump of newspaper. The Texan keeps craning his head and looking over at me suspiciously. Perhaps my fingernails are too clean, or my clothes not stained enough, to merit his respect. By the time I finish eating and light a cigarette, the truckers are gone. The thin old man evaporates leaving a trail of smoke. It's just me, the waitresses, and the Texan. All the sudden the Texan stands up and coughs loudly. The waitress, who had been grilling burgers, turns around and comes out from behind the counter. As their eyes meet, his face melts from a suspicious glare to a warm, loving smile. They hug and kiss each other and say some sort of goodbye. I see his face over her shoulder as he hugs her; he has a tender look in his misty eyes. He is no longer a glaring, suspicious stranger, but a simple, weather-beaten man escaping into the arms of a soft, plump waitress. He catches me staring at them; he smiles at me and rubs her back. For a flashing second everything in the world seems perfectly fine and sensible. They kiss again and he walks out the door without turning around.
Nine
Get rid of Chloe and Jimmy start letter to chloe thing put Dean on an airplane for Costa Rica.
ten
All points bulletin-universe in retreat-wasteland poets die of heartache-epiphany-no spacemen-detour-dinosaur bones churn under wagon wheels-future excavated-time bound memory-never happened-non-event-heart beats-broken timepiece-lonesome thoughts- stave off chill-to be free-red white blue disease-surrender-blazing failures-defeat-set free- Christ-Joan of ark-Gandhi-Montezuma-world paused-infinitesimal second-watch them fall-nothing but continual drumming-beating through African congas-you alone-get your life preserver-cut out the poetry-cut to the main artery-
Manhattan goes helter skelter the minute I emerge from the Holland Tunnel. The first thing I encounter are detour signs, which send me uptown when I want to go across town. Everything is moving too fast. I'm used to walking the streets, not driving them. Street signs whip past in a blur. I look in vain for a landmark, something I recognize, but I see nothing. Every street I try to turn on is blocked off or a dead end. Finally, at some length, I get across to the Lower East Side only to find myself heading off the island on the Manhattan Bridge. I encounter more detours in Brooklyn. I'm completely lost now; I roll down the window and ask an old man with a tuba for directions back to the bridge; he plays me a guttural song. I manage to make it back into Manhattan, but this time I end up way down by Battery Park. My frustration is mounting. I decide to admit defeat. I pull over somewhere in the financial district and call Maya. After her initial shock wears off, she gives me directions and I set off again. But the minute I get back in the car, the streets are all jumbled up in my head. Did she say Houston or Canal? Was it West on Houston or East on Canal? Was it right on Essex and past Delancy? Or was it right on Essex left on Delancy? I pull over again about ten minutes later and call her back. She laughs and tells me I'm closer this time, even headed in the right direction. I just haven't gone far enough. Maya promises to come out and flag me down. I'm exasperated by now, Manhattan was not designed with cars in mind. I feel like I'm driving in a maze at the bottom of the Grand Canyon. I can never see more than two blocks ahead. I drive right by Maya, but luckily I see her jumping up and down in the rearview mirror, and I flip a U-turn. I park in a loading zone in front of her building and get out to drop off my bag. I am frustrated and angry.
Snow is just starting to fall on the icy blacktop. The street is already a sea of snow, slush, salt, and ankle-deep puddles from earlier storms. Maya is wearing a long, black, down parka. Her hair is tucked under a knit hat and she has on wool mittens. She smiles at me and comes running up to give me a hug. I rudely brush her aside. She balks and slowly, nearly imperceptible slides toward the curb. She draws up and crosses her arms. "you aren't even going to give me a kiss?" I want to find parking I want to get rid of the car I want to make the lights stop flashing I want to turn down the noise I want to make the cars slow down I want to paint lanes in the street. I want to kiss Maya in a dream, running into her arms, a celluloid reunion, the hero and heroine see each other at a distance and start running. To Have to Hold, and yet one brush something closer to The Shining has emerged. I apologize and give her an obligatory hug and kiss.
I lug the suitcase upstairs and Maya goes with me to park the car, lest I get lost walking home. She is miffed at me. She has a hurt expression on her face, but we struggle onward trying to pretend nothing is wrong. To cheer her up, I tell her that I think I'm going to stay. Her face breaks into a smile, "Are you going to live with me?"
I tell her I am. "Now and forever," I say, thinking as I do that I've said that before. Twice.
"God," she exclaims, "I have been waiting to hear that for two years now. I can't believe you're actually here." She cups her hands around my face. Her eyes are younger than in my lantern lit memories. Her mittens catch in my stubble. She leans over and we kiss. Her nose and cheeks are icy cold, but her lips part and her mouth is warm. Our tongues circle each other, the light turns green, a car honks.
We find a temporary parking spot two blocks over and we run home through the falling snow. When we get in the apartment I finally pick her up in my arms and for a little while everything is perfect. We kiss and start ripping each other's clothing off. Clothes fly about the room, covering furniture and floor. We fall in bed naked and groping.
Later, we sit in bed smoking cigarettes, resting. She is naked, legs crossed, wearing a red feather boa around her neck. Her now blond curling locks are ruffled from sex. She puts the filter tip to her lips and softly takes a drag. She smiles at me. "Sil," she says, "are you sure this is what you want?" I nod and look at her eagerly. She looks at me with a face I don't recognize.
"You're going to need a job up here," she says. "New York's expensive, are you sure that's what you want?"
"I only want to be with you," I say, but the word job forms a black cloud over my head and panic sets in. I start to see myself wandering the streets of New York penniless and insane, begging for food in alleyways. I drag harder on my cigarette, but the fear is already rising up the back of my spine, it lodges at the base of my brain. This is New York; New York is not a cross-eyed dream you had even though it seems that way the minute you leave. This is real, steel and breathless concrete real. There is rent to be paid and food costs a fortune. My savings is nearly depleted. I have to find a job. My heart speeds up at the very mention of the word let alone the action it entails.
"I think I have job you might like," she offers. "We need a graphic designer at the agency. You would be doing comp card layouts... You know how to use PhotoShop right?"
"I could do that," I say thinking that I probably can't. but the job searching panic I feel means I always take the first one offered. I never stop to think whether or not I will like doing it. Having a job relieves the stress of having to find a job. There is no job as bad as needing a job.
I start kissing her again. Her mouth becomes a warm sanctuary and I climb right in. My hands stray to her breasts, her ass, and then, cupping her face in my hands, I lay her back on the bed again and kiss my way down to her smooth cunt.
We stay up until the early morning hours exploring all the nooks and crooks of each others bodies, making sure that we remember them, that we know them in the biblical sense. Maya falls asleep around four; I sit up smoking and thinking what a great thing this will be. I am going to stay in spite of the panic. I fall asleep with visions of perpetual happiness lodged in my brain. But in the back of my mind, a spellbinding feedback loop begins to start spinning, softly, slowly, round and round.
When I wake up Maya has already gone to work. The note on the pillow says that she wants to meet me for lunch, but it is already past the time she wants to meet. I jump out of bed and call her. "No big deal," she says, "I got busy anyway. Let's meet in half an hour." I hang up and walk around the apartment for while, getting a feel for it. It's an absolute dump, but Maya had already told me that many times on the phone. She is merely subleasing it. The real owner is in New Orleans. Maya's friend, the permanent resident of this place, has the absolute worst taste I have ever laid eyes on.
Maya has done her best to get rid of the atrocious ornamentation that filled the place when she moved in two months ago. The closets are choked full of the girl's knickknacks, shoes, purses-the girl had twenty-seven purses, and those are just the ones she left behind-and of course clothes. Awful punk rock memorabilia-posters, patches, buttons, record covers-is stuffed under the couch, along with the rest of the girl's abominable artwork and decorative trinkets. But even still, the furniture itself is enough to send you into fits. Chairs are held together with twist ties from last year bread bags, antiques the girl called them when Maya first looked at the place. The living room is dominated by a pink couch that was probably red, maybe even nice, in 1932. Opposite the couch, where one would have expected a television, there is instead a massive chest of drawers dominating the wall. The bedroom is so small it can hold only the bed. In the living room, against the wall and between the windows, is a table, well chewed by some mangy dog. And the dog, ah the dog... I see a picture of the dog on the refrigerator; it's the kind of Tijuana mutt that no one in their right mind would actually let in the house. The psoriatic mutt has left behind double its weight in shedding, little clumps of ratty hair and flakes of dead skin are everywhere. The worst part of the place is the Persian rugs. All three of them look like centuries worth of Persian kings and queens have danced countless nights, and maybe even played a few games of polo, on them.
I go in and start the water for a shower. At first it's nice and hot. I get in and lather up my hair, but then just as I am going to rinse the soap from my eyes, the water turns frigid and I scream in shock. I prance to other end of the tub, trying to escape the icy claws, but the tub is too small to escape. Soap burns my eyes. I slip and grab out for something to hold onto. I accidentally pull down the shower curtain, trip on the tangled mass and fall on my ass right in the middle of the ice-cold stream of water. I fumble frantically with the knobs, turning off the cold water, but before I can get the knob for hot turned off, a scalding blast of hell hits the back of my neck. I scream again and jump out of the tub.
I rinse my hair in the sink and put a cold towel on the back of my neck to sooth the burn. I sit down on the cold kitchen floor, naked and defeated. I light a cigarette and try to believe that the world is not marshalling all it forces against me. Eventually I get dressed and go out to meet Maya.
Outside the air is a Moroccan dagger stabbing at the tiny slivers of my exposed flesh that my scarf fails to cover. I round the corner at the subway station and a blast of wind goes right through all my layers, as if I have on nothing at all. Maya and I have a late breakfast at the Waverly. I mention nothing about my disastrous shower. Instead I pretend to be eager to start work. Money, I am thinking, must make money. It turns out that there is nothing for me to do yet, so I go home to take a nap.
I walk in the door wanting to do something-clean, rearrange, douse with gasoline- anything. But every time I set about to do it I become overwhelmed by the scope of what needs to be done. I give up before I lift a finger. The excess of trinkets and knickknacks drives me up the walls and makes me claw my way across the ceiling like a terrified cat. The same horror starts to carry over out into the city when I go for an evening walk. The cold just adds to the overwhelming din and confusion of the city. There is too much, everywhere there is just too much. Too many shops selling the same things, too many restaurants serving the same things, too many people screaming hollering for cabs, too many honking horns, too many yelling kids, too many roaring trains, too many buildings, to many smells wafting in the street, too much garbage, too much slushy snow, too much sound and sight and noise.... I walk in a stupor. My body is in shock; sensory overload has shut all my circuits down. I am not ready for this. This is not the summertime New York that I know where everything is a shining celebration, everything is warm and inviting. The city I thought I loved has turned to a hideous leviathan, baring it's teeth and snarling at me.
I meet Maya later for dinner and already I feel like the whole city is against me. We go out for sushi and, as if to prove that New York has no love for me, I come home with food poisoning. Instead of making love, I spend the night retching my guts up in the toilet and talking to the mouse that lives behind it. Maya checks on me periodically to make sure my fever doesn't increase. I put on smile for her, string of vomit running down my chin. I look in the mirror for the first time in ages. My eyebrow is still missing. My hair is turning grayer. I wipe the vomit from my lips and drink from the faucet. The water hits my churning stomach and I realize I have made a mistake. I pitch forward, and stagger back to the toilet. The mouse scurries out of the way, into the wall. The mouse is my only friend, cousin to the rats in my ceiling back in Georgia.
I spend the better part of two days alternating between lying in bed and hugging the toilet bowl like it's the son of God.
Eventually I get better and start to try working on the composite cards. I am supposed to lay out photographs, create a design for them, and then pass them along to the printer in Brooklyn, named Lenny, who doesn't like me because he wants my job. This is all I know. I have no experience and not even the vaguest understanding of what I'm supposed to do. I know the basics of the situation, that is, I know how to use the computer program, but I don't know what to do to the cards to make them look good. I've never even seen a real composite card before. Maya gives me some tips and pointers. I look at lots of magazine ads and try to copy them, but the photography I have is subpar. Everything I do looks like a two-bit hack job, which, of course, it is.
Maya and I are both working for a woman named April, the master of ceremonies for the Real North Modeling Agency. April is in her early forties, her hair is a red mane and she has an infectious laugh. She has managed models before for big companies I've never heard of, but Maya assures me they are a big deal. Somewhere along the way, April decided that she wanted more control, so she is starting her own agency. I meet her for the first time in a midtown steak and drinks type of place. I take one look at her and my heart sinks. She's insane, you can tell by the the way her lips move and words come out but no meaning accompanies them. I smile a lot and try to match her hair brained enthusiasm. She doesn't listen very closely to what I say. She keeps asking me what South Carolina is like even after I tell her repeatedly that I'm from Georgia. I can't decide if it's some sort of insult or if she genuinely doesn't hear me. Maybe she thinks there's no difference. Maya has the utmost respect and faith in April. She assures me that April is a good woman and that she really knows what she's doing. I really can't say because I don't have a clue what April or I are really doing. I know what Maya is doing. Maya is the director of new faces, she finds the models. She works around the clock and she isn't even getting paid. She and April exist day to day on the money they get from signing up new models. April and Maya start going out for drinks every night. I prefer to sit at home.
They talk about renting a space to run the agency out of, but in the mean time all five hundred models have Maya's phone number. They call the house at all hours of the day. The phone rings during dinner, during sex, while we're trying to take bath, as we're walking out the door, as we're walking in the door, as I'm working on the computer, as I'm trying to fall asleep... And when we don't answer the phone they hang up and call Maya's cell phone. Maya spends so much time on the phone that I have to go out and get a cell phone just to be able to talk to her.
Maya has left the building, metaphorically speaking. I hardly ever see her and when I do, she's on the phone the whole time or we're running from one errand to the next. We eat together and we sleep together, but beyond that she is out of the house and I'm stuck at home staring at a fuzzy flat screen populated by smiling idiots from Ohio with clichs in their eyes. She has found something in her life-direction. For Maya, something is happening, something that I'm not a part of. For the first time we start fucking. In the old days we had great sex. Sometimes nasty sometimes sweet, but we never fucked. We start fucking. Great pornstarstyle fucking. Hair pulling ass slapping heart attack fucking. It's the best sex we've ever had and it scares me to death. Afterwards I sit in the kitchen thinking how strange it is to have break-up sex before you break up. I'm an optimist though so I ignore the implications.
After a few weeks a routine forms. Maya leaves before I wake up. I get up and meet her for breakfast at the Waverly. Then she goes back to work and I go home to work on the cards. I sit at home staring at a computer screen. I remove skin blemishes, correct photographic errors, lose weight when it's need, reshape faces, re-color eyeballs, reshape and enlarge eyes, slim butts and enlarge breasts... everything in advertising is a lie from beginning to end... Part of it makes me sick every time I sit down to work; the other part has fun chasing clever rationalizations around the feeble nether regions of my atrophied conscience. The sad part is that I actually like the people. I like the models-as people I mean. They are all good people, sure their vain shallow and think they look a lot better than they do, and sure most of them will never be Rhodes scholars and sure you could have a more interesting conversation utilizing a telephone pole and decent imagination, but it's not their fault. they work in the modeling industry its their job to be vapid and intellectually feeble. Their the sagebrush at Los Alamos, scorched without knowing why.
Maya gets home nights around nine or ten and talks of nothing but models. Everything we do has became models, which are good, which are bad, what stage of production they are in, how well the business is doing, what more needs to be done... models, models, models. Nothing else. There are some vague and ill-conceived attempts on my part to express the growing jealousy I feel, but to no avail. I begin to be increasingly hurt by every word coming out of Maya's mouth-not one of them has the slightest acknowledgement of my existence. In the past when Maya and I had spent time together we were the center of each other's lives and now that we are finally living together we are farther apart than we have ever been. One morning decide to walk home from breakfast and on the corner of Bleeker and McDougal I pick a bundle of sagebrush and start burning it whenever Maya walks in the door.
The job only makes it worse. Every time I sit down at the computer to work on retouching the images I am reminded of how miserable things are. I stare at the faceless models and they stare emptily back at me from the screen. I can hear them laughing at me, flaunting how much more important they are to Maya. I am descending into a hellish nightmare of self-doubt, whirling around an abysmal sense of worthlessness. And I'm losing my sense of humor. I stare at the photographs for hours trying to figure out what the hell to do with them.
The phone rings and suddenly I have the brilliant idea to clog the line with an Internet connection. I get a reprieve from the incessant ringing. Out of habit I checking my email and find that Dean has been trying to get a hold of me for two weeks. I email him my new phone number, but make no mention about the state of things. He too is in a terrible state, almost as bad as I am. He quit his job after only a month back in LA. He fled back to DC where he has taken up again with Alexis. He claims in his email that he is only staying there because he has nowhere else to go, but we both know that isn't true. It's quite a document, the email he sends, it starts without even an introduction. "I fear normalcy in any shape. Anything that has been agreed upon by enough people to actually be called 'normal' is something I am not interested in. Primarily, because in my assessment of the world's population, you could fit the intelligent peoples of the earth on the head of the proverbial pin. You said once, while I was staying with you, that 'a genius only knows he's a genius if he's surrounded by idiots.' After my brief return to LA, I concluded that I am in fact a genius by simple default, everyone around me was a grade A moron. I will always be grateful to LA for showing me that there was place where I could surround myself with millions of examples of what I try to destroy in myself.... The niche I attempted to carve out, or should I say that the niche society attempted to carve out for me, fit about as well as an airline seat does a five hundred-pound man's ass. My parameters lie outside the curriculum of everyday thought.... I have now decided that genius must find a societal outlet for at least one thing they create -otherwise they are doomed... The good things that happen are a flood of orgasmic joy and I cling to them. I don't believe in depression. Depression is a tag put on someone who is 'positive' impotent... When it comes to having faith in a positive future I'm as limp as a seventy-year-old porn star. Positive things happen occasionally by the flick of a flint, but counting on them is time I can no longer waste. Let it all come down. Expect the worst and you'll relish the best. Expect the best and you'll wallow in pain. So I went looking for the worst. I came back here to DC to be with Alexis.... In truth I have been enjoying myself, but that feeling is fading fast... I heard from Jimmy that you were in New York so I wanted to send you this ASAP. I may need to spend a little time on your couch in the near future. The money I had is nearly gone so I can't get much farther than New York at this juncture."
I feel woozy. I lie down to take a nap but I can't sleep. I lie there like a somnambulist, staring at the wall thinking of nothing. Maya comes home at ten and finds me in the darkness. My fever is back and my lungs are clenched up tight as a boxer's fist. I hack and cough all night long spitting chunks of brown phlegm in the sink. I can't sleep. By morning dark rings have formed under my eyes. I look and feel exhausted, but I still can't sleep. The anxiety attacks return in the midst of my illness. I am feverish, coughing, sniffling, sneezing, and contending with a racing heart that seems intent on pounding right out of my ribcage. I forget to log on to the Internet and the phone rings incessantly. I hear the neighbor's television through the walls. The mouse is scratching at the ceiling. I hack up blood into a tissue. My fever climbs to 103 degrees. Giant moving cranes roar and screech across the street. The bleat of construction vehicles in reverse is ceaseless. The phone is still ringing; the room spins in circles around my head. Maya is no where to be found; she hasn't returned my phone call. My stomach growls, I am starving, but I can't bring myself to eat. There is no food in the house except grapes anyway. I flip through afternoon talk shows watching 'fat women and the men who love them.' The phone rings again and I can hear Maya's voice on the machine, but I'm too weak to get up and answer it.
When my cell phone rings, I assume it will be Maya. I desperately want to hear her voice, but when I answer it, it turns out to be Dean.
"Sil! It's good to hear your voice." He sounds frantic. "I'd love to chat but I don't have the change... got a cell phone huh? Did you read my letter? I hope it's all right, I bought a train ticket for tomorrow morning... I'll be in the city around noon. Can I hang for a couple of days until I can find some cash and get out?"
"Sure Dean. You're always welcome..." I am thinking of how to phrase the situation. The last thing in the world that I want to add to an already desperate situation is another desperate person. "Great," he says before I can get a word in edgewise, "see you tomorrow." He hangs up without giving me time to fully explain things, but I figure that's his mistake not mine.
Morning finds me still feverish and shaky, but I get up anyway. I meet Maya at the Waverly for breakfast. I see her off to work and head uptown to meet Dean. I stagger along in a feverish nightmare. Gargoyles and fiends stalk me from shadowy buildings. They prowl the streets in mobs. Their claws ripping and tearing everything to shreds. They hide around corners; I lurch across the street. They leap from cabs and busses, claws extended, teeth bared, trying to rip me limb from limb and drag me down with them into the fiery pits of the underworld. The world moves in stop motion film, blurred out of focus and intent of tripping me up as I walk. Things that aren't there keep darting in my peripherals and I can here Mayan priests, the chiclet boy, fiends, demons, and phantoms growling and chattering in the shadows.
Dean is sitting on a bench across from the newsstand in Grand Central. He looks haggard from lack of sleep and excessive facial hair. "Sil..." He looks up weakly.
"Dean..." I sound like a weather beaten sixty-year-old man. "It's almost noon, you want a drink?"
"Ya," Dean tries to smile, " that might raise my spirits."
We head across the street to a bar. I keep my head down to avoid the devilish creatures swooping down from above. We sit down at the bar and order a couple of beers. Dean takes off his coat and slumps his head down on the bar. "Things are bad back there. She doesn't even know I'm here. Neither does my job." He raises his head when the bartender sets down the beer. "But none of that matters a wit," he sighs. "What's wrong is what's always been wrong, and what that is remains an absolute mystery to me. Did you read my letter?"
"Of course. Always such cheery words you send."
"Yes, well, you know how much easier it is to write than to talk. Anyway, I meant most of that stuff. I'm lost and alone. He stares at his haggard reflection in the mirror behind the bar. "Do you ever feel that the whole world has turned against you?"
I want to say that I do, that I feel it right now, but the boy with chiclets is glaring at me, calling me a worthless gringo and kicking my leg under the counter. I lie to Dean and tell him that he's alone. I tell him that things will brighten up. I tell him that the world is getting better. The Mayan priest throws his head back and laughs hysterically.
"No it's not," Dean shakes his head. "The world is getting worse Sil. It's never going to get any better. This whole country is certifiably insane. I have to get out of here somehow. I think maybe I'll go to France." He lights a cigarette and groans. "Oh god, what the fuck am I talking about? We both know I'm never going to France." He laughs ironically and drinks down his beer in one long gulp.
I light a cigarette. I blow the smoke back behind me. The boy with the chiclets goes into fits from the smoke. He runs out of the bar and comes back with giant growling, snarling beast in tow. It has alligator eyes and long fangs dripping carnage. Its leathery hide is covered in warts. It snorts and shakes its head. It looks at me and licks it's lips. The boy laughs. The Mayan priest comes over and rubs its head.
The bartender brings Dean another round of Guinness without being asked. He is listening in on the conversation. Everyone is listening in. A crowd of half-decomposed bodies lines up at the end of bar groaning and moaning and waiting for Dean and I to be put in the gallows. They drag a guillotine out of the bathroom. They are screaming for our heads. The priest whispers in our ears, when the blade falls, get up and run, get up and run, get up and run... I can hear them placing bets on how far our headless corpses will run.
Dean turns and claps his hand on my shoulder and looks intently in my eyes. "Sil," he says, "I want out of this nightmare."
I consider it for a moment. Get up and run, get up and run, get up and run... "I got news for you Dean, there is no way out." He turns away from me, "you can't do it, you have to walk through the nightmare to come out the other end." The priest doubles over in fits of laughter and the little boy throws his chiclets out in the crowd. The ghastly decomposing figures clamor over each other trying to get at the gum. They rip each other to shreds; shrieks and howls fill my head. I start to shake.
Dean drinks his beer in one long gulp again. He motions to the bartender for more. "Fuck that," he says angrily, "I'm gonna find a way out. And who the hell are you to say that anyway?" He looks at me with fire glowing in his eyes. "Where do you get off telling me that? I thought you would be the one person who would understand where I was coming from?"
I shrug my shoulders and sigh deeply. "If you want to go, you just go. It's that simple, you don't have to debate it with yourself; you don't have to get approval; you don't have to ask; you don't have to plan. You go out for the paper one day and you don't come back. You book a flight, a boat, a train and you just go... like we did last time. I just don't think it's going to help."
Dean is silent. The room is spinning around my head. Lights streak from the motion. Faces stretch out sideways and take on hideously evil dispositions. Time speeds up. I am thrown forward. The fabric of reality is ripping and I'm falling through into some other place-some great inferno of perdition. I run to the bathroom and splash water on my face. I feel like drugs are coursing my veins, but none are. My heart is beating like a jackhammer. The priest is staring at me from the mirror. He lifts his blade to my eyebrow and pushes it against my flesh. I feel a sharp pain and bead of blood begins to form. The thin rivulet runs down my cheek like a tear. The mirror wobbles and shakes. The priest leaps forward driving the blade into my head. I'm too weak to scream.
I come to on the floor. An old man is shaking my shoulder. He asks if I am okay. I stand up uneasily and look in the mirror again. There is a cut on the scar of my eyebrow; I must have hit my head when I fell. I thank the man, and he leaves, shaking his head. I wash off the blood and put a paper towel to my head to stop the bleeding. I open the door and step back into the bar. The priest is gone, so is the chiclet boy and all the rest of the hideous, clamoring monsters. Halfway across the room, I stop and study Dean. He is staring emptily at the mirror behind the bar. I notice for the first time Dean, as he really is, I feel all his dilemmas as if the net of synchronicity is merging us into one single entity. It occurs to me that he may be right. Perhaps he should run again.
"Dean," I say as I sit down. "If it makes you feel any better, my life is at the bottom of a toilet bowl too. I'm losing Maya. I can't stand the thought of it, but it's already too late." I finish my beer and order a couple of shots of whiskey.
"Shit Sil, I'm sorry. If I had known that I wouldn't have come up here and laid my shit on you."
I glance over at him and do both shots myself. I order two more and let Dean have one this time. "That's not the point," I tell him. "It actually makes me feel a better knowing I'm not the only one screwing up my life. Besides I might be able to help you. Why don't we go down to the airport and book a flight? Why don't you go to France right now?" I raise my shot. Dean looks helplessly at me, but raises his shot to toast. "Let's go right now no more talk no more contemplation, no more words. From here on out only actions, pure honest actions," I throw back the whiskey; it burns down my throat. Dean does the same. I order more. And more. We drink faster and faster.
"I can't just disappear to Europe on Alexis," Dean complains. "I have to at least call her."
"No you don't," I glared at him, "come on let's go." He's losing his nerve. I grab him by the arm and start to drag him out. He consents and lets me pull him out of the bar, but in the vestibule he stops. I fear he will change his mind, but he only wants my assurances that I will explain everything to Alexis. I swear to him that I will and push him out into the street. I hail a cab.
As we ride out to La Guardia International, I double-check the one potential flaw in my plan. A plan which I now see leading Dean high into the Himalayas where he can at long last gain the secret of the universe from some ancient Tibetan shaman, so old he remembers the time before Buddhism... "Hey, you still carrying your passport at the bottom of that bag?"
Dean lurches drunkenly down and pulls the suitcase to his lap. After rummaging though it for a tedious eternity, he produces the tatter document and smiles. I sit back, but Dean leans over and drunkenly grabs me by the shirt. He gets right up in my face, "now Sil," he growls, "you promise to me that you will go to Alexis and explain the situation to her, tell her that I love her and I look forward to being with her again someday, but for now, I have to do this. You'll tell her all that won't you?" Tears are streaming down his face, from what I'm not quite sure, but I feel compelled to lie to him.
"Of course I'll call her as soon as you're safely in the air."
"No! You can't call, that won't work." He shakes me by the shirt. "You have to go to DC tonight and tell her in person, someone needs to be there so that she has a shoulder to cry on."
The thought of Alexis crying on my shoulder sends homicidal shivers down my spine, but I agree just to shut him up.
It takes about forty minutes to get to the airport. I shove some cash through the window like a madman and I jump out of the cab, dragging Dean behind me. I steer him straight to the Air France desk. I leave him to the side and step up the attendant. "I need a one way ticket to Paris," I say proudly, "on the next flight."
She looks the two of us over and seems to be trying to decide whether or nor we are serious. I pull out my wallet to encourage her on. She types something in the computer and then smiles at me. "I have a few seats on the one o'clock," she says, "but its already started boarding, you'll have to hurry." I smile at her and demand that she sell me one. She seems flustered by my enthusiasm and urgency.
"How much?" I ask as if it's unimportant.
"One person," She hesitates and I glance over at Dean. He is slumped down sitting on the floor with his hands in his face. "It's going to be eleven-eighty with taxes and airport fees," she says.
"Done," I smile, whip out my credit card, and hand it to her.
"Can I see the passport of the travelling party?" She looks at me triumphantly as if she thinks I will have overlooked this detail. I grab it out of Dean's hand and shove it under her nose. While she runs the credit card I start Dean in the direction of customs. I run back to finish up the paper work. He is through customs by the time I come over with the ticket. I hurry him down the concourse, thrusting the ticket in his hand. I give him the rest of my money. It's only about two hundred dollars after I take out return cab fare for myself, but at least he'll have a few days to figure something out. He'll probably hate me in about three hours when he sobers up at thirty five thousand feet over the Atlantic, but it'll be too late by then. At the entrance to the ramp I stop and give him a hug. We hug for moment, the way straight men are not supposed to hug in an airport concourse, and then I turn and march out without looking behind me. I'm not sure if he'll go through with it or not, but either way I figure as long as I don't see then he'll always have gone in my mind.
I go outside and sit down for a cigarette. It takes a few minutes to find a cab that won't mind my nicotine habit, but eventually an Islamic looking man motions for me to hop in. It's a spectacular feeling that sweeps over me as the cab emerges from the Lincoln tunnel. The sky seems immense and wide open, as if imported from Montana. The first rays of orange are painting the tops of the skyscrapers and the whole world seems turned upside down and shaken. Loose change clatters on the sidewalks as worldwide pants are emptied and all the hopes and dreams of eight hundred thousand years fall down on me and pick me up on their shoulders. I feel boundless, timeless and completely, utterly divinely free. I feel like I am the one on my way to Paris.
Eleven
-reductive and mechanical-world gains grid-microscopic speck of immensity-deep space bubbles-twinkle like gin-elaborate effigies-the bare essentials-negatively charged collisions-moving on a crowded street-a stubbornly persistent illusion-the trouble is-you see it don't you?
The phone. Ringing. The phone is ringing. The phone is not ringing. The alarm is going off. The alarm is not going off.
Dean is gone.
Fumbling fingers twisting a flint of happiness. Inhale sharply. Feel the pain in charred lung tissue. Where is Dean? Where is Jimmy? Where is Maya?
I get up and crush out the cigarette in the Persian rug, letting it burn a good size hole in the exposed padding once covered by luxurious threads. I feel better already. The steel bars masking the window do not bother me. The whine and bleat of the cranes is symphonic. Dean got out. Dean is free. I have realized it. The computer comes to life. I open Photoshop and try to work. The disks from yesterday's shoot are sitting on the table along with a note from Maya. It's a terse reductive note. Here's yesterday's discs. Dinner? Informal poetics.
Last night I passed out before Maya got home-realization slipping through an intravenous drip-questions spring up and are dismissed. Dean got out. I throw in the discs and open up the first set of pictures. Three girls carrying shopping bags and laughing in way that real people never do, but seems to make sense to real people when they sit down and thumb through magazines. Shop. I make you want to shop. I make you want. Things. Things you can't have.
I put in the next disc and my heart crashes.
All the precious irreverent little bytes still wafting in the glory of Dean's departure are instantaneously expunged from my information superhighway all skittering. There is an older thing than computers, a scaly viperous thing, a part of the reptilian brain that remains in touch with the more up to date mammalian one. They communicate along the lines of the old show-the string to tin can trick. Simple and effective. The reptilian brain is slithering slow behind the scenes making sure that the worst is being avoided, even as the mammalian brain seems intent on seeking out the most serosanguineous reality tunnel around.
A face is staring at me. A face swelling significantly out of an ocean of monotonous faces. Disc two contains a face I know. An Athens face. A face that has no business being in this part of my life, a separate face. Judah is staring at me. Judah with his rooftops and roughhewn tables and Cuban dreams is here in New York on my computer. There is no way that this disc could contain a picture of Judah. It is impossible for him to have been at yesterday's modeling shoot without Maya mentioning it.
Unless.
Unless the bitten apple on the front of the disc is not just a brand symbol.
My heart gets the three-fingered salute and after running a hasty hard disc scan, restarts with minimal data loss.
Except.
The priest is back and has a battered suitcase with ancient Pan Am and Trans World emblems plastered on it. He leans over my shoulder to get the scoop on this latest development and launches into a hysterical, uncontrollable, post-orgasmic fit of laughter.
You are so fucked.
Spring Street. Coat buttoned tight, scarf catching involuntary nose drip, feet skating on icy concrete and the old Jewish tailors huddle on the crooked, half-spiral steps whispering Yiddish, smoking cigarettes and decoding the cabalistic name of god which they plan to evoke in swirl of incense, candlelight and chanting in some universe just three doors down-unmarked entrance in an alley. Waiting for the F train to Broadway, a fat junkie woman with a stroller shivers and rolls her eyes at me. The priest marches up and down the platform, hunched slightly, like Napoleon contemplating strategic moves, hands behind his back, twirling a menacing blade, long, curved and enlarged at the front. The better for splitting my dear.
Roaring sounds, squeals, heart attack brakes, suicide doors open. Two street kids huddle in the corner of the car arguing over Delotid stolen from an uptown pharmacy where the old neighborhood druggist is losing his sight and easy prey to opportunists-forgets that two boys came in and only one is in front of him now asking for drugs for the the hiv, what is the hiv? The boy laughs. They dash out the door and into the station, all the way to Brooklyn and then back, but only one Delotid. The priest looks at me and smiles, gesturing to the boys with the engorged tip of the scythe. Necessity is mom, where is dad?
Door opens at 125th, in come the dealers and out go the boys. These are dangerous types don't you know. Black hearts. Black skin. Even the priest is silent. I stare them down. One nods. "buds?" I smile no. TV has these images. It told you all you needed to know. Just another show. My eyes are bleary from staring at the screen its all too much and there must be someone on this train. Stand up. Walk to the next car. The priest holds the door as I stumble through.
"You talk too much"
"Stupid old fuck"
"Get your piles out"
"This is my car you coggy old fucker"
Two bums half heartedly pushing each other, bustling in the back and a prim woman in a business suit on her way to the Bronx, the north Bronx, out of the city and sure he keeps telling her we'll move soon, just as soon as I put together this next deal, you know Charlie says he can move this stuff and she spends her nights chain smoking at the window thinking of home in Baltimore and the last time she had an orgasm. A thin old man with newspaper folded under his arm uncrosses his legs and motion to me to sit down.
"Going uptown?"
"Yes"
"Lots to do uptown?"
"I think maybe. Yes."
"Be careful. These aren't safe neighborhoods you know. Make sure you know where your friends are."
"Thank you."
The terror of wheels flogging metal rails. Nothing personal. Stop. Lurch. Complete stop. The priest motions for me to get off. I follow him reluctantly. There are some things that are better left alone, but you never do. You can't see? Get on a plane. Get out while you can. Echoing voices. A little Puerto Rican boy tap dances on a tattered sheet of cardboard. The Mayan priest pitches him a nickel. Gee thanks mister...wrong fucking century asshole. I can't help but laugh. This is so fucking stupid but I can't stop. These are bad neighborhoods you know. Outside again, the projects, enormous brick edifices erected on minimal budgets with zero inspiration. We thought of that you know the priest interjects, zero, the Mayans, the nothing thing. Try that one on.
Some things are too horrifying to look directly at, some things scorch the eye before the brain can react and force you to turn away. These are the horrors, the pains, the absolute zero of emotional tolerance. Zero. Nothing. The absence of all. The void. The space between. Zero. These are the things I want-to see the things I can't bear to see. I see Judah. I see his curly eyes glazed with alcohol and Cuba. An entire fucking island and millions of people tiny little dreams in his eyes. But not people just words, Spain, Neruda, sugarcane, wood tables, old men playing jazz, pounding out beats on drawers pulled from bedroom armoires. Words. Zero. Judah has never been to Cuba. Zero. Never been to Spain. Zero. Been to the bottom of bottle dreams and talking gibberish, meaning astray, ashtray, lost his way. Just making it up as he goes. Did we ever sit on the roof? Did I make that up? Did we climb that precarious fire escape rusted ladder to the top, did my feet almost slip on the way down; was the building two doors down really burnt out, charred, roof sagging like leprechaun dreams under the weight of mythical bridges? Did Maya come to Athens that spring and were we walking by the patio of the Flicker Bar where Judah was having drinks with some friends? Did I call out to him and ask him to come over and meet Maya? Did we chat briefly, Judah too drunk to see? Did Maya casually mention that he was cute? Did I know then what I know now?
Yes my memory constructs all that as having happened and yet. And here, standing at the entrance to a building I haven't entered in over a year, my mind is wallpapered with the image. Stacked on infinite repeat and it won't go away. It is a needle raked over an already festering wound. A porcupine administering morphine to an amputee still feeling the absent limb. The endolithic articulation of zero.
This won't hurt a bit.
Nuclear buzzer shatters fragmented reflection before I remember the door is open. The door never locks. Here we are not lying until you are inside. The antechamber where Judah's dull amplified voice is echoing off tile mosaics and sets the Jamaican landlord's crazed dreadlocked lakdsjflkasdjf into a frenzy, it throws its body against the downstairs door, snarling and growling undog noises. The hair on the back of my neck curls and retreats back into the follicle. Down periscope. Dive. I streak up the stairs lest the nearly mythical predator somehow loose itself from the bounds that hold it to this mortal coil. Behind me the priest scrapes his heart carving blade against the orange chipped paint of the door to further antagonize the beast.
Judah is already opening the door as I bound the last stair. His face wears a look of feigned surprise trying to hide the fact that he has been waiting for this moment ever since. I will not give, nothing is wrong.
"Sil! Holy shit. What are you doing here?"
"Judah! I came to see my old friend Judah." I advance on him, arms extended and we embrace, clapping each other's backs hard. Too hard.
"Come in come in. I was just doing some recording upstairs. I thought maybe you were John coming home from work and I was pissed off thinking he had forgotten his key again...."
"Ah, recording. Music?
"Ya drums"
"Tribal drums? African drums? That sort of thing?"
"Uh... not exactly.... So why are you in New York?"
"I came up to be with Maya."
"That's the girl you were dating?"
"Uh huh." I follow him into the kitchen and he offers me a seat at the kitchen table. I glance around and surmise that little has changed since my last visit. The one talented member of this living arrangement has added a few new painting to the living room wall. Strange stained glass looking paintings that are catching the last glow of the sun in such a deliberate way that I realize he must have purposefully painted them and then hung them at exactly that spot on the far wall of the kitchen so that they would catch the light exactly as they are right now.
"Yes Judah. The girl I have always been dating. As long as you have known me. Longer than you have known me."
"I thought you guys broke up." He picks up a bowl of roasted peanuts and I can't help but see the inescapable southern upbringing coursing through his veins. He peels back the soft shell and pops one arrogantly in his mouth.
"Is that why you fucked her?"
He pretends like it comes out of nowhere, but we both know it didn't. We both know it's the only reason I'm here.
"Excuse me?"
"Don't try to bullshit me Judah. It's unbecoming. At least be quick on your feet... I was drunk... I'm sorry... it just happened... you know how it is... these are the phrases of carefully constructed cinematic excuses that you have to choose from. Come on man... 'excuse me'? That's the best you can do? You and your Neruda and your Cuba and all your fucking bullshit and 'excuse me'? That's the fucking best you can fucking do?"
"Calm down Sil. You want a beer?"
"No I don't want a fucking beer you asshole. I want a story. And it better be a really fucking good story." I can feel my eyes darting about the kitchen, dishes in the sink, purple cupboard door open, dishrags on counter, trash overflowing bottles, refrigerator covered, magnets and pictures, disarrayed pots on stove, framed Charles Bukoski holding beer on wall opposite oven, bread atop fridge, two bananas and a mango ripening in a wire basket hanging from the bottom shelf above the window that looks out onto a brick wall three feet away, and the priest hands me the blade. "Actually, yes, I would like a beer," I run my finger along the edge of the blade, a tiny rivulet of blood appears accompanied by a dull far off ache in my fingertip. I wonder absently if such a thing could permanently alter the identification of my fingerprints.
Judah retrieves two Coronas from the fridge, along with a lime, all of which he carries awkwardly over to the table, setting one beer in from of me and another in front of the empty chair he presumes he will sit in. He turns around and rummages through a drawer, presumably looking for a knife, but I chop the lime in half with a loud thwacking sound that causes him to stand bolt upright and look at me wide eyed. I smile, wipe the blade clean and put a sliver of lime in his bottle and then one in mine. I twirl the blade on the tip of my finger.
"Sorry. Bought it in Chinatown. This is the first chance I've had to use it."
"That's quite a knife..."
"Ya it is isn't it? So about you fucking Maya...?"
"Look Sil. Shit. I'm sorry. I thought you guys broke up. I didn't mean to. I was drunk. She called me...fuck." His face has a look of sorrow on it but I'm not buying. Regret is cheap-from here to Hanoi. "Sil... to be honest... when she called, I didn't know who she was talking about...you know she said this is Maya, a friend of Sil's... I had forgotten all about you. It didn't dawn on me until the next day."
His voice sends me reeling.
"I mean. Shit, I'm sorry man, but I didn't know we were that good of friends. I mean its been what-like two years?"
"So...uh... essentially our friendship was all in my head?"
Judah shells another peanut, pops the soft fruit in his mouth and chews slowly and deliberately. "Well, uh, don't you have to see someone, you know... hang out with them in order the be friends with them?"
I see Dean in Paris pissing in an alleyway three sheets to the wind. I see Jimmy in Athens bent over the falcon engine tinkering with the carburetor. I see Scratch in Miami ogling a divorcee. I see Ulric behind the drum kit that holds the world together beating out the rhythm of now.
"No. No you don't. That would be an acquaintance, which it seems you and I are. Acquaintances. It seems that friendship is too advanced of a concept to apply here.... Or at least that's how you would like to see it...."
"What do you mean?"
"I can see the guilt in your eyes Judah. It haunts you. You have been waiting for me. You want forgiveness from me..."
"I want forgiveness...?" He laughs mock wickedness.
"Yes. You want nothing more... but you're a drunk. You're nothing but a drunk with delusions. You sit around here recording music no one will ever hear, thinking that you're some kind of forgotten genius, another overlooked Van Gogh... and believe me we all want that for you, but the sad truth is that you're not. You're a drunk. No more no less."
Judah watching the Zapruder films dreaming of having the inside track on something that the rest of us have missed. Judah is a foreshortened life. He is not Neruda, he is not Cuba, he is a man who reads poetry by candlelight because he knows it is how you are supposed to read poetry, he dreams of Cuba because it is where he cannot go. Cuba is not a place at all to Judah; it's a concept. It's all empty talk, a tumbleweed caught in the grill of a 53 mercury, not even that, in the grill of late 70's pinto, liable to blow the fuck up the first time something rams him in the ass.
I can see him buried to the hilt in her warm depths with that stupid drunken Neruda grin on his face. Perhaps we could go up to the roof. Perhaps he could walk in circles while I sit on the brick ledge that separates his building from the next. Perhaps all of Manhattan is behind me and Judah will pace in circles to excuse poor behavior. Perhaps he will tell a story of an out of blue phone call, a meeting for drinks with that slithering slug April. Perhaps he will model-waving his bottle of corona as he talks of drinks-martinis extra dirty three olives and then the stumbling subway ride home. Perhaps its was one of those nights when I waited by the phone for Maya to call. Perhaps it was the night Scratch blew through. Perhaps the priest will laugh-taunting me. Perhaps he will kneel behind Judah, crouch on all fours. Perhaps the punch will come for Judah, perhaps my good natured honesty will have disarmed him. Perhaps the punch is centered square in the solar plexus and is followed by the full weight of my body. Perhaps there is an indeterminable second in which Judah will teeter and try to throw his foot back to regain his balance, but a heating vent will be in the way. He will spin off balance, stumble and disappear over the edge. I will run to the edge of the building and look down. His body will be contorted in a distorted, inhuman shape, a pool of blood already forming under his head. I will glance around to see if anyone might possibly have seen us. I will feel a rather extravagant calm. I should be panicking, but I won't. I'll feel relieved, beautiful even. I'll gather up the bottles I touched, glance around to see if there are any other items which might lead one to believe that there was second person present. I'll smooth over my footprints in the rooftop gravel. I'll climb down the ladder and onto the fire escape, glancing down at Judah's body and taking care to wipe away my fingerprints. The pool of maroon below will run toward the fence, dripping out the spaces between the white pickets. I'll climb back in the window and methodically ransack his room, looking for my phone number or Maya's, but taking care not to mess things up. I'll gather up my things, carry the bottles downstairs and place them in the neighbors trashcan. I'll walk out back and examine the body. I'll put my hand over his mouth, but before I can feel a breath I'll notice the bits of mashed skull and what I think are brains lying several feet away-clearly there will be no breath. This man is dead. His eyes are still open, they wear a slightly shocked expression, but there is something else there, a Mona Lisa smile, as if laughing at some inner joke. I'll want to stomp that smile right off his face. I'll want to feel the satisfying crunch of bone under my foot, I'll want to squish his brains, to smear them about the yard. Instead I'll rise and walk out the front door. A roommate will find him. Judah is a known alcoholic. He's also the only smoker in the house. He frequently goes up of the roof to drink and smoke. It will be a no brainer, an open and shut accidental death. His blood alcohol level will tell the story. An intern from the Bronx observer will be dispatched to the scene, he will take a picture of the legs protruding from beneath the yellow tarp. The headline will read: Youth killed in Drunken Mishap. No question will ever be asked because this story is perfectly believable. My story is far fetched, irrational, and difficult to believe. Who would do such a monstrous thing? As I leave I will notice some boys playing basketball at the court across the street. I will sink my hands deep in my pockets, smile up to the sky, take a resonant breath and walk on. People are murdered everyday in the Bronx. Drunk people falling off rooftops are not a cause for alarm. I wish I could say that I would be haunted by images of Judah. I wish that I could say I would feel guilty, but I know I will not. Judah is right, our friendship was all in my mind. And he, bless his nearly departed soul, already got out. His death will be a mere a formality to mark his passing.
The wheels of the BDFQ begin the screech halfway down the stairs, I jog the rest of way and dart through the door at last minute, sliding into a seat facing an old man whose face is half obscured by a down-turned fedora. I jerk my sleeve out of the door and sit down opposite him. He glances up at me clears his throat and mumbles to no one in particular-these things happen you know. The woman seated next to him raises her eyebrows at me. I smile and shrug. Who is to know the idiosyncrasies of other people?
The bar is really more of a lounge, but a lounge in the worst New York hipster sense of the word. The street front consists of tacky two story glass windows designed to make sure that those on the outside feel left out and sense their lacking chic, which turns up the volume of self-satisfied panache playing on the black turtleneck turntables that spin giddily from table to bar to toilet and back again. A woman at one of the window tables raises a thinly plucked eyebrow at me as her flighty white fingers twirl through blond curls; her white skin is tightly stretched as if approaching escape velocity, narrowly eeking out of the blackhole of her attire. Her scorn makes me smile. I turn on my loudest non-participatory amplifiers, light a fresh cigarette and open the door with trembling hands. Inside is a dimly lit underwater blue emanating from strands of twinkling sapphire Christmas lights balanced and slightly thinned by candles flickering on small tables. A hostess looks at me expectantly but I can't speak. She scowls at my cigarette and asks if she can help me. "Meeting people," I mumble, eyes ignoring her existence, scanning desperately for a familiar face.
The back wall is lined with a series of enormous crescent shaped booths, and at the center of one, surrounded by a horde of male models, I spy Maya and April, giggling in each others ears. Maya catches my eye and waves me over. She tries to introduce me to the men-boys really- surrounding her, but I don't bother to acknowledge their flaccid hands. A couple I recognize having digitally liberated their complexions from acne scarred childhoods. One of them gets up and pulls over a chair so that I can sit next to Maya. Maya and April are talking emptily of big plans. Big buildings with big offices, big name photographers shooting on account for big name clients, big money going around the world, Frankfurt to Paris, Milan to Cape Town,, New York and back. I stare at April's teeth as she talks. Her pretension chokes the air with gasping hoarse laughter. Black boutique blouse with matching runway toss-off pants she dress like she spends too much time dressing. Her forty year old teeth dripping pinot grigio, held in place by a Miami-tanned hide hanging from cheek bones that all the retouching in the world wouldn't subtract a year from. Must have been boom years-gone bust to land her here. Gone bust in the warm Florida a sun, tarnished the red-gold mane and she had to split. Why I'm not sure, but I suspect it would have something to do with these big puppy-love dreams ringing her head like penny dreadfuls. April's unwarranted arrogance lectures like a cockstrong teenager sermonizing on the ways of the world and what you need to do to succeed. One of the models is wearing a t-shirt that reads: no day but today. And April's pinot grigio is half empty, her vulture eyes already search for a carrion waiter to flutter eyes at secure another free glass because she hasn't the money to buy a drink. She wants to be rich so badly it makes her smell-wouldn't know Rothschild from gutter port and can't buy either.
Maya's lips purse around a thought, but then her head leans back and shakes-disengage turn the page, working hard for some distant reward in white picket tomorrowland all the while convinced: no day but today. She wants me to share in the dream conversation. I'd sooner chew my leg off-saut my ambivalence. I am in no hurry. She gives up on me for bit but like a flea-riddled canine just can't let it go.
"What did you do today Sil?" Maya leans in, stabbing at some form of intimacy, but it feels forced to me. I am not fun. I am the thing that must be dealt with at this table, in this bar, in this city.
"I realized that you fucked Judah behind my back," I smile and take a sip of scotch.
It would be a relief to see some sort of reaction, to see the color drain from her face, to see a look of horror in her eyes, but there is nothing. A sarcastic curl lifts her top lip off her teeth and she lowers her eyes at me, "this is neither the time nor the place."
"The proper form calls for indignant protest at such an outrageous accusation and then the time and place bit." I cross my legs and feel an unhealthy calm descend upon me. I light a cigarette and lean back to blow smoke in April's face. We lock eyes and scornful little daggers spit out of her pupils. My heart is racing in spite of the pills, but everything is beautifully clean and calm. The air is sterile, too full of ozone, it sucks up my cigarette smoke and filters it faster than I can drag more into my starved lungs. The room smells like the science fiction future-barren and callous. It feels perfect. The first dawn after the nuclear holocaust.
Maya turns her back on me and whispers something to April. I wish that I had a Moroccan dagger or scythe with which to carve this place, these people, carve their bodies into apocalyptic sculptures, monuments to the futility of arrogance. To leave them alive to carry on their shallow existence in these blanched white bodies, but with deep heineous scars the wounds left by the day the words returned to act upon them. I survey the room and realize that the words aren't coming back justice is down the hall blindfolded, gagged and bound, being fucked in the ass by a lonely old man and loving every minute of it while the play masks laugh and cry at the sight of it all.
I feel righteous and holy.
I want to vomit on myself.
I want Mexico City.
Waking to static on the radio, fat man singing in the shower next door, paper thin walls. The pain is chipped and peeling, lingering in cobweb corners. Mattress with no sheets, stained by countless faceless visitors. Get out of bed and shave with cold water and dull razor, cuts bleed. Outside cadaver weather, smoky haze obscures dawn, stumble down Calle de la Plaza. Your head hurts. Machine gun guards seal off banks. Tomorrow the man in the pinstripe suit will walk in shooting and not stop for days.
Both agents wearing cheap black suits and stained white shirts, rings of sweat visible when they lift the cups to their mouths. Gristle mouths, swollen lips, spit flies as they talk.
"Now you understand..."
"You understand nothing about our country..."
"You can't possibly hope to..."
"We are trying to use the utmost discretion..."
Not hearing a word, looking off the balcony at the shanty town below. Constructed on an old landfill site. The men are still talking. One hand washes the other. A little girl in tattered t-shirt drags a stick in circles about the dirt driveway.
In America she is millions of miles away. Jerking camera visions, clipped images of sidewalks, men in ragged army coats begging for change. The agents ask for papers, identification, passport still stuffed in the mattress. Leaving. They follow at a safe distance.
"Understand that the matter may well come to trial seor..."
Streets spinning with cars, a dizzying sound. Street urchin selling chiclets, you wanna good time mister? eh? no?
Last time, board room door all closed, sealed up lies. The agents are still trailing behind. Pulse racing-open the door to the hotel. Three whores in gaudy lipstick wait in the lobby. Pass. Lie down. Feverish dreams. Radioman selling something in Spanish, bursts of static mixed with dream. Malaria epidemic in the Quarter two years ago. Same room, different hotel. Same agents still here. Standing in the corner. One crouches down, smoking at the foot of the bed. In America she is a million miles away.
"Sir why do make this hard on yourself...?"
"You must let us help you..." They smile gold teeth.
Nausea without warning.
There is always warning. It has all been said. She just laughs and pretends and smiles and tries so hard for a Breakfast at Tiffany's cleanliness. The kind of posturing with no accounting for severed limbs, atrocities at all, arm so carefree with its gentle flicks of ash, kissing cigarettes for soft cinedramatic inhales, all-knowing and never acknowledging the prehensile origins. She is smugly young. She has always been smugly young. We are all smugly young. But not you. You have been so old for so long that delusion and illusion and artifice are transparent in the tips of lotioned fingers, Lubridermed against chapping winds. She falls apart with every drag.
I skip the subway. Overground. Stepping lightly on grates, slender metal held up by the wisps of subway air. Wind blows through the morgues and into the streets, lashing ice, snow, tongues, voices-everything is beautiful everything if fine. This is the time. This is the place.
But.
Nevermind.
I want that hotel Bob Dylan lived in. I want to walk in the room and kick his teeth in. Bob Dylan hasn't got shit on me. Mutherfucker couldn't sing worth a damn. All my favorite singers couldn't sing. Kick his fucking teeth in. Stomp his head to mush. Fuck Bob Dylan. Fuck Fuck Fuck. Fuck Bob Dylan. It's in way he sings the power and resonance-horseshit. Its all horseshit. Posturing. Affecting. Jeff Mangum-let Jeff Mangum kick Bob Dylan's teeth in. Jeff is in his prime. He is now. Bob is over and done. Fork stuck. Roasted. I want that hotel. I want those teeth. I want them to rattle in a pouch that I carry on my belt, tied with leather straps and I pull them out in bars and tell the story of How I Kicked in Bob Dylan's Teeth. Jeff Mangum is in an aeroplane over the sea and he is on his way to kick Bob Dylan's teeth in.
I want my money back. I would like to return the following items for a full refund: One set of teeth (lost rattling quality), one tongue (no longer working, cat got), two year subscription to Tomorowland (gift), one heavily used Persian rug (symbol kind of shaky from the get go), one organ donor card (no one buying), one nation (under god), one lamppost (working, caustic light on a street begging for a Bogart darkness-huddled, but cheerfully bitter), and one young girl (no longer young).
I can forgive everything.
Room 319. No Bob Dylan. No top hat. No Jack Kerouac (kick his teeth in too for good measure). No guitar. But it a beautiful room and it should be since the money was April's. I want to go shopping. I want a new suit. Designer shoes. Kiehl's shaving cream. Seven bottle of scotch. Greater self understanding. Peace on Earth and goodwill toward Jeff Mangum.
Judah said: We spent all the time talking about you.
I said: Why.
Judah said: Because she loves you.
I said: Nothing.
She is crying when I call. I can't cry. I want to cry. I want to feel. It's awkward. I should not have called. I should have gone home. I should give Bob his teeth back before he tries to gum that steak. This is how I hurt.
Maya and I meet for dinner at a Brazilian restaurant in the village. We both quickly get quite drunk on fruity cocktails. I don't want to tell her I am leaving until later. I don't want to spoil the evening that way. Maya is apologetic. I feel apocalyptic and out of control. I am funny. I am attentive. She is exuberantly telling me all about the agency for the five thousandth time, what they had done today and what they still needed to do tomorrow and in the future. I am enthralled with her teeth. I want to dream about her teeth. Her baby teeth falling out. Her adult teeth coming in. I want to dream the history of her teeth. The Rum is warm and friendly and she is very happy and we are forgiving each other for something or other, it isn't important. I interrupt her to tell her about Dean. She can't believe he actually just got on a plane and left. The whole thing is starting to sound surreal to me too, a dream I had-Dean's teeth flying to France, rotting on cheap wine and the chewing the rind because he is a polite traveler. But when I try to charge dinner on the credit card, the reality of his departure comes roaring home. I am sitting on almost three thousand dollars that I'm giving to April tomorrow. Maya pays the bill. As we walk home through Chinatown, I tell her that I have to leave. I feel like an absolute fool. I try to explain that I can't be in New York right now and that I can't do the job and that I don't know why-but above all it has nothing to do with her and certainly nothing to do with Judah or even Bob Dylan.
Her eyes fill with tears, but she keeps saying that she wants me to do what I need to do. She's lying. She wants me to stay. I can see it in her eyes, she desperately wants me to stay. Late at night I feel her get out of bed. I hear the broken chair squeak and the flick of lighter. She is fumbling absently with the twist tie; her nails pick at it making a sound like a harp.
In the morning there is a note. I want to spend more time with you, will you meet me for lunch? I gather up my things, drag them down stairs and pile them back in the Maxima. Upstairs I sit at the kitchen table and smoke a cigarette. I crush it out on the Persian rug.
Twelve
I wake up just before dawn with tears streaming down my face. I can't remember the dream, but I know it was horrible. All I retain is a vague sense of foreboding. I get up for a glass of water and notice that Dean is still asleep on the couch. I go back in my room and lie in bed for a while. It dawns on me that I am probably not at the bottom yet-I am still falling. I start thinking about Los Angeles, where I began. I see those I love stumbling in self assured darkness. At the time I thought it was sad, but now I see beauty in it. For once I'm not thinking of books or words of wisdom; I undergo no introspection, analyze nothing... I see only the people. They are standing in the streets rummaging for yesterday's newspapers in a kaleidoscope of garbage. I see Dean's cigarette droop between his lips and burn a hole in his favorite shirt. I see his sister doubled over in laughter and shaking her head at me. I hear the beat of Dean's headphones over the drone of freeway miles. I see the mattress lying in the middle of the sidewalk when I needed a place to sleep. I see my high school sweetheart sitting down for dinner with her family. I see my wife's tears stain the pillow of our bed. I wrap my arm around Maya in the corner booth of the Harbor house caf-no food for days. I feel the warmth of the sun and squint at the glare from the ocean. I swerve to avoid a tumbling boulder only to hit anther skid off the road coming to rest in front of a sign: CAUTION FALLING ROCK. Everything is just as it should be and I know it will never look the same again. I am gone from there and even if I return, something remains forever gone. I stumble back to bed, wiping the tears from my eyes. I fall to my knees staring up at the ceiling fan rewinding...
The beginning that started with endings. The end of the century-1999-a crash-landing year skittered off the runway and exploded in the grandstands, a year that chased itself atop railroad cars like the Pinkertons after the James Gang in old western films. Los Angeles was a thirty-one year long slow motion crash. Three recollections rise out of the nauseating sauted cacophony. They are the sound of Dean typing, the sound of disjointed and constantly arguing voices-from the television and from Sean and Katherine-and the feeling of vomit that was so sudden I nearly choked on it.
After my wife and I split up, I moved in with Dean and his sister. The three of us got along as if I were part of the family. It's the only living situation I've encountered where I actually spent time with my roommates. We were tight, we did everything together, we survived Sean and Katherine together and later we moved to Athens together. The trouble started when the lease on our apartment expired. We were desperate to find somewhere to live. Why we chose Sean and Katherine's place, I still don't know. In hindsight, I suspect it had more to do with Dean than anyone. Dean had a strange little thing for Katherine, I never understood it, she wasn't his type. Katherine was beautiful, face like an angel, but she was a full figured girl with auburn hair; Dean liked waifs with blond hair... Katherine had ambition and a real job; Dean liked strippers and waitresses... Katherine was homely; Dean liked class and glamour.... But, as the man said, there's no accounting for taste.
Sean was two years younger than me and about two inches shorter with the barrel-chest build of a swimmer. He swam every morning and worked as lifeguard all afternoon. He wore his hair closely shorn so it would stay out of his eyes in the pool. He perpetually reeked of chlorine. He and I lived together right after high school, in a trailer park of all things. We were very close back then, but eventually I got married and moved on with my life-you can't live in a trailer forever. Katherine entered his life shortly after I left and he moved out of the trailer park too. They lived together in an enormous old house that they shared with three other girls. It was the only house in Costa Mesa that predated 1950. I always wanted to live in it after I got back from my first trip to Athens because it reminded me of the South-though it didn't have a porch, just a cement stoop. Sean and I saw each other from time to time, but I rarely made any effort to talk. Sean represented a part of my life that I wanted to avoid, but when their roommates moved out and the three bedrooms were suddenly available we jumped on it. The plan was to stay a while until something better could be had, better turned out to be three thousand miles away. By the time Dean, his sister, and I moved in, I hardly knew Sean at all. By then I was more fond of Katherine, but I only got close to her one night and by then it was too late.
Most of all what sticks out was the sound of everything-the typing-the television-the constant fighting-Los Angeles humming in the background. The mad clicking of Dean's flying fingers was always present, ticking off the seconds in feverish bursts. Dean never stopped typing, it was a furious noise, he would pound the keys and nod his head to the headphones. He drowned out the world to escape it. He drowned out his own fingers. He never realized the force with which he pounded the keys... dispatching mad telegraphs, electrostatic love notes spitting out like lizard tongues... flung on wires to Maryland where another pair of fingers responded. The thing itself, so-called love, was flying back and forth over the wires -maddening. Dean had just met Alexis on the Internet, they spent hours on instant messenger-love in ones and zeros.
To tell the truth, I remember the television more than the people. Throughout all of the madness that ensued, the television reigned-we never tuned it off. Dean's sister and I stationed ourselves like zombies before the one god and it's eerie blue aura. The outside world was pandemonium-wars in Europe, trade deals in Mexico, sex scandals in Washington... what filtered in on the TV was reflected back all around us, cold, insensitive, innocuous suburban delight... detachment... Douglas Copeland's nightmares. It wasn't just us. The perpetual warm blue glow of television emanated from the windows of all our neighbors' vinyl sided endura-homes-guaranteed to last a lifetime or your money back! The television was a great luminous third eye... I could never decide if we were watching it, or if it was watching us. It presided over the world with the indifference of God. Every house glowed blue light, the streets bathed in its iridescence, cobalt sidewalks and sapphire lawns under midnight purple skies-everything glowed blue. Blue noise hummed softly and in the background, blue people stumbled about their lives. Turquoise silhouettes danced in kitchen windows and cerulean shadows lurked in open garages. The blue was grating, irritating, got under your skin like the flesh eating virus, boils sprung up bursting to reveal slick teal puss oozing from the open sores. In the background, faint at first, but then growing in decibels, was the maddening chant of the newsman and the Maytag man and all the talking heads of television disembodied and floating in the sky, singing choruses....
The sound of Los Angeles was deafening. Waves of music, horns, engines, electricity, spinning warbles of neon lights echoing the asphalt dreams of sanity. The whole city was a deafening roar. Vibrations spun off the turn of espresso handles, the pull of yogurt machines, the spinning of laundry mats, the ring of cash registers, the click-clack of skateboard wheels on the sidewalk, the roar of surf, the thump of landing gear, the clang of trash cans in the alley, the rattle of the homeless people's shopping carts, the chopping of the Chinese cook's knife atop the trash can, chunks of chicken fat accumulating on the floor; all of it whirled in a hurricane melee reverberating throughout the Los Angeles basin. The smoggy air offered no resistance to the pealing clamor. It carried it about, still as a tomb, withholding comment on the meaning of it all. Los Angeles is cancer-the insidious beat of death.
Dean's sister and I were sitting on the couch, television blaring to drown out the sounds of Sean and Katherine fighting. They never stopped arguing. Dean's sister shifted uncomfortably in her seat and I looked over at her. We both sighed and then laughed. We were thinking of the old house, of the old times, we didn't say a word, we didn't have to, it was in our eyes. Asshole! Bitch! Motherfucker! Stupid bitch! Dick! -These were the punctuated words we could hear above the television, but by then we were used to it. Dean, as I said, kept to himself; he was in the other room, headphones cranked to ten, blissfully going about the business of falling in love. His sister and I were the ones that had to see the door swing open and Sean ducking with his arms clasped over his head. The shoe hit the wall above the couch and then Katherine's voice roared in anger. On the television Chandler was broken up over Joey moving out and that mousy guy that's always 'the other guy' in movies, was moving in. Homoerotic jokes stuck like flies to vellum walls.
The shoe hit the wall above us and tumbled down between us. I looked at it; I looked over at Sean. He was standing in the dining room crying; he looked like a tortured animal pleading for it's life. I looked at the television-it was trying to sell me deodorant. Then Katherine emerged from the same direction as the shoe, also crying and looking like a tortured animal begging for it's life. Sean fell to his knees and grabbed her legs as she walked by him. They looked like the cover of the movie Vacation where Chevy Chase is standing proud and defiant while Beverly De'Anglo clings to his knees. I wanted to laugh great peals of bitter laughter, laughter sinking into the floor, into the walls, up to the roof. The place reeked of suppressed bitter laughter, mine, Dean's, his sister's, the studio audience, the children of the war in Kosovo. I looked at Dean's sister to see if she saw the humor in it. Her eyes met mine and they twinkled as she took a drag off her cigarette. I smiled and she started hacking and coughing smoke. A bit of spit flew out of her mouth and she tried to stop it, to regain some composure, but it was too late. The madness was upon us, it all started with the shoe.
Katherine's sobs quieted to weeping; Sean still had his arms around her legs. She was trying to kneel down, but he wouldn't let go so she just lay down on the floor weeping on her arm. He crawled over her body and knelt by her head. He tried to put his arms around her, to hold her, but she was indifferent. Her head rested apathetic against his knees, her eyes had a thousand-yard stare. Mascara ran down her cheeks leaving a black tail of tears. I felt helpless. "Are you guys okay," Dean's sister ventured half hearted. Sean nodded. Katherine just moaned a low growling sound that vibrated the wood floor and sounded utterly inhuman. Sean looked over at me for help, but I pretended to be engrossed in the television. I stole sideways glances to make sure that they weren't going to hurt each other. Sean stood up and Katherine's head dropped listlessly to the floor. They flip-flopped emotionally and now she clutched at his legs. Sean had a defiance to his posture that looked wholly artificial and it occurred to me that he ought to have remained on the ground. He ought to be begging, not to Katherine, but begging God to give him his humility back.
Sean was cold, calculated psychology, distilled out of textbooks, until it fermented in his soul and all the vital organs of his body were filled with poisonous effluvium. The chasm between the idealized and the realized versions of his life built up tension inside him. Katherine had become the way he released it. Sean was a flood of meaningless gibberish that he had internalized and now it bounced endlessly about like knives thrown in a vacuum. His soul was soaked with formaldehyde, preserving him eternally, choking out all feeling. He had lost all traces of humor and ran from his life madly chasing after an invisible spirit that he thought would somehow enlighten him, give his life the meaning, the purpose, the joy that it lacked. A problem that could be solved, that's all Sean wanted from life, something to which he could point and say "See it is all better now.' He was convinced he had all the answers for everyone around him, but he had none for himself. He had no use for whole people, just the ragged, torn edges of the pages-preferably dripping fresh blood, new wounds to cauterize and in the process open old ones. He poked at Katherine's soft emotional scar tissue, inducing hemorrhages to leech the life out. Like the Marquis he stood bleeding, asking-was good for you? His idea of life was crumbs; the confetti strew about after the parade passes. Christ all the way. Quick, get us a tree, somebody make two boards... hurry before he loses the courage and does it himself. Christ was on a suicide trip; he'd have gone with or without the Romans... how else do you end a story like that? I wanted to punch Sean. I wanted to make his nose explode and rain blood over all of us.
The news came on... Peace talks continued in Kosovo today with both parties saying that progress was made, but meanwhile fighting continues in the countryside where sporadic violence and snipers continue to take their toll on the morale and hope of the people who live here....
And then there was silence, an editing snafu at the station. The television went blank. Katherine was still weeping. I heard the air rushing out of my lungs with an asthmatic hiss. Sean was breathing hard. Dean's sister was holding her breath. In the other room the tapping stopped and Dean came teetering through the kitchen. He stopped in the doorframe, slightly hunched, holding a beer and squinting his eyes.... "What?"
There was peace between the news of Kosovo, Katherine's mournful sobbing, and Dean returning from the bathroom, pausing again like a half-cocked gun, squinting, observing and withdrawing. The sound of fingers tapping reached us again, the television cut to commercial and the cartoon man wanted me to buy his paper towels....
Two weeks later the war was over, rich people's financial interests were secured and Katherine and Sean had patched things up. Friends' reruns had come and gone with dinner and Katherine was cuddled up on Sean's lap. She was serene and beautiful that night because she fucked Dean in the closet of her office that afternoon. Sean was happy because he thought that he was the one making Katherine happy. He was so happy he was trying to fuck her in the chair right in front of us. They started making out when the television said the war was over. Dean, his sister and I tried to ignore the dry fucking session going on next to us, but secretly we were all for it. It was a nice change from the constant fighting. Katherine had his pants down, but was sitting in his lap to conceal the fact. When the television got quiet we could hear sound of lips mashing together and little grunts and groans escaping from them. Then Sean's little half-chubbed dick poked out from under Katherine's mini skirt like a miniature cobra. Dean and I both noticed it at the same time and we started laughing hysterically. Sean reached down and tried to tuck it back under Katherine's skirt, but the thing had a mind of its own. Dean, his sister and I figured it best to vacate for a while, so we headed to the bar. Sean and Katherine went at with increasing intensity.
Down the street at the bar, the talking head from CNN was telling us that the people were safe and the world was somehow better, but I knew nothing had changed because the fingers were the thing that held it all together and they kept at it every night. I thought of the presidents and tyrants of the world celebrating, just like they did when the war started... The man behind the counter wanted to know what I wanted and the girl in the booth behind us wanted to know why I hadn't noticed her yet-everything was spiraling out of control.
War in Kosovo. War in our streets. War in our houses. War in our heads. Nothing will ever come of it-save death. And the Mexican urchin selling Chiclets for the dead says no good, no bueno, your pictures sanitized, worth no words. Wouldn't give you ten words, worthless gringo words don't mean shit. No good no bueno, not worth the blood they're written in. The blood of all peoples not yours, not your peoples in your death camps, your slave labor factories, your assembly line gang rapes....
Gotta keep that in house, screams the commander in chief. Yes must remain forever sealed in baby pissshitguts. No, that's not true. No comment. No need for comment, I will not dignify... somebody cut to shots of smart bombs... Couldn't get fifty words for those now gringo-over exposure-sanitized-nobody buying. Same old stinking shit. No Good. No Bueno. Gringo go home in a thousand languages, in a million words. Why don't you crawl back in your cave get your tail so far between your legs it goes half way up your ass? Words can not hurt me...
But have you heard the words? Watch out for the bloody words, sharp words that hang in the air like knives and when uttered returned to slit the throat of their speaker. If every word you have spoken returned to act upon yourself would you survive the experience? Situation getting sticky, humid like vaporous blood hanging in the air... The urchin stands in the middle of the street preaching...In the beginning was the word and the word was made flesh by a cacophonous blast out of heaven's pearly cum-stained ass creating the father, the son, and the holy spigot ... spigot drains all gringo excrement away from gringos and into our countries, our cities, our homes... Follow me to the holy spigot and we'll show them the bidet of death, constructed for gringos, to flush out gringos, to show them all what you do behind closed doors. Can't close them all -we have our technicians as well and they're getting to be better than yours. We got the money rolling in.
The little street urchin with the chiclets was at the bar now, he couldn't be shut up, hawking wares for death, little powders, potions, and peppers hanging from his arms, but the CNNhead said all was well, justice was served. The television was close circuit captioned for the hearing impaired. The little boy was adamant -no captions only pictures for the blind. The rustling of paper behind boardroom walls sends him into fits.... I gotta picture for you... I go on vacation in your country, go to hear senators speak, but all doors are closed, all sealed. So I gotta fiber optic and fed it in from the roof, show all the senator's mad with sexual lust, blood thirsty, clamoring for war and stealing souls and bodies and driving them off wherever they see fit. There are thousands of them now, a chorus of little brown boys singing, chanting like Benetine Monks.... The boys are chanting to the beat of drums... I got pictures for you gringo... pictures you hear? The commander in chief of the NATO forces in Europe was fucking a small refugee boy in the ass, the boy cried for his mother. The general laughed, 'your mother's down the hall boy. She's busy with the president of Germany right now, but maybe later you'd like to lick his cum off her dead face...?' And you say ban those words. Tear them right out. Snip snip. Can't say that-war a snuff film for the rich. Ya wanna spoil all their fun...?
A tape rolls and we hear behind the boardroom doors: "We gotta step up the bombing chief, the public's losing innarest in us," screams the staff officer running in circles jerking off and slapping his ass until it turns a bright purple. And with all seriousness, General Jesse Helms pauses to reflect: "I remember a time when life was good. No one got in our way. Why in Europe, under Patton, I musta raped twenty thirty little boys and a handful of nuns too..." He smiles, lost in memory... "But God hath given us these trying times." "Yes it is a bit hard to get cunt these days isn't it," mumbles the chief of state as he strokes his wife's cock...." Yes dear start a war. Get me some cute refugee boys. I so love snapping their necks when I'm coming," she growls affectionately. "That's it gentlemen were going to war," the president stands and ejaculates on a map of the world, "Kosovo it is," he says as his thick oatmeal consistency sperm all but covers the former republic of Yugoslavia.
You like? You like, no? Too bad. You can't have those words, too strong. I get power, you give me power, I steal power from you, too expensive to buy it. I get power and you get pictures and maybe I tell you how to cure it? Eh? Eh? Eh?
The man behind the counter turned off the TV and we left. By the time we got back to the house the coffee table was on its side, the lamp was broken, glass all over the floor, an enormous dent in the plaster wall, but the television remained undisturbed. We sat down on the couch and I flipped idly through the channels. Sean and Katherine's screaming voice float through the bedroom walls. Words were disembodied and floated in the air looking for a throat to slit. I heard Katherine screaming...
-What do you want from me? I try so fucking hard to love you. You say you don't want me, and then you want me back, and then you tell me to go again.... WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT?
-I want you... I want... I don't fucking know what I want. Why are you always harping on what I want? Why can't we just live and exist and be... like Sil and Dean and every other fucking person on this planet...why can't we just be happy? Why do we have to have these issues...why do we have to have these things to work on? What are these things? What the fuck is going on around here? When did this start?
-What do you mean? What are you talk...
-WHAT DO YOU MEAN 'WHAT DO I MEAN?' You know what I mean, this! All of this... look at us...
-Why are you bringing Dean and Sil into this? Why do you have to live up to some manly ideal that you think they embody? I got news for you, they don't embody shit! The two of them would be living in a goddamn dumpster if we hadn't let them move in...
-Why does this have to be about my friends? Why is it a problem? I asked you if it was alright for them to move in here and now you say it's not?"
-It has nothing to do with them.... It's you I'm talking about. You say we used to be happy, we used to not be like this, we used to 'just live' as you put it.
Police said the suspect was dressed in a business suit and may be armed/ Do you have time to cook a meal every night in the midst of balancing/ So this guy comes up to me/ guaranteed to last a lifetime/
-Katherine, what the fuck are you talking about?
-This indecision... this fucking shit...
-My indecision? My fucking indecision? And who, pray tell, FUCKED SOMEBODY ELSE? Who is indecisive? It's not me. I know exactly what I want. I want to be with you, but you won't let me just be. You question my every fucking move, want to know my every thought, every feeling. Don't you ever not have a feeling? Isn't it ever just a blank page of white with little blue lines? Little fucking blue lines and not a word? Not a fucking thought in sight? Do you ever get that? Or is it just constant fucking emotional input from the far fucking reaches of the earth all pouring in your precious little heart? Your heart that occasionally seems to feel the need for some other guy's DICK?!
-Yes, Sean, I made a FUCKING MISTAKE, and I said I'm sorry. I'm as clueless as you are.... You know sometimes, in the midst of this insanity, I think that I see and feel you loving me, but you won't let me in...
-What are you talking about?
-You won't let yourself be happy and love me. I can't figure out if it's because you're scared or because you just don't have a fucking clue. Do you even care about me? Or am I just some sort of ornament that you have been pursuing over the last four fucking years because it happened to interest you and now...
-Fuck you.
-Fuck me? No FUCK YOU! I don't know if I was some whim, something you wanted to try on in the dressing room and then when you thought it was out of style, you could just hang it back up on the rack... I'm sorry, I want to be with someone who isn't fucking clueless about how they feel about me. You can't decide if you want me or not. You said fifteen minutes ago that you forget about sex sometimes. How is that supposed to make me feel?
-I just meant that I have such a good time talking to you, that... oh what the fuck, what the fuck do you know about love?
-Jesus Christ! Okay, I don't know anything about anything and neither do you, but that doesn't mean anything, right? If nothing you say means anything, how am I supposed to feel when you say you love me? IT DOESN'T MEAN ANYTHING!
-No that's not what I said. Everything means something, it may not make any difference, but goddamn it all means something. Who you fuck, who you eat dinner with, what time you get up, what kind of fucking bombs they drop on everyone, the jails, the murders, it all fucking means something. All of this, everything that is happening, it all means something. Maybe none of it matters, but it all means something goddamn it! I just don't know what it is. I just need some time to figure out what the hell I am, what I am doing, what this life is, we're all trying to figure it out. I don't fucking know what I want, okay? I can't give you some pat little answer that's going to explain exactly how I feel. Some days I want to be with you and some days you drive me up the fucking walls....
Researchers have concluded that including a glass of wine with your regular meal may actually increase your life span/But Jim, we can't just leave them here/We're tiny we're toony we're all a little loony/the initial results indicate HIV/We will be appealing your case/Mr. president a girl from Arkansas is on line two/Did you or did you not ?/The White House denies/Tide gets your colors looking brighter/Guaranteed to last a life time/I'd like to buy a vowel/What is-the Serengeti?
-Oh great! Fucking great, now I drive you up the walls!
-Why the fuck do you focus in on the negative? See, that's what I'm talking about. I say that some days I want to be with you and some days I don't and why do we have to get into the days I don't? Because little fucking alarms go off in your brain... ehew I drive him up the fucking walls? This must be explained. There is a reason for this. This is what needs to be fixed.... Has it ever occurred to you that I must just want to be alone some days? Has it ever occurred to you that I can love you without liking you every now and then?
-You're such an asshole Sean.
-Fuck you! I said I love you. You dumb fucking slut....
-You don't know what love is! You're a little child...
-You're a cold bitch! Don't you have any feeling in that dried hard little cuntheart of yours!?
-Do not call me a cunt!
-I didn't call you a cunt! I said you have a fucking hard little fucking CUNT HEART!
-Fuck you! You wouldn't know what to do with a cunt anyway!
There was the sound of skin striking skin-a sickly slapping, stinging, slicing, horribly thin sound. The unmistakable sound of hatred and self-doubt bring itself into the world like an airborne virus.
-I'm sorry... I didn't mean to hit you...
-Then how the fuck did you HIT ME? How can you not mean to hit someone? There is no such thing as ACCIDENTALLY hitting someone, that doesn't happen nooneaccidentallyhits anyone youmeanttohitmeyou FUCKING PRICK!
There was the sound of crashing porcelain and electricity popping and the light streaming under the door disappeared.
-Oh that's FUCKING great! You stupid bitch!
There was a dull thud followed by a low moan and Dean and I looked at each other. By the time we turned on the hall light and opened the door they were wrestling on the floor. Katherine jumped up to run for the bathroom knocking down Dean and forcing me to jump on the bed to get out of her way. Sean went out after her. Before we could stop him, Sean grabbed Katherine's arm, dragged her kicking and screaming across the floor and threw her out the front door. She was wearing only a thin nightgown. It was February and raining and they were in hysterics. Tears streamed down Sean's face. He managed a thin, strained smile as he collapsed against the front door. Dean and I just stood there unsure what to do.
"She really fucked some guy this time," he muttered. I tried not to move or show any signs that might have given it away, obviously Katherine had left out a few details.
"The BITCH FUCKED SOME OTHER GUY," He yelled at the door but there was no answer. "You hear me you dumb bitch? I hope you fucking freeze to death." His voice trailed off into mumbles. "I hope his cock keeps you warm out there!" He screamed, pounding his fist against the door. A male voice from somewhere outside yelled "shut up," and Sean cracked the door and yelled, "fuck off," at the unknown man. "Jesus Christ," he muttered to himself.
He smiled stupidly at us and Dean went over and helped him to his feet. "Fuck man, what am I doing?" He straightened his shirt with one hand and used the other to steady himself against the wall. He came over and sat down on the couch. "What did you do?" he asked looking at me. "Did you do this? I mean with your wife, you loved her, and she left you, and now look at you, you're fine, what did you do?" He asked. His face held an expression of absolute wonder. "How did you fill this hole that I feel growing in me? Do you just harden yourself? She thinks I'm already hardened because I pushed her out the door, but that wasn't the hard part of me that was the raw nerve endings.... That was me trying to find love or fight love or something." He stared up at the ceiling and I followed his gaze, the fan was spinning slowly, indifferently, like a tape recorder rewinding. "That was my love for her that pushed her out the door." He said.
"Uh, no it wasn't," Dean interjected.
"Oh, but it was," Sean smiled depravedly. Dean just shook his head. "The cold, hard,
part of me," Sean went on, "is the part that will go over there in a couple of hours and talk to her. The hard part of me is the part that will make love to her later." He stopped and scratched his head "You know, the horrible thing about losing love isn't that it makes you hard, it's that you realize or you start to realize that love can be lost...." He wore the serene face of a philosopher dispensing wisdom.
"That's what is tearing me up right now. There is no sacredness to love like they want you to believe, and once you realize that love can be lost, once you know that this can happen, it's doomed to happen again. I will never again be able to look at someone and see a relationship that doesn't end. I know now that for every beginning there is an ending already written." He shook his head in disgust and then started sobbing in despair again. "Oh god," he cried, "how the fuck do you get out of this? How do you find hope again? And even if you do, what do you do when it's dashed yet again?"
He got up and went to the door; he opened it and looked outside. Then he shut it again and started laughing; it was distorted sickly laugh. He no longer looked human; he was a caricature of human. He laughed like the power drunk maniac. "How many times can you do this? Is there a limitation to the number of times you can have your heart broken?" The serene face of the philosopher returned and he retreated into the abstract world where he felt comfortable. "Is it like one of those Lithium batteries that never recharges all the way? It starts looping back until there is nothing and then right when you think you have it, oh I underst...WHAM! And then it's gone, you're gone, the thing is gone." He smiled a thin, taunt, smile. "She really hates me now doesn't she?" He looked up at Dean and I. Neither of us spoke. Dean shrugged, but I was rooted to the spot with horror. Horror at the thought that this caricature exists in all of us, that none of us would stand up to the death camp marches of our personal lives. I felt weak and woozy.
"And the horrible thing." He went on, "is that somewhere deep down I wanted her to fuck that guy, whoever he is. It doesn't matter. God I want a whole gang of giant-cocked porn stars to gang fuck her through eternity if that's what it takes for me to feel something. I'm not feeling anything anymore; the only time I feel anything is when I hurt her. Then I feel hate. I feel her hating me, but when she's not hating me I don't feel anything. I don't feel loved."
He was on the floor weeping with his hands over his face. I tried to move him, but he punched wildly, lashing out at nothing, landing a solid blow on my jaw. Out of anger, I kicked him in the ribs, but he made no protest. I grabbed him by the hair, slammed his head into the door and threw him to the side. I went outside and slammed the door. My head felt light. I became very dizzy and I leaned over the planter and threw up in it. It was still pouring rain. I slumped down in the vomit and mud and lay there for an eternity sobbing quietly for myself, for Sean, for Katherine, for the whole world. I began to shiver so I stood up. I stepped out from under the stoop and lifted my head up, letting the water wash the vomit and mud from my face. I began shaking uncontrollably and then as the shaking subsided, an eerie sense of calm descended upon me.
I set off to look for Katherine. She didn't go far. She was next door sitting on the neighbor's couch; the neighbors were in bathrobes, obviously woken up by the screaming. The woman sitting next to Katherine held her, rubbed her back and rocked her gently back and forth on the sofa. Katherine looked like a scared child. She was shaking like a leaf. The man came at me with hate in his eyes, but I quickly explained my innocence. Katherine looked up and told him not to hurt me. She put her head down between her knees. "What's wrong with him Sil?" She asked. "Why is he doing this? I am good to him aren't I?" I didn't say anything and she looked up at me with glistening red eyes, pleading for some kind of answer. I just nodded my head. "I shouldn't be putting up with this," she went on. "This is bullshit, I can't keep doing this.... What the fuck is wrong with him? What's wrong with you, with all of you?" Her eyes filled with hatred and burned through me. Black tears ran down her face. "There is this thing in me that can't let go, can't admit that I'm wrong about him," she sniffled and wiped her cheeks. "And all of you, you're so damn sure that your little feelings and your little emotions have to be so goddamn right. You think that you can just pull them down like shades over the whole fucking world." She was yelling now, glaring up at me with wild eyes. "Every emotion, every thought, every fucking little thing can be broken down and analyzed and dismissed with some cynical diatribe that you think is so witty and fucking funny... goddamn all of you!" She jumped off the couch and lunged towards me. Her arms hit me square in the chest and knocked me down. She landed on top of me and taking the wind out of me. I heaved for breath and tried to get out from under her, but she went limp and I didn't have the breath to move her. She lay on top of me and great sobs wracked her body. Her tears burned on my neck. Her sobbing frame trembled and shook. After a few seconds I caught my breath and I put my arms around her. She nestled her head into my neck.
Her voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, "I'm sorry I didn't mean to hurt you." She raised her head and looked in my eyes. I put my hand on her head and stroked her hair. "He makes me sick," she said. "I make me sick for letting myself be involved with him. I can do better than this, if this is love... this... this... fucking..." She climbed up off me and sat back on her ankles. "This is not love... I don't know what I'm doing. Do I have to be the strong one here? Do I have to be the one to walk away when I'm the one being hurt? Why is it always me?" She wiped her eyes again. I thought about my wife and I realized Catherine was right, women are always the ones who have to cross the final threshold. Sean didn't want her, but he kept pulling her back. His ego couldn't let go. He went right back in like a rat pulling the lever in the control studies that Philip Morris wakes up sweating to in the middle of the night.
I pulled Catherine to her feet and put my arms around her. We held each other for what seemed like a long time. I heard someone clear their throat and, realizing that two other people were in the room, I apologizing profusely and thanked them while I guided Catherine out the door. We sat down on the stoop of our house and stared out at the rain. We both had our legs tucked up under our chins and Katherine rocked back and forth slowly while she talked. "I had sex with Dean." Her voice was flat and even as if ordering food from a drive thru window. I told her I already knew. She nodded and a painful smile passed her lips. "And I don't know why I did," she stared at the ground. "I just wanted to feel close to someone," tears welled up in her eyes. "It doesn't mean anything, right?"
I told her it didn't and she leaned her head on my shoulder. "And I know Sean has fucked around," she went on. "I know he fucked around in Europe, but he won't admit it. That's the thing that makes me so fucking mad is he won't admit it, and why? Why? Because if he admitted that then he'd have to face up to the fact that he's as weak as I am. Now he can call me a slut and make himself out to be better. That's all I am to him, this thing against which he can measure himself, this thing..." She stopped for a moment. The rain pelted against the concrete driveway, chipping away on a geologic time scale. The sound roared in protest.
"Do you know what this is doing to me? I'm losing my mind..." She looked me in the eyes. "I'm not going to go nuts over him. I knew I should have run away right after we made love for the first time... I should have just run, because now I'm here and he's throwing me out the door in my fucking nightgown..." I put my arms around her and she started to cry again. Her tears were warm on my arm. She thanked me for listening to her. I told her to wait for minute while I went inside to make sure Sean was under control.
He and Dean were smoking a cigarette on the couch. Dean's sister was in the chair dispensing wisdom that sounded like it would have solved all of Sean's problems, but Sean, being a man can't hear a word that she's saying, just like women can't hear a word that men are saying. The whole so-called battle of the sexes could be stopped if only there were an interpreter around that could translate. Solve the riddle. Translate the emotion and feeling into logic and predictable precision, and then back out into the chaotic no-mans-land of feeling again. Some guru, some pygmy, some monk, some alien that can add it all up and give us some kind of answer. But the aliens aren't coming.
Sean glared at me and said, "Get the fuck out of my house." I shrugged and asked Dean and his sister if they were coming. The three of us left. We gave Katherine a ride to her friend's house where she could stay for the night. She and Dean stood beside his car in the pouring rain and kissed lightly like friends; he wiped a tear from her eye and got back in the car. The three of us rented a room for the week at local motel. Dean's sister fell asleep the minute she laid down. Dean and I went and got coffee to steel us against the insanity. I remember leaning against Dean's car gulping lukewarm coffee, the rain had stopped abruptly and dry winds were already whipping the clouds away. It was a Santa Ana wind. Dean threw his cup into the vacant lot and it blew in little circles, round and round in eddies of wind-miniature tornadoes.
At the end of the week we left Los Angeles for Athens. We stopped the second night in Arkansas where I had a very strange dream, I dreamed in third person, I was being forced to watch. I dreamed that I saw an aborted fetus hanging out of Katherine. It was covered in shiny afterbirth with the umbilical cord still attached; the cord was just dangling out of her. I saw Sean with scissors, trying to cut it while Katherine screamed tried to stop him. A doctor took the fetus and threw it in the incinerator; the furnace flared and was silent as a slaughterhouse. Then they were in a windowless room. Katherine lay naked on a table, spread eagle as Sean circled her holding a blunt, tubular object. It was black and plugged into the wall. Words passed like water though a screen. Sean stood next to her with the cattle prod, walking slowly in circles around Katherine. A symphony started up. Marching bands... fingers tapping... tapping... violins... rhythm of kettledrums... and his arm raised up. He was floating, watching, choking on gasoline-napalm sores that seared off his tongue. Flames licked up his body. The air was hot and thick like the worst humidity, his scorching flesh sizzled. A little red light came on to signal that the cattle prod was fully charged. In front of him was Katherine, beautiful, serene. Her arms were restrained above her head. His face twisted into a sick smile. The symphony reached a feverish pitch with the clash of horns and strings and drums and Sean looked into Katherine's eyes and watched her pupils dilate. And it fell; his arm fell, the cattle prod fell, her body went rigid and she shot up off the table as if suddenly turned into a stiff board. He kept his eyes locked on her as she collapsed back onto the table. I saw something flash through them and I felt a tremor in my gut. Then big uncontrollable sobs wracked Sean's entire body and he fell on his knees and curled up in little ball on the floor. He lay like that for a while, until the sobs worked themselves out. A lone lunatic flute solo floated over the scene. Katherine got up and began to undress him. She started by unbuttoning his shirt. When she undid his belt she reached down and rather gently held his rigid cock as she eased his pants down over it. She stood embracing him tightly with her arms around his neck, and she pulled herself up and then slid down on his cock. Sean fucked her but she couldn't feel it. Her cunt was a burnt, charred hole. She couldn't feel anything and then the strings returned and the crescendo built again.... She laid him on the table and spread his legs, restraining them and then his arms. She stroked his cock hard and teased him by biting his nipples. All at once her eyes went black and she thrust the cattle prod into his balls... Sean was blown up off the table by ten thousand volts of electricity. He didn't even feel his cum splash on his face. He landed back on the table, his scream a violin, an inhuman screeching wail.
* * * *
I go into the kitchen to make myself some coffee. Dean is gone. The house feels empty. There is a rainbow in the kitchen. I notice disinterestedly that the house is a mess, that my knees hurt and that I am in unquestionable poor physical condition. In the shower I marvel that I once thought that that was the bottom, but that was someone else's bottom, that was Katherine's bottom. I dry off and walk back into the kitchen. I dig around for food. Got to get behind the mule every morning and plow...
Twelve
The atlanta airport is warm...
Thirteen
There's a cure in sight-soul unease-suspension wires-wink and smile-windblown newspapers-advert scrapes-sardines in a kipper snack tin-abandoned train station-wind rips dirt off the road-sagebrush where it belongs-the songs of Solomon-tumbling along the melody lines-voice echoing-everyone walks with unshakable self-confidence-pretend to be unafraid-This isn't you-This isn't me-what do you talk about when you talk about love-
I regret leaving the minute I get out of the Holland tunnel. But I knew I would. I regret coming. But I knew I would. I regret that I regret. But I know that I will.
I stop for gas on the Jersey turnpike and almost turn around. I can't decide what would make me a bigger fool, trying to correct the mistake or trying to live with it-or drinking heavily and ignoring the question altogether?
I drive the interstate straight through to Athens. I get to the cottage in the early hours of morning. I go to bed and don't get out of it for a week.
I try to maintain things with Maya; I call her all the time. I smoke cigarettes and stare at the ceiling for days on end. I cry. I punch the concrete wall. I agonize over the poetry of it all. I am the apologist. I write a long letter to April explaining how bad I feel about stealing her money, but half way through I notice that its more about how much I enjoy having her money. I throw the letter in the trash.
I am positive impotent.
After a few weeks, Maya stops returning my calls.
Maya is gone.
The Mayan priest and his demonic escorts hold court daily in my bedroom. He has taught me how to master pain. He tells me that mastering pain puts you next to the gods. The snarling creature is always outside the door. I am scared to leave the house. I go out for food and nothing else. Waves of nausea overwhelm me whenever I think of Maya. The priest says this will pass. He tells me that everything will pass. But I knew that it would.
It's the middle of the afternoon and I haven't gotten out of bed. Torturous visions of Maya making love to other people are crackling through my head like static on an AM radio. Jimmy knocks at the door and I reluctantly let him in. I haven't seen anyone since I got back. I have been hiding out. I tell him the whole story and make him swear to never repeat it. He's losing his job, and overall seems to be about as depressed as I am. He insists that we go out and get a drink. I reluctantly accompany him to Five and Ten. After a couple shots of whisky and a few beers, the priest is nothing but an incoherent mumble and the repulsive visions of Maya taper off.
I drink more. I don't stop. Eventually Jimmy heads home and I walk downtown. I end up passing out in the alley behind the Flicker Bar. Morning finds me covered in garbage and smelling like a dead fish. I catch the bus home to take a shower. The boy is selling chiclets in the living room; the priest is siting on the couch. Giant eels circle around his feet. The priest has constructed a giant labyrinth around the couch, extending out past the coffee table. Ten foot long serpentine beasts circle through the labyrinth, gnashing their teeth and hissing at my feet. I quit the house for Five and Ten. Several nights in a row I wake up in the midst of plastic garbage bags. I regret the intense happiness I feel. Alternately I feel like a sponge wrung dry, discarded like yesterdays newspapers. I love the pain.
Weeks turn to a month. Just like they always do. I feel nothing. But. Yes. One day the eels get loose and in an effort to destroy them I burn everything I own in the fire ring. The billowing black smoke draws Jimmy over. He stops short in the driveway and stands back, watching me mutter and curse as I drag everything out of the house and into the fire. I burn my books, my furniture, my heirlooms, my artwork, and most of my clothes. Jimmy helps me get the mattress in the fire and then he heads off to buy me some alcohol. We sit around the rest of the afternoon drinking and smashing the bottles against the living room wall. Then we start in on the plates, then the glasses, then light bulbs, then clay pots. We wrap towels around our hands and punch out the windows. There is pile of glass several inches deep and several feet wide, extending out from the wall. Dean would have loved it.
At the end of the night, just before he leaves, Jimmy mentions that he is concerned about my mental health. I assure him that I share his concern. He offers me the use of a cabin that his family owns. He says it's situated on a hill overlooking the surrounding area, he says you can see downtown glowing at night.
I vacate the cottage the next morning. Jimmy gives me a map and a key. I am going deeper into retreat. I stop at the liquor store and stock up. I buy fifteen bottles of scotch, a case of canned beans, five dozen eggs, six pounds of bacon, and ten cartoons of cigarettes. I ask for polar bear fat, but the pimple-faced clerk says they don't have any.
The cabin is quiet and peaceful; there is no stereo, no phone, no mail, no running water. It's a single room with a sliding glass door in the back. There is a kerosene stove, an icebox, and a pump handled sink against one wall. To the side there is a dilapidated old couch and a tiny forty-watt lamp. Jimmy brings out a table and few chairs. Everything is coated with in a layer of dust and smells of mildew. In the cupboard above the sink I find a jar of moldy, fermented fruit and a key to the outhouse down the road. I sit around drinking, smoking and wallowing in self-effacing pity. I have a nervous tick in my leg that makes it bounce incessantly, but the priest and his host of fiendish consorts can no longer find me. I am not a pretty sight, but at least no one is watching. The cabin is on an outcropping overlooking the hills. The leaves still cling to the trees, the hills are a riot of color. Everything is hanging on to some slender thread of life, shuddering at thought of deep winter chill. Everything except for one charred, lightening struck, tree about two hundred yards down the hill. Its craggy blackened remains disrupt the otherwise pastoral scene. The tree is my best friend. Everyday I sit on the back porch, drinking scotch and staring out vacantly at the tree. Trying to make it mean something. A burnt charred tree. Lightening, careless matches, smokey the bear ads... But. It looks like lightening. As hot as the core of the sun. I can do this forever.
Jimmy and Ulric come out to visit me and bring provisions. I give them wrinkled twenties stained with manicured fingerprints and Lubriderm.
Today Ulric tells me that his girlfriend has left him. He is broken up over it, but he says he is too busy to deal with it.
I'm happy for him.
"Ya I can't really say I miss her. I have more time, I don't have to call anyone when I show turns into a late night party or something you know."
"Oh I know." I pass him the bottle and we drink in silence. We drink like prospectors, like miners, like forty-niners. We drink like breaded men. We drink the way whisky was meant to be drunk. We are so ridiculously male.
"Next time you come will you bring me some dip? Or chewing tobacco? Or something really manly-Drum?
Is that all you want for Christmas?"
"Shit Christmas?"
"day after tomorrow"
"Jimmy, damnit. Why haven't you mentioned this?"
Jimmy shrugs. "You're not religious."
"You're right. Well then yes bring me some dip, some snuff, some chaw, some Drum and another case of whiskey and I'll give you double what its worth and we'll consider that a holiday exchange."
"Sounds good." Ulric laughs.
"We thought maybe we'd come out for new years..." Jimmy looks at me as if waiting for me to okay this idea.
"Its your house man. I'm just stealing it."
They make plans. I hear Chloe's name mentioned. But I keep thinking about a book I read years ago, Things Fall Apart, by somebody or other. In it thing fall apart. But I had expected that when I bought it.
A new year is dawning. We barbecue chicken and talk about old times. I enjoy the nostalgic sense of everything ending; it's a step up over sardonic heartache and confusion. Over dinner, Ulric tells us he is moving to Florida to do some recording. His band is under contract to produce their second album by the end of next summer. Jimmy is moving to Boston to go to law school, and out of nowhere, Chloe announces she's going to Europe in March. I tell them all about Dean and Paris. I tell Chloe to look him up. It is the end of the gang. I am to be the sole straggler.
It is quite a feast they bring out, chicken, greens, and corn on the cob, a real southern meal. In the center of the table is an enormous pile of well-gnawed bones with little chunks of cartilage and caked nuggets of barbecue sauce clinging to ends. Jimmy and Chloe are polishing off the last two pieces of chicken. Ulric is gnawing feverishly at a nearly naked corncob. I'm sucking on the ice from my empty glass. You wouldn't have even known it was New Year's, except for the box of illegal fireworks that Ulric brought back from a trip to South Carolina. Jimmy leans back in his chair and works his gums over with a toothpick. Chloe takes some plates and walks back inside the house. I watch her dress swirl about her knees until she disappears through the sliding glass door.
They all want to cheer me up and they all have their own little patented methods for it. Ulric favors humor, Jimmy the big picture, and Chloe just tries to listen. "Well, I know it does no good to say it," Jimmy shrugs, "but I have to anyway... there's plenty more of them out there." Jimmy has said very little else since I returned. He seems to believe that I need a little mantra to occupy my mind.
Ulric leans over and lightly smacks him in the back of the head. "Oh brilliant man, that really helps...." Ulric takes a big gulp of his drink and set his glass down hard with a clattering noise. "Oh Jesus I'm sorry, I forgot about the glass table," he smiles sheepishly. "I think the alcohol is a little ahead of the food right now."
It's a beautiful Georgia evening, unseasonably warm, probably in the fifties. We all have on light jackets, but no one's cold. We're on the back deck, overlooking the descending hills which, after three or four miles, surrender to the urban sprawl of Athens. With the binoculars Jimmy brought out you can see the two tall buildings of Athens poking out of the treetops.
Jimmy is clearing the scattered remnants of chicken off the table; Ulric and I smoke. Ulric stands up and goes over to the box of fireworks. He rummages around, talking to me in the process. "You can come down to Florida with me when I move, stay a while if you like. I got some friends I could introduce you to... maybe set something up for you. I could get you work that's for sure. Keep you busy." He smiles at me and pulls out an enormous three-foot long skyrocket.
I shrug and say maybe. Chloe comes back outside and sits down next to me. She puts her hand on my knee. It feels heavy and foreign, but I stop bouncing my leg.
Ulric tosses the rocket back in the box, picks up some sparklers and sits back down at the table. He lights one of sparklers and twirls it around making phosphorescent figure 8's in the air. His expression is serene. Chloe goes inside to help Jimmy. Shortly after, Jimmy comes outside again and sits down. There is a smear of lipstick on his cheek and Ulric throws a napkin at his face. Jimmy blushes and wipes it off. The sparkler fizzles out and Ulric sets the burnt stick on the table. He coughs and mutters something to himself. He fumbles in his pocket for another smoke.
Chloe brings out a fresh round of drinks. "I baked a pie," she says, "it'll be warm in a few minutes." She pulls her chair over and sits down between Jimmy and I.
"What I'd really like to know...." Ulric leans back in his chair and takes a long drag off his cigarette before continuing. "What I'd really like to know," he begins again, "is what happens to all this, well, call it 'love,' that I still have trapped in my heart? I can't express it, can't get it out, but eventually it goes away... where does it go?"
"Wilhelm Reich said it builds up tension and eventually leads to cancer." I chuckle and reach over the table and lift a cigarette out of Ulric's pack.
"That's great Sil, that's exactly what I wanted to hear." Ulric coughs as he exhales
"Well if it makes you feel any better Ulric, none of his colleagues believed him." I say. "He died disgraced and in seclusion." I light my cigarette and then a sparkler.
"Of cancer?" Ulric smiles at me.
"I don't know."
"But you know what I mean, I mean, after a little while its not the person you cry for feel bad about, it's the fact that you don't really care about the person that bothers you- right? I mean getting over someone is easy, getting over the fact that you got over them is the hard part"
No one says anything. Chloe straightens her dress over her crossed legs. I hand her the sparkler. She waves it about like a paintbrush, filling the air with glittering designs. Jimmy narrows his brows and eyes us all like a scolding mother. He sets the binoculars on the table and I snag them. I watch Ulric's mouth through the binoculars as he smokes, his lips are chapped and they crack revealing enormous fissures when he smiles. "What the hell are you looking at Sil?"
"Nothing. You need some chapstick." I was thinking about something Maya had said on the phone one night. I'll always love you, you always be in my life. I want to be the one you call when your old and you pull the winning hand in bridge....
"You okay Sil?" Chloe has an anxious look on her face.
I nod, take a deep breath and try to laugh. I put the binoculars back up to my face to hide the excess of fluid that suddenly appears in my eyes. Downtown I can see the leafy tops of the birches and elms. I imagine the clamoring of already drunk crowds moving from bar to bar shouting happy new year, but there is nothing, just trees listing in the gentle wind.
"This is stupid," Ulric says.
"Let's talk about something else," Chloe sits up and crosses her legs the other way in her chair. The sparkler burns down in her idle hand. Her attention has shifted to the other hand, which is lightly stroking Jimmy's head.
Ulric slouches back in his chair and crosses his arms over his stomach. "I mean how do you do that? Just shut yourself down, stop on an emotional dime? Christ I still love girls I dated for two weeks in high school... but I don't care about them" He looks at me.
"I still love women I saw on the street and never even spoke to." I am thinking of one I had seen at the bar last month or has it been longer?
"Oh god, that's the purest kind of love there is," Ulric sits up excited. "That look... you're walking down the street in a crowd of people, not paying any attention to them. Then suddenly you meet eyes with some girl just by chance, pure accident, but you both know there is some connection in the eyes." He stares off at the hillside as he speaks. "A look, that's all it takes, and you recognize something in each other in that instant."
"You mean love at first sight?" Chloe asks.
"Well, I don't know about love," Ulric says.
"I think what Ulric means is intimacy at first sight." They all look at me. "You don't act on it because of fear, because intimacy and strangers don't mix." My voice sounds tired to me. "You think you recognize something in them, and they in you, but you don't want to risk finding out. You don't know if they can be trusted or not. You feel vulnerable. You give up before you even start. Or at least I do, but it's not even that conscious, you just keep walking."
"Okay, now even I'm getting depressed," Chloe says. "How about the weather? It's a beautiful day...? The government...?" We all stare at her. No one says a word. She get up to get the pie.
The sun is an orange garnish on the edge of the horizon. Down the hill the lightening struck stump catches the last reddening glow. Jimmy and Ulric are both looking out at the hillside. Neither of them speaks; I can hear the clattering of the glass pie pan against the stove inside, the noise drifts out the door and crackles sharply in the stillness of the evening. Up the hill, a Poorwill tests it's song for the approaching night. Ulric rattles the ice at the bottom of his glass and throws his head back with it. He chews it loudly with his mouth open.
"You know why I left?" I say to no in particular. "The crowning achievement of the human experience is getting to share those little moments with each other, the minute by minute miracle. That's the only thing that makes us human; otherwise we're no different than any other creature. We have time and time allows us memory and perspective, which allow us love, but I left because it's more powerful in hindsight. I get nostalgic for the present. Once I realize that I have to step back and enjoy it." I light a fresh cigarette and take a long swig of scotch. I pitch the empty bottle into the trees. I see Maya standing by the window in that abominable apartment. She is smoking a cigarette, smiling at me. I keep her there in my memory, but right now I'm nostalgic for the memory of her, not her.
Chloe brings out more drinks. They are trying to keep me away from the bottles damn them. She goes back in and brings out four slices of warm apple pie with ice cream slowly melting on top of them. I take a couple bites, but my stomach turns at the sweetness. They devour theirs in silence. I rearrange mine, pushing it around like a child does with peas. After waiting a few minutes, so as not be rude, I stand up. "I'm going for a walk. I'll be back in little while," I say.
"Are you okay?" Ulric asks.
"I'm fine. I just need a walk." I say.
I hear them discussing me in whispers as I walk down the lawn and out the gate-nostalgic fools. There is a faint trail from the gate leading down the hill. It's rough going outside the yard; the hillside is choked with dogwood trees and other spindly, naked shrubs. It takes me ten minutes to get to the charred tree. I run my hands over the burnt wood, smearing the dusty charcoal around on my palms. I sit down leaning my back against the tree. The sun is gone now, a blue-gray twilight is settling in over the hills. The moon is to my back, but in front down, near the horizon stars are becoming visible. The spaces between the stars aren't dark. It's a void, but it's pure white light, that's where life started, in the nothingness. We live in the spaces in between.
I hear them laughing up the hill. I hear some distant pops and then one enormous bang, which jars me enough to look up and see the last twinkling sapphire remnants of the big skyrocket fading out above me. Little fragments of ash begin showering down toward me. I think of the tree, and the flashing cataclysm that tore it apart and set it on fire. I wonder what it looked like, the pure white light? Afterwards there is only empty silence and the gentle snowing of ashes. The world gives birth behind our eyes, not before them. Years ago Maya was staring up at the night sky. She propped herself up and kissed me. We made love on the roof... poetically nostalgic at the time.
The fireworks show downtown commences just as the last flakes of ash settle down around me. Showers of light burst up, temporarily outshining the stars and then gradually fading to darkness, only for another brilliant explosion to take its place. As I stand up to go back, I notice a small shoot of growth springing up from between the burnt roots. I run my fingers along the ground, circling the space around it, in between the roots. The light from the fireworks fades to blackness again. I turn up the slope, walking back toward the house. Fireworks fill the sky behind me, illuminating the path with flickering bursts of light.
I skirt around the house and go in the front door. I take a few long draws off a bottle of Wild Turkey. They are all still sitting at the table smoking and talking. They look beautiful, perfect, just the way I want to be, living in the spaces in between the temporal world. They are in the infinitude of my imagination, next to which my existence feels flat and tasteless as a junkyard tire, cracked and torn in the sun. It smacks you in the face when you perceive something in a moment that you know is not tangibly present and yet, it's there. A moment that you know will one day be a great memory, the fluid transmission of emotion across time. The hurricane of the unconscious whirls up to the surface for moment, imagination leaks into the real world, some interaction of the personal with the infinite, a stabbing at perfection transcends the ordinary moment. The world gives birth before our eyes and takes us spinning down reveries and private waterslides of imagination through the twisting spiral corkscrew of delirium. You know it in the present, nostalgia for now.
Eventually they notice me and insist that I come with them downtown. I don't really want to, but I consent because they are still here and already I miss them. At the bar it's scotch on the rocks followed by neat bourbon. Then I have a shot or two of whiskey and start in on the beers. The clink of pool balls, conversations of foreigner and gradually we are assimilated.
Later I ditch the gang and wander down toward the old house that Dean and his sister and I used to live in when we first arrived two years ago. Along the way, walking down Polaski, I cross over the railroad tracks. Out of nowhere I feel the urge to climb up on the cars. The steel ladder is cold as ice, and my fingers cramp before I get to the top. I balance on the metal grating, teetering drunkenly on the roof of the boxcar. The world is spinning and I decide it's best to sit down. The roof of the car is cold, so I slide back a little hatch and look inside. The darkness is impenetrable. I extend down a hand. I can't feel anything. I decide to climb in, slowing lowering myself down until my feet touch something about waist deep. I bend down and grab a handful of the unknown substance and pull it out in the moonlight-soybeans. I sit down in the darkness of the boxcar with the intention of having a rest before I walk on. I settle back, shifting about, making a seat for myself in the soybeans. I light a cigarette and look around the car; raw soybeans are everywhere around me. Maya suddenly feels farther away. She is living in her universe and I am here in mine. My illusions of her waiting for me are crushed beneath me as I sink into the soybeans. I stare up out of the hatch at the stars, lying flat on my back. The stars never judge one way or the other. They see no right or wrong, only what is happening. Everything else is an illusion of the human mind. The stars get to see now and forever. Everything is just as it should be. The soybeans absorb me and take me into their presence as the father greets the son. You got to get behind the mule every morning and plow. The night sky fades into dream.
Fourteen
Wake up-chew-swallow-regurgitate-newborn-you are free-to the bottom-cast yourself-sunrise on Cyprus-blind woman-something out there-one thing ignored-existence is love-smell it in the air-those who came before- preternaturally alive- moves you out of bed in the morning-carries you out the door-gives courage in moments of weakness-attacks conceited strength-quiet evening-walk under Alder trees-autumn light-scratches at the door-lost cat- forlorn hound-it's the only reason you're here-
I don't hear anything; I'm sound asleep. I don't feel anything because the soybeans are shifting anyway. What amazes me is that it's so quiet it doesn't wake me. You would think something as big as a train would be loud when it starts moving, but it's not. I passed drunk and by the time I realize I'm moving, it's a done deal. No backing down. I figure I'll ride to Atlanta and then take a bus back, but the train doesn't stop in Atlanta. In fact it doesn't stop until Memphis. I take one look around and decide I'm better off going all the way to California. Somewhere in the plains, I get a fever, delirium tremors. I shake uncontrollably and fear returns as I sit huddled in the corner of the dark boxcar. The Mayan priest comes back to preside over my death. I see marching columns of the dead bearing down on me. Shadowy, decomposing skeletons, hunks of chewed flesh clinging to the limbs, rattle bones and chatter teeth in the blackness. The priest dances in the corner shaking his death rattle and waving brightly colored feathers around the horrific skeletons. His arms swoop through the air and calls up the legions of the dead. Acrid smoke fills the boxcar and I start to choke, the smell of burning sulfur fills the air. The priest is wailing and fluttering his arms as more and more decomposed bodies fill the boxcar. The thick smell of death hit my nostril. It's a nauseating smell, my empty stomach recoils in horror and I retch involuntarily, trails of spit heave out and run down on my chin. I hear the chanting of legions, get up and run, get up and run, get up and run... The bodies are enveloped in smoke and I can no longer clearly see them, I hear a voice, a child crying. Out of the haze of acrid smoke steps a boy. Tears are running down his smudged face and he walks over to me with a box in his arms. Would you like to buy some chiclets meester? I kneel beside him and he smiles sadly at me. The boy selling chiclets sits down and says that he is sorry, that he does not want me to go. He tugs at my leg and his eyes go wide with terror. There is a horrible shrieking sound and the priest emerges out of the sulfuric fog, blade raised, his teeth chattering. I try to stop him, the boy covers his face, but it's too late. The blade rams home into the boy's throat. Gurgling sounds escape his mouth. The priest shrieks and twists the blade down, snapping the boy's sternum and splitting his chest open. The priest reaches in and rips out the boy's beating heart. He holds it out and turns toward me; his eyes are glowing embers. I shrink back in horror and stumble to my feet. The hatch lifts up and I climb up out into daylight; the priest is grabbing at my legs. I stand on top of the train, teetering in the icy rush of wind. We are pulling alongside another train. I carefully walk to the end of the boxcar and wait for a flatbed to come along side. I see the priest's feather headdress poke up out of the boxcar. He sees me and disappears below for a moment. He comes shooting up and out, landing a few feet from me. The train next to this one is much slower. I try and estimate the difference in speed, calculating when to jump. The priest charges at me, knife extended, a blood curdling scream echoes across the plains. I jump. I land on a flatbed car. A jarring pain shoots up through my legs and I pass out.
I come to with a hand shaking me.
"Hey kid wake up."
I open my eyes to a tiny bunk and take in a grisly, bearded, old man with heavy creases in his brow.
"Jesus Christ son... at least you're alive." He shakes his head from side to side and turns away from me. I sit up and hit my head on the ceiling. He turns around and chuckles. "Low ceiling there kid, you're on a train, remember?"
The pain in my head gives way to dull, throbbing ache in my leg. I look down and notice that it has been splinted. The old man is watching me. "I was a medic in the war," he offers. "I splinted it up for you, but you need to get to a hospital." He pauses and scratches his salt and pepper beard, "what the hell were you thinking?"
I shake my head.
"Well, here's the deal kid, we'll be in Denver sometime tonight and I can give you a lift down to the hospital, but until then, you'd best get some rest. There's some Delotid in this chest over here." He reaches in a toolbox and throws me a bottle of pills. "That'll cut the pain," he says.
He opens a door and I catch a glimpse of whirling lights and strange glowing computer screens. He closes the door leaving me alone in the room. I take one of the pills and lie back down on the bunk. Almost immediately a warm tingly sensation sweeps over me and everything fades slowly to black.
I come to again under the glare of white lights. I am lying on a bed; men in white coats are standing over me. A tube is sticking out of my arm. A woman is standing at the end of the bed dressed in a black gown with a veil over her face. I can see her thin lips moving. I pass out again.
This time I come to in the bunk. I sit up and look down at my leg. It's wrapped in an air brace. I slowly ease myself up on my elbows and swing my legs out, gingerly stepping down on the good one. I hobble to the door and open it. I step into a room filled with blinking lights and flashing screens, the old man is sitting on a stool staring out the window. He turns around and looks at me, "so you're up huh?" He extends his hand, "Joe."
I shake it and tell him my name.
"Sil? That's a new on me. How's the leg?"
I shrug.
"The doctors said you should take it easy for a while."
"We already went to the hospital?"
"Oh yes, last night. You don't remember? That Delotid must have done a number on you. They set your leg and then I was trying to leave and you started screaming and babbling hysterically," he laughs. "I signed you in, so they let me sign you out. I figured you needed a quiet place to come to your senses so I brought you back here."
He pours me a cup of coffee out of an old thermos and I hobble over to the window. Outside is a blurry rush of trees and rocks. There are patches of dirty, old, brown snow tucked back in steep ravines.
"Rocky Mountains," Joe says.
I nod. After a while I finish the coffee and ask Joe if I can go outside.
"Not the brightest idea in your condition, but ya sure." He slides open the side door and I step out onto a narrow metal grating. I steady myself against the cold steel of the engine compartment and, using the handrail as a crutch, I hobble back to the rear. After making my way around two more engines I come to the flatbed car that I landed on. I gingerly step over the coupling, trying not to look down at the dizzying blur of train tracks. I stretch out on my back and stare up at the sky. I dig through my pockets and find a half a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of unknown painkillers. I swallow one dry and chase it with a cigarette.
The train is not moving very fast, maybe twenty or thirty miles an hour. Towering snow covered peaks lean in on all sides. The air smells of pine forests, occasionally I catch a whiff of industrial scents from the engines, oil, fuel, and exhaust. I take a nap basking in the sun. I wake up under a canopy of Douglas furs and ponderosa pines. The air smells of needles and sap, there is a pinecone lying next to me.
I walk back up the engine and talk to Joe for a while. Joe is a rustic, agrarian man. He looks about sixty, he may be younger, but the years have taken their toll. He has piercing blue eyes. His skin is rough, like rawhide, tanned from a life spent outdoors. He keeps talking about the war, by which I think he means the Second World War. He has a wife in Utah somewhere and two daughters, both married, living back east. We spend the better part of the afternoon trading stories. His words come out in growling whispers, just loud enough to hear over the noise of the wheels and the engine, but without yelling or even appearing to raise his voice. He talks with the rhythm of the train, we go around a bend and Joe goes in on the beach at Normandy. We start up an incline and Joe moves out west after the war. We roll through a tunnel, Joe falls silent mid sentence, and when we emerge back into the blinding midday sun he starts up again without missing a beat. I guess, for Joe, when you're underground, it is best not to talk.
I begin to see a pattern emerge out of his stories. Joe is the kind of man that inhabits the backwater towns of this country, ornery you might say, but he is not ornery. He is simply inhuman, like me, which is to say that humanity has no hold on Joe. False modesty, false politeness, and false pretense have been shed like dry useless skin. Joe hails from somewhere older, livelier and healthier. His ancestors are the men who lived beside ponds and didn't write books, who held court with the mysteries of the universe and never say a word, who know what life has taught them and have no use for anyone else's ideas about morality, reality and humanity. I don't say much. He should have had me arrested back in Denver, or at least dumped me at the hospital, but he didn't because he felt it wasn't right. Joe doesn't seem to care at all what the rest of the world is doing; he simply lives his life and is content with that.
I step outside for a cigarette. The hood of the engine, or what would be the hood if it were a car, has a four-foot wide piece of metal grating on top of it. It makes an excellent seat and allows me to lean my head back against the window and enjoy the scenery. I light a cigarette and throw an old army surplus sleeping bag around my shoulders. It's February, I think. The air is biting cold. I let my good leg dangle off the side of the grating. We are doing about fifteen miles an hour I would guess, climbing up over the continental divide, or at least as close to the divide at these tracks get. Joe slides door open and hands me up a bowl of chili. I eat it greedily, watching the sun set in front of me.
I am thinking of Dean, wondering what his fate is... I am thinking of two years ago when we arrived in Athens, his hair was jet black, greased back, in a fashion that was at once a 1950's greaser, and not. He looked as if he were completely at ease in his own skin. We both had on suits, not expensive ones like we wanted, but ones handed down or purchased at thrift stores. I think of a photograph that I took at a bar in Los Angeles years ago. Dean was in the same pinstriped suit, carefully greased hairline framing his face, making it stand out, luminescent in the midst a black background. His eyes were laughing, but the lips barely curled, something intangibly wrong was lurking under his skin and bones. Another from the same night caught Dean unawares, as he leaned against the wall and watched the crowd. His arm was blurred, lifting the ever-present cigarette to his lips. All around him was the swirl of women's hair, the exited waving arms of men; it was all a faceless blur. In the middle there was Dean, standing still like a hummingbird.
As night falls, the wind picks up, howling through the canyons and whipping through my sleeping bag. We start to head downhill, picking up speed. I hobble back inside to warm up. Joe brews coffee and asks me if I like it. I shrug and tell him its fine. "Just wondering," he says smiling at me, "it's decaffeinated... I'm Mormon you know." He gives me a look as if this is his greatest hoodwinking surprise. I raise my eyebrows to encourage him; he looks like he needs to get it off of his chest.
"You know a lot of my friends were pretty hard on me for converting. They were downright pissed when I got hitched in the Tabernacle," he chuckles ruefully. "I tell ya, Mormons may have some strange beliefs, but on the whole, they are some of the best people I've ever met. Sure it's a little ridiculous, their bible and all, what with zebra's running around here -imagine that! Zebras! Here!- and I don't think the old Mr. Young really carried those gold tablets under his arm... and why god called himself Moroni I have no idea." He nudges me in the shoulder. "But in spite of all that ridiculousness, which really is no more ridiculous than the Catholic's eating wafers, or Jew's giving things up once or twice a year... it's all ridiculous when you think about it objectively." He stops for a bit and ponders his own words. "I'll tell you what I have noticed having a Mormon wife, and a lot of Mormon friends. They build real communities. They're good people at a level that is very basic; they know their human roots. Your average Catholic will walk by the poor bum on the street and give him a nickel or a quarter, but your average Mormon will invite the man to their home for a meal, offer them a shower, and of course, give them a little counseling on the true church of God." He nudges me again. "But when a man's belly is full and his body clean, he can listen to that sort of nonsense. I don't believe a word of it, but I took the vow because it made my wife happy and I would do anything to see that woman smile." He pulls out his wallet and extracts a faded, creased photograph. He hands it to me and I see a plump, smiling woman. Her cheeks are ruddy and she looks about fifty, maybe older, but I can tell that she was once very beautiful, and still is for that matter. I nod and smile, handing it back to him.
We talk a while longer. I try to elicit some sort of wisdom from him, but Joe is not the type to give it out. He knows what he knows, and he knows what he knows because he learned it the hard way. Words mean nothing. Joe helps me back to the rear engine, shining a flashlight along the grating while I swing between the railings. I sit up in the bunk for a while, skimming through The Book of Mormon. I notice the Mormons have ignored the Anazazi in their rewrite of history. I fall asleep with vision of Zebras running across the Utah desert.
I wake up before dawn, not having slept much, but that isn't out of the ordinary these days. It takes me a minute, after climbing out of the bunk, to find my balance and reorient myself to the sensation of movement. I stretch and yawn greedily, like an insomniac. Outside the eastern sky is pale green, not long until dawn. My precarious journey to the engine is rewarded with the smell of bacon, eggs, coffee and biscuits. Joe smiles his craggy grin, in the electric lights his teeth are yellow and stained from coffee and cigarettes. He hasn't always been a Mormon I note.
"I was just going to blow the whistle to let you know that breakfast is served." He smiles at me. He hands me a cup of coffee and I thank him, wrapping my freezing hands around the warm ceramic cup. "Sleep well?" He asks.
"Yes I did," I lie. The truth is that my life is all knotted up in my head and I have yet to untangle it, but I feel silly saying that to Joe. I realize suddenly that I think too much. I try to sip the coffee, but it is still too hot.
"Here," he hands me a plate full of greasy bacon and eggs with two biscuits perched on either side. We go out to the front of the engine and eat in silence. All around us the sky is a color show. The green begins to fade, replaced by the first crimson rays reflected on the bottoms of the wind carved clouds. I'm chewing on the last piece of bacon when the first direct rays of the sun strike me. I close my eyes and we welcome each other across the ninety-three million mile void. I open them to a squint and turn around. Behind us lie the Rocky Mountains. In front lies windswept eastern Utah, an endless sea of brown grass dancing like senoritas at the town fiesta. To our north there is the Escalante wilderness, which contains the La Salle Mountains, and the largest uninhabited area in North America. To the south and west lies Canyonlands National Park, the confluence of the Green and Colorado rivers, and somewhere, a tiny speck of a town called Moab. The end of the line for this train.
"They'll load quartz and sand mostly, bound for Memphis," Joe talks between mouthfuls of eggs. "But, whatever the case, I want to invite you to my house to have a home cooked meal with my wife and I. She's a real looker and great cook too." He laughs and nudges me in the ribs. "She was a beauty queen in high school. She was Miss Hoboken and might have been Miss America if she hadn't decided to give the whole thing up and go to college," he raises his eyebrows to accent the significance of these things. "Course I'm glad she did, because that's where I met her." He laughs.
I hem and haw, thanking him for the offer, but not agreeing to it just yet. I head back down to do the dishes. I splash cold water in my eyes in the tiny bathroom and study my face in the cracked tarnished little mirror. The scab from where I cut myself in New York is nearly gone. I lean in closer and my jaw drops. I notice that around the scab, where the old scar tissue has been torn open again, little hints of hair have started sprouting back. I stare at them in amazement. I run my fingers over them, trying to encourage their growth.
I smoke a cigarette outside while Joe calls into the Moab station. After a while he climbs up to tell me that the yard will be empty when we arrive. Today is Sunday, he informs me, and this is Mormon country, nothing happens on Sunday. Joe says that I can stay on the roof of the engine so long as he is down below. That way anyone watching will think that I am Joe. So I sit, letting the wind hit me in the face, sunning myself across Utah, land of Mormons-for now. One day I suspect the Tabernacle will fall; the religion will dwindle and disappear like every other, but for now they reign over God's last great piece of land. What a land this is here. The tracks are heading down into the canyon country. The desert sky is immense, it threatens to swallow the whole landscape. Tufts of white clouds float lazily across the blue background.
Soon we are on the mesa tops, cruising at thirty-five miles an hour, heading toward The Big Switch, as Joe calls it. The Big Switch is apparently the only non-computerized part of the journey. Joe will have to stop the train, get out and actually throw the heavy iron handle to switch us over to the track that heads down to Moab. Once he drives the train past it, he will stop again, walk back, and switch it back so that the next train can pass on by. It remains manual because most trains do not stop in Moab anymore, most of them pick up a few cars that have been hauled up or just don't even slow at all. We're going back in time, to the days when, if you wanted something happen, you had to do it yourself.
We hit the big switch around two o'clock. I talk Joe into letting me stay behind and throw it back so the next train can go by. It takes about ten minutes to move ours out of the way and then I throw the switch. It makes a piercing metallic screech and then slides back to let the next train pass. Part of me wants to leave it, to sidetrack the whole world down to Moab for a great gathering of trains, but I know it would only get Joe into trouble. I walk back up to engine. From here it is only about half an hour down into the canyon that the Green River carved long ago, where the empty loading yard waits. The desert plain is silent and peaceful. The gravel crunches under my feet. I feel like the only living thing in world. I decide that I will go out into the desert, go camping for a night. My life feels stripped clean of baggage, everything is falling away like great sheets of burnt skin, revealing shiny, pink, newborn flesh beneath the crusted surface.
It's four in the afternoon when I say goodbye to Joe and head down Moab's main drag. My life is like Utah, laid bare in the afternoon sun. Harsh and forlornly beautiful, the canyon walls lull me, spreading out my thoughts like the dotted Juniper trees, creosote bushes, and gnarled, twisted trunks of the mesquite that cover the landscape.
I go the bank and withdraw the last of my money. I eat lunch at a Mexican restaurant in an old adobe building. An ancient, wizened, Navaho woman serves me beans and handmade flour tortillas. I watch her as I eat. Two smudge-faced Indian girls, maybe four or five years old, help her stir an enormous pot of beans. The girls watched me intently, silently, with enormous liquid brown eyes that seemed irrigated with understanding. As the old woman wraps up my leftover tortillas and beans in foil, I try to absorb all the sights, sounds, and smells of her strange hobbit-like universe. The secret of life is revealed as beans and tortillas seen through the eyes of a child.
Next door is a mountaineering shop. I go in and ask around for a ride up to Canyonlands. I get one from two hippies, rock climbers. They seem out of place and foolish after the old Navaho woman. They are wearing the fashions of earth first and other environmental activists who share a fetish for Kakhi's, Tevas, Tofu, and flat tasteless foodstuffs. They mock a young couple in an SUV while we sit on the porch. The radical tree camping, pottery-making, hemp-weaving, Dave Foreman-worshipping, mushroom-eating, toms of Maine-consuming, hippie-environmental-social-consciousness-raising, guitar-playing radical of the outback is essentially the same as the BMW-driving, Starbucks-drinking, software-writing, technology-worshipping, juice-drinking, spa-loving, health club-hopping, sandals-wearing, dog-walking, family-raising, white picket fence-building, church-attending, drug-abstaining, yuppie, evil consumer, destroying the world, capitalist pig. One uses Tom's of Maine and the other Crest, but we're all still fundamentally lost.
My hippie climber friends stop at the supermarket for trail mix and candles. I opted for steak, beans, potatoes, and a bag of chemically enhanced briquettes that will light with the butt of my cigarette. It's just a matter of taste. I request paper bags and roll them down so the hippies won't abandon me for not being one of their own. I ride in the back of their VW bus, which turns the half hour drive from Moab to the east entrance of Canyonlands, into a two hour long crawl. As we switchback up the canyon walls to the top of the Mesa country, the hippies tell me their story. They're both college students on a semester long vacation. They are astonished to learn that I didn't vote, that I never have and I never will. They ask if I'm disillusioned or bitter. Strange question to ask a stranger. I tell them none of it matters one way or the other. I'm just trying to live. I light a cigarette and let them do the talking, and they do, all the way across the grasslands right on into the campground.
Finally we arrive and I escape their refrigerator drone into the peaceful silence of the campground, picking a spot at the opposite end of the loop from my sandal-shod friends. I proceed to build a fire in the light of the fading sun. The afterglow licks across the thunderheads to my back. Sizzling fat drips into the fire. It takes quite a while to cook the enormous side of beef bought. I kneel down beside the fire on the old sleeping bag that Joe gave me. I'm thinking of the woman I have never been able to see, staring at that well in Cyprus. She's there, she's always been there and now for the first time I realize who she's waiting for. I feel an effluence of enthusiasm; a taproot breaks through the dry soil and is swamped with underground water. I pull the meat off and through it on a paper plate. I sprinkle on salt and devour it with my hands. My plate is stained a greasy Moroccan-pink color. The potato swims in the greasy blood, trailing it's own gooey mixture of butter and pulverized potato flesh like a tanker ship leaking crude oil in the pristine sanctity of the ocean. Damn good food.
I finish the steak and potato. I save the beans for breakfast. I toss the plate in the fire and rinse my hands in the faucet near the entrance. Walking back I absorb the grandeur of the desert. It requires a careful tuning of the eye to detect beauty and life out here, like waking up in the gutter of a trash strew alley behind a bar in Athens, or noticing that the smog lifts slightly, almost imperceptibly, off the mountains in Mexico City everyday around seven o'clock. Life hangs on even in the toughest spots, like a juniper tree, alone, clinging to the side of the canyon wall. It's able to exist in the slightest, most overlooked, fissure, surrounded by a monolith of compressed sandstone, which yields nothing, there is only the one tree. That this tree could be able to survive is miraculous, but that I should be here, that I should be right here, in this place, at this moment, staring at this tree, is truly miraculous.
Pregnant memories swell up, miraculous moments, like when the light of the sun breaks through the sullen clouds of an afternoon thunderstorm and hits the steeple of an old church just as you come up over a crest in the road. You catch them when she stirs at night and tosses her hair so that so that it falls across your face with the delicate odor of peach blossoms and perfume mixed with the earthiness of her warm breath. You hear it when the crescendo of thundering drums climbs up out of the ninth symphony and lodges in the back of your brain, sending chills down your spine. Some interaction of the personal with the infinite, a stabbing at perfection transcends the ordinary moment. Every one of us has moments of transformation when we feel, if only for a mere second, that something larger than the present is in the sky or the music. How long must ancient man have wondered 'where do these feelings come from?' He must have ruminated over this for centuries and finally he invented language in order to describe how he felt to other domesticated monkeys. With language that great caveman Thak separated us from the entire animal kingdom. Not by virtue of communication, for any one who has ever observed even the simplest of animals, knows that they communicate. Thak gave us something entirely different, a means of creating memories. He forever severed us from time.
But memory has a price, it creates belief. Out of memory came dissention, other monkeys did not agree Thak's feelings. Time moved on and more voices from more and more places were heard and the general became divided and localized. Those that believed one explanation tended to associate with only those that agreed with them, they had their gods, and they were the only gods, the others, on the other side of the proverbial river, lacked THE TRUTH.
Today there are more gods than ever and even less comprehension of godliness. All of this dissention has not in anyway helped us to understand that initial question-where are emotions coming from? All the philosophizing rants of all the arrogant monkeys can not answer the simplest of questions: who am I? Where is this vitality teeming from? What is emotion? What the hell is really going on down here? Why?
The wonder and amazement that greeted our forebear's is lost for us. We have explained it away, dissected, mapped, catalogued, and miniaturized it. Unable to comprehend the universe we carefully construct a replication that could be understood. We ignore all the rest, saying in essence, that anything not comprehensible to the human mind does not exist. But it does. Maya knows what I am thinking before I say it. The light continues to pour through the clouds onto steeples, rocky pinnacles, and the front porch of a now vacant cottage in Athens. It is time we floated our way back up to the surface of the pond. Time to start over, to assimilate rather than dissect, to feel rather than speak, to live rather than abstract....
What good is knowing without feeling? Those moments when I am confronted with the essential mysteries of my life and yours, all of our lives, are not something that can be taken apart. I can not break it down, understand the smaller bits individually, and then hope they add up to the same thing I started with. If we stop taking things apart for a minute and just breathe in slowly, one breath at a time, it will flood the hatches and buoyantly draw us up to the surface of things. Not many people do. We have found a distraction, which eases the anxiety that unanswered questions provoked in us-ourselves. We wrote a lullaby called God and put ourselves to sleep.
Only an egocentric monkey would dream of being able to understand the orbit of the planets let alone the vastness of all existence. Only a very confused and disoriented creature would throw himself into a corner and examine every little microscopic piece of dirt without first discovering what a monkey was. Herman Hess once said that the only job of man was to find the road that led back to himself. But we, being the tragic creatures we are, doomed forever to a life lived in melodrama and confusion, seldom do such things. Seldom do we celebrate love or transcendence. At our best we celebrate the by-products-music and art. At our worst we record those who were farthest from themselves, the emperors, kings and queens, generals, bishops, monks, people who led the most perverted and hideous of lives. We have created a cult of worship to our egos, to the things that we think are so unique about ourselves at the inescapable expense of the things that we have in common. There are very few lovers rattling around in the tomes of recorded history, we haven't paid too much attention to them, or to what they knew, our editing is slanted in favor of violence and destruction. We have driven ourselves mad in the midst of a garden of delights.
But fear not, the subconscious mind is in the act of creating... always and forever.... It is creating even the conscious mind. Everything that you think you are is a dream that some other part of you is having. Only next to god are all the political games that divide men stripped away out here you arrive naked and proud. Only then do you see every man and woman as your ally and your love, only scorched clean of the petty differences of race, creed, and belief, do we draw together huddled in fear of insanity which we ourselves have wrought upon each other. Forged and smelt in the dry heat of rock furnaces, the charnel ovens brew alchemal liquid, souls fuse, combinations arise, the experiment of which we are all part, continues onward. No hope save love. No cure, but love and death and then, Quien Sabe?
The final rays of sun disappear, the chill of night settles in. I take my fresh pack of cigarettes and wander down to the edge of the canyon. I sit with my legs dangling off a rock that's perched on the rim and extends out into space. All around me there is nothing but air and under me only a brief moment of rock and then more timelessness we call air.
The internal merges with the external, the timeless with the unique. I go roaring back through memories of childhood, selves that I was truly, but am no longer today. I see all the marauding personalities, which have governed this thing called I. I cast off all doubts. I am ready. A thousand faces pass like the jerky photomontages of Man Ray, each pair of eyes radiant unto itself. Delicately, in the corners of a stray glance, I catch the recognition of understanding in other's eyes. Only love brings us any closer.
I watch a feast of thoughts and personalities coming together for the first time, yet dining like old friends. It's a reunion, a chance to catch-up on where each has been, what has happened, and what they have felt. It turns to a smorgasbord of love, but there is endless debate, dissention, and rising voices. A circus dine roars around my head, the wave crests at cacophony and breaks over me leaving only silence. Silence that carries on its back a poignant nostalgia for the past and a calm understanding of the future. I touch for a moment the void, the nothingness into which you must cast yourself if you wish to tap the source of everything. Riddles that once seemed ridiculous to me are solved with simplest of maneuvers of truth. They gleam like diamonds. In the blinking, blank-look of the deer just before impact, there is understanding, the look of recognition that it is all nothing. No thing. What do I want out of this life? Nothing. Nothing at all. I understood suddenly and with sharp focus the difference between understanding how something works and understand what it is. I see that even the void of understanding is not the end, but only a means to something else, which would also be yet another means, until the final thought was had and the conversation between self and the other ceases forever, wedding them together.
And the two shall be joined as one. A net was cast over the side of the ship and the wheel turned starboard to trawl the giant net through the waters of the past. It plays out in slide show fashion. Endless images of my own arrogance play themselves onto the back of my closed eyelids like a cinema of embarrassment. I go to myself, as stranger might go, out of pity, to reach down a hand and help myself up. And then love flows through me and makes everything hyperreal and tactile, as if feelings were rock and trees. Desert silence is the answer to the endless question of the universe. The transitory nature of my own existence is illuminated and I am washed with feelings of warmth and celebration. The embarrassment fades and is replaced by the sheer hilarious joy. My own folly falls along side the folly of all those I have ever know and ever will know, a giant heaping ball of laughter. Coiled up tight like yarn, batted about by the kitten of the universe, it dances nightly behind the moon, all our selves playing as children, endlessly.
The moon rises from the east; I watch in silence. My life unfolds behind my eyes. I watch memories I had no conscious knowledge of, like a father watching his son play in the yard. They start off recent memories, of Maya, of Dean, of Jimmy, of moments shared with each and then it races backward, to college classes, high school girlfriends, playground friends.... Until I am in utero listening to my mother's heart beating steadily. And then farther back to a point of no consciousness, other stories unfold-genetic memories. I see the light of the fifteen-century breaking through the night, hitting church spires and scorching the brass coffers of foreign temples. Wild and scenes from Arabian Nights appear with silken tapestries, women's arms entwined in gold bands; and then sagas of Hassan I Sabbah, all the wisdom seekers of the Fertile Crescent. I fade into a background of Egyptian palaces. I am carried about by the wafting fragrance of spices and silk from the orient. There was a warm glow of light at the end of hallway that slowly, as the eyes adjust, reveals itself as a temple of splendors. The walls are adorned with rugs and woven tapestries in designs that act out the living myths of the sun gods. The floor is blanketed in pillows and a sweet incense smoke floated in wafts of Jasmine and myrrh. In the center of the room slightly elevated on steps was an alter upon which lies a beautiful and naked goddess, a statue, an answer, a testament to any question that you might ask. In her silence I swim the thalassic of sorrow and joy in placid, caressing laps. I learn infinite things, make them finite, knowable. I build great castles, great monuments, great societies, great people, and tear them all down again to start over. I live a thousand lonely, huddled nights, from bearskin to tapestries, to the silk sheets of Manhattan penthouses. I climb every mountain peak, slide down the scree and talus slopes, and meet with pharaohs and voudans, with Moses and God. I hold a billion women lovingly in my arms and give birth to a trillion children through all history's wombs. From Sarah to Satan, all fill themselves with my nourishment. A spiraling double helix of love corkscrews all about my mind.
She is waiting by the fountain, in the park, just outside of the town in Cyprus where I have never been. I watch her sit for hours, staring at nothing, or so it looks to me. She wears a black dress with a matching veil. Her eyes are fixed on the pump handle of the well. She sits motionless with the quiet smile of a woman in rapture, a woman in private, mysterious thoughts. I see Maya's face in the background, in that indeterminable second after where everything is. I see the source of my unhappiness, being so overwhelmed with consciousness of myself I lost myself. Everything is laid unequivocally bare in the austerity of that truth, the contradiction finally fades. All things are true and not true all at the same moment, a place indescribable, incommunicable precisely because it exists below the refinement of words. It is too raw to be explained in words, it must be devoured with the intensity of an animal ripping at its prey. I feel it for what seems like an eternity. I remember coming back to fire in dazed kind of trance like state that held me like a loved one returned from a long voyage at see. I want to feel this always to live in this mindscape-whole world be damned.
I eventually fall asleep in a huddled pose beside the fire; I sleep fitfully under the starscape dreaming of the Mayan shaman riding a silver gelding, like Icarius, out of the fiery sun-gilded gates of hell. The Shaman swerves and bears down on the I that is me with menacing intent, jolting the dream element awake and into a sleepnonsleep trance on the isthmus of reality. I am bewildered, but not afraid. He growls and leaps at me, but I stand my ground. He rattles bones and conjures hideous demons, but I don't move. He stops and smiles at me. He clasps his hand over mine and leads me outside. We are on the corner of dusty street in Cyprus, pedestrians are frozen in time, nothing moves save the Shaman and I. Not a breath stirs, there is no wind, we are in a vacuum. The shaman motions for me to sit on a fallen tree and he pulls out a cigarette. He lights it and inhales. From the smoke of his cigarette there emerges a pattern, loose at first, but then it begins rapidly organizing itself. He keeps smiling at me as he smokes. The smoke it still, it hangs in the air. He's about half way done with the cigarette before I recognize that the smoke is turning to the ghost figure of the woman. She steps out of the smoke and sit down beside me. She has a face of smoke and mirrors, more beautiful than any human face could be. I have to squint to look at her. She smiles and a thousand angel trumpets blast. She takes my hand in hers. She stands and leads me across the street to the town well. She leads me right up to the edge of it so that I can look down into it. I can't see the bottom. I grow afraid, but she squeezes my hand again and I relax. Slowly at first, scenes begin to appear in the well. Opulent scenes play themselves out for us. I see great Persian empires laid out, expanding and retracting, moving across time in slow molasses-like motions, cities where the sun stands still and bow to monstrous creations of the mind, horrifying and seductive at the same time. Like ancient Tibetan art, there is no distinction between the province of my mind and the province of my body. Women swim in south china seas of ambient warmth, moving in playful erotic motions, cresting like dolphins. Creatures of all forms walk streets of ancient origin; I see cobblestones and whitewashed buildings with European wrought iron balconies. Tapestries hang out from the window beckon the passersby to climb up into untold pleasures of body and mind. Everything is beautiful beyond the limits of imagination. The woman turns and wraps me in her arms, her lips never move but I hear a voice say, "see, I love you."
I wake up several times during the night and put more wood on the fire. It's freezing when I get up at dawn. I do jumping jacks and run in circles to warm myself up. I realize I don't have can opener for the beans so have nothing for breakfast. I decide to walk back to Moab. I take the road most of the way in case the desert or fatigue should get the better of me. About half way there, around noon a young couple in a camper picks me up. They drop me off just outside of town, on the banks of the Green River. I go down to the shoreline and sit down for a while. I smoke a couple of cigarette and spend some time without thinking of anything. My mind is completely blank. Dean is gone, Jimmy and Chloe are leaving, there is nothing for me in this world to return to. I feel free of everything. I kneel down by the edge the Green River and lean over a pool of still water to washing my face. My reflection stops me. I sit on my knees, staring at my face, as if meeting it for the first time. My eyebrow has completely grown back. I run my fingers through the thick black hair. My reflection smiles up at me.
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Entering the hall of breathing walls-The Oconee disappears between its banks-Los Angeles-Mexico City-Byzantine elephants choke to death in a smog-filled valley- memories hiccup-twilight of the intercellular broadcast-divided and squared with bantam jewels in the center-glittering back-lit walls-look like lava just starting to crust-pie filling eaten by rodents-1910 bankers and thieves in huddled whispers-don't get out-turn the page- disengage-
The door is pounding.
I live in a cottage. Athens. Georgia. 01010.
Between.
My head hurts.
I was named after an imaginary boat.
A cigarette.
Pounding. Rhythmic thump thump. Thump thump. Ghosts dragging chains through the cellar. Which I don't have, a cellar that is. Demons maybe. Phantoms. Apparitions. No. Not those. Ghosts then. Simplicity. Razors.
She often gives that look. But I'm never around.
She's up there.
I'm down here.
It could be Jimmy. No. Not Jimmy then. Could be Dean. Dean wouldn't. Couldn't. Won't. Not yet. Eventually. Just ghosts. Pissed off ghosts. Happy ghosts seeing if I want to come out and play. Indifferent ghosts, sitting around smoking, absently throwing rocks at the wall. Malicious ghosts, the ghosts of falling buildings, ghosts with nowhere to haunt, haunted by a yearning to haunt.
Chloe has a globe from the dark ages, East and West Germany, the USSR, North and South Dakota. Chloe also has a dog. Chloe's dog, tail wagging thump thump thump. A branch. An Oak wanting breakfast. A bird wanting shelter. No.
That look, that half devilish awareness, half coy innocence, that look where I don't know what is going on in there. Or out here. In the larger world. Smaller world. Some world. I'm not sure, I don't know, but I don't think I know.
I live alone.
She's not in. She is never in. She is up. He is also up, but less significantly. In fact a lot of them are up. Almost everything is elsewhere. Echoes reach me down here. Someone yelling down the cellar to a third cousin sent to retrieve apricot preserves from last summer's canning extravaganza. Dull reverberations off the beams rattling the preserves ever so slightly, but enough so that every so often a jar falls and shatters in the blackness that comes after the door at the top of stair blows shut from a gust of August wind. And the slow trickle of preserves running down the sloped dirt of the cellar floor, pooling between your toes as the first clap of thunder rumbles above.
From: Dean O'Leary <do@morpheus.net>
To: sil@kali.org
Subject:
I have a fish tank. Melissa bought it, but I have it. It's here right in front of me right now. There is a fish in it. We put it in yesterday. Melissa named him Dean Jr. Dean Jr. has a plastic castle and a plastic treasure box. He's swimming back and forth between them. He never goes anywhere else. It's like every two seconds his memory expires and he has to go back and see what these damnable things are that he just swam by. Or perhaps its merely that I feel that way, swimming through the city, by the castle, by the rocks, by the crumbling pink stones in the park. We once had gills. I don't mean eveolution, I mean I think we once had gills. Atlantis isn't a mythical city that sank into the sea, it was always under the sea. We lived there, we swam by, and abscent of memory swam by again. A sort of daze. + +I envy you down there, you don't have to swim, you can merely sit. The water is still. Or that's how I imagine it. The surface of the pond, not yet distrubed by the ripless of what is emerging below. You are higher up, in the sunlight filled waters near the surface. Down here things are not well, the memory is fading, senility is survival. + +I finished a novel the other day that you would like. A hungarian author Lazlo Tikos, the book is Midnight. He has another, Dawn. But it's difficult to come by. So is Midnight actually, a friend of mine in the city happens to be the translator so I read an early draft. It's a very strange convoluted story that I don't want to ruin, should you decided to read it (the packagge is one its way to your house), but there was + + + +It made me think, should I set Dean Jr free? I don't think he would last long in the ocean or the sewers, though he's not really worth eating. Perhaps he would survive in the sewers, like the aligator pets that go to large and flushed down the tiolets by enough distrate owners, fearful that the once cute beasts would now eat the children they were purchases for -- you can imagine, those reptile eyes, old, pre-Cambian thoughts lurking down there, a level we perhaps remember on some levvel, some dark spot of our own genentic makeup still carrying markers, the primordial fear that comes from staring at any nearly unblinking creatures, but especially one that's covered in scales and has a flickering tongue that tastes information in the air -- it's similtaneously so forgien and so familiar as to be distrubing, a familiar memory that won't die, like the smell of blood drying in the grass or + +And so down the toilet for poor pet aligator caught up in a fade it neither wanted nor understands, but then the revenge of the sewers where the pet becomes what it was always meant to be -- king. It could be the same for fish I believe. The scales are the same, the + +
Last night: little blue pills from points unknown, brand name Percocet I believe. Jimmy. Yes. It was him. Known points. His little blue pills that go tickticktick when they scatter out on the glass table. We took a couple each, and a glass or two or five of Scotch, and maybe a bump of cocaine-swooshing velvet sound on that table-we went downtown. Downtown. We are not uptown, but we went downtown or maybe in town. Here we are not in town, but we're not quite out either. Between then, but we go downtown. Amid the one-way streets and crisscrossing throngs of young people. Dizzy blue people stumbling on caustic sidewalks. Pills. Dizzy blue pills. Brown people or off white or cream, and maybe some mauve from the sun, but wearing their colored ribbons and threads as is customary, some delightful and brilliant colors and other dull grays, blues and taupe. The streets carved among lights and shadows and covered wagons hauling pianos or trucks with pianos. People exchanging glasses of elixir for paper tickets the way old men used to in cellar bars, rotting wood ceilings and dirt walls, roots exposed, in countries long forgotten or never known, and either way not here. The theatre is crowded, sticky bodies pressed together with scrunched shoulders and craning necks, little trickles of sweat tickling necks and earlobes until a arm wiggles loose to relieve, but an elbow here and there meeting a face, accidentally, like friends late at night under gas lamps in those countries no one can remember. Amid little grunts of pain, whispers of apology and finally finally a margin of relief, the show starts. Several of the people are wearing jeans and shirts and boots and hats. Or one of them near the back, seven bodies removed with a luxurious amount of space around her and no one daring to step into it. She is on to me. Goddamn it she knows. She is looking at me down a perfect row of misshapen, deformed shoulders, hunchbacks lined for execution or waiting for tables at a hunchback diner, or a line outside a hunchback restroom, all the shoulders and stooped backs turned just so, perfectly aligning the emptiness between so that our eyes meet and cannot avoid but meet again. She is looking to let me know that she has that look too. But she is looking at me, not with that look, but a warning look. She can use that look any time, but she won't, she can't. Only Maya can use that look with any effectiveness, but still I have to be ready. I'm sweating and cold. A writhing serpentine woman upfront, spiraling around the man with the metal chest. Metal attached to his chest. To his face. To his lips. It sounds like Paleolithic cave drawings-dueling sculptors chipping at the same stone, part horrific cacophony, and part terrifying clarity. Lights out. Bumbling darkness.
The pounding on the door. Yes, but fainter still.
Outside is America. The down part. Down here. You can hear it in the wires. A buzz. A hum. America. Wires and cables and fiber optics and pipes and hoses and tubes. Fading now to resistors and capacitors. Even as the hippies were sleeping with visions of sugarplums and dancing fairies singing happy happy joy joy, Bell Labs was suffering a different dream. Resistors. Capacitors. On. Off. Zero. One. America.
Another cigarette. I could lie here all day. Lying down, remaining down.
Outside is America. Up right now, but down later. One, but then Zero. I am indifferent to it. Why shouldn't I be? America is one. To be America you are doing something. I am not. America is growth. Then stasis. Then growth, and so on, like a cancer mutating in bursts-a pulsar, a cancerous pulsar. There are others like me. We watch it. We like to watch. We huddle together, in small groups, holding each other because it's all we remember, mutual warmth. Every season the Technicolor cancer blooms anew, this year with violent reds and oranges and angry purples, yes purple gets angry from time to time, when the king becomes too fat for the plush velvet chair that purple has given him or he neglects his humility in private, purple gets angry like a wife. It's a cheery cancer though, purple is never mad for long and, the make up sex-oh the makeup sex. Then there is dancing and singing, girls running, silk ribbons trailing behind, a carnival, spinning pinwheels, gaudy whores in petticoats, elixirs for what ails ya, sculptures of tubing and wire to delight delight delight the whole family. Whores for the kids, pinwheels for the parents, a marvelous vision trotting into New Orleans say 1894, electrons spinning-a bric-a-brac carnival for paranoids. The king riding high in his purple couch, the queen by his side, the actors in trail, patchwork wagon covers and barrels of mead and moonshine. The crier out front: You have never seen anything like this. Step right up. Step right up. Step right. Up. This the greatest show going. This is the greatest show in the land. This is. This is the greatest show in this county. At the moment. Get your programs. Get your programs here. A hymnal for the perverts. Hey ya.
I remember remembering. Too much quantum physics-interference patterns, recorded static played back in scripts-the sixties were bleak, the nineties were worse. You. The other. Them. The ones on the streets blinking on and off. Christmas lights in the background-indeterminacies. When I was young there were seven dimensions and that was weird, but Rod Serling walked us through it. Now there are twenty-six and Rod Serling is dead.
I start the day with a cigarette because it kills you early, slowly and relentlessly. Gets me off my back and living, one, lest death come before lunch, zero.
The pounding is over.
I stumble to the kitchen, the fridge is harboring only one grapefruit. The ritual goes: cigarette, grapefruit, shower and shave, croissant or bagel, coffee and another cigarette. Later or earlier, depending on where you are exactly, I came to sitting in a barstool in the lobby of the theatre. She was gone. She did not use that look, but she could have, or she did and I didn't notice. The show was over, the Christmas lights were filtering out. Flickering. That was the bar. The Flickering Bar only it was a theatre in one room with all the ghosts of rats imported from elsewhere because it wasn't old enough to have its own rat ghosts, just a couple of rats that had their own theatre up in the balcony where no one goes anymore. There were Christmas lights flickering, they were not people, they were lights. Some of them I knew. Jimmy. That was how I got there. Stumbling down alleys and rolling in garbage. Jimmy, he is familiar. He has no dog and no globe-Chloe has those. Jimmy has a girl, a girl friend, but I suspect they are more than friends. They are not friends like he and I are friends. They are something more. They hold each other very close by the fire and then often slip into darkness as if they are unafraid. But she is called his girlfriend, he calls her the girlfriend, but when she says it she is a girlfriend. And he is a boyfriend.
"I'm Brooke. Jimmy's girlfriend."
"It's very nice to meet you."
"Sil, I met you six months ago."
"Yes but it is still nice isn't it?"
"Yes. Is suppose it is. Are you okay?"
"Yes. I'm fine. Why?"
"You seem strange tonight."
Tonight seems strange too. Difficult to sort out. Lights and people. Glittery mugs foaming, slick ice spit back in rattling glasses, crunching gravel or sawdust in the street. She is holding his hand. They are walking in front of me. Their feet are in time, light-footed marching, a relaxed cadence. We drove home. Up. But not all the way, just surfacing perhaps, but still in the water, level and floating between. We were here or at Chloe's house, I don't know. There is not much difference. Fifty yards between them, but dense jungle, vines and trees and dead wood, lots of rodents and birds, one dumpster. They are worlds apart really. We sniffed and snorted through the lingering sniffles of a once glorious semantic insanity. We like to talk. One or Zero... still an indeterminacy.
Jimmy is a lunatic, one of the last great lunatics. Maybe that last one. I don't know. He paced about the room like a caged cat gesturing, gesticulating, gestating and hatching forth the most marvelous rants ranging from the workings of internal combustion engines, to the trajectory of a V-2 rocket dropping down on Pynchon's London. Its not a simple arc, it's a parabola, it approaches a point, passes by scorched like Icarus, and continues on. Everything is going for Jimmy. No stopping no waiting no inertia. Always on. Just one giant phallic object screaming across the sky until it blows a giant hole in the earth. Nothing was left when he finished; he swallowed the whole world, a fantastic thing to listen to, an inversion of Jonah and the whale, phrases connecting to one another to hint at gargantuans of thought that unravel and remind you of what might have been or maybe even was. Ideas come out of him at thinking speed with no real care for how they are arranged or whether one leads to the next, tangents appear and he runs them down, pureeing with shrill incisors and grounding sinewy shreds with pulpating molars. His voice itself often has a staccato quality, chopping and pounding the air. He blasts it out of his chest in radiowave bursts and suddenly the bottom drops out and he shifts to soft sighs and pants... wheezing sorrow. He coughs some at the end of long sentences when he runs hard after the words, tracks them down with such enthusiasm that he can't hold them anymore. You can see it in his eyes-the words are an atomized blizzard of fallout, lust and hunger.
Dean would have loved it, he gets off on it too. The words though. And it doesn't matter where they come from, so long as they are words, and maybe forming ideas and eventually stories if that is still possible. I get off on it too. We all do. But Dean is up there too. Way up. There are little ups and downs and bigger ones you see, gradations of up and down, but still up and down, rising and falling, heaving and thrusting and sighing-later smoking-but just words.
Dean will come back. Dean always comes back. And then he leaves. He is here and then there. Every time there are spaces in between in which I give him up for dead, but he never dies. He comes back. Or dies a little and then comes back. He writes a lot. Not many people do that. But more will. Email. The return of the letter. The post office collapsed in conspiracy and viruses, but we find ways. Bell Labs found one. Dean writes a lot about the sex he is having. Jimmy talks a lot about the sex he is having. Chloe talks a lot about the sex she isn't having. Brooke has never mentioned sex to me. But she does to someone. Sex is all there is really, and it's enough, it's more than enough, it's all there is. And food. But most of us don't talk about food.
Dean is writing a letter. He has been writing a letter for some time now. He wants to know about things for his letter. He wants to know what I know. He wants to know about pre-natal psychology. He wants to know about venomous fish. He wants to know about nanomachines. He wants to know what lies on the other side of the great divide. I don't know about any of these things, but he tells me and then I know what he knows, but I'm not sure if I know about the things themselves or just what he knows. Jimmy is also a writer. I don't know what Jimmy writes. I've seen him with lists. I know he writes lists and he once made signs for work. He writes signs. Perhaps other things as well. Chloe writes in her journal. One spiral bound notebook a month. On the thirty-first of the month or thirtieth sometimes and once a year on the twenty-eighth, she shuffles down with a spiral notebook and we build a bonfire with fallen tree limbs and she burns the spiral notebooks. Always the next morning I get up and dig through the ashes looking for a scrap or two. Cotton candy, I found in February. And, but I guess, in March. April was particularly rich, this is the last time, it said. But May and June there was just the charred coil of wire, stretched and distorted by the heat.
Maya writes letters. I get letters. Several a week on good weeks. But Maya does not have to write, she chooses to write. She could just use the look, but I can't see it. So she sends it in cuneiform or sometimes hieroglyphs, but it doesn't translate well. Sometimes she too writes about sex, but not always. Often she writes about hunger or longing or walking or resting. Mainly she calls, but it's that look I love, that look that could be a bad movie I'd still watch.
Most of the time I am Sil Hawkard. When creditors or ex-wives are calling I am no longer Sil Hawkard, I morph. People who want things from me find that I have just stepped out. I am often just stepping out. Outside. America. Wires. Buzz and hum. I'll be right back. Just going for the papers. I come from a long line of steppers-out-for-the-papers, gypsy strands of DNA, whorish blood crawling over the eastern European hills looking for a place to call home. I am a mongrel by birth. I have olive-brown skin and no culture. I have hazel eyes but not many friends. I am five feet ten inches, but I lack cohesiveness. I weigh around one hundred and fifty pounds, but I am often unaccountably heavier. I live in self-imposed exile, but I was born in exile, so I'm used to it... comfortable even. I haven't the slightest idea how I got here; I only know that I have been here as long as I can remember.
I'm not sure that you care about this sort of thing. I'm not sure that you should. I'm not sure if I should tell it or not. There are various schools of thought which say different things. I have gone to most of them at one time or another. One in particular stands out because of the bully with the harelip who was mad because he had a harelip and took it out on the rest of us, even the girls. He nailed their pigtails to desks and stuffed the boys in trashcans. A terribly abusive wretched little kid, he will ascend the bell tower just a few days past twenty-two with a scattergun he will steal from under his father's porch and he will rain down death with his box of shells and eat two Snickers bars as the SWAT team moves into position on the rooftops of nearby buildings. He will be crying when the bullet hits him. But I still won't know what I shouldn't say.
Window shopping, perhaps stepping in to try on a shirt or two or some pants or whatever snags your eye, but never buying anything, just looking and feeling the textures of fabric rolling between your fingers. Dragging silk or lace or satin over the back of your arms to feel the chillbumps shiver down your spine. But noncommittal when the clerk smiles and unsure whether to tell her about the lipstick on her teeth or to just move on. And usually deciding to move on until one day when maybe you don't, maybe you grab her arm softly and say excuse me miss, and hand her a tissue, you have some lipstick on your teeth. And maybe she blushes and demurely turns to wipe her teeth, but thanks you and then smiles with soft, creamy teeth. And you smile back when she hands you the tissue.
I was born out of time. I had intended to be here at the beginning, but I didn't make it. In the beginning, if there was such a thing, there were no words, only phantoms wandering forested mountains. That's where I would like to have come into the show. There were enormous mountains back then, around here it would have been the tail end of the Appalachians, bigger than the modern Himalayas. Monkeys and lemurs and men in funny hats. I would have made something different. But I didn't make it in time. Still, don't ever let them convince you that you were thrown out of anything, no, it's still here. Hidden from casual glance, camouflage netting, but if you look long enough and at the right angle, you will find it. Right where you left it.
I started as a thought, a complex, vivid thought in my mother's head. The night before I was born, my mother dreamed that she and my father were sailing through the Panama Canal. The jungles cackled with lemurs while my parents drifted silently through the moonlight. It was a particularly vivid dream, the sort that tugs at your sleeve while you're trying to drink your morning coffee. When her contractions began the next day, the dream was still in my mother's mind, lulling her, a welcome memory to alleviate the growing pain. I was a tough one; I had no interest in entering this world. In the end, they cut me out. As she faded out under anesthetic, the dream grabbed my mother and led her off again, it had something to say. She looked up at my father who was holding her hand, smiling as his face faded into a tropical night sky. This time they were sailing around the Cayman Islands. Shorelines sparkled in the distance, throngs of tourists were carrying candles along the shoreline, a procession was in progress, my mother turned the till and a puff of wind drew the boat along following the line of flickering candles. She would never say where they led. Whenever she told the story a far away look would come over her eyes she would murmur to herself, tuck the covers around my chin and get up to go. She did tell me that the last thing she saw before coming to was the stern of another boat, the Silmond.
I was born in the midst of a fierce tropical storm-I'm not making this up-one of the worst on record in southern California. The recovery room that my mother was given had a broken window and she came down with pneumonia. Once, when I was about five, I heard her tell someone that I was born on a boat in the middle of a hurricane. Tall tales abound in my family. My wife used to say that that she could see clouds in my eyes when I was thinking. When I got mad she claimed they flickered like tiny thunderheads, but I can't vouch for this observation. I don't look at my reflection very often; half of my left eyebrow is missing. It had a disastrous meeting with a windshield. They were introduced by a telephone pole on highway 10 somewhere in New Mexico. For a while I was very self-conscious about it. I used to apply Rogaine to it every morning, but it never helped. I stopped looking in mirrors.
I enrolled in another school where all the children were drab and gray, but they wore the finest clothing, hand-tailored in the finest European shops, slowly measured by grandfatherly old men, stooped with age and arthritis, but possessing of delicate hands worn smooth like driftwood by years of handling the luxurious linens. The boys wore three-piece suits with little button down vests and the girls wore elaborate dresses with corsets and garters and stockings. The teachers were always talking about being naked, but really they wore the finery too. I was kicked out for hugging. Hugging was distasteful to them, the contact wrinkled their finery and the production or secretion of sweat and warm mucus was frowned upon. They were sterile people, but beautiful to look at. I learned much about what you could wear or say if you chose to, but often I chose not to and this was frowned upon. One day a beautiful teacher wearing only a corset and loose skirt with a choker around her neck and thighs that whispered when she walked, asked me to leave.
For a long time after that I wandered about aimlessly. Solving crimes in my spare time or shooting large automatic pistols with some friends on a porch outside of Wichita. I dreamed of living in a book without a plot. We shot holes in four by eight sheets of plywood, sometimes at random and other times trying to create patterns with the holes. Often the patterns looked random and the randomness smiled or frowned in distinct faces.
I grew up in Los Angeles choking on money and diesel exhaust. It was embarrassing. From the time I was old enough to dream I dreamed of leaving, but I didn't really leave until I was twenty-seven and missing half an eyebrow. Before we got divorced, my wife and I went on a three-month drive; it was our form of therapy. We had decided to 'work things out,' as she put it. We thought spending time alone, just the two of us, would bond us together. We crisscrossed the country looking for epoxy; from LA to Denver, back to Boise, down to Salt Lake City, through the Rockies again, across Kansas, down to New Orleans, up the eastern seaboard to Boston, then Canada, and eventually back to LA. My overwhelming memory of the trip is the warm smell of all night diner bathrooms, the sinks scratched from the oversized belt buckles of enormous putrefied trucker drivers. And then I forgot about her in New Orleans and drove most of the way through the Florida panhandle. I was eating take out steamed oysters on a nude beach when I realized something was missing. She got back to LA a week later. I was at Dean's house when a man with a star by his name asked me to sign papers. I poked about in LA for a while longer, working odd jobs, Dean and I tried to shoot holes in four by eight sheets of plywood, but the man with the star by his name came back and asked us not to. Eventually I decided to move to Athens with Dean and his sister Betty-to see if anything would happened. They lasted about a year. He went up, she went left.
I remember driving down a dirt road in Arizona; I couldn't have been more than five or six. I asked my father if we could drive through a magical time warp. The way I envisioned it happening, the road would suddenly just disappear, my father and I would crash into a giant cactus, we would be unhurt, but the car would be destroyed and steam would hiss out of the radiator, there would be an incredible silence, a huge overwhelming moment where we would just sit in nostalgia for the shock, listen to the hissing steam, not believing what had happened. We would drown in disbelief, but then that would give way to endless possibility; it would just be us and an uncharted, virgin planet. My father smiled at me, but there was a jaded sigh in his eyes. We traded our magic for science, skepticism for precision-no trade backs. We eroded the mountains for strip mines, the forests were clear-cut for timber, and the men with funny hats destroyed by small pox and syphilis. The phantom dreamers all packed up and headed on down the line to some other universe just a few tracks over from ours. What's left is America. One, zero, one. I can't march and that intangible future in which all the words are perfectly prearranged and you take your place at the banquet....well... I used to want something to happen-on the far side of Bell's polyparabolic vision. I used to wait with hope. There was a moment or two of naivet, but now the old nuclear foreboding has returned with gusto. Now we nervously finger magazines in the doctor's office waiting for the test results. A bric-a-brac carnival for paranoids.
The cottage I live in is a dump. The roof is rotten from termites; an extended family of rats lives in the ceiling panels. The walls are paper-thin, insulated with spider webs. I scavenged for furniture. I found a couch back when I was living with Dean, and then one day another appeared in the dumpster so I grabbed it too. The tenants before me left a bookshelf, which still has nothing on it. I've been here six months and I'm still living out of my suitcases. The sink leaks, the toilet never flushes, and there's a two-foot square hole in the middle of the living room wall. My landlord was nice enough to tack a scrap of screen over it, "keep out the 'squiters," he said. He also hired me to maintain the cottages in exchange for rent, which might explain their dilapidated state, though I do try to fix things. For the other tenants anyway. If nothing happens then nice living quarters are unnecessary. Saves me the work.
It was the last night I was in LA. I was working. It seems appropriate. Around eight o'clock, still light out, Maya sauntered through the yawning doorway. She wore a Mona Lisa smile, a turquoise shirt and tight black pants. She ruffled her dyed black hair and asked if she could have a large coffee. Her voice could have stirred the Marquis de Sade from his grave. I gave her an extra large and didn't charge her for it. I felt compelled to quit the job to have a cup of coffee with her. Later that night when I crawled out of her bed and dragged myself home, I knew that something big was coming, the way old men with trick knees can sense the storm before it arrives. Her lack of nuclear foreboding was addictive and enchanting. She smiled like nothing was wrong. She has that look. I felt like it was all going to be okay. Maya left for New York the next day. I arrived in Athens a week later. Then Maya moved back to LA, and now she is back in New York. My phone bills are more than my rent, but I don't pay rent so that's a poor comparison.
This morning the world is farm-fresh. The Twilight Zone faceless men have assembled reality to perfection-thank you Rod, it meant so much. They work feverishly all night long hauling in raw materials from the Future and building the Now. They have no identity save the ability to create. Now they are hard at work on Now they are hard at work on Now they are hard at work on.... A new manicure from early morning thundershowers adorns the streets and houses- everything is freshly washed. Athens lies in the hilly, forested region of north central Georgia, and on days like today, after a morning thundershower, the heat steams the rain back up into the air. Everywhere is a soft fog like an overgrown patch of Argentinean real estate. Everything feels tropical and sweltering; all you want to do is get some sort of fruity drink and sit on the porch. That's my plan for the day, but first I want some food.
The door bursts open and a streaking out of focus but distinctly human shape rockets across the room with such speed that a second or two elapses before it cools and condenses into the recognizable form of Jimmy. He flops down on the low-rent antique chair to a cloud of feathers screaming out the side of the velveteen pillow. They waft in the still air and slowly swan dive through the thermal of nicotine that hovers near the floor.
"You should open a door, Sil. It's smoky in here."
"Someone was knocking."
"Knocking?"
"Yeah. About an hour ago. When I first got up. There was a pounding on the door."
"Huh."
"So I couldn't open it."
"What if it was me?"
"I wasn't ready yet. I had to load."
He giggles his little Jimmy giggle, which involves an index finger brought to the lips, luxuriantly hovering over them and a downward stare as if perhaps sharing a private joke with his feet. Sometimes the whole ritual is accompanied by a slow shaking of head, but not just now.
"It was good to hang out with you last night man. I was kinda feeling like we never see each other anymore. Which is stupid since we live fifty feet away, but you know with work and all... and your gig."
"Yeah. It was good. I been locked up in here for the past couple weeks." My business card says 1066 productions: we make stuff. Lately it's been light on the make and heavy on the revise. Technical Editing they call it when they outsource. All these strange words. Technical. Outsource. Mostly I sit around all day and bill people for it.
"How is the freelance world?"
"Free. And I mean that. I gotta stop doing favors. That's the problem with this town, I know too many people and can't bring myself to bill them."
Jimmy's eyes are focused on something near the Pleiades and he is nodding and repeating yeah with Buddhist intent. When I stop talking he keeps nodding his head for a minute. "So do you remember anything about last night?"
"It was noisy. And glittering."
"Okay, cool," he practically doubles over shaking his head and laughing, "cause I don't remember much of anything except that I was on a rampage."
"You were in high form. I think you scared the shit out of Scratch."
"Naw. That man ain't scared of anything least of all some punk ass kid like me." He pauses for a minute. "Do you think we'll be that wise when we get that old. Have that weird sage intensity he's got? How old is he anyway?"
"I have no idea. Old enough to know what the word vagabond means."
"You know what I remember him saying at some point? He was talking to Brooke about something...I dunno... they were having their own side conversation and I was saying something inane to you and I remember hearing him say to her 'I do the best I can not to worry about things. Summers days are here. I have never known where I'm going, but here I am.' It blew my mind. Some people could have said that and I would have slapped them, but from him... shit. He hates poetry because he's living it."
"He hates poetry?"
"Yeah that's what he said. I just kinda looked at him. I went over to his bookshelf and there was William Carlos Williams. I didn't say anything. I just pulled it off the shelf and read the famous one...no way was I going to read something cleverly obscure... he's too old to stand for that kinda pretension..." Jimmy jumps up and grabs the William Carlos Williams sitting on my bookshelf. He flips through it for a minute and then reads aloud.
"This is just to say"
"I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast"
"Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold"
He smiles at the page, it's in on something, caught in some private joy and his shoes. Jimmy reads with neither the amateurishness nor pretension that have driven poetry readings to the far corners of New England. His voice is a plum. He swallows, "do you realize that that poem is everything I've ever wanted and never found?" He tosses the book back on the table and doesn't say anything else.
Jimmy reads like James Joyce wrote. There is nothing to say. Do you realize that that poem is everything I've ever wanted and never found? We sit in silence. I put my feet up on the coffeetable and am embarrassed by the noise.
Chloe strolls in a few moments later, dog in tow, right in the middle of the silence that follows Jimmy's restoration of sense in the universe. Chloe has thin lips like 1965 white walled radial TA's fresh off the showroom floor, painted red to match a rising coronary sun. She suffers from arthritis at the tender age of - too many cigarette years spent clutching darts and nervously twirling hair around her naked ring finger. She's wearing jeans and cowboy boots.
I am very popular in the compound because I have the only shade. I am several measurable degrees cooler until about three in the afternoon when trees or no trees the air is on the edge of barking flames. So mornings happen here and then we head for a nice apartment complex with a pool or a caf with air conditioning. Not that I mind the heat. The heat is tolerable, it's the oil that bothers me. The humidity expels a continuous slick of grease from the pores, as if cellular oil tankers were constantly wrecking all over your body.
"James. Sil. Looking like you boys had a nice evening." She sits on the couch next to me and raises an eyebrow to encourage storytelling, but I remain silent and Jimmy mutters something about jazz.
"Oh. I see. Well. I had another bad date."
Chloe loves bad dates. She prefers to go out with men she finds both visually disgusting and mentally challenged. "This one had a tattoo of a chicken on his calf that jiggles when he flexes it, which of course he just had to show me in the middle of dinner by standing up and putting his leg on the table." She chuckles. "There is absolutely no shame in your brains, you know that don't you?"
"I love you Chloe, but your generalizations do not include me." Jimmy stands up. "I'm going to work on the Falcon."
"See." The white walls grin triumphantly.
I close the door behind Jimmy and pour myself a glass of water.
"Are you drinking wine in the morning? In this heat?"
"It's not that hot in here."
"Yes, but at some point you will have to face the outside world where it is hot."
"I guess. But it's not wine. It's water."
"Oh. Well, if you get some wine tell me, I'd like to have a glass."
"But it's over a hundred outside."
"Sil it's wine. We all have our weaknesses. You really shouldn't put water in wine bottles, it teases me in uncomfortable ways that force me to confront yearnings and desires my young mind tries desperately to avoid. I went to catholic school you know." Impish smile. But she didn't really. She just likes to say it and then smile impishly.
I got sick of running out of cold water in the Brita and I had all these empty wine bottles so one day I washed one of them out and filled it up with water. But that proved insufficient because inevitably, in my laziness, I didn't fill it up again right away. I have to get the funnel you know, and it's too much effort when you just want a glass of water at three in the morning to wash down the egg sarnie you fried up in a drunken, desperate, last ditch effort to not wake up with a pounding headache the next morning. Right then all you want is a tall refreshing glass of water that tastes like a French girl you once saw standing in the doorway of some terracotta apartment building with a luxurious courtyard of ferns and fig trees and clay pots full of honey, all of which you never noticed because you were transfixed by the French girl who was actually a Polish immigrant who moved to Paris just two months earlier to work for an internet design firm. That's the kind of water you want with that bacon egg and cheese burrito. Or with tomatoes and maybe potatoes too. Maybe all sorts of leftover vegetable that ordinarily might be tossed out but appear edible and even lovely to your teetering, alcohol soaked, three in the morning eyes. So I decided to up the number of bottles. This way the filling, while more cumbersome and time consuming when done, can be done with much less frequency. Two bottles sufficed until a week ago when the same tragedy occurred concerning a glass of water that this time was intended to taste like cuddling Eskimos, but ended up far too warm and straight from the tap to ever conjure Eskimos and now I have three bottles which I just refilled yesterday afternoon and so will taste however I desire.
"Have you ever heard Jimmy read?"
"You mean like read out loud? No. Do people still do that?"
"Yeah some of them. You should hear him some time."
"Okay. I will" She turns sideways and throws her legs up on the arms of the couch. Chloe is as tall as I am and she occupies the entire couch. I take refuge in the chair.
"What should we do today?" Chloe lights a Camel.
"Try to take over the world."
"Oh how witty." Fluttering of the eyes. "Which, when you think about it, is all we've really got. But no. What would we do once we took over?"
"I don't know. Sit back and tell everyone they're free."
"Maybe. But, don't you think we'd be corrupted by the system and we'd want to cling to our pathetic little construction of power?"
"I like to think not."
"Yeah well I don't think most people grow up saying 'mommy I want to be a despot when I grow up.'"
"I bet Idi Amen did."
"Maybe.
"Can't you see a little Idi Amen chopping grasshoppers heads off and scheming designs on the birds while he's played outside his hut or whatever. The kind of scheming that's cute in three-year-olds."
Chloe's head collapses back when she laughs, and it's a guttural laugh, but high pitched and her left arm twitches a little when she really gets rolling, but right now it doesn't because she only chuckles and then her head snaps back forward. "Yeah I can see that. But I was thinking maybe we could get a jigsaw puzzle or something."
"A jigsaw puzzle?"
"Yeah. Why not?"
"Frustrating. Very very frustrating."
"But fun because you're struggling."
"Maybe."
"Well I'm going to go to K-mart and get a jigsaw puzzle and you're going to help me with it."
"Okay, but I'm not going to K-mart, florescent lights scare me."
"I understand. I'll be back in a bit."
Scratch used to sing "you got to get behind the mule every morning and plow" when he was hunting around the fridge for coffee grounds. The "fridge" was an old icebox that Scratch had found on the side of the road and patched up. When he drank too much and passed out before sundown, he'd forget to restock it. The melted remnants of yesterday's block of ice would eventually force open the door and the bag of coffee would go sliding across the kitchen floor, skittering to all kinds of strange places. "You got to get behind the mule every morning and plow" Scratch used to sing when he looked for the bag. When he invariably found the coffee lying in the farthest crack, he would squat down and scoot it along the floor over to the table, laughing and singing "...every morning and plow..." He would do this little dance, all crooked and insane. I lived with Scratch for a while after Dean left. He had a bad knee that made his dancing comical. I used to sit there and watch him do that hypnotic, crooked little dance of his. He would start gyrating at the knees, flopping his arms about while he sang. The first time I saw him do it I thought he was having a seizure the way he convulsed wildly about. In India they teach that dance to snakes and, in the sewers of America, cockroaches feasting on radioactive waste have begun to learn it on their own. Like terrible creatures from a Kafkian nightmare, they sit quietly underground. We go about our lives while they are learning that dance, passing it on to their children, teaching them how to use it. One day a properly evolved cockroach will crawl out of a sewer drain just as the head of state is stepping to the podium to address the nation... devour the president raw as the live internet streams feed the blood soaked scene. The cockroach will scurry to the podium, strain himself to an upright position and address the nation... "Behold I am." He will dance and spin and enchant... the numbers will explode. Scratch was one of kind. Later I found out the line is a Tom Waits lyric.
I am sitting outside the caf smoking and sweating. It's two days hotter. Jimmy pulls up in the Falcon, all grinning like he's getting away with something. He is freshly shaven; he looks like a Unix cultist. He has close shaven hair and thick framed, black, sixties style glasses, but he's more gearhead and really he's neither geek nor gearhead. He revs the engine a few times before getting out. He's wearing a greasy, oil-stained jumpsuit and racing gloves. He leaves the motor running and sits down at the table with me.
I have been occupied with trying to reconstruct Jimmy's descriptions of Williamsburg and Brooklyn in my head, trying to assimilate a whole city from them, trying to put Maya in them, but she won't fit. Unfortunately, Up There will have nothing to do with Down Here, they dance and dance, but Up There can never get her hands into Down Here's pants. I give up. Even Jimmy says he can't remember what living in New York was like and he's only been back a year. I've never lived there, just a handful of visits, weeks here and there, but I'm moving someday. I try to picture Maya running down the street to greet me-her with that Breakfast at Tiffany's smile.
"I installed a four barrel carburetor after I left your place the other day...increased power," he grins at me, but the grin fades to a sheepish curl. "You want to get some lunch?"
It's nearly dinner, but maybe that's only time speeding up. There is a plethora of food not five feet from where we are sitting, but I want to go for a ride in the Falcon. The custom headers he installed last week make it roar like a primordial beast-something slinky and covered with scales that crawled out of the Ford plant back when great steel dinosaurs ruled the land. A beautifully sleek environmental nightmare in the midst of disposable soda cans on wheels. Jimmy wants to drive. Heads turn at every corner, herbivores gawking at the revving, roaring carnivores with a mixture of admiration, envy and fear. The Falcon howls from a standstill to breakneck speed, the force neatly ashing my cigarette in the process. The impenetrable jungle across the road steams like a freshly washed beggar, thick kudzu itches at elms and maples. The Japanese revenge on the Americans who chased them around the South Pacific jungles. War stories are always set in jungles this century-New Guinea, Cambodia, Guatemala, Columbia; soldiers march in jungles, hacking vines, contracting microbes unknown. Sultry jungles that should have steamed up history with lovers, sweaty and exhausted, but instead turned to horror and death, and still stink of centipede nibbled bones. Rot. Blurs of grass waving in the wind of cars ahead, shopping centers, mini malls, open fields, bovine genetic research centers next to botanical gardens followed by apartment complexes. The homogenized sanitized landscape of America. I long for the desert, the candyland Gaudi imitated, to roar across the dinosaur bones of Utah, the sandstone caverns harboring the remains of a drip sandcastle youth.
I see you standing in front of the bay window that looks out from the bedroom into the courtyard of your building on Minetta. I watch you from the bed languishing on stained white sheets. You are wearing nothing, leg propped up on the sill, standing and swaying slightly to the beat of a thick base drum. Your flesh is soft milk froth; you walk back to the stove and light a cigarette off the burner, swinging your ass to the music, mainly for my benefit. Do not worry Maya. I am not so far away as memory, I will come to the city soon, but it must be the right moment. Be on edge; be aware. I am letting you grow inside me Maya; I am incubating you for a little while longer so that when you hatch it will be like stepping into a cage with lions, no club, no gun, only naked and trembling.
Jimmy is heading out of town, down farther, we pass signs for the interstate, and he turns in the opposite direction. Neither of us speaks, the stereo does not work. There is only the rush of humid air. The wind carving in violent eddies around the side mirrors, a primitive whistling tune, the first amplified song-telegraphs heard in the distance, coming from far on the other side of the rockaway-wind blasting down ancient conifers and cycads, dusty meteor backdrafts carving fresh sandstone into parabolic arches that begin far below the surface. My oldest memory is of walking down a trail in Canyonlands National Park. I am singing a song as I walk, but I'm not really walking, I'm on my father's shoulders. He is walking and I am singing a song with him and my mother. We are hiking down from the mesa tops to the Green River, I can see the clumped fringes of the junipers, smell fecund woodrot and fresh desert air, feel the bruised and sullen thunderheads in the sky above me as I bounce and sway with my father's lurching downhill gait, but I can't make out the words or identify of the song. I just have the fuzzy outlines of it all. Memories shrouded in gauze and muslin, filters that color and tone the past with the palate of the present. Mexico City: I remember Mexico City in a hazy, brown, discolored way, but it's not the smog-scenes of dust, carbon excrement overlaying each other-a photomontage of choking, exhausted skies. In flickering stills, twenty four frames per second, here and there a frame or two missing, little glitches...jagged cut to a subway shot, brown faces black hair ... lay on top an image of pyramid excavation, digging up to solve the Mayan Caper... years ago, you understand... she was standing right next to me and then...a warm, sweet smelling cab and my father said, "Hey, look-a Kentucky Fried Chicken," a kaleidoscope of disappointment and guilt... the shock of fried chicken. Everything focusing into the sun; burnt in fantastical visions-not fear in the sense of a threat, much worse, a lingering in the back of the mind occasionally eliciting a paralysis that haunts indefinitely, then fades again in the face of day to day activities-it's all going to stop someday.
It's a fear that leaves you like a woman I saw once, stone still, shell-shocked, and stuck in the middle of an enormous red rock arch in Canyonlands. She was paralyzed on a narrow strip of sandstone, a fragile bridge hundreds of feet in the air. The digging hooks of unbridled terror had burned into her brain and created a spellbinding feedback loop that forbade her to move. It's a fear that anchors your mind back in the primate body because you feel, you cannot rationalize it away. It rips you out of the very fabric of collective reality and propels you into strange space where there is only you. I watched her stuck there, unable to help herself, no doubt staring at the four-hundred foot drop-off on both sides of her and the meager four-foot wide sandstone arch that held her frail existence in place. Suspended in mid-air, she saw herself for the first time the way we are: naked, cold and deathly afraid.
"Here in Mexico City there is no Kentucky Fried Chicken, maybe Kentucky Fried Cat, Kentucky Fried Dog, but definitely no Kentucky Fried Chicken," the cab driver smiles crooked piano key teeth, gold caps and black octaves over moist gums that crawl down hiding the strings. He sternly advises against eating there.
It's near dark and another lazy thunderstorm drifts in from the southwest. The clouds are somber and premature darkness closes over the world. Could easily be the Northeast-New York- Brooklyn-fall-the East River slips by without a sound, the streets corral throngs of people-onlookers too drunk to remember what they are there to look at. They lurch out of bars and bounce against doorways like grenades rolled out on the street. Inside the steel doors, a reserve of surplus energy is released in muscular spasms that pulse rhythmically-her breasts pool salt onto my tongue. Her flesh is hard and metallurgic, turning brittle under my hands. The fear is slowing slipping out of her, out of the sewers, up celestial heights, among the eagles, the screaming eagles, hovering like 1910 bankers awaiting the thief. The tape is endless, looping across eons, cultures, genetic hardwired connections to the galaxies, interstellar abbreviations of life. Cool hard water distills in my mouth and then she falls from my arms like a collapsing supernova and I am cast down a tube, a tunnel, endlessly falling, clattering off the walls, building speed in a vacuum with no terminal velocity. Reach out for limbs, for human hands to catch me.... Scream and there is no sound; settle in, the twinkling light shining above. Surrendered eternity forever to remain here now and then the light goes dim... the taxis in Times Square... An auburn haired girl I loved in seventh grade... Radio broadcasts of unknown origin pulling down the multiverse's own information superhighway at a genetic tilt, coming across the galaxy without static, pure unadulterated signal, and, through it all, ash keeps falling. Fragments of history written on burnt paper and cast about in a hurricane. Whitewashed ceilings hanging low and ominous.... Bubble-headed figures crawling like the Michelin Man across an insurmountable mountain of tires, wounds agape, thick clumps of oil leaking from his mouth. And the autistic child pointing at you, laughing, unable to fathom how you cling to your definitions. Must delineate between abnormality and those of us who.... breeding like rats unconsciously conscious and aware of our disorganization. Cold fusion dreams of the anarchist are breeding in the minds of the oilmen. The continual settling of dust weighing down...the Mayan priest laboring slowly up endless steps.... Kevlar definitions constructed to make a better shampoo. Squander your paperbacked slavery bills. After all these years Tide still gets your socks whiter. It's a wonder ...that they aren't transparent by now ...that evolution did not anticipate the advent of the opposable thumb.... The unopposable domination of the thumb, leading to an insect superiority, mating rituals stolen from a textbook on damselflies ...darning needles, sewing shut your lips. Shit from the sky. Taxman comes for your baby. Unpaid balance. You understand. Nothing personal, just doing our job. Same as the next guy. From Auschwitz on down the line. The puncture wounds... Only taking orders you understand, just doing our job from Independence on down the line. A sad money grubbing hunter gathers up his children and thanks his gods they are his and he their god. Only taking orders you understand. Got a family to feed.
And then the dirt driveway. Shifting to park. The keys slide from the ignition. The last crackle of radio. Pop. Hiss. Silence. Open the doors. Crush out the cigarette. End transmission.
TWO
Blinking fire flies-twenty four frames per second-do da do dada-roosting-hear we go again- charred steel drooping-sniffing-bagpipes wheezing-stuttering the future-glistens and sparkles by design-can you hear-the morning line-the polyphony-new everyday-falling off your tongue-was it good for you?
It's huge and it looks like nothing. Just tiny flecks of color dissected into purposefully nonlinear shapes. It's maddening. It looks like nothing and it's everywhere. All over the porch, scattered on the kitchen table, and some still in the box. There are baggies with tape and cyptic markings indicating things about what will go into the baggies. There is a taxonomy of chaos at work here, a kind of organization forming out of the primordial color-flecked soup of cardboard. It will still look like nothing when it's fully assembled, when the taxonomy has made the inevitable trudge from system to working explanation, and this of course delights Chloe to no end. Even when it's done we will have to sit back and stare at it with out-of-focus eyes to see what it is.
We are sitting on the edge of the porch and it is behind us. Looking at it was giving me a headache. We haven't said a word. She gets up and goes to the fridge for beer.
"What did you do today?" Chloe gives me a beer and sits back down. She straightens the hem of dress across her knees and rubs at some unaccounted for redness on her elbow.
"Nothing. Played myself in backgammon."
"Did you win?"
"I'm not sure. It's hard to tell."
Annie is running circles around the tree with her characteristic antelope bounding. Dogalope. She seems to believe she has treed a squirrel. Chloe twists the cap off her beer and throws it at Annie. She swallows and leans back away from me studying the phrenology of my close-cropped scalp. "Don't you get lonely dating someone in New York?"
"I guess so. I mean it wasn't always that way."
I drift off watching Annie huffing and digging at some sort of rodent hole.
"Yeah I know. But you could move there."
Whatever is down the hole has become a quest. Perhaps a rabbit. Maybe a gopher. Or some other burrowing type animal I've never heard of.
"No. I can't afford it. Besides, I like the woods." a moment later I change my mind. Actually it was always this way. Or was it? If it was then is it? If it is then was it? If the gopher is down the hole, was the gopher ever not down the hole? If the gopher is not down the hole, was he ever down the hole? Can I say for sure whether one or the other is true? Or is it simply that the gopher changes of its own volition and I can only guess at it's secrets?
When I snap to for a cigarette Chloe is clearly expecting an answer.
"What?" With nervous guilt.
"Have you listened to anything I've been saying?"
"No." Less nervous, increased guilt.
"See?"
"What?"
"Exactly." She leans her head on my shoulder. "Sil I was trying to explain that I know I'm deliberately avoiding intimacy by only going out with men that repulse me, but I can't bring myself to risk anything anymore."
"Oh."
A cascading silence ebbs in. Crickets. June Bugs. Cardinals. Squirrels. Mosquitoes.
"Risk. Is that what it is?"
"Of course. And its silly, but I fear it. I really do. It's not even that I fear it, well, I don't know. In my mid twenties I went through that cynical phase, you know, where I just wanted to get laid and stay single and have my freedom or whatever. And sure I went to my friend's weddings and I acted happy and everything, but inside it hurt me to see them give up. To settle into the same suburbia we tried to get out of, or at least I thought we we're trying to get out of." Chloe purses her lips, juts out the lower one and half blows half spits a stray clump of hair back up toward its brethren which are pulled back in a loose, and apparently somewhat ineffectual, ponytail.
"I lived like a 60's astronaut." She laughs. "And now that nearly everyone I know has gotten married or at the very least is so obsessed with their career-whatever the fuck that word means-I find myself alone. Don't take that the wrong way Sil, you know I love you. And James. And Scratch. And everybody else too. But I feel like the last woman on the moon. I feel like there was supposed to be more. I feel like saying, 'I feel like there was supposed to be more' shouldn't be such a clich. Kinda reinforces the original sentiment."
"Maybe there really did use to be more."
"You believe that?" Her skeptic eyes are measuring.
"Does it matter?"
"Maybe. But all this is just abstraction, what I started out to say was that I don't fear intimacy, I fear lack of independence. But I'm thirty now and I already know I'm not going to do anything with my life. I don't think I'm going home. I think I'm the last woman on the moon and I'm waving off the lander. Go home. I'm staying. I like it here. You know what the first thing an astronaut said the first time the orbited the moon? He said 'well, it's pretty gray.' It's pretty gray, Sil. It's pretty fucking gray. I'm trying to come to terms with the world not living up to my ideals and this asshole orbiting the moon says it's pretty fucking gray. Fuck him." Chloe wraps her hands around her legs pulling them tight to her chest and rests her cheek on her knees.
"He had an impoverished imagination."
Her head snaps up. "Life is a collision of imagination and observation Sil. He fucking failed."
"Maybe."
"No Sil. He failed. He was one of about thirty people that have seen the moon up close and all he got out of it was that it's gray. He fucking failed."
"You're assuming that gray meant nothing to him, but what if his grandmother had gray eyes and that was the one memory that came back to him when he was overwhelmed by being that close to the moon."
She rests her cheek on her knee again and rocks back and forth for a minute before speaking. "You're sweet Sil. You always defend people and want to think the best about them. I love you for that. In spite of the fact that deep down you're cynical too. But you try and that's what I love about you." Chloe stands and turns to go inside and fix lunch. She looks down at me with eyes I don't remember. "You know I once cried so hard I swallowed a moth." And she walks inside without another word.
After a while I follow her into the kitchen. Annie trots behind sniffing invasively at my butt. "Need help?"
Chloe shakes her head. I sit down at the table and try to ignore the puzzle pieces screaming at me in tinny squeals: we all fit together. We all fit together. We all fit together.
Chloe is chopping shallots with more force than is necessary, I can see her tricep flexing as her arm rapidly minces the shallots. "I was supposed to go out with this guy. This was junior high. Maybe high school. No junior high. Anyway we were supposed to ride our bikes to the park in the evening and he never showed up and I waited and waited. I was so in love with this guy. So at about 10 o'clock I'm out on the porch-sobbing now." She stops cutting and turns toward me. "You know those huffing snorting kind of sobs that women have when they're really upset? Hyperventilating sobs." She briefly demonstrates and ends up snorting like a warthog with emphysema. It's tragic and not a little bit funny. "And I was chewing gum. I always used to chew gum. So I'm in the rocking chair sobbing, arms around my knees... this is so pathetic... I inhaled a moth somehow and before I realized it I chewed him right into my gum. It was crackly at first, but then more like chewing feathers."
Her attention returns to the shallots. "I had a lot of disturbing, uh, incidents in childhood. I used to kidnap cats when I was little."
"Kidnap cats?"
"My parents wouldn't let me have a cat so I would go out and steal them from neighbors. At first I just petted them you know. Then I got one to follow me home. I felt like he loved me more than his owners and I cried when my parents took him home. I was probably seven or eight when this happened. After that I went farther from home, several blocks away where I knew my parents wouldn't know whose cat it was and they would have to post signs, found: cat. That sort of thing so, you know, I would have the cat for longer."
"Right."
"But these cats wouldn't follow me home. Too far I guess. So I would save my lunch money and on the way home from school I'd stop at Circle K and buy myself a slushy and Moon Pie and can of cat food. Then I'd ride my bike past my house, way back into the subdivision and lure cats home by dragging the cat food on a string behind my bike. One time I pulled into my driveway with three cats running behind me."
"You were a cat rustler."
"Yeah you know maybe that was the Texan coming out. Got to steal animals... I don't know. But one time after my parents had posted found cat signs and stuff this old lady came to our house to pick up her cat and she was so excited that I had found her cat she gave me twenty dollars, which, when we were kids was a lot of money. And bells went off in my head. So then I started kidnapping the cats for profit. I mean when I could. I tried to pick cats that looked pampered or that were sitting in front of old lady houses. You know lots of papers collecting on the porch. Beat up seventies sedans. I was pretty good at casing the block and finding the old lady cats. When they would come over I'd put on a cute little dress and smile and play dumb and they would give me a reward. One month I made $200. That's when my parents caught on."
"What'd they do?"
"Bought me a cat."
"Smart."
"Yeah, but by then I didn't want one."
Chloe has made a variation of a salad Scratch taught her how to make. Chloe can take an already good idea and transform it into something even better than it was. She is a shallot among onions. We eat spoonfuls of tuna tartar on toasted bread crusts and sip now warm beer. We sit under the tree away from the screaming puzzle, on what passes for a lawn. Here and there are tufts of grass, but mainly it's dirt, good digging dirt. Later we take the dishes inside and head off to the river. After a few cookie-cutter suburbs and a quick duck along the side of a house, sneaking over the back fence, heaving the dog and all, a shortcut Jimmy found a few months back, we join the river trail. Annie is fifty yards ahead darting about sniffing, endless sniffing, there must be a whole universe of smell that we never experience owing to evolutionary prioritizing, specialization, some such idea, certainly there seems enough to drive her insane with smell lust. We stick to the trail along the river's edge, walking absently, single file, paying little attention to each other. About half a mile's walk from the bridge where the road crosses the river, there is a rocky outcropping that juts out to the middle of the Oconee. Ever since the first warm days of spring we have been walking down here and lying on this rock, shirtless, basking in the sun like pink fleshy lizards. It's beautiful here, trees in bloom, sun warm and bright, air thick with river humidity, birds chattering in the bushes. Dragonflies flit in the middle of the sun-drenched stream; water striders dart about in pockets of glassy water stagnant from the sheltering rocks and fallen tree limbs. It is nothing but beautiful here, except that it's ugly. The old growth forests are gone, the river polluted with old tires, plastic baggies, and pesticides, and the sky choked with dirty brown haze and crisscrossed by streaking jet contrails. Still if you lie down and close your eyes, listen to the water and the insects and the birds and carefully edit out the cars back on the bridge, it sounds Mesozoic. It sounds inviting and warm. Careful editing. It's something you learn from film or television, you know just when to turn, just when to cut, just when to fade out, when the sunset imperceptible begins to wan, when the moment has reached apex, when the crescendo is tapering, and you turn away, spin the dial, change the channel. The couple is standing on the bluff with the setting sun behind them, maybe it's a tight shot, their faces two stories high and her moist lips backlit by a heart attack red in the sky, gentle purple clouds between their lips. The circle swooping pelicans and power lines and passing cars have been excluded from our view, or maybe it's a medium shot, from the waist up, them leaning on the black iron railing, the tops of the bluff in the distance keep your eyes from drifting off into the curtains, they draw you in, and the heart attack and the purple, she purses her lips so you know they are wet, inviting, soft. Maybe it's a long shot, they are smaller yet, only shadows now, happening against a background of pelicans and power lines and foreshortened cars passing in front; they are background now, noise around the edges of the scene, and yet they pull you forward, you demand the camera move in, you want it so badly, you want to be closer, you want to move in microscopic close-ups, the pores of her skin, the follicles of his stubble, the cracks of lipstick, the oil in their glands, the beautiful flaws they must have. Maybe they are shot from a boom, from above because you are better than them, you know their isolation is illusory, you sense them as you sense a computer is on the instant you step into a room, and you never forget that light is projected, your imagination drifts to dust in the beam, floating particles, they are part of the story too, because it is the same story, it is the only story, the only story there will ever be, the only story there is, forcing you to take it all in, to see everything-polluted and pure in one breath without looking. And Maya, where are you breathing? I am coming to you in a sweeping pan. In a long, low-flying, forward-looking shot that sweeps in, skimming over the Bronx, tenement bricks and children playing in empty lots, a bottle rocket shoots up and away, and across the river in a blink, the coughing brownstones of Harlem, then straight over the park, panning down with no foresight now, blindly buildings pass faster and faster and then sweeping up, screaming higher up and slowly falling over, a barnstorming backward loop and then diving down in jerky frames of cloud, distant skyscrapers, and a close up falling, down the bricks of a building fourteen stories high to the window on the north side of the third floor. And she is backlit by the evening sun reflected in the mirror, and it is too bright to see clearly, she is a shadow and then we move up again, gliding now like a bird, a falcon, a peregrine falcon roosting among the high rises of Wall Street, setting off hunting, skimming the wires and cables of the Manhattan Bridge, down Flatbush Avenue over the fire escapes of Seventh and First where one day, years from now, it might all make sense, dipping down to see the soft caressing bars of the railing where we will play games in the hot sun and laugh and not know what has become of ourselves but like where we come from, from these long running memories that look beautiful in the dark velvet draped room where no one is looking as the camera sweeps out now, over Coney Island, the lapping waves, and then finally the mouth of the river and only the endless rippling of sea, skimming closer, swells merging into one continuous mass that screams the same story again. We all fit together. We all fit together. We all fit together.
THREE
Slice life like bread gets stale faster-music gets rid of voice-guitar retires- faster newer smaller stuff-emotional plague hits west coast-thousands lost-Mayan caper inferred-ancient city found-new reality tunnel finished-down the driveway-next to the old rabbit hole-heads on tails-significantly more anxious-needed every day-sweeter than this-
Jimmy is sweeping the porch as I stroll up, his thin frame lost in a dusty cloud. He stops and coughs a minute or two. The haze settles a bit. He takes off his glasses and wipes them on the inside of his shirt. He is covered in dust with eyes ringed lemur white. Jimmy is a carpenter. A post-graduate carpenter because sawdust is more complex than the simple stuff of library shelves. Sawdust is soft tallow, a malleable tonic, and open to further disintegration, wood chips from rough planing, smaller particles expelled from whirling blades, the sugary whisper of dust expelled from sandpaper. Libraries have only one flavor of dust. Human debris. Tiny flecks of shedding skin accumulating around the glacial increase of perfect-bound knowledge, the decay of people, slowly falling apart in alphabetic lives. Sawdust is the evolution of form. Termites eat sawdust. Destruction and digested rebirth. Jimmy builds things with his hands. Sometimes pocked, slapshod things, framing and roofing to restore dilapidated houses. Once he spent two weeks digging in the crawlspace of a cinderblock shotgun house, thinking the whole time it was going to fall and squash him with the cockroaches and rats that scurried over his legs. His more exciting projects are the highly skilled woodworking ones-the gorgeous black walnut wine cellar he built last fall. He took me over to see it when it was done, sanded down to 220 grit, satin and specular, obsidian. It lives in the basement of a restaurant owner. It harbors vintage grapes from around the world behind its temperature-controlled, walnut-framed, glass doorway. There is a vacuum fan to suck out the dust and a once-a-week maid to free those particles too stubborn for wind.
In the process of building things, Jimmy goes in and out of many people's houses, under them, on top of them, and once, accidentally, through one of them. He sees an endless variety of lives revealed in collectibles, faded magazines, dolls, signs of defunct companies, pictures of children, vacations, friends, works by artists known and unknown, technological gadgets galore, and once, accidentally, his own contribution to an otherwise ornate living room-a ceiling, a fan, and a Jimmy deposited by gravity on a nice wooden coffee table covered with miniaturized food which had been set up for a dinner party. Jimmy invades people's lives. But they invite him in. And pay him for the invasion. Sometimes they pay him in things rather than money. Today he came home with a truck full of castoff furniture he has accumulated over the last several months. He has been storing it in his parents' garage, but now he is taking the plunge toward permanence, toward admitting residence. His truck is piled high with heavy objects, a sofa, a table, several chairs, a pinball machine recovered from his parents garage, and boxes of records that are too scratched to play.
"The only one I know for sure works is this Dylan album." He pulls out Blonde on Blonde.
"Never heard it."
"Really? Shit man. This is perhaps the greatest album ever made. I mean I might say that if I were the sort of person who said such things. Of course it's not true, but it is. Possibly. You have got to listen to it."
"No record player."
"Oh I have it on CD. Remind me."
As we unload the furniture Jimmy talks about Bob Dylan. When Jimmy is on a roll, it's best to just settle in and listen. He doesn't talk, he orates. There is no space in the conversation, no silence into which you might interject your own thoughts. Nor is there any discussion until he finishes the initial thought, and by the time you've let that one sink in, he's off on another. Eventually they pile up on each other, an enormous anthill, and you can only stand back and admire the scurrying echoes of his verbal architecture.
He has the history of Dylan seemingly wired to his tongue. He knows things about Dylan that Dylan doesn't know. He can do the same thing with jazz musicians that were dead before either of us were born.
"That album man, you have got to get that one...." He gives me this intense look as if my very life depends on it. "Whew. Man. It's the most amazing thing you have ever heard...again, if I were prone to making definitive statements like that, which I'm not. But, still it's incredible, a man at his most honed, unselfconsciously sharpened point, pure honesty, just telling it the way it is, and you know it is because you've been through the same things in your own life, or you can see them coming down the road. Ya know? It's Dylan just laying it all out on the table and you know that he's been there because you've been there too. That's what I'm trying to say. We've all been there and that is the underlying thing on the whole album, I mean fuck the music-well no, because it's great too-but you know what I mean? Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands... you have got to hear that man, you have got to hear that song." We put down an enormous toolbox in the middle of the living room. "And the images, man the fucking images, you can't fake images with that kind of power. They aren't just words cleverly strung together, it isn't some bullshit cleverness strung out on a hook, lying in wait for some beret to bite or anything of that sort. To sing what he does, whew, man," he blows a long slow exhale of admiration. "You have to feel it. You have to fucking feel it. Otherwise..."
"Otherwise you wouldn't feel it."
"Exactly." He smiles eyeing the toolbox, "I think I'll just use this as a coffee table. Is that too white trash gearhead? To have a toolbox as a coffee table? I broke up with what's her name you know. She's crazy. Or I am. There was something crazy about us. It didn't work. The point is if I have a toolbox as a coffee table I'm going to stay single, that much is clear. But is it going to hamper my getting laid? Is it a little too much? Do I need to soften the room a bit? Something that will make a woman more at ease?
"Chloe won't be over."
"She's not over now. She hangs out at your place. She only comes over here when she's out of weed."
"I don't think having a toolbox in the middle of your living room will effect your getting laid at all. I mean, if you actually get a girl back here, I'd say she's already into you. Or she's too scared to run."
"Hey now."
"I just mean, you know, when you drive in here at night... hell I expect to get killed every time I come home. Its all dark and foresty back here. We all live in the serial killer's house. Think about it, Jason started in cabins in the woods. Every late night skinnemax movie has one of these places in it."
"Hey maybe we could make some cash letting low-budge films shoot around here."
"Maybe. But the point is you're better off going to her house anyway."
"Yeah."
We drink beer and unload furniture. Jimmy keeps going back to Dylan every time we're standing at the tailgate because the record is sitting on top of the box and he avoids the box in favor of much heavier, bulkier items. A glass table for the kitchen. A bookshelf in one corner. An antique pinball machine with the tilt alarm blinking stupidly as we half drag half carry it inside. He rediscovers the album every return trip. But Dylan is only the launch pad, there is only so much one can say, from there he slings out along the Saturn line shouting down echoes of the view. His eyebrows arch up when he tries to talk and lift something at the same time. When he's not carrying something, his arms dice up the air trying to drive his point home. His voice leads out the door down the steps and back to the album.
"I'm telling you, you have got to hear that album. I can't believe you lived this long without hearing that album. But it's not just an album. It's a verb, an act in which the artist connects with the audience and transcends this kind of stale artificial reality that says we're all separate and individual and what not. We're hung up on this individuality kick you know, the freedom to do your own thing. You only go so far. Your mind maybe infinite but your body is not. That's the essential mystery maybe. And we need community to go further. And I don't mean some West Virginia hippy crap kind of community. I mean meaningful relationships with other people. And not just like-minded people, because that's the clause that's often at the end of that line. You need to know people you hate. People that make you cringe. People that stir violence in you. You need them. You need them because you are them. Them is you. Ugly and sweet."
It is one of those Octavio Paz nights where the sky speaks Spanish and looks surly, doubly purple its usual self, and the stars are a Navaho sand painting stretched across the ceiling of the world. Serpentine eels wiggling around in the electrical storm of the mind. Lightening strikes somewhere, a thought in an architect's head, suspension bridge wires, wink and smile.
The Falcon roars. It is our fading youth, but not middle aged or mid-twenties crisis sort of fading youth. Such things having come and gone with the uncomfortable realization that nothing ever happens. Tall buildings are raised. Then razed. You go on. You don't want to. You want it to be painful, you want it to be so fucking gloriously painful it makes you cry. But it doesn't. And even if it did, what then? Space changes. Time fluctuates. But it plods on, the purr and growl of cylinders roaring, then settling, then roaring. In the intermittent silence of shifting gears the questions loom, perhaps it is all a lie and you are alone, perhaps the questions are only slow, insidious dribbles of propagandacid trickling from your oil filter, leaving thick meaningless splotches on the asphalt, a slow drain needing only a new filter. Perhaps you are sitting in the machine, on the machine, perhaps the machine is you, the acceleration an extension of femur to tibia, to talus, to phalanges and fading slowly from flesh and bone to leather and rubber, and then metal rods, a cable snaking through the firewall, an exposed and surprisingly flimsy extension from mind to throttle in one unbroken line, room for silence only in the space between sole and accelerator.
Downtown. The Manhattan. We are in the Manhattan. There are drinks on the table, drinks poured in the mismatched helter-skelter collection of glasses used to transfer the goods into the service. Jimmy is talking, no longer his animated self, a brief pause, his second wind will kick in soon. He is saying things quietly. Excuses I believe. Excuses for the excuses that have grown weary of dragging around. He feels nothing is getting done and he knows why. It isn't going to get done. Lullabies. Turn the page. When you look in his eyes, his moving lips, they look just like yours, how you imagine yours to look, how yours must look when you spit out your own excuses for the excuses that are excusing things you perhaps ought not to have been trying to do in the first place and you wonder if people look at your teeth when you talk or do they look at your eyes with the arrogance of complacency and contentment, watching smugly as your teeth begin to fall out, and you chew them, bleeding gums, torn lips and chunks of tooth choking back the words.
And all the while the shuffling of indie rock feet scuffing from door to bar, the awkward brush of corduroy pants, the stealthy screaming fibers of too tight t-shirts stretching to meekly collect drinks and shuffle off to a corner table. But we are in the corner table. We have your corner table. You are in the open now. You are exposed. All of you. We're staring at you. Do you feel on stage? Isn't it what you've always wanted? The thing too dangerous to be dreamed, the thing you have denied yourselves for so long. Slouching, weepy-eyed, meekly waiting to inherit? This is what you want. We are giving you the opportunity. You are seizing it, I can see it in your hunched shoulders, the semi-permanent curvature of the spine developed from too many years spent bending over thrift store racks, record bins, eyes squinted from reading the imprints of limited edition vinyl. You will come here soon. Soon the filters will spring leaks. Thick warm liquid will begin to ooze out, cigarette breath grow hotter, hearts sputter, and you will want to feel, you will want so fucking bad to feel. But it doesn't come. It is leaking out from under you, crumbling from the inside. Violent smugness is leaking from drinks, hazardous waste collecting and pooling, seeping across the floor.
Maya has a picture of me. A picture of me which she routinely photoshops with various outfits stolen from other pictures. She dresses me as a cowboy, as a superhero with a mahogany colored cape, as a handyman with a tool belt after I fixed the leak in her sink last summer, as a prizefighter in the ring with Ali after I got thrown out of the Incandescent for beating up the bouncer, as a eurotrash tourist to remind her of my obsessive habit of taking pictures of garbage, in buckskin fringed pants for the time I dragged her off to the mountains to club her and have my way with her, as she requested, the fire crackling with the sizzle of dripping fat from steaks, as a marine for my protective move when the potato exploded and the white hot chunks covered my body instead of hers. She had been using a picture she took of me lying in bed. We were running late to one of our rich daddy dinners with her possibly rich daddy who lives in a mysterious state of fabulously wealthy poverty. Other people's money tastes better.
She was doing her impish young artist act and I was playing along, but trying to reverse things. I have a very peculiar look on my face, one I have never seen before. I have lecherous eyes and my body is a clumsy anticipation of movement. She took the picture the instant before I leapt out of bed and wrestled the camera from her
"My turn."
"Who said anything about turns?"
"Take off your clothes"
"You're unbearable." But. Licorice lips part, half-moon, and she begins to disrobe- trickles of silk and lace sliding down smooth shale arms, rivulets of rye whiskey piling on the floor-nipples like soft serve.
"What-no panties? The pile is incomplete."
"You haven't even kissed me. Shouldn't you be making some kind of move?"
"Move?"
"Yeah. You know seduction, game, something...?"
"We're too old. Just take off your panties."
"Why?"
"Cause your pussy's tired of being caged in panty prison. Its been locked up for too long, it's like Nelson Mandela-end apartheid. End Apartheid!"
"Nelson Mandela? My pussy is Nelson Mandela?"
"Yes Nelson Mandela. Now take off your panties and let that pussy make a speech."
And she did.
Of course I don't have the photographs.
But tonight. After more purring and roaring and a little more drunken careening on the down trip, we are up here. Home again. And there is new email. A photograph of me taken across a table, a checked cloth and jar of syrup apart, I can see her smiling, though it could be any table, any syrup, I can see her smiling, a detached mouth hanging from the lens, a little nymph hanging off her teeth as the shutter whispers.
And here I am all pixilated and dressed in black with a Jesuit wide brim hat. Give me a new religion.
Chloe disrupts the indie rock calm of the Manhattan. She sashays Saturday night with glittering toenails wrapped in heels with more strap than is necessary-excess is best-and the nearly unheard of skirt. Heads turn as heads do whenever the door slams shut behind someone, but then heads snap back to whatever they were doing lest the girlfriend across the table in the paint stained overalls detect a pique of interest-the girlfriends' glitterless scornful glares-you bitch you tramp you whore you porn-enjoying feminism-destroying carnivore...
"Damn girl." Jimmy shits bolt upright when Chloe comes over, "you be looking fine tonight."
Chloe turns red. "I hate this town sometimes. In New York I'd be getting stared at for looking like a librarian."
"No trust me Chloe, New York couldn't miss you tonight. Or maybe New York is missing you tonight."
Our friend Jason the bartender, pulls up a chair and looks Chloe up and down. "You are aware of course that you're upsetting some carefully constructed mopishness here."
"No shit. Sil and I were just about to water down our drinks with a tear or two and suddenly it's a fucking party in here. I mean good lord Chloe I think I might want to sleep with you." Jimmy murmurs the end of his sentence, the top of his half raised bottle and then quickly puts it to his lips before anything less leaks out. But his head tilts to side, eyebrows shoot up and it's plain to see that it's only a joke if Chloe wants it to be.
Her head sinks down a touch and she sighs like someone suddenly exhausted.
"Or play with your breasts or something." He adds after swallowing.
"Jimmy if you are a good boy maybe someday you can play with these babies." She juts her chest out and then bounces her breasts for effect.
Jason the bartender is a mixture of aghast and unbridled lust. "What about me?"
"Actually you have a far better chance than Jimmy, who I was actually lying to just then. And now that I think about it Jason, I'm lying to you too in hopes that maybe you'll bring me another drink." She sucks her straw playfully.
He sighs. "Anybody else need anything?" He leaves to retrieve another round.
"So why were you about to cry in your beer boys?"
"Same reason you dressed up like that."
"But come on its satanic anagram night... you have to dress up for anagrams..."
"Right. I had forgotten about that little adventure..."
Jason returns with three more drinks. "What little adventure?"
This is the part where Chloe is supposed to explain it very innocently, and Jason is supposed to giggle or at least smile, but Chloe hesitates and Jimmy jumps in with a cover story-our anagrams are of dubious legality you see, not to mention ethics or taste or any number of other things.
"Oh we were just talking about going up to some of the party bars and turning it up a notch... there was some discussion of dancing." Jimmy manages to get this all out without a smile and then glues the beer to his lips and takes a long, probably too long, pull. Jason looks unconvinced, but he buys in.
"There's a good DJ tonight at whatever Mean Mike's is now." Most people in Athens refer to establishments by what they used to be before the scene took a dive-with bars coming and going with the semesters, it's hard to keep track of what things are called. The Manhattan on the other hand soldiers on. "You know next week we're having Moroccan night... Ya'll should come. I was skeptical at first but it seems like it might actually be fun. Gonna clear out the tables... get a bunch of pillows and some hucas and maybe even a belly dancer."
Jimmy hunches over in concern, "ya'll aren't going bankrupt are you?"
"No. Not yet. But it's definitively geared toward avoiding that."
"You know what you really need to do is implement the plan." Jimmy tilts his bottle as if toasting some abstraction.
"You love your plan don't you James." Jason weaves slightly in his chair he has a habit of doing what Chloe endearingly calls the body laugh. He wears a blank smile and almost imperceptibly rotates his torso without moving anything below his hips. It's a subtle but brilliant laugh, it makes entire rooms spin with him. Fake candle lights that have been fake flickering above our head suddenly leap out of the wall at me and start a conga line with their arms on each others' backs, kicking their legs out to alternating sides, clogging to the beat of Lola. And then he stops.
"Hey man, I'm telling you, bikini bartenders will draw in a hell of lot more people than Moroccan night or whatever."
"Not if I'm the one in a bikini."
"Hey Jason don't under-estimate yourself. I'd be in here more if you wore a thong." Chloe crosses her legs and grins at him. "But you know this is one of the few towns in the world where sex doesn't seem to sell."
"Girl you be talking crazy." Jimmy screws up his forehead into the self-conscious knot he favors when he attempts to propel himself out of his skin color and into the rainbow world of rants. His arms come up from his sides, called into the service of emphasis, and he launches into a diatribe, volume escalating as he takes off. "Just cause ya'll aren't trying to sell sex does not, emphatically does not, mean that it wouldn't work if somebody in this town had the balls to do it. Look here, all you gotta do is have one night a week with Kelly and Brittany in bikinis-or better yet-no offense to them-you know I love them-they're my girls-but recruit a couple of girls from the club and get them to serve wearing bikinis and this place will be fucking packed," He stands up and sweeps his arm across the room, "I mean look at these guys," he lowers his voice, waves to friend, "these guys are desperate for half-naked female flesh. They can't go down to the club because they'd loose face, but damnit they want to see naked women, and they'll settle for half, everybody wants to see half naked women, half naked women want to see half naked women... I'm for real Jason. And I know what you're gonna say it'll draw in the wrong crowd and that will alienate the cool people and whatever, but shit you only do it one night a week and that pays for the rest of the nights so it can just be a good bar and not end up bankrupt. Or you know what you could do..." he pauses for a minute and studies the conspicuous bamboo thrones chairs-king square backed, queen triangle-as if suddenly mulling over their significance. "What you could do is start a backroom game... Cards man. Get a couple of poker tables, maybe a blackjack table for the amateurs, girls in bikinis serving drinks and making the rounds with the cigarette trays... man that would be so fucking cool and of course you just charge twenty bucks for entrance and keep it real low-key. People would pay twenty dollars to sit in on a nice backroom game. Shit ask Sil people are fighting to get into our game-am I right Sil?-I mean that's what's wrong around here there isn't enough corruption-everything has been sanitized and made PG and damnit the people want R. Fuck it man the people want X, but they can't come out and say it. I mean ferchristsakes you can't even serve on Sunday-what the fuck is that about-it is the twenty first century isn't it? Sometimes I'm walking around downtown on a Sunday night and I have to pull out my checkbook and double-check the year... This town, this whole fucking country is begging for sex, corruption and debauchery. Of course I have to add the caveat that we don't need the racism and sexism and all that shit, but really have we gotten rid of that? Shit man try working construction for a few days, those mutherfuckers are every bit as racist as their daddys' were, they just whisper the jokes to each other now... and the sexism well I guess you could argue that my bikini bartenders idea is a touch sexist, but shit I mean the line between exploitation and enjoyment is a dicey one and frankly I think it would be a good idea to have you in a bikini as well, Jason. Maybe you should just hand them out at the door, everybody could be in bikinis and we could all just sit back and admire each other as the over-sexed, lecherous, debaucherous, and damn good lookin monkeys that we are." Jimmy sinks back down to the cushion-finis.
"It is a plan." Jason deadpans.
"See I like the end where the men are in bikinis... I'm an equal opportunity lecher." Chloe giggles at her own wit.
"Yeah, but," I do a quick survey of the room and then look down at my stomach, "are you sure you want to see a bunch of fat skinny guys in bikinis?"
"Fat skinny guys?" Jason looks at me quizzically.
"People like you and I, who do not, as our lean mean Jimmy over there, work construction or otherwise exercise and have the dreaded slightly pot-bellied body of the fast skinny guy. Scratch being the one who actually caused me to notice the phenomenon."
"Sil you are not fat. Have some respect. How do you think it makes people who really are fat feel when you say you're fat?" Chloe looks at me crossly. Her sister is over-weight. Everyone we actually know is over-weight, only strangers are fat.
"You're missing the point. I'm not saying I'm fat. I'm saying I'm fat for a skinny guy. It's a very important distinction."
Jason heads back to work,, pausing briefly to look at his profile in the mirror hanging between the throne chairs. He looks back at me and smiles and pats his stomach.
"Besides a little stomach is sexy. I wouldn't worry about it until you have handles." Chloe folds her legs up under her, sitting Indian style and lights a cigarette.
Jimmy, who has been silent for a few minutes, suddenly seems to snap back from where ever his mind has been. "Man I was just thinking about something or other... temporarily lost track of where I was and then I noticed Chloe and for a split second between synaptic firings I thought goddamn who is that?"
"Jimmy lay off. I let you get away with it for the novelty, but you're bordering on annoying now."
"Chloe you're lookin' so good I'm thinking maybe we should go for a ride..."
"Alright." She downs the rest of her drink in one long suck. "Yeah let's go for a ride."
It's heaven. No other way to say it. Complete with feathers, though here they are carefully stuffed. Only he-whose-name-may-not-be-uttered knows what divine substance they put on top of this mattress which, in other ways, resembles the one I have, although it's unlikely this one was left behind by a man moving to Australia. This one was purchased in all its consumer glory at some star-spangled mattress dealer-probably in Atlanta-probably by parental units desperate for some way to dispense love to the daughter who is not following the plan.
Whatever the case, the soft billowing pillow-top is the perfect thing to lie on, with your head hanging off the edge, after tying a few on as Jimmy puts it. We three are fallen dominos lying head to toe such that Chloe and I are separated by Jimmy's feet. Chloe has shed the skirt and strappy shoes in favor of sweatpants and converse. We are waiting. Waiting for the witching hour when all satanic things stir and muck about rearranging letters and such. Which is why we have all recently taken an internet quiz to determine which Norwegian Death Metal Band we are. On the stereo...may the good lord... shine a light on you...make every song... your favorite tune...
Darkthrone: Without religion there would be no kinky sex.
Enslaved: Without that strange Norwegian phrase which you didn't understand anyway you wouldn't be Darkthrone.
Darkthrone: Like you know one way or the other. The point to this whole thing- considering tonight's adventure-is that, in spite of mocking religion and yes being somewhat condescending toward it, without it half of the kink in this world would not exist. And like you said at the bar, there are those that think a totally healthy approach to sex would be a good thing, but personally I think it's a little boring. And I think religion deserves some credit here and there. The soft brush of the whip... [a descent into laughter]
Enslaved: Maybe. And Chloe, I have to say if anyone is having kinky sex it's Sil and Maya. You know they're freaks...
Darkthrone: Freaks? What do you mean freaks?
Enslaved: I mean you know they into some freaky shit. I mean come on. Look at the guy.
Cradle of Filth (aside): Jimmy laughs what I take to be a knowing laugh though I haven't the faintest idea why he proposes to be knowing. Mark Twain pointed out that, not only are humans the only animal capable of blushing, we're the only animal with the need to.
[M: Why do you want to fuck me in the ass so badly?
S: Because it won't go in. If it went in easy, all pornstar style, I'd be bored with it. Maybe. After twenty or thirty times
M: You want to go to a forbidden place...
S: Yeah I guess. Do we have to analyze it? I guess your ass is like Kubla Khan and shit.
M: (laughs)
S: I want to dine on honeydew and drink the milk of paradise.]
Darkthrone (evaluating): Is it true Sil? Wait, actually, I don't want to know.
Cradle of Filth: I have no idea what he is talking about. I own no whips.
Enslaved: Yeah but does your girlfriend?
Cradle of Filth: Of course. I mean why would I have them? She never comes down here and that whole thing can be embarrassing at random luggage search.
Darkthrone: Why is it that she doesn't come down here.
Cradle of Filth (after too much silence): I'm not sure actually. To tell you the truth, at first I didn't care because I love going up to Manhattan, but lately I have been thinking about that.
"Sorry. I wasn't trying to make you feel bad... I just assumed there was some good reason." Chloe sits up and turns to leans against the pillowed wrought iron of her headboard, she rests her legs on Jimmy's and lights a cigarette.
"Sometimes you can see the proverbial writing and just stare at it until it's meaningless letters and never read what it says." No one responds to this thought and I sit up and study Chloe's bedroom. Somewhere in here Noah turned the helm to its final unknown destination and abandoned ship. My own bedroom suddenly feels cold, hard and inadequate. Chloe's bedroom is colorful and soft, full of pillows and comforters and enormous mattresses buttressed against the mythology of the pea. The enormous candles and antique perfume sprayers feel loved, if they were in my bedroom they would look deliberate, items for sale in a junk store. Here they are transformed in the waves of candle light that break across the mottled crimson walls. Above the dresser pinned and peeling back from the wall is a portrait of William Blake. The conjunction of ceiling and wall is interrupted by a string of tiny blue lights causing the wall to fade from crimson to purple to the blue ocean of ceiling. Even Maya's bedroom lacks this kind of continuity, her antique hat rack draped with boas and chemises and nightgowns has always seemed slightly out of place-posing for a photograph. The only thing in my bedroom that means anything to me is a bag of rocks, a leather pouch I got at a tourist stand in New Mexico filled with the small stones they pulled out of what used to be my eyebrow. After that I started periodically adding rocks, pebbles really, to the pouch, pebbles that had never been a part of me. When I die I want the mortician to put them all back in my skin.
"Shall we?" Chloe stubs out her cigarette.
Suburbia three A.M. We have left the relative cool of Chloe's bedroom for the sticky streets of Athens.
"You think god wants to hang around heaven with a bunch of christians? How much fun is blind acquiescence? I mean look at celebrities, that's the closest thing we have to godheads right? So? Look who the smart interesting ones are always hanging around with... need I call to attention RS? I mean when you see him around town who is he with? People that don't give a fuck who he is... People that have know him long enough to know he's just another guy with personal problems. God wants to sit around with atheists and have a decent discussion. He wants dialogue. If he actually exists that is."
"Uh, hold up a minute, you lost me." Chloe shakes her head side to side as if it's going to clear up the bottle of wine her brain is swimming through. "Who is RS?"
"Resident Rock Star, slightly shortened..." Jimmy's voice has the faked patience of one explaining geometry to a sixth grader.
"Oh right. Sorry. Wasn't down with the lingo." She starts walking again. "But wouldn't it be pretty stupid to be an atheist and sitting in the same room with god?"
"Maybe. But what does it take to be god? I mean is god all-powerful because he just is? Or does his power come from people believing in him? In other words wouldn't god be most threatened by, and therefore interested in, those who would or do deny him the power to exist? I guess my idea of an atheist isn't someone who doesn't believe in god, but someone who isn't willing to accord him the power he demands. So in that sense, no I don't think it would be stupid... the world is a self-created phenomenon. And so is god's power."
"That's actually quite beautiful Jimmy." Chloe lets us pass her and then comes running up behind Jimmy and jumps on his back. "You make me want to be an anarchist." She kicks her heels against him and they take off down a long sloping hill that leads toward the graveyard. I walk alone through the darkness.
About a year ago Chloe decided that the propoganacid of Southern churches had eaten enough useless holes in her brain and she was going to fight back. She enlisted Jimmy and I in her efforts and now every Saturday night-after consuming copious amounts of alcohol-we go out and rearrange the letters on the signs. Last Christmas was my favorite. It was the same church we're going to do tonight, we changed JESUS IS THE REASON FOR THE SEASON, to SEASON THE FETISH, USE FOR REASON. We had a left over H several R's from another church on the other side of town, which Jimmy thinks is cheating, but he's outnumbered. Season the fetish was up for three days before anyone at the church noticed or bothered to change it back. It feels good to see your words in a marquee, luminous and two feet high. It feels even better to rid the world of banality, however small and insignificant a gesture it might be. Tonight's objective is PRAYER WORKS, which is going to be altered to GET YER HORSES, which is exactly the counter-intuitive kind of dissidence that Chloe loves. I thought, as long as we're adding letters, why not go with FUCK YER HORSE, but we agreed to no obscenities.
To get to this particular sign we have to pass directly through the church's cemetery, Cemeteries are best at dusk when the ghosts are just getting up, still sleep-eyed and prone to making noises, whispers of wind when there is no wind, rustles of grass where no animal is running, fingers scraping headstone marble, covered in lichens and half obscured by leaves, readable now in the moonlight ...died 1910...died 1947...died 1892...died....
Chloe and Jimmy are crouched silently behind a crypt, monstrous and out of place, a monument to the arrogance of a bloodline hiding behind the name Fortson, streets, parks, probably a non-profit agency for the advancement of southern quilting.... But it does make for good cover in our situation-dead Fortsons stacked on the other side of the concrete wall we lean against, unwittingly aiding and abetting the bored anarchism of fast retreating summer nights. Bodies, perhaps nothing but bone now, the last remnants of human debris having been sluffed off, skin and fingernail bits dusting the bottom of the worm eaten fabric liners, only bones, worn out and no longer needed, encased in wood or fiberglass or some polymer designed to spare the living the thought of what mess must be left after eighty years of decay. Synthetics, each the highest technology of its day desperately trying to hide the one inevitability we know, the failure of the organic in the field of permanence and yet even in death unwilling to return to organic origin, separate even in our rotting, still useless and detached. In myths we hide in the sky, Orion, the Pleiades, the Horsehead Nebula, clusters bloated with grandparents, great aunts, uncles from the revolution, tragic children in ribbons blowing pinwheel constellations, rotating galaxies, black holes of bitter pious old men, neutron stars for lonely celluloid fatales, dressed in silver and longing, but knowing all the while that the scaffolding is wood and fiberglass and workmanship. Constructs of carpenters and architects, city planners and funeral directors, sawdust and sweat from the living.
A quick game of rock/paper/scissors sends me scrambling up the terribly exposed grassy hill toward the sign, sweaty palms gripping the extra letters.
Prayer may work but you better get yer horses just in case.
At home I put in Jimmy's cd and stare at the phone. Maya. The phone. Bellsouth a bastard son of Bell labs. Maya all tangled in wires and switches and routers and gates and filters and then there she is. Maybe. No way to really know for sure. A voice. Flattened and dribbling out, amplified by more circuits and switches and more zeros turned to one and back again, but always one or the other. This to a background of mumbles and rasps. Mr. Dylan doing his naivist. The reverberations of something ancient and universal, perhaps a touch overwrought, but warm nonetheless. More zeros and ones and lasers and laboratory genius to span time and space. Not tonight. Only flesh will do tonight or the imitation of flesh through some archaic means. I want to hear you on an old crystal quartz, tinny speakers and Roosevelt having just signed off, a commercial for Burma Shave and Murray's Cream and then Maya, warm soft lips pressed to the silver screen of the condenser, to be able to see her, headphone clasped to one ear, just from the tone of her voice, the background rustle of sateen skirts and flower embroidered cashmere... To drive home a Model A, fedora cocked back, suspenders loosened, flowers wrapped in yesterday's newspapers... smile my way home to some Indiana farmhouse and find her waiting at the end of the dirt road, jumping on the running board and kissing the length of the driveway, holding her widebrimmed hat with one arm, the other wrapped around the rearview, lips suckled to mine and just keep driving and driving make wide open circles through rows of corn and elms and maybe a straight unbroken line as far as the eye can see, we stay like that clear through to the badlands of Wyoming...
I turn out the lights and walk in the bedroom. Mr. Dylan continues to... well it's not 'sing' is it... he makes up for it somehow... with shear will. Gut and will. Turning on the fan by the window, movement in my peripherals makes me jump back. Trapped between the helterskelter outside screen and the window is the most enormous, grotesque cockroach I have ever laid eyes on. It's over two inches in length and possesses a magnificent pair of wings, which click against the window as it tries to free itself. Hideous mini-arms extend from its head, enormous pincer-like implements that dredge up classic sci-fi monsters and celluloid nightmares of a thousand shapes and sizes, the auxiliary limbs are scraping at the liquid sand, a futile attempt to construct a glass pyramid or escape its condition or maybe one leads to the other. The screen which traps him against the window does not actually fit the window; it was too tall so I simply wedged it in place, knowing full well that this sort of entomological invasion would not be stopped by my makeshift buttress. Some instinct has driven him upward to the top of the window where the screen is closest to the glass. I watch him struggling to find an escape. You need to go down I tell him. I tap the glass and try to herd him on a downward path, but this only goades him to attempt flight, tearing his wings against the screen. They flake apart, crumbling piecrust wings sliding softly down the windowpane. And your saint-like face and your ghostlike soul, Oh, who among them do you think could destroy you... Mexico City: the blind beggars gouge out their children's eyes upping the pity ante and reach into those pockets a little bit deeper. Irony the petty buttressing of a child's sandcastle against a cresting tsunami, the last ditch architecture of those unused to confronting the raw, the unpitted, the full size ear of corn, the olive pre-canning, the reek of half fermented cheese, too far gone milk, rancid butter, the raw and its tendency toward, its preference for, the rot. Somewhere there are great piles of children's eyes, some horrifying physical monument, empty eye sockets through the sticky haze, the red and white tattered woven blankets on which the beggars sit, old women starving in the shadows, the gasoline sunrise in Guatemala, cresting over the decomposing bodies of mass graves...flying right out of gaping empty eye sockets. Something to stop the leaks. Something that feels like it will never die but is transient, malleable, and divinely human. Something holy to sift through our garbage and find the discarded gems languishing on piles of steaming filth. No one goes down anymore. Everything at once delicate and obscene and the phone unplugged.
Lying down on the bed, back against the wall, cigarette between the lips, ashtray cradled on the stomach... There is a pounding again. Indistinct, from far off, the beating of wings in the distance-wind working the leaf-chimes, water on the percussion and our very special guest this evening, please give him a warm welcome...all the way from Peking on the back of a butterfly... the same temperature as the sun...crowd goes wild... But it all serves as clutter to hide the silence, the darkness just outside the careful window, the translucent edges of Dylan's nasal protest, between the safer glimmering of distant windows, Jimmy's windows, vaguely Chloe's, voyeur glimmers, other safely walled eyes watching the darkness but unable to bear it on the skin, the dreadful doubts and opposition held at bay by the baptismal liquid, fire roasted sand to keep us from having to...But the beating of wings, the distant rumble of was-it-only thunder, or something more watching in the shadows our cartoon lives, zoo exhibits behind glass...There are rumors. And bones. Bones of the roman churches-stronger than any prophet's stuttering murmurs-bones that never turned to dust, preserved and immobile to make you wonder, did their owner only step out for the papers? Did a whole culture step out for the paper together? Do the ghosts of mass graves congregate together to huddle and hold to watch the fearful show carry on without, huddled all together, hoarse voices in the shadows decided to make it impossible to leave-don't think that because you never pulled the trigger you're innocent-as if culpability required action-to get clear of this you see... cacophonous sine waves, disarrayed, and carrying in our wake the sewage of useless entrails falling from the butcher's block. Men in black robes and others in white coats all singing glory glory hallelujah around a glowing metallurgic altar. Ambulance sirens wailing as they round the corner... faces fade into the road, beaten, bruised and swollen. Others watch from distant buttes spattered in blood, endless blood; rivers of blood running down the chopping block as the butcher frantically dices ever smaller... roasts into steaks, into filets, into shish-ka-bobs, into hors d'oeuvres, into mashed paste, pate, and finally only watery blood, running off the block and out into the street gathering speed as it moves over hills, lifting up, pooling in the great valleys and lapping at the butte shores as they dance naked around bonfires.... Geysers of blood sprout from a ground that can no longer contain itself; blood bank employees hang hoses into the street and collect a year's worth before they drown in it. Towns and cities are swallowed whole, the blood oozes down from the north, from the land of the bleached-skin cave dwellers, trickling over the Mediterranean drowning the Elysian Fields and then the Nile runs red. Africa is laid waste and the oceans swell and wash over Canada and America. Tidal waves of blood a thousand feet high and moving 200 miles an hour fueled by the energy of a comet that lands in the midst of the riparian blood-world and blows it all back out into space, powders all life into a fine dust that settles over everything, over the mountains and valleys and oceans, and the remaining rivers of blood, until what is left is absorbed into the heart core of history leaving behind fresh cool water that pools and settles slowing to a gentle meander, out to the sea, shiny brown bodies glistening from the humidity, from the endless sweat that pours off...the sky was screaming a cerulean sound... I want to be baptized, to be held down under the muddy red water until I can no longer hold my breathe and inhale the murk in desperate gulps...the metallic taste enveloping me...and never go to sleep.
FOUR
Vague vulgarities-nothing so meaningful-all this around us-disassociated translucent film from the dentist X-ray-orgonomic sunshiny day-rats creeping across the ceiling in bibelot herds-rattle of bones-do-make-say-think-sweat-buzzing-insects-
fumbling-cigarette-lighter-flame-inhale-exhale.
What is that far off hideousness? That infernal twang drifting out of the otherwise solemn jungle? It's leaking in between the chinks of rotten caulk around the window. Or maybe it has always been in here just waiting for the right moment to switch itself on. All it needed was that last little E that it found this morning under the curious lichen clump that has sprung up around the toilet, one little E and it's on-one. No I have to get out of bed and find a Z and R neither of which are where I thought I left them, just an empty plastic bottle with a peeling sticker...leve... V is so close to Z but right now I need a Z and V's just won't cut it. Soldier heavily to the fridge. Pour tall glass of water. Consume without breathing. Pant for a moment. Wait, stop. The twang is gone. Must have been a Z or two in that water. I like to think its all H's and O's, but ground water is unpredictable. Liable to be most anything lurking in there and the carbon filter of the Brita is a good defense but some things, like Z's, are damn sneaky.
Most likely it was Scratch. He is convinced he can play the banjo he got from his mysterious absentee girlfriend, who, from what we gather, is somewhere down there. How far is inconclusive, though Jimmy claims its Costa Rica. But that could just be an assumption he made because with Scratch everything ends up in Costa Rica sooner or later.
Scratch is the poorest millionaire I've ever met. Like most people I met Scratch because of a bad set of directions. This morning Scratch looks part lunatic, part sage. He is sitting in the tire swing in front of his house, a wistful look on his face; he reminds me of a potatohead toy with a pasted on goatee and slightly askew lips, eyes that look out of order, screwed up and glinting earnestly. He's stripped to the waist with his T-shirt wrapped around his head like a turban. He's hunched over plucking at the banjo looking a touch toward the dwarf end of the spectrum, though he would be some freakish dwarf who tipped back one too many rBGH laden pints -He's six feet tall and going bald-but with his butt hanging down his legs appear foreshortened and silly swinging a couple inches off the ground.
Scratch is a self-inflicted nickname, but sometimes you have to do that to avoid something much worse coming your way, pre-emptive strike. Harm reduction the Pentagon calls it. I always figured the name came from the way he itches his head when he's trying to find the words he needs, or the way his hands wipe over his face when he sits back on the couch. It's like he's making sure he still has skin.
Scratch's house is not technically on the same land as mine, I have to traverse the outer edge of the ridiculously large chunk of land that a poor unsuspecting yuppie thought would be a good investment. Technically, Scratch has told me, the yuppie owns everything within about ten feet of the back of my cottage, but he put his fence in about a hundred yards further back, which means that I can cut around the back of my house, drop down in the gully and follow it for about a half mile and I come to Scratch's doorstep. This is the long way around but it's easier than marching across the yuppie's back lawn, tangling with his dogs and pregnant wife. Scratch and his banjo are high on the yuppie's to do list.
"You're late." He barks when I hear me.
I sit down on his chopping stump. "Late night."
"Girls?" He sets down the banjo.
"Does Chloe count?"
"Does Chloe count? The gem of Athens? For you no. For me no. For everybody else...." He ducks under the top of the tire and leans back arms extended. He emits a long groan that doesn't quite cover up the crackle of vertebrae.
"The gem of Athens...? Scratch do you have a thing for Chloe?"
"The appreciation of beauty is my life Sil. Chloe is second only to Leah." He pulls himself back up and ducks under the top of the tire again. He hesitates for minute and then executes a weird, but graceful bodyvault from the tire swing, landing on his left leg, right one hovering just off the ground. He lowers it slowly and smiles at me. "Eh? Pretty good for a guy that fell fourteen thousand feet huh?"
"Graceful as ever." I shiver whenever Scratch mentions the accident.
"Where is our beauteous one this morning?"
"Dunno. You woke me up with the banjo... I didn't go over there. Jimmy did say he had to work today though."
"That's okay you'll do. It's not that hard. Just need someone to hold the bottles."
Jimmy weaseled the spare bottles from Five and Ten. They weren't watching when he installed the air conditioning in the kitchen. They were busy vomiting from the heat of summer afternoons, compounded by ovens, rangetops, a dozen burners, an open grill, a sanitizer, the thermometer below his ladder was spiked at 130 and people were trying to cook. He slipped out with a case of red table wine-3.99 a bottle at the store. Perhaps they did see him and just figured drinking them would be punishment enough.
Scratch has a habit of muttering things under his breath. At first I figured it was just an eccentricity of age and I paid little attention, but I quickly learned that these half-heard fragments were the real gems.
"How's that?" I have, after much rehearsing, come up with a series of open-ended questions for extracting repetitions of his cryptic mumblings. Asking "what" all the time frustrated him and stalled our friendship until Chloe pointed it out to me. She was also the one who informed me that Scratch was fabulously wealthy.
"Oh," He says waving his hand dismissively, "I was just thinking about blind pigs."
"Blind pigs? Is that some southern kink?"
He chokes on barnacles again. "No, actually I don't think it was regional, but maybe. I dunno. Blind Pig was a name... or actually I think it was the password maybe... it was either what you called or what you said to get into a speakeasy during prohibition. I was just thinking perhaps I should institute a password for the game... blind pig came to mind." He claps his hand to his forehead, fingertips on his hairline, and slowly drags them down pulling his jaw and stretching his cheeks until his fingers reach his chin. "Come on I got a new sculpture."
Two things assured our friendship after our first curious meeting in the gully. The first was Ford trucks, specifically 1969 Ford trucks which he owns and I covet, and the second was a penchant for shooting pieces of wood, though, admittedly, Scratch's shooting is far more beautiful than anything Dean and I ever created. At some point in the distant past Scratch embarked on an artistic endeavor he calls Stump-Shots, which involves him finding fallen trees, chain sawing off the body, leaving the intact stump, and then blasting away at them with a sawed off shotgun full of rock salt. The forest is dotted with these weird pockmarked carvings of his. His newest is a birch stump about two hundred yards past his house. Six months ago, far too early in spring for electrical storms, the tree was nevertheless hit by an errant bolt of lightening, which also fried Scratch's lamps, toaster, iron and chandelier-the sum total of his electrical devices-and split the tree neatly in two. This tree however, did not fall down, or rather it did not fall on its x-axis, it fell straight down into itself. Scratch thinks there was a nail or bolt or some kind metal in it that grounded the lightening about four feet off the ground. Whatever the case, it blew apart a section of the trunk and the rest of the tree fell straight down onto the spiked, fragmented stump and stuck there. Somehow it manages to continue living, and so Scratch has been sculpting the jagged extrusions that spike out from the trunk. Some of them are four feet long and over a foot wide. Today's project is on the mossy north side of the trunk a curving, open-wound looking protuberance that Scratch takes aim at and blasts away. Scratch and the shooting are also high on the yuppie's to do list.
After the second shot he absently unhinges the gun and studies his work. "Kinda looks like that barrier island area off Belize doesn't it?"
I nod, unwilling to admit I'm not that familiar with the coast of Belize.
"Or a reclining woman. Course that would be a Degas girl..." Chuckling ensues followed by a thoughtful pause while shoving more cartridges in the gun. "Isn't it strange that our ideal of female beauty couldn't get laid to save her life a few hundred years ago...? Kinda makes you wonder about the source of your desires huh?"
"Not really, Scratch." He turns toward me as if I have undercut some profundity he has been waiting all morning to distill. "I mean I know my ideals are cultural hand-me-downs... everybody know that, but what does that mean?"
"See all ya'll have all this information and no understand of what it means. Those of us who came to these conclusions for ourselves don't have that problem."
"Okay then old man, what does it mean?"
"Nothing." He raises the gun to his shoulder and laughs pulling the trigger. The salt completely misses the target and scatters through the undergrowth wagging branches and puncturing leaves. Scratch can't stop laughing. He points the gun straight up, pulls the trigger and takes off hobbling back toward the house. There is a split second in which I am profoundly disoriented and then I take off after him.
I pass Scratch about fifty feet from the house and spy Chloe swinging in lazy circles on the tire swing. She looks up, startled by our ruckus approach.
"Are you okay?"
"Huh? Yeah why?" The sad truth is that a two hundred yard run is desperately stretching my physical capabilities. I bend over hands on my knees greedily sucking humid air.
"Well I heard the gun and then you're running..."
"Oh no. It's cool. Scratch was just overemphasizing a point."
Scratch lopes up laughing and out of breath. "Everything is wonderful Chloe," he manages between pants. He collapses down on the chopping block. Sweat trickles down his face. "I got a letter from Leah yesterday... She said to tell you hello and many thanks."
This is clearly some element of Scratch's life that I am not privy to. I can't stop myself from thinking it's sexual. Some personal confusion between the sexiness of secrets and the sexuality of my friends. I know it's not sexual, but yet it feels sexual-clandestine, vague, whispered-everybody is having an orgy but you.
"That's nice of her. Tell her I said it was nothing." Chloe closes the book in her lap and jumps off the tire. "Are we going to do this or what?"
"Yes yes." Scratch lumbers to his feet and limps off toward the door. "Come on you two..." he hollers over his shoulder.
"Have you ever had mead?" Chloe asks as we walk inside.
"No."
She drops her voice to a whisper, "it's very sweet." She sticks out her tongue.
"I can't stand the stuff myself." Scratch grumbles having heard Chloe's whispers.
"Then why did you make it?"
"It's fun." He drags two enormous clear jugs out from the shadowy recesses of his pantry. His house is dark enough that he probably could have left them in the middle of the living room and they would have fermented just as well. The musty linen draperies of the bay window are perpetually drawn shut and what light that does filter through is diffused to the point of seeming confused about its role in the room. It feels extraneous and steps lightly around the upturned walnut stump on whose roots an abstract glass shape is precariously balanced. Delicately now against the cedar walls-not wood paneling, actual cedar, splinters and all- slinking along the far wall, edging over the couch, meeting with its cohort that took the other wall and had to navigate a collection of books that shames many Oregon libraries, teetering in decayed peach crates, collapsing against each other until it's hard to tell whether they are holding up the books or the books them. Light sneaking over the cracked spines and curled paperback covers, under the watchful eyes of Alfred Stiglitz and Georgia O'Keefe who've been waiting in the recesses between the crates where the light was not expecting them, where once there were indeed crates in their place but now in lustful ambush Alfred and Georgia groping after the light in ways that make the light uncomfortable and anxious to be off and there it is... its glowing brethren from the other wall...the two sides meet up like Victorian gentlemen, blushing, but tipping their stovepipe hats, as they nearly bump into one another in the brothel hallway, and then it's a hasty retreat to the kitchen window where they slink back out into the afternoon sun.
Above the couch is a shelf of bric-a-brac photos mostly of buildings and a handful of people standing in front of stoves or arms extended holding plates of food. There is a clipping of Scratch dressed sharply in a chef coat and checkered chefware pants smiling on the cover of Food and Wine magazine. Separated by an antique bird cage complete with a stuffed finch Scratch calls Mabel, are another collection of photographs of people standing in front of airplanes, some smiling, some looking a touch nervous. One small picture in a frame whose borders are decorated with notes from the crescendo of the fourth movement of the ninth symphony is a rather terrified looking Debra Winger with her arm bravely wrapped around Scratch's waist.
Hung prominently above the shelf and never escaping comment by first time visitors is a giant picture of Scratch buck naked save the parachute on his back, plummeting toward the out of focus grey-brown desert below him.
Chloe is stacking the bottles in rows on the kitchen table. Scratch is attaching what looks like surgical tubing to the rubber stoppers at the mouth of each jug. The mead is a tawny amber that looks archaic against the antiseptic stainless steel table. I lean up against the monstrous stove, complete with rangetop and massive ceiling vent, which Scratch took out of the kitchen of his last restaurant.
"The secret," Scratch says pinching and squeezing the tubing down in the bottle, "Is to make sure you don't get the bottom inch or so into the bottle."
"Is that the bad part or something?" Chloe sets down the last bottle and sinks into a chair.
"Well, personally I don't think any of it is that good, but yeah the bottom is what you really don't want." Satisfied with the work he heaves the jug up to the table thumping it down on a six-inch stack of newspapers. From my vantage point, the far side of the jug reflects a skewed convex headline-better things are coming.
Scratch commences sucking until the mead is running into the first bottle by means of miraculous suction. Once in Mexico I saw a bus driver use the same method to retrieve gas from a taxi, which came rushing out faster than he had anticipated and exploded out the sides of his swollen cheeks. He had the presence of mind to put the hose into the jug before turning green and commencing the vomit. Scratch just coughs and his eyes puddle up.
"Whew... Damn." He gasps and spits in the sink. "Still needs a week or two." He cracks the primitive icebox and retrieves a carton of orange juice. "Not that bad though. He drinks straight from the carton and smacks his lips "not bad at all with a chaser."
There comes a far off lowing sound that tickles my leg. "What the hell...?" Scratch sets down the carton, "Is there a cow out there?"
"No. Sorry, that's my phone." I dart out the back door into the caustic white of afternoon. I have to squint and feel slightly dizzy as I answer.
"Sil? It's me." Her voice crackles with digital lust, but all curl and Q's flattened to hiss. The treetops are swinging around me, the bleached dry sand crunching under my disoriented stagger.
"Maya? What are you doing?"
"Well," she giggles, "I was just calling to tell you that I'm at home and I'm naked and lonely..."
I try to find something to say, but standing in the middle of boring midday sun of Scratch's backyard nothing comes. Somewhere thousands of miles up from here Maya is naked and wanting me. I have an urge to bolt into the woods and not stop running until I get to her or far enough away from her that I'm full circle to her.
"I have my hand on my pubic mound..."
She breaks through my awkward silence. "Ick. Don't say pubic mound." I shake my head as if she can see me.
"Why?"
"I dunno it sounds like something Teddy Roosevelt and the Rough Riders are going to come charging up... bayonets glinting and whatnot..."
"Kinky. I like men on horseback... Can you be my cowboy this afternoon? We haven't done that one yet."
"I can't right now. I'm kinda in the middle of something."
Her voice thins out, no longer clipped by compressors, simply flat. "That sucks."
"Can I call you later?"
"What if I said I have my hand down inside my panties?"
"I thought you were naked."
"I am. Except for my panties."
"How many times do we have to..."
"You know you like it when I say panties." There is a pause. "I want you to say it and then I'll let you go."
"Okay. I like it when you say panties."
"That's what I thought." The line goes dead.
I shoot a glance back toward the house, but if they heard my end of the conversation, I'll never know. The door is open but the darkness inside is impenetrable. I don't care anyway. Or I don't want to care. I walk back inside and they are sitting on the couch drinking Pabst.
"Maya?" Chloe arcs her eyebrows.
"Yeah"
"Of course it was," Scratch laughs and looks at me with a mischievous green jello glint in his eyes, "who else calls him on that phone?"
"Every now and then my dad calls." This sounds lamer than I intended. They say nothing. "Mead all bottled?"
"Yup. Be ready in a week or two." Scratch seems over enthusiastic about it as if incredibly relieved to be out of an awkward silence.
I stare at him willing the awkward silence back. Scratch sits forward on the couch wipes his hands vigorously up and down his face and retrieves a tupperware container from the coffee table. He sits back resting it on the crest of his fat-skinny-guy belly. Out of it he produces a bud of marijuana and pair of scissors, which he uses to trim off a few leaves and buds. As he begins to roll a joint, the light in the room seems to perk up. It starts to pool around him, enveloping his body, wrapping it like a mummy. He leans forward again for the remote, and, after a bit squinting and face rubbing, the speakers emit a gentle finger-plucked guitar sound crawling all the way from Nebraska across the hand woven Mexican rug on the floor. Soft eighth notes tiptoeing through the room, jumping on the table to a scatter of ash and dust and errant leaves of weed, but steadily and with direction and purpose, heading for Scratch. A corporeal mosaic forms around him, sound and light interwoven... and I haven't smelled anything in while... drawing to him, a film running backwards, a battery being charged, the book shelves are leaning in... this is how Stiglitz and O'Keefe were found... the plants bending to the Scratchtropic influence, leaves fanned out in hopes of some future expulsion, some radiation, some giving back, the necessary exhale to this massive huffing and huffing of all available resources, stalk gone turgid bracing for the future force of it... knowing that when he finally lets go, when he talks his voice will be a howling wind peeling off glacial peaks, ducking over the pitiful bottling company and its liquor store displays carving valleys in a single blast the sound following afterward in a wake. Or. Maybe it will leak out slowly, in the way he moves, steady and deliberate, he will mumble or whisper echoing the wind beating the roof, and whole Serengetis of meaning are lost in the silence of his hand. He saves them for later. He eats them when he is alone. His mouth is a microwave. He re-heats, re-charges his words under his tongue, little kernels of corn erupting as he chews them around in silence, mashing light and sound, wave and note, oceans and deserts.... He goes to talk to himself and nothing but popcorn spills out.
"Why is it that you don't come visit me?" Late April we're lying in bed, hooked and crooked around the rumpled clothing and sheets which are scrunched down to pillowcase size and bunched between her legs. A leather boot is trying to crawl up my ass, and I head it off by rolling on my side which sends Maya's head up off my chest just as I reach the end of my question. They are shooting a movie on the street downstairs. It's a what's-his-name action vehicle. Every so often we here "action" and "cut" over the ambient discord of Sixth Avenue.
"You know my life is here in New York... this is where I need to be right now." She speaks with the conviction of any recent immigrant. She has absorbed the vertical velocity of ninty-nine story buildings. She wants that cinematic sweep from the Bronx to the Fire Island breakers, sketching indigo and pulsing with the semen of six million teeming... old grade school jokes about the depth of the vagina and length of the penis and the resulting imbalance that yields six hundred feet of virgin pussy just outside the window and everyone, every man woman and struggling model in this city believes it's out there, just waiting for them to push through the Hymen Tunnel and into the unfurrowed promised land. "Anyway, you were the one who said we needed to have our own lives. I thought independence was 'the most important thing' to you. You know you broke my heart when you left LA."
"When I left LA? You're the one who got on an airplane the night after we met."
"For a month Sil. I came back and then you left for god knows how long it's been now... I'm starting to think that I must have some alienation abandonment issue with my father because I sure seem willing to... nevermind what does it matter? All this is past and conjecture and meaninglessness... you're here another forty-eight hours and this is how were going to spend it?" She sits up on her elbow and looks accusingly through the dissolving plume of cigarette smoke.
"No it's not. I just wanted to know why you never come down to visit me. I'm not asking you to move in with me or to drop your life or anything. I just thought maybe you know... we could spend some time together in my world."
"You act like I'm some kind of high maintenance city girl." She flicks her ash out the open window. "I came down there four months ago Sil. I like your life down there. I had a good time, but right now there are so many things going on it's just crazy... I barely have time to drop everything and spend time with you this week."
Busyness. Flickers and flashes, action and cut. Subways storming the bridges, greedy tendrils, roots clawing up out of the ground. "You act like I'm some kind of backwoods hick. You know I lived in LA for over twenty years... Forget it. I like New York. I like coming to see you here. I like to get away from Athens every now and then. Wait. Did you say you think you have abandonment issues with your father?"
She giggles. "The thought has occurred to me. I mean I live in a city with no shortage of bachelors and I'm with you... I mean I'm in love with you, that's why I'm with you, but I'm just saying if someone else, some outsider were looking at my life what would they think."
"Did your father abandon you?"
"No. But he was out of town a lot."
It's difficult to tell how long we have been this way. For some time I have been able to hear the mead. It's a long low moan, a lovesick bovine moan, some final protest of sugar against the decay into alcoholic oblivion. The jars gently rattling as if patiently rocking a crying child, running fingers through hair It's alright now, it won't be that bad thoughtful but meaningless, perhaps secretly thinking to themselves that they would like to crawl up in a ball and let the springworks go like a Panama City hotel on fire. Through the primordial haze now a light penetrates, the first rays after the nuclear winter of the comets, just three mammals around to witness. And of course a fourth to break the spell with style.
"Godamnit what the hell is going on here?" I can see Jimmy's silhouette in the doorway or at least I am aware that the silhouette in the doorway must be Jimmy, but I can't really see anything, the setting sun is not afraid of Scratch's house at all, it's Roman red pushing through the door in search of Christians for hungry kitties... none in here you sick fucks...
"Sil, there are cowboys on the roof. I cannot work with cowboys on the roof. I can't get the cowboys off the roof." Jimmy again. He is insistent on this communication thing... great gods in heaven he has turned off the music... Jesus what is this noise...its...its...punk rock. Time to give in. Straighten up. Fly right. Bathroom. Close door. Drain. Zip, for the love of god do not forget to zip and even more important-damnit should have thought of this first-tuck, but its okay the tucking appears to be ingrained. Ah yes, there it is, water on the face, down the gullet, engage in some Scratch-esque face wiping. Alright. Now how was that? Why are there cowboys on the roof? Who put cowboys on the roof?
"These mutherfuckers are crazy," Jimmy is pacing, "I can't fucking deal with cowboys on my roof. Stupid fucking south Georgia hicks.... Red. Man I tell you these are some red mutherfuckers." He smiles. "I mean shit it's kinda funny I guess, but damn. I just can't work with them around. And they're wearing cowboy boots... who the fuck," he extends his arms incredulously, "wears cowboy boots on a slick, tar-papered, forty-five degree slope?" He gestures toward the tupperware, "Scratch you mind if I roll one?"
"Help yourself. What are you doing to the house with cowboys on the roof?"
"I'm supposed to be putting a porch off the back, they got these steps... it's about six feet off and sloping downhill so I gotta run out some joists from the floor beams...you know through the wall and then built a little screened in deck and ninety degree turning stairs... pretty complicated carpentry you know? I mean not really it's all brute force shit, but I can't fucking work with goddamn south Georgia redneck cowboys clomping back and forth on the roof all day talking about niggers and whores and dripping tar all over my joists-what is wrong with these people? Have you seen cowboys on roofs before? I have never seen a cowboy on a roof."
"No. Never seen a cowboy on a roof... you're sure they were cowboys?" Scratch hobbles to the icebox and grabs a six-pack.
"I mean... I guess. They had the boots. They had the hats. The had the twang. They drove Chevy trucks...
"'Nuf said." Scratch smiles at me. "Well smoke that and try not to think about it."
Can you feel the fingers in your hair? Try not to think about it... there is nothing in the closet... do you want me to open it? For the love of god no. Don't open it. I'm not thinking about her. It. I'm not thinking. Heel-clicking there are no cowboys on the roof... there are no cowboys on the... there are no cowboys at all.
"The mead's all bottled? Yeah? How long?"
"Well normally two weeks in the bottle, but I had to gulp a little getting the siphon working and think a week will do."
"Won't the fermentation create pressure? I mean won't it burst the bottles?"
Jesus. That low moaning again. Maybe it's a groaning, maybe it's not the decay but the pressure...we want out... we never asked to be fermented. The original recipes call for ergot, a hallucinogenic fungus on certain grains. We left that out. Most of us never get over memories salted with distance and snapshots kept in ghosted albums on dusty shelves anyway. Fermentation is the slow breakdown of structure over time. Help! I'm melting! The sugar in honey is slowly changed by the acidity of the citrus. It's like snow melting from and ground up by the heat and decay of last falls leaves. Eventually there would be only a thin shell of snow, were it not for the cataclysm of the sun crashing down on the other side. In the end, sweetness becomes mead. Yellowed photographs crumble. Bedsheets stain and crust. Old Fords too long in the driveway choke and sputter charcoal, engine chaises rust, valve seats loose their youthful bounce... even your bones turn brittle-unless you fall out of an airplane first.
Chloe slowly sits up and reaches for a beer. "Just take the next couple of days off, wait til the cowboys are gone."
"Oh I took the next two weeks off. I mean no point in putting down a nice deck and then having tar dripped on it." Jimmy lights the joint and exhales slowly. He offers it around but gets no takers. "Solo? Alright. I need it."
The cave-like silence returns for a minute or two. Jimmy seems to create some sort of energetic opposite to Scratch's vacuum, neutron stars orbiting each other. Jimmy smokes the joint about half way down and then gently taps it out in the ashtray. He smiles for minute and then decides to share. "Okay so this isn't like something I normally do, but it had interesting results so I'm gonna share... After getting hot tar dripped on me for the millionth time I went inside to see if they had some solvent or something right? Well nobody's home. I holler around for a bit and then I think fuck it... forget all about the tar-which, as it turns out comes off pretty easy with tar-off-start snooping around the house. It's one of those old houses off Boulevard, but the couple that owns it are nuevo-rich... you know Scratch, saucing it up with the Truffle oil like it's ketchup?" Scratch grimaces and nods. "So at first I'm digging through the medicine cabinet for anything interesting, actually I lifted a couple darvocets..." Jimmy giggles.
"Jimmy that's horrible." Chloe with her mock angry voice. "Can I have one?"
"Yeah sure, but wait... It gets much worse." He bends forward laughing and then scratches the back of his head and screws up his face as if building courage for a new level of confession.
"Did you sniff her panties?" Scratch beams like a jewel thief passing on the secrets of the trade. "You sniffed her panties didn't you?"
Jimmy falls off the edge of the couch laughing. "Yeah. I did."
"Jimmy!" I can't believe..." Chloe grabs a magazine, roles it up and starts swatting him on the head.
"Wait! Hold up ya'll!" He rolls out of Chloe's range. "Damn girl... Look I know it's fucked up..." backward glance at Chloe, some attempt at suppressing laughter. "Damn... But you know, I was standing there in the bathroom when the idea occurred to me and to tell you the truth I started laughing the minute I realized I was gonna do it. It's just one of those things that you never think to do, I mean unless your actually fucked up enough to get off on that sort of shit, but most guys, like myself, A) never have the opportunity to do something like that and B) when they do have the opportunity to do that don't think to do it... cause you know it's not like I wanted to get off on it... I just wanted to know..."
"James William Miller..."
"Oh come off it Chloe. You're not my mom. You wanted a pill damnit. I stole the pill. I mean suppose the woman was in pain and needed those pills... that's all fine and good, but sniff some panties and you're all pissed? Don't get high and mighty with me. Besides you've sniffed a few jock straps yourself haven't you?"
"Actually no. I haven't." Chloe crosses her legs and glares at him. But then a smile breaks over her face. "But I have stolen underwear from a few guys because I wanted to have a souvenir."
"See I knew it. But you have totally distracted me from my original point, which was the magazines... No not those magazines, damn ya'll are some repressed mutherfuckers... National Geographic Magazines..." Jimmy inches by Chloe and sits back down in the middle of the couch. "I sat there reading National Geographic for like two hours, well, actually not reading just leafing through looking at the pictures. But after two hours of that I started wondering about everything I know...Do you ever get the feeling that tribal people sitting around swatting flies or sticking sticks in anthills to get grubs...or is that monkeys? I forget, whatever, but do you ever start to suspect that perhaps these people are leading much fuller lives? Look at the eyes of the people in National Geographic sometime and tell me you don't start to wonder if perhaps we have missed the point of life entirely." No one says anything, his voice gets quieter, "and in some weird way I think that's why I had to do it, even though it's a reversal of cause and effect, I had to do it because I need to be that close, not invasive, though we perceive it as such now, but think about it, smell... smell is the original identity, the animal scent, the recognition of one's fellow creatures. I smell you and therefore you are not me and then, I mean goddamn, that's what opens the door to everything."
"You think we'd all be better off sniffing each other?"
"Scratch I'm serious here. I think that the reason we're so distant from each other is that we've walled ourselves up. We got hung up on the threat response-you are not me and therefore I must guard against you-rather than the hey how you doing response that I see in other animals. I mean Chloe, Annie sniffs crotches right? It's her way of understanding... of knowing." Scratch hands Jimmy the joint which is once again burning. He takes a long drag and speaks as he exhales, "I'm not saying we should sniff each other's underwear, I'm just saying that's the kind of closeness we're going to need if we're all ever going to get along in this world. Well, that and the collapse of the whole religion and nation-state concepts, but I think those are inevitable in a world with the kind of closeness that I want."
Scratch takes the joint back from Jimmy and stares intensely at him for awhile taking little hits of smoke into his lungs in quick succession. "When I go Jimmy, I want you to come."
"It's beautiful isn't it Sil?" Maya in her painfully stylish charcoal overcoat, the recent dry chill rustling them, a few falling off here and there. Thanksgiving in Central Park, playing frisbee and watching the cirrus turn pink and lavender and now tightly hugging against the faint but persistent breeze. "But kind of sad too don't you think?" She shivers and pulls tighter. "Did you know leaves aren't their true color until they die? I mean the leaf is green because the tree give it chlorophyll and stuff, but then when the tree stops, then the leaves reveal themselves."
"That's a depressing thought."
"Maybe. But it's beautiful too." She has a wistful look of absolute satisfaction with the world that makes me uncomfortable.
"The leaves are the tree though. The tree is the leaves. They aren't separate from each other. They don't exist in some vacuum. We're the ones who are seeing them as separate."
"Maybe. But if that's my perspective then isn't the oneness just yours?"
"Perhaps." We start to walk back across the fields toward the subway. "But we monkeys seem to be the only ones with this overly acute sense of self. I mean if you set aside the usual way of thinking about it couldn't you say that you and I are in fact one entity?"
She smiles. "That sounds great and all, but we're not. Especially not us. I'm here, you're down there."
"Maybe our loneliness is in failing to see that we aren't apart at all. Maybe loneliness and longing are just the result of some isolation from ourselves. Maybe if we stop breaking things into pieces based solely on our own distortions and isolation, we would see through this parts/whole dilemma... we'd see something interconnected, a kind of ever-evolving beauty of process-poetry through motion, through seeing the through."
"But we are separate Sil. It doesn't matter how eloquent you want to get about. The leaves still die every year."
"How do you know they die? Changing color could be only the beginning for the leaves. The leaves don't die because they're still part of an ongoing process. Thinking of brown leaves as dead is only our misconception of what life is. Or even if they do die, everything that dies comes back. These leaves lying there on the ground, breaking apart into food for the tree, soil nutrients, that sort of stuff... It gives the trees the material to produce new leaves for a new year. Are the new leaves actually new? In a sense, the dead brown leaves are climbing back up the trunk of the tree and emerging out of it green again."
"Maybe. I kind of like that idea. The leaves fall for the tree so it can survive the winter and then help it grow in the spring.... But the tree is still never going to fall for the leaves."
FIVE
Trust bed-eponymous arrivals-perishables-wild honey-summer's by the sea-here comes the argument-geography's ants-implications-dissemination-the grid-through which-an ideal world gains-increasing the frequency-clear endless borders-the sound has so much body-dum dee dee der der dee-becoming-oom duh oomp-unbecoming-click de clack de clack de click de clack oom dee oom dee oomp-
The hum the hum the fingers the beat the whining dance the drip drip drip tick tick tick here they come spilling out the sand the pills the time the mold on the tortillas the notes dripping down the speaker cones treble to middle to bass the electric whirl of fans exhaust turbines the spin of molecules the carefully calibrated smoothness of glass the sterility of architecture the depression of low-lit mornings walloping the darkness into submission the glare the piercing of sun on distracted fingernails doing something doing something not right now doing something.
It has been some time.
But the pounding remains.
And the letters keep on following me.
Perhaps they are building something.
And the clicking.
And the far away fingers clicking.
That could well be the finish work.
Molding. Rain gutters. Lightening rods.
Click click click amplified butterfly wing strokes slowed down, sine waves elongated for closer study zoom in zoom in zoom in zigzagging diggy diggy da momenoff. Chaos is not you see. There are patterns repetitions, beats underlying beats, polyrhythms diving in and out over and under the more obvious backbeats. This is not in time, not in time as we are accustomed to it, out of time, very nearly out of time, but the pattern repeats, waves join and harmonize the tick tick tick blends to the drip drip drip, one wonders if they weren't always the same thing.... Have you not noticed the shplocks? The shplooks? The dings? The clacks? The toings? The tongs? The sprongs? Sounds that work by committee? Sounds that need umlauts...? Diphthongs...? Tildes...?
Things are always as they have ever been but somehow incredibly difficult-what seemed simple in the end, to get their, to get where? Oh yes the molding. The finishing touches that soften the architectural foxfires. Stamps of individuality hiding the corners, ramps for the windup toys-fate death dream decay. The decay. The little green growths on the end of the day, the shower a blacker shade mixed with red, different sorts you see... more molds than people when you come down to it. Spawning spreading, eschewing organization, a kind of atonal repetition of function without regard to form. This means something right? It all means something right? This turning on, turning off, repetition of the beat, the caged smoke crawling up the walls from cigarettes and the ashtray says you been up all night like the man on the radio said it would say? Slaves to the pattern, to the beat, the rhythm of blood and circuitry now inexplicably mixed and unable to synchronize without each other. The simultaneous march of time and faucets and showerheads-this will be good come winter you know-clicking their way through time the variable, the frequency modulation of life.
Outside is. Haven't been there lately.
Mainly it's the hum. The whine. The sound of speed. Spinning. The hunch of my back seen from afar trying to get the fucking mold off the fucking tortillas and the hum that won't stop and I love it I want to crawl up in and become it I want the murmur of lips going mmm mmm mmm do do do da da da hmm. Hmm. Tick tick tick all over the table again. Blue and white and pink. Boys and girls and indeterminacies all playing together between the ketchup and syrup and butter and mustard and half full glasses of water with dust and strange protozoa floating on the surface, some so large you can see them with a magnifying glass, which is right there by the bills that haven't been paid, sticking out from under the magazines I haven't read and held down by the mustard as evidence of last night's hamburger.
Oh yes. Last night-they were red and pink and blue and subversive and locked up. But we freed them, we did, Jimmy with the double helix reflection of throbbing candles in his eyes, spilling them everywhere. The last of them. Chloe in her silk pajama bottoms, legs tucked up under, and the walls leaning in and the windows gone convex to get a better view, everybody wants to see this, everybody is down for the spill, the collision of chemical surfaces, the cohesion of colors not found in your more academic theories... The backbeat is the thing, the tick tick tick. That's the approaching point, the coming nonesuch... The room had organ tones, the kind of fullness that only an organ can convey, we're sitting on the inside of an organ, stops and levers heaving and sighing, the rush of air, sucking in the windows, chairs and couches bent forward, leaning over on their knees and then the low exhale, the groan, but here it's something difficult, something in B flat, but still upbeat, punctuated by a muffled, distorted snare beat, a bass drum with a fresh head on it, flat and claustrophobic, swallowing the echo before it gets a chance to breathe and then the sucking in again, the stops pulled out for a c-chord, the upper arch, the melody note of an atonal progression.
It was after the enchiladas.
I like mold. In small qualities. When baked it always has the potential to form some mind-altering substance, which is not something I want, but it would be interesting you understand... Food should be an adventure fraught with peril lest it become routine, shoveling coal into a furnace. And neither of them mentioned a moldy taste, though I noticed it a little here and there, gave everything a more organic, perhaps whole-grain, sort of flavor. Dean would have lost it, gone on a hippie exterminating rampage, but he remains up there, sends long metalic letters, whole grain remains unmolested.
The mold was eclipsed by the beat. By the melody. By the claustrophobia. By the tick tick tick. Hold up. Slow that moment down a touch. Maybe to a tock tock tock or even plong plong plong like a cue ball in slow motion striking the two ball with a crack slowed down to an explosion, and then reaching in to grab them, but here Chloe seems to be moving in reverse as if the film just reached the end of the reel and some lazy attendant-James didn't you work the projectors for a while?-has just hit reverse rather than rethread for a rewind. Yes Chloe is not picking them up, she is re-putting them in her mouth, they have always been in her mouth. They came out to have their moment to let the windows and wall bend and breathe in jealous gasps and then back in they go where they have always been. Everything woozing back into Chloe, gulping air, drinking in the claustrophobic air returning to where it always was. And the windows draw back in horror as if to say I can't believe you've played the tease, we always knew you had it in you, but here? Now? Like this? To give. And then take away. So cold so inhuman so... wait when is your birthday? We know chart people, we have suspicions about you.... September is it...? Yes, thinking you have it all in balance, eh? Well have you ever noticed that the scales are tipping? Yes seems that they aren't quite balanced when their in your hands eh? Not quite balanced...
From: Dean O'Leary <do@morpheus.net>
To: sil@kali.org
Subject:
Dean junior can be lured to the surface for food. But otherwise he remains alternating between castle and treasure. I found out from Melissa that he would not last long at all in the ocean. He is a fresh water fish. I had a glass yesterday. It was a little stale, but definitely not salt water. Melissa says not to drink it anymore as it has strange chemicals in it. But this morning I had another glass. It was almost fishy.
I have the hiccups and my leg is ringing but otherwise it's a statuesque day. Today I think we should all play harmonicas and live in sun-faded slate-gray shacks without indoor plumbing. Everything leaving all at once in all directions. Would your life seem more meaningful in duotone? A kind of warm brown wash to color your eyelids like the thunderstorms, flash flooding down the Rialto, right by that house on the sharpest bend of River Road, that one with the mailbox perpetually down, victim to countless corrosive glasses of gin? My mailbox has been down for some time. On the edge of autumn where the last fireflies still tango in time changes and the hush that comes after the last beat drops and you stumble it down the line to the head-hanging hour at which all regrets are cashed for last minute glimpses in cruel reflective toilet water, here we- and the beat is dropping into slate-gray outhouses where we sit waiting for the paper, the news the leaves of grass that we used to use.
Eventually I will answer my leg. It will be Maya. We will talk amongst ourselves. Try to batten down the hatches of our hopes and fears, but it won't work for either of us. She will hang up and go for a walk around the east village, stop in St. Marks and read a few more pages from a Rilke biography and then down Delancy for a couple of drinks at sakdlfjkj where the hipsters will shoot pool and drink Brooklyn Lager because that's what hipsters do, and Maya will push the ice around in an empty glass of Vox and stare out the window at the people that aren't walking by and dream of couples huddled close against the cold, but it's August and it isn't cold. Then on the way home she will stop in at Rice and have some of that curious black grains with stir-fried vegetables and maybe a gelato from the place next door for the long walk back to the Village. And I will eat the last of Jimmy's pills and feel pretty good until dinner time at which point I will go for walk and end up at Scratch's house where he will serve me some strange couscous and tofu dish because he considers tofu the last culinary challenge of his nearly complete culinary career, after which he will swear that as soon as he masters the art of tofu, invents his one perfect dish, he is closing up shop and heading to Costa Rica. He will mock my posture, but in a good-humored way. Jimmy will stop by and hatch a plan. It will be a grand plan. It might even involve motorcycles and bandits. Chloe will be suspiciously absent.
Later I will find myself at home. I will smoke idle cigarettes and pour myself a glass or two of brown liquor and dream of someplace I could go and be surly.
From: Dean O'Leary <do@morpheus.net>
To: sil@kali.org
Subject:
Melissa is at work. I think she is beginning to tire of me. I am a drain to her. But with her working all day, who is going to look after Dean Jr.? I feed him every morning and evening. Just after she leaves and just before she gets home. I didn't plan it that way. At first I just noticed that my days began and ended with feeding Dean Jr.
Every morning while I am asleep she opens all the curtains and draws the blinds in the bedroom. I think she is sending me a message, but I don't understand a word of it. All I know is that every morning I have to let down the blinds again, draw the curtains and drop a few little gray-green pellets in Dean Jr.'s tank. It takes a while for the food to be consumed or to settle to the bottom, between the florescent pebbles-why are his pebbles florescent? Are there florescent peddles in streams? Are there actually florescent rocks out there, and I have just been too blinded to see them? It's usually well into the afternoon before I can have my first taste.
The water is getting musty. I suspect it's fish shit, but I don't like to think about that. I prefer to taste it as the essence of fish. I have acquired a taste for it. Tap water no longer excites me like it used to. I get no thrill out of turning the knobs anymore. I went across the street to a flea market yesterday and bought a ladle. I keep it hidden under the bed so Melissa won't find it. I have taken to covering the tank with an old black shirt. The water level hasn't dropped noticeably yet, but I want to establish a pattern before she gets suspicious. If she finds the ladle I plan to tell her it's a sexual thing. I think I'll tell her I like to have my balls ladled while getting head. She can't find out. If she finds out she'll kick me out.
I wish you could see him Sil. The way he stops moving entirely. He rotates one of his swivelly eyes upward and watches me as I dip and ladle in and draw it up to my mouth. He knows. He understands. We have moments during the day. He will catch me doing silly things and laugh his mouthy little laugh. Or I will lie down on the floor and crawl over so that he can't see me and sneak up around the side of the tank, wedge my head between the tank and T.V. and pop up suddenly to surprise him. It startles him a little, but I think he's come to expect it a little now. I'll have to think of something new. I don't want him to get bored with the routine.
From: Dean O'Leary <do@morpheus.net>
To: sil@kali.org
Subject:
I don't think you should worry about me Sil. Things are winding down here. I'll be coming down soon; I just have to stick this thing out with Dean Jr. I have to see it through. Melissa is suspicious definitely. And I did check. The only fish to human transference I could find was from eating the fish-worms and stuff like that. I'm not really in a bad way. It's just the process of ending that intrigues me. I always have to stay to the bitter end just to see if everything wraps up the way I thought or if there is that last minute twist we all love, that unexpected moment.
This weekend was fun. Melissa had to go to a conference in Atlantic City. Of course I brought Dean Jr. I put him in a tupperware bowl for the train ride (I had a hard time trying to think of reason to bring my bag to the bathroom so I could open the tupperware and give him a fresh dose of oxygen-water gets stale-he can use up all the oxygen in the water-did you know that? I didn't, but the girl at the pet store told me that. She gave me her number too, but I think I threw it out. Luckily I hadn't shaved, so on the train I told Melissa I was going to shave and I brought my bag and gave Dean Jr. some air. Maybe he could have made it all the way, but I didn't want to risk it. Anyway I came back unshaven and forgot that shaving was my excuse, and Melissa stared me down real ugly and then it hit me and all I could think of to say was that there was no hot water. I know she went later and checked and of course there probably was hot water.)
I lost fifty dollars at the blackjack table.
"So he's coming down again?" Chloe is cleaning up the back of my neck with the clippers. Already I feel slightly cooler, but this is a feeling that will pass shortly.
"Seems that way."
"Did he say when?"
"No."
"Huh. You know Sil, I still don't understand what you're doing here. And I understand even less why Dean is coming down again. You know I'm still trying to get out of here..."
"Yes, but you were born here. Everyone is trying to get out of where they were born. But to tell the truth, I'm not entirely sure why Dean is coming down." I consider mentioning the aquarium drinking, but decide against it since he and Chloe have had only the briefest of encounters in the past, and it might, well, color her opinion of him some unsavory shade of disgust. "I think maybe he's coming to get out of the living situation he's been in with his girlfriend and such, but knowing Dean there is probably a good deal more to it than that." Chloe is staring at my head in a distracted, unsettling way. "What?" I turn slightly to look her square in the eyes.
"Um, I think your ears are a little lopsided."
"What?"
"Well at first I thought I was messing up the back of your neck, but it's clearly straight and yet, when compared to your ears, it still looks slightly lopsided, so I think maybe your ears aren't quite even." She smiles. "Sorry."
"But the hairline on the neck looks okay?"
"Oh yeah it's fine."
"Well that's all I care about."
"Okay. Well then you're done." She switches off the clippers and brushes off my neck with an old t-shirt. I run my fingers over the remaining eighth inch of hair on my scalp and come away with an unsettling mixture of sweat and hair clippings.
"You might want to take a shower before you go out."
"Yeah I plan to."
"Are you going out tonight?"
"Maybe. What are you doing?"
Chloe's face grows slightly flushed as she sits down beside me on the porch steps. "I have a date."
"Bicycle Man?"
"Lord no." She turns her head, "why? Do I look that hard up?"
"No. He's just my favorite."
"Really? I would think he might be slightly intimidating... at least Jimmy seems slightly intimidated, or defensive of me, or something when he's around."
"Why? Because he could snap Jimmy and me in half like a toothpick?" She chuckles slightly. "No I like him because he is totally non-threatening. There is no chance in hell you would ever want anything more out of him than sex. He represents no threat to our friendship so for me he's the least threatening. But that's not why I like him. I like him because he doesn't mind being called Bicycle Man. Anthropology Man just never seemed to really accept the name, every time we called him that he would get this mortified look on his face and remind us of his name, like we were calling him that because we had forgotten his real name. What was his real name?"
"Robert."
"Oh yeah, Bob, see I knew there was a reason we called him Anthropology Man..."
"Scratch dubbed him that because Bob told him some long story about being in Costa Rica and going to all the Indian ruins or whatever."
"Really? I always thought he was an Anthropology professor or something?"
"No. He owns a construction company. Or landscaping company... I forget exactly."
"But you're not going out with him either huh?"
"No. He's engaged now. I'm going out with The Professor."
"Oh god Chloe. Again?" The Professor is, naturally, a professor, though his diminutive statue and total lack of problem-solving skills set him apart from the more familiar Gilligan's Island variety. We took to calling him the professor because none of us can ever remember his name. And because he's well, such a professor. He tries hard to be cool, you can see it in his eyes, he wants to scream, but he can't, or if he does, it comes out a murmur, a stumbling awkward line that usually only reveals him for the overeducated mousish man that he is. He seems genuinely concerned with things like literature and poetry, but only because he is involved in them, he is good at them, he lacks the natural enthusiasm of Jimmy or Scratch. He would have written the poem, but never dared to touch the plums. Unlike the famous professor on that deserted isle, he can't seem to make a radio out of coconuts to broadcast distress signals with. I don't even think he could crack a coconut open, much less transform it into something usable. He's New England. Coconuts are obtained in cans at specialty Asian Markets which always share a wall with some sort of adult video establishment because the Asian community understands the needs of white New Englanders. He has pasty skin, anemic eyes, and a disgusting habit of carefully evaluating risk before proceeding. He's more or less dead, and frankly, he scares me to death. He's so far gone he's never coming back, and he's only a year or two older than me. Chloe seems genuinely smitten with him. But then again he is the first person Chloe has dated, at least in the time I've known her, that has a functioning mind. He has a certain depth, however bookish and ill-formed it may be, that Chloe needs, but is afraid of being attached to, of becoming dependant upon, of needing. In his twisted way he does have an element of danger to him that Chloe no doubt finds irresistible-he's married.
"I know it's horrible, I know I'm doomed to live through some horrible karmic payback for all of this, but really I think I'm in love with his mind," She claps her hands on her knees. "It's the first time there's something more than just attraction. I'm not even really attracted to his body. I mean he isn't bad looking you know, but he's kind of...well... he's short. But I'm not going to swallow a moth for him, already promised myself that. There will be no moth eating."
"It must be wonderful for him to live out the fucking the babysitter fantasy
"Stop Sil. There will be no mocking in my presence. And that isn't how it started. We met because his younger daughter is in my class..."
"Fucking the third grade teacher fantasy... see this goes way back...."
"That's enough Sil." She brandishes a cigarette and threatens to burn my arm. "It wasn't until we were already friends and he had moved out of the house, that his wife asked if I would watch the girls."
"He actually moved out?" This surprises me, but somehow endears the man to me. "Wow. I wouldn't have thought he had it in him."
"He caught his wife with her personal trainer or something clich like that. He had to move out. But it made me more comfortable knowing that he didn't do it for me or because of me... it didn't have anything to do with me. I wouldn't want him to do it for me. But won't say that I'm not glad it happened-is that selfish of me?"
"Selfish? No I don't think so. But you are walking into a minefield Chloe." I run my hands over my head in a manner reminiscent of Scratch. "You Chloe, who professes to detest entanglements... I mean... you couldn't find someone more entangled if you tried."
"I know, I know." Her head slumps dejectedly. "But it's important to me Sil that you understand I didn't plan this. I didn't go into it like a nave little girl, but I certainly didn't want to split up his family and so far I haven't. And part of me even hopes that he and his wife will get back together..." She lets out a long sigh. "Even if that will be the end of my relationship with him."
"She has no idea? I mean she must not if she asked you to baby-sit."
"I can't tell. Maybe she does, but it's not like he and I have even had sex... we just talk. We talk kind of like you and I talk, and we care about each other... and we've had plenty of opportunities to have sex now that he's living at The Downtowner."
"He's staying in a motel?"
"Yeah. See, I don't even think he wanted to move out. He's been in the hotel for two weeks now and not only have we never had sex, but he hasn't even picked up a rental listing or anything. Besides, I love their daughters and I have to provide them with some modicum of female sanity lest they turn out to be like their mother... She actually drives all the way to Atlanta to buy organic vegetables... I mean, do you see the... never mind... it just disgusts me."
"Yup. I mean never mind the hypocrisy, we're all hypocrites, but some of us are at least aware of our hypocrisy..."
"I know. That's what I'm saying. This woman is insane. I mean she was fucking the personal trainer or something and into organics and asks me to baby-sit three days a week so she can go to yoga, meanwhile her family is disintegrating around her, her daughters are closer to me than her and she seems to think its just a phase in her marriage or something. And the worst part is she's a black belt in jiu-jitsu or shuiru or some horribly obscure form of martial arts and could probably kill me in less time than it would take to form the idea of killing me." Chloe shivers and leans her head on my shoulder.
"And you're fucking around with her husband..."
"And I'm fucking around with her husband..."
From: Dean O'Leary <do@morpheus.net>
To: sil@kali.org
Subject:
I don't know why Sil. I know it's disgusting. I don't even like doing it, but I have acquired a taste for it. I can't stop now, it bookends the days. Melissa has been yelling an awful lot lately. I'm not sure what she yells about exactly because I don't hear it. It's over. I gather that much. Presumably she wants me out of here. I do try to stay tuned enough to distinguish a date or something equally real, but usually she stops yelling after a while and we fuck like angry teenagers. She found the ladle yesterday. She didn't even ask what it was for. She was already yelling and picking up my clothes and throwing them in the hamper, and she reached under the bed and pulled out the ladle and just set it on the nightstand. After the yelling we were having sex, and she asked me to slap her ass with the ladle, so I did. I got tired after a while and couldn't have sex and operate the ladle at the same time and so I just sat on the side of the bed, and whacked her ass until she came. Or I think she came. This morning her ass was black and blue, but she acted like it never happened.
Dean Jr. is running out of water. He seems to know what is happening. I vomited twice yesterday from the drinking. I don't know for sure if I can finish. I went outside today for the first time since Atlantic City. It's very hot out, Sil. Is it hot there as well? I'm disappointed in myself. I can't seem to finish. And just this afternoon while I was out I bought a bottle of water. I cheated Sil. It was so clean and pure and tasteless. Not the slightest odor of fish. How do they get all the fish taste out of the water? Think how many fish are in streams... even weird blind fish that live way underground in caves and water tables... so many fish and yet when we get a bottle of water from the store we never taste them. But they're there. It's their water. We just borrow it. We take it, we filter it, we use it, we piss it out, we flush the toilet, we filter it again and then we send it back to the fish. We never even thank them. At least I don't know of anyone thanking them.
From: Dean O'Leary <do@morpheus.net>
To: sil@kali.org
Subject:
It's over thank god. I drank the last inch this morning by sticking my head in and sucking it up with a straw. Dean Jr. flopped around on the florescent gravel for about an hour or so. And then he was dead. I gathered up my clothes and put them in the suitcase. It took me most of the afternoon to find my car. I'll see you soon.
"It's not bad." Jimmy sounds surprised. "I don't know that it's all that good, but it isn't bad."
"Yeah. It's not the best I've made, but it's not the worst either." In a display of startlingly bad posture, Scratch is slouched down on the couch, cradling a ceramic mug on his stomach. He groans, props his bad leg up on the arm of the chair. "Fall is coming. This Indian Summer thing is always the first sign, and lucky me, I get to feel it in my bones." His lips curl sarcastically, and he takes another sip of mead. "The humidity's dropped anyway."
Jimmy lights a cigarette and exhales in the too-fast manner of people who don't actually smoke. I stretch my legs out and lie back prone on the floor, staring up at the tapestry ceiling. "Where's Chloe?"
"Out to dinner with the professor..." Jimmy exhales too hard again.
"She's been here what? Ten years?" Scratch shifts himself and lies down now occupying the entire length of the couch. "She knows how small this town is, how long does she think she can keep this on the down tip when they go out all the time?"
"I think she believes that as long as they don't have sex they aren't doing anything that needs to be hidden. Or at least that was the impression I got."
"He's obviously still in love with his wife. Guys like that are always going to stay in love with their wives because they don't have the imagination to move beyond it-not saying that's a bad thing mind you-just that he's going to go back to her, and Chloe is going to be left holding on to something that was never there." Scratch sits up and rummages around in his pockets to produce a small bag of weed and some rolling papers. He tosses them at Jimmy and lies back down. "You've met him haven't you Sil? Am I right?"
"Probably. But then I didn't think he'd move out."
"He had to move out. He didn't want to move out, but the script dictated that he had to move out. Wwhen you walk in on her, you have to move out. You don't even want to usually. Everything right then becomes very surreal, but your options at that point are pretty much murder or move out. I think he did the right thing. I mean, it was the personal trainer right...?" Scratch laughs heartily for a minute and it's not until I see the smile spread over Jimmy's face that I remember Scratch was a personal trainer for a while. "Yeah it's never anything more than sex with the personal trainer."
"Did you ever..."
"No. Never did. I've always figured that there are so many wonderful single women in the world there is no reason to get involved in that sort of situation. Not every guy chooses to move out you know.... Not that it wasn't offered.... I guess, and maybe this is just me inventing excuses for Chloe because she is our friend, but I guess for women there are less ideal single men. In this town anyway." Scratch accepts the joint from Jimmy. "I still think it's a bad idea."
We lapse into silence as they pass the joint back and forth. There is the sound of tires on gravel and the slamming of car doors.
"Oh, by the way, Dean is coming down." I sit up again. They don't response to this news. I follow their eyes out the window where the last glow of sunset silhouettes what appears to be Chloe and The Professor walking down the path toward my front door. There is a knock at the front door. A sound so rare it takes me a minute to grasp what it is, but Scratch is already yelling come in.
Chloe opens the door and walks in with a faint ducking motion that is immediately nervous and timid, two things Chloe rarely seems to experience. She seems to be, rather than just nervous, nervous about being nervous. Scratch bounds off the couch and is shaking hands with The Professor and hugging Chloe before I can even move. Jimmy is hurriedly crushing out the joint and steps over me to shake hands with The Professor. When the daze finally lifts I here Chloe saying, "...and you remember Sil."
"Yes. Yes I do. How are you Sil? Nice place you have here, like camping kind of..."
"Yeah thanks." I stand up finally. "Come on in, have a seat."
"Is that pot I smell?" The Professor sniffs suspiciously as he and Chloe sit down on the couch next to Scratch. Chloe is in between them, and The Professor places his hand on her leg and she puts hers over it. "Man. It's been years since I smoked pot."
"Well here you are Professor..." Scratch extends the half smoked joint to him, and Chloe turns roughly the color of a Cardinal at the mention of the word professor.
"Oh no. That's okay I don't think I should..."
Scratch's hand snaps back, and he cocks his head to the side. He shrugs, thrusts the joint between his lips and fumbles with my Zippo for a minute before producing a flame so large it nearly takes off his eyebrows. He chuckles and leans back on the couch. "Well the least you can do is indulge in some of my homebrewed mead here." He picks up the bottle and pours a little in his ceramic mug and passes it over to The Professor who takes a sip and proclaims it, "a little on the sweet side, but good."
"Wait, did you call me professor? Please don't do that, only my students call me professor..."
"Well you are a professor aren't you?" Scratch screws his face up into his potatohead stuck on smile look.
"Yeah I am, but..."
"Well that settles it, Professor." Scratch grabs the bottle and takes a long pull. "Can you make a radio out of coconuts?"
"Excuse me? Oh yeah. Uh... I don't know, I've never tried."
"Sil do you have any coconuts?"
"No."
"Damn." There is laughter and merriment, and everyone seems to think The Professor is being a good sport and a likeable guy and I keep staring at his hand which is resting on her knee, no, actually it's a little bit back from her actual kneecap, it's at the end of her thigh, it's right about where muscle gives way to tendon, the last extension of conscious control, he's right there at the edge and he's laughing and now he's taking the joint from Scratch, now he thinks he's one of the gang so why not and he's inhaling and laughing and everybody is having such a good fucking time and we're all in on this aren't we? We're all friends aren't we? We all fucking fit together don't we?
"So how's this thing with your wife?" An ugly pallor of silence casts itself across the room. The Professor seems unable to speak. He stutters and mumbles something about not wanting to talk about it. Jimmy is curled into a ball in the chair trying not to burst out laughing, and Chloe is staring at me with visions of disembowelment and meat-cleavered penises dancing across her pupils. Scratch takes a long drag and holds it.
"Never mind Sil," Scratch begins talking as he slowly exhales "he's had a few to many nips of the mead." Scratch rubs Chloe's back. She gets up to leave and The Professor follows mumbling things about nice to meet you and you...
The door closes behind them, and we listen to footsteps disappear into the night. No one says anything until we hear the sound of car doors. "I think that went well." Scratch grins.
"That was fucking amazing." Jimmy lets loose his pent-up laughter, pent so far that he seem to be spitting a bit in the midst of it. "I've never seen someone stop having a good time in that short... damn Sil. That really was brilliant."
"Of course you know Sil," Scratch eyes me thoughtfully, "tonight's the night they actually have sex... you've driven her into his arms, you know that, right?"
I shrug. "It's what they wanted isn't it."
Six
This is the room- these days run away like-treasure chests of pomegranates-nightfall on the savannah-we had no idea- be more like the ocean-visualize action-all that is waiting-the problem-understanding at the expense of ambiguity-pulling in the shells-red plumes of blue-something to move-turbulent somnobulist in the air-this is the room-
Something strange is amiss, hitting its pointed beak on the roof in time to the squirrels scampering feet, up there with the fallen limbs of pecans and maples and the disgorging of wings, cardinals and warblers and wrens and somewhere way up there, really up, straight fucking up, canadian geese in the marshmellow tuffs and syrupy blue ether-feathers raining through the pecans and maples and little Leda, wiping an impish grin on the back of her hand, tosses the club amidst a great splash of feathers that billow around her, listing slowly to the ground like gentle warm snow,-this is the room where we are waiting.
Perhaps Jimmy is not waiting.
Perhaps I am the only one waiting. Watching the scenery out the window of a train car still sitting in an empty railyard. Everyday the same scene, but hoping for motion.
Jimmy and I are just making some headway on a bottle of Scratch's and there it is-another train car pulling along side ours-the innocuous blue-green tint of Dean's soda-can sedan pulling to a rickety halt on the rutted driveway. I go the window and watch as he gets out and sets down his battered suitcase. Dean has wings, but they're black and someone has swallowed all his halos as if to say there is only pleasure with pain, only balance in contradiction. I've seen him dine on buddhists, put bullets through honeydew and mix gin with the Khan's famous after dinner treats. Dean was miscast. Given the wrong physical build, some paper work mix-up on the way down, departmental records secretary spills the coffee, papers snowing off the edge of desk some requisition order slides under the filing cabinet where it's still gathering dust and Dean gets here looking like an underweight Dempsey. He's done well with it though, he's grown into into it in spite of himself.
This morning he's wearing his trademark pin-striped suit and fedora with his hair greased back like it's 1957 and he's slightly ahead of his time. He scratches his head and surveys his surroundings, craning to inspect the treetops and sapphire twinkles of sky poking between leaves. Then he puts his hat back on and marches down the driveway. He looks like an enemy of the people, but only as a tag, a tag they would give to Dillinger or Mitnik, a tag that belies the warmth of men who know the odds and aren't putting any money on the table. They look best as a smiling Xerox on the post office bulletin board, never a sketch, never a half remembered glimpse, no Dean would do it all in broad daylight, the sort of criminal that is no longer permitted. There's a glamour to that sort of crime, crime which may steal, or destroy, but never does any real harm. An innocent criminality that got lost somewhere along the way, a formal criminality, an innocence that makes you believe that crime is as noble an art as any.
He looks like something from a tall tale told by a drunken leprechaun tugging at your coattails in a Dublin alley. But Dean is a darker sound than most, one with a heavy backbeat, something bass driven, with accordian melodies. The innocent criminal and lighthearted formality can collapse like bellows and exhale a different man, a heartbreaking melody then, dark and heavy-a gypsy song or a curse-half-muttered words. One day in New York City.... But even in the watery darkness of Dean's quiet moments the formalitity and innocence remain in little things, like words, always aeroplane, juncture, sonombulist, never airplane, time or zombie, or his clothing, always suits, antiquated, out of style, yet fitting on his wiry frame, always a zippo, never a bic, or his near reverant love of silence and thought. You can see thoughts folding in on themselves behind his eyes, train wrecks he will never describe for you, locked forever in a half curl of lips or rise of an eyebrow, entire railyards with meticulously inlaid switching systems with cars to carry you as far as Bangledesh or as near as the very stop your own train is pulling into just now, and yet he remains gulping in the silence, the beauty of saying nothing. I have seen Dean vanish, become so silent, so still that he disappeared right in front of me.
Everything is always on or off, there is no mediocrity or in between state- everything or nothing at all. When he drinks, and Dean often does, his eyelids droop slightly and his head teeters about on the end of his neck, but just when you think he's skunked, he'll snap to and ask you about something you casually mentioned two weeks ago, wanting to know the finer details of your off hand remark-razor sharp.
He doesn't knock, artificial formality is not his style. He moves through the door with more grace and sense of comfort in his surroundings than I can manage after four years. Jimmy and I sit silently waiting while Dean carefully lays the battered suitcase on the dining table and fishes out and lights a cigarette in one long fluid motion. He exhales and breaks into a broad smile.
"Sil my old friend," he walks around the divan and clasps his arms around me, "you ought to unpack... it will be good for you."
"I will my friend. I will."
We do not pat each other on the back. Eventually he pulls back, and, still grasping my shoulders, says, "You look well. You look marvelous actually." His attention shifts to Jimmy who, realizing he's next, has risen off the couch, glass of mead still in hand, "James... Good to see you."
While they embrace and clap each other on the back, I walk into the kitchen and grab Dean a glass and pour him some mead.
"Mead huh? Never had it."
"A Scratch specialty. It's not bad actually." Jimmy takes another sip as if to encourage Dean along.
"Scratch? Is that a person?" Dean flops down on the couch with his glass carefully raised and counterbalanced to avoid spilling.
"Scratch was discovered shortly after you left. You'll love him."
"Not bad. A little sweet for my taste but not bad." He sets the glass on the table and smacks his lips. "And where is Little Miss?"
"Sil pissed her off last night... Maybe you can retrieve her and assuage the feminine irk"
Dean's smile droops to a frown and he cocks an eyebrow at me.
I shrug. "Long story. Married people were in the house."
He winces. "Things are falling apart in my absence.... Fear not my friend. I'm back to save the universe." The smile returns, and he reaches again for the glass. "Get's better the more you drink..." He raises his glass and Jimmy and I follow, clinking our glasses against his "to a new dawn in the dark night of the soul..."
His toasts are always twinged with a melodramatic glamour that makes sense only after you have raised the twelfth one and come to see that, far from artifice, melodrama is the last glimmering of false hope, the desert hallucination of shimmering water that turns out indeed to be the water, shimmering and half-eclipsed by date palms.
"Okay man... hey let me get one of those..." Dean hands him a cigarette, and Jimmy lights up and exhales with his non-smoker aggressiveness. "So lay it on me... What have you been up to?"
Dean signs and lights another cigarette off the cherry of the former. He looks over at me with a twinkle on the corner of his lips. "When was my last email...? Oh yes. Okay that was a few days ago." He rubs his goatee ruminating on the elapse of time. "It's pretty vague... wait, hold on now, a couple of snapshots are developing. I remember looking up from a formica bar at thousands of blinking lights, like getting off a Ferris wheel and realizing that it was still and the rest of world is what's spinning." He nods to himself as if pleased with the recollection. "I have an image of an alley, two dumpsters labeled United and a cocktail waitress with extracurricular monetary schemes. I remember trying to buy cigarettes from this old man with a tray around his neck and I had no money, so he gave me a pack provided I left the building. I'm just not sure where the building was... Virginia maybe...?
"Yes. Yes it was somewhere by a river, I remember the smell and empty bottles floating in the water. Yes. I put them there. I drank them and then I lobbed them into the river and watched them bob around and list over on their sides and then they would slowly fill up with water and sink. But a couple of them righted themselves before they reached that critical mass, or equilibrium, or whatever, and they just floated off with the current..."
"Right," Jimmy interrupts impatiently, "but I meant up in Brooklyn... How did the city treat you?"
"Oh that part. Well let's see. I never really got a job. I mostly sat around the house smoking... let myself be a fucktoy for Melissa... naturally that wore thin after a while... I worked for two weeks tending bar at one of those Williamsburg joints that doesn't close... Working class place, where the night shift comes in around eight AM and wants to get ripped after work... So I did pay rent for a couple of months off that, but then I got fired for tapping the till... So I went back to being a fucktoy... I had a fish, but he died...
He pauses and stares intently at me. He starts to sit back and cross his legs, but then changes his mind and jerks to his feet. He paces a circle around the coffee table and then goes into one of his abstract-theoretical rants. He stops pacing to light a cigarette, the smoke maces him and he squints for a minute, rubs his eyes and lurches off again.
"Do you remember, when we were living out in LA, how it seemed like everything was so important and everyone had something they were working toward, but we always knew there was nothing and never would be? Well it's the same thing... same types of people, same types of jobs, ... everything exactly the same... except for the houses... I love the brownstones, take that over stucco any day, but it's pretty much the same sorts of people, the same caricatures that they present... real people mind you and plenty of interesting ones, though too many jogging and pushing baby strollers and that sort of nonsense... on the whole sharper than most in OC or LA, but not really all that different when it comes down to fundamental things like outlook on life, or maybe what I mean is lack thereof... plenty of shock at the notion that I don't want to work. I remember at this one party, one of Melissa's more yuppyish friends cornered me and started grilling me about what I did and all this stuff and I kept hemming and hawing and whatnot... finally she says, 'well what do you really love?' 'Everything,' I said. Absolutely everything. Except for onions and insects... and work. I hate work. I don't want to work. I want to absorb. I want to breathe in and out and understand. You know... run of the mill stuff. Anyway so Brooklyn was a lot like going back to LA, but with better restaurants. Not that I had expected it to be different, but the thing is, I've changed so much that I couldn't relate to it anymore. Couldn't even get that old superior amusement out of it.... I kept losing track of time... time is very important in that city. Never seems to be enough of it or something, everyone's trying to find it, the only place you can forget about time is in the parks. I would take wonderful naps in Prospect Park every afternoon. I got into letter writing. I spent most of my days writing letters to Sil and some folks on the west coast... I would find myself moving my fingers over the keyboard... I realized that I was playing it like an instrument, that the keys were what I was paying attention to, not the words or even the screen but the rhythm of the keys as my fingers danced over the..." He sighs wearily and crushes out his cigarette. "Who's the gimp?"
Out the front window we can see Scratch hobbling along with a pack on his back and what looks like ten or fifteen plastic shopping bags clutched in each hand. Jimmy bounds outside to help him.
"That, is Scratch." I smile at Dean. "I sort of thought that perhaps you wouldn't want me to share those emails with anyone..."
"Yeah maybe so." He sits down on the throne chair. "I've been feeling much better by the way..." His voice is swallowed by a bellowing laughter and Scratch limping through the doorway with Jimmy just behind him holding the screen open.
"Sil," he barks my name like a director unsure of his actors, "you're having a party. We forgot to have a summer solstice party, so, damnit, were having one now."
"Okay. Should we wait for the autumn equinox?"
"We haven't got that kind of time." He heaves the bags up onto the dining table. "Beside who knows when that is... just doesn't have the ring of summer solstice. Autumn Equinox is very awkward to even say, let alone have a party for. This is going to be an Indian Summer party if it really must have a name. But damn it, you better get on the horn and call yer friends cause old Scratch is putting on the chef coat and it's feeling like grilling season..." He then reaches into one of the bags and extracts from it a starched white, double breasted chef coat and begins to theatrically pull his arms through the sleeves. That accomplished, he snaps the collar smartly to his neck and shrugs several times as if adjusting his body to the coat rather than the other way around. He drops the theatre display when he notices Dean. "Hey...You must be Dean... how ya doing? I'm Scratch."
They shake and Scratch mumbles something about not really being this weird most of the time, which Jimmy vehemently denies, assuring Dean that Scratch is indeed always this weird. "He hit his head you know..."
"James," Scratch is back to barking, "thanks so much for organizing these fine young lads to retrieve the double wide grill which you will find right beside the tire swing in my back yard."He dangles the keys to his truck on his outstretched finger. I leap up and grab them grab. We set off with Dean through the forest along the river trail.
"Little different than Brooklyn eh?" Jimmy is still smoking the same cigarette and keeps stopping to inhale.
"Hmm... Yeah... So what did you mean when you said he hit his head?"
Jimmy laughs and then stops. "I guess it really isn't funny. He had a rather severe accident. We should probably let him tell you the story..."
Almost and hour has passed before we get back with what turns out to be the largest barbeque known to man and takes all three of us gasping and struggling to get it in and then out of Scratch's truck. In the mean time Scratch has converted my kitchen into something resembling a Cossack encampment shortly before crossing the river to descend upon the Turks. Plastic bags are hanging in a curtain-like semi-circle around the sink, suspended by hooks I didn't know I had. The tiny four-burner stove has disappeared beneath a barracks tent worth of pots and skillets, which on closer examination reveal several bubbling brown liquids with various herb clumps protruding from them. The oven door is propped slightly open and its insides are laden with skillets full of sauted vegetables richly coated in butter or oil or some mysterious glaze made from butter and oil.
Scratch is bent over the sink sharpening his knives. The sink has been buried beneath an enormous, two-inch-thick cutting board that must weight thirty pounds and came from god knows where. It certainly wasn't carried in a plastic bag. He straightens up and turns around when he senses me inspecting the stove. "Keep back." He growls. "No sampling. This is a professional operation you are witnessing here." Then he relaxes for a moment. "I think perhaps you should go up and talk to Chloe and make sure that she and The Professor feel welcome this afternoon..."
"I sent Dean and Jimmy on that mission. If she's really mad at me then maybe I will talk to her, but I was kinda hoping it would just blow over."
Scratch snorts and goes back to sharpening, the deft scraping of steel and stone echoing dully off the stainless steel sink below it. I pour myself a glass of mead and retreat to the couch. I flip on the stereo and put on some music. Scratch requests a deeper backbeat. "Some fucking hip hop I said... I can't cook to this morose crap... it's the middle of the day fer godsakes Sil."
I give up and put on the radio.
Mystical is bumping his way over those strange haunting Spanish guitar licks of his when I spot the entourage heading down the walkway. I can make out Jimmy and Dean in front and what looks like The Professor behind them. But there are far too many girls behind that to be Chloe. Unless she has divided into different bodies. They come through the door like a carnival troupe laughing and Jimmy starts singing the end of the song the minute he hears it. Dean breaks into an entirely inappropriate Irish jig sort of routine dragging one of the Chloes, who it's now clear is in fact an entirely separate entity named Nancy, at least according to Jimmy, who is attempting introductions over the sound of laughter and music. Nancy immediately wins my admiration by branching off from Dean's ridiculous dance into an even more spastic and disorienting careening series of movements, managing to draw a reluctant Professor into the routine. She stops abruptly, laughing as the professor continues with an awkwardness that, unlike Nancy's, is not faked. "There you go Professor." She claps and scrunches up her face and unleashes a voice that is one-part British nanny and one-part Shirley Temple "Oh you're sooo fabulous Professor. Run with it baby."
Scratch is momentarily spellbound and ceases his ceaseless movement as if stuck on pause by the touch of an unseen remote. Suddenly the ground gives way beneath him, and he hobbles forward to hug everyone and then gently shoo them outside. I climb up from the couch and move the speakers around to that they face outside.
Jimmy has already lit the grill, and everyone is gathering chairs around the fire pit.
"Let's burn something Sil... this is so great... You have a fire pit in your front yard... We have to have a fire." Nancy's enthusiasm is contagious, and before I can protest, she and Jimmy have disappeared on a wood gathering expedition.
Dean takes off to get beer. The mead is not to his liking he says. By the time he returns there is an alarmingly large pile of wood next to the pit, and Jimmy seems to have every intention of setting it on fire. Chloe is generally ignoring my presence, though The Professor has been making small talk and seems to want me to understand that he is not holding against me whatever it is that Chloe might be.
Conversations swirl in little whirlpools, like dust devils circling the yard, joining together in tornado, and then breaking off again. Though Jimmy and Nancy distinguish themselves with voices that rise in volume and enthusiasm like long rolling tidal waves finally making the beach, crosshatching and threatening to drown us all.
Chloe retreats and is standing by the doorway wearing a blue spaghetti strap dress, shaking her head slowly as she eats carrots and listens to Jimmy ranting. "Oh come on," I can hear him saying though I am trying to catch her eye at the same time, "there is no conspiracy..." his voice momentarily is swallowed by thumping bass and then returns, "...enlightened, wealthy, uber-powerful people living lives of extraordinary decadence at the expense of shmucks like you and I...."
The radio sings "hell was a place I knew long ago/is where I am/ is where I was/ is where I don't want to be/hell was a place I found by mistake..."
"There was a rainbow and we drove right under it and looked up at it... I swear we were right in the middle of it." Nancy's eyes get wider as if to emphasize the truthfulness of her story.
"I don't think you can be in a rainbow...."
"No one cares what you think Dean." She exaggerates, rolling her eyes and turns her around toward Chloe and the other girl. "We were in a rainbow weren't we?" They both nod.
"Fair enough."
"You wouldn't have been able to see it unless you were at a right angle to it," Jimmy breaks off from whatever he was ranting about and dives into the perilous waters next to Nancy.
"Ugh Jimmy. Didn't you hear what I said to Dean here? No one cares what you think... we were there. I think then that really, the authorities in this situation, would be, um, us." Her lips plaster on a sickly sarcastic smile. "Ohoh how you like that boy?" She weaves side-to-side imitating her dance from earlier, and Jimmy gives in laughing.
"Scratch kicks the screen open with a thunderous crash. Every one stops talking and turns toward him. He sniffs the air for moment and disappears back inside and returns carrying an enormous tray of meat. "It's grilling season," he bellows. "Let the grilling begin." He enlists my help in carrying the tray over to the frill and the rest return to what they are doing. I follow Scratch back inside and he sits down for a moment.
"Can I bum a smoke from you Sil?"
"You serious?"
"The only time I smoke is when I cook. When I was actually running the restaurant I was a two pack a day guy and for some reason every time I actually cook, I mean cook for a half dozen or so, I have to smoke." He accepts the cigarette and inhales deeply. "Been almost a year since the last one."
He smokes about half and puts it out and returns to cooking. I sit on the couch watching the rest of them talking and goofing around with Annie in the yard. Jimmy and Chloe break off together and head toward the house. She goes straight into the kitchen to investigate Scratch's cooking. I can hear ingredients being listed over the thump of the bass. Jimmy is making gestures and such that seem to indicate he wants me to talk to Chloe, but actually I have lost all urge. He sits down beside me on the couch.
"If she wants to be mad, who am I to deprive her of the satisfaction?"
He shrugs and nods.
She steps back from the kitchen chewing a haricot vert and smirking at Scratch's scrambling figure darting back and forth, stirring pots, now tossing a pan of braised beans, now whisking an emulsion..."You know Scratch in your life you've spent more time in the kitchen than most women. You might as well be pregnant by now..."
"Yeah," Jimmy stands up to pour more mead, "and those clogs you chefs wear mean you're basically barefoot." He laughs.
"Your point being..." Scratch's head pokes around the corner and glares at him.
Jimmy shrugs, "You'd make a good wife...?"
"What I am doing here James is art. You build things out of wood and call it art. Well, I build things out of food and call it art."
"Hey take it easy Scratch." Jimmy is a little taken aback "I was just trying to make a joke. Everyone knows there are lots of great male chefs."
Chloe groans. "Does it have to be like that?"
"What? Almost all the great chefs are men." Jimmy stares at her blankly.
"Oh god."
"What? They are. I mean almost all the ones I see on the Food Network are. Don't get all feminist on me Chloe."
"Oh this isn't feminism James, this is just pathos. You're pathetic. You force women to be these domestic servants for god knows how long, then just to prove you could do it better, you create this elitist snobbery around the very same thing when you do it."
"Hey I didn't do any of that. And I'm not gonna feel guilty for it. History is a rubbish heap of wrongs Chloe... we've all heard this one before...."
"Have we?" I try to warn Jimmy off with eyebrows, but he ignores me and soldiers on.
"In essence, yes. Very familiar pattern here... the dominator culture... the repressed... the horror. The horror."
"I don't know man, patterns are in the eye of the beholder. Patterns are misleading. Lots of times we think they indicate order, but they don't necessarily. They only indicate patterns."
"Yeah, but patterns within disorder implies a kind of order, wouldn't you agree?"
"No. It depends on what you mean when you say order. Order as an inherent discoverable phenomenon is fiction..." Chloe storms outside and Jimmy and I watch as she sits down next to The Professor, her back toward the house. I continue watching her as Jimmy and I carry through our conversation, which by now, neither of us cares about.
"Imposing order seems to work for certain reducible things... But I think patterns simply imply something outside the disorder is trying to make sense of it.... It doesn't have anything to do with the order or meaning of real nebulus thing. It has to do with us. Not the other... Where one person can find the pattern 'Jesus is the reason for the season' another person finds 'season the reason. Bake for twenty minutes'
Jimmy's voice is flat and distracted "You know as well as I do that those are not anagrams drawn from the same set of letters..."
"Okay sure we keep spare letters around for times when we want them, but isn't that just a further example of that fact that the order isn't there... we invent it?"
"Touch. OUCH!"
"FUCK!"
Scratch slaps us both in the side of the head with metal turners.
"I understand that all that was some misguided attempt to make Sil look good there, James. But I thought maybe a good crack on the head would remind you morons that Chloe isn't as stupid as you two can be." Scratch looks as close to mad as I have ever seen him. He thrusts a pitcher of sauce into Jimmy's hand and a brush into mine. "Now go outside and baste the chicken... And for the love of god keep the sauce off the pork. I didn't soak it in brine for twenty four hours to have goop all over it."
Outside the Professor is trying to coax Dean into some philosophical debate. "So what are you saying? That we can make a difference or that we can't?"
"Neither." Dean lights a smoke. "I have nothing to say on that one because once you start debating that you have already digressed out of life and into the realm of ideas. Ideas are just words, words are just abstractions all you, no offense, do-good intellectuals are missing the point. Yes, life could use some tinkering, it certainly isn't fair, but the problem isn't recycling, it isn't pollution, the problem is you and I and the solution is individual and has to be dealt with on that level. As long as you ignore the individual and focus on the abstract you not only miss the problem, but you delude yourself into thinking that you can find solutions for everyone."
"Oh God," Chloe cuts in with an exasperated voice, "you would think by now with the number of times we have failed to change things that we would be able to look ahead, put two and two together, and stop even talking about this crap." She shakes her head.
"Well yes, that's what I'm saying," Dean points to her with his cigarette. "Everyone has to face up to himself or herself first. And don't pull any psychological mumbo jumbo on me either because there will never be enough therapists to go around until we realize that we are our own therapists, and our own patients and that all the solutions we will ever need are already there in our own brains." He stabs his index finger into his forehead. "And as long as you are going to approach the world as, on one hand, a concrete thing in front of you, and on the other, some fanciful, abstract set of possible solutions, you are never going to realize that the power of words is not in the words themselves, but in what they can create. I mean, come on Professor, you know your surrealists I'm sure, what do think they were saying...? That the world is fanciful? Well sure, but lets scratch the surface a little shall we? Want it to be a better place? Try being a better person. Try thinking with your heart instead of your head. Your imagination can do things we haven't even dreamed of yet. And that's where all our ideas and solutions and future problems will come from. And I don't mean just the dreams you have when you're sleeping. I mean dreams... love, hope, the true work, all these are products of the imagination, all of this, everything around us, even each other, all springs from the interplay of our imaginations...."
"Yeah but Dean, most people just want to be happy..." Jimmy is yelling in my ear as he swabs chicken breasts with barbeque sauce. "People don't have the time or energy in their lives to think or talk about the kind of complexities you're talking about."
"Sure they do. We do. What makes us different than anyone else?"
Scratch swings the door open again with the same silence-inspiring crash. "What makes us different is that we know how to have a summer solstice party long after summer solstice is past."
There are whirls of color balanced on theories dreamed from the Fibonacci sequence, balanced on the harmonics of a root two rectangle... a salad like a dancing lady from a Toulouse-Lautrec poster advertising the greatest carnival of all in some Parisian back alley, the girl's skirts all atwirl and sucking on a bottle of sodium pentothal... eyes circle the table in blurs of mead settling on the green of the haricot verts in just about the place that fanciful Italian would have placed them, and yet Scratch probably doesn't know Fibonacci's name or even if he does the coincidence is a dance of intuition and formal logic hand in hand, skirts atwirling, painted faces glowing, the mirrored windows and the laughter three stories above where the madam is stringing her stockings across the open sliver of sky that you can see when your head flies back, heavy with absinthe and the dizziness of the endless spiral... and if we hesitate it is only of a desire not to disrupt, to preserve the golden garden, but damn if that isn't one fine looking apple over there by the pork and its honey gastrite accompaniment, and now the gold rush is on, down the alleyway come the miners and it's all the dancing girls can do to get up on the steps of the doorways before the stampede of miners comes clamoring down the cobblestone, greedy hunger in their eyes... dividing amongst them the finest of both homely honesty and Parisian fantasy... met here on a table of modest proportions... giggling girls in petticoats pretending modesty and impropriety while gold-rush ruffians wreck havoc on what was once a peaceful alley.
Outside. Dirt and folding chairs. Chairs open. Chairs close. Mandibles move up and down. It's inescapable. And it tastes so good when it waltzes between the lips, the way the honey sweetens the front taste buds, and the camisole meat dances backward as the slight bite of mustard hits the sides of the tongue and a street band strikes up something in the key of G, something anyone can move to, a hypnotic dance that even cartoon animations moving frame by meticulous frame, can replicate and your eyes roll slightly back as you swallow, crescendo and then here comes the augment...
Mead. Or in Dean's case beer. Sweetness piled on thick with no shame. Gluttony. Fucking in the streets. On the roads. In the middle of the interstates. Everything drawn out of the alley into the open night air, and by the time most of us have finished eating, the sun is gone and night fast approaching. Nancy is petitioning for the fire, which Jimmy obliges and they embark on a ritual of twig snapping and branch breaking. Dean and I attempt to put my kitchen back in some semblance of order. He carefully wraps all the leftovers, intuitively realizing that this is all the food we have in the house and we had better make it last no matter if the camisole turns to chamois. By the time we finish and look outside a volcano has erupted in the front yard.
While some people might throw a few sticks on the ground, strike a match and call it a fire, Jimmy has other ideas. Jimmy has approached the thing more from an architectural angle. He is back with that famous Italian and his wonderful spirals. This is no fire, it's more of a pyre. It's the kind of thing pagans used to dance around in the woods. It's the kind of thing the Romans used to heat the great palaces with, back in the days when fire meant life. It's the hissing, raging swirl of motion that makes you want to understand it, to be able to recreate it at any moment. It's alive, that much is obvious, but more importantly, Jimmy has given it life, he has set it in motion down that spiral path ever-increasing. He appears to have started with the remnants of the bamboo fence that I noticed earlier in the pile. Bamboo burns hot and fast and explodes as it does. He has combined it with fallen limbs of oaks and pecans and then reassembled the elements in a drip sandcastle formation that is flooded inside and out by a ferocious roaring sound that twists itself up, turns blue, then red, then yellow and disappears into the lower branches of the pecan tree, singeing the leaves and causing them to fall. It's fantastically loud, and it's sending flames over eight feet into the air.
He and Nancy are the only ones even close to it. They are both still feeding yet more wood into the already excessive heights of flame. The Professor looks downright terrified by this spectacle and is clearly re-evaluating what sort of madmen he has fallen in among. Even Scratch looks mildly alarmed, but he isn't saying anything. Dean heads straight for the woodpile and begins to throw more logs up on the top. Jimmy and Nancy have moved back from the heat, but Dean seems unfazed. He keeps at it until the entire woodpile has been fed to the flames. Even at ten or twenty feet, the heat is nearly intolerable and clearly no one is in control of the fire. Nancy runs inside and turns down the stereo and emerges from the house with two fresh bottles of mead. Jimmy retrieves the remaining chairs and he and Dean even carry the couch outside offering it to Chloe and her friends. We sit around listening to the roar, in awe of Jimmy's creation. Every so often, as the wood burns down, we draw our chairs closer.
"We used to have fires like this out in Humboldt..." Scratch rubs his head, and Dean perks up, glances over at me and nods.
"You lived in Humboldt?"
"Yeah back in the late seventies I used to go out there in the spring... some friends of mine had a regular crop... then in the fall I'd pack it into a VW bug and haul it back here to sell to the college kids... ya'll are lucky... man, back then, there was nothing to do in this town..." He drifts off into some private world for moment. "Yeah Humboldt was something back then, maybe it still is, I dunno, but back then growing was part of the economy, nobody messed with you. The car dealerships would put up billboards advertising 'harvest specials' on trucks and 4X4's. It was hilarious. But why was I telling you this? Oh yeah, the fire, man out the middle of the redwood forests we used have huge bonfires and big parties... all the growers would get together after harvest..."
A silence momentarily settles over us, but Jimmy interrupts it, asking Scratch to tell the thump story. "You don't want these people to leave tonight think you just limp for no good reason do you?"
Scratch snorts. "Like I was handicapped by some fate of nature rather than my own stupidity?" He sits up and straightens his pants. "No I guess we wouldn't want that."
"I didn't notice you limped." Nancy leans forward in her chair and inspects Scratch's leg.
"That's sweet of you to say my dear, but it doesn't put your powers of observation in a good light. So yes, I do limp. And I limp because I'm missing about an inch and a half of bone in my left leg." He lights up a joint and passes it to his right.
"Okay so as you might have guessed I used to cook for a living. I started doing that in LA back when I was your age probably, maybe a little younger, but anyway, I worked in some nice places and developed a bit of a reputation... I got to the point where some friends and I were able to put together a catering company, and we worked movie sets because that was where the good money was at."
"What movies did you do?"
"Oh shit, lots of stuff that never saw the light of day, but we eventually did get some big ones, Reality Bites was probably the biggest and definitely one of the worst, I should have given them more protein on that set. But the thing in Hollywood is that the money isn't necessarily in the big productions, those things have tight fixed budgets, and if they run over their budgets they cut things like catering so we actually tried to avoid them except when we thought it would be a good resume builder.
"Anyway in the course of a few years I became friends with Debra Winger, who honestly is one of the nicest, sweetest women I've ever met. So as time goes on I get tired of the business end of things and I was bitching to her about it one night and she offered me a job making good money just cooking for her. A personal chef basically. So I sold out of the catering company and was going to work for her...
"Now the other thing you need to know is that I was an avid sky diver. We used to go all the time. Pretty much whenever we weren't working we were jumping out of airplanes. So when I sold the company my friends decided to have this big party for me out in the Inland Empire... Dean and Sil know where that is, but the rest of you just have to imagine a big, dry, grassy area where LA stores its smog during the day... So there was this community house out there that we sort of crashed at when we weren't on location or whatever... the key point being that it was in the middle of nowhere and it had a barn with a corrugated metal roof. So we decided that about half of us would jump and try to land at the house and the other half would stay behind and cook."
At this point Scratch stands up and hobbles toward the fire and turns around facing us. "So I was the last jumper. It was a perfect afternoon. Nice and warm even at fourteen thousand feet. Everything about the day was just lovely... and I know what you're thinking and no the 'chute opened fine, just like it was supposed to, everything was great the whole way down..."
Scratch looks around to make sure everyone is edged up on their seats. He stalls everything from this point on to build it up because we can see from his obviously twisted, scarred kneecap that something goes horribly wrong at some point, but Scratch likes to amplify the suspense.
"Well, about a hundred feet off the landing, everyone else is already down. Most of them in the yard though a couple are down the street, but they're all down and I'm kind of half steering half watching them pack up their chutes and half thinking, in the very back part of my brain, at some level I don't normally pay attention to, that something is not right. The first few guys are in the yard and the last three are spread out down the street."
He pauses to take a long drag.
"What this tells me is that there is a nasty gust somewhere between me and the ground. And that is the last thought I remember half-forming. Three months later I woke up in a hospital."
He passes the joint on.
"What happened is that I started to drift and I tried to correct, but something in the way I moved and the way the wind was blowing... one in a million kind of thing... one of those variables that you don't get to control." Dean is wincing and Chloe puts her hand over her face. Jimmy gives a little ironic laugh. "Anyway," Scratch continues, having built it up enough, "basically the 'chute twisted and the gust caught me about twenty feet above the ground and threw me into the extended edge of the barn's corrugated metal roof. The tops of my ankles hit the edge of it square on at about forty miles an hour."
He looks down at his legs.
"It cut almost all the way through to my Achilles tendon, smashed my ankle joint to smithereens; understand of course, I don't actually have any memory of this.... It's just what people have told me, people who were there.... They're not sure if that's what did the knee too or if the knee was from the truck I landed on," Scratch chuckles. "Lucky for me, after I got dragged free of the roof with my feet flopping behind me, the 'chute caught another gust and blew over the house. I fell two stories and went right through the front windshield of a pickup truck." He laughs heartily.
"And that," Scratch looks over at me with a green jello twinkle in his eye, "is why I don't walk quite right."
"Jesus Christ," Dean exclaims, "I can't believe you lived through that."
"Well that makes two of us... and I'll tell you, I don't remember it happening, but to hear my friend Dave tell it, it sends chills down my spine. He saw the whole thing, he was the one that drove me to the hospital... they were afraid to move me so I was half hanging out the windshield of the truck all the way to the hospital."
Scratch leans back, wipes his hands over his face and sighs deeply. "It just sounds so funny to me you know? There's times when I think I might have made the whole thing up... like I never did cater films, never lived in Hollywood, never went sky diving, never knew Debra Winger, never did any of it... I've been lying the whole time and I just made this stuff up to impress you guys." He trails off. But his story is true. He showed Chloe and I pictures of his ankles. The reconstructive surgery and use of sheep tendons was very experimental at the time, and Scratch is actually in the medical books as a case-study complete with horrifying photographs.
The fire has subsided to levels that might be considered normal. After a while The Professor announces he is leaving. Chloe gets up to walk him out, and Nancy and the other girl take the opportunity to walk back to Chloe's house where they are staying. Scratch mumbles something about age and he enlists Jimmy to help him carry things back to his house. When everyone else is gone. Dean stands up and announces he is going for a walk.
I just keep staring at the coals, imagining they are little cities seen from a great height. I get lost in architecture. The fire. The road. The echo of words settling at the departure of their speakers, slowly winding down in familiar spirals. The architecture of language paints these pictures and somehow, despite the fact that they exist only as vibrating air, they still exert influence over everything in reality. Dean, for instance, is going for a walk down the road. Road is very specific, it is not a street, it's a road. The word road has specific connotations. The Empire State building is not on a road, the mansion on the hill is not on a street, and Rue Montapassat is not Montpassat drive. Street is a clean simple word, inspiring clean simple lines, right angles, mirrored super-smooth surfaces, liquid sand... Drive is more suspicious, stucco and suburbs, but neglected suburbs, remodelled track homes straying from their architect's intentions. Lane's are ambiguous, they can go either way. But the word road winds, switches and curves around in your mouth. Its jaw-stretching vowels inspiring things like graded dirt, bumpy potholes, fallen-down mailboxes, sagging porches and bullet-riddled stop signs. Streets always have people walking down them, roads do not. But tonight they do. Tonight Dean is walking down a road. Tonight he is walking and listening to trees, perhaps even talking to them.
The fire is only glowing embers, echoes of its once towering self, fallen silent and the sound of the crickets roars in over my thoughts. Neanderthals. A glowing fire in a cave, wrapped in the warmth of bearskin, wondering what it would have been like, to have been there-have I been there? Have we all been there and just don't remember it? Is it the very fire that kindles the imagination? The fire crackles, and an opposable thumb grasping for more fuel, a twig, a branch. An idea is born, the night sings. The same crickets, cicadas, and hooting night owls fill the air-the distant sound of dawn. Was there music? Drumming? Chanting and singing filling the night air for miles?
"Everybody gone?" the voice startles me and I have to turn around before I realize that it's Chloe.
"Yeah. I think those girls are at your house or something..."
"Yeah. They're old friends from Atlanta."
"Oh."
She is standing beside my chair arms crossed, looking down at her foot, which she drags back in forth making an arc in the dirt and leaves. "Where'd Dean go?"
"Uh. He said he was going for a walk..."
"Lets go find him." She tugs on my sleeve until I stand up.
We walk out and down the dirt driveway trading kicks on pecans and pinecone sized rocks.
Finally I decide to deal with it. "Chloe, look I'm sorry if I pissed you off, but damn I was just asking him a question."
She doesn't respond at first. "That's the worst apology I've ever heard." And then she giggles, "but since I was never mad at you, it's okay."
"I got the impression that you were."
"What from Scratch and Jimmy?"
"Partly. But also because you seemed to be avoiding me."
She laughs. "I wasn't avoiding you..."
"Seemed like it to me..."
"I wanted you to rise above it." She stops and rolls the rock under her shoe.
"Above what?"
"Above the fact that Jimmy and Scratch were telling you that I was mad at you. And it did actually piss me off for a minute that you let Jimmy try and dupe me into some sympathy thing." Her leg rises up behind her poised to send the rock scattering into the tree. "Jimmy is a sweetheart and I wasn't mad at him for trying I was mad at you for thinking I would buy that shit."
"Yeah," my head droops involuntarily, "sorry."
"That appology I like. I forgive you." She begins to giggle again. "You guys thought you were so clever... I couldn't let you get away with that." She turns slightly, and kicks the rock about twenty yards straight down the road, and we both instinctively take off after it.
We come up over the rise in the driveway, and there is Dean, head thrust back, neck craned, inspecting the uppermost limbs of a pecan tree or perhaps the sky.
"Hey kids." Dean's voice is near a whisper.
Chloe's instinctively drops her own voice as she walks up beside him and tilts her head back to stare upward with him. "Why are we whispering Dean?"
"I don't know, but it seems like the right thing to do."
"It does, doesn't it?"
I hang back a bit and watch them staring upward trying to resist the temptation to do likewise. It's very hard to watch someone watching something without instinctively bypassing them to see what it is they are watching.
"You know you want to Sil..." Chloe's head never turns.
I give up and stare upward at a sliver of moon. The soft white glow reveals phantasmal basket spider webs poised in the upper branches of the trees. The baskets baskets are errie and enormous, silohetted against the star-specked sky, they are beautiful, almost alive, waiting to crawl across the trees, dodging glitters of moonlight and disappearing into the purple blackness of shadows.
"Okay my neck hurts." Dean turns and reaches in his pocket for a cigarette. I gesture and he hands me one as well. The dancing flame of the lighter momentarily blinds me.
"How long have you been doing that?"
"Dunno." He takes a long drag. "So um, can I ask you guys a question? Well, I was asking around about jobs, you know, kinda hoping Jimmy had some work..."
"Did the cowboys ever get off the roof?" Chloe asks.
I shrug.
"Cowboys? I didn't hear anything about cowboys..." We start walking back toward my house. "But he did mention something about pills...?"
"He can get more? That greasy little weasel said he couldn't get any more."
"Calm down Chloe. That's what I want to know. He wants me to go get them because he found out the feds or somebody are watching the guy's house and they already have his license plate and whatever... So I'd be willing to do it for a fee of course, but is he putting me on? What's the deal?"
"Yeah he told me about the cops." Chloe nods her head. "Basically this guy he was getting them from was a pharmacist or assistant or something... anyway he got a ton of pills somehow or other and he got caught, but for some reason they can't do anything to him, I don't know this all down in a little town south of here, and it's a very small town so it's hard to really know why, but the story is that the town couldn't do anything, to him, but for some reason the feds got involved... the rest of the details are hazy but I don't think he's putting you on Dean." She jumps on his back and throws her arms around him. "Please please Dean, go get them... you get some money we get the extra pills, Jimmy makes his money, it's a win win win situation...please..." She slides off and puts her arm around his shoulder. They embrace, and then she says goodnight to me and disappears into the incandescence of her doorway.
Back beside the fire, Dean and I sit in silence on opposite sides of the shimmering coals. I shift in my seat and lean forward, arching my back to stretch it out. Dean and I are from a different universe than the rest of them, that is, we have our own universe, one that we share with no one else in Georgia. A universe born out of many years spent sitting silent together, each respectful of the other's contemplation. It is rare to be able to sit around with someone and not have a conversation. That is the true measure of friendship, the silence in between words, the boredom between the adventures, with Dean and I it is always a light carefree silence, no matter how heavy our thoughts might become. A silence where even the cricket hesitate. An underwater silence where thoughts are mute but travel forever in ripples, expanding slowly and lapping at distant shores. I can hear Dean's thoughts like the surface of a pond roils and surges just before some enourmous creature climbs up out of it. But before it can climb up out on to the land, Chloe shuffles up in her pajamas holding a spiral bound notebook.
Her face is shy in the glimmering, irregular dance of light that surrounds us. She says nothing, but her mission obvious and determined. One more to be consumed. Dean looks up and smiles. There is a muted atmosphere which cannot be disturbed. I nod, and she carefully spreads the notebook open atop the pyramid formed by the last two semi-intact logs. At the weight of the pages, they finally give in and lay themselves flat. Slowly new and hungry flames curl up, reach out from beneath the glowing logs to accept this new gift, this ever so susceptible nourishment of paper.
First a hesitant lick, but soon a more daring dance, a courting of the soon to be consumed, a slow waltz of charred hardwood floors, the ruins of some mid century dance hall... The sucking out of air, the consumption of oxygen flutters and ruffles the pages, Chloe's handwritten scrawl is visible for fleeting seconds, words leaping out of the fire, the silent tongues of Shatterack, Meshack and Abendago. There is no comprehension, only the sense that here is the truth, slowly licked up and down in long caresses of tonguing flame, turning amber and smoking with desire.
Chloe waves and shuffles off into the darkness. In the distance there is the sound of a starting motorcycle, faintly in the background, the river-like sound of cars on the highway. The stereo inside has long since fallen silent. Dean shifts and leans forward to stir the fire with a branch that was spared. He throws it on top. After a while orange flames are again kissing the darkness and sending up embers, messengers off into the night, fading into the blackness and disappearing, and I'm never sure if they continuing upward or turn to ash and disolve into the air. Here and there a particularly courageous or lucky one can be seen carried off into the depth of the forest by a fortunate breeze.
Dean goes to bed leaving me alone beside the fire. A few minutes later I head inside as well. I lie down in my bedroom and stare up at the moon, trying to bath in its light, but the angle is wrong. It hits the edge of the window and refuses to come into my room. I get up to use the bathroom, but the bathroom is in shambles. Clothes, towels, magazines, books, scraps of paper and other trash litter the floor. Outside seems easier, so I return to the chill of the night. I am more than a little drunk. I sigh inwardly and pee on the nearest tree.
Seven
Drip sandcastle dreams hang on a wire-hear it on the national news-Los Angeles still like Mexico City-ocean of light-hanging on by a thread-photographs of the living dead- electronic reality-computer saves man-regrets act-one up-two down-five up-squirrels scamper trees-disappointment-click clack- trees-wheels-tuffs of white cotton-the rumble of thunderheads-cigarette ash-rain holding off-huddle around Roman fires-the roots-scatter cameos-finger scrap rock-tiny handholds-Palisades like valley below-roadside conversations-we'll wait here-morning-cigarettes-lighters-flames- inhale-exhale.
Everything is working.
It's on.
Or the talk of it is on. There is talk of it being on, or going on, or being ongoing. It's hard to say the way they circle around it. Dates come up. Things approach a plan but then the crest of on receeds, a wake of variables trailing ocean debris across the sand. And sand it will be. The plan has come that far. It will be sand and it will be foreign sand. In the background there will be the murmur of languages against the farther off babble of surf and there will pool, Scratch is insistent on pool, though none of us are sure why when there is an ocean right there, but no, Scratch must have his cabana and his pool and his divorcees. He is going on about the splendor of expatriate divorcees, loaded down with bags of money and free time and lusting after cabana boys who are reluctant because they fail to see the money tied to the sagging skin and diamonds in that are trapped in the wrinkles of bone-shrunk flesh.
Chloe wants mangos and papayas and passion fruit and guava and coconut necture tickled with rum to wash them down, to lounge in the warm tropical breezes that blow in from spice islands, jungle laced beaches bejeweled with palm fronds, brown skinned natives in clinking abalone necklaces walking down jungle trails, the foliage is glistening, the moonlight reflecting off the beads of water on the leaves... the chirping twilight of cricket dreams....
Dean isn't so limited, he believes in the whole world. We swill syrah in dark country cellars... We sit on latticed patios in the Italian countryside drinking chianti... We pick olives and play chess with the Greeks and take a ferry out to Crete... We walk the dusty camel choked streets of Morocco and catch the Marrakech Express across the desert... We fly biplanes low over African savannas out to the Ivory Coast where we catch freighters to Brazil and sail up the Amazon to take Yage with the natives....
This afternoon the air is a harem dancer bejeweled in sequins and dripping opium honey from her succulent breasts. She slides slippery wet through the front door, traces of her slick the doorknob and the house smells of white orchids, pomegranates and peach blossoms. She weaves through handing out mosquitoes and the drifting off with gusts of a passing hurricane whose wake has left a lingering, crisp sadness, biting at the afternoon with frosty shark teeth.
A map of central america is spread bethenth the coffeetable glass and between hands Scratch taps and points at roads and towns like a child at the smithsonian.
Poker then strip club then sex scene with Maya. End.
Chapter eight
Cards keep flipping up and money changes hands. Brown liquor flows down my throat and my little pile of ones quickly diminishes. I had intended to clean them all of a few dollars-damn beginner's luck. I borrow a twenty from Jimmy and then another. Not only am I not getting the cards, but also, for once in his life, Dean is. He takes hand after hand, a beaming smile lights his face each time he leans over the coffee table and drags a big pile of quarters and ones over to his end.
Dean's in one of his expansive moods, he's feeling free and reaping the rewards of not caring about his actions. He rattles on about a book I loaned him. He has a fresh-faced enthusiasm for the book's subject-memes. Memes are the idea counterpart of genes. The book argues that ideas, like physical characteristic, are passed on hereditarily, but with a little more leeway than genetics. For instance racism is hereditary, it's passed down from parents to children just like a gene, so they call it a meme... It traces a lot of western thought that way, the way in which thoughts are replicated from one generation, or even person, to another... Dean is arguing that our memes, our very thoughts are not our own; we are merely replicating the ideas of our ancestors.
"So, wait a minute now," Ulric cuts in, "in the old nature vs. nurture you're coming down on the nurture side?"
"Well yes and no. I don't think it's either exclusively, a happy marriage of both, but that's not the point..." Dean has a puzzled look on his face and I can tell that even he isn't sure what the point is. "What I was getting at is that there is finally a language for talking about how ideas are transmitted; how the virus of language does it's work, how it moves from host to host..." Dean licks his lips in satisfaction.
Ulric sits back in heavy thought. "Who cares though? I mean it may or may not be true, and there may or may not be ways of proving it in either direction, but none of that has on any consequence on how you live life... Oh and it's your bet there memeboy... what's it gonna be?" He gives Dean a sarcastic look.
Dean stares him down, throws in three dollars and continues without pause. "That's where you stop though. What I want to know is how the screws turn... how you disassemble reality for someone and put it back together in a new way? Essentially," he draws long on his cigarette, "how do you make a lasting change in your beliefs?"
Ulric grunts, "Try a thousand mikes of liquid acid...."
Dean smiles. "I mean without drugs. Although maybe that would help me loosen up a bit... I don't know what I think about memes yet. I need to give it more thought. Besides I got this hand." With three aces, he most certainly does.
Ulric throws his cards down in disgust and leans forward to light a cigarette. For the time being, Jimmy and I are resigned to silent losing. It suits me. Ulric takes a drag and seems to be sizing up Dean. "Alright Dean, how would you go about making a permanent change in your beliefs or should I say approach to life?"
"Either or." He picks up the cards. "Well," Dean says shuffling as he talks, "for instance when I was in Maryland I tried on a set of beliefs to see how they fit me...." He puts his cigarette in the ashtray and slowly deals out two cards to each of us. "What I found," he says, "was that I couldn't live that so-called normal life... white picket fence that sort of thing, but interestingly enough, I'm still in love with Alexis. I realized that in order for me to be with Alexis I had to get my shit together first and at this juncture I don't really want to do that. So the question arises why don't I want to do that? Where did I get the belief that I shouldn't do that?"
"What do you mean by get your shit together?" Jimmy interrupts.
Dean shrugs and lies back on the couch. "You know what I mean- figure out what I want out of life and how I'm going to go about getting it."
Jimmy sits up excited and starts waving his hands as he talks. "See that's what I mean when I keep saying I need to figure something out in my life. What am I going to do, that's what I keep asking myself... Do I want to be with Chloe and do that life or do I want to... you see what I'm getting at?"
"Is your relationship with Chloe that involved?" Dean asked. "I don't mean to pry, but it seems like all you two do is fight... I mean maybe you should start exploring other directions." Dean runs his fingers through his hair, coating them with grease, and flips up three cards-the nine of clubs, the six of hearts and the queen of diamonds. Jimmy studies the flop before answering Dean. The silence is uncomfortable, I think maybe Dean has overstepped his bounds with Jimmy and the look on Dean's face says he's thinking it too. Or else he doesn't have a hand.
"Well see," Jimmy's voice betrays no irritation at the question, "With Chloe and I there's no growth, no forward movement of the relationship, and for a while I thought it was because I'm this ambitious person and she's not, but lately I've realized that it's me. I'm all ambition and no direction" Jimmy's eyes take on the preternatural glow that he gets when he's about to launch into one of his passionate diatribes against himself. He seems to be hovering right on the edge of illumination, but he's unable to take that last step. I know the feeling. Someday something will happen to push him up it. Or someone...
Jimmy over-analyzes his life, picking it to pieces, thinking he can reassemble it back to some greater whole when really what he needs is more pieces to build with. "At this point," he says, "Chloe is the one that's growing, not me." Dean nods his head and Jimmy closes his eyes and begins to speak very slowly, as if picking through the rubble of a demolished building. "I keep thinking that I'm having these grand realizations, and maybe I am, but I have the same realization everyday and I don't act on it. I need to act, to move forward so that I have something to bring to the table so to speak. And maybe it's as simple as finding a career or a job or whatever I don't know. I only know that I have to change something in me."
Dean flips up the queen of spades and suddenly the hand takes a turn. I have the queen of hearts as a down card. They are lost in conversation and I quietly raise the stakes to three dollars. Jimmy is the only one who hesitates.
Ulric sits up and checks his hand before throwing in his money. "See with Rose and I, we both started growing in opposite directions, and the hard part was that it was because I changed the things in me that I didn't like. Now I keep trying to change her even though I know I can't. So changing things in myself changed things in our relationship and ultimately, I now know that we aren't meant to be together." His voice drops to a tragic whisper, "But that doesn't make it any easier to let her go."
Dean nods, "Of course not, that's a totally separate thing." He lights a fresh cigarette and cocks his head back staring at the ceiling. "People advance mentally throughout life," he goes on, "they pass through life in steps, accomplishments, experiences, epiphanies...pick a word. When two people meet that are advancing at the same rate, a bond is formed. A union of the minds so to speak." He blows smoke rings up to the ceiling clearly enjoying his role of analyst. "What happens to me is I keep advancing, sometimes speeding up, or slowing down, but usually speeding way up, and the other person is left behind. Thus there's that separation feeling at one point where you wake up saying what the fuck is going on, why am I here? For me, no matter what I do, that seems to happen after about two years..."
The last card dealt is the king of spades. I again put in three dollars. Jimmy raises me another three and I raise him two more. He calls me and I lay down the queens and win the hand-finally.
"But do you think it's possible that two people can move at the same speed for longer than two years?" Ulric asks
"Personally? No. However, my addition to that theory is that two people can move at different paces, but they still move together. In different directions, same direction, whatever, but there is still a continuity. And these two people make up the middle ground by learning from one another. If you're not learning from someone, it's hard to love them. But, more often than not, what happens to me is we move at the same pace, and then two years down the road they want to stay there, thus the huge schism." He smiles to himself for minute, "And then you meet a Muslim who makes you reevaluate... or maybe that just happens to me." He laughs.
Ulric and Jimmy have very earnest, sad looks on their faces. I can tell Dean is enjoying his role as the teacher perhaps some good has come out of two failed marriages and three broken engagements. "See, as a relationship progresses you go from meeting in the middle somewhere to being in the middle. Once you're together as one so to speak, there is no middle to meet in and that's what chokes that life out of the relationship." He glances over at Ulric and sees the pain in his face, "Sorry, if you don't want to talk about this, I understand, and shit, look who you're talking to...like I fucking know... I mean the older I get the less I know. Or maybe getting older really isn't anything other than being alive long enough to see people's patterns repeat, terminate, and regerminate-especially your own. If I've learned anything its that you control your position and whatever you choose is just that. Empty or not at the end of the day you face your own reflection in the toilet water, if it makes you feel better and more complete to have attachments hanging off that reflection, more power to 'ya, and good luck. I'm a narcissist, I only want to see my glowing sexy image in the off white piss-water." He laughs at himself and shakes his head. "Love is emotional alchemy. You're trying to take things that don't tangibly exist and apply to them to so much flesh and hair. So to get back to what Ulric asked, I love her... I still do, but we aren't on the same page." Dean cracks a smile in my direction. "I can't be on the same page with someone if I'm not even numbering my pages. There's no way for them to even know who, what, or where I'm coming from."
No one is paying attention to the game anymore. I shuffle quietly, flipping the cards from hand to hand trying to make every fourth one an ace, trying to arrange the deck to deal myself a winning hand. They are spinning words of pseudo-wisdom, as if they actually know what they're talking about, but really they're just thinking outloud. I deal out the cards clockwise and check my hand. I have a two of diamonds and a three of clubs. I clearly know nothing.
Jimmy starts back on his self-depreciating rant. He wants to figure out what to do with his life. He wants direction. "I mean what's the point of coming to a realization about yourself or having some insight into your behavior if you can't do anything with it?" He asks.
"Jesus Jimmy, you're the one whose always talking about parabolas and that sort of thing," Dean says. "You just approach that point, pass by it and move on again, what you come away with is only a glimpse."
"But how do I turn the glimpse into a meaningful action?" Jimmy asks.
Dean shrugs, "I have no idea. Like the genie in Aladdin said.... INFINITE POWER itty-bitty living space." He laughs and takes a drag of his cigarette. He tilts his head to one side as if in deep thought and then, after a moment, he continues, "Well I tell you what... I've had a realization or two recently and I have to tell you gentleman that I will be leaving next week. I took my old job back in California."
They both look up in shock.
"Well damn. Really?" Jimmy sits up. "You're leaving us? I mean that's great man, I'm happy for you, but shit we're gonna miss you. It won't be the same without your lunatic ass around here." Jimmy throws his arm around Dean and gives him a bear hug.
"Ya Dean, I feel like I just got to know you and now you're leaving." Ulric looks hurt again. "It's not Sil is it man? Because if he's kicking you out, you're more than welcome to stay at my place for a while."
"No, but I do appreciate the offer Ulric." Dean flicks his cigarette in the ashtray. "I'm leaving because there's nothing here for me to do. I feel like I need to accomplish something. I finished my book, of course no one wants to publish it, but at least I did it. That's what I've been working on for the last year or two and now that it's gone I feel a sense of emptiness in my soul. Not to get too hippified on you, but it really does feel that way. Like I broke up with a girl or something. So, being in limbo, I thought why not go out and make some money? I can't do that here so I took the old job. I'm gonna live with my dad and do some saving. At least that's the plan, who knows though...."
For a while all attention returned to the game. The sound of cards skidding softly across the table holds all the memes I need right now. Jimmy finds the map that Dean and I had been looking at earlier and he spreads it out on the floor again. He sees the red lines we drew tracing the ideal route from New York to Paris by ship and then down the Africa...
"You going to Europe Sil?" he asks pointing at the big red dot in the middle of France.
"Europe?" I say, thinking it over, "that's about the last place I'd go right now."
"Really?" Ulric looks surprised. "No desire to go to France? I can see you in France Sil." Ulric is cross-eyed from the scotch and his attempt to size me up is comical; I can't help laughing.
"Well, I mean if a ticket were handed to me I'd take it," I say, "but it's not my first choice by any means. If I were to go somewhere I'd go to India or China, South America maybe, Brazil, Chile, Costa Rica...." I get lost in private thoughts. Dean finishes dealing the hand and gets up and pours himself another drink. "Not me," he yells from the kitchen, "I gotta see Paris. I've read too many books, seen to many films... I need to set foot in Paris... live there for while... I'm working on this one guy who likes my writing... I'm trying to get him to put me up over there... the trick is going to be getting there."
The trick is always getting there. The destination is the easy part. Play that game you used to play as a child; spin the globe and see where your finger stops it. That's the way to go. The gypsy blood in my veins makes me want to travel constantly, I can only stand to be in one place for about three months and then I have to leave... sometimes I come back and sometimes I don't. I'm starting to feel the itch again myself, the bones wanting to wander.... I have been in Athens almost six months without a vacation. I'm overdue.
I check my down cards-two aces. I bet a quarter. They all raise me. I stay in. Ulric throws the flop-a queen of hearts and the other two aces. "Goddamn," Dean comments, "that's a rich hand somebody has." I smile at him. I bet a quarter and he folds. Ulric and Jimmy both raise me two dollars and so I raise them again. Dean throws out another card. More money cascades into the pot. Another card. More money. I keep raising their raises until the pot's well over fifty dollars. They call and I lay my aces with all the pomp and ceremony my little ego can manage. I rake it in.
The thing with playing cards with your friends is that it's less about reading people than it is about good old-fashioned luck.
After saying goodbye to Dean and giving him their phone numbers and addresses, Ulric and Jimmy both head home for the night. "Nice fucking hand," Dean says when they're gone. "You stop to think how that happened?" He looks at me and a mischievous grin spreads over his face. I shrug. "For the record," he says, "I saw you trying to arrange the deck that one hand... but did you see me?" I have to laugh.
Dean and I stay up a while talking about cheating at cards and friendship and the meaning of all of this.... Before turning in we embrace and say goodbye. This time I don't think I will see him again for a quiet a while. We make one final bet for the night -we will meet in Tangiers, Morocco on September 10, 2002. No matter what happens we will be there. By the time I fall asleep, I'm already there.
The strobe overwhelms the blue glow and the girls begin the writhe, ellish wirthing serpentine bodies, no longer names, no longer girls no longer human, but gliding gilded serpents, movements caught in flickers of blinging whiteness and inky blue darkness, stop motion film, hair, skin, patterns of movement until the light and the shadows beome one. In the glimpses of faces across the catwalk I can see male teeth, shiny pale faces, tongues flick here and there, pass across lips and snake back down throats, and then a blue aquarium darkness, film slowed down. Twenty four to twelves and then six and the three, advancing three glimpses at a time in stop motion time lapse, bodies appearing not far from where they were left. And you can feel her movements, a girl caught in three frame bursts, she is never where she just was always one step ahead of her body and you can it passing into your guppy mouth, snaking down your throat, swallowing swollen calves, slender thighs, choking on garters, weakened by the memory of silk and spice and crusades abandoned long ago to the darkness of continets moving and her cunt tickling across your lips, catch in your throat, a gulp of air, some scent of dark blue shadow and the stomach and breasts, hard nipples that catch on the way down and head and hair swirling across your chin, gulps of cool blue shadow, down, all of it down, drink all of it down, blue and white and flesh and to see it from above... pictures spread across the floor. Sitting cross-legged in the near darkness of late night shadow and gaslamp glow, light and shadow becoming one across the bedroom floor, giant shadows cast across a series of black and white photographs all taken from above. And you arrange the faceless heads in a half circle around the one, the one with the legs careening out from under the birds-eye view of blond and cinnamon and cardemore. Out of focus and caught in flight, she moves in orbits, she holds a key and the knob is turning, light and shadow, digital and analog... the pictures caught in gusts, blowing up in little dust devils and then here onstage, whirling and weaving between her legs, circling under skirts, tugging at stocking and garters, caressing soft brown skin and disappearing into corset shadow, tugging electric nipples, still rising in ever widening circles up to the ceiling and disappearing through it, returning to the vantage point of origin, the vanishing point, right there on the horizon of what just happened and what hasn't yet,. And she takes you by the hand and leads through the beaded curtain of the doorway with hinges still attached, but door and knob and key long since vanished in to some murky ocean memory, a current welling toward the back, toward the corner, and into the shadow, the absense of light, a finger curling, something to follow, a motion trail, a wake of smoke enveloping you in octopus shadow, tentacles reaching out and pulling you into a chair where you are tied to watch.
If you were to see this from a long way a way flickering light on a screen to reveal ashes flying off your skin in trumpet blasts... but you cannot, you will not, it is not. There are only the hurricanes to stir the coffee and bend the telephone poles, to warp the voices of far away, to call up secrets that are sleeping in dazzling peace behind a doorway far up from here, so high up that the knob is just out of your child arm stretch, but how wonderful it is just to see it floating there, out of reach and beautiful, glistening in this light, this artificial sun of closing time.
I go in the bedroom and lock the door.
Outside. Falling leaves clink against the windowpane like broken china dolls. A half moon breast is visible through the clawing twig-arms scratching at the void. I'm thinking of Maya and the first night we spent together. Later, after we had coffee. I walked her to her house. I remember the smell of Jasmine or Frankincense or Myrrh, a beautiful pungent odor that wafts through this world all the time -you catch it in the fall air, tangible but just barely, it hangs on the edge of the known and unknowable.
I open the window and study the frosted-flake remnants of Kudzu crisping on the vine, under the bushes, under the trees, under the stars-a stale brown rug slick with freezing rain. The faint light of Jimmy's window silhouettes a branch and its remaining leaves, the hangers, the ones who won't let go-car crashes, heart attacks, train wrecks. The light looks warm-toward the light coma-stumbling, blind-eyed memory.
And then she kissed me. There was the taste of hot cigarette smoke on her tongue; I caught it greedily the way plants grow to the sun, drawn by the familiar. She tasted like orange blossoms or smelled like them or felt like them, powdered sprinkled orange blossoms. They were in her eyes, the smell came out of her eyes and then she opened them and stared at me for a while hanging on the edge of my lips. Enormous arcing eyebrows of perfume.
The steady erratic pelting of rain sounds like a thousand drunken crystal goblets pelting a Russian fireplace, Cossacks dancing in circles, Dostoyevski dreams. Bearskin rugs. No fireplace-hearth. Gas lamps. And powdered crystal sprayed on a stone floor.
Earlier a letter: I'm on the limp dehydrated grass of Central Park, gnats swarming under this tree. I have gnats for you Sil. The shade seems hotter than the actual sun. Perspiring. Parched. And yet all my discomfort disappears when I read these carefully typed pages-read in full-twice. You are my own private breeze.
There was no word, no sound, just lips resting together, sticky, warm, honey kiss. We went inside and sat on the couch talking for a while. We went upstairs and lay down on her bed. She rose up in tight leather pants out of a sea of flowering colors-Jasmine, Sunflower, Scarlet Sage, Rocket Larkspur, Lupines, and Butterfly Weed. There were rollicking colors everywhere in my mind, indigo and vermilion, violet, lavender, and softer tones, pastels and baby's-breath-white.
It's a toy scene-Russian hearth, nutcrackers dancing, plastic soldiers huddled in the dark shadows of vines. A steady backbeat thuds through the wall. The living room has rhythm. Little percussive grunts and muffed squeals accent and fill. 4/4. Marching toward climax.
I'm working at Garden on the Green... sold my soul for the table scraps... another hireling. on a smoke break. Armed with pen and paper to defend the travesty of wanting to feel loved. The lake is spiked with moonly light, sharp and jagged on thousands of ripples. Once- there is the kiss, then the cycle becomes inevitable. Nipples turn to jagged granite and everything pools and secretes as if waiting for sensual annihilation-a mingling and mangling of identities. A death of one? Or both? A devouring and subordination? No-a polarizing rather-a balance of two integrities, charging electrically, on with the other, yet with centers hard as diamonds-like stars. Do you feel loved? Do I?
She grabbed a handful of my hair and held it, her lips bit at my neck. I could feel heat panting in my ear. Her smooth breasts pressed softly against my chest. She rolled off me, pulled her pants down and climbed on top of me. She swayed there for a few seconds, murmuring to herself. She bird-picked at my belt, peeling the husk from a coconut and then in one gruff movement she fished out my cock and squeezed it with the tips of her fingers. Her lips pressed together and she leaned her head against it and closed her eyes. It was then that I heard the bass fading in and the sharp tap of a snare drum, and I felt her tongue circling.
The cat girl enshrouded in black lace accented with a notorious red feather boa rises to one elbow-need a ray of hope-from where she has been reclining on a velvet divan. She cocks her head lazily and after a yawn full of boredom and nastiness, calls for another martini.... Do you think that when you want everything you're dangerously close to nothing? I wanted to thank you for feeding me the inspiration to question, if only for the insatiable taste of a question...
After a few minutes I pulled her up to my lips. A devouring insubordination amid the tumbling slow-motion sound of shattering glass, falling leaves, splintering moonlight, distant living room backbeat, icy rain crying into hail...Water pouring in through the ceiling, sleet and hail collapsing back to water, rivulets on the window, pelted kudzu pulling the stars under. Her nipples like soft puffs of rain sliding down my tempered, glass fingers. The roof gives way, the ground opens up and the earth will swallow us one day. Its better that way. Inverted love carry you up on the way down, riding tidal waves, tiny moon sheared ripples across centuries and continental drifts and shifts and up and down and over. Carry me to the mountains, to a cave on a wind-howling ridge, rape me like Lilith. Glaciers receding. Gnats swarming out of the caves. Fecund warm diseases licking there way up your spine. Its okay. Its necessary. The rainsleethail still tickles desire. The snapping snare drum echo of time oozes through the walls. Pop pop-pop pop-pop pop-feel you more the less you know. Cossacks setting up camp in a deserted farmhouse and Fyodor calls for another martini... One more drink for the diseased, one more sleep, one more lover until your up with the sun .and the acrid burnt smell of sidewalk.
Sticky tapioca squirting thick on stomachs and breasts.
Reach over and grab a pack of cigarettes off the floor. Pull one out and light it.
Lilith had to go. Nothing was left to the imagination and so he sent her away. Or she left. Packed her suitcase and caught a clipper-ship to where the continents were shifting. Wrote letters and fell in love with a man in the sky. Went blind staring at the image.
Look at her now. Pass her the cigarette and wonder how this happened-tangled up in metaphor and cool blue love-diving off the shores of lost continents. Walk naked to the kitchen and pour another glass of vodka or whiskey or water or wine or change one from the other on your proud way back to the bed.
She has an earthy ethereal mixture to her skin, makes her seem at once detached and warm. Her lips purse teasingly around the filter of her cigarette and eyebrows arc off gray-blue eyes, dyed black hair tussled atop her head. Blue-gray eyes clouded with the same thing you can feel, something trance-like-consummate excitement. She puts the cigarette to your lips and you inhale deeply.
Later: dream about staring at the sun.
Waitress #34 misses you.
Eight
Starts with tapping at the window, ends with this section which itself needs to end with Jimmy and Chloe all bleary eyed... hell yes we're going to new york Dean has pills with a street value of fifteen thousand dollars on him I'm going to new york....
The faceless monster-power-no one person- group-control everything-multi-headed monster-biting itself-information potential exists-attacking heads-destroying itself-end times-space and word alone-unsettling thought-dependency-things start to think-how do you draw the lines then-where does the word go-in the beginning-sure- what about at the end-
Morning- I am standing in the doorway smoking a cigarette. Fall is playing with Winter in the front yard. I'm watching the near freezing rain pelting through the trees. A strange thing has happened in Dean's absence-I no longer need sleep. For two weeks now my brain has not stopped running in loops. It refuses to rest. It used to take an alarm to inspire movement before noon; now I wake up at five in the morning and stare at the ceiling. This morning I have decided to admit defeat. I am up before sunrise. I am watching the sun poking over the horizon to the east, where the storm has not yet hit. There is an infinite sadness to the way the trees glisten in the light. The gleaming raindrops look like a miniature skyline, buildings at night, little twinkling windows, like Manhattan seen from Williamsburg. Reflected microcosms glitter off falling leaves, reds, browns, and oranges, sparkling like the abode walls of a pueblo-New Mexico or Old.
In Mexico City back alleys-soot-covered adobe walls-dark eyes peer from shadowy doorways. It's late in the evening, warm orange smog-light paints the sky and suffuses the city with an alien glow. The air is brisk, but not freezing. You run your fingers along the crumbling walls like a child, dragging at the chips of loose plaster and looking up absently at the sky. Nothing separates you from the peering eyes, the doorways and the tables littered with scraps of food retrieved by boys selling Chiclets in the streets downtown. Beans, slops of meat, ground dog bone, porridges boiled cheap over smoky wood fires. Stalks of plants grow here and there in the tiny yards between buildings. Chilies hang drying in the eaves. Second story railings are a riot of sapphire, indigo, vermilion and emerald; the smell of sage, rosemary, and cilantro wafts out open windows. The flat roofs feed the dripping ceilings, rain gutters leak to water plants hanging from the rafters and balconies. The plants suffer through life, gasping in the ozone and covering over with smoggy dust. The pavement turns to dirt farther out, and is eventually overgrown by trees on the slopes of the mountains. This is the one street, the street, the mainline artery running through and carrying the heart of the matter of matter. This is how it goes and goes and goes. Marching in twos, little children jump and play in an alley off to the right. Two blocks north they are digging up the newest pyramid in the Aztec caper and the ghosts are swimming through the ether. You can see their pallid shadows sailing across the crimson glow of the sky. The ghostly, billowing sails catch century old winds tugging them like clipper ships through the Panama Canal. Phantasmal chatter fills the street like lemurs cackling in the jungle.
Your fingernail catches in a chip of plaster still clinging to the wall. The ghosts light up against the clouds, climbing and dancing in the sky. Priestly ghosts offer still-beating human hearts up to the gods, clamoring at the silent sky and then turning to look at you. Look what we have done. Here is my heart... eat... it is good. Take, this is my body... Mysterious ceremonies carried out amongst a cacophony of meaningless gibberish; indistinguishable figures twist and turn and carve until there is an order and meaning to it all. The priest drives his blade into the chest of a sacrifice, splitting the sternum in one smooth blow. Out comes the heart and in a delicate pirouette the priest turns, pauses, looks for an instant, and then screams, hurling the bloody heart down the side of a pyramid. The gods give an empty laugh. Splattering, lopsided, bounces carry the heart to it's rest in the dirt, under the floorboards of time, the telltale heart beating under the pavement of centuries. The archeologist's pick finds the priest's sacred knife as a token reminder, wrapped in muslin or gauze, mummified at 17,000 feet atop Machu Pechu in Peru, or here, rotting in the middle of the street. The children in the alleyway laugh and play. Their language is like pancakes, laid out flat and easy to hear, smeared by syrupy tongues. The priest smiles sadly down at the watching masses, realizing that he will be dust under the boots of centuries and no one will know what he knows.
We think we will wake up. We think there will be a point at which everything is made clear. The whole world will transform itself into a crystalline diamond plateau on which all the answers are self-evident and you will understand. Your feet will be light as air. You will dance over the diamond floors and glide in perfect, truthful bliss. You will dance quietly to the sound of Frank Sinatra crooning about autumn in New York.... But the image will fail you; the crystal will crack and shatter in a million diamond drill bits, piercing your flesh as you scream deafly, in silent agony.
We think that we will wake up. There is vast machinery purporting to wake us up. There are religions, sciences, methods, prayers, and wheels of karma and darma. Men hang from crosses. Men flagellate themselves on mountaintops. Men twist into pretzels on street corners. Men proclaim the illusion of the world. Men offer salvation. Men sell trinkets for distraction. Men teach meditation techniques. Men douse themselves in gasoline and burn before our eyes. Men crawl on their knees because their legs have been amputated to keep us free. Every path to enlightenment has been tried. Every shriek has been screamed. There are fifty thousand roads diverging in the woods and they all lead nowhere.
There are no gates of heaven, but there are gates to heaven. There isn't a hell, but there is hell. There are no sins, but there are sins. There is no love, but there is such a thing as love. No one is there, but everyone is waiting. You are feeling overwhelmed, paranoid and misunderstood. You want to think that you are not alone. You want to band together, to bond, to hide out, and to mark yourself with primitive lingual tattoos, so that the angel of death will pass over you in a momentary lapse of reason. You don't understand what is taking so long. You don't understand why, if things are possible, they don't happen now. You want to know when the synergy of life will reach out to your neck of the woods. You want to go out. You want to be with your friends. You want to go out Friday and you want to go forever. Forever back or forever forward, somewhere into that brave night, that tired, old, bored allegory. You know you bought into a lie, and you know you're perpetuating it. You know that everything is a lie, but it all means something. Did I say you? I mean me.
I am hungry, restless and deeply confused. I can smell the streets of Mexico and remember the beat of Aztec heart-sacrifices. It courses through the house, driving me mad. I pace the living room like a caged cat, circling in big arcs that bend strategically at the vortices of two ashtrays. The afternoon is a priest hearing confession, masturbating to the maid's obscene tales as she drags them out in full regaling detail. There are only us now, you and I. If this has meaning then it can only be that we are we, and I, I, and you, you, and us, us.
I see Maya. I see Dean. I see Sean and Katherine, Jimmy and Chloe, Ulric, Scratch, and everyone I have ever known. I think of how much all of us have suffered and how great the sorrow of the earth must be. So immense a thing as to defy imagination, to smash metaphors to bits and completely eradicate the word. To render words trite and useless. I feel it come on in a terrifying rush. Adrenaline floods my veins, my heart speeds up, beating so fast that it feels motionless. My palms coat with sweat, my skin flushes, and for the first time I am afraid. I fear for my life. I fear death and what it could bring. I fear the voices I hear. I fear the growling and singing and whispering and chattering of the dead. I look out the window fully expecting the Aztec shaman to be standing there, holding up my heart, smiling. I smell something. The smell hits me like a sledgehammer, there is something blood curdling familiar about it. It is the smell of death. The smell of my death. You can get it without dying, you can smell it lurking around the corner and feel it closing in on you. Death is a thick smell, a reminder that the body is temporal and hangs by a thread, liable to snap without a moment's notice.
The Tibetans claim demons will prey on you as you enter the gates of the afterworld. Those who don't know where they are, the ones that came in on bus wrecks or an earthquake, they don't stand a chance. Neither do those that never realized what is going on in this life. The ones who refuse to let go of the uniquely human games, the politics, the barter system, the Madison Avenue rewrite department, the beggarly, sickly creatures, the religious, the lawmakers, the law upholders, the money greasers, the shit in the wind who have forgot their human roots-that human is humility. Arrogance grows like a cancer, breeds with money and mutates, until the body turns rigid and crusts over with hubris. Their bodies are stiff prisons of hatred that can only be escaped when the winds blow in the atomic smell of death, scorching them clean-salvation. Steady...wait 'til you see the whites of their eyes... the end of history. Everything has an ebb and flow, surges come in waves. There is nothing to be saved from except yourself.
Smoking filterless cigarettes, listening to the voices trailing in from the neighborhood around me, voices from the cottages up the hill, voices of wheels winding down the road, voices leaves in the wind, voices of rain pelting the ground, a masterpiece composition of harmonized waves, sound, the trigger behind the motion. Dancing eyes, hungry and spiral with giddiness... I throw out the tired old man mind. A blur of images, swirling words, sounds, smells, miraculous warmth, crawling embers on the flesh... Digging, keep digging. We're all great tunnelers, mining after the beautiful, but now I see the ugly creeping in around the edges, the black on the starry night. Van Gogh and his goddamn ear always creeping in at the edges. Digging fast and furious: tunnelers. Roots and the little blooms-the moment -the purity -the wavelength- the transitions burned like hydrochloric acid onto memory film. Scar tissue that will never go away.
I'm in the middle of an afternoon drink when I notice the rainbow in the kitchen. At first I think it looks wrong because of bad indoor lighting, but then I notice that it's a reverse rainbow, the spectrum in the opposite order-purple on top. I watch it from the couch for a while, but as it begins to fade, I get up, walk to the kitchen and sit down underneath it. I lean back against the wall and light a cigarette. The sun shifts and the rainbow disappears, replaced by a simple, clear, beam of sunlight, that strikes the wall about eight inches above my head and climbs slowly, but noticeably, upward. The cigarette dangles in my hand. I watch the thin trail of smoke separate into two shades of gray. One is light and salient, like clouds wisping across the summer sky. The other is darker, a somber thundershower in the evening-carcinogenic tars. They separate in the relative darkness near my hand, rise up, and then explode into the light. There is visible burst where the particles of smoke suddenly pitch the beams of light back to my eye. An explosive nanosecond that happens so fast that by the time you notice it, it's long gone past. The two trails of smoke swirl and mingle gradually, dancing through the sunbeam like two girls in the dark corner of a nightclub. The ominous blue stream wears a black leather corset, laced tight in the back. It moves boldly, stiffly, constrained in ribbed fabric. The ethereal gray stream wears a silk robe with embroidered Chinese designs. It moves feathery soft and loose, seductively spinning in the light. As they continue up toward the ceiling, they lose their distinction and disappear into the chaos. Cloud patterns bursting in spring skies, a gurgling stream circling around rocks, the leaves of an aspen tree seen from a distance, the movement of migratory herds, the rise and fall of the Nile over millennia, the smoke from a cigarette... Everything has a pattern. The pattern has a pattern, which forms a fabric where time pools like a glacial lake. It tickles off slowly, minute by minute, second by second, but the reservoir always remains the same.
I am falling into a whirlpool of time. It consumes me and spins me around the room. I am dripping off the precipice into the dark unknown. I have to run to smooth the change... feels slow motion... diving... hit the water like a torpedo... the waves slip out in a circular arc. My eyes smart from the smoke. Body electric, fluidly suspended in time, carried slip-slow, up into the magic of the beyond. Echoes abound like a caged sun gone supernova. It atomizes and re-forms as the cool wave hits the skin, smooth blue skin.
Cut below and use for drive with
jimmy and Chloe
Nine
I have to start moving, and start moving right now. It's around nine. I throw some clothes in a bag and drag them out to the car. I start the engine; it coughs and sputters to life. I go over and say goodbye to Jimmy and Chloe. "When are you going to be back?" He asks. I don't know... "Where are you going?" She inquires. I don't know... "How are you getting there?" That I know...
The engine hums. I keep it at fifty miles an hour. I can hear the noises of the individual pistons pulsating in controlled, rhythmic, patterns. The wind roars around me, but I don't hear it. There is only the steady purring of chaos harnessed, slipping through the air, sliding across the land. Over hills, valleys, and mountains, across bridges, rivers, and railroad tracks, through cities, towns and farms, under rain, sleet, and hail-the open road. The road goes on forever, scorched by the burning sun, it chaps and cracks, bleeding headlights like shooting stars or comets. No one ever drives quite like I have in mind-road as in nowhere-never ending dreams.
It's a beautiful little country road, a peaceful Georgia night, I haven't seen another car for hours. I have no idea where I am. The back of my mind is in New York. It's dragging the rest of me with it. I have the passing thought that hearing the roar of the engine over the rush of the wind might not be a good sign, but I like the way it sounds. It gives the car an organic quality. Faintly, in the background, the sound of classical strings set to the pulse of a techno beat-the ancient modern, the archaic revival. I eschew the interstate in favor of two-lane blacktop. I am in no hurry to get anywhere. I just want to drive. To drive long distance is to meditate; there is nothing to do, nothing that requires any more than the animal function of the brain, the hard-wired instinctual circuits that I don't control anyway. The creative mind, the thinking mind, is free to roam the open road. I avoid interstates. They gloss over the details; they are wide and fast with no time for minutiae. The fabric of life is thinnest in the middle of an interstate highway. I trade speed for peace, convenience for time, and cold comfort for risk. I hang my arm out the window, and let it go limp to bounce with the wind.
Just outside of Gordian, South Carolina, a canopy of oaks and red elms arch over the road, a dizzying rush of treetops sprays overhead. I slow down to thirty, set the cruise control and lean my head back. I'm gliding under the canopy, looking up at a fantastic blur of moonlit leaves. Silver swords cutting up the sky, sleek, and motion blurred. It looks like a high-speed film montage where you can almost tell what things are, but they move too fast to fully comprehend, always lingering just beyond the threshold of recognition. I feel myself lying on my back in a canoe sliding along the banks of the Amazon... They're not leaves at all, they're signposts, clues to the mystery, and every bit the key.
A boarded up fruit stand-boiled-peanut vendors-an ancient downtown of false storefronts-it's impossible to tell if the inhabitants are asleep or deserted long ago. Go where the money is... it's a universal migration from here to the interstate highway. Human culture always following after it's own inventions. Eight hundred generations, six hundred and fifty thousand spent in caves, wombs, and incubators, hydroponically fed dreams from underground rivers. Then the dreamer woke to create a world with electric can openers, shrink-wrapped by a haggard thirteen year old girl in between enduring her uncles' assembly line gang rapes.... All this for that or all that for this?
The air behind me holds the tragedy of fall turning to winter. It offers backseat driving tips, whispering softly in my ear like a barroom parrot hissing the mimic of the voice-box smoker ordering another scotch on the rockssss. I stop for gas. I am higher in elevation; it's colder here. I put on my jacket and start the pump. I walk up the street to look at the old buildings. Faded, worn paint is shedding off the brick-framed buildings in giant sheets like lizard skin. I step back and admire the chaotic structure as I light a cigarette. Old advertisements are stapled to a board at crazy, maddening angles, pictures of cans, black eyed peas, peaches, moon pies-faded and whitewashed by years in the sun. Across the street a window reads: Ace Appliance Store. I wander over and put my face to the glass. I see televisions, radios, washing machines, drying machines, refrigerators, freezers, ovens, microwave ovens, convection ovens, alarm clocks, computers, headphones, video games, laser disc players, DVD players, record players, compact disc players, cordless telephones, wireless phones, digital phones, cellular phones, two way radios, short wave radios, car stereos, home stereos... Tons and tons of stuff. Endless stuff out here in America. I crush out my cigarette and walk back to the car. In the back seat is my single bag. I have four shirts, two pairs of pants, two pairs of shoes, socks and underwear, toiletries and a laptop computer. I don't have any stuff.
Feeling weary and defeated, I follow the signs to the interstate to find a motel. The interstate isn't here for you and I. No one built this road so we could drive on a convenient, straight, fast thoroughfare. It's wide and straight because Eisenhower was an army man. He wanted a way to move tanks, land fighter jets, and transport troops about the country. Should the need arise.... Driving it takes the rest of the wind out of my sails. I pull off at the first motel I see, plunk down my $40 to a sleepy looking attendant, and pass out for the night.
I dream that I'm in New York, living with Maya. Everything is wonderfully happy. I am lying in bed and she is on top of me, arms extended, back arched. Her face is perched above mine, blond locks framing a warm, joyous smile... and then something changes, she rears her head back and laughs like Satan when Hitler rolled into Hungary. My body is stiff as a board; she picks me up and heaves me out the window. I scream as I fall, but I don't hit the ground or wake up. Eventually I stop screaming. I keep falling and falling. A sickening feeling overwhelms me-vertigo-I can't see the ground below me. Eventually I turn over and look up. Maya's face is still clear, leaning out the window, as if I had not fallen at all, but only hovered just below her balcony. She is smiling again, but now it's a sad, crestfallen smile. I realize that she never threw me, it was my imagination. I jumped. She is crying because I am gone. I have made a tragic mistake. Floating in mid air, body wracked with sobs, I am overwhelmed by the realization that I will have to live the rest of my life with this mistake. There is no way to undo it-only move forward. I wake with a start.
It is just before dawn. I fumble for my cigarettes and light one. The dream leaves me feeling depressed and angry with myself. I smoke grimly, scowling at the walls. The room is nondescript, a common dresser, an ordinary mirror and two generic paintings hanging on the wall above my head. It feels like a prison cell. The acidic insides of my stomach gnaw at the fleshy walls begging for eggs, bacon and hash browns. I get up and look out the window; it's nowhereville, faceless buildings, ordinary landscaping, and second-rate views of the cold, insensitive freeway overpass.
I pull on my pants, light another cigarette and flip on the morning news. People are cheating, stealing and dying all over the world. Glitter-faced entertainment hosts parade in fashionable clothes for my amusement. It's the same blue world. Nothing ever changes inside the box. Its comforting and horrifying at the same time. A cheap coffeemaker languishes on the bathroom counter, it seem energized the minute I turn it on. It rattles and gasps and makes gurgling noises as if waking from a long slumber. The television drones out the latest and greatest pop music as chosen by the careful market research groups at MTV. It's a terrible desolate scene this room, but it makes me happy. It is not nearly as bad as the dream landscape.
Around ten I check out at the front office. I skim the newspaper as the clerk prints out a receipt. According to the newspaper, Washington DC is the most violent city in the country. In the hills around Sarejevo, land mines still blow off limbs as a brutal reminder of the never-ending price of war. In India and Palestine the same religious zealots continue fighting the same wars their ancestors fought. In Madagascar eighty-five percent of the forest has been clear-cut for timber, the soil washes uselessly into the sea. In Washington State fifty four percent of the population still thinks clear cutting is a good idea. Sixty-five percent of the population of Zimbabwe has AIDS or HIV. Such happy things in the morning.
In Burma a Shaman is praying and wondering how long until the monsoons arrive to heal the parched farmland. In Tangiers a dying old man in a hospital bed is think about the American junky that used to buy groceries from his father's store.
The road leads up into the capital. The tourists are thick as Florida sand fleas. The streets, the very concrete and asphalt beneath me, are laughing at all of us as they bear the silly game on their back day in and day out.
I make my way out of town and start heading north again. My plan is to spend the night in Jersey and tackle New York tomorrow, but maybe I ought to just keep going. Maybe I ought to skip New York. Maybe I should just drive right on up to Maine, and then Canada, and then whatever is north of Canada; drive right into the arctic sea and jump out at the last moment. Maybe build an igloo, live off polar bear fat and never see anyone again. Maybe find the little hole that leads down into the hollow core where the dark-skinned survivors of Atlantis took refuge...
Day fades to evening, fades to night. The ancient mistress hunger sings her siren song around nine and I stop at an all night diner in Pennsylvania. I sit in the corner and order up a plate of grease. Hard formica counters rise out of cold, concrete floors, scuffed and worn from trucker boots, treading season after season across the threshold, into the orange glow to rest the weary eyes. It calls up visions of lost highways, long gone past, dredges up images, blurring them together. Passing seasons traced out in the ark of headlights dragging across concrete freeway miles.
There aren't very many people in this diner-a couple of truckers with ten-gallon hats, belt buckles, extend-a-bellies, and the requisite butt cracks. There is a thin, old man in a booth-the sort of man that's thin, and old, that you would expect to find in a diner booth. Three waitresses linger behind the counter. One is cooking on a giant grill while the other two gab and stare at their fake pink fingernails. As I get up to go to the restroom, I notice another man next to the truckers. He's a westerner. He has an extra-wizened face that can only be acquired by spending some time in the desert. I figure him for a Texan. He looks like he has been around the block. I notice him because he glares at me. His eyes challenge me as I walk past. I stop on my way back and spin a few tracks on the jukebox. Willie Nelson floats across the room, burying the ghosts of highway noise-the freeway semi-trailers flinging themselves through the night, headlights pulling the past into the future.... Lazy houseflies crawl up the wall reminding me of Ben's Broasted Chicken.
I was headed up to the Tahoe area back in my hiking days. I went by way of the back road, 395, a rickety operation that gives you fantastic views of the eastern escarpment of the Sierra Nevada. About three-quarters of the way to Tahoe you pass through Bishop. It's a logical place to eat. The only place really. There was a roadside dive called Ben's which advertised broasted chicken and corn on the cob for two dollars a plate. I wanted to know just what one did to a chicken to make it broasted. I ordered some up but I hardly ate, the enormous, lazy flies that crawled up the column next to my table distracted me. I can't recollect the chicken, but the flies were slothful, indolent creatures that didn't move when you swatted at them. They just gave up and died. I may have been the first person to swat at them. They might not have known what death was; they might have had free run of the world their entire lives. I might have created a fly culture myth of the grim reaper-the broaster.
I try to put it all together, the passing seasons, the glaring Texan, and free-spirited flies squishing under the thump of newspaper. The Texan keeps craning his head and looking over at me suspiciously. Perhaps my fingernails are too clean, or my clothes not stained enough, to merit his respect. By the time I finish eating and light a cigarette, the truckers are gone. The thin old man evaporates leaving a trail of smoke. It's just me, the waitresses, and the Texan. All the sudden the Texan stands up and coughs loudly. The waitress, who had been grilling burgers, turns around and comes out from behind the counter. As their eyes meet, his face melts from a suspicious glare to a warm, loving smile. They hug and kiss each other and say some sort of goodbye. I see his face over her shoulder as he hugs her; he has a tender look in his misty eyes. He is no longer a glaring, suspicious stranger, but a simple, weather-beaten man escaping into the arms of a soft, plump waitress. He catches me staring at them; he smiles at me and rubs her back. For a flashing second everything in the world seems perfectly fine and sensible. They kiss again and he walks out the door without turning around.
Nine
Get rid of Chloe and Jimmy start letter to chloe thing put Dean on an airplane for Costa Rica.
ten
All points bulletin-universe in retreat-wasteland poets die of heartache-epiphany-no spacemen-detour-dinosaur bones churn under wagon wheels-future excavated-time bound memory-never happened-non-event-heart beats-broken timepiece-lonesome thoughts- stave off chill-to be free-red white blue disease-surrender-blazing failures-defeat-set free- Christ-Joan of ark-Gandhi-Montezuma-world paused-infinitesimal second-watch them fall-nothing but continual drumming-beating through African congas-you alone-get your life preserver-cut out the poetry-cut to the main artery-
Manhattan goes helter skelter the minute I emerge from the Holland Tunnel. The first thing I encounter are detour signs, which send me uptown when I want to go across town. Everything is moving too fast. I'm used to walking the streets, not driving them. Street signs whip past in a blur. I look in vain for a landmark, something I recognize, but I see nothing. Every street I try to turn on is blocked off or a dead end. Finally, at some length, I get across to the Lower East Side only to find myself heading off the island on the Manhattan Bridge. I encounter more detours in Brooklyn. I'm completely lost now; I roll down the window and ask an old man with a tuba for directions back to the bridge; he plays me a guttural song. I manage to make it back into Manhattan, but this time I end up way down by Battery Park. My frustration is mounting. I decide to admit defeat. I pull over somewhere in the financial district and call Maya. After her initial shock wears off, she gives me directions and I set off again. But the minute I get back in the car, the streets are all jumbled up in my head. Did she say Houston or Canal? Was it West on Houston or East on Canal? Was it right on Essex and past Delancy? Or was it right on Essex left on Delancy? I pull over again about ten minutes later and call her back. She laughs and tells me I'm closer this time, even headed in the right direction. I just haven't gone far enough. Maya promises to come out and flag me down. I'm exasperated by now, Manhattan was not designed with cars in mind. I feel like I'm driving in a maze at the bottom of the Grand Canyon. I can never see more than two blocks ahead. I drive right by Maya, but luckily I see her jumping up and down in the rearview mirror, and I flip a U-turn. I park in a loading zone in front of her building and get out to drop off my bag. I am frustrated and angry.
Snow is just starting to fall on the icy blacktop. The street is already a sea of snow, slush, salt, and ankle-deep puddles from earlier storms. Maya is wearing a long, black, down parka. Her hair is tucked under a knit hat and she has on wool mittens. She smiles at me and comes running up to give me a hug. I rudely brush her aside. She balks and slowly, nearly imperceptible slides toward the curb. She draws up and crosses her arms. "you aren't even going to give me a kiss?" I want to find parking I want to get rid of the car I want to make the lights stop flashing I want to turn down the noise I want to make the cars slow down I want to paint lanes in the street. I want to kiss Maya in a dream, running into her arms, a celluloid reunion, the hero and heroine see each other at a distance and start running. To Have to Hold, and yet one brush something closer to The Shining has emerged. I apologize and give her an obligatory hug and kiss.
I lug the suitcase upstairs and Maya goes with me to park the car, lest I get lost walking home. She is miffed at me. She has a hurt expression on her face, but we struggle onward trying to pretend nothing is wrong. To cheer her up, I tell her that I think I'm going to stay. Her face breaks into a smile, "Are you going to live with me?"
I tell her I am. "Now and forever," I say, thinking as I do that I've said that before. Twice.
"God," she exclaims, "I have been waiting to hear that for two years now. I can't believe you're actually here." She cups her hands around my face. Her eyes are younger than in my lantern lit memories. Her mittens catch in my stubble. She leans over and we kiss. Her nose and cheeks are icy cold, but her lips part and her mouth is warm. Our tongues circle each other, the light turns green, a car honks.
We find a temporary parking spot two blocks over and we run home through the falling snow. When we get in the apartment I finally pick her up in my arms and for a little while everything is perfect. We kiss and start ripping each other's clothing off. Clothes fly about the room, covering furniture and floor. We fall in bed naked and groping.
Later, we sit in bed smoking cigarettes, resting. She is naked, legs crossed, wearing a red feather boa around her neck. Her now blond curling locks are ruffled from sex. She puts the filter tip to her lips and softly takes a drag. She smiles at me. "Sil," she says, "are you sure this is what you want?" I nod and look at her eagerly. She looks at me with a face I don't recognize.
"You're going to need a job up here," she says. "New York's expensive, are you sure that's what you want?"
"I only want to be with you," I say, but the word job forms a black cloud over my head and panic sets in. I start to see myself wandering the streets of New York penniless and insane, begging for food in alleyways. I drag harder on my cigarette, but the fear is already rising up the back of my spine, it lodges at the base of my brain. This is New York; New York is not a cross-eyed dream you had even though it seems that way the minute you leave. This is real, steel and breathless concrete real. There is rent to be paid and food costs a fortune. My savings is nearly depleted. I have to find a job. My heart speeds up at the very mention of the word let alone the action it entails.
"I think I have job you might like," she offers. "We need a graphic designer at the agency. You would be doing comp card layouts... You know how to use PhotoShop right?"
"I could do that," I say thinking that I probably can't. but the job searching panic I feel means I always take the first one offered. I never stop to think whether or not I will like doing it. Having a job relieves the stress of having to find a job. There is no job as bad as needing a job.
I start kissing her again. Her mouth becomes a warm sanctuary and I climb right in. My hands stray to her breasts, her ass, and then, cupping her face in my hands, I lay her back on the bed again and kiss my way down to her smooth cunt.
We stay up until the early morning hours exploring all the nooks and crooks of each others bodies, making sure that we remember them, that we know them in the biblical sense. Maya falls asleep around four; I sit up smoking and thinking what a great thing this will be. I am going to stay in spite of the panic. I fall asleep with visions of perpetual happiness lodged in my brain. But in the back of my mind, a spellbinding feedback loop begins to start spinning, softly, slowly, round and round.
When I wake up Maya has already gone to work. The note on the pillow says that she wants to meet me for lunch, but it is already past the time she wants to meet. I jump out of bed and call her. "No big deal," she says, "I got busy anyway. Let's meet in half an hour." I hang up and walk around the apartment for while, getting a feel for it. It's an absolute dump, but Maya had already told me that many times on the phone. She is merely subleasing it. The real owner is in New Orleans. Maya's friend, the permanent resident of this place, has the absolute worst taste I have ever laid eyes on.
Maya has done her best to get rid of the atrocious ornamentation that filled the place when she moved in two months ago. The closets are choked full of the girl's knickknacks, shoes, purses-the girl had twenty-seven purses, and those are just the ones she left behind-and of course clothes. Awful punk rock memorabilia-posters, patches, buttons, record covers-is stuffed under the couch, along with the rest of the girl's abominable artwork and decorative trinkets. But even still, the furniture itself is enough to send you into fits. Chairs are held together with twist ties from last year bread bags, antiques the girl called them when Maya first looked at the place. The living room is dominated by a pink couch that was probably red, maybe even nice, in 1932. Opposite the couch, where one would have expected a television, there is instead a massive chest of drawers dominating the wall. The bedroom is so small it can hold only the bed. In the living room, against the wall and between the windows, is a table, well chewed by some mangy dog. And the dog, ah the dog... I see a picture of the dog on the refrigerator; it's the kind of Tijuana mutt that no one in their right mind would actually let in the house. The psoriatic mutt has left behind double its weight in shedding, little clumps of ratty hair and flakes of dead skin are everywhere. The worst part of the place is the Persian rugs. All three of them look like centuries worth of Persian kings and queens have danced countless nights, and maybe even played a few games of polo, on them.
I go in and start the water for a shower. At first it's nice and hot. I get in and lather up my hair, but then just as I am going to rinse the soap from my eyes, the water turns frigid and I scream in shock. I prance to other end of the tub, trying to escape the icy claws, but the tub is too small to escape. Soap burns my eyes. I slip and grab out for something to hold onto. I accidentally pull down the shower curtain, trip on the tangled mass and fall on my ass right in the middle of the ice-cold stream of water. I fumble frantically with the knobs, turning off the cold water, but before I can get the knob for hot turned off, a scalding blast of hell hits the back of my neck. I scream again and jump out of the tub.
I rinse my hair in the sink and put a cold towel on the back of my neck to sooth the burn. I sit down on the cold kitchen floor, naked and defeated. I light a cigarette and try to believe that the world is not marshalling all it forces against me. Eventually I get dressed and go out to meet Maya.
Outside the air is a Moroccan dagger stabbing at the tiny slivers of my exposed flesh that my scarf fails to cover. I round the corner at the subway station and a blast of wind goes right through all my layers, as if I have on nothing at all. Maya and I have a late breakfast at the Waverly. I mention nothing about my disastrous shower. Instead I pretend to be eager to start work. Money, I am thinking, must make money. It turns out that there is nothing for me to do yet, so I go home to take a nap.
I walk in the door wanting to do something-clean, rearrange, douse with gasoline- anything. But every time I set about to do it I become overwhelmed by the scope of what needs to be done. I give up before I lift a finger. The excess of trinkets and knickknacks drives me up the walls and makes me claw my way across the ceiling like a terrified cat. The same horror starts to carry over out into the city when I go for an evening walk. The cold just adds to the overwhelming din and confusion of the city. There is too much, everywhere there is just too much. Too many shops selling the same things, too many restaurants serving the same things, too many people screaming hollering for cabs, too many honking horns, too many yelling kids, too many roaring trains, too many buildings, to many smells wafting in the street, too much garbage, too much slushy snow, too much sound and sight and noise.... I walk in a stupor. My body is in shock; sensory overload has shut all my circuits down. I am not ready for this. This is not the summertime New York that I know where everything is a shining celebration, everything is warm and inviting. The city I thought I loved has turned to a hideous leviathan, baring it's teeth and snarling at me.
I meet Maya later for dinner and already I feel like the whole city is against me. We go out for sushi and, as if to prove that New York has no love for me, I come home with food poisoning. Instead of making love, I spend the night retching my guts up in the toilet and talking to the mouse that lives behind it. Maya checks on me periodically to make sure my fever doesn't increase. I put on smile for her, string of vomit running down my chin. I look in the mirror for the first time in ages. My eyebrow is still missing. My hair is turning grayer. I wipe the vomit from my lips and drink from the faucet. The water hits my churning stomach and I realize I have made a mistake. I pitch forward, and stagger back to the toilet. The mouse scurries out of the way, into the wall. The mouse is my only friend, cousin to the rats in my ceiling back in Georgia.
I spend the better part of two days alternating between lying in bed and hugging the toilet bowl like it's the son of God.
Eventually I get better and start to try working on the composite cards. I am supposed to lay out photographs, create a design for them, and then pass them along to the printer in Brooklyn, named Lenny, who doesn't like me because he wants my job. This is all I know. I have no experience and not even the vaguest understanding of what I'm supposed to do. I know the basics of the situation, that is, I know how to use the computer program, but I don't know what to do to the cards to make them look good. I've never even seen a real composite card before. Maya gives me some tips and pointers. I look at lots of magazine ads and try to copy them, but the photography I have is subpar. Everything I do looks like a two-bit hack job, which, of course, it is.
Maya and I are both working for a woman named April, the master of ceremonies for the Real North Modeling Agency. April is in her early forties, her hair is a red mane and she has an infectious laugh. She has managed models before for big companies I've never heard of, but Maya assures me they are a big deal. Somewhere along the way, April decided that she wanted more control, so she is starting her own agency. I meet her for the first time in a midtown steak and drinks type of place. I take one look at her and my heart sinks. She's insane, you can tell by the the way her lips move and words come out but no meaning accompanies them. I smile a lot and try to match her hair brained enthusiasm. She doesn't listen very closely to what I say. She keeps asking me what South Carolina is like even after I tell her repeatedly that I'm from Georgia. I can't decide if it's some sort of insult or if she genuinely doesn't hear me. Maybe she thinks there's no difference. Maya has the utmost respect and faith in April. She assures me that April is a good woman and that she really knows what she's doing. I really can't say because I don't have a clue what April or I are really doing. I know what Maya is doing. Maya is the director of new faces, she finds the models. She works around the clock and she isn't even getting paid. She and April exist day to day on the money they get from signing up new models. April and Maya start going out for drinks every night. I prefer to sit at home.
They talk about renting a space to run the agency out of, but in the mean time all five hundred models have Maya's phone number. They call the house at all hours of the day. The phone rings during dinner, during sex, while we're trying to take bath, as we're walking out the door, as we're walking in the door, as I'm working on the computer, as I'm trying to fall asleep... And when we don't answer the phone they hang up and call Maya's cell phone. Maya spends so much time on the phone that I have to go out and get a cell phone just to be able to talk to her.
Maya has left the building, metaphorically speaking. I hardly ever see her and when I do, she's on the phone the whole time or we're running from one errand to the next. We eat together and we sleep together, but beyond that she is out of the house and I'm stuck at home staring at a fuzzy flat screen populated by smiling idiots from Ohio with clichs in their eyes. She has found something in her life-direction. For Maya, something is happening, something that I'm not a part of. For the first time we start fucking. In the old days we had great sex. Sometimes nasty sometimes sweet, but we never fucked. We start fucking. Great pornstarstyle fucking. Hair pulling ass slapping heart attack fucking. It's the best sex we've ever had and it scares me to death. Afterwards I sit in the kitchen thinking how strange it is to have break-up sex before you break up. I'm an optimist though so I ignore the implications.
After a few weeks a routine forms. Maya leaves before I wake up. I get up and meet her for breakfast at the Waverly. Then she goes back to work and I go home to work on the cards. I sit at home staring at a computer screen. I remove skin blemishes, correct photographic errors, lose weight when it's need, reshape faces, re-color eyeballs, reshape and enlarge eyes, slim butts and enlarge breasts... everything in advertising is a lie from beginning to end... Part of it makes me sick every time I sit down to work; the other part has fun chasing clever rationalizations around the feeble nether regions of my atrophied conscience. The sad part is that I actually like the people. I like the models-as people I mean. They are all good people, sure their vain shallow and think they look a lot better than they do, and sure most of them will never be Rhodes scholars and sure you could have a more interesting conversation utilizing a telephone pole and decent imagination, but it's not their fault. they work in the modeling industry its their job to be vapid and intellectually feeble. Their the sagebrush at Los Alamos, scorched without knowing why.
Maya gets home nights around nine or ten and talks of nothing but models. Everything we do has became models, which are good, which are bad, what stage of production they are in, how well the business is doing, what more needs to be done... models, models, models. Nothing else. There are some vague and ill-conceived attempts on my part to express the growing jealousy I feel, but to no avail. I begin to be increasingly hurt by every word coming out of Maya's mouth-not one of them has the slightest acknowledgement of my existence. In the past when Maya and I had spent time together we were the center of each other's lives and now that we are finally living together we are farther apart than we have ever been. One morning decide to walk home from breakfast and on the corner of Bleeker and McDougal I pick a bundle of sagebrush and start burning it whenever Maya walks in the door.
The job only makes it worse. Every time I sit down at the computer to work on retouching the images I am reminded of how miserable things are. I stare at the faceless models and they stare emptily back at me from the screen. I can hear them laughing at me, flaunting how much more important they are to Maya. I am descending into a hellish nightmare of self-doubt, whirling around an abysmal sense of worthlessness. And I'm losing my sense of humor. I stare at the photographs for hours trying to figure out what the hell to do with them.
The phone rings and suddenly I have the brilliant idea to clog the line with an Internet connection. I get a reprieve from the incessant ringing. Out of habit I checking my email and find that Dean has been trying to get a hold of me for two weeks. I email him my new phone number, but make no mention about the state of things. He too is in a terrible state, almost as bad as I am. He quit his job after only a month back in LA. He fled back to DC where he has taken up again with Alexis. He claims in his email that he is only staying there because he has nowhere else to go, but we both know that isn't true. It's quite a document, the email he sends, it starts without even an introduction. "I fear normalcy in any shape. Anything that has been agreed upon by enough people to actually be called 'normal' is something I am not interested in. Primarily, because in my assessment of the world's population, you could fit the intelligent peoples of the earth on the head of the proverbial pin. You said once, while I was staying with you, that 'a genius only knows he's a genius if he's surrounded by idiots.' After my brief return to LA, I concluded that I am in fact a genius by simple default, everyone around me was a grade A moron. I will always be grateful to LA for showing me that there was place where I could surround myself with millions of examples of what I try to destroy in myself.... The niche I attempted to carve out, or should I say that the niche society attempted to carve out for me, fit about as well as an airline seat does a five hundred-pound man's ass. My parameters lie outside the curriculum of everyday thought.... I have now decided that genius must find a societal outlet for at least one thing they create -otherwise they are doomed... The good things that happen are a flood of orgasmic joy and I cling to them. I don't believe in depression. Depression is a tag put on someone who is 'positive' impotent... When it comes to having faith in a positive future I'm as limp as a seventy-year-old porn star. Positive things happen occasionally by the flick of a flint, but counting on them is time I can no longer waste. Let it all come down. Expect the worst and you'll relish the best. Expect the best and you'll wallow in pain. So I went looking for the worst. I came back here to DC to be with Alexis.... In truth I have been enjoying myself, but that feeling is fading fast... I heard from Jimmy that you were in New York so I wanted to send you this ASAP. I may need to spend a little time on your couch in the near future. The money I had is nearly gone so I can't get much farther than New York at this juncture."
I feel woozy. I lie down to take a nap but I can't sleep. I lie there like a somnambulist, staring at the wall thinking of nothing. Maya comes home at ten and finds me in the darkness. My fever is back and my lungs are clenched up tight as a boxer's fist. I hack and cough all night long spitting chunks of brown phlegm in the sink. I can't sleep. By morning dark rings have formed under my eyes. I look and feel exhausted, but I still can't sleep. The anxiety attacks return in the midst of my illness. I am feverish, coughing, sniffling, sneezing, and contending with a racing heart that seems intent on pounding right out of my ribcage. I forget to log on to the Internet and the phone rings incessantly. I hear the neighbor's television through the walls. The mouse is scratching at the ceiling. I hack up blood into a tissue. My fever climbs to 103 degrees. Giant moving cranes roar and screech across the street. The bleat of construction vehicles in reverse is ceaseless. The phone is still ringing; the room spins in circles around my head. Maya is no where to be found; she hasn't returned my phone call. My stomach growls, I am starving, but I can't bring myself to eat. There is no food in the house except grapes anyway. I flip through afternoon talk shows watching 'fat women and the men who love them.' The phone rings again and I can hear Maya's voice on the machine, but I'm too weak to get up and answer it.
When my cell phone rings, I assume it will be Maya. I desperately want to hear her voice, but when I answer it, it turns out to be Dean.
"Sil! It's good to hear your voice." He sounds frantic. "I'd love to chat but I don't have the change... got a cell phone huh? Did you read my letter? I hope it's all right, I bought a train ticket for tomorrow morning... I'll be in the city around noon. Can I hang for a couple of days until I can find some cash and get out?"
"Sure Dean. You're always welcome..." I am thinking of how to phrase the situation. The last thing in the world that I want to add to an already desperate situation is another desperate person. "Great," he says before I can get a word in edgewise, "see you tomorrow." He hangs up without giving me time to fully explain things, but I figure that's his mistake not mine.
Morning finds me still feverish and shaky, but I get up anyway. I meet Maya at the Waverly for breakfast. I see her off to work and head uptown to meet Dean. I stagger along in a feverish nightmare. Gargoyles and fiends stalk me from shadowy buildings. They prowl the streets in mobs. Their claws ripping and tearing everything to shreds. They hide around corners; I lurch across the street. They leap from cabs and busses, claws extended, teeth bared, trying to rip me limb from limb and drag me down with them into the fiery pits of the underworld. The world moves in stop motion film, blurred out of focus and intent of tripping me up as I walk. Things that aren't there keep darting in my peripherals and I can here Mayan priests, the chiclet boy, fiends, demons, and phantoms growling and chattering in the shadows.
Dean is sitting on a bench across from the newsstand in Grand Central. He looks haggard from lack of sleep and excessive facial hair. "Sil..." He looks up weakly.
"Dean..." I sound like a weather beaten sixty-year-old man. "It's almost noon, you want a drink?"
"Ya," Dean tries to smile, " that might raise my spirits."
We head across the street to a bar. I keep my head down to avoid the devilish creatures swooping down from above. We sit down at the bar and order a couple of beers. Dean takes off his coat and slumps his head down on the bar. "Things are bad back there. She doesn't even know I'm here. Neither does my job." He raises his head when the bartender sets down the beer. "But none of that matters a wit," he sighs. "What's wrong is what's always been wrong, and what that is remains an absolute mystery to me. Did you read my letter?"
"Of course. Always such cheery words you send."
"Yes, well, you know how much easier it is to write than to talk. Anyway, I meant most of that stuff. I'm lost and alone. He stares at his haggard reflection in the mirror behind the bar. "Do you ever feel that the whole world has turned against you?"
I want to say that I do, that I feel it right now, but the boy with chiclets is glaring at me, calling me a worthless gringo and kicking my leg under the counter. I lie to Dean and tell him that he's alone. I tell him that things will brighten up. I tell him that the world is getting better. The Mayan priest throws his head back and laughs hysterically.
"No it's not," Dean shakes his head. "The world is getting worse Sil. It's never going to get any better. This whole country is certifiably insane. I have to get out of here somehow. I think maybe I'll go to France." He lights a cigarette and groans. "Oh god, what the fuck am I talking about? We both know I'm never going to France." He laughs ironically and drinks down his beer in one long gulp.
I light a cigarette. I blow the smoke back behind me. The boy with the chiclets goes into fits from the smoke. He runs out of the bar and comes back with giant growling, snarling beast in tow. It has alligator eyes and long fangs dripping carnage. Its leathery hide is covered in warts. It snorts and shakes its head. It looks at me and licks it's lips. The boy laughs. The Mayan priest comes over and rubs its head.
The bartender brings Dean another round of Guinness without being asked. He is listening in on the conversation. Everyone is listening in. A crowd of half-decomposed bodies lines up at the end of bar groaning and moaning and waiting for Dean and I to be put in the gallows. They drag a guillotine out of the bathroom. They are screaming for our heads. The priest whispers in our ears, when the blade falls, get up and run, get up and run, get up and run... I can hear them placing bets on how far our headless corpses will run.
Dean turns and claps his hand on my shoulder and looks intently in my eyes. "Sil," he says, "I want out of this nightmare."
I consider it for a moment. Get up and run, get up and run, get up and run... "I got news for you Dean, there is no way out." He turns away from me, "you can't do it, you have to walk through the nightmare to come out the other end." The priest doubles over in fits of laughter and the little boy throws his chiclets out in the crowd. The ghastly decomposing figures clamor over each other trying to get at the gum. They rip each other to shreds; shrieks and howls fill my head. I start to shake.
Dean drinks his beer in one long gulp again. He motions to the bartender for more. "Fuck that," he says angrily, "I'm gonna find a way out. And who the hell are you to say that anyway?" He looks at me with fire glowing in his eyes. "Where do you get off telling me that? I thought you would be the one person who would understand where I was coming from?"
I shrug my shoulders and sigh deeply. "If you want to go, you just go. It's that simple, you don't have to debate it with yourself; you don't have to get approval; you don't have to ask; you don't have to plan. You go out for the paper one day and you don't come back. You book a flight, a boat, a train and you just go... like we did last time. I just don't think it's going to help."
Dean is silent. The room is spinning around my head. Lights streak from the motion. Faces stretch out sideways and take on hideously evil dispositions. Time speeds up. I am thrown forward. The fabric of reality is ripping and I'm falling through into some other place-some great inferno of perdition. I run to the bathroom and splash water on my face. I feel like drugs are coursing my veins, but none are. My heart is beating like a jackhammer. The priest is staring at me from the mirror. He lifts his blade to my eyebrow and pushes it against my flesh. I feel a sharp pain and bead of blood begins to form. The thin rivulet runs down my cheek like a tear. The mirror wobbles and shakes. The priest leaps forward driving the blade into my head. I'm too weak to scream.
I come to on the floor. An old man is shaking my shoulder. He asks if I am okay. I stand up uneasily and look in the mirror again. There is a cut on the scar of my eyebrow; I must have hit my head when I fell. I thank the man, and he leaves, shaking his head. I wash off the blood and put a paper towel to my head to stop the bleeding. I open the door and step back into the bar. The priest is gone, so is the chiclet boy and all the rest of the hideous, clamoring monsters. Halfway across the room, I stop and study Dean. He is staring emptily at the mirror behind the bar. I notice for the first time Dean, as he really is, I feel all his dilemmas as if the net of synchronicity is merging us into one single entity. It occurs to me that he may be right. Perhaps he should run again.
"Dean," I say as I sit down. "If it makes you feel any better, my life is at the bottom of a toilet bowl too. I'm losing Maya. I can't stand the thought of it, but it's already too late." I finish my beer and order a couple of shots of whiskey.
"Shit Sil, I'm sorry. If I had known that I wouldn't have come up here and laid my shit on you."
I glance over at him and do both shots myself. I order two more and let Dean have one this time. "That's not the point," I tell him. "It actually makes me feel a better knowing I'm not the only one screwing up my life. Besides I might be able to help you. Why don't we go down to the airport and book a flight? Why don't you go to France right now?" I raise my shot. Dean looks helplessly at me, but raises his shot to toast. "Let's go right now no more talk no more contemplation, no more words. From here on out only actions, pure honest actions," I throw back the whiskey; it burns down my throat. Dean does the same. I order more. And more. We drink faster and faster.
"I can't just disappear to Europe on Alexis," Dean complains. "I have to at least call her."
"No you don't," I glared at him, "come on let's go." He's losing his nerve. I grab him by the arm and start to drag him out. He consents and lets me pull him out of the bar, but in the vestibule he stops. I fear he will change his mind, but he only wants my assurances that I will explain everything to Alexis. I swear to him that I will and push him out into the street. I hail a cab.
As we ride out to La Guardia International, I double-check the one potential flaw in my plan. A plan which I now see leading Dean high into the Himalayas where he can at long last gain the secret of the universe from some ancient Tibetan shaman, so old he remembers the time before Buddhism... "Hey, you still carrying your passport at the bottom of that bag?"
Dean lurches drunkenly down and pulls the suitcase to his lap. After rummaging though it for a tedious eternity, he produces the tatter document and smiles. I sit back, but Dean leans over and drunkenly grabs me by the shirt. He gets right up in my face, "now Sil," he growls, "you promise to me that you will go to Alexis and explain the situation to her, tell her that I love her and I look forward to being with her again someday, but for now, I have to do this. You'll tell her all that won't you?" Tears are streaming down his face, from what I'm not quite sure, but I feel compelled to lie to him.
"Of course I'll call her as soon as you're safely in the air."
"No! You can't call, that won't work." He shakes me by the shirt. "You have to go to DC tonight and tell her in person, someone needs to be there so that she has a shoulder to cry on."
The thought of Alexis crying on my shoulder sends homicidal shivers down my spine, but I agree just to shut him up.
It takes about forty minutes to get to the airport. I shove some cash through the window like a madman and I jump out of the cab, dragging Dean behind me. I steer him straight to the Air France desk. I leave him to the side and step up the attendant. "I need a one way ticket to Paris," I say proudly, "on the next flight."
She looks the two of us over and seems to be trying to decide whether or nor we are serious. I pull out my wallet to encourage her on. She types something in the computer and then smiles at me. "I have a few seats on the one o'clock," she says, "but its already started boarding, you'll have to hurry." I smile at her and demand that she sell me one. She seems flustered by my enthusiasm and urgency.
"How much?" I ask as if it's unimportant.
"One person," She hesitates and I glance over at Dean. He is slumped down sitting on the floor with his hands in his face. "It's going to be eleven-eighty with taxes and airport fees," she says.
"Done," I smile, whip out my credit card, and hand it to her.
"Can I see the passport of the travelling party?" She looks at me triumphantly as if she thinks I will have overlooked this detail. I grab it out of Dean's hand and shove it under her nose. While she runs the credit card I start Dean in the direction of customs. I run back to finish up the paper work. He is through customs by the time I come over with the ticket. I hurry him down the concourse, thrusting the ticket in his hand. I give him the rest of my money. It's only about two hundred dollars after I take out return cab fare for myself, but at least he'll have a few days to figure something out. He'll probably hate me in about three hours when he sobers up at thirty five thousand feet over the Atlantic, but it'll be too late by then. At the entrance to the ramp I stop and give him a hug. We hug for moment, the way straight men are not supposed to hug in an airport concourse, and then I turn and march out without looking behind me. I'm not sure if he'll go through with it or not, but either way I figure as long as I don't see then he'll always have gone in my mind.
I go outside and sit down for a cigarette. It takes a few minutes to find a cab that won't mind my nicotine habit, but eventually an Islamic looking man motions for me to hop in. It's a spectacular feeling that sweeps over me as the cab emerges from the Lincoln tunnel. The sky seems immense and wide open, as if imported from Montana. The first rays of orange are painting the tops of the skyscrapers and the whole world seems turned upside down and shaken. Loose change clatters on the sidewalks as worldwide pants are emptied and all the hopes and dreams of eight hundred thousand years fall down on me and pick me up on their shoulders. I feel boundless, timeless and completely, utterly divinely free. I feel like I am the one on my way to Paris.
Eleven
-reductive and mechanical-world gains grid-microscopic speck of immensity-deep space bubbles-twinkle like gin-elaborate effigies-the bare essentials-negatively charged collisions-moving on a crowded street-a stubbornly persistent illusion-the trouble is-you see it don't you?
The phone. Ringing. The phone is ringing. The phone is not ringing. The alarm is going off. The alarm is not going off.
Dean is gone.
Fumbling fingers twisting a flint of happiness. Inhale sharply. Feel the pain in charred lung tissue. Where is Dean? Where is Jimmy? Where is Maya?
I get up and crush out the cigarette in the Persian rug, letting it burn a good size hole in the exposed padding once covered by luxurious threads. I feel better already. The steel bars masking the window do not bother me. The whine and bleat of the cranes is symphonic. Dean got out. Dean is free. I have realized it. The computer comes to life. I open Photoshop and try to work. The disks from yesterday's shoot are sitting on the table along with a note from Maya. It's a terse reductive note. Here's yesterday's discs. Dinner? Informal poetics.
Last night I passed out before Maya got home-realization slipping through an intravenous drip-questions spring up and are dismissed. Dean got out. I throw in the discs and open up the first set of pictures. Three girls carrying shopping bags and laughing in way that real people never do, but seems to make sense to real people when they sit down and thumb through magazines. Shop. I make you want to shop. I make you want. Things. Things you can't have.
I put in the next disc and my heart crashes.
All the precious irreverent little bytes still wafting in the glory of Dean's departure are instantaneously expunged from my information superhighway all skittering. There is an older thing than computers, a scaly viperous thing, a part of the reptilian brain that remains in touch with the more up to date mammalian one. They communicate along the lines of the old show-the string to tin can trick. Simple and effective. The reptilian brain is slithering slow behind the scenes making sure that the worst is being avoided, even as the mammalian brain seems intent on seeking out the most serosanguineous reality tunnel around.
A face is staring at me. A face swelling significantly out of an ocean of monotonous faces. Disc two contains a face I know. An Athens face. A face that has no business being in this part of my life, a separate face. Judah is staring at me. Judah with his rooftops and roughhewn tables and Cuban dreams is here in New York on my computer. There is no way that this disc could contain a picture of Judah. It is impossible for him to have been at yesterday's modeling shoot without Maya mentioning it.
Unless.
Unless the bitten apple on the front of the disc is not just a brand symbol.
My heart gets the three-fingered salute and after running a hasty hard disc scan, restarts with minimal data loss.
Except.
The priest is back and has a battered suitcase with ancient Pan Am and Trans World emblems plastered on it. He leans over my shoulder to get the scoop on this latest development and launches into a hysterical, uncontrollable, post-orgasmic fit of laughter.
You are so fucked.
Spring Street. Coat buttoned tight, scarf catching involuntary nose drip, feet skating on icy concrete and the old Jewish tailors huddle on the crooked, half-spiral steps whispering Yiddish, smoking cigarettes and decoding the cabalistic name of god which they plan to evoke in swirl of incense, candlelight and chanting in some universe just three doors down-unmarked entrance in an alley. Waiting for the F train to Broadway, a fat junkie woman with a stroller shivers and rolls her eyes at me. The priest marches up and down the platform, hunched slightly, like Napoleon contemplating strategic moves, hands behind his back, twirling a menacing blade, long, curved and enlarged at the front. The better for splitting my dear.
Roaring sounds, squeals, heart attack brakes, suicide doors open. Two street kids huddle in the corner of the car arguing over Delotid stolen from an uptown pharmacy where the old neighborhood druggist is losing his sight and easy prey to opportunists-forgets that two boys came in and only one is in front of him now asking for drugs for the the hiv, what is the hiv? The boy laughs. They dash out the door and into the station, all the way to Brooklyn and then back, but only one Delotid. The priest looks at me and smiles, gesturing to the boys with the engorged tip of the scythe. Necessity is mom, where is dad?
Door opens at 125th, in come the dealers and out go the boys. These are dangerous types don't you know. Black hearts. Black skin. Even the priest is silent. I stare them down. One nods. "buds?" I smile no. TV has these images. It told you all you needed to know. Just another show. My eyes are bleary from staring at the screen its all too much and there must be someone on this train. Stand up. Walk to the next car. The priest holds the door as I stumble through.
"You talk too much"
"Stupid old fuck"
"Get your piles out"
"This is my car you coggy old fucker"
Two bums half heartedly pushing each other, bustling in the back and a prim woman in a business suit on her way to the Bronx, the north Bronx, out of the city and sure he keeps telling her we'll move soon, just as soon as I put together this next deal, you know Charlie says he can move this stuff and she spends her nights chain smoking at the window thinking of home in Baltimore and the last time she had an orgasm. A thin old man with newspaper folded under his arm uncrosses his legs and motion to me to sit down.
"Going uptown?"
"Yes"
"Lots to do uptown?"
"I think maybe. Yes."
"Be careful. These aren't safe neighborhoods you know. Make sure you know where your friends are."
"Thank you."
The terror of wheels flogging metal rails. Nothing personal. Stop. Lurch. Complete stop. The priest motions for me to get off. I follow him reluctantly. There are some things that are better left alone, but you never do. You can't see? Get on a plane. Get out while you can. Echoing voices. A little Puerto Rican boy tap dances on a tattered sheet of cardboard. The Mayan priest pitches him a nickel. Gee thanks mister...wrong fucking century asshole. I can't help but laugh. This is so fucking stupid but I can't stop. These are bad neighborhoods you know. Outside again, the projects, enormous brick edifices erected on minimal budgets with zero inspiration. We thought of that you know the priest interjects, zero, the Mayans, the nothing thing. Try that one on.
Some things are too horrifying to look directly at, some things scorch the eye before the brain can react and force you to turn away. These are the horrors, the pains, the absolute zero of emotional tolerance. Zero. Nothing. The absence of all. The void. The space between. Zero. These are the things I want-to see the things I can't bear to see. I see Judah. I see his curly eyes glazed with alcohol and Cuba. An entire fucking island and millions of people tiny little dreams in his eyes. But not people just words, Spain, Neruda, sugarcane, wood tables, old men playing jazz, pounding out beats on drawers pulled from bedroom armoires. Words. Zero. Judah has never been to Cuba. Zero. Never been to Spain. Zero. Been to the bottom of bottle dreams and talking gibberish, meaning astray, ashtray, lost his way. Just making it up as he goes. Did we ever sit on the roof? Did I make that up? Did we climb that precarious fire escape rusted ladder to the top, did my feet almost slip on the way down; was the building two doors down really burnt out, charred, roof sagging like leprechaun dreams under the weight of mythical bridges? Did Maya come to Athens that spring and were we walking by the patio of the Flicker Bar where Judah was having drinks with some friends? Did I call out to him and ask him to come over and meet Maya? Did we chat briefly, Judah too drunk to see? Did Maya casually mention that he was cute? Did I know then what I know now?
Yes my memory constructs all that as having happened and yet. And here, standing at the entrance to a building I haven't entered in over a year, my mind is wallpapered with the image. Stacked on infinite repeat and it won't go away. It is a needle raked over an already festering wound. A porcupine administering morphine to an amputee still feeling the absent limb. The endolithic articulation of zero.
This won't hurt a bit.
Nuclear buzzer shatters fragmented reflection before I remember the door is open. The door never locks. Here we are not lying until you are inside. The antechamber where Judah's dull amplified voice is echoing off tile mosaics and sets the Jamaican landlord's crazed dreadlocked lakdsjflkasdjf into a frenzy, it throws its body against the downstairs door, snarling and growling undog noises. The hair on the back of my neck curls and retreats back into the follicle. Down periscope. Dive. I streak up the stairs lest the nearly mythical predator somehow loose itself from the bounds that hold it to this mortal coil. Behind me the priest scrapes his heart carving blade against the orange chipped paint of the door to further antagonize the beast.
Judah is already opening the door as I bound the last stair. His face wears a look of feigned surprise trying to hide the fact that he has been waiting for this moment ever since. I will not give, nothing is wrong.
"Sil! Holy shit. What are you doing here?"
"Judah! I came to see my old friend Judah." I advance on him, arms extended and we embrace, clapping each other's backs hard. Too hard.
"Come in come in. I was just doing some recording upstairs. I thought maybe you were John coming home from work and I was pissed off thinking he had forgotten his key again...."
"Ah, recording. Music?
"Ya drums"
"Tribal drums? African drums? That sort of thing?"
"Uh... not exactly.... So why are you in New York?"
"I came up to be with Maya."
"That's the girl you were dating?"
"Uh huh." I follow him into the kitchen and he offers me a seat at the kitchen table. I glance around and surmise that little has changed since my last visit. The one talented member of this living arrangement has added a few new painting to the living room wall. Strange stained glass looking paintings that are catching the last glow of the sun in such a deliberate way that I realize he must have purposefully painted them and then hung them at exactly that spot on the far wall of the kitchen so that they would catch the light exactly as they are right now.
"Yes Judah. The girl I have always been dating. As long as you have known me. Longer than you have known me."
"I thought you guys broke up." He picks up a bowl of roasted peanuts and I can't help but see the inescapable southern upbringing coursing through his veins. He peels back the soft shell and pops one arrogantly in his mouth.
"Is that why you fucked her?"
He pretends like it comes out of nowhere, but we both know it didn't. We both know it's the only reason I'm here.
"Excuse me?"
"Don't try to bullshit me Judah. It's unbecoming. At least be quick on your feet... I was drunk... I'm sorry... it just happened... you know how it is... these are the phrases of carefully constructed cinematic excuses that you have to choose from. Come on man... 'excuse me'? That's the best you can do? You and your Neruda and your Cuba and all your fucking bullshit and 'excuse me'? That's the fucking best you can fucking do?"
"Calm down Sil. You want a beer?"
"No I don't want a fucking beer you asshole. I want a story. And it better be a really fucking good story." I can feel my eyes darting about the kitchen, dishes in the sink, purple cupboard door open, dishrags on counter, trash overflowing bottles, refrigerator covered, magnets and pictures, disarrayed pots on stove, framed Charles Bukoski holding beer on wall opposite oven, bread atop fridge, two bananas and a mango ripening in a wire basket hanging from the bottom shelf above the window that looks out onto a brick wall three feet away, and the priest hands me the blade. "Actually, yes, I would like a beer," I run my finger along the edge of the blade, a tiny rivulet of blood appears accompanied by a dull far off ache in my fingertip. I wonder absently if such a thing could permanently alter the identification of my fingerprints.
Judah retrieves two Coronas from the fridge, along with a lime, all of which he carries awkwardly over to the table, setting one beer in from of me and another in front of the empty chair he presumes he will sit in. He turns around and rummages through a drawer, presumably looking for a knife, but I chop the lime in half with a loud thwacking sound that causes him to stand bolt upright and look at me wide eyed. I smile, wipe the blade clean and put a sliver of lime in his bottle and then one in mine. I twirl the blade on the tip of my finger.
"Sorry. Bought it in Chinatown. This is the first chance I've had to use it."
"That's quite a knife..."
"Ya it is isn't it? So about you fucking Maya...?"
"Look Sil. Shit. I'm sorry. I thought you guys broke up. I didn't mean to. I was drunk. She called me...fuck." His face has a look of sorrow on it but I'm not buying. Regret is cheap-from here to Hanoi. "Sil... to be honest... when she called, I didn't know who she was talking about...you know she said this is Maya, a friend of Sil's... I had forgotten all about you. It didn't dawn on me until the next day."
His voice sends me reeling.
"I mean. Shit, I'm sorry man, but I didn't know we were that good of friends. I mean its been what-like two years?"
"So...uh... essentially our friendship was all in my head?"
Judah shells another peanut, pops the soft fruit in his mouth and chews slowly and deliberately. "Well, uh, don't you have to see someone, you know... hang out with them in order the be friends with them?"
I see Dean in Paris pissing in an alleyway three sheets to the wind. I see Jimmy in Athens bent over the falcon engine tinkering with the carburetor. I see Scratch in Miami ogling a divorcee. I see Ulric behind the drum kit that holds the world together beating out the rhythm of now.
"No. No you don't. That would be an acquaintance, which it seems you and I are. Acquaintances. It seems that friendship is too advanced of a concept to apply here.... Or at least that's how you would like to see it...."
"What do you mean?"
"I can see the guilt in your eyes Judah. It haunts you. You have been waiting for me. You want forgiveness from me..."
"I want forgiveness...?" He laughs mock wickedness.
"Yes. You want nothing more... but you're a drunk. You're nothing but a drunk with delusions. You sit around here recording music no one will ever hear, thinking that you're some kind of forgotten genius, another overlooked Van Gogh... and believe me we all want that for you, but the sad truth is that you're not. You're a drunk. No more no less."
Judah watching the Zapruder films dreaming of having the inside track on something that the rest of us have missed. Judah is a foreshortened life. He is not Neruda, he is not Cuba, he is a man who reads poetry by candlelight because he knows it is how you are supposed to read poetry, he dreams of Cuba because it is where he cannot go. Cuba is not a place at all to Judah; it's a concept. It's all empty talk, a tumbleweed caught in the grill of a 53 mercury, not even that, in the grill of late 70's pinto, liable to blow the fuck up the first time something rams him in the ass.
I can see him buried to the hilt in her warm depths with that stupid drunken Neruda grin on his face. Perhaps we could go up to the roof. Perhaps he could walk in circles while I sit on the brick ledge that separates his building from the next. Perhaps all of Manhattan is behind me and Judah will pace in circles to excuse poor behavior. Perhaps he will tell a story of an out of blue phone call, a meeting for drinks with that slithering slug April. Perhaps he will model-waving his bottle of corona as he talks of drinks-martinis extra dirty three olives and then the stumbling subway ride home. Perhaps its was one of those nights when I waited by the phone for Maya to call. Perhaps it was the night Scratch blew through. Perhaps the priest will laugh-taunting me. Perhaps he will kneel behind Judah, crouch on all fours. Perhaps the punch will come for Judah, perhaps my good natured honesty will have disarmed him. Perhaps the punch is centered square in the solar plexus and is followed by the full weight of my body. Perhaps there is an indeterminable second in which Judah will teeter and try to throw his foot back to regain his balance, but a heating vent will be in the way. He will spin off balance, stumble and disappear over the edge. I will run to the edge of the building and look down. His body will be contorted in a distorted, inhuman shape, a pool of blood already forming under his head. I will glance around to see if anyone might possibly have seen us. I will feel a rather extravagant calm. I should be panicking, but I won't. I'll feel relieved, beautiful even. I'll gather up the bottles I touched, glance around to see if there are any other items which might lead one to believe that there was second person present. I'll smooth over my footprints in the rooftop gravel. I'll climb down the ladder and onto the fire escape, glancing down at Judah's body and taking care to wipe away my fingerprints. The pool of maroon below will run toward the fence, dripping out the spaces between the white pickets. I'll climb back in the window and methodically ransack his room, looking for my phone number or Maya's, but taking care not to mess things up. I'll gather up my things, carry the bottles downstairs and place them in the neighbors trashcan. I'll walk out back and examine the body. I'll put my hand over his mouth, but before I can feel a breath I'll notice the bits of mashed skull and what I think are brains lying several feet away-clearly there will be no breath. This man is dead. His eyes are still open, they wear a slightly shocked expression, but there is something else there, a Mona Lisa smile, as if laughing at some inner joke. I'll want to stomp that smile right off his face. I'll want to feel the satisfying crunch of bone under my foot, I'll want to squish his brains, to smear them about the yard. Instead I'll rise and walk out the front door. A roommate will find him. Judah is a known alcoholic. He's also the only smoker in the house. He frequently goes up of the roof to drink and smoke. It will be a no brainer, an open and shut accidental death. His blood alcohol level will tell the story. An intern from the Bronx observer will be dispatched to the scene, he will take a picture of the legs protruding from beneath the yellow tarp. The headline will read: Youth killed in Drunken Mishap. No question will ever be asked because this story is perfectly believable. My story is far fetched, irrational, and difficult to believe. Who would do such a monstrous thing? As I leave I will notice some boys playing basketball at the court across the street. I will sink my hands deep in my pockets, smile up to the sky, take a resonant breath and walk on. People are murdered everyday in the Bronx. Drunk people falling off rooftops are not a cause for alarm. I wish I could say that I would be haunted by images of Judah. I wish that I could say I would feel guilty, but I know I will not. Judah is right, our friendship was all in my mind. And he, bless his nearly departed soul, already got out. His death will be a mere a formality to mark his passing.
The wheels of the BDFQ begin the screech halfway down the stairs, I jog the rest of way and dart through the door at last minute, sliding into a seat facing an old man whose face is half obscured by a down-turned fedora. I jerk my sleeve out of the door and sit down opposite him. He glances up at me clears his throat and mumbles to no one in particular-these things happen you know. The woman seated next to him raises her eyebrows at me. I smile and shrug. Who is to know the idiosyncrasies of other people?
The bar is really more of a lounge, but a lounge in the worst New York hipster sense of the word. The street front consists of tacky two story glass windows designed to make sure that those on the outside feel left out and sense their lacking chic, which turns up the volume of self-satisfied panache playing on the black turtleneck turntables that spin giddily from table to bar to toilet and back again. A woman at one of the window tables raises a thinly plucked eyebrow at me as her flighty white fingers twirl through blond curls; her white skin is tightly stretched as if approaching escape velocity, narrowly eeking out of the blackhole of her attire. Her scorn makes me smile. I turn on my loudest non-participatory amplifiers, light a fresh cigarette and open the door with trembling hands. Inside is a dimly lit underwater blue emanating from strands of twinkling sapphire Christmas lights balanced and slightly thinned by candles flickering on small tables. A hostess looks at me expectantly but I can't speak. She scowls at my cigarette and asks if she can help me. "Meeting people," I mumble, eyes ignoring her existence, scanning desperately for a familiar face.
The back wall is lined with a series of enormous crescent shaped booths, and at the center of one, surrounded by a horde of male models, I spy Maya and April, giggling in each others ears. Maya catches my eye and waves me over. She tries to introduce me to the men-boys really- surrounding her, but I don't bother to acknowledge their flaccid hands. A couple I recognize having digitally liberated their complexions from acne scarred childhoods. One of them gets up and pulls over a chair so that I can sit next to Maya. Maya and April are talking emptily of big plans. Big buildings with big offices, big name photographers shooting on account for big name clients, big money going around the world, Frankfurt to Paris, Milan to Cape Town,, New York and back. I stare at April's teeth as she talks. Her pretension chokes the air with gasping hoarse laughter. Black boutique blouse with matching runway toss-off pants she dress like she spends too much time dressing. Her forty year old teeth dripping pinot grigio, held in place by a Miami-tanned hide hanging from cheek bones that all the retouching in the world wouldn't subtract a year from. Must have been boom years-gone bust to land her here. Gone bust in the warm Florida a sun, tarnished the red-gold mane and she had to split. Why I'm not sure, but I suspect it would have something to do with these big puppy-love dreams ringing her head like penny dreadfuls. April's unwarranted arrogance lectures like a cockstrong teenager sermonizing on the ways of the world and what you need to do to succeed. One of the models is wearing a t-shirt that reads: no day but today. And April's pinot grigio is half empty, her vulture eyes already search for a carrion waiter to flutter eyes at secure another free glass because she hasn't the money to buy a drink. She wants to be rich so badly it makes her smell-wouldn't know Rothschild from gutter port and can't buy either.
Maya's lips purse around a thought, but then her head leans back and shakes-disengage turn the page, working hard for some distant reward in white picket tomorrowland all the while convinced: no day but today. She wants me to share in the dream conversation. I'd sooner chew my leg off-saut my ambivalence. I am in no hurry. She gives up on me for bit but like a flea-riddled canine just can't let it go.
"What did you do today Sil?" Maya leans in, stabbing at some form of intimacy, but it feels forced to me. I am not fun. I am the thing that must be dealt with at this table, in this bar, in this city.
"I realized that you fucked Judah behind my back," I smile and take a sip of scotch.
It would be a relief to see some sort of reaction, to see the color drain from her face, to see a look of horror in her eyes, but there is nothing. A sarcastic curl lifts her top lip off her teeth and she lowers her eyes at me, "this is neither the time nor the place."
"The proper form calls for indignant protest at such an outrageous accusation and then the time and place bit." I cross my legs and feel an unhealthy calm descend upon me. I light a cigarette and lean back to blow smoke in April's face. We lock eyes and scornful little daggers spit out of her pupils. My heart is racing in spite of the pills, but everything is beautifully clean and calm. The air is sterile, too full of ozone, it sucks up my cigarette smoke and filters it faster than I can drag more into my starved lungs. The room smells like the science fiction future-barren and callous. It feels perfect. The first dawn after the nuclear holocaust.
Maya turns her back on me and whispers something to April. I wish that I had a Moroccan dagger or scythe with which to carve this place, these people, carve their bodies into apocalyptic sculptures, monuments to the futility of arrogance. To leave them alive to carry on their shallow existence in these blanched white bodies, but with deep heineous scars the wounds left by the day the words returned to act upon them. I survey the room and realize that the words aren't coming back justice is down the hall blindfolded, gagged and bound, being fucked in the ass by a lonely old man and loving every minute of it while the play masks laugh and cry at the sight of it all.
I feel righteous and holy.
I want to vomit on myself.
I want Mexico City.
Waking to static on the radio, fat man singing in the shower next door, paper thin walls. The pain is chipped and peeling, lingering in cobweb corners. Mattress with no sheets, stained by countless faceless visitors. Get out of bed and shave with cold water and dull razor, cuts bleed. Outside cadaver weather, smoky haze obscures dawn, stumble down Calle de la Plaza. Your head hurts. Machine gun guards seal off banks. Tomorrow the man in the pinstripe suit will walk in shooting and not stop for days.
Both agents wearing cheap black suits and stained white shirts, rings of sweat visible when they lift the cups to their mouths. Gristle mouths, swollen lips, spit flies as they talk.
"Now you understand..."
"You understand nothing about our country..."
"You can't possibly hope to..."
"We are trying to use the utmost discretion..."
Not hearing a word, looking off the balcony at the shanty town below. Constructed on an old landfill site. The men are still talking. One hand washes the other. A little girl in tattered t-shirt drags a stick in circles about the dirt driveway.
In America she is millions of miles away. Jerking camera visions, clipped images of sidewalks, men in ragged army coats begging for change. The agents ask for papers, identification, passport still stuffed in the mattress. Leaving. They follow at a safe distance.
"Understand that the matter may well come to trial seor..."
Streets spinning with cars, a dizzying sound. Street urchin selling chiclets, you wanna good time mister? eh? no?
Last time, board room door all closed, sealed up lies. The agents are still trailing behind. Pulse racing-open the door to the hotel. Three whores in gaudy lipstick wait in the lobby. Pass. Lie down. Feverish dreams. Radioman selling something in Spanish, bursts of static mixed with dream. Malaria epidemic in the Quarter two years ago. Same room, different hotel. Same agents still here. Standing in the corner. One crouches down, smoking at the foot of the bed. In America she is a million miles away.
"Sir why do make this hard on yourself...?"
"You must let us help you..." They smile gold teeth.
Nausea without warning.
There is always warning. It has all been said. She just laughs and pretends and smiles and tries so hard for a Breakfast at Tiffany's cleanliness. The kind of posturing with no accounting for severed limbs, atrocities at all, arm so carefree with its gentle flicks of ash, kissing cigarettes for soft cinedramatic inhales, all-knowing and never acknowledging the prehensile origins. She is smugly young. She has always been smugly young. We are all smugly young. But not you. You have been so old for so long that delusion and illusion and artifice are transparent in the tips of lotioned fingers, Lubridermed against chapping winds. She falls apart with every drag.
I skip the subway. Overground. Stepping lightly on grates, slender metal held up by the wisps of subway air. Wind blows through the morgues and into the streets, lashing ice, snow, tongues, voices-everything is beautiful everything if fine. This is the time. This is the place.
But.
Nevermind.
I want that hotel Bob Dylan lived in. I want to walk in the room and kick his teeth in. Bob Dylan hasn't got shit on me. Mutherfucker couldn't sing worth a damn. All my favorite singers couldn't sing. Kick his fucking teeth in. Stomp his head to mush. Fuck Bob Dylan. Fuck Fuck Fuck. Fuck Bob Dylan. It's in way he sings the power and resonance-horseshit. Its all horseshit. Posturing. Affecting. Jeff Mangum-let Jeff Mangum kick Bob Dylan's teeth in. Jeff is in his prime. He is now. Bob is over and done. Fork stuck. Roasted. I want that hotel. I want those teeth. I want them to rattle in a pouch that I carry on my belt, tied with leather straps and I pull them out in bars and tell the story of How I Kicked in Bob Dylan's Teeth. Jeff Mangum is in an aeroplane over the sea and he is on his way to kick Bob Dylan's teeth in.
I want my money back. I would like to return the following items for a full refund: One set of teeth (lost rattling quality), one tongue (no longer working, cat got), two year subscription to Tomorowland (gift), one heavily used Persian rug (symbol kind of shaky from the get go), one organ donor card (no one buying), one nation (under god), one lamppost (working, caustic light on a street begging for a Bogart darkness-huddled, but cheerfully bitter), and one young girl (no longer young).
I can forgive everything.
Room 319. No Bob Dylan. No top hat. No Jack Kerouac (kick his teeth in too for good measure). No guitar. But it a beautiful room and it should be since the money was April's. I want to go shopping. I want a new suit. Designer shoes. Kiehl's shaving cream. Seven bottle of scotch. Greater self understanding. Peace on Earth and goodwill toward Jeff Mangum.
Judah said: We spent all the time talking about you.
I said: Why.
Judah said: Because she loves you.
I said: Nothing.
She is crying when I call. I can't cry. I want to cry. I want to feel. It's awkward. I should not have called. I should have gone home. I should give Bob his teeth back before he tries to gum that steak. This is how I hurt.
Maya and I meet for dinner at a Brazilian restaurant in the village. We both quickly get quite drunk on fruity cocktails. I don't want to tell her I am leaving until later. I don't want to spoil the evening that way. Maya is apologetic. I feel apocalyptic and out of control. I am funny. I am attentive. She is exuberantly telling me all about the agency for the five thousandth time, what they had done today and what they still needed to do tomorrow and in the future. I am enthralled with her teeth. I want to dream about her teeth. Her baby teeth falling out. Her adult teeth coming in. I want to dream the history of her teeth. The Rum is warm and friendly and she is very happy and we are forgiving each other for something or other, it isn't important. I interrupt her to tell her about Dean. She can't believe he actually just got on a plane and left. The whole thing is starting to sound surreal to me too, a dream I had-Dean's teeth flying to France, rotting on cheap wine and the chewing the rind because he is a polite traveler. But when I try to charge dinner on the credit card, the reality of his departure comes roaring home. I am sitting on almost three thousand dollars that I'm giving to April tomorrow. Maya pays the bill. As we walk home through Chinatown, I tell her that I have to leave. I feel like an absolute fool. I try to explain that I can't be in New York right now and that I can't do the job and that I don't know why-but above all it has nothing to do with her and certainly nothing to do with Judah or even Bob Dylan.
Her eyes fill with tears, but she keeps saying that she wants me to do what I need to do. She's lying. She wants me to stay. I can see it in her eyes, she desperately wants me to stay. Late at night I feel her get out of bed. I hear the broken chair squeak and the flick of lighter. She is fumbling absently with the twist tie; her nails pick at it making a sound like a harp.
In the morning there is a note. I want to spend more time with you, will you meet me for lunch? I gather up my things, drag them down stairs and pile them back in the Maxima. Upstairs I sit at the kitchen table and smoke a cigarette. I crush it out on the Persian rug.
Twelve
I wake up just before dawn with tears streaming down my face. I can't remember the dream, but I know it was horrible. All I retain is a vague sense of foreboding. I get up for a glass of water and notice that Dean is still asleep on the couch. I go back in my room and lie in bed for a while. It dawns on me that I am probably not at the bottom yet-I am still falling. I start thinking about Los Angeles, where I began. I see those I love stumbling in self assured darkness. At the time I thought it was sad, but now I see beauty in it. For once I'm not thinking of books or words of wisdom; I undergo no introspection, analyze nothing... I see only the people. They are standing in the streets rummaging for yesterday's newspapers in a kaleidoscope of garbage. I see Dean's cigarette droop between his lips and burn a hole in his favorite shirt. I see his sister doubled over in laughter and shaking her head at me. I hear the beat of Dean's headphones over the drone of freeway miles. I see the mattress lying in the middle of the sidewalk when I needed a place to sleep. I see my high school sweetheart sitting down for dinner with her family. I see my wife's tears stain the pillow of our bed. I wrap my arm around Maya in the corner booth of the Harbor house caf-no food for days. I feel the warmth of the sun and squint at the glare from the ocean. I swerve to avoid a tumbling boulder only to hit anther skid off the road coming to rest in front of a sign: CAUTION FALLING ROCK. Everything is just as it should be and I know it will never look the same again. I am gone from there and even if I return, something remains forever gone. I stumble back to bed, wiping the tears from my eyes. I fall to my knees staring up at the ceiling fan rewinding...
The beginning that started with endings. The end of the century-1999-a crash-landing year skittered off the runway and exploded in the grandstands, a year that chased itself atop railroad cars like the Pinkertons after the James Gang in old western films. Los Angeles was a thirty-one year long slow motion crash. Three recollections rise out of the nauseating sauted cacophony. They are the sound of Dean typing, the sound of disjointed and constantly arguing voices-from the television and from Sean and Katherine-and the feeling of vomit that was so sudden I nearly choked on it.
After my wife and I split up, I moved in with Dean and his sister. The three of us got along as if I were part of the family. It's the only living situation I've encountered where I actually spent time with my roommates. We were tight, we did everything together, we survived Sean and Katherine together and later we moved to Athens together. The trouble started when the lease on our apartment expired. We were desperate to find somewhere to live. Why we chose Sean and Katherine's place, I still don't know. In hindsight, I suspect it had more to do with Dean than anyone. Dean had a strange little thing for Katherine, I never understood it, she wasn't his type. Katherine was beautiful, face like an angel, but she was a full figured girl with auburn hair; Dean liked waifs with blond hair... Katherine had ambition and a real job; Dean liked strippers and waitresses... Katherine was homely; Dean liked class and glamour.... But, as the man said, there's no accounting for taste.
Sean was two years younger than me and about two inches shorter with the barrel-chest build of a swimmer. He swam every morning and worked as lifeguard all afternoon. He wore his hair closely shorn so it would stay out of his eyes in the pool. He perpetually reeked of chlorine. He and I lived together right after high school, in a trailer park of all things. We were very close back then, but eventually I got married and moved on with my life-you can't live in a trailer forever. Katherine entered his life shortly after I left and he moved out of the trailer park too. They lived together in an enormous old house that they shared with three other girls. It was the only house in Costa Mesa that predated 1950. I always wanted to live in it after I got back from my first trip to Athens because it reminded me of the South-though it didn't have a porch, just a cement stoop. Sean and I saw each other from time to time, but I rarely made any effort to talk. Sean represented a part of my life that I wanted to avoid, but when their roommates moved out and the three bedrooms were suddenly available we jumped on it. The plan was to stay a while until something better could be had, better turned out to be three thousand miles away. By the time Dean, his sister, and I moved in, I hardly knew Sean at all. By then I was more fond of Katherine, but I only got close to her one night and by then it was too late.
Most of all what sticks out was the sound of everything-the typing-the television-the constant fighting-Los Angeles humming in the background. The mad clicking of Dean's flying fingers was always present, ticking off the seconds in feverish bursts. Dean never stopped typing, it was a furious noise, he would pound the keys and nod his head to the headphones. He drowned out the world to escape it. He drowned out his own fingers. He never realized the force with which he pounded the keys... dispatching mad telegraphs, electrostatic love notes spitting out like lizard tongues... flung on wires to Maryland where another pair of fingers responded. The thing itself, so-called love, was flying back and forth over the wires -maddening. Dean had just met Alexis on the Internet, they spent hours on instant messenger-love in ones and zeros.
To tell the truth, I remember the television more than the people. Throughout all of the madness that ensued, the television reigned-we never tuned it off. Dean's sister and I stationed ourselves like zombies before the one god and it's eerie blue aura. The outside world was pandemonium-wars in Europe, trade deals in Mexico, sex scandals in Washington... what filtered in on the TV was reflected back all around us, cold, insensitive, innocuous suburban delight... detachment... Douglas Copeland's nightmares. It wasn't just us. The perpetual warm blue glow of television emanated from the windows of all our neighbors' vinyl sided endura-homes-guaranteed to last a lifetime or your money back! The television was a great luminous third eye... I could never decide if we were watching it, or if it was watching us. It presided over the world with the indifference of God. Every house glowed blue light, the streets bathed in its iridescence, cobalt sidewalks and sapphire lawns under midnight purple skies-everything glowed blue. Blue noise hummed softly and in the background, blue people stumbled about their lives. Turquoise silhouettes danced in kitchen windows and cerulean shadows lurked in open garages. The blue was grating, irritating, got under your skin like the flesh eating virus, boils sprung up bursting to reveal slick teal puss oozing from the open sores. In the background, faint at first, but then growing in decibels, was the maddening chant of the newsman and the Maytag man and all the talking heads of television disembodied and floating in the sky, singing choruses....
The sound of Los Angeles was deafening. Waves of music, horns, engines, electricity, spinning warbles of neon lights echoing the asphalt dreams of sanity. The whole city was a deafening roar. Vibrations spun off the turn of espresso handles, the pull of yogurt machines, the spinning of laundry mats, the ring of cash registers, the click-clack of skateboard wheels on the sidewalk, the roar of surf, the thump of landing gear, the clang of trash cans in the alley, the rattle of the homeless people's shopping carts, the chopping of the Chinese cook's knife atop the trash can, chunks of chicken fat accumulating on the floor; all of it whirled in a hurricane melee reverberating throughout the Los Angeles basin. The smoggy air offered no resistance to the pealing clamor. It carried it about, still as a tomb, withholding comment on the meaning of it all. Los Angeles is cancer-the insidious beat of death.
Dean's sister and I were sitting on the couch, television blaring to drown out the sounds of Sean and Katherine fighting. They never stopped arguing. Dean's sister shifted uncomfortably in her seat and I looked over at her. We both sighed and then laughed. We were thinking of the old house, of the old times, we didn't say a word, we didn't have to, it was in our eyes. Asshole! Bitch! Motherfucker! Stupid bitch! Dick! -These were the punctuated words we could hear above the television, but by then we were used to it. Dean, as I said, kept to himself; he was in the other room, headphones cranked to ten, blissfully going about the business of falling in love. His sister and I were the ones that had to see the door swing open and Sean ducking with his arms clasped over his head. The shoe hit the wall above the couch and then Katherine's voice roared in anger. On the television Chandler was broken up over Joey moving out and that mousy guy that's always 'the other guy' in movies, was moving in. Homoerotic jokes stuck like flies to vellum walls.
The shoe hit the wall above us and tumbled down between us. I looked at it; I looked over at Sean. He was standing in the dining room crying; he looked like a tortured animal pleading for it's life. I looked at the television-it was trying to sell me deodorant. Then Katherine emerged from the same direction as the shoe, also crying and looking like a tortured animal begging for it's life. Sean fell to his knees and grabbed her legs as she walked by him. They looked like the cover of the movie Vacation where Chevy Chase is standing proud and defiant while Beverly De'Anglo clings to his knees. I wanted to laugh great peals of bitter laughter, laughter sinking into the floor, into the walls, up to the roof. The place reeked of suppressed bitter laughter, mine, Dean's, his sister's, the studio audience, the children of the war in Kosovo. I looked at Dean's sister to see if she saw the humor in it. Her eyes met mine and they twinkled as she took a drag off her cigarette. I smiled and she started hacking and coughing smoke. A bit of spit flew out of her mouth and she tried to stop it, to regain some composure, but it was too late. The madness was upon us, it all started with the shoe.
Katherine's sobs quieted to weeping; Sean still had his arms around her legs. She was trying to kneel down, but he wouldn't let go so she just lay down on the floor weeping on her arm. He crawled over her body and knelt by her head. He tried to put his arms around her, to hold her, but she was indifferent. Her head rested apathetic against his knees, her eyes had a thousand-yard stare. Mascara ran down her cheeks leaving a black tail of tears. I felt helpless. "Are you guys okay," Dean's sister ventured half hearted. Sean nodded. Katherine just moaned a low growling sound that vibrated the wood floor and sounded utterly inhuman. Sean looked over at me for help, but I pretended to be engrossed in the television. I stole sideways glances to make sure that they weren't going to hurt each other. Sean stood up and Katherine's head dropped listlessly to the floor. They flip-flopped emotionally and now she clutched at his legs. Sean had a defiance to his posture that looked wholly artificial and it occurred to me that he ought to have remained on the ground. He ought to be begging, not to Katherine, but begging God to give him his humility back.
Sean was cold, calculated psychology, distilled out of textbooks, until it fermented in his soul and all the vital organs of his body were filled with poisonous effluvium. The chasm between the idealized and the realized versions of his life built up tension inside him. Katherine had become the way he released it. Sean was a flood of meaningless gibberish that he had internalized and now it bounced endlessly about like knives thrown in a vacuum. His soul was soaked with formaldehyde, preserving him eternally, choking out all feeling. He had lost all traces of humor and ran from his life madly chasing after an invisible spirit that he thought would somehow enlighten him, give his life the meaning, the purpose, the joy that it lacked. A problem that could be solved, that's all Sean wanted from life, something to which he could point and say "See it is all better now.' He was convinced he had all the answers for everyone around him, but he had none for himself. He had no use for whole people, just the ragged, torn edges of the pages-preferably dripping fresh blood, new wounds to cauterize and in the process open old ones. He poked at Katherine's soft emotional scar tissue, inducing hemorrhages to leech the life out. Like the Marquis he stood bleeding, asking-was good for you? His idea of life was crumbs; the confetti strew about after the parade passes. Christ all the way. Quick, get us a tree, somebody make two boards... hurry before he loses the courage and does it himself. Christ was on a suicide trip; he'd have gone with or without the Romans... how else do you end a story like that? I wanted to punch Sean. I wanted to make his nose explode and rain blood over all of us.
The news came on... Peace talks continued in Kosovo today with both parties saying that progress was made, but meanwhile fighting continues in the countryside where sporadic violence and snipers continue to take their toll on the morale and hope of the people who live here....
And then there was silence, an editing snafu at the station. The television went blank. Katherine was still weeping. I heard the air rushing out of my lungs with an asthmatic hiss. Sean was breathing hard. Dean's sister was holding her breath. In the other room the tapping stopped and Dean came teetering through the kitchen. He stopped in the doorframe, slightly hunched, holding a beer and squinting his eyes.... "What?"
There was peace between the news of Kosovo, Katherine's mournful sobbing, and Dean returning from the bathroom, pausing again like a half-cocked gun, squinting, observing and withdrawing. The sound of fingers tapping reached us again, the television cut to commercial and the cartoon man wanted me to buy his paper towels....
Two weeks later the war was over, rich people's financial interests were secured and Katherine and Sean had patched things up. Friends' reruns had come and gone with dinner and Katherine was cuddled up on Sean's lap. She was serene and beautiful that night because she fucked Dean in the closet of her office that afternoon. Sean was happy because he thought that he was the one making Katherine happy. He was so happy he was trying to fuck her in the chair right in front of us. They started making out when the television said the war was over. Dean, his sister and I tried to ignore the dry fucking session going on next to us, but secretly we were all for it. It was a nice change from the constant fighting. Katherine had his pants down, but was sitting in his lap to conceal the fact. When the television got quiet we could hear sound of lips mashing together and little grunts and groans escaping from them. Then Sean's little half-chubbed dick poked out from under Katherine's mini skirt like a miniature cobra. Dean and I both noticed it at the same time and we started laughing hysterically. Sean reached down and tried to tuck it back under Katherine's skirt, but the thing had a mind of its own. Dean, his sister and I figured it best to vacate for a while, so we headed to the bar. Sean and Katherine went at with increasing intensity.
Down the street at the bar, the talking head from CNN was telling us that the people were safe and the world was somehow better, but I knew nothing had changed because the fingers were the thing that held it all together and they kept at it every night. I thought of the presidents and tyrants of the world celebrating, just like they did when the war started... The man behind the counter wanted to know what I wanted and the girl in the booth behind us wanted to know why I hadn't noticed her yet-everything was spiraling out of control.
War in Kosovo. War in our streets. War in our houses. War in our heads. Nothing will ever come of it-save death. And the Mexican urchin selling Chiclets for the dead says no good, no bueno, your pictures sanitized, worth no words. Wouldn't give you ten words, worthless gringo words don't mean shit. No good no bueno, not worth the blood they're written in. The blood of all peoples not yours, not your peoples in your death camps, your slave labor factories, your assembly line gang rapes....
Gotta keep that in house, screams the commander in chief. Yes must remain forever sealed in baby pissshitguts. No, that's not true. No comment. No need for comment, I will not dignify... somebody cut to shots of smart bombs... Couldn't get fifty words for those now gringo-over exposure-sanitized-nobody buying. Same old stinking shit. No Good. No Bueno. Gringo go home in a thousand languages, in a million words. Why don't you crawl back in your cave get your tail so far between your legs it goes half way up your ass? Words can not hurt me...
But have you heard the words? Watch out for the bloody words, sharp words that hang in the air like knives and when uttered returned to slit the throat of their speaker. If every word you have spoken returned to act upon yourself would you survive the experience? Situation getting sticky, humid like vaporous blood hanging in the air... The urchin stands in the middle of the street preaching...In the beginning was the word and the word was made flesh by a cacophonous blast out of heaven's pearly cum-stained ass creating the father, the son, and the holy spigot ... spigot drains all gringo excrement away from gringos and into our countries, our cities, our homes... Follow me to the holy spigot and we'll show them the bidet of death, constructed for gringos, to flush out gringos, to show them all what you do behind closed doors. Can't close them all -we have our technicians as well and they're getting to be better than yours. We got the money rolling in.
The little street urchin with the chiclets was at the bar now, he couldn't be shut up, hawking wares for death, little powders, potions, and peppers hanging from his arms, but the CNNhead said all was well, justice was served. The television was close circuit captioned for the hearing impaired. The little boy was adamant -no captions only pictures for the blind. The rustling of paper behind boardroom walls sends him into fits.... I gotta picture for you... I go on vacation in your country, go to hear senators speak, but all doors are closed, all sealed. So I gotta fiber optic and fed it in from the roof, show all the senator's mad with sexual lust, blood thirsty, clamoring for war and stealing souls and bodies and driving them off wherever they see fit. There are thousands of them now, a chorus of little brown boys singing, chanting like Benetine Monks.... The boys are chanting to the beat of drums... I got pictures for you gringo... pictures you hear? The commander in chief of the NATO forces in Europe was fucking a small refugee boy in the ass, the boy cried for his mother. The general laughed, 'your mother's down the hall boy. She's busy with the president of Germany right now, but maybe later you'd like to lick his cum off her dead face...?' And you say ban those words. Tear them right out. Snip snip. Can't say that-war a snuff film for the rich. Ya wanna spoil all their fun...?
A tape rolls and we hear behind the boardroom doors: "We gotta step up the bombing chief, the public's losing innarest in us," screams the staff officer running in circles jerking off and slapping his ass until it turns a bright purple. And with all seriousness, General Jesse Helms pauses to reflect: "I remember a time when life was good. No one got in our way. Why in Europe, under Patton, I musta raped twenty thirty little boys and a handful of nuns too..." He smiles, lost in memory... "But God hath given us these trying times." "Yes it is a bit hard to get cunt these days isn't it," mumbles the chief of state as he strokes his wife's cock...." Yes dear start a war. Get me some cute refugee boys. I so love snapping their necks when I'm coming," she growls affectionately. "That's it gentlemen were going to war," the president stands and ejaculates on a map of the world, "Kosovo it is," he says as his thick oatmeal consistency sperm all but covers the former republic of Yugoslavia.
You like? You like, no? Too bad. You can't have those words, too strong. I get power, you give me power, I steal power from you, too expensive to buy it. I get power and you get pictures and maybe I tell you how to cure it? Eh? Eh? Eh?
The man behind the counter turned off the TV and we left. By the time we got back to the house the coffee table was on its side, the lamp was broken, glass all over the floor, an enormous dent in the plaster wall, but the television remained undisturbed. We sat down on the couch and I flipped idly through the channels. Sean and Katherine's screaming voice float through the bedroom walls. Words were disembodied and floated in the air looking for a throat to slit. I heard Katherine screaming...
-What do you want from me? I try so fucking hard to love you. You say you don't want me, and then you want me back, and then you tell me to go again.... WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT?
-I want you... I want... I don't fucking know what I want. Why are you always harping on what I want? Why can't we just live and exist and be... like Sil and Dean and every other fucking person on this planet...why can't we just be happy? Why do we have to have these issues...why do we have to have these things to work on? What are these things? What the fuck is going on around here? When did this start?
-What do you mean? What are you talk...
-WHAT DO YOU MEAN 'WHAT DO I MEAN?' You know what I mean, this! All of this... look at us...
-Why are you bringing Dean and Sil into this? Why do you have to live up to some manly ideal that you think they embody? I got news for you, they don't embody shit! The two of them would be living in a goddamn dumpster if we hadn't let them move in...
-Why does this have to be about my friends? Why is it a problem? I asked you if it was alright for them to move in here and now you say it's not?"
-It has nothing to do with them.... It's you I'm talking about. You say we used to be happy, we used to not be like this, we used to 'just live' as you put it.
Police said the suspect was dressed in a business suit and may be armed/ Do you have time to cook a meal every night in the midst of balancing/ So this guy comes up to me/ guaranteed to last a lifetime/
-Katherine, what the fuck are you talking about?
-This indecision... this fucking shit...
-My indecision? My fucking indecision? And who, pray tell, FUCKED SOMEBODY ELSE? Who is indecisive? It's not me. I know exactly what I want. I want to be with you, but you won't let me just be. You question my every fucking move, want to know my every thought, every feeling. Don't you ever not have a feeling? Isn't it ever just a blank page of white with little blue lines? Little fucking blue lines and not a word? Not a fucking thought in sight? Do you ever get that? Or is it just constant fucking emotional input from the far fucking reaches of the earth all pouring in your precious little heart? Your heart that occasionally seems to feel the need for some other guy's DICK?!
-Yes, Sean, I made a FUCKING MISTAKE, and I said I'm sorry. I'm as clueless as you are.... You know sometimes, in the midst of this insanity, I think that I see and feel you loving me, but you won't let me in...
-What are you talking about?
-You won't let yourself be happy and love me. I can't figure out if it's because you're scared or because you just don't have a fucking clue. Do you even care about me? Or am I just some sort of ornament that you have been pursuing over the last four fucking years because it happened to interest you and now...
-Fuck you.
-Fuck me? No FUCK YOU! I don't know if I was some whim, something you wanted to try on in the dressing room and then when you thought it was out of style, you could just hang it back up on the rack... I'm sorry, I want to be with someone who isn't fucking clueless about how they feel about me. You can't decide if you want me or not. You said fifteen minutes ago that you forget about sex sometimes. How is that supposed to make me feel?
-I just meant that I have such a good time talking to you, that... oh what the fuck, what the fuck do you know about love?
-Jesus Christ! Okay, I don't know anything about anything and neither do you, but that doesn't mean anything, right? If nothing you say means anything, how am I supposed to feel when you say you love me? IT DOESN'T MEAN ANYTHING!
-No that's not what I said. Everything means something, it may not make any difference, but goddamn it all means something. Who you fuck, who you eat dinner with, what time you get up, what kind of fucking bombs they drop on everyone, the jails, the murders, it all fucking means something. All of this, everything that is happening, it all means something. Maybe none of it matters, but it all means something goddamn it! I just don't know what it is. I just need some time to figure out what the hell I am, what I am doing, what this life is, we're all trying to figure it out. I don't fucking know what I want, okay? I can't give you some pat little answer that's going to explain exactly how I feel. Some days I want to be with you and some days you drive me up the fucking walls....
Researchers have concluded that including a glass of wine with your regular meal may actually increase your life span/But Jim, we can't just leave them here/We're tiny we're toony we're all a little loony/the initial results indicate HIV/We will be appealing your case/Mr. president a girl from Arkansas is on line two/Did you or did you not ?/The White House denies/Tide gets your colors looking brighter/Guaranteed to last a life time/I'd like to buy a vowel/What is-the Serengeti?
-Oh great! Fucking great, now I drive you up the walls!
-Why the fuck do you focus in on the negative? See, that's what I'm talking about. I say that some days I want to be with you and some days I don't and why do we have to get into the days I don't? Because little fucking alarms go off in your brain... ehew I drive him up the fucking walls? This must be explained. There is a reason for this. This is what needs to be fixed.... Has it ever occurred to you that I must just want to be alone some days? Has it ever occurred to you that I can love you without liking you every now and then?
-You're such an asshole Sean.
-Fuck you! I said I love you. You dumb fucking slut....
-You don't know what love is! You're a little child...
-You're a cold bitch! Don't you have any feeling in that dried hard little cuntheart of yours!?
-Do not call me a cunt!
-I didn't call you a cunt! I said you have a fucking hard little fucking CUNT HEART!
-Fuck you! You wouldn't know what to do with a cunt anyway!
There was the sound of skin striking skin-a sickly slapping, stinging, slicing, horribly thin sound. The unmistakable sound of hatred and self-doubt bring itself into the world like an airborne virus.
-I'm sorry... I didn't mean to hit you...
-Then how the fuck did you HIT ME? How can you not mean to hit someone? There is no such thing as ACCIDENTALLY hitting someone, that doesn't happen nooneaccidentallyhits anyone youmeanttohitmeyou FUCKING PRICK!
There was the sound of crashing porcelain and electricity popping and the light streaming under the door disappeared.
-Oh that's FUCKING great! You stupid bitch!
There was a dull thud followed by a low moan and Dean and I looked at each other. By the time we turned on the hall light and opened the door they were wrestling on the floor. Katherine jumped up to run for the bathroom knocking down Dean and forcing me to jump on the bed to get out of her way. Sean went out after her. Before we could stop him, Sean grabbed Katherine's arm, dragged her kicking and screaming across the floor and threw her out the front door. She was wearing only a thin nightgown. It was February and raining and they were in hysterics. Tears streamed down Sean's face. He managed a thin, strained smile as he collapsed against the front door. Dean and I just stood there unsure what to do.
"She really fucked some guy this time," he muttered. I tried not to move or show any signs that might have given it away, obviously Katherine had left out a few details.
"The BITCH FUCKED SOME OTHER GUY," He yelled at the door but there was no answer. "You hear me you dumb bitch? I hope you fucking freeze to death." His voice trailed off into mumbles. "I hope his cock keeps you warm out there!" He screamed, pounding his fist against the door. A male voice from somewhere outside yelled "shut up," and Sean cracked the door and yelled, "fuck off," at the unknown man. "Jesus Christ," he muttered to himself.
He smiled stupidly at us and Dean went over and helped him to his feet. "Fuck man, what am I doing?" He straightened his shirt with one hand and used the other to steady himself against the wall. He came over and sat down on the couch. "What did you do?" he asked looking at me. "Did you do this? I mean with your wife, you loved her, and she left you, and now look at you, you're fine, what did you do?" He asked. His face held an expression of absolute wonder. "How did you fill this hole that I feel growing in me? Do you just harden yourself? She thinks I'm already hardened because I pushed her out the door, but that wasn't the hard part of me that was the raw nerve endings.... That was me trying to find love or fight love or something." He stared up at the ceiling and I followed his gaze, the fan was spinning slowly, indifferently, like a tape recorder rewinding. "That was my love for her that pushed her out the door." He said.
"Uh, no it wasn't," Dean interjected.
"Oh, but it was," Sean smiled depravedly. Dean just shook his head. "The cold, hard,
part of me," Sean went on, "is the part that will go over there in a couple of hours and talk to her. The hard part of me is the part that will make love to her later." He stopped and scratched his head "You know, the horrible thing about losing love isn't that it makes you hard, it's that you realize or you start to realize that love can be lost...." He wore the serene face of a philosopher dispensing wisdom.
"That's what is tearing me up right now. There is no sacredness to love like they want you to believe, and once you realize that love can be lost, once you know that this can happen, it's doomed to happen again. I will never again be able to look at someone and see a relationship that doesn't end. I know now that for every beginning there is an ending already written." He shook his head in disgust and then started sobbing in despair again. "Oh god," he cried, "how the fuck do you get out of this? How do you find hope again? And even if you do, what do you do when it's dashed yet again?"
He got up and went to the door; he opened it and looked outside. Then he shut it again and started laughing; it was distorted sickly laugh. He no longer looked human; he was a caricature of human. He laughed like the power drunk maniac. "How many times can you do this? Is there a limitation to the number of times you can have your heart broken?" The serene face of the philosopher returned and he retreated into the abstract world where he felt comfortable. "Is it like one of those Lithium batteries that never recharges all the way? It starts looping back until there is nothing and then right when you think you have it, oh I underst...WHAM! And then it's gone, you're gone, the thing is gone." He smiled a thin, taunt, smile. "She really hates me now doesn't she?" He looked up at Dean and I. Neither of us spoke. Dean shrugged, but I was rooted to the spot with horror. Horror at the thought that this caricature exists in all of us, that none of us would stand up to the death camp marches of our personal lives. I felt weak and woozy.
"And the horrible thing." He went on, "is that somewhere deep down I wanted her to fuck that guy, whoever he is. It doesn't matter. God I want a whole gang of giant-cocked porn stars to gang fuck her through eternity if that's what it takes for me to feel something. I'm not feeling anything anymore; the only time I feel anything is when I hurt her. Then I feel hate. I feel her hating me, but when she's not hating me I don't feel anything. I don't feel loved."
He was on the floor weeping with his hands over his face. I tried to move him, but he punched wildly, lashing out at nothing, landing a solid blow on my jaw. Out of anger, I kicked him in the ribs, but he made no protest. I grabbed him by the hair, slammed his head into the door and threw him to the side. I went outside and slammed the door. My head felt light. I became very dizzy and I leaned over the planter and threw up in it. It was still pouring rain. I slumped down in the vomit and mud and lay there for an eternity sobbing quietly for myself, for Sean, for Katherine, for the whole world. I began to shiver so I stood up. I stepped out from under the stoop and lifted my head up, letting the water wash the vomit and mud from my face. I began shaking uncontrollably and then as the shaking subsided, an eerie sense of calm descended upon me.
I set off to look for Katherine. She didn't go far. She was next door sitting on the neighbor's couch; the neighbors were in bathrobes, obviously woken up by the screaming. The woman sitting next to Katherine held her, rubbed her back and rocked her gently back and forth on the sofa. Katherine looked like a scared child. She was shaking like a leaf. The man came at me with hate in his eyes, but I quickly explained my innocence. Katherine looked up and told him not to hurt me. She put her head down between her knees. "What's wrong with him Sil?" She asked. "Why is he doing this? I am good to him aren't I?" I didn't say anything and she looked up at me with glistening red eyes, pleading for some kind of answer. I just nodded my head. "I shouldn't be putting up with this," she went on. "This is bullshit, I can't keep doing this.... What the fuck is wrong with him? What's wrong with you, with all of you?" Her eyes filled with hatred and burned through me. Black tears ran down her face. "There is this thing in me that can't let go, can't admit that I'm wrong about him," she sniffled and wiped her cheeks. "And all of you, you're so damn sure that your little feelings and your little emotions have to be so goddamn right. You think that you can just pull them down like shades over the whole fucking world." She was yelling now, glaring up at me with wild eyes. "Every emotion, every thought, every fucking little thing can be broken down and analyzed and dismissed with some cynical diatribe that you think is so witty and fucking funny... goddamn all of you!" She jumped off the couch and lunged towards me. Her arms hit me square in the chest and knocked me down. She landed on top of me and taking the wind out of me. I heaved for breath and tried to get out from under her, but she went limp and I didn't have the breath to move her. She lay on top of me and great sobs wracked her body. Her tears burned on my neck. Her sobbing frame trembled and shook. After a few seconds I caught my breath and I put my arms around her. She nestled her head into my neck.
Her voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, "I'm sorry I didn't mean to hurt you." She raised her head and looked in my eyes. I put my hand on her head and stroked her hair. "He makes me sick," she said. "I make me sick for letting myself be involved with him. I can do better than this, if this is love... this... this... fucking..." She climbed up off me and sat back on her ankles. "This is not love... I don't know what I'm doing. Do I have to be the strong one here? Do I have to be the one to walk away when I'm the one being hurt? Why is it always me?" She wiped her eyes again. I thought about my wife and I realized Catherine was right, women are always the ones who have to cross the final threshold. Sean didn't want her, but he kept pulling her back. His ego couldn't let go. He went right back in like a rat pulling the lever in the control studies that Philip Morris wakes up sweating to in the middle of the night.
I pulled Catherine to her feet and put my arms around her. We held each other for what seemed like a long time. I heard someone clear their throat and, realizing that two other people were in the room, I apologizing profusely and thanked them while I guided Catherine out the door. We sat down on the stoop of our house and stared out at the rain. We both had our legs tucked up under our chins and Katherine rocked back and forth slowly while she talked. "I had sex with Dean." Her voice was flat and even as if ordering food from a drive thru window. I told her I already knew. She nodded and a painful smile passed her lips. "And I don't know why I did," she stared at the ground. "I just wanted to feel close to someone," tears welled up in her eyes. "It doesn't mean anything, right?"
I told her it didn't and she leaned her head on my shoulder. "And I know Sean has fucked around," she went on. "I know he fucked around in Europe, but he won't admit it. That's the thing that makes me so fucking mad is he won't admit it, and why? Why? Because if he admitted that then he'd have to face up to the fact that he's as weak as I am. Now he can call me a slut and make himself out to be better. That's all I am to him, this thing against which he can measure himself, this thing..." She stopped for a moment. The rain pelted against the concrete driveway, chipping away on a geologic time scale. The sound roared in protest.
"Do you know what this is doing to me? I'm losing my mind..." She looked me in the eyes. "I'm not going to go nuts over him. I knew I should have run away right after we made love for the first time... I should have just run, because now I'm here and he's throwing me out the door in my fucking nightgown..." I put my arms around her and she started to cry again. Her tears were warm on my arm. She thanked me for listening to her. I told her to wait for minute while I went inside to make sure Sean was under control.
He and Dean were smoking a cigarette on the couch. Dean's sister was in the chair dispensing wisdom that sounded like it would have solved all of Sean's problems, but Sean, being a man can't hear a word that she's saying, just like women can't hear a word that men are saying. The whole so-called battle of the sexes could be stopped if only there were an interpreter around that could translate. Solve the riddle. Translate the emotion and feeling into logic and predictable precision, and then back out into the chaotic no-mans-land of feeling again. Some guru, some pygmy, some monk, some alien that can add it all up and give us some kind of answer. But the aliens aren't coming.
Sean glared at me and said, "Get the fuck out of my house." I shrugged and asked Dean and his sister if they were coming. The three of us left. We gave Katherine a ride to her friend's house where she could stay for the night. She and Dean stood beside his car in the pouring rain and kissed lightly like friends; he wiped a tear from her eye and got back in the car. The three of us rented a room for the week at local motel. Dean's sister fell asleep the minute she laid down. Dean and I went and got coffee to steel us against the insanity. I remember leaning against Dean's car gulping lukewarm coffee, the rain had stopped abruptly and dry winds were already whipping the clouds away. It was a Santa Ana wind. Dean threw his cup into the vacant lot and it blew in little circles, round and round in eddies of wind-miniature tornadoes.
At the end of the week we left Los Angeles for Athens. We stopped the second night in Arkansas where I had a very strange dream, I dreamed in third person, I was being forced to watch. I dreamed that I saw an aborted fetus hanging out of Katherine. It was covered in shiny afterbirth with the umbilical cord still attached; the cord was just dangling out of her. I saw Sean with scissors, trying to cut it while Katherine screamed tried to stop him. A doctor took the fetus and threw it in the incinerator; the furnace flared and was silent as a slaughterhouse. Then they were in a windowless room. Katherine lay naked on a table, spread eagle as Sean circled her holding a blunt, tubular object. It was black and plugged into the wall. Words passed like water though a screen. Sean stood next to her with the cattle prod, walking slowly in circles around Katherine. A symphony started up. Marching bands... fingers tapping... tapping... violins... rhythm of kettledrums... and his arm raised up. He was floating, watching, choking on gasoline-napalm sores that seared off his tongue. Flames licked up his body. The air was hot and thick like the worst humidity, his scorching flesh sizzled. A little red light came on to signal that the cattle prod was fully charged. In front of him was Katherine, beautiful, serene. Her arms were restrained above her head. His face twisted into a sick smile. The symphony reached a feverish pitch with the clash of horns and strings and drums and Sean looked into Katherine's eyes and watched her pupils dilate. And it fell; his arm fell, the cattle prod fell, her body went rigid and she shot up off the table as if suddenly turned into a stiff board. He kept his eyes locked on her as she collapsed back onto the table. I saw something flash through them and I felt a tremor in my gut. Then big uncontrollable sobs wracked Sean's entire body and he fell on his knees and curled up in little ball on the floor. He lay like that for a while, until the sobs worked themselves out. A lone lunatic flute solo floated over the scene. Katherine got up and began to undress him. She started by unbuttoning his shirt. When she undid his belt she reached down and rather gently held his rigid cock as she eased his pants down over it. She stood embracing him tightly with her arms around his neck, and she pulled herself up and then slid down on his cock. Sean fucked her but she couldn't feel it. Her cunt was a burnt, charred hole. She couldn't feel anything and then the strings returned and the crescendo built again.... She laid him on the table and spread his legs, restraining them and then his arms. She stroked his cock hard and teased him by biting his nipples. All at once her eyes went black and she thrust the cattle prod into his balls... Sean was blown up off the table by ten thousand volts of electricity. He didn't even feel his cum splash on his face. He landed back on the table, his scream a violin, an inhuman screeching wail.
* * * *
I go into the kitchen to make myself some coffee. Dean is gone. The house feels empty. There is a rainbow in the kitchen. I notice disinterestedly that the house is a mess, that my knees hurt and that I am in unquestionable poor physical condition. In the shower I marvel that I once thought that that was the bottom, but that was someone else's bottom, that was Katherine's bottom. I dry off and walk back into the kitchen. I dig around for food. Got to get behind the mule every morning and plow...
Twelve
The atlanta airport is warm...
Thirteen
There's a cure in sight-soul unease-suspension wires-wink and smile-windblown newspapers-advert scrapes-sardines in a kipper snack tin-abandoned train station-wind rips dirt off the road-sagebrush where it belongs-the songs of Solomon-tumbling along the melody lines-voice echoing-everyone walks with unshakable self-confidence-pretend to be unafraid-This isn't you-This isn't me-what do you talk about when you talk about love-
I regret leaving the minute I get out of the Holland tunnel. But I knew I would. I regret coming. But I knew I would. I regret that I regret. But I know that I will.
I stop for gas on the Jersey turnpike and almost turn around. I can't decide what would make me a bigger fool, trying to correct the mistake or trying to live with it-or drinking heavily and ignoring the question altogether?
I drive the interstate straight through to Athens. I get to the cottage in the early hours of morning. I go to bed and don't get out of it for a week.
I try to maintain things with Maya; I call her all the time. I smoke cigarettes and stare at the ceiling for days on end. I cry. I punch the concrete wall. I agonize over the poetry of it all. I am the apologist. I write a long letter to April explaining how bad I feel about stealing her money, but half way through I notice that its more about how much I enjoy having her money. I throw the letter in the trash.
I am positive impotent.
After a few weeks, Maya stops returning my calls.
Maya is gone.
The Mayan priest and his demonic escorts hold court daily in my bedroom. He has taught me how to master pain. He tells me that mastering pain puts you next to the gods. The snarling creature is always outside the door. I am scared to leave the house. I go out for food and nothing else. Waves of nausea overwhelm me whenever I think of Maya. The priest says this will pass. He tells me that everything will pass. But I knew that it would.
It's the middle of the afternoon and I haven't gotten out of bed. Torturous visions of Maya making love to other people are crackling through my head like static on an AM radio. Jimmy knocks at the door and I reluctantly let him in. I haven't seen anyone since I got back. I have been hiding out. I tell him the whole story and make him swear to never repeat it. He's losing his job, and overall seems to be about as depressed as I am. He insists that we go out and get a drink. I reluctantly accompany him to Five and Ten. After a couple shots of whisky and a few beers, the priest is nothing but an incoherent mumble and the repulsive visions of Maya taper off.
I drink more. I don't stop. Eventually Jimmy heads home and I walk downtown. I end up passing out in the alley behind the Flicker Bar. Morning finds me covered in garbage and smelling like a dead fish. I catch the bus home to take a shower. The boy is selling chiclets in the living room; the priest is siting on the couch. Giant eels circle around his feet. The priest has constructed a giant labyrinth around the couch, extending out past the coffee table. Ten foot long serpentine beasts circle through the labyrinth, gnashing their teeth and hissing at my feet. I quit the house for Five and Ten. Several nights in a row I wake up in the midst of plastic garbage bags. I regret the intense happiness I feel. Alternately I feel like a sponge wrung dry, discarded like yesterdays newspapers. I love the pain.
Weeks turn to a month. Just like they always do. I feel nothing. But. Yes. One day the eels get loose and in an effort to destroy them I burn everything I own in the fire ring. The billowing black smoke draws Jimmy over. He stops short in the driveway and stands back, watching me mutter and curse as I drag everything out of the house and into the fire. I burn my books, my furniture, my heirlooms, my artwork, and most of my clothes. Jimmy helps me get the mattress in the fire and then he heads off to buy me some alcohol. We sit around the rest of the afternoon drinking and smashing the bottles against the living room wall. Then we start in on the plates, then the glasses, then light bulbs, then clay pots. We wrap towels around our hands and punch out the windows. There is pile of glass several inches deep and several feet wide, extending out from the wall. Dean would have loved it.
At the end of the night, just before he leaves, Jimmy mentions that he is concerned about my mental health. I assure him that I share his concern. He offers me the use of a cabin that his family owns. He says it's situated on a hill overlooking the surrounding area, he says you can see downtown glowing at night.
I vacate the cottage the next morning. Jimmy gives me a map and a key. I am going deeper into retreat. I stop at the liquor store and stock up. I buy fifteen bottles of scotch, a case of canned beans, five dozen eggs, six pounds of bacon, and ten cartoons of cigarettes. I ask for polar bear fat, but the pimple-faced clerk says they don't have any.
The cabin is quiet and peaceful; there is no stereo, no phone, no mail, no running water. It's a single room with a sliding glass door in the back. There is a kerosene stove, an icebox, and a pump handled sink against one wall. To the side there is a dilapidated old couch and a tiny forty-watt lamp. Jimmy brings out a table and few chairs. Everything is coated with in a layer of dust and smells of mildew. In the cupboard above the sink I find a jar of moldy, fermented fruit and a key to the outhouse down the road. I sit around drinking, smoking and wallowing in self-effacing pity. I have a nervous tick in my leg that makes it bounce incessantly, but the priest and his host of fiendish consorts can no longer find me. I am not a pretty sight, but at least no one is watching. The cabin is on an outcropping overlooking the hills. The leaves still cling to the trees, the hills are a riot of color. Everything is hanging on to some slender thread of life, shuddering at thought of deep winter chill. Everything except for one charred, lightening struck, tree about two hundred yards down the hill. Its craggy blackened remains disrupt the otherwise pastoral scene. The tree is my best friend. Everyday I sit on the back porch, drinking scotch and staring out vacantly at the tree. Trying to make it mean something. A burnt charred tree. Lightening, careless matches, smokey the bear ads... But. It looks like lightening. As hot as the core of the sun. I can do this forever.
Jimmy and Ulric come out to visit me and bring provisions. I give them wrinkled twenties stained with manicured fingerprints and Lubriderm.
Today Ulric tells me that his girlfriend has left him. He is broken up over it, but he says he is too busy to deal with it.
I'm happy for him.
"Ya I can't really say I miss her. I have more time, I don't have to call anyone when I show turns into a late night party or something you know."
"Oh I know." I pass him the bottle and we drink in silence. We drink like prospectors, like miners, like forty-niners. We drink like breaded men. We drink the way whisky was meant to be drunk. We are so ridiculously male.
"Next time you come will you bring me some dip? Or chewing tobacco? Or something really manly-Drum?
Is that all you want for Christmas?"
"Shit Christmas?"
"day after tomorrow"
"Jimmy, damnit. Why haven't you mentioned this?"
Jimmy shrugs. "You're not religious."
"You're right. Well then yes bring me some dip, some snuff, some chaw, some Drum and another case of whiskey and I'll give you double what its worth and we'll consider that a holiday exchange."
"Sounds good." Ulric laughs.
"We thought maybe we'd come out for new years..." Jimmy looks at me as if waiting for me to okay this idea.
"Its your house man. I'm just stealing it."
They make plans. I hear Chloe's name mentioned. But I keep thinking about a book I read years ago, Things Fall Apart, by somebody or other. In it thing fall apart. But I had expected that when I bought it.
A new year is dawning. We barbecue chicken and talk about old times. I enjoy the nostalgic sense of everything ending; it's a step up over sardonic heartache and confusion. Over dinner, Ulric tells us he is moving to Florida to do some recording. His band is under contract to produce their second album by the end of next summer. Jimmy is moving to Boston to go to law school, and out of nowhere, Chloe announces she's going to Europe in March. I tell them all about Dean and Paris. I tell Chloe to look him up. It is the end of the gang. I am to be the sole straggler.
It is quite a feast they bring out, chicken, greens, and corn on the cob, a real southern meal. In the center of the table is an enormous pile of well-gnawed bones with little chunks of cartilage and caked nuggets of barbecue sauce clinging to ends. Jimmy and Chloe are polishing off the last two pieces of chicken. Ulric is gnawing feverishly at a nearly naked corncob. I'm sucking on the ice from my empty glass. You wouldn't have even known it was New Year's, except for the box of illegal fireworks that Ulric brought back from a trip to South Carolina. Jimmy leans back in his chair and works his gums over with a toothpick. Chloe takes some plates and walks back inside the house. I watch her dress swirl about her knees until she disappears through the sliding glass door.
They all want to cheer me up and they all have their own little patented methods for it. Ulric favors humor, Jimmy the big picture, and Chloe just tries to listen. "Well, I know it does no good to say it," Jimmy shrugs, "but I have to anyway... there's plenty more of them out there." Jimmy has said very little else since I returned. He seems to believe that I need a little mantra to occupy my mind.
Ulric leans over and lightly smacks him in the back of the head. "Oh brilliant man, that really helps...." Ulric takes a big gulp of his drink and set his glass down hard with a clattering noise. "Oh Jesus I'm sorry, I forgot about the glass table," he smiles sheepishly. "I think the alcohol is a little ahead of the food right now."
It's a beautiful Georgia evening, unseasonably warm, probably in the fifties. We all have on light jackets, but no one's cold. We're on the back deck, overlooking the descending hills which, after three or four miles, surrender to the urban sprawl of Athens. With the binoculars Jimmy brought out you can see the two tall buildings of Athens poking out of the treetops.
Jimmy is clearing the scattered remnants of chicken off the table; Ulric and I smoke. Ulric stands up and goes over to the box of fireworks. He rummages around, talking to me in the process. "You can come down to Florida with me when I move, stay a while if you like. I got some friends I could introduce you to... maybe set something up for you. I could get you work that's for sure. Keep you busy." He smiles at me and pulls out an enormous three-foot long skyrocket.
I shrug and say maybe. Chloe comes back outside and sits down next to me. She puts her hand on my knee. It feels heavy and foreign, but I stop bouncing my leg.
Ulric tosses the rocket back in the box, picks up some sparklers and sits back down at the table. He lights one of sparklers and twirls it around making phosphorescent figure 8's in the air. His expression is serene. Chloe goes inside to help Jimmy. Shortly after, Jimmy comes outside again and sits down. There is a smear of lipstick on his cheek and Ulric throws a napkin at his face. Jimmy blushes and wipes it off. The sparkler fizzles out and Ulric sets the burnt stick on the table. He coughs and mutters something to himself. He fumbles in his pocket for another smoke.
Chloe brings out a fresh round of drinks. "I baked a pie," she says, "it'll be warm in a few minutes." She pulls her chair over and sits down between Jimmy and I.
"What I'd really like to know...." Ulric leans back in his chair and takes a long drag off his cigarette before continuing. "What I'd really like to know," he begins again, "is what happens to all this, well, call it 'love,' that I still have trapped in my heart? I can't express it, can't get it out, but eventually it goes away... where does it go?"
"Wilhelm Reich said it builds up tension and eventually leads to cancer." I chuckle and reach over the table and lift a cigarette out of Ulric's pack.
"That's great Sil, that's exactly what I wanted to hear." Ulric coughs as he exhales
"Well if it makes you feel any better Ulric, none of his colleagues believed him." I say. "He died disgraced and in seclusion." I light my cigarette and then a sparkler.
"Of cancer?" Ulric smiles at me.
"I don't know."
"But you know what I mean, I mean, after a little while its not the person you cry for feel bad about, it's the fact that you don't really care about the person that bothers you- right? I mean getting over someone is easy, getting over the fact that you got over them is the hard part"
No one says anything. Chloe straightens her dress over her crossed legs. I hand her the sparkler. She waves it about like a paintbrush, filling the air with glittering designs. Jimmy narrows his brows and eyes us all like a scolding mother. He sets the binoculars on the table and I snag them. I watch Ulric's mouth through the binoculars as he smokes, his lips are chapped and they crack revealing enormous fissures when he smiles. "What the hell are you looking at Sil?"
"Nothing. You need some chapstick." I was thinking about something Maya had said on the phone one night. I'll always love you, you always be in my life. I want to be the one you call when your old and you pull the winning hand in bridge....
"You okay Sil?" Chloe has an anxious look on her face.
I nod, take a deep breath and try to laugh. I put the binoculars back up to my face to hide the excess of fluid that suddenly appears in my eyes. Downtown I can see the leafy tops of the birches and elms. I imagine the clamoring of already drunk crowds moving from bar to bar shouting happy new year, but there is nothing, just trees listing in the gentle wind.
"This is stupid," Ulric says.
"Let's talk about something else," Chloe sits up and crosses her legs the other way in her chair. The sparkler burns down in her idle hand. Her attention has shifted to the other hand, which is lightly stroking Jimmy's head.
Ulric slouches back in his chair and crosses his arms over his stomach. "I mean how do you do that? Just shut yourself down, stop on an emotional dime? Christ I still love girls I dated for two weeks in high school... but I don't care about them" He looks at me.
"I still love women I saw on the street and never even spoke to." I am thinking of one I had seen at the bar last month or has it been longer?
"Oh god, that's the purest kind of love there is," Ulric sits up excited. "That look... you're walking down the street in a crowd of people, not paying any attention to them. Then suddenly you meet eyes with some girl just by chance, pure accident, but you both know there is some connection in the eyes." He stares off at the hillside as he speaks. "A look, that's all it takes, and you recognize something in each other in that instant."
"You mean love at first sight?" Chloe asks.
"Well, I don't know about love," Ulric says.
"I think what Ulric means is intimacy at first sight." They all look at me. "You don't act on it because of fear, because intimacy and strangers don't mix." My voice sounds tired to me. "You think you recognize something in them, and they in you, but you don't want to risk finding out. You don't know if they can be trusted or not. You feel vulnerable. You give up before you even start. Or at least I do, but it's not even that conscious, you just keep walking."
"Okay, now even I'm getting depressed," Chloe says. "How about the weather? It's a beautiful day...? The government...?" We all stare at her. No one says a word. She get up to get the pie.
The sun is an orange garnish on the edge of the horizon. Down the hill the lightening struck stump catches the last reddening glow. Jimmy and Ulric are both looking out at the hillside. Neither of them speaks; I can hear the clattering of the glass pie pan against the stove inside, the noise drifts out the door and crackles sharply in the stillness of the evening. Up the hill, a Poorwill tests it's song for the approaching night. Ulric rattles the ice at the bottom of his glass and throws his head back with it. He chews it loudly with his mouth open.
"You know why I left?" I say to no in particular. "The crowning achievement of the human experience is getting to share those little moments with each other, the minute by minute miracle. That's the only thing that makes us human; otherwise we're no different than any other creature. We have time and time allows us memory and perspective, which allow us love, but I left because it's more powerful in hindsight. I get nostalgic for the present. Once I realize that I have to step back and enjoy it." I light a fresh cigarette and take a long swig of scotch. I pitch the empty bottle into the trees. I see Maya standing by the window in that abominable apartment. She is smoking a cigarette, smiling at me. I keep her there in my memory, but right now I'm nostalgic for the memory of her, not her.
Chloe brings out more drinks. They are trying to keep me away from the bottles damn them. She goes back in and brings out four slices of warm apple pie with ice cream slowly melting on top of them. I take a couple bites, but my stomach turns at the sweetness. They devour theirs in silence. I rearrange mine, pushing it around like a child does with peas. After waiting a few minutes, so as not be rude, I stand up. "I'm going for a walk. I'll be back in little while," I say.
"Are you okay?" Ulric asks.
"I'm fine. I just need a walk." I say.
I hear them discussing me in whispers as I walk down the lawn and out the gate-nostalgic fools. There is a faint trail from the gate leading down the hill. It's rough going outside the yard; the hillside is choked with dogwood trees and other spindly, naked shrubs. It takes me ten minutes to get to the charred tree. I run my hands over the burnt wood, smearing the dusty charcoal around on my palms. I sit down leaning my back against the tree. The sun is gone now, a blue-gray twilight is settling in over the hills. The moon is to my back, but in front down, near the horizon stars are becoming visible. The spaces between the stars aren't dark. It's a void, but it's pure white light, that's where life started, in the nothingness. We live in the spaces in between.
I hear them laughing up the hill. I hear some distant pops and then one enormous bang, which jars me enough to look up and see the last twinkling sapphire remnants of the big skyrocket fading out above me. Little fragments of ash begin showering down toward me. I think of the tree, and the flashing cataclysm that tore it apart and set it on fire. I wonder what it looked like, the pure white light? Afterwards there is only empty silence and the gentle snowing of ashes. The world gives birth behind our eyes, not before them. Years ago Maya was staring up at the night sky. She propped herself up and kissed me. We made love on the roof... poetically nostalgic at the time.
The fireworks show downtown commences just as the last flakes of ash settle down around me. Showers of light burst up, temporarily outshining the stars and then gradually fading to darkness, only for another brilliant explosion to take its place. As I stand up to go back, I notice a small shoot of growth springing up from between the burnt roots. I run my fingers along the ground, circling the space around it, in between the roots. The light from the fireworks fades to blackness again. I turn up the slope, walking back toward the house. Fireworks fill the sky behind me, illuminating the path with flickering bursts of light.
I skirt around the house and go in the front door. I take a few long draws off a bottle of Wild Turkey. They are all still sitting at the table smoking and talking. They look beautiful, perfect, just the way I want to be, living in the spaces in between the temporal world. They are in the infinitude of my imagination, next to which my existence feels flat and tasteless as a junkyard tire, cracked and torn in the sun. It smacks you in the face when you perceive something in a moment that you know is not tangibly present and yet, it's there. A moment that you know will one day be a great memory, the fluid transmission of emotion across time. The hurricane of the unconscious whirls up to the surface for moment, imagination leaks into the real world, some interaction of the personal with the infinite, a stabbing at perfection transcends the ordinary moment. The world gives birth before our eyes and takes us spinning down reveries and private waterslides of imagination through the twisting spiral corkscrew of delirium. You know it in the present, nostalgia for now.
Eventually they notice me and insist that I come with them downtown. I don't really want to, but I consent because they are still here and already I miss them. At the bar it's scotch on the rocks followed by neat bourbon. Then I have a shot or two of whiskey and start in on the beers. The clink of pool balls, conversations of foreigner and gradually we are assimilated.
Later I ditch the gang and wander down toward the old house that Dean and his sister and I used to live in when we first arrived two years ago. Along the way, walking down Polaski, I cross over the railroad tracks. Out of nowhere I feel the urge to climb up on the cars. The steel ladder is cold as ice, and my fingers cramp before I get to the top. I balance on the metal grating, teetering drunkenly on the roof of the boxcar. The world is spinning and I decide it's best to sit down. The roof of the car is cold, so I slide back a little hatch and look inside. The darkness is impenetrable. I extend down a hand. I can't feel anything. I decide to climb in, slowing lowering myself down until my feet touch something about waist deep. I bend down and grab a handful of the unknown substance and pull it out in the moonlight-soybeans. I sit down in the darkness of the boxcar with the intention of having a rest before I walk on. I settle back, shifting about, making a seat for myself in the soybeans. I light a cigarette and look around the car; raw soybeans are everywhere around me. Maya suddenly feels farther away. She is living in her universe and I am here in mine. My illusions of her waiting for me are crushed beneath me as I sink into the soybeans. I stare up out of the hatch at the stars, lying flat on my back. The stars never judge one way or the other. They see no right or wrong, only what is happening. Everything else is an illusion of the human mind. The stars get to see now and forever. Everything is just as it should be. The soybeans absorb me and take me into their presence as the father greets the son. You got to get behind the mule every morning and plow. The night sky fades into dream.
Fourteen
Wake up-chew-swallow-regurgitate-newborn-you are free-to the bottom-cast yourself-sunrise on Cyprus-blind woman-something out there-one thing ignored-existence is love-smell it in the air-those who came before- preternaturally alive- moves you out of bed in the morning-carries you out the door-gives courage in moments of weakness-attacks conceited strength-quiet evening-walk under Alder trees-autumn light-scratches at the door-lost cat- forlorn hound-it's the only reason you're here-
I don't hear anything; I'm sound asleep. I don't feel anything because the soybeans are shifting anyway. What amazes me is that it's so quiet it doesn't wake me. You would think something as big as a train would be loud when it starts moving, but it's not. I passed drunk and by the time I realize I'm moving, it's a done deal. No backing down. I figure I'll ride to Atlanta and then take a bus back, but the train doesn't stop in Atlanta. In fact it doesn't stop until Memphis. I take one look around and decide I'm better off going all the way to California. Somewhere in the plains, I get a fever, delirium tremors. I shake uncontrollably and fear returns as I sit huddled in the corner of the dark boxcar. The Mayan priest comes back to preside over my death. I see marching columns of the dead bearing down on me. Shadowy, decomposing skeletons, hunks of chewed flesh clinging to the limbs, rattle bones and chatter teeth in the blackness. The priest dances in the corner shaking his death rattle and waving brightly colored feathers around the horrific skeletons. His arms swoop through the air and calls up the legions of the dead. Acrid smoke fills the boxcar and I start to choke, the smell of burning sulfur fills the air. The priest is wailing and fluttering his arms as more and more decomposed bodies fill the boxcar. The thick smell of death hit my nostril. It's a nauseating smell, my empty stomach recoils in horror and I retch involuntarily, trails of spit heave out and run down on my chin. I hear the chanting of legions, get up and run, get up and run, get up and run... The bodies are enveloped in smoke and I can no longer clearly see them, I hear a voice, a child crying. Out of the haze of acrid smoke steps a boy. Tears are running down his smudged face and he walks over to me with a box in his arms. Would you like to buy some chiclets meester? I kneel beside him and he smiles sadly at me. The boy selling chiclets sits down and says that he is sorry, that he does not want me to go. He tugs at my leg and his eyes go wide with terror. There is a horrible shrieking sound and the priest emerges out of the sulfuric fog, blade raised, his teeth chattering. I try to stop him, the boy covers his face, but it's too late. The blade rams home into the boy's throat. Gurgling sounds escape his mouth. The priest shrieks and twists the blade down, snapping the boy's sternum and splitting his chest open. The priest reaches in and rips out the boy's beating heart. He holds it out and turns toward me; his eyes are glowing embers. I shrink back in horror and stumble to my feet. The hatch lifts up and I climb up out into daylight; the priest is grabbing at my legs. I stand on top of the train, teetering in the icy rush of wind. We are pulling alongside another train. I carefully walk to the end of the boxcar and wait for a flatbed to come along side. I see the priest's feather headdress poke up out of the boxcar. He sees me and disappears below for a moment. He comes shooting up and out, landing a few feet from me. The train next to this one is much slower. I try and estimate the difference in speed, calculating when to jump. The priest charges at me, knife extended, a blood curdling scream echoes across the plains. I jump. I land on a flatbed car. A jarring pain shoots up through my legs and I pass out.
I come to with a hand shaking me.
"Hey kid wake up."
I open my eyes to a tiny bunk and take in a grisly, bearded, old man with heavy creases in his brow.
"Jesus Christ son... at least you're alive." He shakes his head from side to side and turns away from me. I sit up and hit my head on the ceiling. He turns around and chuckles. "Low ceiling there kid, you're on a train, remember?"
The pain in my head gives way to dull, throbbing ache in my leg. I look down and notice that it has been splinted. The old man is watching me. "I was a medic in the war," he offers. "I splinted it up for you, but you need to get to a hospital." He pauses and scratches his salt and pepper beard, "what the hell were you thinking?"
I shake my head.
"Well, here's the deal kid, we'll be in Denver sometime tonight and I can give you a lift down to the hospital, but until then, you'd best get some rest. There's some Delotid in this chest over here." He reaches in a toolbox and throws me a bottle of pills. "That'll cut the pain," he says.
He opens a door and I catch a glimpse of whirling lights and strange glowing computer screens. He closes the door leaving me alone in the room. I take one of the pills and lie back down on the bunk. Almost immediately a warm tingly sensation sweeps over me and everything fades slowly to black.
I come to again under the glare of white lights. I am lying on a bed; men in white coats are standing over me. A tube is sticking out of my arm. A woman is standing at the end of the bed dressed in a black gown with a veil over her face. I can see her thin lips moving. I pass out again.
This time I come to in the bunk. I sit up and look down at my leg. It's wrapped in an air brace. I slowly ease myself up on my elbows and swing my legs out, gingerly stepping down on the good one. I hobble to the door and open it. I step into a room filled with blinking lights and flashing screens, the old man is sitting on a stool staring out the window. He turns around and looks at me, "so you're up huh?" He extends his hand, "Joe."
I shake it and tell him my name.
"Sil? That's a new on me. How's the leg?"
I shrug.
"The doctors said you should take it easy for a while."
"We already went to the hospital?"
"Oh yes, last night. You don't remember? That Delotid must have done a number on you. They set your leg and then I was trying to leave and you started screaming and babbling hysterically," he laughs. "I signed you in, so they let me sign you out. I figured you needed a quiet place to come to your senses so I brought you back here."
He pours me a cup of coffee out of an old thermos and I hobble over to the window. Outside is a blurry rush of trees and rocks. There are patches of dirty, old, brown snow tucked back in steep ravines.
"Rocky Mountains," Joe says.
I nod. After a while I finish the coffee and ask Joe if I can go outside.
"Not the brightest idea in your condition, but ya sure." He slides open the side door and I step out onto a narrow metal grating. I steady myself against the cold steel of the engine compartment and, using the handrail as a crutch, I hobble back to the rear. After making my way around two more engines I come to the flatbed car that I landed on. I gingerly step over the coupling, trying not to look down at the dizzying blur of train tracks. I stretch out on my back and stare up at the sky. I dig through my pockets and find a half a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of unknown painkillers. I swallow one dry and chase it with a cigarette.
The train is not moving very fast, maybe twenty or thirty miles an hour. Towering snow covered peaks lean in on all sides. The air smells of pine forests, occasionally I catch a whiff of industrial scents from the engines, oil, fuel, and exhaust. I take a nap basking in the sun. I wake up under a canopy of Douglas furs and ponderosa pines. The air smells of needles and sap, there is a pinecone lying next to me.
I walk back up the engine and talk to Joe for a while. Joe is a rustic, agrarian man. He looks about sixty, he may be younger, but the years have taken their toll. He has piercing blue eyes. His skin is rough, like rawhide, tanned from a life spent outdoors. He keeps talking about the war, by which I think he means the Second World War. He has a wife in Utah somewhere and two daughters, both married, living back east. We spend the better part of the afternoon trading stories. His words come out in growling whispers, just loud enough to hear over the noise of the wheels and the engine, but without yelling or even appearing to raise his voice. He talks with the rhythm of the train, we go around a bend and Joe goes in on the beach at Normandy. We start up an incline and Joe moves out west after the war. We roll through a tunnel, Joe falls silent mid sentence, and when we emerge back into the blinding midday sun he starts up again without missing a beat. I guess, for Joe, when you're underground, it is best not to talk.
I begin to see a pattern emerge out of his stories. Joe is the kind of man that inhabits the backwater towns of this country, ornery you might say, but he is not ornery. He is simply inhuman, like me, which is to say that humanity has no hold on Joe. False modesty, false politeness, and false pretense have been shed like dry useless skin. Joe hails from somewhere older, livelier and healthier. His ancestors are the men who lived beside ponds and didn't write books, who held court with the mysteries of the universe and never say a word, who know what life has taught them and have no use for anyone else's ideas about morality, reality and humanity. I don't say much. He should have had me arrested back in Denver, or at least dumped me at the hospital, but he didn't because he felt it wasn't right. Joe doesn't seem to care at all what the rest of the world is doing; he simply lives his life and is content with that.
I step outside for a cigarette. The hood of the engine, or what would be the hood if it were a car, has a four-foot wide piece of metal grating on top of it. It makes an excellent seat and allows me to lean my head back against the window and enjoy the scenery. I light a cigarette and throw an old army surplus sleeping bag around my shoulders. It's February, I think. The air is biting cold. I let my good leg dangle off the side of the grating. We are doing about fifteen miles an hour I would guess, climbing up over the continental divide, or at least as close to the divide at these tracks get. Joe slides door open and hands me up a bowl of chili. I eat it greedily, watching the sun set in front of me.
I am thinking of Dean, wondering what his fate is... I am thinking of two years ago when we arrived in Athens, his hair was jet black, greased back, in a fashion that was at once a 1950's greaser, and not. He looked as if he were completely at ease in his own skin. We both had on suits, not expensive ones like we wanted, but ones handed down or purchased at thrift stores. I think of a photograph that I took at a bar in Los Angeles years ago. Dean was in the same pinstriped suit, carefully greased hairline framing his face, making it stand out, luminescent in the midst a black background. His eyes were laughing, but the lips barely curled, something intangibly wrong was lurking under his skin and bones. Another from the same night caught Dean unawares, as he leaned against the wall and watched the crowd. His arm was blurred, lifting the ever-present cigarette to his lips. All around him was the swirl of women's hair, the exited waving arms of men; it was all a faceless blur. In the middle there was Dean, standing still like a hummingbird.
As night falls, the wind picks up, howling through the canyons and whipping through my sleeping bag. We start to head downhill, picking up speed. I hobble back inside to warm up. Joe brews coffee and asks me if I like it. I shrug and tell him its fine. "Just wondering," he says smiling at me, "it's decaffeinated... I'm Mormon you know." He gives me a look as if this is his greatest hoodwinking surprise. I raise my eyebrows to encourage him; he looks like he needs to get it off of his chest.
"You know a lot of my friends were pretty hard on me for converting. They were downright pissed when I got hitched in the Tabernacle," he chuckles ruefully. "I tell ya, Mormons may have some strange beliefs, but on the whole, they are some of the best people I've ever met. Sure it's a little ridiculous, their bible and all, what with zebra's running around here -imagine that! Zebras! Here!- and I don't think the old Mr. Young really carried those gold tablets under his arm... and why god called himself Moroni I have no idea." He nudges me in the shoulder. "But in spite of all that ridiculousness, which really is no more ridiculous than the Catholic's eating wafers, or Jew's giving things up once or twice a year... it's all ridiculous when you think about it objectively." He stops for a bit and ponders his own words. "I'll tell you what I have noticed having a Mormon wife, and a lot of Mormon friends. They build real communities. They're good people at a level that is very basic; they know their human roots. Your average Catholic will walk by the poor bum on the street and give him a nickel or a quarter, but your average Mormon will invite the man to their home for a meal, offer them a shower, and of course, give them a little counseling on the true church of God." He nudges me again. "But when a man's belly is full and his body clean, he can listen to that sort of nonsense. I don't believe a word of it, but I took the vow because it made my wife happy and I would do anything to see that woman smile." He pulls out his wallet and extracts a faded, creased photograph. He hands it to me and I see a plump, smiling woman. Her cheeks are ruddy and she looks about fifty, maybe older, but I can tell that she was once very beautiful, and still is for that matter. I nod and smile, handing it back to him.
We talk a while longer. I try to elicit some sort of wisdom from him, but Joe is not the type to give it out. He knows what he knows, and he knows what he knows because he learned it the hard way. Words mean nothing. Joe helps me back to the rear engine, shining a flashlight along the grating while I swing between the railings. I sit up in the bunk for a while, skimming through The Book of Mormon. I notice the Mormons have ignored the Anazazi in their rewrite of history. I fall asleep with vision of Zebras running across the Utah desert.
I wake up before dawn, not having slept much, but that isn't out of the ordinary these days. It takes me a minute, after climbing out of the bunk, to find my balance and reorient myself to the sensation of movement. I stretch and yawn greedily, like an insomniac. Outside the eastern sky is pale green, not long until dawn. My precarious journey to the engine is rewarded with the smell of bacon, eggs, coffee and biscuits. Joe smiles his craggy grin, in the electric lights his teeth are yellow and stained from coffee and cigarettes. He hasn't always been a Mormon I note.
"I was just going to blow the whistle to let you know that breakfast is served." He smiles at me. He hands me a cup of coffee and I thank him, wrapping my freezing hands around the warm ceramic cup. "Sleep well?" He asks.
"Yes I did," I lie. The truth is that my life is all knotted up in my head and I have yet to untangle it, but I feel silly saying that to Joe. I realize suddenly that I think too much. I try to sip the coffee, but it is still too hot.
"Here," he hands me a plate full of greasy bacon and eggs with two biscuits perched on either side. We go out to the front of the engine and eat in silence. All around us the sky is a color show. The green begins to fade, replaced by the first crimson rays reflected on the bottoms of the wind carved clouds. I'm chewing on the last piece of bacon when the first direct rays of the sun strike me. I close my eyes and we welcome each other across the ninety-three million mile void. I open them to a squint and turn around. Behind us lie the Rocky Mountains. In front lies windswept eastern Utah, an endless sea of brown grass dancing like senoritas at the town fiesta. To our north there is the Escalante wilderness, which contains the La Salle Mountains, and the largest uninhabited area in North America. To the south and west lies Canyonlands National Park, the confluence of the Green and Colorado rivers, and somewhere, a tiny speck of a town called Moab. The end of the line for this train.
"They'll load quartz and sand mostly, bound for Memphis," Joe talks between mouthfuls of eggs. "But, whatever the case, I want to invite you to my house to have a home cooked meal with my wife and I. She's a real looker and great cook too." He laughs and nudges me in the ribs. "She was a beauty queen in high school. She was Miss Hoboken and might have been Miss America if she hadn't decided to give the whole thing up and go to college," he raises his eyebrows to accent the significance of these things. "Course I'm glad she did, because that's where I met her." He laughs.
I hem and haw, thanking him for the offer, but not agreeing to it just yet. I head back down to do the dishes. I splash cold water in my eyes in the tiny bathroom and study my face in the cracked tarnished little mirror. The scab from where I cut myself in New York is nearly gone. I lean in closer and my jaw drops. I notice that around the scab, where the old scar tissue has been torn open again, little hints of hair have started sprouting back. I stare at them in amazement. I run my fingers over them, trying to encourage their growth.
I smoke a cigarette outside while Joe calls into the Moab station. After a while he climbs up to tell me that the yard will be empty when we arrive. Today is Sunday, he informs me, and this is Mormon country, nothing happens on Sunday. Joe says that I can stay on the roof of the engine so long as he is down below. That way anyone watching will think that I am Joe. So I sit, letting the wind hit me in the face, sunning myself across Utah, land of Mormons-for now. One day I suspect the Tabernacle will fall; the religion will dwindle and disappear like every other, but for now they reign over God's last great piece of land. What a land this is here. The tracks are heading down into the canyon country. The desert sky is immense, it threatens to swallow the whole landscape. Tufts of white clouds float lazily across the blue background.
Soon we are on the mesa tops, cruising at thirty-five miles an hour, heading toward The Big Switch, as Joe calls it. The Big Switch is apparently the only non-computerized part of the journey. Joe will have to stop the train, get out and actually throw the heavy iron handle to switch us over to the track that heads down to Moab. Once he drives the train past it, he will stop again, walk back, and switch it back so that the next train can pass on by. It remains manual because most trains do not stop in Moab anymore, most of them pick up a few cars that have been hauled up or just don't even slow at all. We're going back in time, to the days when, if you wanted something happen, you had to do it yourself.
We hit the big switch around two o'clock. I talk Joe into letting me stay behind and throw it back so the next train can go by. It takes about ten minutes to move ours out of the way and then I throw the switch. It makes a piercing metallic screech and then slides back to let the next train pass. Part of me wants to leave it, to sidetrack the whole world down to Moab for a great gathering of trains, but I know it would only get Joe into trouble. I walk back up to engine. From here it is only about half an hour down into the canyon that the Green River carved long ago, where the empty loading yard waits. The desert plain is silent and peaceful. The gravel crunches under my feet. I feel like the only living thing in world. I decide that I will go out into the desert, go camping for a night. My life feels stripped clean of baggage, everything is falling away like great sheets of burnt skin, revealing shiny, pink, newborn flesh beneath the crusted surface.
It's four in the afternoon when I say goodbye to Joe and head down Moab's main drag. My life is like Utah, laid bare in the afternoon sun. Harsh and forlornly beautiful, the canyon walls lull me, spreading out my thoughts like the dotted Juniper trees, creosote bushes, and gnarled, twisted trunks of the mesquite that cover the landscape.
I go the bank and withdraw the last of my money. I eat lunch at a Mexican restaurant in an old adobe building. An ancient, wizened, Navaho woman serves me beans and handmade flour tortillas. I watch her as I eat. Two smudge-faced Indian girls, maybe four or five years old, help her stir an enormous pot of beans. The girls watched me intently, silently, with enormous liquid brown eyes that seemed irrigated with understanding. As the old woman wraps up my leftover tortillas and beans in foil, I try to absorb all the sights, sounds, and smells of her strange hobbit-like universe. The secret of life is revealed as beans and tortillas seen through the eyes of a child.
Next door is a mountaineering shop. I go in and ask around for a ride up to Canyonlands. I get one from two hippies, rock climbers. They seem out of place and foolish after the old Navaho woman. They are wearing the fashions of earth first and other environmental activists who share a fetish for Kakhi's, Tevas, Tofu, and flat tasteless foodstuffs. They mock a young couple in an SUV while we sit on the porch. The radical tree camping, pottery-making, hemp-weaving, Dave Foreman-worshipping, mushroom-eating, toms of Maine-consuming, hippie-environmental-social-consciousness-raising, guitar-playing radical of the outback is essentially the same as the BMW-driving, Starbucks-drinking, software-writing, technology-worshipping, juice-drinking, spa-loving, health club-hopping, sandals-wearing, dog-walking, family-raising, white picket fence-building, church-attending, drug-abstaining, yuppie, evil consumer, destroying the world, capitalist pig. One uses Tom's of Maine and the other Crest, but we're all still fundamentally lost.
My hippie climber friends stop at the supermarket for trail mix and candles. I opted for steak, beans, potatoes, and a bag of chemically enhanced briquettes that will light with the butt of my cigarette. It's just a matter of taste. I request paper bags and roll them down so the hippies won't abandon me for not being one of their own. I ride in the back of their VW bus, which turns the half hour drive from Moab to the east entrance of Canyonlands, into a two hour long crawl. As we switchback up the canyon walls to the top of the Mesa country, the hippies tell me their story. They're both college students on a semester long vacation. They are astonished to learn that I didn't vote, that I never have and I never will. They ask if I'm disillusioned or bitter. Strange question to ask a stranger. I tell them none of it matters one way or the other. I'm just trying to live. I light a cigarette and let them do the talking, and they do, all the way across the grasslands right on into the campground.
Finally we arrive and I escape their refrigerator drone into the peaceful silence of the campground, picking a spot at the opposite end of the loop from my sandal-shod friends. I proceed to build a fire in the light of the fading sun. The afterglow licks across the thunderheads to my back. Sizzling fat drips into the fire. It takes quite a while to cook the enormous side of beef bought. I kneel down beside the fire on the old sleeping bag that Joe gave me. I'm thinking of the woman I have never been able to see, staring at that well in Cyprus. She's there, she's always been there and now for the first time I realize who she's waiting for. I feel an effluence of enthusiasm; a taproot breaks through the dry soil and is swamped with underground water. I pull the meat off and through it on a paper plate. I sprinkle on salt and devour it with my hands. My plate is stained a greasy Moroccan-pink color. The potato swims in the greasy blood, trailing it's own gooey mixture of butter and pulverized potato flesh like a tanker ship leaking crude oil in the pristine sanctity of the ocean. Damn good food.
I finish the steak and potato. I save the beans for breakfast. I toss the plate in the fire and rinse my hands in the faucet near the entrance. Walking back I absorb the grandeur of the desert. It requires a careful tuning of the eye to detect beauty and life out here, like waking up in the gutter of a trash strew alley behind a bar in Athens, or noticing that the smog lifts slightly, almost imperceptibly, off the mountains in Mexico City everyday around seven o'clock. Life hangs on even in the toughest spots, like a juniper tree, alone, clinging to the side of the canyon wall. It's able to exist in the slightest, most overlooked, fissure, surrounded by a monolith of compressed sandstone, which yields nothing, there is only the one tree. That this tree could be able to survive is miraculous, but that I should be here, that I should be right here, in this place, at this moment, staring at this tree, is truly miraculous.
Pregnant memories swell up, miraculous moments, like when the light of the sun breaks through the sullen clouds of an afternoon thunderstorm and hits the steeple of an old church just as you come up over a crest in the road. You catch them when she stirs at night and tosses her hair so that so that it falls across your face with the delicate odor of peach blossoms and perfume mixed with the earthiness of her warm breath. You hear it when the crescendo of thundering drums climbs up out of the ninth symphony and lodges in the back of your brain, sending chills down your spine. Some interaction of the personal with the infinite, a stabbing at perfection transcends the ordinary moment. Every one of us has moments of transformation when we feel, if only for a mere second, that something larger than the present is in the sky or the music. How long must ancient man have wondered 'where do these feelings come from?' He must have ruminated over this for centuries and finally he invented language in order to describe how he felt to other domesticated monkeys. With language that great caveman Thak separated us from the entire animal kingdom. Not by virtue of communication, for any one who has ever observed even the simplest of animals, knows that they communicate. Thak gave us something entirely different, a means of creating memories. He forever severed us from time.
But memory has a price, it creates belief. Out of memory came dissention, other monkeys did not agree Thak's feelings. Time moved on and more voices from more and more places were heard and the general became divided and localized. Those that believed one explanation tended to associate with only those that agreed with them, they had their gods, and they were the only gods, the others, on the other side of the proverbial river, lacked THE TRUTH.
Today there are more gods than ever and even less comprehension of godliness. All of this dissention has not in anyway helped us to understand that initial question-where are emotions coming from? All the philosophizing rants of all the arrogant monkeys can not answer the simplest of questions: who am I? Where is this vitality teeming from? What is emotion? What the hell is really going on down here? Why?
The wonder and amazement that greeted our forebear's is lost for us. We have explained it away, dissected, mapped, catalogued, and miniaturized it. Unable to comprehend the universe we carefully construct a replication that could be understood. We ignore all the rest, saying in essence, that anything not comprehensible to the human mind does not exist. But it does. Maya knows what I am thinking before I say it. The light continues to pour through the clouds onto steeples, rocky pinnacles, and the front porch of a now vacant cottage in Athens. It is time we floated our way back up to the surface of the pond. Time to start over, to assimilate rather than dissect, to feel rather than speak, to live rather than abstract....
What good is knowing without feeling? Those moments when I am confronted with the essential mysteries of my life and yours, all of our lives, are not something that can be taken apart. I can not break it down, understand the smaller bits individually, and then hope they add up to the same thing I started with. If we stop taking things apart for a minute and just breathe in slowly, one breath at a time, it will flood the hatches and buoyantly draw us up to the surface of things. Not many people do. We have found a distraction, which eases the anxiety that unanswered questions provoked in us-ourselves. We wrote a lullaby called God and put ourselves to sleep.
Only an egocentric monkey would dream of being able to understand the orbit of the planets let alone the vastness of all existence. Only a very confused and disoriented creature would throw himself into a corner and examine every little microscopic piece of dirt without first discovering what a monkey was. Herman Hess once said that the only job of man was to find the road that led back to himself. But we, being the tragic creatures we are, doomed forever to a life lived in melodrama and confusion, seldom do such things. Seldom do we celebrate love or transcendence. At our best we celebrate the by-products-music and art. At our worst we record those who were farthest from themselves, the emperors, kings and queens, generals, bishops, monks, people who led the most perverted and hideous of lives. We have created a cult of worship to our egos, to the things that we think are so unique about ourselves at the inescapable expense of the things that we have in common. There are very few lovers rattling around in the tomes of recorded history, we haven't paid too much attention to them, or to what they knew, our editing is slanted in favor of violence and destruction. We have driven ourselves mad in the midst of a garden of delights.
But fear not, the subconscious mind is in the act of creating... always and forever.... It is creating even the conscious mind. Everything that you think you are is a dream that some other part of you is having. Only next to god are all the political games that divide men stripped away out here you arrive naked and proud. Only then do you see every man and woman as your ally and your love, only scorched clean of the petty differences of race, creed, and belief, do we draw together huddled in fear of insanity which we ourselves have wrought upon each other. Forged and smelt in the dry heat of rock furnaces, the charnel ovens brew alchemal liquid, souls fuse, combinations arise, the experiment of which we are all part, continues onward. No hope save love. No cure, but love and death and then, Quien Sabe?
The final rays of sun disappear, the chill of night settles in. I take my fresh pack of cigarettes and wander down to the edge of the canyon. I sit with my legs dangling off a rock that's perched on the rim and extends out into space. All around me there is nothing but air and under me only a brief moment of rock and then more timelessness we call air.
The internal merges with the external, the timeless with the unique. I go roaring back through memories of childhood, selves that I was truly, but am no longer today. I see all the marauding personalities, which have governed this thing called I. I cast off all doubts. I am ready. A thousand faces pass like the jerky photomontages of Man Ray, each pair of eyes radiant unto itself. Delicately, in the corners of a stray glance, I catch the recognition of understanding in other's eyes. Only love brings us any closer.
I watch a feast of thoughts and personalities coming together for the first time, yet dining like old friends. It's a reunion, a chance to catch-up on where each has been, what has happened, and what they have felt. It turns to a smorgasbord of love, but there is endless debate, dissention, and rising voices. A circus dine roars around my head, the wave crests at cacophony and breaks over me leaving only silence. Silence that carries on its back a poignant nostalgia for the past and a calm understanding of the future. I touch for a moment the void, the nothingness into which you must cast yourself if you wish to tap the source of everything. Riddles that once seemed ridiculous to me are solved with simplest of maneuvers of truth. They gleam like diamonds. In the blinking, blank-look of the deer just before impact, there is understanding, the look of recognition that it is all nothing. No thing. What do I want out of this life? Nothing. Nothing at all. I understood suddenly and with sharp focus the difference between understanding how something works and understand what it is. I see that even the void of understanding is not the end, but only a means to something else, which would also be yet another means, until the final thought was had and the conversation between self and the other ceases forever, wedding them together.
And the two shall be joined as one. A net was cast over the side of the ship and the wheel turned starboard to trawl the giant net through the waters of the past. It plays out in slide show fashion. Endless images of my own arrogance play themselves onto the back of my closed eyelids like a cinema of embarrassment. I go to myself, as stranger might go, out of pity, to reach down a hand and help myself up. And then love flows through me and makes everything hyperreal and tactile, as if feelings were rock and trees. Desert silence is the answer to the endless question of the universe. The transitory nature of my own existence is illuminated and I am washed with feelings of warmth and celebration. The embarrassment fades and is replaced by the sheer hilarious joy. My own folly falls along side the folly of all those I have ever know and ever will know, a giant heaping ball of laughter. Coiled up tight like yarn, batted about by the kitten of the universe, it dances nightly behind the moon, all our selves playing as children, endlessly.
The moon rises from the east; I watch in silence. My life unfolds behind my eyes. I watch memories I had no conscious knowledge of, like a father watching his son play in the yard. They start off recent memories, of Maya, of Dean, of Jimmy, of moments shared with each and then it races backward, to college classes, high school girlfriends, playground friends.... Until I am in utero listening to my mother's heart beating steadily. And then farther back to a point of no consciousness, other stories unfold-genetic memories. I see the light of the fifteen-century breaking through the night, hitting church spires and scorching the brass coffers of foreign temples. Wild and scenes from Arabian Nights appear with silken tapestries, women's arms entwined in gold bands; and then sagas of Hassan I Sabbah, all the wisdom seekers of the Fertile Crescent. I fade into a background of Egyptian palaces. I am carried about by the wafting fragrance of spices and silk from the orient. There was a warm glow of light at the end of hallway that slowly, as the eyes adjust, reveals itself as a temple of splendors. The walls are adorned with rugs and woven tapestries in designs that act out the living myths of the sun gods. The floor is blanketed in pillows and a sweet incense smoke floated in wafts of Jasmine and myrrh. In the center of the room slightly elevated on steps was an alter upon which lies a beautiful and naked goddess, a statue, an answer, a testament to any question that you might ask. In her silence I swim the thalassic of sorrow and joy in placid, caressing laps. I learn infinite things, make them finite, knowable. I build great castles, great monuments, great societies, great people, and tear them all down again to start over. I live a thousand lonely, huddled nights, from bearskin to tapestries, to the silk sheets of Manhattan penthouses. I climb every mountain peak, slide down the scree and talus slopes, and meet with pharaohs and voudans, with Moses and God. I hold a billion women lovingly in my arms and give birth to a trillion children through all history's wombs. From Sarah to Satan, all fill themselves with my nourishment. A spiraling double helix of love corkscrews all about my mind.
She is waiting by the fountain, in the park, just outside of the town in Cyprus where I have never been. I watch her sit for hours, staring at nothing, or so it looks to me. She wears a black dress with a matching veil. Her eyes are fixed on the pump handle of the well. She sits motionless with the quiet smile of a woman in rapture, a woman in private, mysterious thoughts. I see Maya's face in the background, in that indeterminable second after where everything is. I see the source of my unhappiness, being so overwhelmed with consciousness of myself I lost myself. Everything is laid unequivocally bare in the austerity of that truth, the contradiction finally fades. All things are true and not true all at the same moment, a place indescribable, incommunicable precisely because it exists below the refinement of words. It is too raw to be explained in words, it must be devoured with the intensity of an animal ripping at its prey. I feel it for what seems like an eternity. I remember coming back to fire in dazed kind of trance like state that held me like a loved one returned from a long voyage at see. I want to feel this always to live in this mindscape-whole world be damned.
I eventually fall asleep in a huddled pose beside the fire; I sleep fitfully under the starscape dreaming of the Mayan shaman riding a silver gelding, like Icarius, out of the fiery sun-gilded gates of hell. The Shaman swerves and bears down on the I that is me with menacing intent, jolting the dream element awake and into a sleepnonsleep trance on the isthmus of reality. I am bewildered, but not afraid. He growls and leaps at me, but I stand my ground. He rattles bones and conjures hideous demons, but I don't move. He stops and smiles at me. He clasps his hand over mine and leads me outside. We are on the corner of dusty street in Cyprus, pedestrians are frozen in time, nothing moves save the Shaman and I. Not a breath stirs, there is no wind, we are in a vacuum. The shaman motions for me to sit on a fallen tree and he pulls out a cigarette. He lights it and inhales. From the smoke of his cigarette there emerges a pattern, loose at first, but then it begins rapidly organizing itself. He keeps smiling at me as he smokes. The smoke it still, it hangs in the air. He's about half way done with the cigarette before I recognize that the smoke is turning to the ghost figure of the woman. She steps out of the smoke and sit down beside me. She has a face of smoke and mirrors, more beautiful than any human face could be. I have to squint to look at her. She smiles and a thousand angel trumpets blast. She takes my hand in hers. She stands and leads me across the street to the town well. She leads me right up to the edge of it so that I can look down into it. I can't see the bottom. I grow afraid, but she squeezes my hand again and I relax. Slowly at first, scenes begin to appear in the well. Opulent scenes play themselves out for us. I see great Persian empires laid out, expanding and retracting, moving across time in slow molasses-like motions, cities where the sun stands still and bow to monstrous creations of the mind, horrifying and seductive at the same time. Like ancient Tibetan art, there is no distinction between the province of my mind and the province of my body. Women swim in south china seas of ambient warmth, moving in playful erotic motions, cresting like dolphins. Creatures of all forms walk streets of ancient origin; I see cobblestones and whitewashed buildings with European wrought iron balconies. Tapestries hang out from the window beckon the passersby to climb up into untold pleasures of body and mind. Everything is beautiful beyond the limits of imagination. The woman turns and wraps me in her arms, her lips never move but I hear a voice say, "see, I love you."
I wake up several times during the night and put more wood on the fire. It's freezing when I get up at dawn. I do jumping jacks and run in circles to warm myself up. I realize I don't have can opener for the beans so have nothing for breakfast. I decide to walk back to Moab. I take the road most of the way in case the desert or fatigue should get the better of me. About half way there, around noon a young couple in a camper picks me up. They drop me off just outside of town, on the banks of the Green River. I go down to the shoreline and sit down for a while. I smoke a couple of cigarette and spend some time without thinking of anything. My mind is completely blank. Dean is gone, Jimmy and Chloe are leaving, there is nothing for me in this world to return to. I feel free of everything. I kneel down by the edge the Green River and lean over a pool of still water to washing my face. My reflection stops me. I sit on my knees, staring at my face, as if meeting it for the first time. My eyebrow has completely grown back. I run my fingers through the thick black hair. My reflection smiles up at me.
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Entering the hall of breathing walls-The Oconee disappears between its banks-Los Angeles-Mexico City-Byzantine elephants choke to death in a smog-filled valley- memories hiccup-twilight of the intercellular broadcast-divided and squared with bantam jewels in the center-glittering back-lit walls-look like lava just starting to crust-pie filling eaten by rodents-1910 bankers and thieves in huddled whispers-don't get out-turn the page- disengage-
The door is pounding.
I live in a cottage. Athens. Georgia. 01010.
Between.
My head hurts.
I was named after an imaginary boat.
A cigarette.
Pounding. Rhythmic thump thump. Thump thump. Ghosts dragging chains through the cellar. Which I don't have, a cellar that is. Demons maybe. Phantoms. Apparitions. No. Not those. Ghosts then. Simplicity. Razors.
She often gives that look. But I'm never around.
She's up there.
I'm down here.
It could be Jimmy. No. Not Jimmy then. Could be Dean. Dean wouldn't. Couldn't. Won't. Not yet. Eventually. Just ghosts. Pissed off ghosts. Happy ghosts seeing if I want to come out and play. Indifferent ghosts, sitting around smoking, absently throwing rocks at the wall. Malicious ghosts, the ghosts of falling buildings, ghosts with nowhere to haunt, haunted by a yearning to haunt.
Chloe has a globe from the dark ages, East and West Germany, the USSR, North and South Dakota. Chloe also has a dog. Chloe's dog, tail wagging thump thump thump. A branch. An Oak wanting breakfast. A bird wanting shelter. No.
That look, that half devilish awareness, half coy innocence, that look where I don't know what is going on in there. Or out here. In the larger world. Smaller world. Some world. I'm not sure, I don't know, but I don't think I know.
I live alone.
She's not in. She is never in. She is up. He is also up, but less significantly. In fact a lot of them are up. Almost everything is elsewhere. Echoes reach me down here. Someone yelling down the cellar to a third cousin sent to retrieve apricot preserves from last summer's canning extravaganza. Dull reverberations off the beams rattling the preserves ever so slightly, but enough so that every so often a jar falls and shatters in the blackness that comes after the door at the top of stair blows shut from a gust of August wind. And the slow trickle of preserves running down the sloped dirt of the cellar floor, pooling between your toes as the first clap of thunder rumbles above.
From: Dean O'Leary <do@morpheus.net>
To: sil@kali.org
Subject:
I have a fish tank. Melissa bought it, but I have it. It's here right in front of me right now. There is a fish in it. We put it in yesterday. Melissa named him Dean Jr. Dean Jr. has a plastic castle and a plastic treasure box. He's swimming back and forth between them. He never goes anywhere else. It's like every two seconds his memory expires and he has to go back and see what these damnable things are that he just swam by. Or perhaps its merely that I feel that way, swimming through the city, by the castle, by the rocks, by the crumbling pink stones in the park. We once had gills. I don't mean eveolution, I mean I think we once had gills. Atlantis isn't a mythical city that sank into the sea, it was always under the sea. We lived there, we swam by, and abscent of memory swam by again. A sort of daze. + +I envy you down there, you don't have to swim, you can merely sit. The water is still. Or that's how I imagine it. The surface of the pond, not yet distrubed by the ripless of what is emerging below. You are higher up, in the sunlight filled waters near the surface. Down here things are not well, the memory is fading, senility is survival. + +I finished a novel the other day that you would like. A hungarian author Lazlo Tikos, the book is Midnight. He has another, Dawn. But it's difficult to come by. So is Midnight actually, a friend of mine in the city happens to be the translator so I read an early draft. It's a very strange convoluted story that I don't want to ruin, should you decided to read it (the packagge is one its way to your house), but there was + + + +It made me think, should I set Dean Jr free? I don't think he would last long in the ocean or the sewers, though he's not really worth eating. Perhaps he would survive in the sewers, like the aligator pets that go to large and flushed down the tiolets by enough distrate owners, fearful that the once cute beasts would now eat the children they were purchases for -- you can imagine, those reptile eyes, old, pre-Cambian thoughts lurking down there, a level we perhaps remember on some levvel, some dark spot of our own genentic makeup still carrying markers, the primordial fear that comes from staring at any nearly unblinking creatures, but especially one that's covered in scales and has a flickering tongue that tastes information in the air -- it's similtaneously so forgien and so familiar as to be distrubing, a familiar memory that won't die, like the smell of blood drying in the grass or + +And so down the toilet for poor pet aligator caught up in a fade it neither wanted nor understands, but then the revenge of the sewers where the pet becomes what it was always meant to be -- king. It could be the same for fish I believe. The scales are the same, the + +
Last night: little blue pills from points unknown, brand name Percocet I believe. Jimmy. Yes. It was him. Known points. His little blue pills that go tickticktick when they scatter out on the glass table. We took a couple each, and a glass or two or five of Scotch, and maybe a bump of cocaine-swooshing velvet sound on that table-we went downtown. Downtown. We are not uptown, but we went downtown or maybe in town. Here we are not in town, but we're not quite out either. Between then, but we go downtown. Amid the one-way streets and crisscrossing throngs of young people. Dizzy blue people stumbling on caustic sidewalks. Pills. Dizzy blue pills. Brown people or off white or cream, and maybe some mauve from the sun, but wearing their colored ribbons and threads as is customary, some delightful and brilliant colors and other dull grays, blues and taupe. The streets carved among lights and shadows and covered wagons hauling pianos or trucks with pianos. People exchanging glasses of elixir for paper tickets the way old men used to in cellar bars, rotting wood ceilings and dirt walls, roots exposed, in countries long forgotten or never known, and either way not here. The theatre is crowded, sticky bodies pressed together with scrunched shoulders and craning necks, little trickles of sweat tickling necks and earlobes until a arm wiggles loose to relieve, but an elbow here and there meeting a face, accidentally, like friends late at night under gas lamps in those countries no one can remember. Amid little grunts of pain, whispers of apology and finally finally a margin of relief, the show starts. Several of the people are wearing jeans and shirts and boots and hats. Or one of them near the back, seven bodies removed with a luxurious amount of space around her and no one daring to step into it. She is on to me. Goddamn it she knows. She is looking at me down a perfect row of misshapen, deformed shoulders, hunchbacks lined for execution or waiting for tables at a hunchback diner, or a line outside a hunchback restroom, all the shoulders and stooped backs turned just so, perfectly aligning the emptiness between so that our eyes meet and cannot avoid but meet again. She is looking to let me know that she has that look too. But she is looking at me, not with that look, but a warning look. She can use that look any time, but she won't, she can't. Only Maya can use that look with any effectiveness, but still I have to be ready. I'm sweating and cold. A writhing serpentine woman upfront, spiraling around the man with the metal chest. Metal attached to his chest. To his face. To his lips. It sounds like Paleolithic cave drawings-dueling sculptors chipping at the same stone, part horrific cacophony, and part terrifying clarity. Lights out. Bumbling darkness.
The pounding on the door. Yes, but fainter still.
Outside is America. The down part. Down here. You can hear it in the wires. A buzz. A hum. America. Wires and cables and fiber optics and pipes and hoses and tubes. Tubes. Millions of tubes. Fading now to resistors and capacitors. Even as the hippies were sleeping with visions of sugarplums and dancing fairies singing happy happy joy joy, Bell Labs was suffering a different dream. Resistors. Capacitors. On. Off. Zero. One. America.
Another cigarette. I could lie here all day. Lying down, remaining down.
Outside is America. Up right now, but down later. One, but then Zero. I am indifferent to it. Why shouldn't I be? America is one. To be America you are doing something. I am not. America is growth. Then stasis. Then growth, and so on, like a cancer mutating in bursts-a pulsar, a cancerous pulsar. There are others like me. We watch it. We like to watch. We huddle together, in small groups, holding each other because it's all we remember, mutual warmth. Every season the Technicolor cancer blooms anew, this year with violent reds and oranges and angry purples, yes purple gets angry from time to time, when the king becomes too fat for the plush velvet chair that purple has given him or he neglects his humility in private, purple gets angry like a wife. It's a cheery cancer though, purple is never mad for long and, the make up sex-oh the makeup sex. Then there is dancing and singing, girls running, silk ribbons trailing behind, a carnival, spinning pinwheels, gaudy whores in petticoats, elixirs for what ails ya, sculptures of tubing and wire to delight delight delight the whole family. Whores for the kids, pinwheels for the parents, a marvelous vision trotting into New Orleans say 1894, electrons spinning-a bric-a-brac carnival for paranoids. The king riding high in his purple couch, the queen by his side, the actors in trail, patchwork wagon covers and barrels of mead and moonshine. The crier out front: You have never seen anything like this. Step right up. Step right up. Step right. Up. This the greatest show going. This is the greatest show in the land. This is. This is the greatest show in this county. At the moment. Get your programs. Get your programs here. A hymnal for the perverts. Hey ya.
I remember remembering. Too much quantum physics-interference patterns, recorded static played back in scripts-the sixties were bleak, the nineties were worse. You. The other. Them. The ones on the streets blinking on and off. Christmas lights in the background-indeterminacies. When I was young there were seven dimensions and that was weird, but Rod Serling walked us through it. Now there are twenty-six and Rod Serling is dead.
I start the day with a cigarette because it kills you early, slowly and relentlessly. Gets me off my back and living, one, lest death come before lunch, zero.
The pounding is over.
I stumble to the kitchen, the fridge is harboring only one grapefruit. The ritual goes: cigarette, grapefruit, shower and shave, croissant or bagel, coffee and another cigarette. Later or earlier, depending on where you are exactly, I came to sitting in a barstool in the lobby of the theatre. She was gone. She did not use that look, but she could have, or she did and I didn't notice. The show was over, the Christmas lights were filtering out. Flickering. That was the bar. The Flickering Bar only it was a theatre in one room with all the ghosts of rats imported from elsewhere because it wasn't old enough to have its own rat ghosts, just a couple of rats that had their own theatre up in the balcony where no one goes anymore. There were Christmas lights flickering, they were not people, they were lights. Some of them I knew. Jimmy. That was how I got there. Stumbling down alleys and rolling in garbage. Jimmy, he is familiar. He has no dog and no globe-Chloe has those. Jimmy has a girl, a girl friend, but I suspect they are more than friends. They are not friends like he and I are friends. They are something more. They hold each other very close by the fire and then often slip into darkness as if they are unafraid. But she is called his girlfriend, he calls her the girlfriend, but when she says it she is a girlfriend. And he is a boyfriend.
"I'm Brooke. Jimmy's girlfriend."
"It's very nice to meet you."
"Sil, I met you six months ago."
"Yes but it is still nice isn't it?"
"Yes. Is suppose it is. Are you okay?"
"Yes. I'm fine. Why?"
"You seem strange tonight."
Tonight seems strange too. Difficult to sort out. Lights and people. Glittery mugs foaming, slick ice spit back in rattling glasses, crunching gravel or sawdust in the street. She is holding his hand. They are walking in front of me. Their feet are in time, light-footed marching, a relaxed cadence. We drove home. Up. But not all the way, just surfacing perhaps, but still in the water, level and floating between. We were here or at Chloe's house, I don't know. There is not much difference. Fifty yards between them, but dense jungle, vines and trees and dead wood, lots of rodents and birds, one dumpster. They are worlds apart really. We sniffed and snorted through the lingering sniffles of a once glorious semantic insanity. We like to talk. One or Zero... still an indeterminacy.
Jimmy is a lunatic, one of the last great lunatics. Maybe that last one. I don't know. He paced about the room like a caged cat gesturing, gesticulating, gestating and hatching forth the most marvelous rants ranging from the workings of internal combustion engines, to the trajectory of a V-2 rocket dropping down on Pynchon's London. Its not a simple arc, it's a parabola, it approaches a point, passes by scorched like Icarus, and continues on. Everything is going for Jimmy. No stopping no waiting no inertia. Always on. Just one giant phallic object screaming across the sky until it blows a giant hole in the earth. Nothing was left when he finished; he swallowed the whole world, a fantastic thing to listen to, an inversion of Jonah and the whale, phrases connecting to one another to hint at gargantuans of thought that unravel and remind you of what might have been or maybe even was. Ideas come out of him at thinking speed with no real care for how they are arranged or whether one leads to the next, tangents appear and he runs them down, pureeing with shrill incisors and grounding sinewy shreds with pulpating molars. His voice itself often has a staccato quality, chopping and pounding the air. He blasts it out of his chest in radiowave bursts and suddenly the bottom drops out and he shifts to soft sighs and pants... wheezing sorrow. He coughs some at the end of long sentences when he runs hard after the words, tracks them down with such enthusiasm that he can't hold them anymore. You can see it in his eyes-the words are an atomized blizzard of fallout, lust and hunger.
Dean would have loved it, he gets off on it too. The words though. And it doesn't matter where they come from, so long as they are words, and maybe forming ideas and eventually stories if that is still possible. I get off on it too. We all do. But Dean is up there too. Way up. There are little ups and downs and bigger ones you see, gradations of up and down, but still up and down, rising and falling, heaving and thrusting and sighing-later smoking-but just words.
Dean will come back. Dean always comes back. And then he leaves. He is here and then there. Every time there are spaces in between in which I give him up for dead, but he never dies. He comes back. Or dies a little and then comes back. He writes a lot. Not many people do that. But more will. Email. The return of the letter. The post office collapsed in conspiracy and viruses, but we find ways. Bell Labs found one. Dean writes a lot about the sex he is having. Jimmy talks a lot about the sex he is having. Chloe talks a lot about the sex she isn't having. Brooke has never mentioned sex to me. But she does to someone. Sex is all there is really, and it's enough, it's more than enough, it's all there is. And food. But most of us don't talk about food.
Dean is writing a letter. He has been writing a letter for some time now. He wants to know about things for his letter. He wants to know what I know. He wants to know about pre-natal psychology. He wants to know about venomous fish. He wants to know about nanomachines. He wants to know what lies on the other side of the great divide. I don't know about any of these things, but he tells me and then I know what he knows, but I'm not sure if I know about the things themselves or just what he knows. Jimmy is also a writer. I don't know what Jimmy writes. I've seen him with lists. I know he writes lists and he once made signs for work. He writes signs. Perhaps other things as well. Chloe writes in her journal. One spiral bound notebook a month. On the thirty-first of the month or thirtieth sometimes and once a year on the twenty-eighth, she shuffles down with a spiral notebook and we build a bonfire with fallen tree limbs and she burns the spiral notebooks. Always the next morning I get up and dig through the ashes looking for a scrap or two. Cotton candy, I found in February. And, but I guess, in March. April was particularly rich, this is the last time, it said. But May and June there was just the charred coil of wire, stretched and distorted by the heat.
Maya writes letters. I get letters. Several a week on good weeks. But Maya does not have to write, she chooses to write. She could just use the look, but I can't see it. So she sends it in cuneiform or sometimes hieroglyphs, but it doesn't translate well. Sometimes she too writes about sex, but not always. Often she writes about hunger or longing or walking or resting. Mainly she calls, but it's that look I love, that look that could be a bad movie I'd still watch.
Most of the time I am Sil Hawkard. When creditors or ex-wives are calling I am no longer Sil Hawkard, I morph. People who want things from me find that I have just stepped out. I am often just stepping out. Outside. America. Wires. Buzz and hum. I'll be right back. Just going for the papers. I come from a long line of steppers-out-for-the-papers, gypsy strands of DNA, whorish blood crawling over the eastern European hills looking for a place to call home. I am a mongrel by birth. I have olive-brown skin and no culture. I have hazel eyes but not many friends. I am five feet ten inches, but I lack cohesiveness. I weigh around one hundred and fifty pounds, but I am often unaccountably heavier. I live in self-imposed exile, but I was born in exile, so I'm used to it... comfortable even. I haven't the slightest idea how I got here; I only know that I have been here as long as I can remember.
I'm not sure that you care about this sort of thing. I'm not sure that you should. I'm not sure if I should tell it or not. There are various schools of thought which say different things. I have gone to most of them at one time or another. One in particular stands out because of the bully with the harelip who was mad because he had a harelip and took it out on the rest of us, even the girls. He nailed their pigtails to desks and stuffed the boys in trashcans. A terribly abusive wretched little kid, he will ascend the bell tower just a few days past twenty-two with a scattergun he will steal from under his father's porch and he will rain down death with his box of shells and eat two Snickers bars as the SWAT team moves into position on the rooftops of nearby buildings. He will be crying when the bullet hits him. But I still won't know what I shouldn't say.
Window shopping, perhaps stepping in to try on a shirt or two or some pants or whatever snags your eye, but never buying anything, just looking and feeling the textures of fabric rolling between your fingers. Dragging silk or lace or satin over the back of your arms to feel the chillbumps shiver down your spine. But noncommittal when the clerk smiles and unsure whether to tell her about the lipstick on her teeth or to just move on. And usually deciding to move on until one day when maybe you don't, maybe you grab her arm softly and say excuse me miss, and hand her a tissue, you have some lipstick on your teeth. And maybe she blushes and demurely turns to wipe her teeth, but thanks you and then smiles with soft, creamy teeth. And you smile back when she hands you the tissue.
I was born out of time. I had intended to be here at the beginning, but I didn't make it. In the beginning, if there was such a thing, there were no words, only phantoms wandering forested mountains. That's where I would like to have come into the show. There were enormous mountains back then, around here it would have been the tail end of the Appalachians, bigger than the modern Himalayas. Monkeys and lemurs and men in funny hats. I would have made something different. But I didn't make it in time. Still, don't ever let them convince you that you were thrown out of anything, no, it's still here. Hidden from casual glance, camouflage netting, but if you look long enough and at the right angle, you will find it. Right where you left it.
I started as a thought, a complex, vivid thought in my mother's head. The night before I was born, my mother dreamed that she and my father were sailing through the Panama Canal. The jungles cackled with lemurs while my parents drifted silently through the moonlight. It was a particularly vivid dream, the sort that tugs at your sleeve while you're trying to drink your morning coffee. When her contractions began the next day, the dream was still in my mother's mind, lulling her, a welcome memory to alleviate the growing pain. I was a tough one; I had no interest in entering this world. In the end, they cut me out. As she faded out under anesthetic, the dream grabbed my mother and led her off again, it had something to say. She looked up at my father who was holding her hand, smiling as his face faded into a tropical night sky. This time they were sailing around the Cayman Islands. Shorelines sparkled in the distance, throngs of tourists were carrying candles along the shoreline, a procession was in progress, my mother turned the till and a puff of wind drew the boat along following the line of flickering candles. She would never say where they led. Whenever she told the story a far away look would come over her eyes she would murmur to herself, tuck the covers around my chin and get up to go. She did tell me that the last thing she saw before coming to was the stern of another boat, the Silmond.
I was born in the midst of a fierce tropical storm-I'm not making this up-one of the worst on record in southern California. The recovery room that my mother was given had a broken window and she came down with pneumonia. Once, when I was about five, I heard her tell someone that I was born on a boat in the middle of a hurricane. Tall tales abound in my family. My wife used to say that that she could see clouds in my eyes when I was thinking. When I got mad she claimed they flickered like tiny thunderheads, but I can't vouch for this observation. I don't look at my reflection very often; half of my left eyebrow is missing. It had a disastrous meeting with a windshield. They were introduced by a telephone pole on highway 10 somewhere in New Mexico. For a while I was very self-conscious about it. I used to apply Rogaine to it every morning, but it never helped. I stopped looking in mirrors.
I enrolled in another school where all the children were drab and gray, but they wore the finest clothing, hand-tailored in the finest European shops, slowly measured by grandfatherly old men, stooped with age and arthritis, but possessing of delicate hands worn smooth like driftwood by years of handling the luxurious linens. The boys wore three-piece suits with little button down vests and the girls wore elaborate dresses with corsets and garters and stockings. The teachers were always talking about being naked, but really they wore the finery too. I was kicked out for hugging. Hugging was distasteful to them, the contact wrinkled their finery and the production or secretion of sweat and warm mucus was frowned upon. They were sterile people, but beautiful to look at. I learned much about what you could wear or say if you chose to, but often I chose not to and this was frowned upon. One day a beautiful teacher wearing only a corset and loose skirt with a choker around her neck and thighs that whispered when she walked, asked me to leave.
For a long time after that I wandered about aimlessly. Solving crimes in my spare time or shooting large automatic pistols with some friends on a porch outside of Wichita. I dreamed of living in a book without a plot. We shot holes in four by eight sheets of plywood, sometimes at random and other times trying to create patterns with the holes. Often the patterns looked random and the randomness smiled or frowned in distinct faces.
I grew up in Los Angeles choking on money and diesel exhaust. It was embarrassing. From the time I was old enough to dream I dreamed of leaving, but I didn't really leave until I was twenty-seven and missing half an eyebrow. Before we got divorced, my wife and I went on a three-month drive; it was our form of therapy. We had decided to 'work things out,' as she put it. We thought spending time alone, just the two of us, would bond us together. We crisscrossed the country looking for epoxy; from LA to Denver, back to Boise, down to Salt Lake City, through the Rockies again, across Kansas, down to New Orleans, up the eastern seaboard to Boston, then Canada, and eventually back to LA. My overwhelming memory of the trip is the warm smell of all night diner bathrooms, the sinks scratched from the oversized belt buckles of enormous putrefied trucker drivers. And then I forgot about her in New Orleans and drove most of the way through the Florida panhandle. I was eating take out steamed oysters on a nude beach when I realized something was missing. She got back to LA a week later. I was at Dean's house when a man with a star by his name asked me to sign papers. I poked about in LA for a while longer, working odd jobs, Dean and I tried to shoot holes in four by eight sheets of plywood, but the man with the star by his name came back and asked us not to. Eventually I decided to move to Athens with Dean and his sister Betty-to see if anything would happened. They lasted about a year. He went up, she went left.
I remember driving down a dirt road in Arizona; I couldn't have been more than five or six. I asked my father if we could drive through a magical time warp. The way I envisioned it happening, the road would suddenly just disappear, my father and I would crash into a giant cactus, we would be unhurt, but the car would be destroyed and steam would hiss out of the radiator, there would be an incredible silence, a huge overwhelming moment where we would just sit in nostalgia for the shock, listen to the hissing steam, not believing what had happened. We would drown in disbelief, but then that would give way to endless possibility; it would just be us and an uncharted, virgin planet. My father smiled at me, but there was a jaded sigh in his eyes. We traded our magic for science, skepticism for precision-no trade backs. We eroded the mountains for strip mines, the forests were clear-cut for timber, and the men with funny hats destroyed by small pox and syphilis. The phantom dreamers all packed up and headed on down the line to some other universe just a few tracks over from ours. What's left is America. One, zero, one. I can't march and that intangible future in which all the words are perfectly prearranged and you take your place at the banquet....well... I used to want something to happen-on the far side of Bell's polyparabolic vision. I used to wait with hope. There was a moment or two of naivet, but now the old nuclear foreboding has returned with gusto. Now we nervously finger magazines in the doctor's office waiting for the test results. A bric-a-brac carnival for paranoids.
The cottage I live in is a dump. The roof is rotten from termites; an extended family of rats lives in the ceiling panels. The walls are paper-thin, insulated with spider webs. I scavenged for furniture. I found a couch back when I was living with Dean, and then one day another appeared in the dumpster so I grabbed it too. The tenants before me left a bookshelf, which still has nothing on it. I've been here six months and I'm still living out of my suitcases. The sink leaks, the toilet never flushes, and there's a two-foot square hole in the middle of the living room wall. My landlord was nice enough to tack a scrap of screen over it, "keep out the 'squiters," he said. He also hired me to maintain the cottages in exchange for rent, which might explain their dilapidated state, though I do try to fix things. For the other tenants anyway. If nothing happens then nice living quarters are unnecessary. Saves me the work.
It was the last night I was in LA. I was working. It seems appropriate. Around eight o'clock, still light out, Maya sauntered through the yawning doorway. She wore a Mona Lisa smile, a turquoise shirt and tight black pants. She ruffled her dyed black hair and asked if she could have a large coffee. Her voice could have stirred the Marquis de Sade from his grave. I gave her an extra large and didn't charge her for it. I felt compelled to quit the job to have a cup of coffee with her. Later that night when I crawled out of her bed and dragged myself home, I knew that something big was coming, the way old men with trick knees can sense the storm before it arrives. Her lack of nuclear foreboding was addictive and enchanting. She smiled like nothing was wrong. She has that look. I felt like it was all going to be okay. Maya left for New York the next day. I arrived in Athens a week later. Then Maya moved back to LA, and now she is back in New York. My phone bills are more than my rent, but I don't pay rent so that's a poor comparison.
This morning the world is farm-fresh. The Twilight Zone faceless men have assembled reality to perfection-thank you Rod, it meant so much. They work feverishly all night long hauling in raw materials from the Future and building the Now. They have no identity save the ability to create. Now they are hard at work on Now they are hard at work on Now they are hard at work on.... A new manicure from early morning thundershowers adorns the streets and houses- everything is freshly washed. Athens lies in the hilly, forested region of north central Georgia, and on days like today, after a morning thundershower, the heat steams the rain back up into the air. Everywhere is a soft fog like an overgrown patch of Argentinean real estate. Everything feels tropical and sweltering; all you want to do is get some sort of fruity drink and sit on the porch. That's my plan for the day, but first I want some food.
The door bursts open and a streaking out of focus but distinctly human shape rockets across the room with such speed that a second or two elapses before it cools and condenses into the recognizable form of Jimmy. He flops down on the low-rent antique chair to a cloud of feathers screaming out the side of the velveteen pillow. They waft in the still air and slowly swan dive through the thermal of nicotine that hovers near the floor.
"You should open a door, Sil. It's smoky in here."
"Someone was knocking."
"Knocking?"
"Yeah. About an hour ago. When I first got up. There was a pounding on the door."
"Huh."
"So I couldn't open it."
"What if it was me?"
"I wasn't ready yet. I had to load."
He giggles his little Jimmy giggle, which involves an index finger brought to the lips, luxuriantly hovering over them and a downward stare as if perhaps sharing a private joke with his feet. Sometimes the whole ritual is accompanied by a slow shaking of head, but not just now.
"It was good to hang out with you last night man. I was kinda feeling like we never see each other anymore. Which is stupid since we live fifty feet away, but you know with work and all... and your gig."
"Yeah. It was good. I been locked up in here for the past couple weeks." My business card says 1066 productions: we make stuff. Lately it's been light on the make and heavy on the revise. Technical Editing they call it when they outsource. All these strange words. Technical. Outsource. Mostly I sit around all day and bill people for it.
"How is the freelance world?"
"Free. And I mean that. I gotta stop doing favors. That's the problem with this town, I know too many people and can't bring myself to bill them."
Jimmy's eyes are focused on something near the Pleiades and he is nodding and repeating yeah with Buddhist intent. When I stop talking he keeps nodding his head for a minute. "So do you remember anything about last night?"
"It was noisy. And glittering."
"Okay, cool," he practically doubles over shaking his head and laughing, "cause I don't remember much of anything except that I was on a rampage."
"You were in high form. I think you scared the shit out of Scratch."
"Naw. That man ain't scared of anything least of all some punk ass kid like me." He pauses for a minute. "Do you think we'll be that wise when we get that old. Have that weird sage intensity he's got? How old is he anyway?"
"I have no idea. Old enough to know what the word vagabond means."
"You know what I remember him saying at some point? He was talking to Brooke about something...I dunno... they were having their own side conversation and I was saying something inane to you and I remember hearing him say to her 'I do the best I can not to worry about things. Summers days are here. I have never known where I'm going, but here I am.' It blew my mind. Some people could have said that and I would have slapped them, but from him... shit. He hates poetry because he's living it."
"He hates poetry?"
"Yeah that's what he said. I just kinda looked at him. I went over to his bookshelf and there was William Carlos Williams. I didn't say anything. I just pulled it off the shelf and read the famous one...no way was I going to read something cleverly obscure... he's too old to stand for that kinda pretension..." Jimmy jumps up and grabs the William Carlos Williams sitting on my bookshelf. He flips through it for a minute and then reads aloud.
"This is just to say"
"I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast"
"Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold"
He smiles at the page, it's in on something, caught in some private joy and his shoes. Jimmy reads with neither the amateurishness nor pretension that have driven poetry readings to the far corners of New England. His voice is a plum. He swallows, "do you realize that that poem is everything I've ever wanted and never found?" He tosses the book back on the table and doesn't say anything else.
Jimmy reads like James Joyce wrote. There is nothing to say. Do you realize that that poem is everything I've ever wanted and never found? We sit in silence. I put my feet up on the coffeetable and am embarrassed by the noise.
Chloe strolls in a few moments later, dog in tow, right in the middle of the silence that follows Jimmy's restoration of sense in the universe. Chloe has thin lips like 1965 white walled radial TA's fresh off the showroom floor, painted red to match a rising coronary sun. She suffers from arthritis at the tender age of - too many cigarette years spent clutching darts and nervously twirling hair around her naked ring finger. She's wearing jeans and cowboy boots.
I am very popular in the compound because I have the only shade. I am several measurable degrees cooler until about three in the afternoon when trees or no trees the air is on the edge of barking flames. So mornings happen here and then we head for a nice apartment complex with a pool or a caf with air conditioning. Not that I mind the heat. The heat is tolerable, it's the oil that bothers me. The humidity expels a continuous slick of grease from the pores, as if cellular oil tankers were constantly wrecking all over your body.
"James. Sil. Looking like you boys had a nice evening." She sits on the couch next to me and raises an eyebrow to encourage storytelling, but I remain silent and Jimmy mutters something about jazz.
"Oh. I see. Well. I had another bad date."
Chloe loves bad dates. She prefers to go out with men she finds both visually disgusting and mentally challenged. "This one had a tattoo of a chicken on his calf that jiggles when he flexes it, which of course he just had to show me in the middle of dinner by standing up and putting his leg on the table." She chuckles. "There is absolutely no shame in your brains, you know that don't you?"
"I love you Chloe, but your generalizations do not include me." Jimmy stands up. "I'm going to work on the Falcon."
"See." The white walls grin triumphantly.
I close the door behind Jimmy and pour myself a glass of water.
"Are you drinking wine in the morning? In this heat?"
"It's not that hot in here."
"Yes, but at some point you will have to face the outside world where it is hot."
"I guess. But it's not wine. It's water."
"Oh. Well, if you get some wine tell me, I'd like to have a glass."
"But it's over a hundred outside."
"Sil it's wine. We all have our weaknesses. You really shouldn't put water in wine bottles, it teases me in uncomfortable ways that force me to confront yearnings and desires my young mind tries desperately to avoid. I went to catholic school you know." Impish smile. But she didn't really. She just likes to say it and then smile impishly.
I got sick of running out of cold water in the Brita and I had all these empty wine bottles so one day I washed one of them out and filled it up with water. But that proved insufficient because inevitably, in my laziness, I didn't fill it up again right away. I have to get the funnel you know, and it's too much effort when you just want a glass of water at three in the morning to wash down the egg sarnie you fried up in a drunken, desperate, last ditch effort to not wake up with a pounding headache the next morning. Right then all you want is a tall refreshing glass of water that tastes like a French girl you once saw standing in the doorway of some terracotta apartment building with a luxurious courtyard of ferns and fig trees and clay pots full of honey, all of which you never noticed because you were transfixed by the French girl who was actually a Polish immigrant who moved to Paris just two months earlier to work for an internet design firm. That's the kind of water you want with that bacon egg and cheese burrito. Or with tomatoes and maybe potatoes too. Maybe all sorts of leftover vegetable that ordinarily might be tossed out but appear edible and even lovely to your teetering, alcohol soaked, three in the morning eyes. So I decided to up the number of bottles. This way the filling, while more cumbersome and time consuming when done, can be done with much less frequency. Two bottles sufficed until a week ago when the same tragedy occurred concerning a glass of water that this time was intended to taste like cuddling Eskimos, but ended up far too warm and straight from the tap to ever conjure Eskimos and now I have three bottles which I just refilled yesterday afternoon and so will taste however I desire.
"Have you ever heard Jimmy read?"
"You mean like read out loud? No. Do people still do that?"
"Yeah some of them. You should hear him some time."
"Okay. I will" She turns sideways and throws her legs up on the arms of the couch. Chloe is as tall as I am and she occupies the entire couch. I take refuge in the chair.
"What should we do today?" Chloe lights a Camel.
"Try to take over the world."
"Oh how witty." Fluttering of the eyes. "Which, when you think about it, is all we've really got. But no. What would we do once we took over?"
"I don't know. Sit back and tell everyone they're free."
"Maybe. But, don't you think we'd be corrupted by the system and we'd want to cling to our pathetic little construction of power?"
"I like to think not."
"Yeah well I don't think most people grow up saying 'mommy I want to be a despot when I grow up.'"
"I bet Idi Amen did."
"Maybe.
"Can't you see a little Idi Amen chopping grasshoppers heads off and scheming designs on the birds while he's played outside his hut or whatever. The kind of scheming that's cute in three-year-olds."
Chloe's head collapses back when she laughs, and it's a guttural laugh, but high pitched and her left arm twitches a little when she really gets rolling, but right now it doesn't because she only chuckles and then her head snaps back forward. "Yeah I can see that. But I was thinking maybe we could get a jigsaw puzzle or something."
"A jigsaw puzzle?"
"Yeah. Why not?"
"Frustrating. Very very frustrating."
"But fun because you're struggling."
"Maybe."
"Well I'm going to go to K-mart and get a jigsaw puzzle and you're going to help me with it."
"Okay, but I'm not going to K-mart, florescent lights scare me."
"I understand. I'll be back in a bit."
Scratch used to sing "you got to get behind the mule every morning and plow" when he was hunting around the fridge for coffee grounds. The "fridge" was an old icebox that Scratch had found on the side of the road and patched up. When he drank too much and passed out before sundown, he'd forget to restock it. The melted remnants of yesterday's block of ice would eventually force open the door and the bag of coffee would go sliding across the kitchen floor, skittering to all kinds of strange places. "You got to get behind the mule every morning and plow" Scratch used to sing when he looked for the bag. When he invariably found the coffee lying in the farthest crack, he would squat down and scoot it along the floor over to the table, laughing and singing "...every morning and plow..." He would do this little dance, all crooked and insane. I lived with Scratch for a while after Dean left. He had a bad knee that made his dancing comical. I used to sit there and watch him do that hypnotic, crooked little dance of his. He would start gyrating at the knees, flopping his arms about while he sang. The first time I saw him do it I thought he was having a seizure the way he convulsed wildly about. In India they teach that dance to snakes and, in the sewers of America, cockroaches feasting on radioactive waste have begun to learn it on their own. Like terrible creatures from a Kafkian nightmare, they sit quietly underground. We go about our lives while they are learning that dance, passing it on to their children, teaching them how to use it. One day a properly evolved cockroach will crawl out of a sewer drain just as the head of state is stepping to the podium to address the nation... devour the president raw as the live internet streams feed the blood soaked scene. The cockroach will scurry to the podium, strain himself to an upright position and address the nation... "Behold I am." He will dance and spin and enchant... the numbers will explode. Scratch was one of kind. Later I found out the line is a Tom Waits lyric.
I am sitting outside the caf smoking and sweating. It's two days hotter. Jimmy pulls up in the Falcon, all grinning like he's getting away with something. He is freshly shaven; he looks like a Unix cultist. He has close shaven hair and thick framed, black, sixties style glasses, but he's more gearhead and really he's neither geek nor gearhead. He revs the engine a few times before getting out. He's wearing a greasy, oil-stained jumpsuit and racing gloves. He leaves the motor running and sits down at the table with me.
I have been occupied with trying to reconstruct Jimmy's descriptions of Williamsburg and Brooklyn in my head, trying to assimilate a whole city from them, trying to put Maya in them, but she won't fit. Unfortunately, Up There will have nothing to do with Down Here, they dance and dance, but Up There can never get her hands into Down Here's pants. I give up. Even Jimmy says he can't remember what living in New York was like and he's only been back a year. I've never lived there, just a handful of visits, weeks here and there, but I'm moving someday. I try to picture Maya running down the street to greet me-her with that Breakfast at Tiffany's smile.
"I installed a four barrel carburetor after I left your place the other day...increased power," he grins at me, but the grin fades to a sheepish curl. "You want to get some lunch?"
It's nearly dinner, but maybe that's only time speeding up. There is a plethora of food not five feet from where we are sitting, but I want to go for a ride in the Falcon. The custom headers he installed last week make it roar like a primordial beast-something slinky and covered with scales that crawled out of the Ford plant back when great steel dinosaurs ruled the land. A beautifully sleek environmental nightmare in the midst of disposable soda cans on wheels. Jimmy wants to drive. Heads turn at every corner, herbivores gawking at the revving, roaring carnivores with a mixture of admiration, envy and fear. The Falcon howls from a standstill to breakneck speed, the force neatly ashing my cigarette in the process. The impenetrable jungle across the road steams like a freshly washed beggar, thick kudzu itches at elms and maples. The Japanese revenge on the Americans who chased them around the South Pacific jungles. War stories are always set in jungles this century-New Guinea, Cambodia, Guatemala, Columbia; soldiers march in jungles, hacking vines, contracting microbes unknown. Sultry jungles that should have steamed up history with lovers, sweaty and exhausted, but instead turned to horror and death, and still stink of centipede nibbled bones. Rot. Blurs of grass waving in the wind of cars ahead, shopping centers, mini malls, open fields, bovine genetic research centers next to botanical gardens followed by apartment complexes. The homogenized sanitized landscape of America. I long for the desert, the candyland Gaudi imitated, to roar across the dinosaur bones of Utah, the sandstone caverns harboring the remains of a drip sandcastle youth.
I see you standing in front of the bay window that looks out from the bedroom into the courtyard of your building on Minetta. I watch you from the bed languishing on stained white sheets. You are wearing nothing, leg propped up on the sill, standing and swaying slightly to the beat of a thick base drum. Your flesh is soft milk froth; you walk back to the stove and light a cigarette off the burner, swinging your ass to the music, mainly for my benefit. Do not worry Maya. I am not so far away as memory, I will come to the city soon, but it must be the right moment. Be on edge; be aware. I am letting you grow inside me Maya; I am incubating you for a little while longer so that when you hatch it will be like stepping into a cage with lions, no club, no gun, only naked and trembling.
Jimmy is heading out of town, down farther, we pass signs for the interstate, and he turns in the opposite direction. Neither of us speaks, the stereo does not work. There is only the rush of humid air. The wind carving in violent eddies around the side mirrors, a primitive whistling tune, the first amplified song-telegraphs heard in the distance, coming from far on the other side of the rockaway-wind blasting down ancient conifers and cycads, dusty meteor backdrafts carving fresh sandstone into parabolic arches that begin far below the surface. My oldest memory is of walking down a trail in Canyonlands National Park. I am singing a song as I walk, but I'm not really walking, I'm on my father's shoulders. He is walking and I am singing a song with him and my mother. We are hiking down from the mesa tops to the Green River, I can see the clumped fringes of the junipers, smell fecund woodrot and fresh desert air, feel the bruised and sullen thunderheads in the sky above me as I bounce and sway with my father's lurching downhill gait, but I can't make out the words or identify of the song. I just have the fuzzy outlines of it all. Memories shrouded in gauze and muslin, filters that color and tone the past with the palate of the present. Mexico City: I remember Mexico City in a hazy, brown, discolored way, but it's not the smog-scenes of dust, carbon excrement overlaying each other-a photomontage of choking, exhausted skies. In flickering stills, twenty four frames per second, here and there a frame or two missing, little glitches...jagged cut to a subway shot, brown faces black hair ... lay on top an image of pyramid excavation, digging up to solve the Mayan Caper... years ago, you understand... she was standing right next to me and then...a warm, sweet smelling cab and my father said, "Hey, look-a Kentucky Fried Chicken," a kaleidoscope of disappointment and guilt... the shock of fried chicken. Everything focusing into the sun; burnt in fantastical visions-not fear in the sense of a threat, much worse, a lingering in the back of the mind occasionally eliciting a paralysis that haunts indefinitely, then fades again in the face of day to day activities-it's all going to stop someday.
It's a fear that leaves you like a woman I saw once, stone still, shell-shocked, and stuck in the middle of an enormous red rock arch in Canyonlands. She was paralyzed on a narrow strip of sandstone, a fragile bridge hundreds of feet in the air. The digging hooks of unbridled terror had burned into her brain and created a spellbinding feedback loop that forbade her to move. It's a fear that anchors your mind back in the primate body because you feel, you cannot rationalize it away. It rips you out of the very fabric of collective reality and propels you into strange space where there is only you. I watched her stuck there, unable to help herself, no doubt staring at the four-hundred foot drop-off on both sides of her and the meager four-foot wide sandstone arch that held her frail existence in place. Suspended in mid-air, she saw herself for the first time the way we are: naked, cold and deathly afraid.
"Here in Mexico City there is no Kentucky Fried Chicken, maybe Kentucky Fried Cat, Kentucky Fried Dog, but definitely no Kentucky Fried Chicken," the cab driver smiles crooked piano key teeth, gold caps and black octaves over moist gums that crawl down hiding the strings. He sternly advises against eating there.
It's near dark and another lazy thunderstorm drifts in from the southwest. The clouds are somber and premature darkness closes over the world. Could easily be the Northeast-New York- Brooklyn-fall-the East River slips by without a sound, the streets corral throngs of people-onlookers too drunk to remember what they are there to look at. They lurch out of bars and bounce against doorways like grenades rolled out on the street. Inside the steel doors, a reserve of surplus energy is released in muscular spasms that pulse rhythmically-her breasts pool salt onto my tongue. Her flesh is hard and metallurgic, turning brittle under my hands. The fear is slowing slipping out of her, out of the sewers, up celestial heights, among the eagles, the screaming eagles, hovering like 1910 bankers awaiting the thief. The tape is endless, looping across eons, cultures, genetic hardwired connections to the galaxies, interstellar abbreviations of life. Cool hard water distills in my mouth and then she falls from my arms like a collapsing supernova and I am cast down a tube, a tunnel, endlessly falling, clattering off the walls, building speed in a vacuum with no terminal velocity. Reach out for limbs, for human hands to catch me.... Scream and there is no sound; settle in, the twinkling light shining above. Surrendered eternity forever to remain here now and then the light goes dim... the taxis in Times Square... An auburn haired girl I loved in seventh grade... Radio broadcasts of unknown origin pulling down the multiverse's own information superhighway at a genetic tilt, coming across the galaxy without static, pure unadulterated signal, and, through it all, ash keeps falling. Fragments of history written on burnt paper and cast about in a hurricane. Whitewashed ceilings hanging low and ominous.... Bubble-headed figures crawling like the Michelin Man across an insurmountable mountain of tires, wounds agape, thick clumps of oil leaking from his mouth. And the autistic child pointing at you, laughing, unable to fathom how you cling to your definitions. Must delineate between abnormality and those of us who.... breeding like rats unconsciously conscious and aware of our disorganization. Cold fusion dreams of the anarchist are breeding in the minds of the oilmen. The continual settling of dust weighing down...the Mayan priest laboring slowly up endless steps.... Kevlar definitions constructed to make a better shampoo. Squander your paperbacked slavery bills. After all these years Tide still gets your socks whiter. It's a wonder ...that they aren't transparent by now ...that evolution did not anticipate the advent of the opposable thumb.... The unopposable domination of the thumb, leading to an insect superiority, mating rituals stolen from a textbook on damselflies ...darning needles, sewing shut your lips. Shit from the sky. Taxman comes for your baby. Unpaid balance. You understand. Nothing personal, just doing our job. Same as the next guy. From Auschwitz on down the line. The puncture wounds... Only taking orders you understand, just doing our job from Independence on down the line. A sad money grubbing hunter gathers up his children and thanks his gods they are his and he their god. Only taking orders you understand. Got a family to feed.
And then the dirt driveway. Shifting to park. The keys slide from the ignition. The last crackle of radio. Pop. Hiss. Silence. Open the doors. Crush out the cigarette. End transmission.
TWO
Blinking fire flies-twenty four frames per second-do da do dada-roosting-hear we go again- charred steel drooping-sniffing-bagpipes wheezing-stuttering the future-glistens and sparkles by design-can you hear-the morning line-the polyphony-new everyday-falling off your tongue-was it good for you?
It's huge and it looks like nothing. Just tiny flecks of color dissected into purposefully nonlinear shapes. It's maddening. It looks like nothing and it's everywhere. All over the porch, scattered on the kitchen table, and some still in the box. There are baggies with tape and cyptic markings indicating things about what will go into the baggies. There is a taxonomy of chaos at work here, a kind of organization forming out of the primordial color-flecked soup of cardboard. It will still look like nothing when it's fully assembled, when the taxonomy has made the inevitable trudge from system to working explanation, and this of course delights Chloe to no end. Even when it's done we will have to sit back and stare at it with out-of-focus eyes to see what it is.
We are sitting on the edge of the porch and it is behind us. Looking at it was giving me a headache. We haven't said a word. She gets up and goes to the fridge for beer.
"What did you do today?" Chloe gives me a beer and sits back down. She straightens the hem of dress across her knees and rubs at some unaccounted for redness on her elbow.
"Nothing. Played myself in backgammon."
"Did you win?"
"I'm not sure. It's hard to tell."
Annie is running circles around the tree with her characteristic antelope bounding. Dogalope. She seems to believe she has treed a squirrel. Chloe twists the cap off her beer and throws it at Annie. She swallows and leans back away from me studying the phrenology of my close-cropped scalp. "Don't you get lonely dating someone in New York?"
"I guess so. I mean it wasn't always that way."
I drift off watching Annie huffing and digging at some sort of rodent hole.
"Yeah I know. But you could move there."
Whatever is down the hole has become a quest. Perhaps a rabbit. Maybe a gopher. Or some other burrowing type animal I've never heard of.
"No. I can't afford it. Besides, I like the woods." a moment later I change my mind. Actually it was always this way. Or was it? If it was then is it? If it is then was it? If the gopher is down the hole, was the gopher ever not down the hole? If the gopher is not down the hole, was he ever down the hole? Can I say for sure whether one or the other is true? Or is it simply that the gopher changes of its own volition and I can only guess at it's secrets?
When I snap to for a cigarette Chloe is clearly expecting an answer.
"What?" With nervous guilt.
"Have you listened to anything I've been saying?"
"No." Less nervous, increased guilt.
"See?"
"What?"
"Exactly." She leans her head on my shoulder. "Sil I was trying to explain that I know I'm deliberately avoiding intimacy by only going out with men that repulse me, but I can't bring myself to risk anything anymore."
"Oh."
A cascading silence ebbs in. Crickets. June Bugs. Cardinals. Squirrels. Mosquitoes.
"Risk. Is that what it is?"
"Of course. And its silly, but I fear it. I really do. It's not even that I fear it, well, I don't know. In my mid twenties I went through that cynical phase, you know, where I just wanted to get laid and stay single and have my freedom or whatever. And sure I went to my friend's weddings and I acted happy and everything, but inside it hurt me to see them give up. To settle into the same suburbia we tried to get out of, or at least I thought we we're trying to get out of." Chloe purses her lips, juts out the lower one and half blows half spits a stray clump of hair back up toward its brethren which are pulled back in a loose, and apparently somewhat ineffectual, ponytail.
"I lived like a 60's astronaut." She laughs. "And now that nearly everyone I know has gotten married or at the very least is so obsessed with their career-whatever the fuck that word means-I find myself alone. Don't take that the wrong way Sil, you know I love you. And James. And Scratch. And everybody else too. But I feel like the last woman on the moon. I feel like there was supposed to be more. I feel like saying, 'I feel like there was supposed to be more' shouldn't be such a clich. Kinda reinforces the original sentiment."
"Maybe there really did use to be more."
"You believe that?" Her skeptic eyes are measuring.
"Does it matter?"
"Maybe. But all this is just abstraction, what I started out to say was that I don't fear intimacy, I fear lack of independence. But I'm thirty now and I already know I'm not going to do anything with my life. I don't think I'm going home. I think I'm the last woman on the moon and I'm waving off the lander. Go home. I'm staying. I like it here. You know what the first thing an astronaut said the first time the orbited the moon? He said 'well, it's pretty gray.' It's pretty gray, Sil. It's pretty fucking gray. I'm trying to come to terms with the world not living up to my ideals and this asshole orbiting the moon says it's pretty fucking gray. Fuck him." Chloe wraps her hands around her legs pulling them tight to her chest and rests her cheek on her knees.
"He had an impoverished imagination."
Her head snaps up. "Life is a collision of imagination and observation Sil. He fucking failed."
"Maybe."
"No Sil. He failed. He was one of about thirty people that have seen the moon up close and all he got out of it was that it's gray. He fucking failed."
"You're assuming that gray meant nothing to him, but what if his grandmother had gray eyes and that was the one memory that came back to him when he was overwhelmed by being that close to the moon."
She rests her cheek on her knee again and rocks back and forth for a minute before speaking. "You're sweet Sil. You always defend people and want to think the best about them. I love you for that. In spite of the fact that deep down you're cynical too. But you try and that's what I love about you." Chloe stands and turns to go inside and fix lunch. She looks down at me with eyes I don't remember. "You know I once cried so hard I swallowed a moth." And she walks inside without another word.
After a while I follow her into the kitchen. Annie trots behind sniffing invasively at my butt. "Need help?"
Chloe shakes her head. I sit down at the table and try to ignore the puzzle pieces screaming at me in tinny squeals: we all fit together. We all fit together. We all fit together.
Chloe is chopping shallots with more force than is necessary, I can see her tricep flexing as her arm rapidly minces the shallots. "I was supposed to go out with this guy. This was junior high. Maybe high school. No junior high. Anyway we were supposed to ride our bikes to the park in the evening and he never showed up and I waited and waited. I was so in love with this guy. So at about 10 o'clock I'm out on the porch-sobbing now." She stops cutting and turns toward me. "You know those huffing snorting kind of sobs that women have when they're really upset? Hyperventilating sobs." She briefly demonstrates and ends up snorting like a warthog with emphysema. It's tragic and not a little bit funny. "And I was chewing gum. I always used to chew gum. So I'm in the rocking chair sobbing, arms around my knees... this is so pathetic... I inhaled a moth somehow and before I realized it I chewed him right into my gum. It was crackly at first, but then more like chewing feathers."
Her attention returns to the shallots. "I had a lot of disturbing, uh, incidents in childhood. I used to kidnap cats when I was little."
"Kidnap cats?"
"My parents wouldn't let me have a cat so I would go out and steal them from neighbors. At first I just petted them you know. Then I got one to follow me home. I felt like he loved me more than his owners and I cried when my parents took him home. I was probably seven or eight when this happened. After that I went farther from home, several blocks away where I knew my parents wouldn't know whose cat it was and they would have to post signs, found: cat. That sort of thing so, you know, I would have the cat for longer."
"Right."
"But these cats wouldn't follow me home. Too far I guess. So I would save my lunch money and on the way home from school I'd stop at Circle K and buy myself a slushy and Moon Pie and can of cat food. Then I'd ride my bike past my house, way back into the subdivision and lure cats home by dragging the cat food on a string behind my bike. One time I pulled into my driveway with three cats running behind me."
"You were a cat rustler."
"Yeah you know maybe that was the Texan coming out. Got to steal animals... I don't know. But one time after my parents had posted found cat signs and stuff this old lady came to our house to pick up her cat and she was so excited that I had found her cat she gave me twenty dollars, which, when we were kids was a lot of money. And bells went off in my head. So then I started kidnapping the cats for profit. I mean when I could. I tried to pick cats that looked pampered or that were sitting in front of old lady houses. You know lots of papers collecting on the porch. Beat up seventies sedans. I was pretty good at casing the block and finding the old lady cats. When they would come over I'd put on a cute little dress and smile and play dumb and they would give me a reward. One month I made $200. That's when my parents caught on."
"What'd they do?"
"Bought me a cat."
"Smart."
"Yeah, but by then I didn't want one."
Chloe has made a variation of a salad Scratch taught her how to make. Chloe can take an already good idea and transform it into something even better than it was. She is a shallot among onions. We eat spoonfuls of tuna tartar on toasted bread crusts and sip now warm beer. We sit under the tree away from the screaming puzzle, on what passes for a lawn. Here and there are tufts of grass, but mainly it's dirt, good digging dirt. Later we take the dishes inside and head off to the river. After a few cookie-cutter suburbs and a quick duck along the side of a house, sneaking over the back fence, heaving the dog and all, a shortcut Jimmy found a few months back, we join the river trail. Annie is fifty yards ahead darting about sniffing, endless sniffing, there must be a whole universe of smell that we never experience owing to evolutionary prioritizing, specialization, some such idea, certainly there seems enough to drive her insane with smell lust. We stick to the trail along the river's edge, walking absently, single file, paying little attention to each other. About half a mile's walk from the bridge where the road crosses the river, there is a rocky outcropping that juts out to the middle of the Oconee. Ever since the first warm days of spring we have been walking down here and lying on this rock, shirtless, basking in the sun like pink fleshy lizards. It's beautiful here, trees in bloom, sun warm and bright, air thick with river humidity, birds chattering in the bushes. Dragonflies flit in the middle of the sun-drenched stream; water striders dart about in pockets of glassy water stagnant from the sheltering rocks and fallen tree limbs. It is nothing but beautiful here, except that it's ugly. The old growth forests are gone, the river polluted with old tires, plastic baggies, and pesticides, and the sky choked with dirty brown haze and crisscrossed by streaking jet contrails. Still if you lie down and close your eyes, listen to the water and the insects and the birds and carefully edit out the cars back on the bridge, it sounds Mesozoic. It sounds inviting and warm. Careful editing. It's something you learn from film or television, you know just when to turn, just when to cut, just when to fade out, when the sunset imperceptible begins to wan, when the moment has reached apex, when the crescendo is tapering, and you turn away, spin the dial, change the channel. The couple is standing on the bluff with the setting sun behind them, maybe it's a tight shot, their faces two stories high and her moist lips backlit by a heart attack red in the sky, gentle purple clouds between their lips. The circle swooping pelicans and power lines and passing cars have been excluded from our view, or maybe it's a medium shot, from the waist up, them leaning on the black iron railing, the tops of the bluff in the distance keep your eyes from drifting off into the curtains, they draw you in, and the heart attack and the purple, she purses her lips so you know they are wet, inviting, soft. Maybe it's a long shot, they are smaller yet, only shadows now, happening against a background of pelicans and power lines and foreshortened cars passing in front; they are background now, noise around the edges of the scene, and yet they pull you forward, you demand the camera move in, you want it so badly, you want to be closer, you want to move in microscopic close-ups, the pores of her skin, the follicles of his stubble, the cracks of lipstick, the oil in their glands, the beautiful flaws they must have. Maybe they are shot from a boom, from above because you are better than them, you know their isolation is illusory, you sense them as you sense a computer is on the instant you step into a room, and you never forget that light is projected, your imagination drifts to dust in the beam, floating particles, they are part of the story too, because it is the same story, it is the only story, the only story there will ever be, the only story there is, forcing you to take it all in, to see everything-polluted and pure in one breath without looking. And Maya, where are you breathing? I am coming to you in a sweeping pan. In a long, low-flying, forward-looking shot that sweeps in, skimming over the Bronx, tenement bricks and children playing in empty lots, a bottle rocket shoots up and away, and across the river in a blink, the coughing brownstones of Harlem, then straight over the park, panning down with no foresight now, blindly buildings pass faster and faster and then sweeping up, screaming higher up and slowly falling over, a barnstorming backward loop and then diving down in jerky frames of cloud, distant skyscrapers, and a close up falling, down the bricks of a building fourteen stories high to the window on the north side of the third floor. And she is backlit by the evening sun reflected in the mirror, and it is too bright to see clearly, she is a shadow and then we move up again, gliding now like a bird, a falcon, a peregrine falcon roosting among the high rises of Wall Street, setting off hunting, skimming the wires and cables of the Manhattan Bridge, down Flatbush Avenue over the fire escapes of Seventh and First where one day, years from now, it might all make sense, dipping down to see the soft caressing bars of the railing where we will play games in the hot sun and laugh and not know what has become of ourselves but like where we come from, from these long running memories that look beautiful in the dark velvet draped room where no one is looking as the camera sweeps out now, over Coney Island, the lapping waves, and then finally the mouth of the river and only the endless rippling of sea, skimming closer, swells merging into one continuous mass that screams the same story again. We all fit together. We all fit together. We all fit together.
THREE
Slice life like bread gets stale faster-music gets rid of voice-guitar retires- faster newer smaller stuff-emotional plague hits west coast-thousands lost-Mayan caper inferred-ancient city found-new reality tunnel finished-down the driveway-next to the old rabbit hole-heads on tails-significantly more anxious-needed every day-sweeter than this-
Jimmy is sweeping the porch as I stroll up, his thin frame lost in a dusty cloud. He stops and coughs a minute or two. The haze settles a bit. He takes off his glasses and wipes them on the inside of his shirt. He is covered in dust with eyes ringed lemur white. Jimmy is a carpenter. A post-graduate carpenter because sawdust is more complex than the simple stuff of library shelves. Sawdust is soft tallow, a malleable tonic, and open to further disintegration, wood chips from rough planing, smaller particles expelled from whirling blades, the sugary whisper of dust expelled from sandpaper. Libraries have only one flavor of dust. Human debris. Tiny flecks of shedding skin accumulating around the glacial increase of perfect-bound knowledge, the decay of people, slowly falling apart in alphabetic lives. Sawdust is the evolution of form. Termites eat sawdust. Destruction and digested rebirth. Jimmy builds things with his hands. Sometimes pocked, slapshod things, framing and roofing to restore dilapidated houses. Once he spent two weeks digging in the crawlspace of a cinderblock shotgun house, thinking the whole time it was going to fall and squash him with the cockroaches and rats that scurried over his legs. His more exciting projects are the highly skilled woodworking ones-the gorgeous black walnut wine cellar he built last fall. He took me over to see it when it was done, sanded down to 220 grit, satin and specular, obsidian. It lives in the basement of a restaurant owner. It harbors vintage grapes from around the world behind its temperature-controlled, walnut-framed, glass doorway. There is a vacuum fan to suck out the dust and a once-a-week maid to free those particles too stubborn for wind.
In the process of building things, Jimmy goes in and out of many people's houses, under them, on top of them, and once, accidentally, through one of them. He sees an endless variety of lives revealed in collectibles, faded magazines, dolls, signs of defunct companies, pictures of children, vacations, friends, works by artists known and unknown, technological gadgets galore, and once, accidentally, his own contribution to an otherwise ornate living room-a ceiling, a fan, and a Jimmy deposited by gravity on a nice wooden coffee table covered with miniaturized food which had been set up for a dinner party. Jimmy invades people's lives. But they invite him in. And pay him for the invasion. Sometimes they pay him in things rather than money. Today he came home with a truck full of castoff furniture he has accumulated over the last several months. He has been storing it in his parents' garage, but now he is taking the plunge toward permanence, toward admitting residence. His truck is piled high with heavy objects, a sofa, a table, several chairs, a pinball machine recovered from his parents garage, and boxes of records that are too scratched to play.
"The only one I know for sure works is this Dylan album." He pulls out Blonde on Blonde.
"Never heard it."
"Really? Shit man. This is perhaps the greatest album ever made. I mean I might say that if I were the sort of person who said such things. Of course it's not true, but it is. Possibly. You have got to listen to it."
"No record player."
"Oh I have it on CD. Remind me."
As we unload the furniture Jimmy talks about Bob Dylan. When Jimmy is on a roll, it's best to just settle in and listen. He doesn't talk, he orates. There is no space in the conversation, no silence into which you might interject your own thoughts. Nor is there any discussion until he finishes the initial thought, and by the time you've let that one sink in, he's off on another. Eventually they pile up on each other, an enormous anthill, and you can only stand back and admire the scurrying echoes of his verbal architecture.
He has the history of Dylan seemingly wired to his tongue. He knows things about Dylan that Dylan doesn't know. He can do the same thing with jazz musicians that were dead before either of us were born.
"That album man, you have got to get that one...." He gives me this intense look as if my very life depends on it. "Whew. Man. It's the most amazing thing you have ever heard...again, if I were prone to making definitive statements like that, which I'm not. But, still it's incredible, a man at his most honed, unselfconsciously sharpened point, pure honesty, just telling it the way it is, and you know it is because you've been through the same things in your own life, or you can see them coming down the road. Ya know? It's Dylan just laying it all out on the table and you know that he's been there because you've been there too. That's what I'm trying to say. We've all been there and that is the underlying thing on the whole album, I mean fuck the music-well no, because it's great too-but you know what I mean? Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands... you have got to hear that man, you have got to hear that song." We put down an enormous toolbox in the middle of the living room. "And the images, man the fucking images, you can't fake images with that kind of power. They aren't just words cleverly strung together, it isn't some bullshit cleverness strung out on a hook, lying in wait for some beret to bite or anything of that sort. To sing what he does, whew, man," he blows a long slow exhale of admiration. "You have to feel it. You have to fucking feel it. Otherwise..."
"Otherwise you wouldn't feel it."
"Exactly." He smiles eyeing the toolbox, "I think I'll just use this as a coffee table. Is that too white trash gearhead? To have a toolbox as a coffee table? I broke up with what's her name you know. She's crazy. Or I am. There was something crazy about us. It didn't work. The point is if I have a toolbox as a coffee table I'm going to stay single, that much is clear. But is it going to hamper my getting laid? Is it a little too much? Do I need to soften the room a bit? Something that will make a woman more at ease?
"Chloe won't be over."
"She's not over now. She hangs out at your place. She only comes over here when she's out of weed."
"I don't think having a toolbox in the middle of your living room will effect your getting laid at all. I mean, if you actually get a girl back here, I'd say she's already into you. Or she's too scared to run."
"Hey now."
"I just mean, you know, when you drive in here at night... hell I expect to get killed every time I come home. Its all dark and foresty back here. We all live in the serial killer's house. Think about it, Jason started in cabins in the woods. Every late night skinnemax movie has one of these places in it."
"Hey maybe we could make some cash letting low-budge films shoot around here."
"Maybe. But the point is you're better off going to her house anyway."
"Yeah."
We drink beer and unload furniture. Jimmy keeps going back to Dylan every time we're standing at the tailgate because the record is sitting on top of the box and he avoids the box in favor of much heavier, bulkier items. A glass table for the kitchen. A bookshelf in one corner. An antique pinball machine with the tilt alarm blinking stupidly as we half drag half carry it inside. He rediscovers the album every return trip. But Dylan is only the launch pad, there is only so much one can say, from there he slings out along the Saturn line shouting down echoes of the view. His eyebrows arch up when he tries to talk and lift something at the same time. When he's not carrying something, his arms dice up the air trying to drive his point home. His voice leads out the door down the steps and back to the album.
"I'm telling you, you have got to hear that album. I can't believe you lived this long without hearing that album. But it's not just an album. It's a verb, an act in which the artist connects with the audience and transcends this kind of stale artificial reality that says we're all separate and individual and what not. We're hung up on this individuality kick you know, the freedom to do your own thing. You only go so far. Your mind maybe infinite but your body is not. That's the essential mystery maybe. And we need community to go further. And I don't mean some West Virginia hippy crap kind of community. I mean meaningful relationships with other people. And not just like-minded people, because that's the clause that's often at the end of that line. You need to know people you hate. People that make you cringe. People that stir violence in you. You need them. You need them because you are them. Them is you. Ugly and sweet."
It is one of those Octavio Paz nights where the sky speaks Spanish and looks surly, doubly purple its usual self, and the stars are a Navaho sand painting stretched across the ceiling of the world. Serpentine eels wiggling around in the electrical storm of the mind. Lightening strikes somewhere, a thought in an architect's head, suspension bridge wires, wink and smile.
The Falcon roars. It is our fading youth, but not middle aged or mid-twenties crisis sort of fading youth. Such things having come and gone with the uncomfortable realization that nothing ever happens. Tall buildings are raised. Then razed. You go on. You don't want to. You want it to be painful, you want it to be so fucking gloriously painful it makes you cry. But it doesn't. And even if it did, what then? Space changes. Time fluctuates. But it plods on, the purr and growl of cylinders roaring, then settling, then roaring. In the intermittent silence of shifting gears the questions loom, perhaps it is all a lie and you are alone, perhaps the questions are only slow, insidious dribbles of propagandacid trickling from your oil filter, leaving thick meaningless splotches on the asphalt, a slow drain needing only a new filter. Perhaps you are sitting in the machine, on the machine, perhaps the machine is you, the acceleration an extension of femur to tibia, to talus, to phalanges and fading slowly from flesh and bone to leather and rubber, and then metal rods, a cable snaking through the firewall, an exposed and surprisingly flimsy extension from mind to throttle in one unbroken line, room for silence only in the space between sole and accelerator.
Downtown. The Manhattan. We are in the Manhattan. There are drinks on the table, drinks poured in the mismatched helter-skelter collection of glasses used to transfer the goods into the service. Jimmy is talking, no longer his animated self, a brief pause, his second wind will kick in soon. He is saying things quietly. Excuses I believe. Excuses for the excuses that have grown weary of dragging around. He feels nothing is getting done and he knows why. It isn't going to get done. Lullabies. Turn the page. When you look in his eyes, his moving lips, they look just like yours, how you imagine yours to look, how yours must look when you spit out your own excuses for the excuses that are excusing things you perhaps ought not to have been trying to do in the first place and you wonder if people look at your teeth when you talk or do they look at your eyes with the arrogance of complacency and contentment, watching smugly as your teeth begin to fall out, and you chew them, bleeding gums, torn lips and chunks of tooth choking back the words.
And all the while the shuffling of indie rock feet scuffing from door to bar, the awkward brush of corduroy pants, the stealthy screaming fibers of too tight t-shirts stretching to meekly collect drinks and shuffle off to a corner table. But we are in the corner table. We have your corner table. You are in the open now. You are exposed. All of you. We're staring at you. Do you feel on stage? Isn't it what you've always wanted? The thing too dangerous to be dreamed, the thing you have denied yourselves for so long. Slouching, weepy-eyed, meekly waiting to inherit? This is what you want. We are giving you the opportunity. You are seizing it, I can see it in your hunched shoulders, the semi-permanent curvature of the spine developed from too many years spent bending over thrift store racks, record bins, eyes squinted from reading the imprints of limited edition vinyl. You will come here soon. Soon the filters will spring leaks. Thick warm liquid will begin to ooze out, cigarette breath grow hotter, hearts sputter, and you will want to feel, you will want so fucking bad to feel. But it doesn't come. It is leaking out from under you, crumbling from the inside. Violent smugness is leaking from drinks, hazardous waste collecting and pooling, seeping across the floor.
Maya has a picture of me. A picture of me which she routinely photoshops with various outfits stolen from other pictures. She dresses me as a cowboy, as a superhero with a mahogany colored cape, as a handyman with a tool belt after I fixed the leak in her sink last summer, as a prizefighter in the ring with Ali after I got thrown out of the Incandescent for beating up the bouncer, as a eurotrash tourist to remind her of my obsessive habit of taking pictures of garbage, in buckskin fringed pants for the time I dragged her off to the mountains to club her and have my way with her, as she requested, the fire crackling with the sizzle of dripping fat from steaks, as a marine for my protective move when the potato exploded and the white hot chunks covered my body instead of hers. She had been using a picture she took of me lying in bed. We were running late to one of our rich daddy dinners with her possibly rich daddy who lives in a mysterious state of fabulously wealthy poverty. Other people's money tastes better.
She was doing her impish young artist act and I was playing along, but trying to reverse things. I have a very peculiar look on my face, one I have never seen before. I have lecherous eyes and my body is a clumsy anticipation of movement. She took the picture the instant before I leapt out of bed and wrestled the camera from her
"My turn."
"Who said anything about turns?"
"Take off your clothes"
"You're unbearable." But. Licorice lips part, half-moon, and she begins to disrobe- trickles of silk and lace sliding down smooth shale arms, rivulets of rye whiskey piling on the floor-nipples like soft serve.
"What-no panties? The pile is incomplete."
"You haven't even kissed me. Shouldn't you be making some kind of move?"
"Move?"
"Yeah. You know seduction, game, something...?"
"We're too old. Just take off your panties."
"Why?"
"Cause your pussy's tired of being caged in panty prison. Its been locked up for too long, it's like Nelson Mandela-end apartheid. End Apartheid!"
"Nelson Mandela? My pussy is Nelson Mandela?"
"Yes Nelson Mandela. Now take off your panties and let that pussy make a speech."
And she did.
Of course I don't have the photographs.
But tonight. After more purring and roaring and a little more drunken careening on the down trip, we are up here. Home again. And there is new email. A photograph of me taken across a table, a checked cloth and jar of syrup apart, I can see her smiling, though it could be any table, any syrup, I can see her smiling, a detached mouth hanging from the lens, a little nymph hanging off her teeth as the shutter whispers.
And here I am all pixilated and dressed in black with a Jesuit wide brim hat. Give me a new religion.
Chloe disrupts the indie rock calm of the Manhattan. She sashays Saturday night with glittering toenails wrapped in heels with more strap than is necessary-excess is best-and the nearly unheard of skirt. Heads turn as heads do whenever the door slams shut behind someone, but then heads snap back to whatever they were doing lest the girlfriend across the table in the paint stained overalls detect a pique of interest-the girlfriends' glitterless scornful glares-you bitch you tramp you whore you porn-enjoying feminism-destroying carnivore...
"Damn girl." Jimmy shits bolt upright when Chloe comes over, "you be looking fine tonight."
Chloe turns red. "I hate this town sometimes. In New York I'd be getting stared at for looking like a librarian."
"No trust me Chloe, New York couldn't miss you tonight. Or maybe New York is missing you tonight."
Our friend Jason the bartender, pulls up a chair and looks Chloe up and down. "You are aware of course that you're upsetting some carefully constructed mopishness here."
"No shit. Sil and I were just about to water down our drinks with a tear or two and suddenly it's a fucking party in here. I mean good lord Chloe I think I might want to sleep with you." Jimmy murmurs the end of his sentence, the top of his half raised bottle and then quickly puts it to his lips before anything less leaks out. But his head tilts to side, eyebrows shoot up and it's plain to see that it's only a joke if Chloe wants it to be.
Her head sinks down a touch and she sighs like someone suddenly exhausted.
"Or play with your breasts or something." He adds after swallowing.
"Jimmy if you are a good boy maybe someday you can play with these babies." She juts her chest out and then bounces her breasts for effect.
Jason the bartender is a mixture of aghast and unbridled lust. "What about me?"
"Actually you have a far better chance than Jimmy, who I was actually lying to just then. And now that I think about it Jason, I'm lying to you too in hopes that maybe you'll bring me another drink." She sucks her straw playfully.
He sighs. "Anybody else need anything?" He leaves to retrieve another round.
"So why were you about to cry in your beer boys?"
"Same reason you dressed up like that."
"But come on its satanic anagram night... you have to dress up for anagrams..."
"Right. I had forgotten about that little adventure..."
Jason returns with three more drinks. "What little adventure?"
This is the part where Chloe is supposed to explain it very innocently, and Jason is supposed to giggle or at least smile, but Chloe hesitates and Jimmy jumps in with a cover story-our anagrams are of dubious legality you see, not to mention ethics or taste or any number of other things.
"Oh we were just talking about going up to some of the party bars and turning it up a notch... there was some discussion of dancing." Jimmy manages to get this all out without a smile and then glues the beer to his lips and takes a long, probably too long, pull. Jason looks unconvinced, but he buys in.
"There's a good DJ tonight at whatever Mean Mike's is now." Most people in Athens refer to establishments by what they used to be before the scene took a dive-with bars coming and going with the semesters, it's hard to keep track of what things are called. The Manhattan on the other hand soldiers on. "You know next week we're having Moroccan night... Ya'll should come. I was skeptical at first but it seems like it might actually be fun. Gonna clear out the tables... get a bunch of pillows and some hucas and maybe even a belly dancer."
Jimmy hunches over in concern, "ya'll aren't going bankrupt are you?"
"No. Not yet. But it's definitively geared toward avoiding that."
"You know what you really need to do is implement the plan." Jimmy tilts his bottle as if toasting some abstraction.
"You love your plan don't you James." Jason weaves slightly in his chair he has a habit of doing what Chloe endearingly calls the body laugh. He wears a blank smile and almost imperceptibly rotates his torso without moving anything below his hips. It's a subtle but brilliant laugh, it makes entire rooms spin with him. Fake candle lights that have been fake flickering above our head suddenly leap out of the wall at me and start a conga line with their arms on each others' backs, kicking their legs out to alternating sides, clogging to the beat of Lola. And then he stops.
"Hey man, I'm telling you, bikini bartenders will draw in a hell of lot more people than Moroccan night or whatever."
"Not if I'm the one in a bikini."
"Hey Jason don't under-estimate yourself. I'd be in here more if you wore a thong." Chloe crosses her legs and grins at him. "But you know this is one of the few towns in the world where sex doesn't seem to sell."
"Girl you be talking crazy." Jimmy screws up his forehead into the self-conscious knot he favors when he attempts to propel himself out of his skin color and into the rainbow world of rants. His arms come up from his sides, called into the service of emphasis, and he launches into a diatribe, volume escalating as he takes off. "Just cause ya'll aren't trying to sell sex does not, emphatically does not, mean that it wouldn't work if somebody in this town had the balls to do it. Look here, all you gotta do is have one night a week with Kelly and Brittany in bikinis-or better yet-no offense to them-you know I love them-they're my girls-but recruit a couple of girls from the club and get them to serve wearing bikinis and this place will be fucking packed," He stands up and sweeps his arm across the room, "I mean look at these guys," he lowers his voice, waves to friend, "these guys are desperate for half-naked female flesh. They can't go down to the club because they'd loose face, but damnit they want to see naked women, and they'll settle for half, everybody wants to see half naked women, half naked women want to see half naked women... I'm for real Jason. And I know what you're gonna say it'll draw in the wrong crowd and that will alienate the cool people and whatever, but shit you only do it one night a week and that pays for the rest of the nights so it can just be a good bar and not end up bankrupt. Or you know what you could do..." he pauses for a minute and studies the conspicuous bamboo thrones chairs-king square backed, queen triangle-as if suddenly mulling over their significance. "What you could do is start a backroom game... Cards man. Get a couple of poker tables, maybe a blackjack table for the amateurs, girls in bikinis serving drinks and making the rounds with the cigarette trays... man that would be so fucking cool and of course you just charge twenty bucks for entrance and keep it real low-key. People would pay twenty dollars to sit in on a nice backroom game. Shit ask Sil people are fighting to get into our game-am I right Sil?-I mean that's what's wrong around here there isn't enough corruption-everything has been sanitized and made PG and damnit the people want R. Fuck it man the people want X, but they can't come out and say it. I mean ferchristsakes you can't even serve on Sunday-what the fuck is that about-it is the twenty first century isn't it? Sometimes I'm walking around downtown on a Sunday night and I have to pull out my checkbook and double-check the year... This town, this whole fucking country is begging for sex, corruption and debauchery. Of course I have to add the caveat that we don't need the racism and sexism and all that shit, but really have we gotten rid of that? Shit man try working construction for a few days, those mutherfuckers are every bit as racist as their daddys' were, they just whisper the jokes to each other now... and the sexism well I guess you could argue that my bikini bartenders idea is a touch sexist, but shit I mean the line between exploitation and enjoyment is a dicey one and frankly I think it would be a good idea to have you in a bikini as well, Jason. Maybe you should just hand them out at the door, everybody could be in bikinis and we could all just sit back and admire each other as the over-sexed, lecherous, debaucherous, and damn good lookin monkeys that we are." Jimmy sinks back down to the cushion-finis.
"It is a plan." Jason deadpans.
"See I like the end where the men are in bikinis... I'm an equal opportunity lecher." Chloe giggles at her own wit.
"Yeah, but," I do a quick survey of the room and then look down at my stomach, "are you sure you want to see a bunch of fat skinny guys in bikinis?"
"Fat skinny guys?" Jason looks at me quizzically.
"People like you and I, who do not, as our lean mean Jimmy over there, work construction or otherwise exercise and have the dreaded slightly pot-bellied body of the fast skinny guy. Scratch being the one who actually caused me to notice the phenomenon."
"Sil you are not fat. Have some respect. How do you think it makes people who really are fat feel when you say you're fat?" Chloe looks at me crossly. Her sister is over-weight. Everyone we actually know is over-weight, only strangers are fat.
"You're missing the point. I'm not saying I'm fat. I'm saying I'm fat for a skinny guy. It's a very important distinction."
Jason heads back to work,, pausing briefly to look at his profile in the mirror hanging between the throne chairs. He looks back at me and smiles and pats his stomach.
"Besides a little stomach is sexy. I wouldn't worry about it until you have handles." Chloe folds her legs up under her, sitting Indian style and lights a cigarette.
Jimmy, who has been silent for a few minutes, suddenly seems to snap back from where ever his mind has been. "Man I was just thinking about something or other... temporarily lost track of where I was and then I noticed Chloe and for a split second between synaptic firings I thought goddamn who is that?"
"Jimmy lay off. I let you get away with it for the novelty, but you're bordering on annoying now."
"Chloe you're lookin' so good I'm thinking maybe we should go for a ride..."
"Alright." She downs the rest of her drink in one long suck. "Yeah let's go for a ride."
It's heaven. No other way to say it. Complete with feathers, though here they are carefully stuffed. Only he-whose-name-may-not-be-uttered knows what divine substance they put on top of this mattress which, in other ways, resembles the one I have, although it's unlikely this one was left behind by a man moving to Australia. This one was purchased in all its consumer glory at some star-spangled mattress dealer-probably in Atlanta-probably by parental units desperate for some way to dispense love to the daughter who is not following the plan.
Whatever the case, the soft billowing pillow-top is the perfect thing to lie on, with your head hanging off the edge, after tying a few on as Jimmy puts it. We three are fallen dominos lying head to toe such that Chloe and I are separated by Jimmy's feet. Chloe has shed the skirt and strappy shoes in favor of sweatpants and converse. We are waiting. Waiting for the witching hour when all satanic things stir and muck about rearranging letters and such. Which is why we have all recently taken an internet quiz to determine which Norwegian Death Metal Band we are. On the stereo...may the good lord... shine a light on you...make every song... your favorite tune...
Darkthrone: Without religion there would be no kinky sex.
Enslaved: Without that strange Norwegian phrase which you didn't understand anyway you wouldn't be Darkthrone.
Darkthrone: Like you know one way or the other. The point to this whole thing- considering tonight's adventure-is that, in spite of mocking religion and yes being somewhat condescending toward it, without it half of the kink in this world would not exist. And like you said at the bar, there are those that think a totally healthy approach to sex would be a good thing, but personally I think it's a little boring. And I think religion deserves some credit here and there. The soft brush of the whip... [a descent into laughter]
Enslaved: Maybe. And Chloe, I have to say if anyone is having kinky sex it's Sil and Maya. You know they're freaks...
Darkthrone: Freaks? What do you mean freaks?
Enslaved: I mean you know they into some freaky shit. I mean come on. Look at the guy.
Cradle of Filth (aside): Jimmy laughs what I take to be a knowing laugh though I haven't the faintest idea why he proposes to be knowing. Mark Twain pointed out that, not only are humans the only animal capable of blushing, we're the only animal with the need to.
[M: Why do you want to fuck me in the ass so badly?
S: Because it won't go in. If it went in easy, all pornstar style, I'd be bored with it. Maybe. After twenty or thirty times
M: You want to go to a forbidden place...
S: Yeah I guess. Do we have to analyze it? I guess your ass is like Kubla Khan and shit.
M: (laughs)
S: I want to dine on honeydew and drink the milk of paradise.]
Darkthrone (evaluating): Is it true Sil? Wait, actually, I don't want to know.
Cradle of Filth: I have no idea what he is talking about. I own no whips.
Enslaved: Yeah but does your girlfriend?
Cradle of Filth: Of course. I mean why would I have them? She never comes down here and that whole thing can be embarrassing at random luggage search.
Darkthrone: Why is it that she doesn't come down here.
Cradle of Filth (after too much silence): I'm not sure actually. To tell you the truth, at first I didn't care because I love going up to Manhattan, but lately I have been thinking about that.
"Sorry. I wasn't trying to make you feel bad... I just assumed there was some good reason." Chloe sits up and turns to leans against the pillowed wrought iron of her headboard, she rests her legs on Jimmy's and lights a cigarette.
"Sometimes you can see the proverbial writing and just stare at it until it's meaningless letters and never read what it says." No one responds to this thought and I sit up and study Chloe's bedroom. Somewhere in here Noah turned the helm to its final unknown destination and abandoned ship. My own bedroom suddenly feels cold, hard and inadequate. Chloe's bedroom is colorful and soft, full of pillows and comforters and enormous mattresses buttressed against the mythology of the pea. The enormous candles and antique perfume sprayers feel loved, if they were in my bedroom they would look deliberate, items for sale in a junk store. Here they are transformed in the waves of candle light that break across the mottled crimson walls. Above the dresser pinned and peeling back from the wall is a portrait of William Blake. The conjunction of ceiling and wall is interrupted by a string of tiny blue lights causing the wall to fade from crimson to purple to the blue ocean of ceiling. Even Maya's bedroom lacks this kind of continuity, her antique hat rack draped with boas and chemises and nightgowns has always seemed slightly out of place-posing for a photograph. The only thing in my bedroom that means anything to me is a bag of rocks, a leather pouch I got at a tourist stand in New Mexico filled with the small stones they pulled out of what used to be my eyebrow. After that I started periodically adding rocks, pebbles really, to the pouch, pebbles that had never been a part of me. When I die I want the mortician to put them all back in my skin.
"Shall we?" Chloe stubs out her cigarette.
Suburbia three A.M. We have left the relative cool of Chloe's bedroom for the sticky streets of Athens.
"You think god wants to hang around heaven with a bunch of christians? How much fun is blind acquiescence? I mean look at celebrities, that's the closest thing we have to godheads right? So? Look who the smart interesting ones are always hanging around with... need I call to attention RS? I mean when you see him around town who is he with? People that don't give a fuck who he is... People that have know him long enough to know he's just another guy with personal problems. God wants to sit around with atheists and have a decent discussion. He wants dialogue. If he actually exists that is."
"Uh, hold up a minute, you lost me." Chloe shakes her head side to side as if it's going to clear up the bottle of wine her brain is swimming through. "Who is RS?"
"Resident Rock Star, slightly shortened..." Jimmy's voice has the faked patience of one explaining geometry to a sixth grader.
"Oh right. Sorry. Wasn't down with the lingo." She starts walking again. "But wouldn't it be pretty stupid to be an atheist and sitting in the same room with god?"
"Maybe. But what does it take to be god? I mean is god all-powerful because he just is? Or does his power come from people believing in him? In other words wouldn't god be most threatened by, and therefore interested in, those who would or do deny him the power to exist? I guess my idea of an atheist isn't someone who doesn't believe in god, but someone who isn't willing to accord him the power he demands. So in that sense, no I don't think it would be stupid... the world is a self-created phenomenon. And so is god's power."
"That's actually quite beautiful Jimmy." Chloe lets us pass her and then comes running up behind Jimmy and jumps on his back. "You make me want to be an anarchist." She kicks her heels against him and they take off down a long sloping hill that leads toward the graveyard. I walk alone through the darkness.
About a year ago Chloe decided that the propoganacid of Southern churches had eaten enough useless holes in her brain and she was going to fight back. She enlisted Jimmy and I in her efforts and now every Saturday night-after consuming copious amounts of alcohol-we go out and rearrange the letters on the signs. Last Christmas was my favorite. It was the same church we're going to do tonight, we changed JESUS IS THE REASON FOR THE SEASON, to SEASON THE FETISH, USE FOR REASON. We had a left over H several R's from another church on the other side of town, which Jimmy thinks is cheating, but he's outnumbered. Season the fetish was up for three days before anyone at the church noticed or bothered to change it back. It feels good to see your words in a marquee, luminous and two feet high. It feels even better to rid the world of banality, however small and insignificant a gesture it might be. Tonight's objective is PRAYER WORKS, which is going to be altered to GET YER HORSES, which is exactly the counter-intuitive kind of dissidence that Chloe loves. I thought, as long as we're adding letters, why not go with FUCK YER HORSE, but we agreed to no obscenities.
To get to this particular sign we have to pass directly through the church's cemetery, Cemeteries are best at dusk when the ghosts are just getting up, still sleep-eyed and prone to making noises, whispers of wind when there is no wind, rustles of grass where no animal is running, fingers scraping headstone marble, covered in lichens and half obscured by leaves, readable now in the moonlight ...died 1910...died 1947...died 1892...died....
Chloe and Jimmy are crouched silently behind a crypt, monstrous and out of place, a monument to the arrogance of a bloodline hiding behind the name Fortson, streets, parks, probably a non-profit agency for the advancement of southern quilting.... But it does make for good cover in our situation-dead Fortsons stacked on the other side of the concrete wall we lean against, unwittingly aiding and abetting the bored anarchism of fast retreating summer nights. Bodies, perhaps nothing but bone now, the last remnants of human debris having been sluffed off, skin and fingernail bits dusting the bottom of the worm eaten fabric liners, only bones, worn out and no longer needed, encased in wood or fiberglass or some polymer designed to spare the living the thought of what mess must be left after eighty years of decay. Synthetics, each the highest technology of its day desperately trying to hide the one inevitability we know, the failure of the organic in the field of permanence and yet even in death unwilling to return to organic origin, separate even in our rotting, still useless and detached. In myths we hide in the sky, Orion, the Pleiades, the Horsehead Nebula, clusters bloated with grandparents, great aunts, uncles from the revolution, tragic children in ribbons blowing pinwheel constellations, rotating galaxies, black holes of bitter pious old men, neutron stars for lonely celluloid fatales, dressed in silver and longing, but knowing all the while that the scaffolding is wood and fiberglass and workmanship. Constructs of carpenters and architects, city planners and funeral directors, sawdust and sweat from the living.
A quick game of rock/paper/scissors sends me scrambling up the terribly exposed grassy hill toward the sign, sweaty palms gripping the extra letters.
Prayer may work but you better get yer horses just in case.
At home I put in Jimmy's cd and stare at the phone. Maya. The phone. Bellsouth a bastard son of Bell labs. Maya all tangled in wires and switches and routers and gates and filters and then there she is. Maybe. No way to really know for sure. A voice. Flattened and dribbling out, amplified by more circuits and switches and more zeros turned to one and back again, but always one or the other. This to a background of mumbles and rasps. Mr. Dylan doing his naivist. The reverberations of something ancient and universal, perhaps a touch overwrought, but warm nonetheless. More zeros and ones and lasers and laboratory genius to span time and space. Not tonight. Only flesh will do tonight or the imitation of flesh through some archaic means. I want to hear you on an old crystal quartz, tinny speakers and Roosevelt having just signed off, a commercial for Burma Shave and Murray's Cream and then Maya, warm soft lips pressed to the silver screen of the condenser, to be able to see her, headphone clasped to one ear, just from the tone of her voice, the background rustle of sateen skirts and flower embroidered cashmere... To drive home a Model A, fedora cocked back, suspenders loosened, flowers wrapped in yesterday's newspapers... smile my way home to some Indiana farmhouse and find her waiting at the end of the dirt road, jumping on the running board and kissing the length of the driveway, holding her widebrimmed hat with one arm, the other wrapped around the rearview, lips suckled to mine and just keep driving and driving make wide open circles through rows of corn and elms and maybe a straight unbroken line as far as the eye can see, we stay like that clear through to the badlands of Wyoming...
I turn out the lights and walk in the bedroom. Mr. Dylan continues to... well it's not 'sing' is it... he makes up for it somehow... with shear will. Gut and will. Turning on the fan by the window, movement in my peripherals makes me jump back. Trapped between the helterskelter outside screen and the window is the most enormous, grotesque cockroach I have ever laid eyes on. It's over two inches in length and possesses a magnificent pair of wings, which click against the window as it tries to free itself. Hideous mini-arms extend from its head, enormous pincer-like implements that dredge up classic sci-fi monsters and celluloid nightmares of a thousand shapes and sizes, the auxiliary limbs are scraping at the liquid sand, a futile attempt to construct a glass pyramid or escape its condition or maybe one leads to the other. The screen which traps him against the window does not actually fit the window; it was too tall so I simply wedged it in place, knowing full well that this sort of entomological invasion would not be stopped by my makeshift buttress. Some instinct has driven him upward to the top of the window where the screen is closest to the glass. I watch him struggling to find an escape. You need to go down I tell him. I tap the glass and try to herd him on a downward path, but this only goades him to attempt flight, tearing his wings against the screen. They flake apart, crumbling piecrust wings sliding softly down the windowpane. And your saint-like face and your ghostlike soul, Oh, who among them do you think could destroy you... Mexico City: the blind beggars gouge out their children's eyes upping the pity ante and reach into those pockets a little bit deeper. Irony the petty buttressing of a child's sandcastle against a cresting tsunami, the last ditch architecture of those unused to confronting the raw, the unpitted, the full size ear of corn, the olive pre-canning, the reek of half fermented cheese, too far gone milk, rancid butter, the raw and its tendency toward, its preference for, the rot. Somewhere there are great piles of children's eyes, some horrifying physical monument, empty eye sockets through the sticky haze, the red and white tattered woven blankets on which the beggars sit, old women starving in the shadows, the gasoline sunrise in Guatemala, cresting over the decomposing bodies of mass graves...flying right out of gaping empty eye sockets. Something to stop the leaks. Something that feels like it will never die but is transient, malleable, and divinely human. Something holy to sift through our garbage and find the discarded gems languishing on piles of steaming filth. No one goes down anymore. Everything at once delicate and obscene and the phone unplugged.
Lying down on the bed, back against the wall, cigarette between the lips, ashtray cradled on the stomach... There is a pounding again. Indistinct, from far off, the beating of wings in the distance-wind working the leaf-chimes, water on the percussion and our very special guest this evening, please give him a warm welcome...all the way from Peking on the back of a butterfly... the same temperature as the sun...crowd goes wild... But it all serves as clutter to hide the silence, the darkness just outside the careful window, the translucent edges of Dylan's nasal protest, between the safer glimmering of distant windows, Jimmy's windows, vaguely Chloe's, voyeur glimmers, other safely walled eyes watching the darkness but unable to bear it on the skin, the dreadful doubts and opposition held at bay by the baptismal liquid, fire roasted sand to keep us from having to...But the beating of wings, the distant rumble of was-it-only thunder, or something more watching in the shadows our cartoon lives, zoo exhibits behind glass...There are rumors. And bones. Bones of the roman churches-stronger than any prophet's stuttering murmurs-bones that never turned to dust, preserved and immobile to make you wonder, did their owner only step out for the papers? Did a whole culture step out for the paper together? Do the ghosts of mass graves congregate together to huddle and hold to watch the fearful show carry on without, huddled all together, hoarse voices in the shadows decided to make it impossible to leave-don't think that because you never pulled the trigger you're innocent-as if culpability required action-to get clear of this you see... cacophonous sine waves, disarrayed, and carrying in our wake the sewage of useless entrails falling from the butcher's block. Men in black robes and others in white coats all singing glory glory hallelujah around a glowing metallurgic altar. Ambulance sirens wailing as they round the corner... faces fade into the road, beaten, bruised and swollen. Others watch from distant buttes spattered in blood, endless blood; rivers of blood running down the chopping block as the butcher frantically dices ever smaller... roasts into steaks, into filets, into shish-ka-bobs, into hors d'oeuvres, into mashed paste, pate, and finally only watery blood, running off the block and out into the street gathering speed as it moves over hills, lifting up, pooling in the great valleys and lapping at the butte shores as they dance naked around bonfires.... Geysers of blood sprout from a ground that can no longer contain itself; blood bank employees hang hoses into the street and collect a year's worth before they drown in it. Towns and cities are swallowed whole, the blood oozes down from the north, from the land of the bleached-skin cave dwellers, trickling over the Mediterranean drowning the Elysian Fields and then the Nile runs red. Africa is laid waste and the oceans swell and wash over Canada and America. Tidal waves of blood a thousand feet high and moving 200 miles an hour fueled by the energy of a comet that lands in the midst of the riparian blood-world and blows it all back out into space, powders all life into a fine dust that settles over everything, over the mountains and valleys and oceans, and the remaining rivers of blood, until what is left is absorbed into the heart core of history leaving behind fresh cool water that pools and settles slowing to a gentle meander, out to the sea, shiny brown bodies glistening from the humidity, from the endless sweat that pours off...the sky was screaming a cerulean sound... I want to be baptized, to be held down under the muddy red water until I can no longer hold my breathe and inhale the murk in desperate gulps...the metallic taste enveloping me...and never go to sleep.
FOUR
Vague vulgarities-nothing so meaningful-all this around us-disassociated translucent film from the dentist X-ray-orgonomic sunshiny day-rats creeping across the ceiling in bibelot herds-rattle of bones-do-make-say-think-sweat-buzzing-insects-
fumbling-cigarette-lighter-flame-inhale-exhale.
What is that far off hideousness? That infernal twang drifting out of the otherwise solemn jungle? It's leaking in between the chinks of rotten caulk around the window. Or maybe it has always been in here just waiting for the right moment to switch itself on. All it needed was that last little E that it found this morning under the curious lichen clump that has sprung up around the toilet, one little E and it's on-one. No I have to get out of bed and find a Z and R neither of which are where I thought I left them, just an empty plastic bottle with a peeling sticker...leve... V is so close to Z but right now I need a Z and V's just won't cut it. Soldier heavily to the fridge. Pour tall glass of water. Consume without breathing. Pant for a moment. Wait, stop. The twang is gone. Must have been a Z or two in that water. I like to think its all H's and O's, but ground water is unpredictable. Liable to be most anything lurking in there and the carbon filter of the Brita is a good defense but some things, like Z's, are damn sneaky.
Most likely it was Scratch. He is convinced he can play the banjo he got from his mysterious absentee girlfriend, who, from what we gather, is somewhere down there. How far is inconclusive, though Jimmy claims its Costa Rica. But that could just be an assumption he made because with Scratch everything ends up in Costa Rica sooner or later.
Scratch is the poorest millionaire I've ever met. Like most people I met Scratch because of a bad set of directions. This morning Scratch looks part lunatic, part sage. He is sitting in the tire swing in front of his house, a wistful look on his face; he reminds me of a potatohead toy with a pasted on goatee and slightly askew lips, eyes that look out of order, screwed up and glinting earnestly. He's stripped to the waist with his T-shirt wrapped around his head like a turban. He's hunched over plucking at the banjo looking a touch toward the dwarf end of the spectrum, though he would be some freakish dwarf who tipped back one too many rBGH laden pints -He's six feet tall and going bald-but with his butt hanging down his legs appear foreshortened and silly swinging a couple inches off the ground.
Scratch is a self-inflicted nickname, but sometimes you have to do that to avoid something much worse coming your way, pre-emptive strike. Harm reduction the Pentagon calls it. I always figured the name came from the way he itches his head when he's trying to find the words he needs, or the way his hands wipe over his face when he sits back on the couch. It's like he's making sure he still has skin.
Scratch's house is not technically on the same land as mine, I have to traverse the outer edge of the ridiculously large chunk of land that a poor unsuspecting yuppie thought would be a good investment. Technically, Scratch has told me, the yuppie owns everything within about ten feet of the back of my cottage, but he put his fence in about a hundred yards further back, which means that I can cut around the back of my house, drop down in the gully and follow it for about a half mile and I come to Scratch's doorstep. This is the long way around but it's easier than marching across the yuppie's back lawn, tangling with his dogs and pregnant wife. Scratch and his banjo are high on the yuppie's to do list.
"You're late." He barks when I hear me.
I sit down on his chopping stump. "Late night."
"Girls?" He sets down the banjo.
"Does Chloe count?"
"Does Chloe count? The gem of Athens? For you no. For me no. For everybody else...." He ducks under the top of the tire and leans back arms extended. He emits a long groan that doesn't quite cover up the crackle of vertebrae.
"The gem of Athens...? Scratch do you have a thing for Chloe?"
"The appreciation of beauty is my life Sil. Chloe is second only to Leah." He pulls himself back up and ducks under the top of the tire again. He hesitates for minute and then executes a weird, but graceful bodyvault from the tire swing, landing on his left leg, right one hovering just off the ground. He lowers it slowly and smiles at me. "Eh? Pretty good for a guy that fell fourteen thousand feet huh?"
"Graceful as ever." I shiver whenever Scratch mentions the accident.
"Where is our beauteous one this morning?"
"Dunno. You woke me up with the banjo... I didn't go over there. Jimmy did say he had to work today though."
"That's okay you'll do. It's not that hard. Just need someone to hold the bottles."
Jimmy weaseled the spare bottles from Five and Ten. They weren't watching when he installed the air conditioning in the kitchen. They were busy vomiting from the heat of summer afternoons, compounded by ovens, rangetops, a dozen burners, an open grill, a sanitizer, the thermometer below his ladder was spiked at 130 and people were trying to cook. He slipped out with a case of red table wine-3.99 a bottle at the store. Perhaps they did see him and just figured drinking them would be punishment enough.
Scratch has a habit of muttering things under his breath. At first I figured it was just an eccentricity of age and I paid little attention, but I quickly learned that these half-heard fragments were the real gems.
"How's that?" I have, after much rehearsing, come up with a series of open-ended questions for extracting repetitions of his cryptic mumblings. Asking "what" all the time frustrated him and stalled our friendship until Chloe pointed it out to me. She was also the one who informed me that Scratch was fabulously wealthy.
"Oh," He says waving his hand dismissively, "I was just thinking about blind pigs."
"Blind pigs? Is that some southern kink?"
He chokes on barnacles again. "No, actually I don't think it was regional, but maybe. I dunno. Blind Pig was a name... or actually I think it was the password maybe... it was either what you called or what you said to get into a speakeasy during prohibition. I was just thinking perhaps I should institute a password for the game... blind pig came to mind." He claps his hand to his forehead, fingertips on his hairline, and slowly drags them down pulling his jaw and stretching his cheeks until his fingers reach his chin. "Come on I got a new sculpture."
Two things assured our friendship after our first curious meeting in the gully. The first was Ford trucks, specifically 1969 Ford trucks which he owns and I covet, and the second was a penchant for shooting pieces of wood, though, admittedly, Scratch's shooting is far more beautiful than anything Dean and I ever created. At some point in the distant past Scratch embarked on an artistic endeavor he calls Stump-Shots, which involves him finding fallen trees, chain sawing off the body, leaving the intact stump, and then blasting away at them with a sawed off shotgun full of rock salt. The forest is dotted with these weird pockmarked carvings of his. His newest is a birch stump about two hundred yards past his house. Six months ago, far too early in spring for electrical storms, the tree was nevertheless hit by an errant bolt of lightening, which also fried Scratch's lamps, toaster, iron and chandelier-the sum total of his electrical devices-and split the tree neatly in two. This tree however, did not fall down, or rather it did not fall on its x-axis, it fell straight down into itself. Scratch thinks there was a nail or bolt or some kind metal in it that grounded the lightening about four feet off the ground. Whatever the case, it blew apart a section of the trunk and the rest of the tree fell straight down onto the spiked, fragmented stump and stuck there. Somehow it manages to continue living, and so Scratch has been sculpting the jagged extrusions that spike out from the trunk. Some of them are four feet long and over a foot wide. Today's project is on the mossy north side of the trunk a curving, open-wound looking protuberance that Scratch takes aim at and blasts away. Scratch and the shooting are also high on the yuppie's to do list.
After the second shot he absently unhinges the gun and studies his work. "Kinda looks like that barrier island area off Belize doesn't it?"
I nod, unwilling to admit I'm not that familiar with the coast of Belize.
"Or a reclining woman. Course that would be a Degas girl..." Chuckling ensues followed by a thoughtful pause while shoving more cartridges in the gun. "Isn't it strange that our ideal of female beauty couldn't get laid to save her life a few hundred years ago...? Kinda makes you wonder about the source of your desires huh?"
"Not really, Scratch." He turns toward me as if I have undercut some profundity he has been waiting all morning to distill. "I mean I know my ideals are cultural hand-me-downs... everybody know that, but what does that mean?"
"See all ya'll have all this information and no understand of what it means. Those of us who came to these conclusions for ourselves don't have that problem."
"Okay then old man, what does it mean?"
"Nothing." He raises the gun to his shoulder and laughs pulling the trigger. The salt completely misses the target and scatters through the undergrowth wagging branches and puncturing leaves. Scratch can't stop laughing. He points the gun straight up, pulls the trigger and takes off hobbling back toward the house. There is a split second in which I am profoundly disoriented and then I take off after him.
I pass Scratch about fifty feet from the house and spy Chloe swinging in lazy circles on the tire swing. She looks up, startled by our ruckus approach.
"Are you okay?"
"Huh? Yeah why?" The sad truth is that a two hundred yard run is desperately stretching my physical capabilities. I bend over hands on my knees greedily sucking humid air.
"Well I heard the gun and then you're running..."
"Oh no. It's cool. Scratch was just overemphasizing a point."
Scratch lopes up laughing and out of breath. "Everything is wonderful Chloe," he manages between pants. He collapses down on the chopping block. Sweat trickles down his face. "I got a letter from Leah yesterday... She said to tell you hello and many thanks."
This is clearly some element of Scratch's life that I am not privy to. I can't stop myself from thinking it's sexual. Some personal confusion between the sexiness of secrets and the sexuality of my friends. I know it's not sexual, but yet it feels sexual-clandestine, vague, whispered-everybody is having an orgy but you.
"That's nice of her. Tell her I said it was nothing." Chloe closes the book in her lap and jumps off the tire. "Are we going to do this or what?"
"Yes yes." Scratch lumbers to his feet and limps off toward the door. "Come on you two..." he hollers over his shoulder.
"Have you ever had mead?" Chloe asks as we walk inside.
"No."
She drops her voice to a whisper, "it's very sweet." She sticks out her tongue.
"I can't stand the stuff myself." Scratch grumbles having heard Chloe's whispers.
"Then why did you make it?"
"It's fun." He drags two enormous clear jugs out from the shadowy recesses of his pantry. His house is dark enough that he probably could have left them in the middle of the living room and they would have fermented just as well. The musty linen draperies of the bay window are perpetually drawn shut and what light that does filter through is diffused to the point of seeming confused about its role in the room. It feels extraneous and steps lightly around the upturned walnut stump on whose roots an abstract glass shape is precariously balanced. Delicately now against the cedar walls-not wood paneling, actual cedar, splinters and all- slinking along the far wall, edging over the couch, meeting with its cohort that took the other wall and had to navigate a collection of books that shames many Oregon libraries, teetering in decayed peach crates, collapsing against each other until it's hard to tell whether they are holding up the books or the books them. Light sneaking over the cracked spines and curled paperback covers, under the watchful eyes of Alfred Stiglitz and Georgia O'Keefe who've been waiting in the recesses between the crates where the light was not expecting them, where once there were indeed crates in their place but now in lustful ambush Alfred and Georgia groping after the light in ways that make the light uncomfortable and anxious to be off and there it is... its glowing brethren from the other wall...the two sides meet up like Victorian gentlemen, blushing, but tipping their stovepipe hats, as they nearly bump into one another in the brothel hallway, and then it's a hasty retreat to the kitchen window where they slink back out into the afternoon sun.
Above the couch is a shelf of bric-a-brac photos mostly of buildings and a handful of people standing in front of stoves or arms extended holding plates of food. There is a clipping of Scratch dressed sharply in a chef coat and checkered chefware pants smiling on the cover of Food and Wine magazine. Separated by an antique bird cage complete with a stuffed finch Scratch calls Mabel, are another collection of photographs of people standing in front of airplanes, some smiling, some looking a touch nervous. One small picture in a frame whose borders are decorated with notes from the crescendo of the fourth movement of the ninth symphony is a rather terrified looking Debra Winger with her arm bravely wrapped around Scratch's waist.
Hung prominently above the shelf and never escaping comment by first time visitors is a giant picture of Scratch buck naked save the parachute on his back, plummeting toward the out of focus grey-brown desert below him.
Chloe is stacking the bottles in rows on the kitchen table. Scratch is attaching what looks like surgical tubing to the rubber stoppers at the mouth of each jug. The mead is a tawny amber that looks archaic against the antiseptic stainless steel table. I lean up against the monstrous stove, complete with rangetop and massive ceiling vent, which Scratch took out of the kitchen of his last restaurant.
"The secret," Scratch says pinching and squeezing the tubing down in the bottle, "Is to make sure you don't get the bottom inch or so into the bottle."
"Is that the bad part or something?" Chloe sets down the last bottle and sinks into a chair.
"Well, personally I don't think any of it is that good, but yeah the bottom is what you really don't want." Satisfied with the work he heaves the jug up to the table thumping it down on a six-inch stack of newspapers. From my vantage point, the far side of the jug reflects a skewed convex headline-better things are coming.
Scratch commences sucking until the mead is running into the first bottle by means of miraculous suction. Once in Mexico I saw a bus driver use the same method to retrieve gas from a taxi, which came rushing out faster than he had anticipated and exploded out the sides of his swollen cheeks. He had the presence of mind to put the hose into the jug before turning green and commencing the vomit. Scratch just coughs and his eyes puddle up.
"Whew... Damn." He gasps and spits in the sink. "Still needs a week or two." He cracks the primitive icebox and retrieves a carton of orange juice. "Not that bad though. He drinks straight from the carton and smacks his lips "not bad at all with a chaser."
There comes a far off lowing sound that tickles my leg. "What the hell...?" Scratch sets down the carton, "Is there a cow out there?"
"No. Sorry, that's my phone." I dart out the back door into the caustic white of afternoon. I have to squint and feel slightly dizzy as I answer.
"Sil? It's me." Her voice crackles with digital lust, but all curl and Q's flattened to hiss. The treetops are swinging around me, the bleached dry sand crunching under my disoriented stagger.
"Maya? What are you doing?"
"Well," she giggles, "I was just calling to tell you that I'm at home and I'm naked and lonely..."
I try to find something to say, but standing in the middle of boring midday sun of Scratch's backyard nothing comes. Somewhere thousands of miles up from here Maya is naked and wanting me. I have an urge to bolt into the woods and not stop running until I get to her or far enough away from her that I'm full circle to her.
"I have my hand on my pubic mound..."
She breaks through my awkward silence. "Ick. Don't say pubic mound." I shake my head as if she can see me.
"Why?"
"I dunno it sounds like something Teddy Roosevelt and the Rough Riders are going to come charging up... bayonets glinting and whatnot..."
"Kinky. I like men on horseback... Can you be my cowboy this afternoon? We haven't done that one yet."
"I can't right now. I'm kinda in the middle of something."
Her voice thins out, no longer clipped by compressors, simply flat. "That sucks."
"Can I call you later?"
"What if I said I have my hand down inside my panties?"
"I thought you were naked."
"I am. Except for my panties."
"How many times do we have to..."
"You know you like it when I say panties." There is a pause. "I want you to say it and then I'll let you go."
"Okay. I like it when you say panties."
"That's what I thought." The line goes dead.
I shoot a glance back toward the house, but if they heard my end of the conversation, I'll never know. The door is open but the darkness inside is impenetrable. I don't care anyway. Or I don't want to care. I walk back inside and they are sitting on the couch drinking Pabst.
"Maya?" Chloe arcs her eyebrows.
"Yeah"
"Of course it was," Scratch laughs and looks at me with a mischievous green jello glint in his eyes, "who else calls him on that phone?"
"Every now and then my dad calls." This sounds lamer than I intended. They say nothing. "Mead all bottled?"
"Yup. Be ready in a week or two." Scratch seems over enthusiastic about it as if incredibly relieved to be out of an awkward silence.
I stare at him willing the awkward silence back. Scratch sits forward on the couch wipes his hands vigorously up and down his face and retrieves a tupperware container from the coffee table. He sits back resting it on the crest of his fat-skinny-guy belly. Out of it he produces a bud of marijuana and pair of scissors, which he uses to trim off a few leaves and buds. As he begins to roll a joint, the light in the room seems to perk up. It starts to pool around him, enveloping his body, wrapping it like a mummy. He leans forward again for the remote, and, after a bit squinting and face rubbing, the speakers emit a gentle finger-plucked guitar sound crawling all the way from Nebraska across the hand woven Mexican rug on the floor. Soft eighth notes tiptoeing through the room, jumping on the table to a scatter of ash and dust and errant leaves of weed, but steadily and with direction and purpose, heading for Scratch. A corporeal mosaic forms around him, sound and light interwoven... and I haven't smelled anything in while... drawing to him, a film running backwards, a battery being charged, the book shelves are leaning in... this is how Stiglitz and O'Keefe were found... the plants bending to the Scratchtropic influence, leaves fanned out in hopes of some future expulsion, some radiation, some giving back, the necessary exhale to this massive huffing and huffing of all available resources, stalk gone turgid bracing for the future force of it... knowing that when he finally lets go, when he talks his voice will be a howling wind peeling off glacial peaks, ducking over the pitiful bottling company and its liquor store displays carving valleys in a single blast the sound following afterward in a wake. Or. Maybe it will leak out slowly, in the way he moves, steady and deliberate, he will mumble or whisper echoing the wind beating the roof, and whole Serengetis of meaning are lost in the silence of his hand. He saves them for later. He eats them when he is alone. His mouth is a microwave. He re-heats, re-charges his words under his tongue, little kernels of corn erupting as he chews them around in silence, mashing light and sound, wave and note, oceans and deserts.... He goes to talk to himself and nothing but popcorn spills out.
"Why is it that you don't come visit me?" Late April we're lying in bed, hooked and crooked around the rumpled clothing and sheets which are scrunched down to pillowcase size and bunched between her legs. A leather boot is trying to crawl up my ass, and I head it off by rolling on my side which sends Maya's head up off my chest just as I reach the end of my question. They are shooting a movie on the street downstairs. It's a what's-his-name action vehicle. Every so often we here "action" and "cut" over the ambient discord of Sixth Avenue.
"You know my life is here in New York... this is where I need to be right now." She speaks with the conviction of any recent immigrant. She has absorbed the vertical velocity of ninty-nine story buildings. She wants that cinematic sweep from the Bronx to the Fire Island breakers, sketching indigo and pulsing with the semen of six million teeming... old grade school jokes about the depth of the vagina and length of the penis and the resulting imbalance that yields six hundred feet of virgin pussy just outside the window and everyone, every man woman and struggling model in this city believes it's out there, just waiting for them to push through the Hymen Tunnel and into the unfurrowed promised land. "Anyway, you were the one who said we needed to have our own lives. I thought independence was 'the most important thing' to you. You know you broke my heart when you left LA."
"When I left LA? You're the one who got on an airplane the night after we met."
"For a month Sil. I came back and then you left for god knows how long it's been now... I'm starting to think that I must have some alienation abandonment issue with my father because I sure seem willing to... nevermind what does it matter? All this is past and conjecture and meaninglessness... you're here another forty-eight hours and this is how were going to spend it?" She sits up on her elbow and looks accusingly through the dissolving plume of cigarette smoke.
"No it's not. I just wanted to know why you never come down to visit me. I'm not asking you to move in with me or to drop your life or anything. I just thought maybe you know... we could spend some time together in my world."
"You act like I'm some kind of high maintenance city girl." She flicks her ash out the open window. "I came down there four months ago Sil. I like your life down there. I had a good time, but right now there are so many things going on it's just crazy... I barely have time to drop everything and spend time with you this week."
Busyness. Flickers and flashes, action and cut. Subways storming the bridges, greedy tendrils, roots clawing up out of the ground. "You act like I'm some kind of backwoods hick. You know I lived in LA for over twenty years... Forget it. I like New York. I like coming to see you here. I like to get away from Athens every now and then. Wait. Did you say you think you have abandonment issues with your father?"
She giggles. "The thought has occurred to me. I mean I live in a city with no shortage of bachelors and I'm with you... I mean I'm in love with you, that's why I'm with you, but I'm just saying if someone else, some outsider were looking at my life what would they think."
"Did your father abandon you?"
"No. But he was out of town a lot."
It's difficult to tell how long we have been this way. For some time I have been able to hear the mead. It's a long low moan, a lovesick bovine moan, some final protest of sugar against the decay into alcoholic oblivion. The jars gently rattling as if patiently rocking a crying child, running fingers through hair It's alright now, it won't be that bad thoughtful but meaningless, perhaps secretly thinking to themselves that they would like to crawl up in a ball and let the springworks go like a Panama City hotel on fire. Through the primordial haze now a light penetrates, the first rays after the nuclear winter of the comets, just three mammals around to witness. And of course a fourth to break the spell with style.
"Godamnit what the hell is going on here?" I can see Jimmy's silhouette in the doorway or at least I am aware that the silhouette in the doorway must be Jimmy, but I can't really see anything, the setting sun is not afraid of Scratch's house at all, it's Roman red pushing through the door in search of Christians for hungry kitties... none in here you sick fucks...
"Sil, there are cowboys on the roof. I cannot work with cowboys on the roof. I can't get the cowboys off the roof." Jimmy again. He is insistent on this communication thing... great gods in heaven he has turned off the music... Jesus what is this noise...its...its...punk rock. Time to give in. Straighten up. Fly right. Bathroom. Close door. Drain. Zip, for the love of god do not forget to zip and even more important-damnit should have thought of this first-tuck, but its okay the tucking appears to be ingrained. Ah yes, there it is, water on the face, down the gullet, engage in some Scratch-esque face wiping. Alright. Now how was that? Why are there cowboys on the roof? Who put cowboys on the roof?
"These mutherfuckers are crazy," Jimmy is pacing, "I can't fucking deal with cowboys on my roof. Stupid fucking south Georgia hicks.... Red. Man I tell you these are some red mutherfuckers." He smiles. "I mean shit it's kinda funny I guess, but damn. I just can't work with them around. And they're wearing cowboy boots... who the fuck," he extends his arms incredulously, "wears cowboy boots on a slick, tar-papered, forty-five degree slope?" He gestures toward the tupperware, "Scratch you mind if I roll one?"
"Help yourself. What are you doing to the house with cowboys on the roof?"
"I'm supposed to be putting a porch off the back, they got these steps... it's about six feet off and sloping downhill so I gotta run out some joists from the floor beams...you know through the wall and then built a little screened in deck and ninety degree turning stairs... pretty complicated carpentry you know? I mean not really it's all brute force shit, but I can't fucking work with goddamn south Georgia redneck cowboys clomping back and forth on the roof all day talking about niggers and whores and dripping tar all over my joists-what is wrong with these people? Have you seen cowboys on roofs before? I have never seen a cowboy on a roof."
"No. Never seen a cowboy on a roof... you're sure they were cowboys?" Scratch hobbles to the icebox and grabs a six-pack.
"I mean... I guess. They had the boots. They had the hats. The had the twang. They drove Chevy trucks...
"'Nuf said." Scratch smiles at me. "Well smoke that and try not to think about it."
Can you feel the fingers in your hair? Try not to think about it... there is nothing in the closet... do you want me to open it? For the love of god no. Don't open it. I'm not thinking about her. It. I'm not thinking. Heel-clicking there are no cowboys on the roof... there are no cowboys on the... there are no cowboys at all.
"The mead's all bottled? Yeah? How long?"
"Well normally two weeks in the bottle, but I had to gulp a little getting the siphon working and think a week will do."
"Won't the fermentation create pressure? I mean won't it burst the bottles?"
Jesus. That low moaning again. Maybe it's a groaning, maybe it's not the decay but the pressure...we want out... we never asked to be fermented. The original recipes call for ergot, a hallucinogenic fungus on certain grains. We left that out. Most of us never get over memories salted with distance and snapshots kept in ghosted albums on dusty shelves anyway. Fermentation is the slow breakdown of structure over time. Help! I'm melting! The sugar in honey is slowly changed by the acidity of the citrus. It's like snow melting from and ground up by the heat and decay of last falls leaves. Eventually there would be only a thin shell of snow, were it not for the cataclysm of the sun crashing down on the other side. In the end, sweetness becomes mead. Yellowed photographs crumble. Bedsheets stain and crust. Old Fords too long in the driveway choke and sputter charcoal, engine chaises rust, valve seats loose their youthful bounce... even your bones turn brittle-unless you fall out of an airplane first.
Chloe slowly sits up and reaches for a beer. "Just take the next couple of days off, wait til the cowboys are gone."
"Oh I took the next two weeks off. I mean no point in putting down a nice deck and then having tar dripped on it." Jimmy lights the joint and exhales slowly. He offers it around but gets no takers. "Solo? Alright. I need it."
The cave-like silence returns for a minute or two. Jimmy seems to create some sort of energetic opposite to Scratch's vacuum, neutron stars orbiting each other. Jimmy smokes the joint about half way down and then gently taps it out in the ashtray. He smiles for minute and then decides to share. "Okay so this isn't like something I normally do, but it had interesting results so I'm gonna share... After getting hot tar dripped on me for the millionth time I went inside to see if they had some solvent or something right? Well nobody's home. I holler around for a bit and then I think fuck it... forget all about the tar-which, as it turns out comes off pretty easy with tar-off-start snooping around the house. It's one of those old houses off Boulevard, but the couple that owns it are nuevo-rich... you know Scratch, saucing it up with the Truffle oil like it's ketchup?" Scratch grimaces and nods. "So at first I'm digging through the medicine cabinet for anything interesting, actually I lifted a couple darvocets..." Jimmy giggles.
"Jimmy that's horrible." Chloe with her mock angry voice. "Can I have one?"
"Yeah sure, but wait... It gets much worse." He bends forward laughing and then scratches the back of his head and screws up his face as if building courage for a new level of confession.
"Did you sniff her panties?" Scratch beams like a jewel thief passing on the secrets of the trade. "You sniffed her panties didn't you?"
Jimmy falls off the edge of the couch laughing. "Yeah. I did."
"Jimmy!" I can't believe..." Chloe grabs a magazine, roles it up and starts swatting him on the head.
"Wait! Hold up ya'll!" He rolls out of Chloe's range. "Damn girl... Look I know it's fucked up..." backward glance at Chloe, some attempt at suppressing laughter. "Damn... But you know, I was standing there in the bathroom when the idea occurred to me and to tell you the truth I started laughing the minute I realized I was gonna do it. It's just one of those things that you never think to do, I mean unless your actually fucked up enough to get off on that sort of shit, but most guys, like myself, A) never have the opportunity to do something like that and B) when they do have the opportunity to do that don't think to do it... cause you know it's not like I wanted to get off on it... I just wanted to know..."
"James William Miller..."
"Oh come off it Chloe. You're not my mom. You wanted a pill damnit. I stole the pill. I mean suppose the woman was in pain and needed those pills... that's all fine and good, but sniff some panties and you're all pissed? Don't get high and mighty with me. Besides you've sniffed a few jock straps yourself haven't you?"
"Actually no. I haven't." Chloe crosses her legs and glares at him. But then a smile breaks over her face. "But I have stolen underwear from a few guys because I wanted to have a souvenir."
"See I knew it. But you have totally distracted me from my original point, which was the magazines... No not those magazines, damn ya'll are some repressed mutherfuckers... National Geographic Magazines..." Jimmy inches by Chloe and sits back down in the middle of the couch. "I sat there reading National Geographic for like two hours, well, actually not reading just leafing through looking at the pictures. But after two hours of that I started wondering about everything I know...Do you ever get the feeling that tribal people sitting around swatting flies or sticking sticks in anthills to get grubs...or is that monkeys? I forget, whatever, but do you ever start to suspect that perhaps these people are leading much fuller lives? Look at the eyes of the people in National Geographic sometime and tell me you don't start to wonder if perhaps we have missed the point of life entirely." No one says anything, his voice gets quieter, "and in some weird way I think that's why I had to do it, even though it's a reversal of cause and effect, I had to do it because I need to be that close, not invasive, though we perceive it as such now, but think about it, smell... smell is the original identity, the animal scent, the recognition of one's fellow creatures. I smell you and therefore you are not me and then, I mean goddamn, that's what opens the door to everything."
"You think we'd all be better off sniffing each other?"
"Scratch I'm serious here. I think that the reason we're so distant from each other is that we've walled ourselves up. We got hung up on the threat response-you are not me and therefore I must guard against you-rather than the hey how you doing response that I see in other animals. I mean Chloe, Annie sniffs crotches right? It's her way of understanding... of knowing." Scratch hands Jimmy the joint which is once again burning. He takes a long drag and speaks as he exhales, "I'm not saying we should sniff each other's underwear, I'm just saying that's the kind of closeness we're going to need if we're all ever going to get along in this world. Well, that and the collapse of the whole religion and nation-state concepts, but I think those are inevitable in a world with the kind of closeness that I want."
Scratch takes the joint back from Jimmy and stares intensely at him for awhile taking little hits of smoke into his lungs in quick succession. "When I go Jimmy, I want you to come."
"It's beautiful isn't it Sil?" Maya in her painfully stylish charcoal overcoat, the recent dry chill rustling them, a few falling off here and there. Thanksgiving in Central Park, playing frisbee and watching the cirrus turn pink and lavender and now tightly hugging against the faint but persistent breeze. "But kind of sad too don't you think?" She shivers and pulls tighter. "Did you know leaves aren't their true color until they die? I mean the leaf is green because the tree give it chlorophyll and stuff, but then when the tree stops, then the leaves reveal themselves."
"That's a depressing thought."
"Maybe. But it's beautiful too." She has a wistful look of absolute satisfaction with the world that makes me uncomfortable.
"The leaves are the tree though. The tree is the leaves. They aren't separate from each other. They don't exist in some vacuum. We're the ones who are seeing them as separate."
"Maybe. But if that's my perspective then isn't the oneness just yours?"
"Perhaps." We start to walk back across the fields toward the subway. "But we monkeys seem to be the only ones with this overly acute sense of self. I mean if you set aside the usual way of thinking about it couldn't you say that you and I are in fact one entity?"
She smiles. "That sounds great and all, but we're not. Especially not us. I'm here, you're down there."
"Maybe our loneliness is in failing to see that we aren't apart at all. Maybe loneliness and longing are just the result of some isolation from ourselves. Maybe if we stop breaking things into pieces based solely on our own distortions and isolation, we would see through this parts/whole dilemma... we'd see something interconnected, a kind of ever-evolving beauty of process-poetry through motion, through seeing the through."
"But we are separate Sil. It doesn't matter how eloquent you want to get about. The leaves still die every year."
"How do you know they die? Changing color could be only the beginning for the leaves. The leaves don't die because they're still part of an ongoing process. Thinking of brown leaves as dead is only our misconception of what life is. Or even if they do die, everything that dies comes back. These leaves lying there on the ground, breaking apart into food for the tree, soil nutrients, that sort of stuff... It gives the trees the material to produce new leaves for a new year. Are the new leaves actually new? In a sense, the dead brown leaves are climbing back up the trunk of the tree and emerging out of it green again."
"Maybe. I kind of like that idea. The leaves fall for the tree so it can survive the winter and then help it grow in the spring.... But the tree is still never going to fall for the leaves."
FIVE
Trust bed-eponymous arrivals-perishables-wild honey-summer's by the sea-here comes the argument-geography's ants-implications-dissemination-the grid-through which-an ideal world gains-increasing the frequency-clear endless borders-the sound has so much body-dum dee dee der der dee-becoming-oom duh oomp-unbecoming-click de clack de clack de click de clack oom dee oom dee oomp-
The hum the hum the fingers the beat the whining dance the drip drip drip tick tick tick here they come spilling out the sand the pills the time the mold on the tortillas the notes dripping down the speaker cones treble to middle to bass the electric whirl of fans exhaust turbines the spin of molecules the carefully calibrated smoothness of glass the sterility of architecture the depression of low-lit mornings walloping the darkness into submission the glare the piercing of sun on distracted fingernails doing something doing something not right now doing something.
It has been some time.
But the pounding remains.
And the letters keep on following me.
Perhaps they are building something.
And the clicking.
And the far away fingers clicking.
That could well be the finish work.
Molding. Rain gutters. Lightening rods.
Click click click amplified butterfly wing strokes slowed down, sine waves elongated for closer study zoom in zoom in zoom in zigzagging diggy diggy da momenoff. Chaos is not you see. There are patterns repetitions, beats underlying beats, polyrhythms diving in and out over and under the more obvious backbeats. This is not in time, not in time as we are accustomed to it, out of time, very nearly out of time, but the pattern repeats, waves join and harmonize the tick tick tick blends to the drip drip drip, one wonders if they weren't always the same thing.... Have you not noticed the shplocks? The shplooks? The dings? The clacks? The toings? The tongs? The sprongs? Sounds that work by committee? Sounds that need umlauts...? Diphthongs...? Tildes...?
Things are always as they have ever been but somehow incredibly difficult-what seemed simple in the end, to get their, to get where? Oh yes the molding. The finishing touches that soften the architectural foxfires. Stamps of individuality hiding the corners, ramps for the windup toys-fate death dream decay. The decay. The little green growths on the end of the day, the shower a blacker shade mixed with red, different sorts you see... more molds than people when you come down to it. Spawning spreading, eschewing organization, a kind of atonal repetition of function without regard to form. This means something right? It all means something right? This turning on, turning off, repetition of the beat, the caged smoke crawling up the walls from cigarettes and the ashtray says you been up all night like the man on the radio said it would say? Slaves to the pattern, to the beat, the rhythm of blood and circuitry now inexplicably mixed and unable to synchronize without each other. The simultaneous march of time and faucets and showerheads-this will be good come winter you know-clicking their way through time the variable, the frequency modulation of life.
Outside is. Haven't been there lately.
Mainly it's the hum. The whine. The sound of speed. Spinning. The hunch of my back seen from afar trying to get the fucking mold off the fucking tortillas and the hum that won't stop and I love it I want to crawl up in and become it I want the murmur of lips going mmm mmm mmm do do do da da da hmm. Hmm. Tick tick tick all over the table again. Blue and white and pink. Boys and girls and indeterminacies all playing together between the ketchup and syrup and butter and mustard and half full glasses of water with dust and strange protozoa floating on the surface, some so large you can see them with a magnifying glass, which is right there by the bills that haven't been paid, sticking out from under the magazines I haven't read and held down by the mustard as evidence of last night's hamburger.
Oh yes. Last night-they were red and pink and blue and subversive and locked up. But we freed them, we did, Jimmy with the double helix reflection of throbbing candles in his eyes, spilling them everywhere. The last of them. Chloe in her silk pajama bottoms, legs tucked up under, and the walls leaning in and the windows gone convex to get a better view, everybody wants to see this, everybody is down for the spill, the collision of chemical surfaces, the cohesion of colors not found in your more academic theories... The backbeat is the thing, the tick tick tick. That's the approaching point, the coming nonesuch... The room had organ tones, the kind of fullness that only an organ can convey, we're sitting on the inside of an organ, stops and levers heaving and sighing, the rush of air, sucking in the windows, chairs and couches bent forward, leaning over on their knees and then the low exhale, the groan, but here it's something difficult, something in B flat, but still upbeat, punctuated by a muffled, distorted snare beat, a bass drum with a fresh head on it, flat and claustrophobic, swallowing the echo before it gets a chance to breathe and then the sucking in again, the stops pulled out for a c-chord, the upper arch, the melody note of an atonal progression.
It was after the enchiladas.
I like mold. In small qualities. When baked it always has the potential to form some mind-altering substance, which is not something I want, but it would be interesting you understand... Food should be an adventure fraught with peril lest it become routine, shoveling coal into a furnace. And neither of them mentioned a moldy taste, though I noticed it a little here and there, gave everything a more organic, perhaps whole-grain, sort of flavor. Dean would have lost it, gone on a hippie exterminating rampage, but he remains up there, sends long metalic letters, whole grain remains unmolested.
The mold was eclipsed by the beat. By the melody. By the claustrophobia. By the tick tick tick. Hold up. Slow that moment down a touch. Maybe to a tock tock tock or even plong plong plong like a cue ball in slow motion striking the two ball with a crack slowed down to an explosion, and then reaching in to grab them, but here Chloe seems to be moving in reverse as if the film just reached the end of the reel and some lazy attendant-James didn't you work the projectors for a while?-has just hit reverse rather than rethread for a rewind. Yes Chloe is not picking them up, she is re-putting them in her mouth, they have always been in her mouth. They came out to have their moment to let the windows and wall bend and breathe in jealous gasps and then back in they go where they have always been. Everything woozing back into Chloe, gulping air, drinking in the claustrophobic air returning to where it always was. And the windows draw back in horror as if to say I can't believe you've played the tease, we always knew you had it in you, but here? Now? Like this? To give. And then take away. So cold so inhuman so... wait when is your birthday? We know chart people, we have suspicions about you.... September is it...? Yes, thinking you have it all in balance, eh? Well have you ever noticed that the scales are tipping? Yes seems that they aren't quite balanced when their in your hands eh? Not quite balanced...
From: Dean O'Leary <do@morpheus.net>
To: sil@kali.org
Subject:
Dean junior can be lured to the surface for food. But otherwise he remains alternating between castle and treasure. I found out from Melissa that he would not last long at all in the ocean. He is a fresh water fish. I had a glass yesterday. It was a little stale, but definitely not salt water. Melissa says not to drink it anymore as it has strange chemicals in it. But this morning I had another glass. It was almost fishy.
I have the hiccups and my leg is ringing but otherwise it's a statuesque day. Today I think we should all play harmonicas and live in sun-faded slate-gray shacks without indoor plumbing. Everything leaving all at once in all directions. Would your life seem more meaningful in duotone? A kind of warm brown wash to color your eyelids like the thunderstorms, flash flooding down the Rialto, right by that house on the sharpest bend of River Road, that one with the mailbox perpetually down, victim to countless corrosive glasses of gin? My mailbox has been down for some time. On the edge of autumn where the last fireflies still tango in time changes and the hush that comes after the last beat drops and you stumble it down the line to the head-hanging hour at which all regrets are cashed for last minute glimpses in cruel reflective toilet water, here we- and the beat is dropping into slate-gray outhouses where we sit waiting for the paper, the news the leaves of grass that we used to use.
Eventually I will answer my leg. It will be Maya. We will talk amongst ourselves. Try to batten down the hatches of our hopes and fears, but it won't work for either of us. She will hang up and go for a walk around the east village, stop in St. Marks and read a few more pages from a Rilke biography and then down Delancy for a couple of drinks at sakdlfjkj where the hipsters will shoot pool and drink Brooklyn Lager because that's what hipsters do, and Maya will push the ice around in an empty glass of Vox and stare out the window at the people that aren't walking by and dream of couples huddled close against the cold, but it's August and it isn't cold. Then on the way home she will stop in at Rice and have some of that curious black grains with stir-fried vegetables and maybe a gelato from the place next door for the long walk back to the Village. And I will eat the last of Jimmy's pills and feel pretty good until dinner time at which point I will go for walk and end up at Scratch's house where he will serve me some strange couscous and tofu dish because he considers tofu the last culinary challenge of his nearly complete culinary career, after which he will swear that as soon as he masters the art of tofu, invents his one perfect dish, he is closing up shop and heading to Costa Rica. He will mock my posture, but in a good-humored way. Jimmy will stop by and hatch a plan. It will be a grand plan. It might even involve motorcycles and bandits. Chloe will be suspiciously absent.
Later I will find myself at home. I will smoke idle cigarettes and pour myself a glass or two of brown liquor and dream of someplace I could go and be surly.
From: Dean O'Leary <do@morpheus.net>
To: sil@kali.org
Subject:
Melissa is at work. I think she is beginning to tire of me. I am a drain to her. But with her working all day, who is going to look after Dean Jr.? I feed him every morning and evening. Just after she leaves and just before she gets home. I didn't plan it that way. At first I just noticed that my days began and ended with feeding Dean Jr.
Every morning while I am asleep she opens all the curtains and draws the blinds in the bedroom. I think she is sending me a message, but I don't understand a word of it. All I know is that every morning I have to let down the blinds again, draw the curtains and drop a few little gray-green pellets in Dean Jr.'s tank. It takes a while for the food to be consumed or to settle to the bottom, between the florescent pebbles-why are his pebbles florescent? Are there florescent peddles in streams? Are there actually florescent rocks out there, and I have just been too blinded to see them? It's usually well into the afternoon before I can have my first taste.
The water is getting musty. I suspect it's fish shit, but I don't like to think about that. I prefer to taste it as the essence of fish. I have acquired a taste for it. Tap water no longer excites me like it used to. I get no thrill out of turning the knobs anymore. I went across the street to a flea market yesterday and bought a ladle. I keep it hidden under the bed so Melissa won't find it. I have taken to covering the tank with an old black shirt. The water level hasn't dropped noticeably yet, but I want to establish a pattern before she gets suspicious. If she finds the ladle I plan to tell her it's a sexual thing. I think I'll tell her I like to have my balls ladled while getting head. She can't find out. If she finds out she'll kick me out.
I wish you could see him Sil. The way he stops moving entirely. He rotates one of his swivelly eyes upward and watches me as I dip and ladle in and draw it up to my mouth. He knows. He understands. We have moments during the day. He will catch me doing silly things and laugh his mouthy little laugh. Or I will lie down on the floor and crawl over so that he can't see me and sneak up around the side of the tank, wedge my head between the tank and T.V. and pop up suddenly to surprise him. It startles him a little, but I think he's come to expect it a little now. I'll have to think of something new. I don't want him to get bored with the routine.
From: Dean O'Leary <do@morpheus.net>
To: sil@kali.org
Subject:
I don't think you should worry about me Sil. Things are winding down here. I'll be coming down soon; I just have to stick this thing out with Dean Jr. I have to see it through. Melissa is suspicious definitely. And I did check. The only fish to human transference I could find was from eating the fish-worms and stuff like that. I'm not really in a bad way. It's just the process of ending that intrigues me. I always have to stay to the bitter end just to see if everything wraps up the way I thought or if there is that last minute twist we all love, that unexpected moment.
This weekend was fun. Melissa had to go to a conference in Atlantic City. Of course I brought Dean Jr. I put him in a tupperware bowl for the train ride (I had a hard time trying to think of reason to bring my bag to the bathroom so I could open the tupperware and give him a fresh dose of oxygen-water gets stale-he can use up all the oxygen in the water-did you know that? I didn't, but the girl at the pet store told me that. She gave me her number too, but I think I threw it out. Luckily I hadn't shaved, so on the train I told Melissa I was going to shave and I brought my bag and gave Dean Jr. some air. Maybe he could have made it all the way, but I didn't want to risk it. Anyway I came back unshaven and forgot that shaving was my excuse, and Melissa stared me down real ugly and then it hit me and all I could think of to say was that there was no hot water. I know she went later and checked and of course there probably was hot water.)
I lost fifty dollars at the blackjack table.
"So he's coming down again?" Chloe is cleaning up the back of my neck with the clippers. Already I feel slightly cooler, but this is a feeling that will pass shortly.
"Seems that way."
"Did he say when?"
"No."
"Huh. You know Sil, I still don't understand what you're doing here. And I understand even less why Dean is coming down again. You know I'm still trying to get out of here..."
"Yes, but you were born here. Everyone is trying to get out of where they were born. But to tell the truth, I'm not entirely sure why Dean is coming down." I consider mentioning the aquarium drinking, but decide against it since he and Chloe have had only the briefest of encounters in the past, and it might, well, color her opinion of him some unsavory shade of disgust. "I think maybe he's coming to get out of the living situation he's been in with his girlfriend and such, but knowing Dean there is probably a good deal more to it than that." Chloe is staring at my head in a distracted, unsettling way. "What?" I turn slightly to look her square in the eyes.
"Um, I think your ears are a little lopsided."
"What?"
"Well at first I thought I was messing up the back of your neck, but it's clearly straight and yet, when compared to your ears, it still looks slightly lopsided, so I think maybe your ears aren't quite even." She smiles. "Sorry."
"But the hairline on the neck looks okay?"
"Oh yeah it's fine."
"Well that's all I care about."
"Okay. Well then you're done." She switches off the clippers and brushes off my neck with an old t-shirt. I run my fingers over the remaining eighth inch of hair on my scalp and come away with an unsettling mixture of sweat and hair clippings.
"You might want to take a shower before you go out."
"Yeah I plan to."
"Are you going out tonight?"
"Maybe. What are you doing?"
Chloe's face grows slightly flushed as she sits down beside me on the porch steps. "I have a date."
"Bicycle Man?"
"Lord no." She turns her head, "why? Do I look that hard up?"
"No. He's just my favorite."
"Really? I would think he might be slightly intimidating... at least Jimmy seems slightly intimidated, or defensive of me, or something when he's around."
"Why? Because he could snap Jimmy and me in half like a toothpick?" She chuckles slightly. "No I like him because he is totally non-threatening. There is no chance in hell you would ever want anything more out of him than sex. He represents no threat to our friendship so for me he's the least threatening. But that's not why I like him. I like him because he doesn't mind being called Bicycle Man. Anthropology Man just never seemed to really accept the name, every time we called him that he would get this mortified look on his face and remind us of his name, like we were calling him that because we had forgotten his real name. What was his real name?"
"Robert."
"Oh yeah, Bob, see I knew there was a reason we called him Anthropology Man..."
"Scratch dubbed him that because Bob told him some long story about being in Costa Rica and going to all the Indian ruins or whatever."
"Really? I always thought he was an Anthropology professor or something?"
"No. He owns a construction company. Or landscaping company... I forget exactly."
"But you're not going out with him either huh?"
"No. He's engaged now. I'm going out with The Professor."
"Oh god Chloe. Again?" The Professor is, naturally, a professor, though his diminutive statue and total lack of problem-solving skills set him apart from the more familiar Gilligan's Island variety. We took to calling him the professor because none of us can ever remember his name. And because he's well, such a professor. He tries hard to be cool, you can see it in his eyes, he wants to scream, but he can't, or if he does, it comes out a murmur, a stumbling awkward line that usually only reveals him for the overeducated mousish man that he is. He seems genuinely concerned with things like literature and poetry, but only because he is involved in them, he is good at them, he lacks the natural enthusiasm of Jimmy or Scratch. He would have written the poem, but never dared to touch the plums. Unlike the famous professor on that deserted isle, he can't seem to make a radio out of coconuts to broadcast distress signals with. I don't even think he could crack a coconut open, much less transform it into something usable. He's New England. Coconuts are obtained in cans at specialty Asian Markets which always share a wall with some sort of adult video establishment because the Asian community understands the needs of white New Englanders. He has pasty skin, anemic eyes, and a disgusting habit of carefully evaluating risk before proceeding. He's more or less dead, and frankly, he scares me to death. He's so far gone he's never coming back, and he's only a year or two older than me. Chloe seems genuinely smitten with him. But then again he is the first person Chloe has dated, at least in the time I've known her, that has a functioning mind. He has a certain depth, however bookish and ill-formed it may be, that Chloe needs, but is afraid of being attached to, of becoming dependant upon, of needing. In his twisted way he does have an element of danger to him that Chloe no doubt finds irresistible-he's married.
"I know it's horrible, I know I'm doomed to live through some horrible karmic payback for all of this, but really I think I'm in love with his mind," She claps her hands on her knees. "It's the first time there's something more than just attraction. I'm not even really attracted to his body. I mean he isn't bad looking you know, but he's kind of...well... he's short. But I'm not going to swallow a moth for him, already promised myself that. There will be no moth eating."
"It must be wonderful for him to live out the fucking the babysitter fantasy
"Stop Sil. There will be no mocking in my presence. And that isn't how it started. We met because his younger daughter is in my class..."
"Fucking the third grade teacher fantasy... see this goes way back...."
"That's enough Sil." She brandishes a cigarette and threatens to burn my arm. "It wasn't until we were already friends and he had moved out of the house, that his wife asked if I would watch the girls."
"He actually moved out?" This surprises me, but somehow endears the man to me. "Wow. I wouldn't have thought he had it in him."
"He caught his wife with her personal trainer or something clich like that. He had to move out. But it made me more comfortable knowing that he didn't do it for me or because of me... it didn't have anything to do with me. I wouldn't want him to do it for me. But won't say that I'm not glad it happened-is that selfish of me?"
"Selfish? No I don't think so. But you are walking into a minefield Chloe." I run my hands over my head in a manner reminiscent of Scratch. "You Chloe, who professes to detest entanglements... I mean... you couldn't find someone more entangled if you tried."
"I know, I know." Her head slumps dejectedly. "But it's important to me Sil that you understand I didn't plan this. I didn't go into it like a nave little girl, but I certainly didn't want to split up his family and so far I haven't. And part of me even hopes that he and his wife will get back together..." She lets out a long sigh. "Even if that will be the end of my relationship with him."
"She has no idea? I mean she must not if she asked you to baby-sit."
"I can't tell. Maybe she does, but it's not like he and I have even had sex... we just talk. We talk kind of like you and I talk, and we care about each other... and we've had plenty of opportunities to have sex now that he's living at The Downtowner."
"He's staying in a motel?"
"Yeah. See, I don't even think he wanted to move out. He's been in the hotel for two weeks now and not only have we never had sex, but he hasn't even picked up a rental listing or anything. Besides, I love their daughters and I have to provide them with some modicum of female sanity lest they turn out to be like their mother... She actually drives all the way to Atlanta to buy organic vegetables... I mean, do you see the... never mind... it just disgusts me."
"Yup. I mean never mind the hypocrisy, we're all hypocrites, but some of us are at least aware of our hypocrisy..."
"I know. That's what I'm saying. This woman is insane. I mean she was fucking the personal trainer or something and into organics and asks me to baby-sit three days a week so she can go to yoga, meanwhile her family is disintegrating around her, her daughters are closer to me than her and she seems to think its just a phase in her marriage or something. And the worst part is she's a black belt in jiu-jitsu or shuiru or some horribly obscure form of martial arts and could probably kill me in less time than it would take to form the idea of killing me." Chloe shivers and leans her head on my shoulder.
"And you're fucking around with her husband..."
"And I'm fucking around with her husband..."
From: Dean O'Leary <do@morpheus.net>
To: sil@kali.org
Subject:
I don't know why Sil. I know it's disgusting. I don't even like doing it, but I have acquired a taste for it. I can't stop now, it bookends the days. Melissa has been yelling an awful lot lately. I'm not sure what she yells about exactly because I don't hear it. It's over. I gather that much. Presumably she wants me out of here. I do try to stay tuned enough to distinguish a date or something equally real, but usually she stops yelling after a while and we fuck like angry teenagers. She found the ladle yesterday. She didn't even ask what it was for. She was already yelling and picking up my clothes and throwing them in the hamper, and she reached under the bed and pulled out the ladle and just set it on the nightstand. After the yelling we were having sex, and she asked me to slap her ass with the ladle, so I did. I got tired after a while and couldn't have sex and operate the ladle at the same time and so I just sat on the side of the bed, and whacked her ass until she came. Or I think she came. This morning her ass was black and blue, but she acted like it never happened.
Dean Jr. is running out of water. He seems to know what is happening. I vomited twice yesterday from the drinking. I don't know for sure if I can finish. I went outside today for the first time since Atlantic City. It's very hot out, Sil. Is it hot there as well? I'm disappointed in myself. I can't seem to finish. And just this afternoon while I was out I bought a bottle of water. I cheated Sil. It was so clean and pure and tasteless. Not the slightest odor of fish. How do they get all the fish taste out of the water? Think how many fish are in streams... even weird blind fish that live way underground in caves and water tables... so many fish and yet when we get a bottle of water from the store we never taste them. But they're there. It's their water. We just borrow it. We take it, we filter it, we use it, we piss it out, we flush the toilet, we filter it again and then we send it back to the fish. We never even thank them. At least I don't know of anyone thanking them.
From: Dean O'Leary <do@morpheus.net>
To: sil@kali.org
Subject:
It's over thank god. I drank the last inch this morning by sticking my head in and sucking it up with a straw. Dean Jr. flopped around on the florescent gravel for about an hour or so. And then he was dead. I gathered up my clothes and put them in the suitcase. It took me most of the afternoon to find my car. I'll see you soon.
"It's not bad." Jimmy sounds surprised. "I don't know that it's all that good, but it isn't bad."
"Yeah. It's not the best I've made, but it's not the worst either." In a display of startlingly bad posture, Scratch is slouched down on the couch, cradling a ceramic mug on his stomach. He groans, props his bad leg up on the arm of the chair. "Fall is coming. This Indian Summer thing is always the first sign, and lucky me, I get to feel it in my bones." His lips curl sarcastically, and he takes another sip of mead. "The humidity's dropped anyway."
Jimmy lights a cigarette and exhales in the too-fast manner of people who don't actually smoke. I stretch my legs out and lie back prone on the floor, staring up at the tapestry ceiling. "Where's Chloe?"
"Out to dinner with the professor..." Jimmy exhales too hard again.
"She's been here what? Ten years?" Scratch shifts himself and lies down now occupying the entire length of the couch. "She knows how small this town is, how long does she think she can keep this on the down tip when they go out all the time?"
"I think she believes that as long as they don't have sex they aren't doing anything that needs to be hidden. Or at least that was the impression I got."
"He's obviously still in love with his wife. Guys like that are always going to stay in love with their wives because they don't have the imagination to move beyond it-not saying that's a bad thing mind you-just that he's going to go back to her, and Chloe is going to be left holding on to something that was never there." Scratch sits up and rummages around in his pockets to produce a small bag of weed and some rolling papers. He tosses them at Jimmy and lies back down. "You've met him haven't you Sil? Am I right?"
"Probably. But then I didn't think he'd move out."
"He had to move out. He didn't want to move out, but the script dictated that he had to move out. Wwhen you walk in on her, you have to move out. You don't even want to usually. Everything right then becomes very surreal, but your options at that point are pretty much murder or move out. I think he did the right thing. I mean, it was the personal trainer right...?" Scratch laughs heartily for a minute and it's not until I see the smile spread over Jimmy's face that I remember Scratch was a personal trainer for a while. "Yeah it's never anything more than sex with the personal trainer."
"Did you ever..."
"No. Never did. I've always figured that there are so many wonderful single women in the world there is no reason to get involved in that sort of situation. Not every guy chooses to move out you know.... Not that it wasn't offered.... I guess, and maybe this is just me inventing excuses for Chloe because she is our friend, but I guess for women there are less ideal single men. In this town anyway." Scratch accepts the joint from Jimmy. "I still think it's a bad idea."
We lapse into silence as they pass the joint back and forth. There is the sound of tires on gravel and the slamming of car doors.
"Oh, by the way, Dean is coming down." I sit up again. They don't response to this news. I follow their eyes out the window where the last glow of sunset silhouettes what appears to be Chloe and The Professor walking down the path toward my front door. There is a knock at the front door. A sound so rare it takes me a minute to grasp what it is, but Scratch is already yelling come in.
Chloe opens the door and walks in with a faint ducking motion that is immediately nervous and timid, two things Chloe rarely seems to experience. She seems to be, rather than just nervous, nervous about being nervous. Scratch bounds off the couch and is shaking hands with The Professor and hugging Chloe before I can even move. Jimmy is hurriedly crushing out the joint and steps over me to shake hands with The Professor. When the daze finally lifts I here Chloe saying, "...and you remember Sil."
"Yes. Yes I do. How are you Sil? Nice place you have here, like camping kind of..."
"Yeah thanks." I stand up finally. "Come on in, have a seat."
"Is that pot I smell?" The Professor sniffs suspiciously as he and Chloe sit down on the couch next to Scratch. Chloe is in between them, and The Professor places his hand on her leg and she puts hers over it. "Man. It's been years since I smoked pot."
"Well here you are Professor..." Scratch extends the half smoked joint to him, and Chloe turns roughly the color of a Cardinal at the mention of the word professor.
"Oh no. That's okay I don't think I should..."
Scratch's hand snaps back, and he cocks his head to the side. He shrugs, thrusts the joint between his lips and fumbles with my Zippo for a minute before producing a flame so large it nearly takes off his eyebrows. He chuckles and leans back on the couch. "Well the least you can do is indulge in some of my homebrewed mead here." He picks up the bottle and pours a little in his ceramic mug and passes it over to The Professor who takes a sip and proclaims it, "a little on the sweet side, but good."
"Wait, did you call me professor? Please don't do that, only my students call me professor..."
"Well you are a professor aren't you?" Scratch screws his face up into his potatohead stuck on smile look.
"Yeah I am, but..."
"Well that settles it, Professor." Scratch grabs the bottle and takes a long pull. "Can you make a radio out of coconuts?"
"Excuse me? Oh yeah. Uh... I don't know, I've never tried."
"Sil do you have any coconuts?"
"No."
"Damn." There is laughter and merriment, and everyone seems to think The Professor is being a good sport and a likeable guy and I keep staring at his hand which is resting on her knee, no, actually it's a little bit back from her actual kneecap, it's at the end of her thigh, it's right about where muscle gives way to tendon, the last extension of conscious control, he's right there at the edge and he's laughing and now he's taking the joint from Scratch, now he thinks he's one of the gang so why not and he's inhaling and laughing and everybody is having such a good fucking time and we're all in on this aren't we? We're all friends aren't we? We all fucking fit together don't we?
"So how's this thing with your wife?" An ugly pallor of silence casts itself across the room. The Professor seems unable to speak. He stutters and mumbles something about not wanting to talk about it. Jimmy is curled into a ball in the chair trying not to burst out laughing, and Chloe is staring at me with visions of disembowelment and meat-cleavered penises dancing across her pupils. Scratch takes a long drag and holds it.
"Never mind Sil," Scratch begins talking as he slowly exhales "he's had a few to many nips of the mead." Scratch rubs Chloe's back. She gets up to leave and The Professor follows mumbling things about nice to meet you and you...
The door closes behind them, and we listen to footsteps disappear into the night. No one says anything until we hear the sound of car doors. "I think that went well." Scratch grins.
"That was fucking amazing." Jimmy lets loose his pent-up laughter, pent so far that he seem to be spitting a bit in the midst of it. "I've never seen someone stop having a good time in that short... damn Sil. That really was brilliant."
"Of course you know Sil," Scratch eyes me thoughtfully, "tonight's the night they actually have sex... you've driven her into his arms, you know that, right?"
I shrug. "It's what they wanted isn't it."
Six
This is the room- these days run away like-treasure chests of pomegranates-nightfall on the savannah-we had no idea- be more like the ocean-visualize action-all that is waiting-the problem-understanding at the expense of ambiguity-pulling in the shells-red plumes of blue-something to move-turbulent somnobulist in the air-this is the room-
Something strange is amiss, hitting its pointed beak on the roof in time to the squirrels scampering feet, up there with the fallen limbs of pecans and maples and the disgorging of wings, cardinals and warblers and wrens and somewhere way up there, really up, straight fucking up, canadian geese in the marshmellow tuffs and syrupy blue ether-feathers raining through the pecans and maples and little Leda, wiping an impish grin on the back of her hand, tosses the club amidst a great splash of feathers that billow around her, listing slowly to the ground like gentle warm snow,-this is the room where we are waiting.
Perhaps Jimmy is not waiting.
Perhaps I am the only one waiting. Watching the scenery out the window of a train car still sitting in an empty railyard. Everyday the same scene, but hoping for motion.
Jimmy and I are just making some headway on a bottle of Scratch's and there it is-another train car pulling along side ours-the innocuous blue-green tint of Dean's soda-can sedan pulling to a rickety halt on the rutted driveway. I go the window and watch as he gets out and sets down his battered suitcase. Dean has wings, but they're black and someone has swallowed all his halos as if to say there is only pleasure with pain, only balance in contradiction. I've seen him dine on buddhists, put bullets through honeydew and mix gin with the Khan's famous after dinner treats. Dean was miscast. Given the wrong physical build, some paper work mix-up on the way down, departmental records secretary spills the coffee, papers snowing off the edge of desk some requisition order slides under the filing cabinet where it's still gathering dust and Dean gets here looking like an underweight Dempsey. He's done well with it though, he's grown into into it in spite of himself.
This morning he's wearing his trademark pin-striped suit and fedora with his hair greased back like it's 1957 and he's slightly ahead of his time. He scratches his head and surveys his surroundings, craning to inspect the treetops and sapphire twinkles of sky poking between leaves. Then he puts his hat back on and marches down the driveway. He looks like an enemy of the people, but only as a tag, a tag they would give to Dillinger or Mitnik, a tag that belies the warmth of men who know the odds and aren't putting any money on the table. They look best as a smiling Xerox on the post office bulletin board, never a sketch, never a half remembered glimpse, no Dean would do it all in broad daylight, the sort of criminal that is no longer permitted. There's a glamour to that sort of crime, crime which may steal, or destroy, but never does any real harm. An innocent criminality that got lost somewhere along the way, a formal criminality, an innocence that makes you believe that crime is as noble an art as any.
He looks like something from a tall tale told by a drunken leprechaun tugging at your coattails in a Dublin alley. But Dean is a darker sound than most, one with a heavy backbeat, something bass driven, with accordian melodies. The innocent criminal and lighthearted formality can collapse like bellows and exhale a different man, a heartbreaking melody then, dark and heavy-a gypsy song or a curse-half-muttered words. One day in New York City.... But even in the watery darkness of Dean's quiet moments the formalitity and innocence remain in little things, like words, always aeroplane, juncture, sonombulist, never airplane, time or zombie, or his clothing, always suits, antiquated, out of style, yet fitting on his wiry frame, always a zippo, never a bic, or his near reverant love of silence and thought. You can see thoughts folding in on themselves behind his eyes, train wrecks he will never describe for you, locked forever in a half curl of lips or rise of an eyebrow, entire railyards with meticulously inlaid switching systems with cars to carry you as far as Bangledesh or as near as the very stop your own train is pulling into just now, and yet he remains gulping in the silence, the beauty of saying nothing. I have seen Dean vanish, become so silent, so still that he disappeared right in front of me.
Everything is always on or off, there is no mediocrity or in between state- everything or nothing at all. When he drinks, and Dean often does, his eyelids droop slightly and his head teeters about on the end of his neck, but just when you think he's skunked, he'll snap to and ask you about something you casually mentioned two weeks ago, wanting to know the finer details of your off hand remark-razor sharp.
He doesn't knock, artificial formality is not his style. He moves through the door with more grace and sense of comfort in his surroundings than I can manage after four years. Jimmy and I sit silently waiting while Dean carefully lays the battered suitcase on the dining table and fishes out and lights a cigarette in one long fluid motion. He exhales and breaks into a broad smile.
"Sil my old friend," he walks around the divan and clasps his arms around me, "you ought to unpack... it will be good for you."
"I will my friend. I will."
We do not pat each other on the back. Eventually he pulls back, and, still grasping my shoulders, says, "You look well. You look marvelous actually." His attention shifts to Jimmy who, realizing he's next, has risen off the couch, glass of mead still in hand, "James... Good to see you."
While they embrace and clap each other on the back, I walk into the kitchen and grab Dean a glass and pour him some mead.
"Mead huh? Never had it."
"A Scratch specialty. It's not bad actually." Jimmy takes another sip as if to encourage Dean along.
"Scratch? Is that a person?" Dean flops down on the couch with his glass carefully raised and counterbalanced to avoid spilling.
"Scratch was discovered shortly after you left. You'll love him."
"Not bad. A little sweet for my taste but not bad." He sets the glass on the table and smacks his lips. "And where is Little Miss?"
"Sil pissed her off last night... Maybe you can retrieve her and assuage the feminine irk"
Dean's smile droops to a frown and he cocks an eyebrow at me.
I shrug. "Long story. Married people were in the house."
He winces. "Things are falling apart in my absence.... Fear not my friend. I'm back to save the universe." The smile returns, and he reaches again for the glass. "Get's better the more you drink..." He raises his glass and Jimmy and I follow, clinking our glasses against his "to a new dawn in the dark night of the soul..."
His toasts are always twinged with a melodramatic glamour that makes sense only after you have raised the twelfth one and come to see that, far from artifice, melodrama is the last glimmering of false hope, the desert hallucination of shimmering water that turns out indeed to be the water, shimmering and half-eclipsed by date palms.
"Okay man... hey let me get one of those..." Dean hands him a cigarette, and Jimmy lights up and exhales with his non-smoker aggressiveness. "So lay it on me... What have you been up to?"
Dean signs and lights another cigarette off the cherry of the former. He looks over at me with a twinkle on the corner of his lips. "When was my last email...? Oh yes. Okay that was a few days ago." He rubs his goatee ruminating on the elapse of time. "It's pretty vague... wait, hold on now, a couple of snapshots are developing. I remember looking up from a formica bar at thousands of blinking lights, like getting off a Ferris wheel and realizing that it was still and the rest of world is what's spinning." He nods to himself as if pleased with the recollection. "I have an image of an alley, two dumpsters labeled United and a cocktail waitress with extracurricular monetary schemes. I remember trying to buy cigarettes from this old man with a tray around his neck and I had no money, so he gave me a pack provided I left the building. I'm just not sure where the building was... Virginia maybe...?
"Yes. Yes it was somewhere by a river, I remember the smell and empty bottles floating in the water. Yes. I put them there. I drank them and then I lobbed them into the river and watched them bob around and list over on their sides and then they would slowly fill up with water and sink. But a couple of them righted themselves before they reached that critical mass, or equilibrium, or whatever, and they just floated off with the current..."
"Right," Jimmy interrupts impatiently, "but I meant up in Brooklyn... How did the city treat you?"
"Oh that part. Well let's see. I never really got a job. I mostly sat around the house smoking... let myself be a fucktoy for Melissa... naturally that wore thin after a while... I worked for two weeks tending bar at one of those Williamsburg joints that doesn't close... Working class place, where the night shift comes in around eight AM and wants to get ripped after work... So I did pay rent for a couple of months off that, but then I got fired for tapping the till... So I went back to being a fucktoy... I had a fish, but he died...
He pauses and stares intently at me. He starts to sit back and cross his legs, but then changes his mind and jerks to his feet. He paces a circle around the coffee table and then goes into one of his abstract-theoretical rants. He stops pacing to light a cigarette, the smoke maces him and he squints for a minute, rubs his eyes and lurches off again.
"Do you remember, when we were living out in LA, how it seemed like everything was so important and everyone had something they were working toward, but we always knew there was nothing and never would be? Well it's the same thing... same types of people, same types of jobs, ... everything exactly the same... except for the houses... I love the brownstones, take that over stucco any day, but it's pretty much the same sorts of people, the same caricatures that they present... real people mind you and plenty of interesting ones, though too many jogging and pushing baby strollers and that sort of nonsense... on the whole sharper than most in OC or LA, but not really all that different when it comes down to fundamental things like outlook on life, or maybe what I mean is lack thereof... plenty of shock at the notion that I don't want to work. I remember at this one party, one of Melissa's more yuppyish friends cornered me and started grilling me about what I did and all this stuff and I kept hemming and hawing and whatnot... finally she says, 'well what do you really love?' 'Everything,' I said. Absolutely everything. Except for onions and insects... and work. I hate work. I don't want to work. I want to absorb. I want to breathe in and out and understand. You know... run of the mill stuff. Anyway so Brooklyn was a lot like going back to LA, but with better restaurants. Not that I had expected it to be different, but the thing is, I've changed so much that I couldn't relate to it anymore. Couldn't even get that old superior amusement out of it.... I kept losing track of time... time is very important in that city. Never seems to be enough of it or something, everyone's trying to find it, the only place you can forget about time is in the parks. I would take wonderful naps in Prospect Park every afternoon. I got into letter writing. I spent most of my days writing letters to Sil and some folks on the west coast... I would find myself moving my fingers over the keyboard... I realized that I was playing it like an instrument, that the keys were what I was paying attention to, not the words or even the screen but the rhythm of the keys as my fingers danced over the..." He sighs wearily and crushes out his cigarette. "Who's the gimp?"
Out the front window we can see Scratch hobbling along with a pack on his back and what looks like ten or fifteen plastic shopping bags clutched in each hand. Jimmy bounds outside to help him.
"That, is Scratch." I smile at Dean. "I sort of thought that perhaps you wouldn't want me to share those emails with anyone..."
"Yeah maybe so." He sits down on the throne chair. "I've been feeling much better by the way..." His voice is swallowed by a bellowing laughter and Scratch limping through the doorway with Jimmy just behind him holding the screen open.
"Sil," he barks my name like a director unsure of his actors, "you're having a party. We forgot to have a summer solstice party, so, damnit, were having one now."
"Okay. Should we wait for the autumn equinox?"
"We haven't got that kind of time." He heaves the bags up onto the dining table. "Beside who knows when that is... just doesn't have the ring of summer solstice. Autumn Equinox is very awkward to even say, let alone have a party for. This is going to be an Indian Summer party if it really must have a name. But damn it, you better get on the horn and call yer friends cause old Scratch is putting on the chef coat and it's feeling like grilling season..." He then reaches into one of the bags and extracts from it a starched white, double breasted chef coat and begins to theatrically pull his arms through the sleeves. That accomplished, he snaps the collar smartly to his neck and shrugs several times as if adjusting his body to the coat rather than the other way around. He drops the theatre display when he notices Dean. "Hey...You must be Dean... how ya doing? I'm Scratch."
They shake and Scratch mumbles something about not really being this weird most of the time, which Jimmy vehemently denies, assuring Dean that Scratch is indeed always this weird. "He hit his head you know..."
"James," Scratch is back to barking, "thanks so much for organizing these fine young lads to retrieve the double wide grill which you will find right beside the tire swing in my back yard."He dangles the keys to his truck on his outstretched finger. I leap up and grab them grab. We set off with Dean through the forest along the river trail.
"Little different than Brooklyn eh?" Jimmy is still smoking the same cigarette and keeps stopping to inhale.
"Hmm... Yeah... So what did you mean when you said he hit his head?"
Jimmy laughs and then stops. "I guess it really isn't funny. He had a rather severe accident. We should probably let him tell you the story..."
Almost and hour has passed before we get back with what turns out to be the largest barbeque known to man and takes all three of us gasping and struggling to get it in and then out of Scratch's truck. In the mean time Scratch has converted my kitchen into something resembling a Cossack encampment shortly before crossing the river to descend upon the Turks. Plastic bags are hanging in a curtain-like semi-circle around the sink, suspended by hooks I didn't know I had. The tiny four-burner stove has disappeared beneath a barracks tent worth of pots and skillets, which on closer examination reveal several bubbling brown liquids with various herb clumps protruding from them. The oven door is propped slightly open and its insides are laden with skillets full of sauted vegetables richly coated in butter or oil or some mysterious glaze made from butter and oil.
Scratch is bent over the sink sharpening his knives. The sink has been buried beneath an enormous, two-inch-thick cutting board that must weight thirty pounds and came from god knows where. It certainly wasn't carried in a plastic bag. He straightens up and turns around when he senses me inspecting the stove. "Keep back." He growls. "No sampling. This is a professional operation you are witnessing here." Then he relaxes for a moment. "I think perhaps you should go up and talk to Chloe and make sure that she and The Professor feel welcome this afternoon..."
"I sent Dean and Jimmy on that mission. If she's really mad at me then maybe I will talk to her, but I was kinda hoping it would just blow over."
Scratch snorts and goes back to sharpening, the deft scraping of steel and stone echoing dully off the stainless steel sink below it. I pour myself a glass of mead and retreat to the couch. I flip on the stereo and put on some music. Scratch requests a deeper backbeat. "Some fucking hip hop I said... I can't cook to this morose crap... it's the middle of the day fer godsakes Sil."
I give up and put on the radio.
Mystical is bumping his way over those strange haunting Spanish guitar licks of his when I spot the entourage heading down the walkway. I can make out Jimmy and Dean in front and what looks like The Professor behind them. But there are far too many girls behind that to be Chloe. Unless she has divided into different bodies. They come through the door like a carnival troupe laughing and Jimmy starts singing the end of the song the minute he hears it. Dean breaks into an entirely inappropriate Irish jig sort of routine dragging one of the Chloes, who it's now clear is in fact an entirely separate entity named Nancy, at least according to Jimmy, who is attempting introductions over the sound of laughter and music. Nancy immediately wins my admiration by branching off from Dean's ridiculous dance into an even more spastic and disorienting careening series of movements, managing to draw a reluctant Professor into the routine. She stops abruptly, laughing as the professor continues with an awkwardness that, unlike Nancy's, is not faked. "There you go Professor." She claps and scrunches up her face and unleashes a voice that is one-part British nanny and one-part Shirley Temple "Oh you're sooo fabulous Professor. Run with it baby."
Scratch is momentarily spellbound and ceases his ceaseless movement as if stuck on pause by the touch of an unseen remote. Suddenly the ground gives way beneath him, and he hobbles forward to hug everyone and then gently shoo them outside. I climb up from the couch and move the speakers around to that they face outside.
Jimmy has already lit the grill, and everyone is gathering chairs around the fire pit.
"Let's burn something Sil... this is so great... You have a fire pit in your front yard... We have to have a fire." Nancy's enthusiasm is contagious, and before I can protest, she and Jimmy have disappeared on a wood gathering expedition.
Dean takes off to get beer. The mead is not to his liking he says. By the time he returns there is an alarmingly large pile of wood next to the pit, and Jimmy seems to have every intention of setting it on fire. Chloe is generally ignoring my presence, though The Professor has been making small talk and seems to want me to understand that he is not holding against me whatever it is that Chloe might be.
Conversations swirl in little whirlpools, like dust devils circling the yard, joining together in tornado, and then breaking off again. Though Jimmy and Nancy distinguish themselves with voices that rise in volume and enthusiasm like long rolling tidal waves finally making the beach, crosshatching and threatening to drown us all.
Chloe retreats and is standing by the doorway wearing a blue spaghetti strap dress, shaking her head slowly as she eats carrots and listens to Jimmy ranting. "Oh come on," I can hear him saying though I am trying to catch her eye at the same time, "there is no conspiracy..." his voice momentarily is swallowed by thumping bass and then returns, "...enlightened, wealthy, uber-powerful people living lives of extraordinary decadence at the expense of shmucks like you and I...."
The radio sings "hell was a place I knew long ago/is where I am/ is where I was/ is where I don't want to be/hell was a place I found by mistake..."
"There was a rainbow and we drove right under it and looked up at it... I swear we were right in the middle of it." Nancy's eyes get wider as if to emphasize the truthfulness of her story.
"I don't think you can be in a rainbow...."
"No one cares what you think Dean." She exaggerates, rolling her eyes and turns her around toward Chloe and the other girl. "We were in a rainbow weren't we?" They both nod.
"Fair enough."
"You wouldn't have been able to see it unless you were at a right angle to it," Jimmy breaks off from whatever he was ranting about and dives into the perilous waters next to Nancy.
"Ugh Jimmy. Didn't you hear what I said to Dean here? No one cares what you think... we were there. I think then that really, the authorities in this situation, would be, um, us." Her lips plaster on a sickly sarcastic smile. "Ohoh how you like that boy?" She weaves side-to-side imitating her dance from earlier, and Jimmy gives in laughing.
"Scratch kicks the screen open with a thunderous crash. Every one stops talking and turns toward him. He sniffs the air for moment and disappears back inside and returns carrying an enormous tray of meat. "It's grilling season," he bellows. "Let the grilling begin." He enlists my help in carrying the tray over to the frill and the rest return to what they are doing. I follow Scratch back inside and he sits down for a moment.
"Can I bum a smoke from you Sil?"
"You serious?"
"The only time I smoke is when I cook. When I was actually running the restaurant I was a two pack a day guy and for some reason every time I actually cook, I mean cook for a half dozen or so, I have to smoke." He accepts the cigarette and inhales deeply. "Been almost a year since the last one."
He smokes about half and puts it out and returns to cooking. I sit on the couch watching the rest of them talking and goofing around with Annie in the yard. Jimmy and Chloe break off together and head toward the house. She goes straight into the kitchen to investigate Scratch's cooking. I can hear ingredients being listed over the thump of the bass. Jimmy is making gestures and such that seem to indicate he wants me to talk to Chloe, but actually I have lost all urge. He sits down beside me on the couch.
"If she wants to be mad, who am I to deprive her of the satisfaction?"
He shrugs and nods.
She steps back from the kitchen chewing a haricot vert and smirking at Scratch's scrambling figure darting back and forth, stirring pots, now tossing a pan of braised beans, now whisking an emulsion..."You know Scratch in your life you've spent more time in the kitchen than most women. You might as well be pregnant by now..."
"Yeah," Jimmy stands up to pour more mead, "and those clogs you chefs wear mean you're basically barefoot." He laughs.
"Your point being..." Scratch's head pokes around the corner and glares at him.
Jimmy shrugs, "You'd make a good wife...?"
"What I am doing here James is art. You build things out of wood and call it art. Well, I build things out of food and call it art."
"Hey take it easy Scratch." Jimmy is a little taken aback "I was just trying to make a joke. Everyone knows there are lots of great male chefs."
Chloe groans. "Does it have to be like that?"
"What? Almost all the great chefs are men." Jimmy stares at her blankly.
"Oh god."
"What? They are. I mean almost all the ones I see on the Food Network are. Don't get all feminist on me Chloe."
"Oh this isn't feminism James, this is just pathos. You're pathetic. You force women to be these domestic servants for god knows how long, then just to prove you could do it better, you create this elitist snobbery around the very same thing when you do it."
"Hey I didn't do any of that. And I'm not gonna feel guilty for it. History is a rubbish heap of wrongs Chloe... we've all heard this one before...."
"Have we?" I try to warn Jimmy off with eyebrows, but he ignores me and soldiers on.
"In essence, yes. Very familiar pattern here... the dominator culture... the repressed... the horror. The horror."
"I don't know man, patterns are in the eye of the beholder. Patterns are misleading. Lots of times we think they indicate order, but they don't necessarily. They only indicate patterns."
"Yeah, but patterns within disorder implies a kind of order, wouldn't you agree?"
"No. It depends on what you mean when you say order. Order as an inherent discoverable phenomenon is fiction..." Chloe storms outside and Jimmy and I watch as she sits down next to The Professor, her back toward the house. I continue watching her as Jimmy and I carry through our conversation, which by now, neither of us cares about.
"Imposing order seems to work for certain reducible things... But I think patterns simply imply something outside the disorder is trying to make sense of it.... It doesn't have anything to do with the order or meaning of real nebulus thing. It has to do with us. Not the other... Where one person can find the pattern 'Jesus is the reason for the season' another person finds 'season the reason. Bake for twenty minutes'
Jimmy's voice is flat and distracted "You know as well as I do that those are not anagrams drawn from the same set of letters..."
"Okay sure we keep spare letters around for times when we want them, but isn't that just a further example of that fact that the order isn't there... we invent it?"
"Touch. OUCH!"
"FUCK!"
Scratch slaps us both in the side of the head with metal turners.
"I understand that all that was some misguided attempt to make Sil look good there, James. But I thought maybe a good crack on the head would remind you morons that Chloe isn't as stupid as you two can be." Scratch looks as close to mad as I have ever seen him. He thrusts a pitcher of sauce into Jimmy's hand and a brush into mine. "Now go outside and baste the chicken... And for the love of god keep the sauce off the pork. I didn't soak it in brine for twenty four hours to have goop all over it."
Outside the Professor is trying to coax Dean into some philosophical debate. "So what are you saying? That we can make a difference or that we can't?"
"Neither." Dean lights a smoke. "I have nothing to say on that one because once you start debating that you have already digressed out of life and into the realm of ideas. Ideas are just words, words are just abstractions all you, no offense, do-good intellectuals are missing the point. Yes, life could use some tinkering, it certainly isn't fair, but the problem isn't recycling, it isn't pollution, the problem is you and I and the solution is individual and has to be dealt with on that level. As long as you ignore the individual and focus on the abstract you not only miss the problem, but you delude yourself into thinking that you can find solutions for everyone."
"Oh God," Chloe cuts in with an exasperated voice, "you would think by now with the number of times we have failed to change things that we would be able to look ahead, put two and two together, and stop even talking about this crap." She shakes her head.
"Well yes, that's what I'm saying," Dean points to her with his cigarette. "Everyone has to face up to himself or herself first. And don't pull any psychological mumbo jumbo on me either because there will never be enough therapists to go around until we realize that we are our own therapists, and our own patients and that all the solutions we will ever need are already there in our own brains." He stabs his index finger into his forehead. "And as long as you are going to approach the world as, on one hand, a concrete thing in front of you, and on the other, some fanciful, abstract set of possible solutions, you are never going to realize that the power of words is not in the words themselves, but in what they can create. I mean, come on Professor, you know your surrealists I'm sure, what do think they were saying...? That the world is fanciful? Well sure, but lets scratch the surface a little shall we? Want it to be a better place? Try being a better person. Try thinking with your heart instead of your head. Your imagination can do things we haven't even dreamed of yet. And that's where all our ideas and solutions and future problems will come from. And I don't mean just the dreams you have when you're sleeping. I mean dreams... love, hope, the true work, all these are products of the imagination, all of this, everything around us, even each other, all springs from the interplay of our imaginations...."
"Yeah but Dean, most people just want to be happy..." Jimmy is yelling in my ear as he swabs chicken breasts with barbeque sauce. "People don't have the time or energy in their lives to think or talk about the kind of complexities you're talking about."
"Sure they do. We do. What makes us different than anyone else?"
Scratch swings the door open again with the same silence-inspiring crash. "What makes us different is that we know how to have a summer solstice party long after summer solstice is past."
There are whirls of color balanced on theories dreamed from the Fibonacci sequence, balanced on the harmonics of a root two rectangle... a salad like a dancing lady from a Toulouse-Lautrec poster advertising the greatest carnival of all in some Parisian back alley, the girl's skirts all atwirl and sucking on a bottle of sodium pentothal... eyes circle the table in blurs of mead settling on the green of the haricot verts in just about the place that fanciful Italian would have placed them, and yet Scratch probably doesn't know Fibonacci's name or even if he does the coincidence is a dance of intuition and formal logic hand in hand, skirts atwirling, painted faces glowing, the mirrored windows and the laughter three stories above where the madam is stringing her stockings across the open sliver of sky that you can see when your head flies back, heavy with absinthe and the dizziness of the endless spiral... and if we hesitate it is only of a desire not to disrupt, to preserve the golden garden, but damn if that isn't one fine looking apple over there by the pork and its honey gastrite accompaniment, and now the gold rush is on, down the alleyway come the miners and it's all the dancing girls can do to get up on the steps of the doorways before the stampede of miners comes clamoring down the cobblestone, greedy hunger in their eyes... dividing amongst them the finest of both homely honesty and Parisian fantasy... met here on a table of modest proportions... giggling girls in petticoats pretending modesty and impropriety while gold-rush ruffians wreck havoc on what was once a peaceful alley.
Outside. Dirt and folding chairs. Chairs open. Chairs close. Mandibles move up and down. It's inescapable. And it tastes so good when it waltzes between the lips, the way the honey sweetens the front taste buds, and the camisole meat dances backward as the slight bite of mustard hits the sides of the tongue and a street band strikes up something in the key of G, something anyone can move to, a hypnotic dance that even cartoon animations moving frame by meticulous frame, can replicate and your eyes roll slightly back as you swallow, crescendo and then here comes the augment...
Mead. Or in Dean's case beer. Sweetness piled on thick with no shame. Gluttony. Fucking in the streets. On the roads. In the middle of the interstates. Everything drawn out of the alley into the open night air, and by the time most of us have finished eating, the sun is gone and night fast approaching. Nancy is petitioning for the fire, which Jimmy obliges and they embark on a ritual of twig snapping and branch breaking. Dean and I attempt to put my kitchen back in some semblance of order. He carefully wraps all the leftovers, intuitively realizing that this is all the food we have in the house and we had better make it last no matter if the camisole turns to chamois. By the time we finish and look outside a volcano has erupted in the front yard.
While some people might throw a few sticks on the ground, strike a match and call it a fire, Jimmy has other ideas. Jimmy has approached the thing more from an architectural angle. He is back with that famous Italian and his wonderful spirals. This is no fire, it's more of a pyre. It's the kind of thing pagans used to dance around in the woods. It's the kind of thing the Romans used to heat the great palaces with, back in the days when fire meant life. It's the hissing, raging swirl of motion that makes you want to understand it, to be able to recreate it at any moment. It's alive, that much is obvious, but more importantly, Jimmy has given it life, he has set it in motion down that spiral path ever-increasing. He appears to have started with the remnants of the bamboo fence that I noticed earlier in the pile. Bamboo burns hot and fast and explodes as it does. He has combined it with fallen limbs of oaks and pecans and then reassembled the elements in a drip sandcastle formation that is flooded inside and out by a ferocious roaring sound that twists itself up, turns blue, then red, then yellow and disappears into the lower branches of the pecan tree, singeing the leaves and causing them to fall. It's fantastically loud, and it's sending flames over eight feet into the air.
He and Nancy are the only ones even close to it. They are both still feeding yet more wood into the already excessive heights of flame. The Professor looks downright terrified by this spectacle and is clearly re-evaluating what sort of madmen he has fallen in among. Even Scratch looks mildly alarmed, but he isn't saying anything. Dean heads straight for the woodpile and begins to throw more logs up on the top. Jimmy and Nancy have moved back from the heat, but Dean seems unfazed. He keeps at it until the entire woodpile has been fed to the flames. Even at ten or twenty feet, the heat is nearly intolerable and clearly no one is in control of the fire. Nancy runs inside and turns down the stereo and emerges from the house with two fresh bottles of mead. Jimmy retrieves the remaining chairs and he and Dean even carry the couch outside offering it to Chloe and her friends. We sit around listening to the roar, in awe of Jimmy's creation. Every so often, as the wood burns down, we draw our chairs closer.
"We used to have fires like this out in Humboldt..." Scratch rubs his head, and Dean perks up, glances over at me and nods.
"You lived in Humboldt?"
"Yeah back in the late seventies I used to go out there in the spring... some friends of mine had a regular crop... then in the fall I'd pack it into a VW bug and haul it back here to sell to the college kids... ya'll are lucky... man, back then, there was nothing to do in this town..." He drifts off into some private world for moment. "Yeah Humboldt was something back then, maybe it still is, I dunno, but back then growing was part of the economy, nobody messed with you. The car dealerships would put up billboards advertising 'harvest specials' on trucks and 4X4's. It was hilarious. But why was I telling you this? Oh yeah, the fire, man out the middle of the redwood forests we used have huge bonfires and big parties... all the growers would get together after harvest..."
A silence momentarily settles over us, but Jimmy interrupts it, asking Scratch to tell the thump story. "You don't want these people to leave tonight think you just limp for no good reason do you?"
Scratch snorts. "Like I was handicapped by some fate of nature rather than my own stupidity?" He sits up and straightens his pants. "No I guess we wouldn't want that."
"I didn't notice you limped." Nancy leans forward in her chair and inspects Scratch's leg.
"That's sweet of you to say my dear, but it doesn't put your powers of observation in a good light. So yes, I do limp. And I limp because I'm missing about an inch and a half of bone in my left leg." He lights up a joint and passes it to his right.
"Okay so as you might have guessed I used to cook for a living. I started doing that in LA back when I was your age probably, maybe a little younger, but anyway, I worked in some nice places and developed a bit of a reputation... I got to the point where some friends and I were able to put together a catering company, and we worked movie sets because that was where the good money was at."
"What movies did you do?"
"Oh shit, lots of stuff that never saw the light of day, but we eventually did get some big ones, Reality Bites was probably the biggest and definitely one of the worst, I should have given them more protein on that set. But the thing in Hollywood is that the money isn't necessarily in the big productions, those things have tight fixed budgets, and if they run over their budgets they cut things like catering so we actually tried to avoid them except when we thought it would be a good resume builder.
"Anyway in the course of a few years I became friends with Debra Winger, who honestly is one of the nicest, sweetest women I've ever met. So as time goes on I get tired of the business end of things and I was bitching to her about it one night and she offered me a job making good money just cooking for her. A personal chef basically. So I sold out of the catering company and was going to work for her...
"Now the other thing you need to know is that I was an avid sky diver. We used to go all the time. Pretty much whenever we weren't working we were jumping out of airplanes. So when I sold the company my friends decided to have this big party for me out in the Inland Empire... Dean and Sil know where that is, but the rest of you just have to imagine a big, dry, grassy area where LA stores its smog during the day... So there was this community house out there that we sort of crashed at when we weren't on location or whatever... the key point being that it was in the middle of nowhere and it had a barn with a corrugated metal roof. So we decided that about half of us would jump and try to land at the house and the other half would stay behind and cook."
At this point Scratch stands up and hobbles toward the fire and turns around facing us. "So I was the last jumper. It was a perfect afternoon. Nice and warm even at fourteen thousand feet. Everything about the day was just lovely... and I know what you're thinking and no the 'chute opened fine, just like it was supposed to, everything was great the whole way down..."
Scratch looks around to make sure everyone is edged up on their seats. He stalls everything from this point on to build it up because we can see from his obviously twisted, scarred kneecap that something goes horribly wrong at some point, but Scratch likes to amplify the suspense.
"Well, about a hundred feet off the landing, everyone else is already down. Most of them in the yard though a couple are down the street, but they're all down and I'm kind of half steering half watching them pack up their chutes and half thinking, in the very back part of my brain, at some level I don't normally pay attention to, that something is not right. The first few guys are in the yard and the last three are spread out down the street."
He pauses to take a long drag.
"What this tells me is that there is a nasty gust somewhere between me and the ground. And that is the last thought I remember half-forming. Three months later I woke up in a hospital."
He passes the joint on.
"What happened is that I started to drift and I tried to correct, but something in the way I moved and the way the wind was blowing... one in a million kind of thing... one of those variables that you don't get to control." Dean is wincing and Chloe puts her hand over her face. Jimmy gives a little ironic laugh. "Anyway," Scratch continues, having built it up enough, "basically the 'chute twisted and the gust caught me about twenty feet above the ground and threw me into the extended edge of the barn's corrugated metal roof. The tops of my ankles hit the edge of it square on at about forty miles an hour."
He looks down at his legs.
"It cut almost all the way through to my Achilles tendon, smashed my ankle joint to smithereens; understand of course, I don't actually have any memory of this.... It's just what people have told me, people who were there.... They're not sure if that's what did the knee too or if the knee was from the truck I landed on," Scratch chuckles. "Lucky for me, after I got dragged free of the roof with my feet flopping behind me, the 'chute caught another gust and blew over the house. I fell two stories and went right through the front windshield of a pickup truck." He laughs heartily.
"And that," Scratch looks over at me with a green jello twinkle in his eye, "is why I don't walk quite right."
"Jesus Christ," Dean exclaims, "I can't believe you lived through that."
"Well that makes two of us... and I'll tell you, I don't remember it happening, but to hear my friend Dave tell it, it sends chills down my spine. He saw the whole thing, he was the one that drove me to the hospital... they were afraid to move me so I was half hanging out the windshield of the truck all the way to the hospital."
Scratch leans back, wipes his hands over his face and sighs deeply. "It just sounds so funny to me you know? There's times when I think I might have made the whole thing up... like I never did cater films, never lived in Hollywood, never went sky diving, never knew Debra Winger, never did any of it... I've been lying the whole time and I just made this stuff up to impress you guys." He trails off. But his story is true. He showed Chloe and I pictures of his ankles. The reconstructive surgery and use of sheep tendons was very experimental at the time, and Scratch is actually in the medical books as a case-study complete with horrifying photographs.
The fire has subsided to levels that might be considered normal. After a while The Professor announces he is leaving. Chloe gets up to walk him out, and Nancy and the other girl take the opportunity to walk back to Chloe's house where they are staying. Scratch mumbles something about age and he enlists Jimmy to help him carry things back to his house. When everyone else is gone. Dean stands up and announces he is going for a walk.
I just keep staring at the coals, imagining they are little cities seen from a great height. I get lost in architecture. The fire. The road. The echo of words settling at the departure of their speakers, slowly winding down in familiar spirals. The architecture of language paints these pictures and somehow, despite the fact that they exist only as vibrating air, they still exert influence over everything in reality. Dean, for instance, is going for a walk down the road. Road is very specific, it is not a street, it's a road. The word road has specific connotations. The Empire State building is not on a road, the mansion on the hill is not on a street, and Rue Montapassat is not Montpassat drive. Street is a clean simple word, inspiring clean simple lines, right angles, mirrored super-smooth surfaces, liquid sand... Drive is more suspicious, stucco and suburbs, but neglected suburbs, remodelled track homes straying from their architect's intentions. Lane's are ambiguous, they can go either way. But the word road winds, switches and curves around in your mouth. Its jaw-stretching vowels inspiring things like graded dirt, bumpy potholes, fallen-down mailboxes, sagging porches and bullet-riddled stop signs. Streets always have people walking down them, roads do not. But tonight they do. Tonight Dean is walking down a road. Tonight he is walking and listening to trees, perhaps even talking to them.
The fire is only glowing embers, echoes of its once towering self, fallen silent and the sound of the crickets roars in over my thoughts. Neanderthals. A glowing fire in a cave, wrapped in the warmth of bearskin, wondering what it would have been like, to have been there-have I been there? Have we all been there and just don't remember it? Is it the very fire that kindles the imagination? The fire crackles, and an opposable thumb grasping for more fuel, a twig, a branch. An idea is born, the night sings. The same crickets, cicadas, and hooting night owls fill the air-the distant sound of dawn. Was there music? Drumming? Chanting and singing filling the night air for miles?
"Everybody gone?" the voice startles me and I have to turn around before I realize that it's Chloe.
"Yeah. I think those girls are at your house or something..."
"Yeah. They're old friends from Atlanta."
"Oh."
She is standing beside my chair arms crossed, looking down at her foot, which she drags back in forth making an arc in the dirt and leaves. "Where'd Dean go?"
"Uh. He said he was going for a walk..."
"Lets go find him." She tugs on my sleeve until I stand up.
We walk out and down the dirt driveway trading kicks on pecans and pinecone sized rocks.
Finally I decide to deal with it. "Chloe, look I'm sorry if I pissed you off, but damn I was just asking him a question."
She doesn't respond at first. "That's the worst apology I've ever heard." And then she giggles, "but since I was never mad at you, it's okay."
"I got the impression that you were."
"What from Scratch and Jimmy?"
"Partly. But also because you seemed to be avoiding me."
She laughs. "I wasn't avoiding you..."
"Seemed like it to me..."
"I wanted you to rise above it." She stops and rolls the rock under her shoe.
"Above what?"
"Above the fact that Jimmy and Scratch were telling you that I was mad at you. And it did actually piss me off for a minute that you let Jimmy try and dupe me into some sympathy thing." Her leg rises up behind her poised to send the rock scattering into the tree. "Jimmy is a sweetheart and I wasn't mad at him for trying I was mad at you for thinking I would buy that shit."
"Yeah," my head droops involuntarily, "sorry."
"That appology I like. I forgive you." She begins to giggle again. "You guys thought you were so clever... I couldn't let you get away with that." She turns slightly, and kicks the rock about twenty yards straight down the road, and we both instinctively take off after it.
We come up over the rise in the driveway, and there is Dean, head thrust back, neck craned, inspecting the uppermost limbs of a pecan tree or perhaps the sky.
"Hey kids." Dean's voice is near a whisper.
Chloe's instinctively drops her own voice as she walks up beside him and tilts her head back to stare upward with him. "Why are we whispering Dean?"
"I don't know, but it seems like the right thing to do."
"It does, doesn't it?"
I hang back a bit and watch them staring upward trying to resist the temptation to do likewise. It's very hard to watch someone watching something without instinctively bypassing them to see what it is they are watching.
"You know you want to Sil..." Chloe's head never turns.
I give up and stare upward at a sliver of moon. The soft white glow reveals phantasmal basket spider webs poised in the upper branches of the trees. The baskets baskets are errie and enormous, silohetted against the star-specked sky, they are beautiful, almost alive, waiting to crawl across the trees, dodging glitters of moonlight and disappearing into the purple blackness of shadows.
"Okay my neck hurts." Dean turns and reaches in his pocket for a cigarette. I gesture and he hands me one as well. The dancing flame of the lighter momentarily blinds me.
"How long have you been doing that?"
"Dunno." He takes a long drag. "So um, can I ask you guys a question? Well, I was asking around about jobs, you know, kinda hoping Jimmy had some work..."
"Did the cowboys ever get off the roof?" Chloe asks.
I shrug.
"Cowboys? I didn't hear anything about cowboys..." We start walking back toward my house. "But he did mention something about pills...?"
"He can get more? That greasy little weasel said he couldn't get any more."
"Calm down Chloe. That's what I want to know. He wants me to go get them because he found out the feds or somebody are watching the guy's house and they already have his license plate and whatever... So I'd be willing to do it for a fee of course, but is he putting me on? What's the deal?"
"Yeah he told me about the cops." Chloe nods her head. "Basically this guy he was getting them from was a pharmacist or assistant or something... anyway he got a ton of pills somehow or other and he got caught, but for some reason they can't do anything to him, I don't know this all down in a little town south of here, and it's a very small town so it's hard to really know why, but the story is that the town couldn't do anything, to him, but for some reason the feds got involved... the rest of the details are hazy but I don't think he's putting you on Dean." She jumps on his back and throws her arms around him. "Please please Dean, go get them... you get some money we get the extra pills, Jimmy makes his money, it's a win win win situation...please..." She slides off and puts her arm around his shoulder. They embrace, and then she says goodnight to me and disappears into the incandescence of her doorway.
Back beside the fire, Dean and I sit in silence on opposite sides of the shimmering coals. I shift in my seat and lean forward, arching my back to stretch it out. Dean and I are from a different universe than the rest of them, that is, we have our own universe, one that we share with no one else in Georgia. A universe born out of many years spent sitting silent together, each respectful of the other's contemplation. It is rare to be able to sit around with someone and not have a conversation. That is the true measure of friendship, the silence in between words, the boredom between the adventures, with Dean and I it is always a light carefree silence, no matter how heavy our thoughts might become. A silence where even the cricket hesitate. An underwater silence where thoughts are mute but travel forever in ripples, expanding slowly and lapping at distant shores. I can hear Dean's thoughts like the surface of a pond roils and surges just before some enourmous creature climbs up out of it. But before it can climb up out on to the land, Chloe shuffles up in her pajamas holding a spiral bound notebook.
Her face is shy in the glimmering, irregular dance of light that surrounds us. She says nothing, but her mission obvious and determined. One more to be consumed. Dean looks up and smiles. There is a muted atmosphere which cannot be disturbed. I nod, and she carefully spreads the notebook open atop the pyramid formed by the last two semi-intact logs. At the weight of the pages, they finally give in and lay themselves flat. Slowly new and hungry flames curl up, reach out from beneath the glowing logs to accept this new gift, this ever so susceptible nourishment of paper.
First a hesitant lick, but soon a more daring dance, a courting of the soon to be consumed, a slow waltz of charred hardwood floors, the ruins of some mid century dance hall... The sucking out of air, the consumption of oxygen flutters and ruffles the pages, Chloe's handwritten scrawl is visible for fleeting seconds, words leaping out of the fire, the silent tongues of Shatterack, Meshack and Abendago. There is no comprehension, only the sense that here is the truth, slowly licked up and down in long caresses of tonguing flame, turning amber and smoking with desire.
Chloe waves and shuffles off into the darkness. In the distance there is the sound of a starting motorcycle, faintly in the background, the river-like sound of cars on the highway. The stereo inside has long since fallen silent. Dean shifts and leans forward to stir the fire with a branch that was spared. He throws it on top. After a while orange flames are again kissing the darkness and sending up embers, messengers off into the night, fading into the blackness and disappearing, and I'm never sure if they continuing upward or turn to ash and disolve into the air. Here and there a particularly courageous or lucky one can be seen carried off into the depth of the forest by a fortunate breeze.
Dean goes to bed leaving me alone beside the fire. A few minutes later I head inside as well. I lie down in my bedroom and stare up at the moon, trying to bath in its light, but the angle is wrong. It hits the edge of the window and refuses to come into my room. I get up to use the bathroom, but the bathroom is in shambles. Clothes, towels, magazines, books, scraps of paper and other trash litter the floor. Outside seems easier, so I return to the chill of the night. I am more than a little drunk. I sigh inwardly and pee on the nearest tree.
Seven
Drip sandcastle dreams hang on a wire-hear it on the national news-Los Angeles still like Mexico City-ocean of light-hanging on by a thread-photographs of the living dead- electronic reality-computer saves man-regrets act-one up-two down-five up-squirrels scamper trees-disappointment-click clack- trees-wheels-tuffs of white cotton-the rumble of thunderheads-cigarette ash-rain holding off-huddle around Roman fires-the roots-scatter cameos-finger scrap rock-tiny handholds-Palisades like valley below-roadside conversations-we'll wait here-morning-cigarettes-lighters-flames- inhale-exhale.
Everything is working.
It's on.
Or the talk of it is on. There is talk of it being on, or going on, or being ongoing. It's hard to say the way they circle around it. Dates come up. Things approach a plan but then the crest of on receeds, a wake of variables trailing ocean debris across the sand. And sand it will be. The plan has come that far. It will be sand and it will be foreign sand. In the background there will be the murmur of languages against the farther off babble of surf and there will pool, Scratch is insistent on pool, though none of us are sure why when there is an ocean right there, but no, Scratch must have his cabana and his pool and his divorcees. He is going on about the splendor of expatriate divorcees, loaded down with bags of money and free time and lusting after cabana boys who are reluctant because they fail to see the money tied to the sagging skin and diamonds in that are trapped in the wrinkles of bone-shrunk flesh.
Chloe wants mangos and papayas and passion fruit and guava and coconut necture tickled with rum to wash them down, to lounge in the warm tropical breezes that blow in from spice islands, jungle laced beaches bejeweled with palm fronds, brown skinned natives in clinking abalone necklaces walking down jungle trails, the foliage is glistening, the moonlight reflecting off the beads of water on the leaves... the chirping twilight of cricket dreams....
Dean isn't so limited, he believes in the whole world. We swill syrah in dark country cellars... We sit on latticed patios in the Italian countryside drinking chianti... We pick olives and play chess with the Greeks and take a ferry out to Crete... We walk the dusty camel choked streets of Morocco and catch the Marrakech Express across the desert... We fly biplanes low over African savannas out to the Ivory Coast where we catch freighters to Brazil and sail up the Amazon to take Yage with the natives....
This afternoon the air is a harem dancer bejeweled in sequins and dripping opium honey from her succulent breasts. She slides slippery wet through the front door, traces of her slick the doorknob and the house smells of white orchids, pomegranates and peach blossoms. She weaves through handing out mosquitoes and the drifting off with gusts of a passing hurricane whose wake has left a lingering, crisp sadness, biting at the afternoon with frosty shark teeth.
A map of central america is spread bethenth the coffeetable glass and between hands Scratch taps and points at roads and towns like a child at the smithsonian.
Poker then strip club then sex scene with Maya. End.
Chapter eight
Cards keep flipping up and money changes hands. Brown liquor flows down my throat and my little pile of ones quickly diminishes. I had intended to clean them all of a few dollars-damn beginner's luck. I borrow a twenty from Jimmy and then another. Not only am I not getting the cards, but also, for once in his life, Dean is. He takes hand after hand, a beaming smile lights his face each time he leans over the coffee table and drags a big pile of quarters and ones over to his end.
Dean's in one of his expansive moods, he's feeling free and reaping the rewards of not caring about his actions. He rattles on about a book I loaned him. He has a fresh-faced enthusiasm for the book's subject-memes. Memes are the idea counterpart of genes. The book argues that ideas, like physical characteristic, are passed on hereditarily, but with a little more leeway than genetics. For instance racism is hereditary, it's passed down from parents to children just like a gene, so they call it a meme... It traces a lot of western thought that way, the way in which thoughts are replicated from one generation, or even person, to another... Dean is arguing that our memes, our very thoughts are not our own; we are merely replicating the ideas of our ancestors.
"So, wait a minute now," Ulric cuts in, "in the old nature vs. nurture you're coming down on the nurture side?"
"Well yes and no. I don't think it's either exclusively, a happy marriage of both, but that's not the point..." Dean has a puzzled look on his face and I can tell that even he isn't sure what the point is. "What I was getting at is that there is finally a language for talking about how ideas are transmitted; how the virus of language does it's work, how it moves from host to host..." Dean licks his lips in satisfaction.
Ulric sits back in heavy thought. "Who cares though? I mean it may or may not be true, and there may or may not be ways of proving it in either direction, but none of that has on any consequence on how you live life... Oh and it's your bet there memeboy... what's it gonna be?" He gives Dean a sarcastic look.
Dean stares him down, throws in three dollars and continues without pause. "That's where you stop though. What I want to know is how the screws turn... how you disassemble reality for someone and put it back together in a new way? Essentially," he draws long on his cigarette, "how do you make a lasting change in your beliefs?"
Ulric grunts, "Try a thousand mikes of liquid acid...."
Dean smiles. "I mean without drugs. Although maybe that would help me loosen up a bit... I don't know what I think about memes yet. I need to give it more thought. Besides I got this hand." With three aces, he most certainly does.
Ulric throws his cards down in disgust and leans forward to light a cigarette. For the time being, Jimmy and I are resigned to silent losing. It suits me. Ulric takes a drag and seems to be sizing up Dean. "Alright Dean, how would you go about making a permanent change in your beliefs or should I say approach to life?"
"Either or." He picks up the cards. "Well," Dean says shuffling as he talks, "for instance when I was in Maryland I tried on a set of beliefs to see how they fit me...." He puts his cigarette in the ashtray and slowly deals out two cards to each of us. "What I found," he says, "was that I couldn't live that so-called normal life... white picket fence that sort of thing, but interestingly enough, I'm still in love with Alexis. I realized that in order for me to be with Alexis I had to get my shit together first and at this juncture I don't really want to do that. So the question arises why don't I want to do that? Where did I get the belief that I shouldn't do that?"
"What do you mean by get your shit together?" Jimmy interrupts.
Dean shrugs and lies back on the couch. "You know what I mean- figure out what I want out of life and how I'm going to go about getting it."
Jimmy sits up excited and starts waving his hands as he talks. "See that's what I mean when I keep saying I need to figure something out in my life. What am I going to do, that's what I keep asking myself... Do I want to be with Chloe and do that life or do I want to... you see what I'm getting at?"
"Is your relationship with Chloe that involved?" Dean asked. "I don't mean to pry, but it seems like all you two do is fight... I mean maybe you should start exploring other directions." Dean runs his fingers through his hair, coating them with grease, and flips up three cards-the nine of clubs, the six of hearts and the queen of diamonds. Jimmy studies the flop before answering Dean. The silence is uncomfortable, I think maybe Dean has overstepped his bounds with Jimmy and the look on Dean's face says he's thinking it too. Or else he doesn't have a hand.
"Well see," Jimmy's voice betrays no irritation at the question, "With Chloe and I there's no growth, no forward movement of the relationship, and for a while I thought it was because I'm this ambitious person and she's not, but lately I've realized that it's me. I'm all ambition and no direction" Jimmy's eyes take on the preternatural glow that he gets when he's about to launch into one of his passionate diatribes against himself. He seems to be hovering right on the edge of illumination, but he's unable to take that last step. I know the feeling. Someday something will happen to push him up it. Or someone...
Jimmy over-analyzes his life, picking it to pieces, thinking he can reassemble it back to some greater whole when really what he needs is more pieces to build with. "At this point," he says, "Chloe is the one that's growing, not me." Dean nods his head and Jimmy closes his eyes and begins to speak very slowly, as if picking through the rubble of a demolished building. "I keep thinking that I'm having these grand realizations, and maybe I am, but I have the same realization everyday and I don't act on it. I need to act, to move forward so that I have something to bring to the table so to speak. And maybe it's as simple as finding a career or a job or whatever I don't know. I only know that I have to change something in me."
Dean flips up the queen of spades and suddenly the hand takes a turn. I have the queen of hearts as a down card. They are lost in conversation and I quietly raise the stakes to three dollars. Jimmy is the only one who hesitates.
Ulric sits up and checks his hand before throwing in his money. "See with Rose and I, we both started growing in opposite directions, and the hard part was that it was because I changed the things in me that I didn't like. Now I keep trying to change her even though I know I can't. So changing things in myself changed things in our relationship and ultimately, I now know that we aren't meant to be together." His voice drops to a tragic whisper, "But that doesn't make it any easier to let her go."
Dean nods, "Of course not, that's a totally separate thing." He lights a fresh cigarette and cocks his head back staring at the ceiling. "People advance mentally throughout life," he goes on, "they pass through life in steps, accomplishments, experiences, epiphanies...pick a word. When two people meet that are advancing at the same rate, a bond is formed. A union of the minds so to speak." He blows smoke rings up to the ceiling clearly enjoying his role of analyst. "What happens to me is I keep advancing, sometimes speeding up, or slowing down, but usually speeding way up, and the other person is left behind. Thus there's that separation feeling at one point where you wake up saying what the fuck is going on, why am I here? For me, no matter what I do, that seems to happen after about two years..."
The last card dealt is the king of spades. I again put in three dollars. Jimmy raises me another three and I raise him two more. He calls me and I lay down the queens and win the hand-finally.
"But do you think it's possible that two people can move at the same speed for longer than two years?" Ulric asks
"Personally? No. However, my addition to that theory is that two people can move at different paces, but they still move together. In different directions, same direction, whatever, but there is still a continuity. And these two people make up the middle ground by learning from one another. If you're not learning from someone, it's hard to love them. But, more often than not, what happens to me is we move at the same pace, and then two years down the road they want to stay there, thus the huge schism." He smiles to himself for minute, "And then you meet a Muslim who makes you reevaluate... or maybe that just happens to me." He laughs.
Ulric and Jimmy have very earnest, sad looks on their faces. I can tell Dean is enjoying his role as the teacher perhaps some good has come out of two failed marriages and three broken engagements. "See, as a relationship progresses you go from meeting in the middle somewhere to being in the middle. Once you're together as one so to speak, there is no middle to meet in and that's what chokes that life out of the relationship." He glances over at Ulric and sees the pain in his face, "Sorry, if you don't want to talk about this, I understand, and shit, look who you're talking to...like I fucking know... I mean the older I get the less I know. Or maybe getting older really isn't anything other than being alive long enough to see people's patterns repeat, terminate, and regerminate-especially your own. If I've learned anything its that you control your position and whatever you choose is just that. Empty or not at the end of the day you face your own reflection in the toilet water, if it makes you feel better and more complete to have attachments hanging off that reflection, more power to 'ya, and good luck. I'm a narcissist, I only want to see my glowing sexy image in the off white piss-water." He laughs at himself and shakes his head. "Love is emotional alchemy. You're trying to take things that don't tangibly exist and apply to them to so much flesh and hair. So to get back to what Ulric asked, I love her... I still do, but we aren't on the same page." Dean cracks a smile in my direction. "I can't be on the same page with someone if I'm not even numbering my pages. There's no way for them to even know who, what, or where I'm coming from."
No one is paying attention to the game anymore. I shuffle quietly, flipping the cards from hand to hand trying to make every fourth one an ace, trying to arrange the deck to deal myself a winning hand. They are spinning words of pseudo-wisdom, as if they actually know what they're talking about, but really they're just thinking outloud. I deal out the cards clockwise and check my hand. I have a two of diamonds and a three of clubs. I clearly know nothing.
Jimmy starts back on his self-depreciating rant. He wants to figure out what to do with his life. He wants direction. "I mean what's the point of coming to a realization about yourself or having some insight into your behavior if you can't do anything with it?" He asks.
"Jesus Jimmy, you're the one whose always talking about parabolas and that sort of thing," Dean says. "You just approach that point, pass by it and move on again, what you come away with is only a glimpse."
"But how do I turn the glimpse into a meaningful action?" Jimmy asks.
Dean shrugs, "I have no idea. Like the genie in Aladdin said.... INFINITE POWER itty-bitty living space." He laughs and takes a drag of his cigarette. He tilts his head to one side as if in deep thought and then, after a moment, he continues, "Well I tell you what... I've had a realization or two recently and I have to tell you gentleman that I will be leaving next week. I took my old job back in California."
They both look up in shock.
"Well damn. Really?" Jimmy sits up. "You're leaving us? I mean that's great man, I'm happy for you, but shit we're gonna miss you. It won't be the same without your lunatic ass around here." Jimmy throws his arm around Dean and gives him a bear hug.
"Ya Dean, I feel like I just got to know you and now you're leaving." Ulric looks hurt again. "It's not Sil is it man? Because if he's kicking you out, you're more than welcome to stay at my place for a while."
"No, but I do appreciate the offer Ulric." Dean flicks his cigarette in the ashtray. "I'm leaving because there's nothing here for me to do. I feel like I need to accomplish something. I finished my book, of course no one wants to publish it, but at least I did it. That's what I've been working on for the last year or two and now that it's gone I feel a sense of emptiness in my soul. Not to get too hippified on you, but it really does feel that way. Like I broke up with a girl or something. So, being in limbo, I thought why not go out and make some money? I can't do that here so I took the old job. I'm gonna live with my dad and do some saving. At least that's the plan, who knows though...."
For a while all attention returned to the game. The sound of cards skidding softly across the table holds all the memes I need right now. Jimmy finds the map that Dean and I had been looking at earlier and he spreads it out on the floor again. He sees the red lines we drew tracing the ideal route from New York to Paris by ship and then down the Africa...
"You going to Europe Sil?" he asks pointing at the big red dot in the middle of France.
"Europe?" I say, thinking it over, "that's about the last place I'd go right now."
"Really?" Ulric looks surprised. "No desire to go to France? I can see you in France Sil." Ulric is cross-eyed from the scotch and his attempt to size me up is comical; I can't help laughing.
"Well, I mean if a ticket were handed to me I'd take it," I say, "but it's not my first choice by any means. If I were to go somewhere I'd go to India or China, South America maybe, Brazil, Chile, Costa Rica...." I get lost in private thoughts. Dean finishes dealing the hand and gets up and pours himself another drink. "Not me," he yells from the kitchen, "I gotta see Paris. I've read too many books, seen to many films... I need to set foot in Paris... live there for while... I'm working on this one guy who likes my writing... I'm trying to get him to put me up over there... the trick is going to be getting there."
The trick is always getting there. The destination is the easy part. Play that game you used to play as a child; spin the globe and see where your finger stops it. That's the way to go. The gypsy blood in my veins makes me want to travel constantly, I can only stand to be in one place for about three months and then I have to leave... sometimes I come back and sometimes I don't. I'm starting to feel the itch again myself, the bones wanting to wander.... I have been in Athens almost six months without a vacation. I'm overdue.
I check my down cards-two aces. I bet a quarter. They all raise me. I stay in. Ulric throws the flop-a queen of hearts and the other two aces. "Goddamn," Dean comments, "that's a rich hand somebody has." I smile at him. I bet a quarter and he folds. Ulric and Jimmy both raise me two dollars and so I raise them again. Dean throws out another card. More money cascades into the pot. Another card. More money. I keep raising their raises until the pot's well over fifty dollars. They call and I lay my aces with all the pomp and ceremony my little ego can manage. I rake it in.
The thing with playing cards with your friends is that it's less about reading people than it is about good old-fashioned luck.
After saying goodbye to Dean and giving him their phone numbers and addresses, Ulric and Jimmy both head home for the night. "Nice fucking hand," Dean says when they're gone. "You stop to think how that happened?" He looks at me and a mischievous grin spreads over his face. I shrug. "For the record," he says, "I saw you trying to arrange the deck that one hand... but did you see me?" I have to laugh.
Dean and I stay up a while talking about cheating at cards and friendship and the meaning of all of this.... Before turning in we embrace and say goodbye. This time I don't think I will see him again for a quiet a while. We make one final bet for the night -we will meet in Tangiers, Morocco on September 10, 2002. No matter what happens we will be there. By the time I fall asleep, I'm already there.
The strobe overwhelms the blue glow and the girls begin the writhe, ellish wirthing serpentine bodies, no longer names, no longer girls no longer human, but gliding gilded serpents, movements caught in flickers of blinging whiteness and inky blue darkness, stop motion film, hair, skin, patterns of movement until the light and the shadows beome one. In the glimpses of faces across the catwalk I can see male teeth, shiny pale faces, tongues flick here and there, pass across lips and snake back down throats, and then a blue aquarium darkness, film slowed down. Twenty four to twelves and then six and the three, advancing three glimpses at a time in stop motion time lapse, bodies appearing not far from where they were left. And you can feel her movements, a girl caught in three frame bursts, she is never where she just was always one step ahead of her body and you can it passing into your guppy mouth, snaking down your throat, swallowing swollen calves, slender thighs, choking on garters, weakened by the memory of silk and spice and crusades abandoned long ago to the darkness of continets moving and her cunt tickling across your lips, catch in your throat, a gulp of air, some scent of dark blue shadow and the stomach and breasts, hard nipples that catch on the way down and head and hair swirling across your chin, gulps of cool blue shadow, down, all of it down, drink all of it down, blue and white and flesh and to see it from above... pictures spread across the floor. Sitting cross-legged in the near darkness of late night shadow and gaslamp glow, light and shadow becoming one across the bedroom floor, giant shadows cast across a series of black and white photographs all taken from above. And you arrange the faceless heads in a half circle around the one, the one with the legs careening out from under the birds-eye view of blond and cinnamon and cardemore. Out of focus and caught in flight, she moves in orbits, she holds a key and the knob is turning, light and shadow, digital and analog... the pictures caught in gusts, blowing up in little dust devils and then here onstage, whirling and weaving between her legs, circling under skirts, tugging at stocking and garters, caressing soft brown skin and disappearing into corset shadow, tugging electric nipples, still rising in ever widening circles up to the ceiling and disappearing through it, returning to the vantage point of origin, the vanishing point, right there on the horizon of what just happened and what hasn't yet,. And she takes you by the hand and leads through the beaded curtain of the doorway with hinges still attached, but door and knob and key long since vanished in to some murky ocean memory, a current welling toward the back, toward the corner, and into the shadow, the absense of light, a finger curling, something to follow, a motion trail, a wake of smoke enveloping you in octopus shadow, tentacles reaching out and pulling you into a chair where you are tied to watch.
If you were to see this from a long way a way flickering light on a screen to reveal ashes flying off your skin in trumpet blasts... but you cannot, you will not, it is not. There are only the hurricanes to stir the coffee and bend the telephone poles, to warp the voices of far away, to call up secrets that are sleeping in dazzling peace behind a doorway far up from here, so high up that the knob is just out of your child arm stretch, but how wonderful it is just to see it floating there, out of reach and beautiful, glistening in this light, this artificial sun of closing time.
I go in the bedroom and lock the door.
Outside. Falling leaves clink against the windowpane like broken china dolls. A half moon breast is visible through the clawing twig-arms scratching at the void. I'm thinking of Maya and the first night we spent together. Later, after we had coffee. I walked her to her house. I remember the smell of Jasmine or Frankincense or Myrrh, a beautiful pungent odor that wafts through this world all the time -you catch it in the fall air, tangible but just barely, it hangs on the edge of the known and unknowable.
I open the window and study the frosted-flake remnants of Kudzu crisping on the vine, under the bushes, under the trees, under the stars-a stale brown rug slick with freezing rain. The faint light of Jimmy's window silhouettes a branch and its remaining leaves, the hangers, the ones who won't let go-car crashes, heart attacks, train wrecks. The light looks warm-toward the light coma-stumbling, blind-eyed memory.
And then she kissed me. There was the taste of hot cigarette smoke on her tongue; I caught it greedily the way plants grow to the sun, drawn by the familiar. She tasted like orange blossoms or smelled like them or felt like them, powdered sprinkled orange blossoms. They were in her eyes, the smell came out of her eyes and then she opened them and stared at me for a while hanging on the edge of my lips. Enormous arcing eyebrows of perfume.
The steady erratic pelting of rain sounds like a thousand drunken crystal goblets pelting a Russian fireplace, Cossacks dancing in circles, Dostoyevski dreams. Bearskin rugs. No fireplace-hearth. Gas lamps. And powdered crystal sprayed on a stone floor.
Earlier a letter: I'm on the limp dehydrated grass of Central Park, gnats swarming under this tree. I have gnats for you Sil. The shade seems hotter than the actual sun. Perspiring. Parched. And yet all my discomfort disappears when I read these carefully typed pages-read in full-twice. You are my own private breeze.
There was no word, no sound, just lips resting together, sticky, warm, honey kiss. We went inside and sat on the couch talking for a while. We went upstairs and lay down on her bed. She rose up in tight leather pants out of a sea of flowering colors-Jasmine, Sunflower, Scarlet Sage, Rocket Larkspur, Lupines, and Butterfly Weed. There were rollicking colors everywhere in my mind, indigo and vermilion, violet, lavender, and softer tones, pastels and baby's-breath-white.
It's a toy scene-Russian hearth, nutcrackers dancing, plastic soldiers huddled in the dark shadows of vines. A steady backbeat thuds through the wall. The living room has rhythm. Little percussive grunts and muffed squeals accent and fill. 4/4. Marching toward climax.
I'm working at Garden on the Green... sold my soul for the table scraps... another hireling. on a smoke break. Armed with pen and paper to defend the travesty of wanting to feel loved. The lake is spiked with moonly light, sharp and jagged on thousands of ripples. Once- there is the kiss, then the cycle becomes inevitable. Nipples turn to jagged granite and everything pools and secretes as if waiting for sensual annihilation-a mingling and mangling of identities. A death of one? Or both? A devouring and subordination? No-a polarizing rather-a balance of two integrities, charging electrically, on with the other, yet with centers hard as diamonds-like stars. Do you feel loved? Do I?
She grabbed a handful of my hair and held it, her lips bit at my neck. I could feel heat panting in my ear. Her smooth breasts pressed softly against my chest. She rolled off me, pulled her pants down and climbed on top of me. She swayed there for a few seconds, murmuring to herself. She bird-picked at my belt, peeling the husk from a coconut and then in one gruff movement she fished out my cock and squeezed it with the tips of her fingers. Her lips pressed together and she leaned her head against it and closed her eyes. It was then that I heard the bass fading in and the sharp tap of a snare drum, and I felt her tongue circling.
The cat girl enshrouded in black lace accented with a notorious red feather boa rises to one elbow-need a ray of hope-from where she has been reclining on a velvet divan. She cocks her head lazily and after a yawn full of boredom and nastiness, calls for another martini.... Do you think that when you want everything you're dangerously close to nothing? I wanted to thank you for feeding me the inspiration to question, if only for the insatiable taste of a question...
After a few minutes I pulled her up to my lips. A devouring insubordination amid the tumbling slow-motion sound of shattering glass, falling leaves, splintering moonlight, distant living room backbeat, icy rain crying into hail...Water pouring in through the ceiling, sleet and hail collapsing back to water, rivulets on the window, pelted kudzu pulling the stars under. Her nipples like soft puffs of rain sliding down my tempered, glass fingers. The roof gives way, the ground opens up and the earth will swallow us one day. Its better that way. Inverted love carry you up on the way down, riding tidal waves, tiny moon sheared ripples across centuries and continental drifts and shifts and up and down and over. Carry me to the mountains, to a cave on a wind-howling ridge, rape me like Lilith. Glaciers receding. Gnats swarming out of the caves. Fecund warm diseases licking there way up your spine. Its okay. Its necessary. The rainsleethail still tickles desire. The snapping snare drum echo of time oozes through the walls. Pop pop-pop pop-pop pop-feel you more the less you know. Cossacks setting up camp in a deserted farmhouse and Fyodor calls for another martini... One more drink for the diseased, one more sleep, one more lover until your up with the sun .and the acrid burnt smell of sidewalk.
Sticky tapioca squirting thick on stomachs and breasts.
Reach over and grab a pack of cigarettes off the floor. Pull one out and light it.
Lilith had to go. Nothing was left to the imagination and so he sent her away. Or she left. Packed her suitcase and caught a clipper-ship to where the continents were shifting. Wrote letters and fell in love with a man in the sky. Went blind staring at the image.
Look at her now. Pass her the cigarette and wonder how this happened-tangled up in metaphor and cool blue love-diving off the shores of lost continents. Walk naked to the kitchen and pour another glass of vodka or whiskey or water or wine or change one from the other on your proud way back to the bed.
She has an earthy ethereal mixture to her skin, makes her seem at once detached and warm. Her lips purse teasingly around the filter of her cigarette and eyebrows arc off gray-blue eyes, dyed black hair tussled atop her head. Blue-gray eyes clouded with the same thing you can feel, something trance-like-consummate excitement. She puts the cigarette to your lips and you inhale deeply.
Later: dream about staring at the sun.
Waitress #34 misses you.
Eight
Starts with tapping at the window, ends with this section which itself needs to end with Jimmy and Chloe all bleary eyed... hell yes we're going to new york Dean has pills with a street value of fifteen thousand dollars on him I'm going to new york....
The faceless monster-power-no one person- group-control everything-multi-headed monster-biting itself-information potential exists-attacking heads-destroying itself-end times-space and word alone-unsettling thought-dependency-things start to think-how do you draw the lines then-where does the word go-in the beginning-sure- what about at the end-
Morning- I am standing in the doorway smoking a cigarette. Fall is playing with Winter in the front yard. I'm watching the near freezing rain pelting through the trees. A strange thing has happened in Dean's absence-I no longer need sleep. For two weeks now my brain has not stopped running in loops. It refuses to rest. It used to take an alarm to inspire movement before noon; now I wake up at five in the morning and stare at the ceiling. This morning I have decided to admit defeat. I am up before sunrise. I am watching the sun poking over the horizon to the east, where the storm has not yet hit. There is an infinite sadness to the way the trees glisten in the light. The gleaming raindrops look like a miniature skyline, buildings at night, little twinkling windows, like Manhattan seen from Williamsburg. Reflected microcosms glitter off falling leaves, reds, browns, and oranges, sparkling like the abode walls of a pueblo-New Mexico or Old.
In Mexico City back alleys-soot-covered adobe walls-dark eyes peer from shadowy doorways. It's late in the evening, warm orange smog-light paints the sky and suffuses the city with an alien glow. The air is brisk, but not freezing. You run your fingers along the crumbling walls like a child, dragging at the chips of loose plaster and looking up absently at the sky. Nothing separates you from the peering eyes, the doorways and the tables littered with scraps of food retrieved by boys selling Chiclets in the streets downtown. Beans, slops of meat, ground dog bone, porridges boiled cheap over smoky wood fires. Stalks of plants grow here and there in the tiny yards between buildings. Chilies hang drying in the eaves. Second story railings are a riot of sapphire, indigo, vermilion and emerald; the smell of sage, rosemary, and cilantro wafts out open windows. The flat roofs feed the dripping ceilings, rain gutters leak to water plants hanging from the rafters and balconies. The plants suffer through life, gasping in the ozone and covering over with smoggy dust. The pavement turns to dirt farther out, and is eventually overgrown by trees on the slopes of the mountains. This is the one street, the street, the mainline artery running through and carrying the heart of the matter of matter. This is how it goes and goes and goes. Marching in twos, little children jump and play in an alley off to the right. Two blocks north they are digging up the newest pyramid in the Aztec caper and the ghosts are swimming through the ether. You can see their pallid shadows sailing across the crimson glow of the sky. The ghostly, billowing sails catch century old winds tugging them like clipper ships through the Panama Canal. Phantasmal chatter fills the street like lemurs cackling in the jungle.
Your fingernail catches in a chip of plaster still clinging to the wall. The ghosts light up against the clouds, climbing and dancing in the sky. Priestly ghosts offer still-beating human hearts up to the gods, clamoring at the silent sky and then turning to look at you. Look what we have done. Here is my heart... eat... it is good. Take, this is my body... Mysterious ceremonies carried out amongst a cacophony of meaningless gibberish; indistinguishable figures twist and turn and carve until there is an order and meaning to it all. The priest drives his blade into the chest of a sacrifice, splitting the sternum in one smooth blow. Out comes the heart and in a delicate pirouette the priest turns, pauses, looks for an instant, and then screams, hurling the bloody heart down the side of a pyramid. The gods give an empty laugh. Splattering, lopsided, bounces carry the heart to it's rest in the dirt, under the floorboards of time, the telltale heart beating under the pavement of centuries. The archeologist's pick finds the priest's sacred knife as a token reminder, wrapped in muslin or gauze, mummified at 17,000 feet atop Machu Pechu in Peru, or here, rotting in the middle of the street. The children in the alleyway laugh and play. Their language is like pancakes, laid out flat and easy to hear, smeared by syrupy tongues. The priest smiles sadly down at the watching masses, realizing that he will be dust under the boots of centuries and no one will know what he knows.
We think we will wake up. We think there will be a point at which everything is made clear. The whole world will transform itself into a crystalline diamond plateau on which all the answers are self-evident and you will understand. Your feet will be light as air. You will dance over the diamond floors and glide in perfect, truthful bliss. You will dance quietly to the sound of Frank Sinatra crooning about autumn in New York.... But the image will fail you; the crystal will crack and shatter in a million diamond drill bits, piercing your flesh as you scream deafly, in silent agony.
We think that we will wake up. There is vast machinery purporting to wake us up. There are religions, sciences, methods, prayers, and wheels of karma and darma. Men hang from crosses. Men flagellate themselves on mountaintops. Men twist into pretzels on street corners. Men proclaim the illusion of the world. Men offer salvation. Men sell trinkets for distraction. Men teach meditation techniques. Men douse themselves in gasoline and burn before our eyes. Men crawl on their knees because their legs have been amputated to keep us free. Every path to enlightenment has been tried. Every shriek has been screamed. There are fifty thousand roads diverging in the woods and they all lead nowhere.
There are no gates of heaven, but there are gates to heaven. There isn't a hell, but there is hell. There are no sins, but there are sins. There is no love, but there is such a thing as love. No one is there, but everyone is waiting. You are feeling overwhelmed, paranoid and misunderstood. You want to think that you are not alone. You want to band together, to bond, to hide out, and to mark yourself with primitive lingual tattoos, so that the angel of death will pass over you in a momentary lapse of reason. You don't understand what is taking so long. You don't understand why, if things are possible, they don't happen now. You want to know when the synergy of life will reach out to your neck of the woods. You want to go out. You want to be with your friends. You want to go out Friday and you want to go forever. Forever back or forever forward, somewhere into that brave night, that tired, old, bored allegory. You know you bought into a lie, and you know you're perpetuating it. You know that everything is a lie, but it all means something. Did I say you? I mean me.
I am hungry, restless and deeply confused. I can smell the streets of Mexico and remember the beat of Aztec heart-sacrifices. It courses through the house, driving me mad. I pace the living room like a caged cat, circling in big arcs that bend strategically at the vortices of two ashtrays. The afternoon is a priest hearing confession, masturbating to the maid's obscene tales as she drags them out in full regaling detail. There are only us now, you and I. If this has meaning then it can only be that we are we, and I, I, and you, you, and us, us.
I see Maya. I see Dean. I see Sean and Katherine, Jimmy and Chloe, Ulric, Scratch, and everyone I have ever known. I think of how much all of us have suffered and how great the sorrow of the earth must be. So immense a thing as to defy imagination, to smash metaphors to bits and completely eradicate the word. To render words trite and useless. I feel it come on in a terrifying rush. Adrenaline floods my veins, my heart speeds up, beating so fast that it feels motionless. My palms coat with sweat, my skin flushes, and for the first time I am afraid. I fear for my life. I fear death and what it could bring. I fear the voices I hear. I fear the growling and singing and whispering and chattering of the dead. I look out the window fully expecting the Aztec shaman to be standing there, holding up my heart, smiling. I smell something. The smell hits me like a sledgehammer, there is something blood curdling familiar about it. It is the smell of death. The smell of my death. You can get it without dying, you can smell it lurking around the corner and feel it closing in on you. Death is a thick smell, a reminder that the body is temporal and hangs by a thread, liable to snap without a moment's notice.
The Tibetans claim demons will prey on you as you enter the gates of the afterworld. Those who don't know where they are, the ones that came in on bus wrecks or an earthquake, they don't stand a chance. Neither do those that never realized what is going on in this life. The ones who refuse to let go of the uniquely human games, the politics, the barter system, the Madison Avenue rewrite department, the beggarly, sickly creatures, the religious, the lawmakers, the law upholders, the money greasers, the shit in the wind who have forgot their human roots-that human is humility. Arrogance grows like a cancer, breeds with money and mutates, until the body turns rigid and crusts over with hubris. Their bodies are stiff prisons of hatred that can only be escaped when the winds blow in the atomic smell of death, scorching them clean-salvation. Steady...wait 'til you see the whites of their eyes... the end of history. Everything has an ebb and flow, surges come in waves. There is nothing to be saved from except yourself.
Smoking filterless cigarettes, listening to the voices trailing in from the neighborhood around me, voices from the cottages up the hill, voices of wheels winding down the road, voices leaves in the wind, voices of rain pelting the ground, a masterpiece composition of harmonized waves, sound, the trigger behind the motion. Dancing eyes, hungry and spiral with giddiness... I throw out the tired old man mind. A blur of images, swirling words, sounds, smells, miraculous warmth, crawling embers on the flesh... Digging, keep digging. We're all great tunnelers, mining after the beautiful, but now I see the ugly creeping in around the edges, the black on the starry night. Van Gogh and his goddamn ear always creeping in at the edges. Digging fast and furious: tunnelers. Roots and the little blooms-the moment -the purity -the wavelength- the transitions burned like hydrochloric acid onto memory film. Scar tissue that will never go away.
I'm in the middle of an afternoon drink when I notice the rainbow in the kitchen. At first I think it looks wrong because of bad indoor lighting, but then I notice that it's a reverse rainbow, the spectrum in the opposite order-purple on top. I watch it from the couch for a while, but as it begins to fade, I get up, walk to the kitchen and sit down underneath it. I lean back against the wall and light a cigarette. The sun shifts and the rainbow disappears, replaced by a simple, clear, beam of sunlight, that strikes the wall about eight inches above my head and climbs slowly, but noticeably, upward. The cigarette dangles in my hand. I watch the thin trail of smoke separate into two shades of gray. One is light and salient, like clouds wisping across the summer sky. The other is darker, a somber thundershower in the evening-carcinogenic tars. They separate in the relative darkness near my hand, rise up, and then explode into the light. There is visible burst where the particles of smoke suddenly pitch the beams of light back to my eye. An explosive nanosecond that happens so fast that by the time you notice it, it's long gone past. The two trails of smoke swirl and mingle gradually, dancing through the sunbeam like two girls in the dark corner of a nightclub. The ominous blue stream wears a black leather corset, laced tight in the back. It moves boldly, stiffly, constrained in ribbed fabric. The ethereal gray stream wears a silk robe with embroidered Chinese designs. It moves feathery soft and loose, seductively spinning in the light. As they continue up toward the ceiling, they lose their distinction and disappear into the chaos. Cloud patterns bursting in spring skies, a gurgling stream circling around rocks, the leaves of an aspen tree seen from a distance, the movement of migratory herds, the rise and fall of the Nile over millennia, the smoke from a cigarette... Everything has a pattern. The pattern has a pattern, which forms a fabric where time pools like a glacial lake. It tickles off slowly, minute by minute, second by second, but the reservoir always remains the same.
I am falling into a whirlpool of time. It consumes me and spins me around the room. I am dripping off the precipice into the dark unknown. I have to run to smooth the change... feels slow motion... diving... hit the water like a torpedo... the waves slip out in a circular arc. My eyes smart from the smoke. Body electric, fluidly suspended in time, carried slip-slow, up into the magic of the beyond. Echoes abound like a caged sun gone supernova. It atomizes and re-forms as the cool wave hits the skin, smooth blue skin.
Cut below and use for drive with
jimmy and Chloe
Nine
I have to start moving, and start moving right now. It's around nine. I throw some clothes in a bag and drag them out to the car. I start the engine; it coughs and sputters to life. I go over and say goodbye to Jimmy and Chloe. "When are you going to be back?" He asks. I don't know... "Where are you going?" She inquires. I don't know... "How are you getting there?" That I know...
The engine hums. I keep it at fifty miles an hour. I can hear the noises of the individual pistons pulsating in controlled, rhythmic, patterns. The wind roars around me, but I don't hear it. There is only the steady purring of chaos harnessed, slipping through the air, sliding across the land. Over hills, valleys, and mountains, across bridges, rivers, and railroad tracks, through cities, towns and farms, under rain, sleet, and hail-the open road. The road goes on forever, scorched by the burning sun, it chaps and cracks, bleeding headlights like shooting stars or comets. No one ever drives quite like I have in mind-road as in nowhere-never ending dreams.
It's a beautiful little country road, a peaceful Georgia night, I haven't seen another car for hours. I have no idea where I am. The back of my mind is in New York. It's dragging the rest of me with it. I have the passing thought that hearing the roar of the engine over the rush of the wind might not be a good sign, but I like the way it sounds. It gives the car an organic quality. Faintly, in the background, the sound of classical strings set to the pulse of a techno beat-the ancient modern, the archaic revival. I eschew the interstate in favor of two-lane blacktop. I am in no hurry to get anywhere. I just want to drive. To drive long distance is to meditate; there is nothing to do, nothing that requires any more than the animal function of the brain, the hard-wired instinctual circuits that I don't control anyway. The creative mind, the thinking mind, is free to roam the open road. I avoid interstates. They gloss over the details; they are wide and fast with no time for minutiae. The fabric of life is thinnest in the middle of an interstate highway. I trade speed for peace, convenience for time, and cold comfort for risk. I hang my arm out the window, and let it go limp to bounce with the wind.
Just outside of Gordian, South Carolina, a canopy of oaks and red elms arch over the road, a dizzying rush of treetops sprays overhead. I slow down to thirty, set the cruise control and lean my head back. I'm gliding under the canopy, looking up at a fantastic blur of moonlit leaves. Silver swords cutting up the sky, sleek, and motion blurred. It looks like a high-speed film montage where you can almost tell what things are, but they move too fast to fully comprehend, always lingering just beyond the threshold of recognition. I feel myself lying on my back in a canoe sliding along the banks of the Amazon... They're not leaves at all, they're signposts, clues to the mystery, and every bit the key.
A boarded up fruit stand-boiled-peanut vendors-an ancient downtown of false storefronts-it's impossible to tell if the inhabitants are asleep or deserted long ago. Go where the money is... it's a universal migration from here to the interstate highway. Human culture always following after it's own inventions. Eight hundred generations, six hundred and fifty thousand spent in caves, wombs, and incubators, hydroponically fed dreams from underground rivers. Then the dreamer woke to create a world with electric can openers, shrink-wrapped by a haggard thirteen year old girl in between enduring her uncles' assembly line gang rapes.... All this for that or all that for this?
The air behind me holds the tragedy of fall turning to winter. It offers backseat driving tips, whispering softly in my ear like a barroom parrot hissing the mimic of the voice-box smoker ordering another scotch on the rockssss. I stop for gas. I am higher in elevation; it's colder here. I put on my jacket and start the pump. I walk up the street to look at the old buildings. Faded, worn paint is shedding off the brick-framed buildings in giant sheets like lizard skin. I step back and admire the chaotic structure as I light a cigarette. Old advertisements are stapled to a board at crazy, maddening angles, pictures of cans, black eyed peas, peaches, moon pies-faded and whitewashed by years in the sun. Across the street a window reads: Ace Appliance Store. I wander over and put my face to the glass. I see televisions, radios, washing machines, drying machines, refrigerators, freezers, ovens, microwave ovens, convection ovens, alarm clocks, computers, headphones, video games, laser disc players, DVD players, record players, compact disc players, cordless telephones, wireless phones, digital phones, cellular phones, two way radios, short wave radios, car stereos, home stereos... Tons and tons of stuff. Endless stuff out here in America. I crush out my cigarette and walk back to the car. In the back seat is my single bag. I have four shirts, two pairs of pants, two pairs of shoes, socks and underwear, toiletries and a laptop computer. I don't have any stuff.
Feeling weary and defeated, I follow the signs to the interstate to find a motel. The interstate isn't here for you and I. No one built this road so we could drive on a convenient, straight, fast thoroughfare. It's wide and straight because Eisenhower was an army man. He wanted a way to move tanks, land fighter jets, and transport troops about the country. Should the need arise.... Driving it takes the rest of the wind out of my sails. I pull off at the first motel I see, plunk down my $40 to a sleepy looking attendant, and pass out for the night.
I dream that I'm in New York, living with Maya. Everything is wonderfully happy. I am lying in bed and she is on top of me, arms extended, back arched. Her face is perched above mine, blond locks framing a warm, joyous smile... and then something changes, she rears her head back and laughs like Satan when Hitler rolled into Hungary. My body is stiff as a board; she picks me up and heaves me out the window. I scream as I fall, but I don't hit the ground or wake up. Eventually I stop screaming. I keep falling and falling. A sickening feeling overwhelms me-vertigo-I can't see the ground below me. Eventually I turn over and look up. Maya's face is still clear, leaning out the window, as if I had not fallen at all, but only hovered just below her balcony. She is smiling again, but now it's a sad, crestfallen smile. I realize that she never threw me, it was my imagination. I jumped. She is crying because I am gone. I have made a tragic mistake. Floating in mid air, body wracked with sobs, I am overwhelmed by the realization that I will have to live the rest of my life with this mistake. There is no way to undo it-only move forward. I wake with a start.
It is just before dawn. I fumble for my cigarettes and light one. The dream leaves me feeling depressed and angry with myself. I smoke grimly, scowling at the walls. The room is nondescript, a common dresser, an ordinary mirror and two generic paintings hanging on the wall above my head. It feels like a prison cell. The acidic insides of my stomach gnaw at the fleshy walls begging for eggs, bacon and hash browns. I get up and look out the window; it's nowhereville, faceless buildings, ordinary landscaping, and second-rate views of the cold, insensitive freeway overpass.
I pull on my pants, light another cigarette and flip on the morning news. People are cheating, stealing and dying all over the world. Glitter-faced entertainment hosts parade in fashionable clothes for my amusement. It's the same blue world. Nothing ever changes inside the box. Its comforting and horrifying at the same time. A cheap coffeemaker languishes on the bathroom counter, it seem energized the minute I turn it on. It rattles and gasps and makes gurgling noises as if waking from a long slumber. The television drones out the latest and greatest pop music as chosen by the careful market research groups at MTV. It's a terrible desolate scene this room, but it makes me happy. It is not nearly as bad as the dream landscape.
Around ten I check out at the front office. I skim the newspaper as the clerk prints out a receipt. According to the newspaper, Washington DC is the most violent city in the country. In the hills around Sarejevo, land mines still blow off limbs as a brutal reminder of the never-ending price of war. In India and Palestine the same religious zealots continue fighting the same wars their ancestors fought. In Madagascar eighty-five percent of the forest has been clear-cut for timber, the soil washes uselessly into the sea. In Washington State fifty four percent of the population still thinks clear cutting is a good idea. Sixty-five percent of the population of Zimbabwe has AIDS or HIV. Such happy things in the morning.
In Burma a Shaman is praying and wondering how long until the monsoons arrive to heal the parched farmland. In Tangiers a dying old man in a hospital bed is think about the American junky that used to buy groceries from his father's store.
The road leads up into the capital. The tourists are thick as Florida sand fleas. The streets, the very concrete and asphalt beneath me, are laughing at all of us as they bear the silly game on their back day in and day out.
I make my way out of town and start heading north again. My plan is to spend the night in Jersey and tackle New York tomorrow, but maybe I ought to just keep going. Maybe I ought to skip New York. Maybe I should just drive right on up to Maine, and then Canada, and then whatever is north of Canada; drive right into the arctic sea and jump out at the last moment. Maybe build an igloo, live off polar bear fat and never see anyone again. Maybe find the little hole that leads down into the hollow core where the dark-skinned survivors of Atlantis took refuge...
Day fades to evening, fades to night. The ancient mistress hunger sings her siren song around nine and I stop at an all night diner in Pennsylvania. I sit in the corner and order up a plate of grease. Hard formica counters rise out of cold, concrete floors, scuffed and worn from trucker boots, treading season after season across the threshold, into the orange glow to rest the weary eyes. It calls up visions of lost highways, long gone past, dredges up images, blurring them together. Passing seasons traced out in the ark of headlights dragging across concrete freeway miles.
There aren't very many people in this diner-a couple of truckers with ten-gallon hats, belt buckles, extend-a-bellies, and the requisite butt cracks. There is a thin, old man in a booth-the sort of man that's thin, and old, that you would expect to find in a diner booth. Three waitresses linger behind the counter. One is cooking on a giant grill while the other two gab and stare at their fake pink fingernails. As I get up to go to the restroom, I notice another man next to the truckers. He's a westerner. He has an extra-wizened face that can only be acquired by spending some time in the desert. I figure him for a Texan. He looks like he has been around the block. I notice him because he glares at me. His eyes challenge me as I walk past. I stop on my way back and spin a few tracks on the jukebox. Willie Nelson floats across the room, burying the ghosts of highway noise-the freeway semi-trailers flinging themselves through the night, headlights pulling the past into the future.... Lazy houseflies crawl up the wall reminding me of Ben's Broasted Chicken.
I was headed up to the Tahoe area back in my hiking days. I went by way of the back road, 395, a rickety operation that gives you fantastic views of the eastern escarpment of the Sierra Nevada. About three-quarters of the way to Tahoe you pass through Bishop. It's a logical place to eat. The only place really. There was a roadside dive called Ben's which advertised broasted chicken and corn on the cob for two dollars a plate. I wanted to know just what one did to a chicken to make it broasted. I ordered some up but I hardly ate, the enormous, lazy flies that crawled up the column next to my table distracted me. I can't recollect the chicken, but the flies were slothful, indolent creatures that didn't move when you swatted at them. They just gave up and died. I may have been the first person to swat at them. They might not have known what death was; they might have had free run of the world their entire lives. I might have created a fly culture myth of the grim reaper-the broaster.
I try to put it all together, the passing seasons, the glaring Texan, and free-spirited flies squishing under the thump of newspaper. The Texan keeps craning his head and looking over at me suspiciously. Perhaps my fingernails are too clean, or my clothes not stained enough, to merit his respect. By the time I finish eating and light a cigarette, the truckers are gone. The thin old man evaporates leaving a trail of smoke. It's just me, the waitresses, and the Texan. All the sudden the Texan stands up and coughs loudly. The waitress, who had been grilling burgers, turns around and comes out from behind the counter. As their eyes meet, his face melts from a suspicious glare to a warm, loving smile. They hug and kiss each other and say some sort of goodbye. I see his face over her shoulder as he hugs her; he has a tender look in his misty eyes. He is no longer a glaring, suspicious stranger, but a simple, weather-beaten man escaping into the arms of a soft, plump waitress. He catches me staring at them; he smiles at me and rubs her back. For a flashing second everything in the world seems perfectly fine and sensible. They kiss again and he walks out the door without turning around.
Nine
Get rid of Chloe and Jimmy start letter to chloe thing put Dean on an airplane for Costa Rica.
ten
All points bulletin-universe in retreat-wasteland poets die of heartache-epiphany-no spacemen-detour-dinosaur bones churn under wagon wheels-future excavated-time bound memory-never happened-non-event-heart beats-broken timepiece-lonesome thoughts- stave off chill-to be free-red white blue disease-surrender-blazing failures-defeat-set free- Christ-Joan of ark-Gandhi-Montezuma-world paused-infinitesimal second-watch them fall-nothing but continual drumming-beating through African congas-you alone-get your life preserver-cut out the poetry-cut to the main artery-
Manhattan goes helter skelter the minute I emerge from the Holland Tunnel. The first thing I encounter are detour signs, which send me uptown when I want to go across town. Everything is moving too fast. I'm used to walking the streets, not driving them. Street signs whip past in a blur. I look in vain for a landmark, something I recognize, but I see nothing. Every street I try to turn on is blocked off or a dead end. Finally, at some length, I get across to the Lower East Side only to find myself heading off the island on the Manhattan Bridge. I encounter more detours in Brooklyn. I'm completely lost now; I roll down the window and ask an old man with a tuba for directions back to the bridge; he plays me a guttural song. I manage to make it back into Manhattan, but this time I end up way down by Battery Park. My frustration is mounting. I decide to admit defeat. I pull over somewhere in the financial district and call Maya. After her initial shock wears off, she gives me directions and I set off again. But the minute I get back in the car, the streets are all jumbled up in my head. Did she say Houston or Canal? Was it West on Houston or East on Canal? Was it right on Essex and past Delancy? Or was it right on Essex left on Delancy? I pull over again about ten minutes later and call her back. She laughs and tells me I'm closer this time, even headed in the right direction. I just haven't gone far enough. Maya promises to come out and flag me down. I'm exasperated by now, Manhattan was not designed with cars in mind. I feel like I'm driving in a maze at the bottom of the Grand Canyon. I can never see more than two blocks ahead. I drive right by Maya, but luckily I see her jumping up and down in the rearview mirror, and I flip a U-turn. I park in a loading zone in front of her building and get out to drop off my bag. I am frustrated and angry.
Snow is just starting to fall on the icy blacktop. The street is already a sea of snow, slush, salt, and ankle-deep puddles from earlier storms. Maya is wearing a long, black, down parka. Her hair is tucked under a knit hat and she has on wool mittens. She smiles at me and comes running up to give me a hug. I rudely brush her aside. She balks and slowly, nearly imperceptible slides toward the curb. She draws up and crosses her arms. "you aren't even going to give me a kiss?" I want to find parking I want to get rid of the car I want to make the lights stop flashing I want to turn down the noise I want to make the cars slow down I want to paint lanes in the street. I want to kiss Maya in a dream, running into her arms, a celluloid reunion, the hero and heroine see each other at a distance and start running. To Have to Hold, and yet one brush something closer to The Shining has emerged. I apologize and give her an obligatory hug and kiss.
I lug the suitcase upstairs and Maya goes with me to park the car, lest I get lost walking home. She is miffed at me. She has a hurt expression on her face, but we struggle onward trying to pretend nothing is wrong. To cheer her up, I tell her that I think I'm going to stay. Her face breaks into a smile, "Are you going to live with me?"
I tell her I am. "Now and forever," I say, thinking as I do that I've said that before. Twice.
"God," she exclaims, "I have been waiting to hear that for two years now. I can't believe you're actually here." She cups her hands around my face. Her eyes are younger than in my lantern lit memories. Her mittens catch in my stubble. She leans over and we kiss. Her nose and cheeks are icy cold, but her lips part and her mouth is warm. Our tongues circle each other, the light turns green, a car honks.
We find a temporary parking spot two blocks over and we run home through the falling snow. When we get in the apartment I finally pick her up in my arms and for a little while everything is perfect. We kiss and start ripping each other's clothing off. Clothes fly about the room, covering furniture and floor. We fall in bed naked and groping.
Later, we sit in bed smoking cigarettes, resting. She is naked, legs crossed, wearing a red feather boa around her neck. Her now blond curling locks are ruffled from sex. She puts the filter tip to her lips and softly takes a drag. She smiles at me. "Sil," she says, "are you sure this is what you want?" I nod and look at her eagerly. She looks at me with a face I don't recognize.
"You're going to need a job up here," she says. "New York's expensive, are you sure that's what you want?"
"I only want to be with you," I say, but the word job forms a black cloud over my head and panic sets in. I start to see myself wandering the streets of New York penniless and insane, begging for food in alleyways. I drag harder on my cigarette, but the fear is already rising up the back of my spine, it lodges at the base of my brain. This is New York; New York is not a cross-eyed dream you had even though it seems that way the minute you leave. This is real, steel and breathless concrete real. There is rent to be paid and food costs a fortune. My savings is nearly depleted. I have to find a job. My heart speeds up at the very mention of the word let alone the action it entails.
"I think I have job you might like," she offers. "We need a graphic designer at the agency. You would be doing comp card layouts... You know how to use PhotoShop right?"
"I could do that," I say thinking that I probably can't. but the job searching panic I feel means I always take the first one offered. I never stop to think whether or not I will like doing it. Having a job relieves the stress of having to find a job. There is no job as bad as needing a job.
I start kissing her again. Her mouth becomes a warm sanctuary and I climb right in. My hands stray to her breasts, her ass, and then, cupping her face in my hands, I lay her back on the bed again and kiss my way down to her smooth cunt.
We stay up until the early morning hours exploring all the nooks and crooks of each others bodies, making sure that we remember them, that we know them in the biblical sense. Maya falls asleep around four; I sit up smoking and thinking what a great thing this will be. I am going to stay in spite of the panic. I fall asleep with visions of perpetual happiness lodged in my brain. But in the back of my mind, a spellbinding feedback loop begins to start spinning, softly, slowly, round and round.
When I wake up Maya has already gone to work. The note on the pillow says that she wants to meet me for lunch, but it is already past the time she wants to meet. I jump out of bed and call her. "No big deal," she says, "I got busy anyway. Let's meet in half an hour." I hang up and walk around the apartment for while, getting a feel for it. It's an absolute dump, but Maya had already told me that many times on the phone. She is merely subleasing it. The real owner is in New Orleans. Maya's friend, the permanent resident of this place, has the absolute worst taste I have ever laid eyes on.
Maya has done her best to get rid of the atrocious ornamentation that filled the place when she moved in two months ago. The closets are choked full of the girl's knickknacks, shoes, purses-the girl had twenty-seven purses, and those are just the ones she left behind-and of course clothes. Awful punk rock memorabilia-posters, patches, buttons, record covers-is stuffed under the couch, along with the rest of the girl's abominable artwork and decorative trinkets. But even still, the furniture itself is enough to send you into fits. Chairs are held together with twist ties from last year bread bags, antiques the girl called them when Maya first looked at the place. The living room is dominated by a pink couch that was probably red, maybe even nice, in 1932. Opposite the couch, where one would have expected a television, there is instead a massive chest of drawers dominating the wall. The bedroom is so small it can hold only the bed. In the living room, against the wall and between the windows, is a table, well chewed by some mangy dog. And the dog, ah the dog... I see a picture of the dog on the refrigerator; it's the kind of Tijuana mutt that no one in their right mind would actually let in the house. The psoriatic mutt has left behind double its weight in shedding, little clumps of ratty hair and flakes of dead skin are everywhere. The worst part of the place is the Persian rugs. All three of them look like centuries worth of Persian kings and queens have danced countless nights, and maybe even played a few games of polo, on them.
I go in and start the water for a shower. At first it's nice and hot. I get in and lather up my hair, but then just as I am going to rinse the soap from my eyes, the water turns frigid and I scream in shock. I prance to other end of the tub, trying to escape the icy claws, but the tub is too small to escape. Soap burns my eyes. I slip and grab out for something to hold onto. I accidentally pull down the shower curtain, trip on the tangled mass and fall on my ass right in the middle of the ice-cold stream of water. I fumble frantically with the knobs, turning off the cold water, but before I can get the knob for hot turned off, a scalding blast of hell hits the back of my neck. I scream again and jump out of the tub.
I rinse my hair in the sink and put a cold towel on the back of my neck to sooth the burn. I sit down on the cold kitchen floor, naked and defeated. I light a cigarette and try to believe that the world is not marshalling all it forces against me. Eventually I get dressed and go out to meet Maya.
Outside the air is a Moroccan dagger stabbing at the tiny slivers of my exposed flesh that my scarf fails to cover. I round the corner at the subway station and a blast of wind goes right through all my layers, as if I have on nothing at all. Maya and I have a late breakfast at the Waverly. I mention nothing about my disastrous shower. Instead I pretend to be eager to start work. Money, I am thinking, must make money. It turns out that there is nothing for me to do yet, so I go home to take a nap.
I walk in the door wanting to do something-clean, rearrange, douse with gasoline- anything. But every time I set about to do it I become overwhelmed by the scope of what needs to be done. I give up before I lift a finger. The excess of trinkets and knickknacks drives me up the walls and makes me claw my way across the ceiling like a terrified cat. The same horror starts to carry over out into the city when I go for an evening walk. The cold just adds to the overwhelming din and confusion of the city. There is too much, everywhere there is just too much. Too many shops selling the same things, too many restaurants serving the same things, too many people screaming hollering for cabs, too many honking horns, too many yelling kids, too many roaring trains, too many buildings, to many smells wafting in the street, too much garbage, too much slushy snow, too much sound and sight and noise.... I walk in a stupor. My body is in shock; sensory overload has shut all my circuits down. I am not ready for this. This is not the summertime New York that I know where everything is a shining celebration, everything is warm and inviting. The city I thought I loved has turned to a hideous leviathan, baring it's teeth and snarling at me.
I meet Maya later for dinner and already I feel like the whole city is against me. We go out for sushi and, as if to prove that New York has no love for me, I come home with food poisoning. Instead of making love, I spend the night retching my guts up in the toilet and talking to the mouse that lives behind it. Maya checks on me periodically to make sure my fever doesn't increase. I put on smile for her, string of vomit running down my chin. I look in the mirror for the first time in ages. My eyebrow is still missing. My hair is turning grayer. I wipe the vomit from my lips and drink from the faucet. The water hits my churning stomach and I realize I have made a mistake. I pitch forward, and stagger back to the toilet. The mouse scurries out of the way, into the wall. The mouse is my only friend, cousin to the rats in my ceiling back in Georgia.
I spend the better part of two days alternating between lying in bed and hugging the toilet bowl like it's the son of God.
Eventually I get better and start to try working on the composite cards. I am supposed to lay out photographs, create a design for them, and then pass them along to the printer in Brooklyn, named Lenny, who doesn't like me because he wants my job. This is all I know. I have no experience and not even the vaguest understanding of what I'm supposed to do. I know the basics of the situation, that is, I know how to use the computer program, but I don't know what to do to the cards to make them look good. I've never even seen a real composite card before. Maya gives me some tips and pointers. I look at lots of magazine ads and try to copy them, but the photography I have is subpar. Everything I do looks like a two-bit hack job, which, of course, it is.
Maya and I are both working for a woman named April, the master of ceremonies for the Real North Modeling Agency. April is in her early forties, her hair is a red mane and she has an infectious laugh. She has managed models before for big companies I've never heard of, but Maya assures me they are a big deal. Somewhere along the way, April decided that she wanted more control, so she is starting her own agency. I meet her for the first time in a midtown steak and drinks type of place. I take one look at her and my heart sinks. She's insane, you can tell by the the way her lips move and words come out but no meaning accompanies them. I smile a lot and try to match her hair brained enthusiasm. She doesn't listen very closely to what I say. She keeps asking me what South Carolina is like even after I tell her repeatedly that I'm from Georgia. I can't decide if it's some sort of insult or if she genuinely doesn't hear me. Maybe she thinks there's no difference. Maya has the utmost respect and faith in April. She assures me that April is a good woman and that she really knows what she's doing. I really can't say because I don't have a clue what April or I are really doing. I know what Maya is doing. Maya is the director of new faces, she finds the models. She works around the clock and she isn't even getting paid. She and April exist day to day on the money they get from signing up new models. April and Maya start going out for drinks every night. I prefer to sit at home.
They talk about renting a space to run the agency out of, but in the mean time all five hundred models have Maya's phone number. They call the house at all hours of the day. The phone rings during dinner, during sex, while we're trying to take bath, as we're walking out the door, as we're walking in the door, as I'm working on the computer, as I'm trying to fall asleep... And when we don't answer the phone they hang up and call Maya's cell phone. Maya spends so much time on the phone that I have to go out and get a cell phone just to be able to talk to her.
Maya has left the building, metaphorically speaking. I hardly ever see her and when I do, she's on the phone the whole time or we're running from one errand to the next. We eat together and we sleep together, but beyond that she is out of the house and I'm stuck at home staring at a fuzzy flat screen populated by smiling idiots from Ohio with clichs in their eyes. She has found something in her life-direction. For Maya, something is happening, something that I'm not a part of. For the first time we start fucking. In the old days we had great sex. Sometimes nasty sometimes sweet, but we never fucked. We start fucking. Great pornstarstyle fucking. Hair pulling ass slapping heart attack fucking. It's the best sex we've ever had and it scares me to death. Afterwards I sit in the kitchen thinking how strange it is to have break-up sex before you break up. I'm an optimist though so I ignore the implications.
After a few weeks a routine forms. Maya leaves before I wake up. I get up and meet her for breakfast at the Waverly. Then she goes back to work and I go home to work on the cards. I sit at home staring at a computer screen. I remove skin blemishes, correct photographic errors, lose weight when it's need, reshape faces, re-color eyeballs, reshape and enlarge eyes, slim butts and enlarge breasts... everything in advertising is a lie from beginning to end... Part of it makes me sick every time I sit down to work; the other part has fun chasing clever rationalizations around the feeble nether regions of my atrophied conscience. The sad part is that I actually like the people. I like the models-as people I mean. They are all good people, sure their vain shallow and think they look a lot better than they do, and sure most of them will never be Rhodes scholars and sure you could have a more interesting conversation utilizing a telephone pole and decent imagination, but it's not their fault. they work in the modeling industry its their job to be vapid and intellectually feeble. Their the sagebrush at Los Alamos, scorched without knowing why.
Maya gets home nights around nine or ten and talks of nothing but models. Everything we do has became models, which are good, which are bad, what stage of production they are in, how well the business is doing, what more needs to be done... models, models, models. Nothing else. There are some vague and ill-conceived attempts on my part to express the growing jealousy I feel, but to no avail. I begin to be increasingly hurt by every word coming out of Maya's mouth-not one of them has the slightest acknowledgement of my existence. In the past when Maya and I had spent time together we were the center of each other's lives and now that we are finally living together we are farther apart than we have ever been. One morning decide to walk home from breakfast and on the corner of Bleeker and McDougal I pick a bundle of sagebrush and start burning it whenever Maya walks in the door.
The job only makes it worse. Every time I sit down at the computer to work on retouching the images I am reminded of how miserable things are. I stare at the faceless models and they stare emptily back at me from the screen. I can hear them laughing at me, flaunting how much more important they are to Maya. I am descending into a hellish nightmare of self-doubt, whirling around an abysmal sense of worthlessness. And I'm losing my sense of humor. I stare at the photographs for hours trying to figure out what the hell to do with them.
The phone rings and suddenly I have the brilliant idea to clog the line with an Internet connection. I get a reprieve from the incessant ringing. Out of habit I checking my email and find that Dean has been trying to get a hold of me for two weeks. I email him my new phone number, but make no mention about the state of things. He too is in a terrible state, almost as bad as I am. He quit his job after only a month back in LA. He fled back to DC where he has taken up again with Alexis. He claims in his email that he is only staying there because he has nowhere else to go, but we both know that isn't true. It's quite a document, the email he sends, it starts without even an introduction. "I fear normalcy in any shape. Anything that has been agreed upon by enough people to actually be called 'normal' is something I am not interested in. Primarily, because in my assessment of the world's population, you could fit the intelligent peoples of the earth on the head of the proverbial pin. You said once, while I was staying with you, that 'a genius only knows he's a genius if he's surrounded by idiots.' After my brief return to LA, I concluded that I am in fact a genius by simple default, everyone around me was a grade A moron. I will always be grateful to LA for showing me that there was place where I could surround myself with millions of examples of what I try to destroy in myself.... The niche I attempted to carve out, or should I say that the niche society attempted to carve out for me, fit about as well as an airline seat does a five hundred-pound man's ass. My parameters lie outside the curriculum of everyday thought.... I have now decided that genius must find a societal outlet for at least one thing they create -otherwise they are doomed... The good things that happen are a flood of orgasmic joy and I cling to them. I don't believe in depression. Depression is a tag put on someone who is 'positive' impotent... When it comes to having faith in a positive future I'm as limp as a seventy-year-old porn star. Positive things happen occasionally by the flick of a flint, but counting on them is time I can no longer waste. Let it all come down. Expect the worst and you'll relish the best. Expect the best and you'll wallow in pain. So I went looking for the worst. I came back here to DC to be with Alexis.... In truth I have been enjoying myself, but that feeling is fading fast... I heard from Jimmy that you were in New York so I wanted to send you this ASAP. I may need to spend a little time on your couch in the near future. The money I had is nearly gone so I can't get much farther than New York at this juncture."
I feel woozy. I lie down to take a nap but I can't sleep. I lie there like a somnambulist, staring at the wall thinking of nothing. Maya comes home at ten and finds me in the darkness. My fever is back and my lungs are clenched up tight as a boxer's fist. I hack and cough all night long spitting chunks of brown phlegm in the sink. I can't sleep. By morning dark rings have formed under my eyes. I look and feel exhausted, but I still can't sleep. The anxiety attacks return in the midst of my illness. I am feverish, coughing, sniffling, sneezing, and contending with a racing heart that seems intent on pounding right out of my ribcage. I forget to log on to the Internet and the phone rings incessantly. I hear the neighbor's television through the walls. The mouse is scratching at the ceiling. I hack up blood into a tissue. My fever climbs to 103 degrees. Giant moving cranes roar and screech across the street. The bleat of construction vehicles in reverse is ceaseless. The phone is still ringing; the room spins in circles around my head. Maya is no where to be found; she hasn't returned my phone call. My stomach growls, I am starving, but I can't bring myself to eat. There is no food in the house except grapes anyway. I flip through afternoon talk shows watching 'fat women and the men who love them.' The phone rings again and I can hear Maya's voice on the machine, but I'm too weak to get up and answer it.
When my cell phone rings, I assume it will be Maya. I desperately want to hear her voice, but when I answer it, it turns out to be Dean.
"Sil! It's good to hear your voice." He sounds frantic. "I'd love to chat but I don't have the change... got a cell phone huh? Did you read my letter? I hope it's all right, I bought a train ticket for tomorrow morning... I'll be in the city around noon. Can I hang for a couple of days until I can find some cash and get out?"
"Sure Dean. You're always welcome..." I am thinking of how to phrase the situation. The last thing in the world that I want to add to an already desperate situation is another desperate person. "Great," he says before I can get a word in edgewise, "see you tomorrow." He hangs up without giving me time to fully explain things, but I figure that's his mistake not mine.
Morning finds me still feverish and shaky, but I get up anyway. I meet Maya at the Waverly for breakfast. I see her off to work and head uptown to meet Dean. I stagger along in a feverish nightmare. Gargoyles and fiends stalk me from shadowy buildings. They prowl the streets in mobs. Their claws ripping and tearing everything to shreds. They hide around corners; I lurch across the street. They leap from cabs and busses, claws extended, teeth bared, trying to rip me limb from limb and drag me down with them into the fiery pits of the underworld. The world moves in stop motion film, blurred out of focus and intent of tripping me up as I walk. Things that aren't there keep darting in my peripherals and I can here Mayan priests, the chiclet boy, fiends, demons, and phantoms growling and chattering in the shadows.
Dean is sitting on a bench across from the newsstand in Grand Central. He looks haggard from lack of sleep and excessive facial hair. "Sil..." He looks up weakly.
"Dean..." I sound like a weather beaten sixty-year-old man. "It's almost noon, you want a drink?"
"Ya," Dean tries to smile, " that might raise my spirits."
We head across the street to a bar. I keep my head down to avoid the devilish creatures swooping down from above. We sit down at the bar and order a couple of beers. Dean takes off his coat and slumps his head down on the bar. "Things are bad back there. She doesn't even know I'm here. Neither does my job." He raises his head when the bartender sets down the beer. "But none of that matters a wit," he sighs. "What's wrong is what's always been wrong, and what that is remains an absolute mystery to me. Did you read my letter?"
"Of course. Always such cheery words you send."
"Yes, well, you know how much easier it is to write than to talk. Anyway, I meant most of that stuff. I'm lost and alone. He stares at his haggard reflection in the mirror behind the bar. "Do you ever feel that the whole world has turned against you?"
I want to say that I do, that I feel it right now, but the boy with chiclets is glaring at me, calling me a worthless gringo and kicking my leg under the counter. I lie to Dean and tell him that he's alone. I tell him that things will brighten up. I tell him that the world is getting better. The Mayan priest throws his head back and laughs hysterically.
"No it's not," Dean shakes his head. "The world is getting worse Sil. It's never going to get any better. This whole country is certifiably insane. I have to get out of here somehow. I think maybe I'll go to France." He lights a cigarette and groans. "Oh god, what the fuck am I talking about? We both know I'm never going to France." He laughs ironically and drinks down his beer in one long gulp.
I light a cigarette. I blow the smoke back behind me. The boy with the chiclets goes into fits from the smoke. He runs out of the bar and comes back with giant growling, snarling beast in tow. It has alligator eyes and long fangs dripping carnage. Its leathery hide is covered in warts. It snorts and shakes its head. It looks at me and licks it's lips. The boy laughs. The Mayan priest comes over and rubs its head.
The bartender brings Dean another round of Guinness without being asked. He is listening in on the conversation. Everyone is listening in. A crowd of half-decomposed bodies lines up at the end of bar groaning and moaning and waiting for Dean and I to be put in the gallows. They drag a guillotine out of the bathroom. They are screaming for our heads. The priest whispers in our ears, when the blade falls, get up and run, get up and run, get up and run... I can hear them placing bets on how far our headless corpses will run.
Dean turns and claps his hand on my shoulder and looks intently in my eyes. "Sil," he says, "I want out of this nightmare."
I consider it for a moment. Get up and run, get up and run, get up and run... "I got news for you Dean, there is no way out." He turns away from me, "you can't do it, you have to walk through the nightmare to come out the other end." The priest doubles over in fits of laughter and the little boy throws his chiclets out in the crowd. The ghastly decomposing figures clamor over each other trying to get at the gum. They rip each other to shreds; shrieks and howls fill my head. I start to shake.
Dean drinks his beer in one long gulp again. He motions to the bartender for more. "Fuck that," he says angrily, "I'm gonna find a way out. And who the hell are you to say that anyway?" He looks at me with fire glowing in his eyes. "Where do you get off telling me that? I thought you would be the one person who would understand where I was coming from?"
I shrug my shoulders and sigh deeply. "If you want to go, you just go. It's that simple, you don't have to debate it with yourself; you don't have to get approval; you don't have to ask; you don't have to plan. You go out for the paper one day and you don't come back. You book a flight, a boat, a train and you just go... like we did last time. I just don't think it's going to help."
Dean is silent. The room is spinning around my head. Lights streak from the motion. Faces stretch out sideways and take on hideously evil dispositions. Time speeds up. I am thrown forward. The fabric of reality is ripping and I'm falling through into some other place-some great inferno of perdition. I run to the bathroom and splash water on my face. I feel like drugs are coursing my veins, but none are. My heart is beating like a jackhammer. The priest is staring at me from the mirror. He lifts his blade to my eyebrow and pushes it against my flesh. I feel a sharp pain and bead of blood begins to form. The thin rivulet runs down my cheek like a tear. The mirror wobbles and shakes. The priest leaps forward driving the blade into my head. I'm too weak to scream.
I come to on the floor. An old man is shaking my shoulder. He asks if I am okay. I stand up uneasily and look in the mirror again. There is a cut on the scar of my eyebrow; I must have hit my head when I fell. I thank the man, and he leaves, shaking his head. I wash off the blood and put a paper towel to my head to stop the bleeding. I open the door and step back into the bar. The priest is gone, so is the chiclet boy and all the rest of the hideous, clamoring monsters. Halfway across the room, I stop and study Dean. He is staring emptily at the mirror behind the bar. I notice for the first time Dean, as he really is, I feel all his dilemmas as if the net of synchronicity is merging us into one single entity. It occurs to me that he may be right. Perhaps he should run again.
"Dean," I say as I sit down. "If it makes you feel any better, my life is at the bottom of a toilet bowl too. I'm losing Maya. I can't stand the thought of it, but it's already too late." I finish my beer and order a couple of shots of whiskey.
"Shit Sil, I'm sorry. If I had known that I wouldn't have come up here and laid my shit on you."
I glance over at him and do both shots myself. I order two more and let Dean have one this time. "That's not the point," I tell him. "It actually makes me feel a better knowing I'm not the only one screwing up my life. Besides I might be able to help you. Why don't we go down to the airport and book a flight? Why don't you go to France right now?" I raise my shot. Dean looks helplessly at me, but raises his shot to toast. "Let's go right now no more talk no more contemplation, no more words. From here on out only actions, pure honest actions," I throw back the whiskey; it burns down my throat. Dean does the same. I order more. And more. We drink faster and faster.
"I can't just disappear to Europe on Alexis," Dean complains. "I have to at least call her."
"No you don't," I glared at him, "come on let's go." He's losing his nerve. I grab him by the arm and start to drag him out. He consents and lets me pull him out of the bar, but in the vestibule he stops. I fear he will change his mind, but he only wants my assurances that I will explain everything to Alexis. I swear to him that I will and push him out into the street. I hail a cab.
As we ride out to La Guardia International, I double-check the one potential flaw in my plan. A plan which I now see leading Dean high into the Himalayas where he can at long last gain the secret of the universe from some ancient Tibetan shaman, so old he remembers the time before Buddhism... "Hey, you still carrying your passport at the bottom of that bag?"
Dean lurches drunkenly down and pulls the suitcase to his lap. After rummaging though it for a tedious eternity, he produces the tatter document and smiles. I sit back, but Dean leans over and drunkenly grabs me by the shirt. He gets right up in my face, "now Sil," he growls, "you promise to me that you will go to Alexis and explain the situation to her, tell her that I love her and I look forward to being with her again someday, but for now, I have to do this. You'll tell her all that won't you?" Tears are streaming down his face, from what I'm not quite sure, but I feel compelled to lie to him.
"Of course I'll call her as soon as you're safely in the air."
"No! You can't call, that won't work." He shakes me by the shirt. "You have to go to DC tonight and tell her in person, someone needs to be there so that she has a shoulder to cry on."
The thought of Alexis crying on my shoulder sends homicidal shivers down my spine, but I agree just to shut him up.
It takes about forty minutes to get to the airport. I shove some cash through the window like a madman and I jump out of the cab, dragging Dean behind me. I steer him straight to the Air France desk. I leave him to the side and step up the attendant. "I need a one way ticket to Paris," I say proudly, "on the next flight."
She looks the two of us over and seems to be trying to decide whether or nor we are serious. I pull out my wallet to encourage her on. She types something in the computer and then smiles at me. "I have a few seats on the one o'clock," she says, "but its already started boarding, you'll have to hurry." I smile at her and demand that she sell me one. She seems flustered by my enthusiasm and urgency.
"How much?" I ask as if it's unimportant.
"One person," She hesitates and I glance over at Dean. He is slumped down sitting on the floor with his hands in his face. "It's going to be eleven-eighty with taxes and airport fees," she says.
"Done," I smile, whip out my credit card, and hand it to her.
"Can I see the passport of the travelling party?" She looks at me triumphantly as if she thinks I will have overlooked this detail. I grab it out of Dean's hand and shove it under her nose. While she runs the credit card I start Dean in the direction of customs. I run back to finish up the paper work. He is through customs by the time I come over with the ticket. I hurry him down the concourse, thrusting the ticket in his hand. I give him the rest of my money. It's only about two hundred dollars after I take out return cab fare for myself, but at least he'll have a few days to figure something out. He'll probably hate me in about three hours when he sobers up at thirty five thousand feet over the Atlantic, but it'll be too late by then. At the entrance to the ramp I stop and give him a hug. We hug for moment, the way straight men are not supposed to hug in an airport concourse, and then I turn and march out without looking behind me. I'm not sure if he'll go through with it or not, but either way I figure as long as I don't see then he'll always have gone in my mind.
I go outside and sit down for a cigarette. It takes a few minutes to find a cab that won't mind my nicotine habit, but eventually an Islamic looking man motions for me to hop in. It's a spectacular feeling that sweeps over me as the cab emerges from the Lincoln tunnel. The sky seems immense and wide open, as if imported from Montana. The first rays of orange are painting the tops of the skyscrapers and the whole world seems turned upside down and shaken. Loose change clatters on the sidewalks as worldwide pants are emptied and all the hopes and dreams of eight hundred thousand years fall down on me and pick me up on their shoulders. I feel boundless, timeless and completely, utterly divinely free. I feel like I am the one on my way to Paris.
Eleven
-reductive and mechanical-world gains grid-microscopic speck of immensity-deep space bubbles-twinkle like gin-elaborate effigies-the bare essentials-negatively charged collisions-moving on a crowded street-a stubbornly persistent illusion-the trouble is-you see it don't you?
The phone. Ringing. The phone is ringing. The phone is not ringing. The alarm is going off. The alarm is not going off.
Dean is gone.
Fumbling fingers twisting a flint of happiness. Inhale sharply. Feel the pain in charred lung tissue. Where is Dean? Where is Jimmy? Where is Maya?
I get up and crush out the cigarette in the Persian rug, letting it burn a good size hole in the exposed padding once covered by luxurious threads. I feel better already. The steel bars masking the window do not bother me. The whine and bleat of the cranes is symphonic. Dean got out. Dean is free. I have realized it. The computer comes to life. I open Photoshop and try to work. The disks from yesterday's shoot are sitting on the table along with a note from Maya. It's a terse reductive note. Here's yesterday's discs. Dinner? Informal poetics.
Last night I passed out before Maya got home-realization slipping through an intravenous drip-questions spring up and are dismissed. Dean got out. I throw in the discs and open up the first set of pictures. Three girls carrying shopping bags and laughing in way that real people never do, but seems to make sense to real people when they sit down and thumb through magazines. Shop. I make you want to shop. I make you want. Things. Things you can't have.
I put in the next disc and my heart crashes.
All the precious irreverent little bytes still wafting in the glory of Dean's departure are instantaneously expunged from my information superhighway all skittering. There is an older thing than computers, a scaly viperous thing, a part of the reptilian brain that remains in touch with the more up to date mammalian one. They communicate along the lines of the old show-the string to tin can trick. Simple and effective. The reptilian brain is slithering slow behind the scenes making sure that the worst is being avoided, even as the mammalian brain seems intent on seeking out the most serosanguineous reality tunnel around.
A face is staring at me. A face swelling significantly out of an ocean of monotonous faces. Disc two contains a face I know. An Athens face. A face that has no business being in this part of my life, a separate face. Judah is staring at me. Judah with his rooftops and roughhewn tables and Cuban dreams is here in New York on my computer. There is no way that this disc could contain a picture of Judah. It is impossible for him to have been at yesterday's modeling shoot without Maya mentioning it.
Unless.
Unless the bitten apple on the front of the disc is not just a brand symbol.
My heart gets the three-fingered salute and after running a hasty hard disc scan, restarts with minimal data loss.
Except.
The priest is back and has a battered suitcase with ancient Pan Am and Trans World emblems plastered on it. He leans over my shoulder to get the scoop on this latest development and launches into a hysterical, uncontrollable, post-orgasmic fit of laughter.
You are so fucked.
Spring Street. Coat buttoned tight, scarf catching involuntary nose drip, feet skating on icy concrete and the old Jewish tailors huddle on the crooked, half-spiral steps whispering Yiddish, smoking cigarettes and decoding the cabalistic name of god which they plan to evoke in swirl of incense, candlelight and chanting in some universe just three doors down-unmarked entrance in an alley. Waiting for the F train to Broadway, a fat junkie woman with a stroller shivers and rolls her eyes at me. The priest marches up and down the platform, hunched slightly, like Napoleon contemplating strategic moves, hands behind his back, twirling a menacing blade, long, curved and enlarged at the front. The better for splitting my dear.
Roaring sounds, squeals, heart attack brakes, suicide doors open. Two street kids huddle in the corner of the car arguing over Delotid stolen from an uptown pharmacy where the old neighborhood druggist is losing his sight and easy prey to opportunists-forgets that two boys came in and only one is in front of him now asking for drugs for the the hiv, what is the hiv? The boy laughs. They dash out the door and into the station, all the way to Brooklyn and then back, but only one Delotid. The priest looks at me and smiles, gesturing to the boys with the engorged tip of the scythe. Necessity is mom, where is dad?
Door opens at 125th, in come the dealers and out go the boys. These are dangerous types don't you know. Black hearts. Black skin. Even the priest is silent. I stare them down. One nods. "buds?" I smile no. TV has these images. It told you all you needed to know. Just another show. My eyes are bleary from staring at the screen its all too much and there must be someone on this train. Stand up. Walk to the next car. The priest holds the door as I stumble through.
"You talk too much"
"Stupid old fuck"
"Get your piles out"
"This is my car you coggy old fucker"
Two bums half heartedly pushing each other, bustling in the back and a prim woman in a business suit on her way to the Bronx, the north Bronx, out of the city and sure he keeps telling her we'll move soon, just as soon as I put together this next deal, you know Charlie says he can move this stuff and she spends her nights chain smoking at the window thinking of home in Baltimore and the last time she had an orgasm. A thin old man with newspaper folded under his arm uncrosses his legs and motion to me to sit down.
"Going uptown?"
"Yes"
"Lots to do uptown?"
"I think maybe. Yes."
"Be careful. These aren't safe neighborhoods you know. Make sure you know where your friends are."
"Thank you."
The terror of wheels flogging metal rails. Nothing personal. Stop. Lurch. Complete stop. The priest motions for me to get off. I follow him reluctantly. There are some things that are better left alone, but you never do. You can't see? Get on a plane. Get out while you can. Echoing voices. A little Puerto Rican boy tap dances on a tattered sheet of cardboard. The Mayan priest pitches him a nickel. Gee thanks mister...wrong fucking century asshole. I can't help but laugh. This is so fucking stupid but I can't stop. These are bad neighborhoods you know. Outside again, the projects, enormous brick edifices erected on minimal budgets with zero inspiration. We thought of that you know the priest interjects, zero, the Mayans, the nothing thing. Try that one on.
Some things are too horrifying to look directly at, some things scorch the eye before the brain can react and force you to turn away. These are the horrors, the pains, the absolute zero of emotional tolerance. Zero. Nothing. The absence of all. The void. The space between. Zero. These are the things I want-to see the things I can't bear to see. I see Judah. I see his curly eyes glazed with alcohol and Cuba. An entire fucking island and millions of people tiny little dreams in his eyes. But not people just words, Spain, Neruda, sugarcane, wood tables, old men playing jazz, pounding out beats on drawers pulled from bedroom armoires. Words. Zero. Judah has never been to Cuba. Zero. Never been to Spain. Zero. Been to the bottom of bottle dreams and talking gibberish, meaning astray, ashtray, lost his way. Just making it up as he goes. Did we ever sit on the roof? Did I make that up? Did we climb that precarious fire escape rusted ladder to the top, did my feet almost slip on the way down; was the building two doors down really burnt out, charred, roof sagging like leprechaun dreams under the weight of mythical bridges? Did Maya come to Athens that spring and were we walking by the patio of the Flicker Bar where Judah was having drinks with some friends? Did I call out to him and ask him to come over and meet Maya? Did we chat briefly, Judah too drunk to see? Did Maya casually mention that he was cute? Did I know then what I know now?
Yes my memory constructs all that as having happened and yet. And here, standing at the entrance to a building I haven't entered in over a year, my mind is wallpapered with the image. Stacked on infinite repeat and it won't go away. It is a needle raked over an already festering wound. A porcupine administering morphine to an amputee still feeling the absent limb. The endolithic articulation of zero.
This won't hurt a bit.
Nuclear buzzer shatters fragmented reflection before I remember the door is open. The door never locks. Here we are not lying until you are inside. The antechamber where Judah's dull amplified voice is echoing off tile mosaics and sets the Jamaican landlord's crazed dreadlocked lakdsjflkasdjf into a frenzy, it throws its body against the downstairs door, snarling and growling undog noises. The hair on the back of my neck curls and retreats back into the follicle. Down periscope. Dive. I streak up the stairs lest the nearly mythical predator somehow loose itself from the bounds that hold it to this mortal coil. Behind me the priest scrapes his heart carving blade against the orange chipped paint of the door to further antagonize the beast.
Judah is already opening the door as I bound the last stair. His face wears a look of feigned surprise trying to hide the fact that he has been waiting for this moment ever since. I will not give, nothing is wrong.
"Sil! Holy shit. What are you doing here?"
"Judah! I came to see my old friend Judah." I advance on him, arms extended and we embrace, clapping each other's backs hard. Too hard.
"Come in come in. I was just doing some recording upstairs. I thought maybe you were John coming home from work and I was pissed off thinking he had forgotten his key again...."
"Ah, recording. Music?
"Ya drums"
"Tribal drums? African drums? That sort of thing?"
"Uh... not exactly.... So why are you in New York?"
"I came up to be with Maya."
"That's the girl you were dating?"
"Uh huh." I follow him into the kitchen and he offers me a seat at the kitchen table. I glance around and surmise that little has changed since my last visit. The one talented member of this living arrangement has added a few new painting to the living room wall. Strange stained glass looking paintings that are catching the last glow of the sun in such a deliberate way that I realize he must have purposefully painted them and then hung them at exactly that spot on the far wall of the kitchen so that they would catch the light exactly as they are right now.
"Yes Judah. The girl I have always been dating. As long as you have known me. Longer than you have known me."
"I thought you guys broke up." He picks up a bowl of roasted peanuts and I can't help but see the inescapable southern upbringing coursing through his veins. He peels back the soft shell and pops one arrogantly in his mouth.
"Is that why you fucked her?"
He pretends like it comes out of nowhere, but we both know it didn't. We both know it's the only reason I'm here.
"Excuse me?"
"Don't try to bullshit me Judah. It's unbecoming. At least be quick on your feet... I was drunk... I'm sorry... it just happened... you know how it is... these are the phrases of carefully constructed cinematic excuses that you have to choose from. Come on man... 'excuse me'? That's the best you can do? You and your Neruda and your Cuba and all your fucking bullshit and 'excuse me'? That's the fucking best you can fucking do?"
"Calm down Sil. You want a beer?"
"No I don't want a fucking beer you asshole. I want a story. And it better be a really fucking good story." I can feel my eyes darting about the kitchen, dishes in the sink, purple cupboard door open, dishrags on counter, trash overflowing bottles, refrigerator covered, magnets and pictures, disarrayed pots on stove, framed Charles Bukoski holding beer on wall opposite oven, bread atop fridge, two bananas and a mango ripening in a wire basket hanging from the bottom shelf above the window that looks out onto a brick wall three feet away, and the priest hands me the blade. "Actually, yes, I would like a beer," I run my finger along the edge of the blade, a tiny rivulet of blood appears accompanied by a dull far off ache in my fingertip. I wonder absently if such a thing could permanently alter the identification of my fingerprints.
Judah retrieves two Coronas from the fridge, along with a lime, all of which he carries awkwardly over to the table, setting one beer in from of me and another in front of the empty chair he presumes he will sit in. He turns around and rummages through a drawer, presumably looking for a knife, but I chop the lime in half with a loud thwacking sound that causes him to stand bolt upright and look at me wide eyed. I smile, wipe the blade clean and put a sliver of lime in his bottle and then one in mine. I twirl the blade on the tip of my finger.
"Sorry. Bought it in Chinatown. This is the first chance I've had to use it."
"That's quite a knife..."
"Ya it is isn't it? So about you fucking Maya...?"
"Look Sil. Shit. I'm sorry. I thought you guys broke up. I didn't mean to. I was drunk. She called me...fuck." His face has a look of sorrow on it but I'm not buying. Regret is cheap-from here to Hanoi. "Sil... to be honest... when she called, I didn't know who she was talking about...you know she said this is Maya, a friend of Sil's... I had forgotten all about you. It didn't dawn on me until the next day."
His voice sends me reeling.
"I mean. Shit, I'm sorry man, but I didn't know we were that good of friends. I mean its been what-like two years?"
"So...uh... essentially our friendship was all in my head?"
Judah shells another peanut, pops the soft fruit in his mouth and chews slowly and deliberately. "Well, uh, don't you have to see someone, you know... hang out with them in order the be friends with them?"
I see Dean in Paris pissing in an alleyway three sheets to the wind. I see Jimmy in Athens bent over the falcon engine tinkering with the carburetor. I see Scratch in Miami ogling a divorcee. I see Ulric behind the drum kit that holds the world together beating out the rhythm of now.
"No. No you don't. That would be an acquaintance, which it seems you and I are. Acquaintances. It seems that friendship is too advanced of a concept to apply here.... Or at least that's how you would like to see it...."
"What do you mean?"
"I can see the guilt in your eyes Judah. It haunts you. You have been waiting for me. You want forgiveness from me..."
"I want forgiveness...?" He laughs mock wickedness.
"Yes. You want nothing more... but you're a drunk. You're nothing but a drunk with delusions. You sit around here recording music no one will ever hear, thinking that you're some kind of forgotten genius, another overlooked Van Gogh... and believe me we all want that for you, but the sad truth is that you're not. You're a drunk. No more no less."
Judah watching the Zapruder films dreaming of having the inside track on something that the rest of us have missed. Judah is a foreshortened life. He is not Neruda, he is not Cuba, he is a man who reads poetry by candlelight because he knows it is how you are supposed to read poetry, he dreams of Cuba because it is where he cannot go. Cuba is not a place at all to Judah; it's a concept. It's all empty talk, a tumbleweed caught in the grill of a 53 mercury, not even that, in the grill of late 70's pinto, liable to blow the fuck up the first time something rams him in the ass.
I can see him buried to the hilt in her warm depths with that stupid drunken Neruda grin on his face. Perhaps we could go up to the roof. Perhaps he could walk in circles while I sit on the brick ledge that separates his building from the next. Perhaps all of Manhattan is behind me and Judah will pace in circles to excuse poor behavior. Perhaps he will tell a story of an out of blue phone call, a meeting for drinks with that slithering slug April. Perhaps he will model-waving his bottle of corona as he talks of drinks-martinis extra dirty three olives and then the stumbling subway ride home. Perhaps its was one of those nights when I waited by the phone for Maya to call. Perhaps it was the night Scratch blew through. Perhaps the priest will laugh-taunting me. Perhaps he will kneel behind Judah, crouch on all fours. Perhaps the punch will come for Judah, perhaps my good natured honesty will have disarmed him. Perhaps the punch is centered square in the solar plexus and is followed by the full weight of my body. Perhaps there is an indeterminable second in which Judah will teeter and try to throw his foot back to regain his balance, but a heating vent will be in the way. He will spin off balance, stumble and disappear over the edge. I will run to the edge of the building and look down. His body will be contorted in a distorted, inhuman shape, a pool of blood already forming under his head. I will glance around to see if anyone might possibly have seen us. I will feel a rather extravagant calm. I should be panicking, but I won't. I'll feel relieved, beautiful even. I'll gather up the bottles I touched, glance around to see if there are any other items which might lead one to believe that there was second person present. I'll smooth over my footprints in the rooftop gravel. I'll climb down the ladder and onto the fire escape, glancing down at Judah's body and taking care to wipe away my fingerprints. The pool of maroon below will run toward the fence, dripping out the spaces between the white pickets. I'll climb back in the window and methodically ransack his room, looking for my phone number or Maya's, but taking care not to mess things up. I'll gather up my things, carry the bottles downstairs and place them in the neighbors trashcan. I'll walk out back and examine the body. I'll put my hand over his mouth, but before I can feel a breath I'll notice the bits of mashed skull and what I think are brains lying several feet away-clearly there will be no breath. This man is dead. His eyes are still open, they wear a slightly shocked expression, but there is something else there, a Mona Lisa smile, as if laughing at some inner joke. I'll want to stomp that smile right off his face. I'll want to feel the satisfying crunch of bone under my foot, I'll want to squish his brains, to smear them about the yard. Instead I'll rise and walk out the front door. A roommate will find him. Judah is a known alcoholic. He's also the only smoker in the house. He frequently goes up of the roof to drink and smoke. It will be a no brainer, an open and shut accidental death. His blood alcohol level will tell the story. An intern from the Bronx observer will be dispatched to the scene, he will take a picture of the legs protruding from beneath the yellow tarp. The headline will read: Youth killed in Drunken Mishap. No question will ever be asked because this story is perfectly believable. My story is far fetched, irrational, and difficult to believe. Who would do such a monstrous thing? As I leave I will notice some boys playing basketball at the court across the street. I will sink my hands deep in my pockets, smile up to the sky, take a resonant breath and walk on. People are murdered everyday in the Bronx. Drunk people falling off rooftops are not a cause for alarm. I wish I could say that I would be haunted by images of Judah. I wish that I could say I would feel guilty, but I know I will not. Judah is right, our friendship was all in my mind. And he, bless his nearly departed soul, already got out. His death will be a mere a formality to mark his passing.
The wheels of the BDFQ begin the screech halfway down the stairs, I jog the rest of way and dart through the door at last minute, sliding into a seat facing an old man whose face is half obscured by a down-turned fedora. I jerk my sleeve out of the door and sit down opposite him. He glances up at me clears his throat and mumbles to no one in particular-these things happen you know. The woman seated next to him raises her eyebrows at me. I smile and shrug. Who is to know the idiosyncrasies of other people?
The bar is really more of a lounge, but a lounge in the worst New York hipster sense of the word. The street front consists of tacky two story glass windows designed to make sure that those on the outside feel left out and sense their lacking chic, which turns up the volume of self-satisfied panache playing on the black turtleneck turntables that spin giddily from table to bar to toilet and back again. A woman at one of the window tables raises a thinly plucked eyebrow at me as her flighty white fingers twirl through blond curls; her white skin is tightly stretched as if approaching escape velocity, narrowly eeking out of the blackhole of her attire. Her scorn makes me smile. I turn on my loudest non-participatory amplifiers, light a fresh cigarette and open the door with trembling hands. Inside is a dimly lit underwater blue emanating from strands of twinkling sapphire Christmas lights balanced and slightly thinned by candles flickering on small tables. A hostess looks at me expectantly but I can't speak. She scowls at my cigarette and asks if she can help me. "Meeting people," I mumble, eyes ignoring her existence, scanning desperately for a familiar face.
The back wall is lined with a series of enormous crescent shaped booths, and at the center of one, surrounded by a horde of male models, I spy Maya and April, giggling in each others ears. Maya catches my eye and waves me over. She tries to introduce me to the men-boys really- surrounding her, but I don't bother to acknowledge their flaccid hands. A couple I recognize having digitally liberated their complexions from acne scarred childhoods. One of them gets up and pulls over a chair so that I can sit next to Maya. Maya and April are talking emptily of big plans. Big buildings with big offices, big name photographers shooting on account for big name clients, big money going around the world, Frankfurt to Paris, Milan to Cape Town,, New York and back. I stare at April's teeth as she talks. Her pretension chokes the air with gasping hoarse laughter. Black boutique blouse with matching runway toss-off pants she dress like she spends too much time dressing. Her forty year old teeth dripping pinot grigio, held in place by a Miami-tanned hide hanging from cheek bones that all the retouching in the world wouldn't subtract a year from. Must have been boom years-gone bust to land her here. Gone bust in the warm Florida a sun, tarnished the red-gold mane and she had to split. Why I'm not sure, but I suspect it would have something to do with these big puppy-love dreams ringing her head like penny dreadfuls. April's unwarranted arrogance lectures like a cockstrong teenager sermonizing on the ways of the world and what you need to do to succeed. One of the models is wearing a t-shirt that reads: no day but today. And April's pinot grigio is half empty, her vulture eyes already search for a carrion waiter to flutter eyes at secure another free glass because she hasn't the money to buy a drink. She wants to be rich so badly it makes her smell-wouldn't know Rothschild from gutter port and can't buy either.
Maya's lips purse around a thought, but then her head leans back and shakes-disengage turn the page, working hard for some distant reward in white picket tomorrowland all the while convinced: no day but today. She wants me to share in the dream conversation. I'd sooner chew my leg off-saut my ambivalence. I am in no hurry. She gives up on me for bit but like a flea-riddled canine just can't let it go.
"What did you do today Sil?" Maya leans in, stabbing at some form of intimacy, but it feels forced to me. I am not fun. I am the thing that must be dealt with at this table, in this bar, in this city.
"I realized that you fucked Judah behind my back," I smile and take a sip of scotch.
It would be a relief to see some sort of reaction, to see the color drain from her face, to see a look of horror in her eyes, but there is nothing. A sarcastic curl lifts her top lip off her teeth and she lowers her eyes at me, "this is neither the time nor the place."
"The proper form calls for indignant protest at such an outrageous accusation and then the time and place bit." I cross my legs and feel an unhealthy calm descend upon me. I light a cigarette and lean back to blow smoke in April's face. We lock eyes and scornful little daggers spit out of her pupils. My heart is racing in spite of the pills, but everything is beautifully clean and calm. The air is sterile, too full of ozone, it sucks up my cigarette smoke and filters it faster than I can drag more into my starved lungs. The room smells like the science fiction future-barren and callous. It feels perfect. The first dawn after the nuclear holocaust.
Maya turns her back on me and whispers something to April. I wish that I had a Moroccan dagger or scythe with which to carve this place, these people, carve their bodies into apocalyptic sculptures, monuments to the futility of arrogance. To leave them alive to carry on their shallow existence in these blanched white bodies, but with deep heineous scars the wounds left by the day the words returned to act upon them. I survey the room and realize that the words aren't coming back justice is down the hall blindfolded, gagged and bound, being fucked in the ass by a lonely old man and loving every minute of it while the play masks laugh and cry at the sight of it all.
I feel righteous and holy.
I want to vomit on myself.
I want Mexico City.
Waking to static on the radio, fat man singing in the shower next door, paper thin walls. The pain is chipped and peeling, lingering in cobweb corners. Mattress with no sheets, stained by countless faceless visitors. Get out of bed and shave with cold water and dull razor, cuts bleed. Outside cadaver weather, smoky haze obscures dawn, stumble down Calle de la Plaza. Your head hurts. Machine gun guards seal off banks. Tomorrow the man in the pinstripe suit will walk in shooting and not stop for days.
Both agents wearing cheap black suits and stained white shirts, rings of sweat visible when they lift the cups to their mouths. Gristle mouths, swollen lips, spit flies as they talk.
"Now you understand..."
"You understand nothing about our country..."
"You can't possibly hope to..."
"We are trying to use the utmost discretion..."
Not hearing a word, looking off the balcony at the shanty town below. Constructed on an old landfill site. The men are still talking. One hand washes the other. A little girl in tattered t-shirt drags a stick in circles about the dirt driveway.
In America she is millions of miles away. Jerking camera visions, clipped images of sidewalks, men in ragged army coats begging for change. The agents ask for papers, identification, passport still stuffed in the mattress. Leaving. They follow at a safe distance.
"Understand that the matter may well come to trial seor..."
Streets spinning with cars, a dizzying sound. Street urchin selling chiclets, you wanna good time mister? eh? no?
Last time, board room door all closed, sealed up lies. The agents are still trailing behind. Pulse racing-open the door to the hotel. Three whores in gaudy lipstick wait in the lobby. Pass. Lie down. Feverish dreams. Radioman selling something in Spanish, bursts of static mixed with dream. Malaria epidemic in the Quarter two years ago. Same room, different hotel. Same agents still here. Standing in the corner. One crouches down, smoking at the foot of the bed. In America she is a million miles away.
"Sir why do make this hard on yourself...?"
"You must let us help you..." They smile gold teeth.
Nausea without warning.
There is always warning. It has all been said. She just laughs and pretends and smiles and tries so hard for a Breakfast at Tiffany's cleanliness. The kind of posturing with no accounting for severed limbs, atrocities at all, arm so carefree with its gentle flicks of ash, kissing cigarettes for soft cinedramatic inhales, all-knowing and never acknowledging the prehensile origins. She is smugly young. She has always been smugly young. We are all smugly young. But not you. You have been so old for so long that delusion and illusion and artifice are transparent in the tips of lotioned fingers, Lubridermed against chapping winds. She falls apart with every drag.
I skip the subway. Overground. Stepping lightly on grates, slender metal held up by the wisps of subway air. Wind blows through the morgues and into the streets, lashing ice, snow, tongues, voices-everything is beautiful everything if fine. This is the time. This is the place.
But.
Nevermind.
I want that hotel Bob Dylan lived in. I want to walk in the room and kick his teeth in. Bob Dylan hasn't got shit on me. Mutherfucker couldn't sing worth a damn. All my favorite singers couldn't sing. Kick his fucking teeth in. Stomp his head to mush. Fuck Bob Dylan. Fuck Fuck Fuck. Fuck Bob Dylan. It's in way he sings the power and resonance-horseshit. Its all horseshit. Posturing. Affecting. Jeff Mangum-let Jeff Mangum kick Bob Dylan's teeth in. Jeff is in his prime. He is now. Bob is over and done. Fork stuck. Roasted. I want that hotel. I want those teeth. I want them to rattle in a pouch that I carry on my belt, tied with leather straps and I pull them out in bars and tell the story of How I Kicked in Bob Dylan's Teeth. Jeff Mangum is in an aeroplane over the sea and he is on his way to kick Bob Dylan's teeth in.
I want my money back. I would like to return the following items for a full refund: One set of teeth (lost rattling quality), one tongue (no longer working, cat got), two year subscription to Tomorowland (gift), one heavily used Persian rug (symbol kind of shaky from the get go), one organ donor card (no one buying), one nation (under god), one lamppost (working, caustic light on a street begging for a Bogart darkness-huddled, but cheerfully bitter), and one young girl (no longer young).
I can forgive everything.
Room 319. No Bob Dylan. No top hat. No Jack Kerouac (kick his teeth in too for good measure). No guitar. But it a beautiful room and it should be since the money was April's. I want to go shopping. I want a new suit. Designer shoes. Kiehl's shaving cream. Seven bottle of scotch. Greater self understanding. Peace on Earth and goodwill toward Jeff Mangum.
Judah said: We spent all the time talking about you.
I said: Why.
Judah said: Because she loves you.
I said: Nothing.
She is crying when I call. I can't cry. I want to cry. I want to feel. It's awkward. I should not have called. I should have gone home. I should give Bob his teeth back before he tries to gum that steak. This is how I hurt.
Maya and I meet for dinner at a Brazilian restaurant in the village. We both quickly get quite drunk on fruity cocktails. I don't want to tell her I am leaving until later. I don't want to spoil the evening that way. Maya is apologetic. I feel apocalyptic and out of control. I am funny. I am attentive. She is exuberantly telling me all about the agency for the five thousandth time, what they had done today and what they still needed to do tomorrow and in the future. I am enthralled with her teeth. I want to dream about her teeth. Her baby teeth falling out. Her adult teeth coming in. I want to dream the history of her teeth. The Rum is warm and friendly and she is very happy and we are forgiving each other for something or other, it isn't important. I interrupt her to tell her about Dean. She can't believe he actually just got on a plane and left. The whole thing is starting to sound surreal to me too, a dream I had-Dean's teeth flying to France, rotting on cheap wine and the chewing the rind because he is a polite traveler. But when I try to charge dinner on the credit card, the reality of his departure comes roaring home. I am sitting on almost three thousand dollars that I'm giving to April tomorrow. Maya pays the bill. As we walk home through Chinatown, I tell her that I have to leave. I feel like an absolute fool. I try to explain that I can't be in New York right now and that I can't do the job and that I don't know why-but above all it has nothing to do with her and certainly nothing to do with Judah or even Bob Dylan.
Her eyes fill with tears, but she keeps saying that she wants me to do what I need to do. She's lying. She wants me to stay. I can see it in her eyes, she desperately wants me to stay. Late at night I feel her get out of bed. I hear the broken chair squeak and the flick of lighter. She is fumbling absently with the twist tie; her nails pick at it making a sound like a harp.
In the morning there is a note. I want to spend more time with you, will you meet me for lunch? I gather up my things, drag them down stairs and pile them back in the Maxima. Upstairs I sit at the kitchen table and smoke a cigarette. I crush it out on the Persian rug.
Twelve
I wake up just before dawn with tears streaming down my face. I can't remember the dream, but I know it was horrible. All I retain is a vague sense of foreboding. I get up for a glass of water and notice that Dean is still asleep on the couch. I go back in my room and lie in bed for a while. It dawns on me that I am probably not at the bottom yet-I am still falling. I start thinking about Los Angeles, where I began. I see those I love stumbling in self assured darkness. At the time I thought it was sad, but now I see beauty in it. For once I'm not thinking of books or words of wisdom; I undergo no introspection, analyze nothing... I see only the people. They are standing in the streets rummaging for yesterday's newspapers in a kaleidoscope of garbage. I see Dean's cigarette droop between his lips and burn a hole in his favorite shirt. I see his sister doubled over in laughter and shaking her head at me. I hear the beat of Dean's headphones over the drone of freeway miles. I see the mattress lying in the middle of the sidewalk when I needed a place to sleep. I see my high school sweetheart sitting down for dinner with her family. I see my wife's tears stain the pillow of our bed. I wrap my arm around Maya in the corner booth of the Harbor house caf-no food for days. I feel the warmth of the sun and squint at the glare from the ocean. I swerve to avoid a tumbling boulder only to hit anther skid off the road coming to rest in front of a sign: CAUTION FALLING ROCK. Everything is just as it should be and I know it will never look the same again. I am gone from there and even if I return, something remains forever gone. I stumble back to bed, wiping the tears from my eyes. I fall to my knees staring up at the ceiling fan rewinding...
The beginning that started with endings. The end of the century-1999-a crash-landing year skittered off the runway and exploded in the grandstands, a year that chased itself atop railroad cars like the Pinkertons after the James Gang in old western films. Los Angeles was a thirty-one year long slow motion crash. Three recollections rise out of the nauseating sauted cacophony. They are the sound of Dean typing, the sound of disjointed and constantly arguing voices-from the television and from Sean and Katherine-and the feeling of vomit that was so sudden I nearly choked on it.
After my wife and I split up, I moved in with Dean and his sister. The three of us got along as if I were part of the family. It's the only living situation I've encountered where I actually spent time with my roommates. We were tight, we did everything together, we survived Sean and Katherine together and later we moved to Athens together. The trouble started when the lease on our apartment expired. We were desperate to find somewhere to live. Why we chose Sean and Katherine's place, I still don't know. In hindsight, I suspect it had more to do with Dean than anyone. Dean had a strange little thing for Katherine, I never understood it, she wasn't his type. Katherine was beautiful, face like an angel, but she was a full figured girl with auburn hair; Dean liked waifs with blond hair... Katherine had ambition and a real job; Dean liked strippers and waitresses... Katherine was homely; Dean liked class and glamour.... But, as the man said, there's no accounting for taste.
Sean was two years younger than me and about two inches shorter with the barrel-chest build of a swimmer. He swam every morning and worked as lifeguard all afternoon. He wore his hair closely shorn so it would stay out of his eyes in the pool. He perpetually reeked of chlorine. He and I lived together right after high school, in a trailer park of all things. We were very close back then, but eventually I got married and moved on with my life-you can't live in a trailer forever. Katherine entered his life shortly after I left and he moved out of the trailer park too. They lived together in an enormous old house that they shared with three other girls. It was the only house in Costa Mesa that predated 1950. I always wanted to live in it after I got back from my first trip to Athens because it reminded me of the South-though it didn't have a porch, just a cement stoop. Sean and I saw each other from time to time, but I rarely made any effort to talk. Sean represented a part of my life that I wanted to avoid, but when their roommates moved out and the three bedrooms were suddenly available we jumped on it. The plan was to stay a while until something better could be had, better turned out to be three thousand miles away. By the time Dean, his sister, and I moved in, I hardly knew Sean at all. By then I was more fond of Katherine, but I only got close to her one night and by then it was too late.
Most of all what sticks out was the sound of everything-the typing-the television-the constant fighting-Los Angeles humming in the background. The mad clicking of Dean's flying fingers was always present, ticking off the seconds in feverish bursts. Dean never stopped typing, it was a furious noise, he would pound the keys and nod his head to the headphones. He drowned out the world to escape it. He drowned out his own fingers. He never realized the force with which he pounded the keys... dispatching mad telegraphs, electrostatic love notes spitting out like lizard tongues... flung on wires to Maryland where another pair of fingers responded. The thing itself, so-called love, was flying back and forth over the wires -maddening. Dean had just met Alexis on the Internet, they spent hours on instant messenger-love in ones and zeros.
To tell the truth, I remember the television more than the people. Throughout all of the madness that ensued, the television reigned-we never tuned it off. Dean's sister and I stationed ourselves like zombies before the one god and it's eerie blue aura. The outside world was pandemonium-wars in Europe, trade deals in Mexico, sex scandals in Washington... what filtered in on the TV was reflected back all around us, cold, insensitive, innocuous suburban delight... detachment... Douglas Copeland's nightmares. It wasn't just us. The perpetual warm blue glow of television emanated from the windows of all our neighbors' vinyl sided endura-homes-guaranteed to last a lifetime or your money back! The television was a great luminous third eye... I could never decide if we were watching it, or if it was watching us. It presided over the world with the indifference of God. Every house glowed blue light, the streets bathed in its iridescence, cobalt sidewalks and sapphire lawns under midnight purple skies-everything glowed blue. Blue noise hummed softly and in the background, blue people stumbled about their lives. Turquoise silhouettes danced in kitchen windows and cerulean shadows lurked in open garages. The blue was grating, irritating, got under your skin like the flesh eating virus, boils sprung up bursting to reveal slick teal puss oozing from the open sores. In the background, faint at first, but then growing in decibels, was the maddening chant of the newsman and the Maytag man and all the talking heads of television disembodied and floating in the sky, singing choruses....
The sound of Los Angeles was deafening. Waves of music, horns, engines, electricity, spinning warbles of neon lights echoing the asphalt dreams of sanity. The whole city was a deafening roar. Vibrations spun off the turn of espresso handles, the pull of yogurt machines, the spinning of laundry mats, the ring of cash registers, the click-clack of skateboard wheels on the sidewalk, the roar of surf, the thump of landing gear, the clang of trash cans in the alley, the rattle of the homeless people's shopping carts, the chopping of the Chinese cook's knife atop the trash can, chunks of chicken fat accumulating on the floor; all of it whirled in a hurricane melee reverberating throughout the Los Angeles basin. The smoggy air offered no resistance to the pealing clamor. It carried it about, still as a tomb, withholding comment on the meaning of it all. Los Angeles is cancer-the insidious beat of death.
Dean's sister and I were sitting on the couch, television blaring to drown out the sounds of Sean and Katherine fighting. They never stopped arguing. Dean's sister shifted uncomfortably in her seat and I looked over at her. We both sighed and then laughed. We were thinking of the old house, of the old times, we didn't say a word, we didn't have to, it was in our eyes. Asshole! Bitch! Motherfucker! Stupid bitch! Dick! -These were the punctuated words we could hear above the television, but by then we were used to it. Dean, as I said, kept to himself; he was in the other room, headphones cranked to ten, blissfully going about the business of falling in love. His sister and I were the ones that had to see the door swing open and Sean ducking with his arms clasped over his head. The shoe hit the wall above the couch and then Katherine's voice roared in anger. On the television Chandler was broken up over Joey moving out and that mousy guy that's always 'the other guy' in movies, was moving in. Homoerotic jokes stuck like flies to vellum walls.
The shoe hit the wall above us and tumbled down between us. I looked at it; I looked over at Sean. He was standing in the dining room crying; he looked like a tortured animal pleading for it's life. I looked at the television-it was trying to sell me deodorant. Then Katherine emerged from the same direction as the shoe, also crying and looking like a tortured animal begging for it's life. Sean fell to his knees and grabbed her legs as she walked by him. They looked like the cover of the movie Vacation where Chevy Chase is standing proud and defiant while Beverly De'Anglo clings to his knees. I wanted to laugh great peals of bitter laughter, laughter sinking into the floor, into the walls, up to the roof. The place reeked of suppressed bitter laughter, mine, Dean's, his sister's, the studio audience, the children of the war in Kosovo. I looked at Dean's sister to see if she saw the humor in it. Her eyes met mine and they twinkled as she took a drag off her cigarette. I smiled and she started hacking and coughing smoke. A bit of spit flew out of her mouth and she tried to stop it, to regain some composure, but it was too late. The madness was upon us, it all started with the shoe.
Katherine's sobs quieted to weeping; Sean still had his arms around her legs. She was trying to kneel down, but he wouldn't let go so she just lay down on the floor weeping on her arm. He crawled over her body and knelt by her head. He tried to put his arms around her, to hold her, but she was indifferent. Her head rested apathetic against his knees, her eyes had a thousand-yard stare. Mascara ran down her cheeks leaving a black tail of tears. I felt helpless. "Are you guys okay," Dean's sister ventured half hearted. Sean nodded. Katherine just moaned a low growling sound that vibrated the wood floor and sounded utterly inhuman. Sean looked over at me for help, but I pretended to be engrossed in the television. I stole sideways glances to make sure that they weren't going to hurt each other. Sean stood up and Katherine's head dropped listlessly to the floor. They flip-flopped emotionally and now she clutched at his legs. Sean had a defiance to his posture that looked wholly artificial and it occurred to me that he ought to have remained on the ground. He ought to be begging, not to Katherine, but begging God to give him his humility back.
Sean was cold, calculated psychology, distilled out of textbooks, until it fermented in his soul and all the vital organs of his body were filled with poisonous effluvium. The chasm between the idealized and the realized versions of his life built up tension inside him. Katherine had become the way he released it. Sean was a flood of meaningless gibberish that he had internalized and now it bounced endlessly about like knives thrown in a vacuum. His soul was soaked with formaldehyde, preserving him eternally, choking out all feeling. He had lost all traces of humor and ran from his life madly chasing after an invisible spirit that he thought would somehow enlighten him, give his life the meaning, the purpose, the joy that it lacked. A problem that could be solved, that's all Sean wanted from life, something to which he could point and say "See it is all better now.' He was convinced he had all the answers for everyone around him, but he had none for himself. He had no use for whole people, just the ragged, torn edges of the pages-preferably dripping fresh blood, new wounds to cauterize and in the process open old ones. He poked at Katherine's soft emotional scar tissue, inducing hemorrhages to leech the life out. Like the Marquis he stood bleeding, asking-was good for you? His idea of life was crumbs; the confetti strew about after the parade passes. Christ all the way. Quick, get us a tree, somebody make two boards... hurry before he loses the courage and does it himself. Christ was on a suicide trip; he'd have gone with or without the Romans... how else do you end a story like that? I wanted to punch Sean. I wanted to make his nose explode and rain blood over all of us.
The news came on... Peace talks continued in Kosovo today with both parties saying that progress was made, but meanwhile fighting continues in the countryside where sporadic violence and snipers continue to take their toll on the morale and hope of the people who live here....
And then there was silence, an editing snafu at the station. The television went blank. Katherine was still weeping. I heard the air rushing out of my lungs with an asthmatic hiss. Sean was breathing hard. Dean's sister was holding her breath. In the other room the tapping stopped and Dean came teetering through the kitchen. He stopped in the doorframe, slightly hunched, holding a beer and squinting his eyes.... "What?"
There was peace between the news of Kosovo, Katherine's mournful sobbing, and Dean returning from the bathroom, pausing again like a half-cocked gun, squinting, observing and withdrawing. The sound of fingers tapping reached us again, the television cut to commercial and the cartoon man wanted me to buy his paper towels....
Two weeks later the war was over, rich people's financial interests were secured and Katherine and Sean had patched things up. Friends' reruns had come and gone with dinner and Katherine was cuddled up on Sean's lap. She was serene and beautiful that night because she fucked Dean in the closet of her office that afternoon. Sean was happy because he thought that he was the one making Katherine happy. He was so happy he was trying to fuck her in the chair right in front of us. They started making out when the television said the war was over. Dean, his sister and I tried to ignore the dry fucking session going on next to us, but secretly we were all for it. It was a nice change from the constant fighting. Katherine had his pants down, but was sitting in his lap to conceal the fact. When the television got quiet we could hear sound of lips mashing together and little grunts and groans escaping from them. Then Sean's little half-chubbed dick poked out from under Katherine's mini skirt like a miniature cobra. Dean and I both noticed it at the same time and we started laughing hysterically. Sean reached down and tried to tuck it back under Katherine's skirt, but the thing had a mind of its own. Dean, his sister and I figured it best to vacate for a while, so we headed to the bar. Sean and Katherine went at with increasing intensity.
Down the street at the bar, the talking head from CNN was telling us that the people were safe and the world was somehow better, but I knew nothing had changed because the fingers were the thing that held it all together and they kept at it every night. I thought of the presidents and tyrants of the world celebrating, just like they did when the war started... The man behind the counter wanted to know what I wanted and the girl in the booth behind us wanted to know why I hadn't noticed her yet-everything was spiraling out of control.
War in Kosovo. War in our streets. War in our houses. War in our heads. Nothing will ever come of it-save death. And the Mexican urchin selling Chiclets for the dead says no good, no bueno, your pictures sanitized, worth no words. Wouldn't give you ten words, worthless gringo words don't mean shit. No good no bueno, not worth the blood they're written in. The blood of all peoples not yours, not your peoples in your death camps, your slave labor factories, your assembly line gang rapes....
Gotta keep that in house, screams the commander in chief. Yes must remain forever sealed in baby pissshitguts. No, that's not true. No comment. No need for comment, I will not dignify... somebody cut to shots of smart bombs... Couldn't get fifty words for those now gringo-over exposure-sanitized-nobody buying. Same old stinking shit. No Good. No Bueno. Gringo go home in a thousand languages, in a million words. Why don't you crawl back in your cave get your tail so far between your legs it goes half way up your ass? Words can not hurt me...
But have you heard the words? Watch out for the bloody words, sharp words that hang in the air like knives and when uttered returned to slit the throat of their speaker. If every word you have spoken returned to act upon yourself would you survive the experience? Situation getting sticky, humid like vaporous blood hanging in the air... The urchin stands in the middle of the street preaching...In the beginning was the word and the word was made flesh by a cacophonous blast out of heaven's pearly cum-stained ass creating the father, the son, and the holy spigot ... spigot drains all gringo excrement away from gringos and into our countries, our cities, our homes... Follow me to the holy spigot and we'll show them the bidet of death, constructed for gringos, to flush out gringos, to show them all what you do behind closed doors. Can't close them all -we have our technicians as well and they're getting to be better than yours. We got the money rolling in.
The little street urchin with the chiclets was at the bar now, he couldn't be shut up, hawking wares for death, little powders, potions, and peppers hanging from his arms, but the CNNhead said all was well, justice was served. The television was close circuit captioned for the hearing impaired. The little boy was adamant -no captions only pictures for the blind. The rustling of paper behind boardroom walls sends him into fits.... I gotta picture for you... I go on vacation in your country, go to hear senators speak, but all doors are closed, all sealed. So I gotta fiber optic and fed it in from the roof, show all the senator's mad with sexual lust, blood thirsty, clamoring for war and stealing souls and bodies and driving them off wherever they see fit. There are thousands of them now, a chorus of little brown boys singing, chanting like Benetine Monks.... The boys are chanting to the beat of drums... I got pictures for you gringo... pictures you hear? The commander in chief of the NATO forces in Europe was fucking a small refugee boy in the ass, the boy cried for his mother. The general laughed, 'your mother's down the hall boy. She's busy with the president of Germany right now, but maybe later you'd like to lick his cum off her dead face...?' And you say ban those words. Tear them right out. Snip snip. Can't say that-war a snuff film for the rich. Ya wanna spoil all their fun...?
A tape rolls and we hear behind the boardroom doors: "We gotta step up the bombing chief, the public's losing innarest in us," screams the staff officer running in circles jerking off and slapping his ass until it turns a bright purple. And with all seriousness, General Jesse Helms pauses to reflect: "I remember a time when life was good. No one got in our way. Why in Europe, under Patton, I musta raped twenty thirty little boys and a handful of nuns too..." He smiles, lost in memory... "But God hath given us these trying times." "Yes it is a bit hard to get cunt these days isn't it," mumbles the chief of state as he strokes his wife's cock...." Yes dear start a war. Get me some cute refugee boys. I so love snapping their necks when I'm coming," she growls affectionately. "That's it gentlemen were going to war," the president stands and ejaculates on a map of the world, "Kosovo it is," he says as his thick oatmeal consistency sperm all but covers the former republic of Yugoslavia.
You like? You like, no? Too bad. You can't have those words, too strong. I get power, you give me power, I steal power from you, too expensive to buy it. I get power and you get pictures and maybe I tell you how to cure it? Eh? Eh? Eh?
The man behind the counter turned off the TV and we left. By the time we got back to the house the coffee table was on its side, the lamp was broken, glass all over the floor, an enormous dent in the plaster wall, but the television remained undisturbed. We sat down on the couch and I flipped idly through the channels. Sean and Katherine's screaming voice float through the bedroom walls. Words were disembodied and floated in the air looking for a throat to slit. I heard Katherine screaming...
-What do you want from me? I try so fucking hard to love you. You say you don't want me, and then you want me back, and then you tell me to go again.... WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT?
-I want you... I want... I don't fucking know what I want. Why are you always harping on what I want? Why can't we just live and exist and be... like Sil and Dean and every other fucking person on this planet...why can't we just be happy? Why do we have to have these issues...why do we have to have these things to work on? What are these things? What the fuck is going on around here? When did this start?
-What do you mean? What are you talk...
-WHAT DO YOU MEAN 'WHAT DO I MEAN?' You know what I mean, this! All of this... look at us...
-Why are you bringing Dean and Sil into this? Why do you have to live up to some manly ideal that you think they embody? I got news for you, they don't embody shit! The two of them would be living in a goddamn dumpster if we hadn't let them move in...
-Why does this have to be about my friends? Why is it a problem? I asked you if it was alright for them to move in here and now you say it's not?"
-It has nothing to do with them.... It's you I'm talking about. You say we used to be happy, we used to not be like this, we used to 'just live' as you put it.
Police said the suspect was dressed in a business suit and may be armed/ Do you have time to cook a meal every night in the midst of balancing/ So this guy comes up to me/ guaranteed to last a lifetime/
-Katherine, what the fuck are you talking about?
-This indecision... this fucking shit...
-My indecision? My fucking indecision? And who, pray tell, FUCKED SOMEBODY ELSE? Who is indecisive? It's not me. I know exactly what I want. I want to be with you, but you won't let me just be. You question my every fucking move, want to know my every thought, every feeling. Don't you ever not have a feeling? Isn't it ever just a blank page of white with little blue lines? Little fucking blue lines and not a word? Not a fucking thought in sight? Do you ever get that? Or is it just constant fucking emotional input from the far fucking reaches of the earth all pouring in your precious little heart? Your heart that occasionally seems to feel the need for some other guy's DICK?!
-Yes, Sean, I made a FUCKING MISTAKE, and I said I'm sorry. I'm as clueless as you are.... You know sometimes, in the midst of this insanity, I think that I see and feel you loving me, but you won't let me in...
-What are you talking about?
-You won't let yourself be happy and love me. I can't figure out if it's because you're scared or because you just don't have a fucking clue. Do you even care about me? Or am I just some sort of ornament that you have been pursuing over the last four fucking years because it happened to interest you and now...
-Fuck you.
-Fuck me? No FUCK YOU! I don't know if I was some whim, something you wanted to try on in the dressing room and then when you thought it was out of style, you could just hang it back up on the rack... I'm sorry, I want to be with someone who isn't fucking clueless about how they feel about me. You can't decide if you want me or not. You said fifteen minutes ago that you forget about sex sometimes. How is that supposed to make me feel?
-I just meant that I have such a good time talking to you, that... oh what the fuck, what the fuck do you know about love?
-Jesus Christ! Okay, I don't know anything about anything and neither do you, but that doesn't mean anything, right? If nothing you say means anything, how am I supposed to feel when you say you love me? IT DOESN'T MEAN ANYTHING!
-No that's not what I said. Everything means something, it may not make any difference, but goddamn it all means something. Who you fuck, who you eat dinner with, what time you get up, what kind of fucking bombs they drop on everyone, the jails, the murders, it all fucking means something. All of this, everything that is happening, it all means something. Maybe none of it matters, but it all means something goddamn it! I just don't know what it is. I just need some time to figure out what the hell I am, what I am doing, what this life is, we're all trying to figure it out. I don't fucking know what I want, okay? I can't give you some pat little answer that's going to explain exactly how I feel. Some days I want to be with you and some days you drive me up the fucking walls....
Researchers have concluded that including a glass of wine with your regular meal may actually increase your life span/But Jim, we can't just leave them here/We're tiny we're toony we're all a little loony/the initial results indicate HIV/We will be appealing your case/Mr. president a girl from Arkansas is on line two/Did you or did you not ?/The White House denies/Tide gets your colors looking brighter/Guaranteed to last a life time/I'd like to buy a vowel/What is-the Serengeti?
-Oh great! Fucking great, now I drive you up the walls!
-Why the fuck do you focus in on the negative? See, that's what I'm talking about. I say that some days I want to be with you and some days I don't and why do we have to get into the days I don't? Because little fucking alarms go off in your brain... ehew I drive him up the fucking walls? This must be explained. There is a reason for this. This is what needs to be fixed.... Has it ever occurred to you that I must just want to be alone some days? Has it ever occurred to you that I can love you without liking you every now and then?
-You're such an asshole Sean.
-Fuck you! I said I love you. You dumb fucking slut....
-You don't know what love is! You're a little child...
-You're a cold bitch! Don't you have any feeling in that dried hard little cuntheart of yours!?
-Do not call me a cunt!
-I didn't call you a cunt! I said you have a fucking hard little fucking CUNT HEART!
-Fuck you! You wouldn't know what to do with a cunt anyway!
There was the sound of skin striking skin-a sickly slapping, stinging, slicing, horribly thin sound. The unmistakable sound of hatred and self-doubt bring itself into the world like an airborne virus.
-I'm sorry... I didn't mean to hit you...
-Then how the fuck did you HIT ME? How can you not mean to hit someone? There is no such thing as ACCIDENTALLY hitting someone, that doesn't happen nooneaccidentallyhits anyone youmeanttohitmeyou FUCKING PRICK!
There was the sound of crashing porcelain and electricity popping and the light streaming under the door disappeared.
-Oh that's FUCKING great! You stupid bitch!
There was a dull thud followed by a low moan and Dean and I looked at each other. By the time we turned on the hall light and opened the door they were wrestling on the floor. Katherine jumped up to run for the bathroom knocking down Dean and forcing me to jump on the bed to get out of her way. Sean went out after her. Before we could stop him, Sean grabbed Katherine's arm, dragged her kicking and screaming across the floor and threw her out the front door. She was wearing only a thin nightgown. It was February and raining and they were in hysterics. Tears streamed down Sean's face. He managed a thin, strained smile as he collapsed against the front door. Dean and I just stood there unsure what to do.
"She really fucked some guy this time," he muttered. I tried not to move or show any signs that might have given it away, obviously Katherine had left out a few details.
"The BITCH FUCKED SOME OTHER GUY," He yelled at the door but there was no answer. "You hear me you dumb bitch? I hope you fucking freeze to death." His voice trailed off into mumbles. "I hope his cock keeps you warm out there!" He screamed, pounding his fist against the door. A male voice from somewhere outside yelled "shut up," and Sean cracked the door and yelled, "fuck off," at the unknown man. "Jesus Christ," he muttered to himself.
He smiled stupidly at us and Dean went over and helped him to his feet. "Fuck man, what am I doing?" He straightened his shirt with one hand and used the other to steady himself against the wall. He came over and sat down on the couch. "What did you do?" he asked looking at me. "Did you do this? I mean with your wife, you loved her, and she left you, and now look at you, you're fine, what did you do?" He asked. His face held an expression of absolute wonder. "How did you fill this hole that I feel growing in me? Do you just harden yourself? She thinks I'm already hardened because I pushed her out the door, but that wasn't the hard part of me that was the raw nerve endings.... That was me trying to find love or fight love or something." He stared up at the ceiling and I followed his gaze, the fan was spinning slowly, indifferently, like a tape recorder rewinding. "That was my love for her that pushed her out the door." He said.
"Uh, no it wasn't," Dean interjected.
"Oh, but it was," Sean smiled depravedly. Dean just shook his head. "The cold, hard,
part of me," Sean went on, "is the part that will go over there in a couple of hours and talk to her. The hard part of me is the part that will make love to her later." He stopped and scratched his head "You know, the horrible thing about losing love isn't that it makes you hard, it's that you realize or you start to realize that love can be lost...." He wore the serene face of a philosopher dispensing wisdom.
"That's what is tearing me up right now. There is no sacredness to love like they want you to believe, and once you realize that love can be lost, once you know that this can happen, it's doomed to happen again. I will never again be able to look at someone and see a relationship that doesn't end. I know now that for every beginning there is an ending already written." He shook his head in disgust and then started sobbing in despair again. "Oh god," he cried, "how the fuck do you get out of this? How do you find hope again? And even if you do, what do you do when it's dashed yet again?"
He got up and went to the door; he opened it and looked outside. Then he shut it again and started laughing; it was distorted sickly laugh. He no longer looked human; he was a caricature of human. He laughed like the power drunk maniac. "How many times can you do this? Is there a limitation to the number of times you can have your heart broken?" The serene face of the philosopher returned and he retreated into the abstract world where he felt comfortable. "Is it like one of those Lithium batteries that never recharges all the way? It starts looping back until there is nothing and then right when you think you have it, oh I underst...WHAM! And then it's gone, you're gone, the thing is gone." He smiled a thin, taunt, smile. "She really hates me now doesn't she?" He looked up at Dean and I. Neither of us spoke. Dean shrugged, but I was rooted to the spot with horror. Horror at the thought that this caricature exists in all of us, that none of us would stand up to the death camp marches of our personal lives. I felt weak and woozy.
"And the horrible thing." He went on, "is that somewhere deep down I wanted her to fuck that guy, whoever he is. It doesn't matter. God I want a whole gang of giant-cocked porn stars to gang fuck her through eternity if that's what it takes for me to feel something. I'm not feeling anything anymore; the only time I feel anything is when I hurt her. Then I feel hate. I feel her hating me, but when she's not hating me I don't feel anything. I don't feel loved."
He was on the floor weeping with his hands over his face. I tried to move him, but he punched wildly, lashing out at nothing, landing a solid blow on my jaw. Out of anger, I kicked him in the ribs, but he made no protest. I grabbed him by the hair, slammed his head into the door and threw him to the side. I went outside and slammed the door. My head felt light. I became very dizzy and I leaned over the planter and threw up in it. It was still pouring rain. I slumped down in the vomit and mud and lay there for an eternity sobbing quietly for myself, for Sean, for Katherine, for the whole world. I began to shiver so I stood up. I stepped out from under the stoop and lifted my head up, letting the water wash the vomit and mud from my face. I began shaking uncontrollably and then as the shaking subsided, an eerie sense of calm descended upon me.
I set off to look for Katherine. She didn't go far. She was next door sitting on the neighbor's couch; the neighbors were in bathrobes, obviously woken up by the screaming. The woman sitting next to Katherine held her, rubbed her back and rocked her gently back and forth on the sofa. Katherine looked like a scared child. She was shaking like a leaf. The man came at me with hate in his eyes, but I quickly explained my innocence. Katherine looked up and told him not to hurt me. She put her head down between her knees. "What's wrong with him Sil?" She asked. "Why is he doing this? I am good to him aren't I?" I didn't say anything and she looked up at me with glistening red eyes, pleading for some kind of answer. I just nodded my head. "I shouldn't be putting up with this," she went on. "This is bullshit, I can't keep doing this.... What the fuck is wrong with him? What's wrong with you, with all of you?" Her eyes filled with hatred and burned through me. Black tears ran down her face. "There is this thing in me that can't let go, can't admit that I'm wrong about him," she sniffled and wiped her cheeks. "And all of you, you're so damn sure that your little feelings and your little emotions have to be so goddamn right. You think that you can just pull them down like shades over the whole fucking world." She was yelling now, glaring up at me with wild eyes. "Every emotion, every thought, every fucking little thing can be broken down and analyzed and dismissed with some cynical diatribe that you think is so witty and fucking funny... goddamn all of you!" She jumped off the couch and lunged towards me. Her arms hit me square in the chest and knocked me down. She landed on top of me and taking the wind out of me. I heaved for breath and tried to get out from under her, but she went limp and I didn't have the breath to move her. She lay on top of me and great sobs wracked her body. Her tears burned on my neck. Her sobbing frame trembled and shook. After a few seconds I caught my breath and I put my arms around her. She nestled her head into my neck.
Her voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, "I'm sorry I didn't mean to hurt you." She raised her head and looked in my eyes. I put my hand on her head and stroked her hair. "He makes me sick," she said. "I make me sick for letting myself be involved with him. I can do better than this, if this is love... this... this... fucking..." She climbed up off me and sat back on her ankles. "This is not love... I don't know what I'm doing. Do I have to be the strong one here? Do I have to be the one to walk away when I'm the one being hurt? Why is it always me?" She wiped her eyes again. I thought about my wife and I realized Catherine was right, women are always the ones who have to cross the final threshold. Sean didn't want her, but he kept pulling her back. His ego couldn't let go. He went right back in like a rat pulling the lever in the control studies that Philip Morris wakes up sweating to in the middle of the night.
I pulled Catherine to her feet and put my arms around her. We held each other for what seemed like a long time. I heard someone clear their throat and, realizing that two other people were in the room, I apologizing profusely and thanked them while I guided Catherine out the door. We sat down on the stoop of our house and stared out at the rain. We both had our legs tucked up under our chins and Katherine rocked back and forth slowly while she talked. "I had sex with Dean." Her voice was flat and even as if ordering food from a drive thru window. I told her I already knew. She nodded and a painful smile passed her lips. "And I don't know why I did," she stared at the ground. "I just wanted to feel close to someone," tears welled up in her eyes. "It doesn't mean anything, right?"
I told her it didn't and she leaned her head on my shoulder. "And I know Sean has fucked around," she went on. "I know he fucked around in Europe, but he won't admit it. That's the thing that makes me so fucking mad is he won't admit it, and why? Why? Because if he admitted that then he'd have to face up to the fact that he's as weak as I am. Now he can call me a slut and make himself out to be better. That's all I am to him, this thing against which he can measure himself, this thing..." She stopped for a moment. The rain pelted against the concrete driveway, chipping away on a geologic time scale. The sound roared in protest.
"Do you know what this is doing to me? I'm losing my mind..." She looked me in the eyes. "I'm not going to go nuts over him. I knew I should have run away right after we made love for the first time... I should have just run, because now I'm here and he's throwing me out the door in my fucking nightgown..." I put my arms around her and she started to cry again. Her tears were warm on my arm. She thanked me for listening to her. I told her to wait for minute while I went inside to make sure Sean was under control.
He and Dean were smoking a cigarette on the couch. Dean's sister was in the chair dispensing wisdom that sounded like it would have solved all of Sean's problems, but Sean, being a man can't hear a word that she's saying, just like women can't hear a word that men are saying. The whole so-called battle of the sexes could be stopped if only there were an interpreter around that could translate. Solve the riddle. Translate the emotion and feeling into logic and predictable precision, and then back out into the chaotic no-mans-land of feeling again. Some guru, some pygmy, some monk, some alien that can add it all up and give us some kind of answer. But the aliens aren't coming.
Sean glared at me and said, "Get the fuck out of my house." I shrugged and asked Dean and his sister if they were coming. The three of us left. We gave Katherine a ride to her friend's house where she could stay for the night. She and Dean stood beside his car in the pouring rain and kissed lightly like friends; he wiped a tear from her eye and got back in the car. The three of us rented a room for the week at local motel. Dean's sister fell asleep the minute she laid down. Dean and I went and got coffee to steel us against the insanity. I remember leaning against Dean's car gulping lukewarm coffee, the rain had stopped abruptly and dry winds were already whipping the clouds away. It was a Santa Ana wind. Dean threw his cup into the vacant lot and it blew in little circles, round and round in eddies of wind-miniature tornadoes.
At the end of the week we left Los Angeles for Athens. We stopped the second night in Arkansas where I had a very strange dream, I dreamed in third person, I was being forced to watch. I dreamed that I saw an aborted fetus hanging out of Katherine. It was covered in shiny afterbirth with the umbilical cord still attached; the cord was just dangling out of her. I saw Sean with scissors, trying to cut it while Katherine screamed tried to stop him. A doctor took the fetus and threw it in the incinerator; the furnace flared and was silent as a slaughterhouse. Then they were in a windowless room. Katherine lay naked on a table, spread eagle as Sean circled her holding a blunt, tubular object. It was black and plugged into the wall. Words passed like water though a screen. Sean stood next to her with the cattle prod, walking slowly in circles around Katherine. A symphony started up. Marching bands... fingers tapping... tapping... violins... rhythm of kettledrums... and his arm raised up. He was floating, watching, choking on gasoline-napalm sores that seared off his tongue. Flames licked up his body. The air was hot and thick like the worst humidity, his scorching flesh sizzled. A little red light came on to signal that the cattle prod was fully charged. In front of him was Katherine, beautiful, serene. Her arms were restrained above her head. His face twisted into a sick smile. The symphony reached a feverish pitch with the clash of horns and strings and drums and Sean looked into Katherine's eyes and watched her pupils dilate. And it fell; his arm fell, the cattle prod fell, her body went rigid and she shot up off the table as if suddenly turned into a stiff board. He kept his eyes locked on her as she collapsed back onto the table. I saw something flash through them and I felt a tremor in my gut. Then big uncontrollable sobs wracked Sean's entire body and he fell on his knees and curled up in little ball on the floor. He lay like that for a while, until the sobs worked themselves out. A lone lunatic flute solo floated over the scene. Katherine got up and began to undress him. She started by unbuttoning his shirt. When she undid his belt she reached down and rather gently held his rigid cock as she eased his pants down over it. She stood embracing him tightly with her arms around his neck, and she pulled herself up and then slid down on his cock. Sean fucked her but she couldn't feel it. Her cunt was a burnt, charred hole. She couldn't feel anything and then the strings returned and the crescendo built again.... She laid him on the table and spread his legs, restraining them and then his arms. She stroked his cock hard and teased him by biting his nipples. All at once her eyes went black and she thrust the cattle prod into his balls... Sean was blown up off the table by ten thousand volts of electricity. He didn't even feel his cum splash on his face. He landed back on the table, his scream a violin, an inhuman screeching wail.
* * * *
I go into the kitchen to make myself some coffee. Dean is gone. The house feels empty. There is a rainbow in the kitchen. I notice disinterestedly that the house is a mess, that my knees hurt and that I am in unquestionable poor physical condition. In the shower I marvel that I once thought that that was the bottom, but that was someone else's bottom, that was Katherine's bottom. I dry off and walk back into the kitchen. I dig around for food. Got to get behind the mule every morning and plow...
Twelve
The atlanta airport is warm...
Thirteen
There's a cure in sight-soul unease-suspension wires-wink and smile-windblown newspapers-advert scrapes-sardines in a kipper snack tin-abandoned train station-wind rips dirt off the road-sagebrush where it belongs-the songs of Solomon-tumbling along the melody lines-voice echoing-everyone walks with unshakable self-confidence-pretend to be unafraid-This isn't you-This isn't me-what do you talk about when you talk about love-
I regret leaving the minute I get out of the Holland tunnel. But I knew I would. I regret coming. But I knew I would. I regret that I regret. But I know that I will.
I stop for gas on the Jersey turnpike and almost turn around. I can't decide what would make me a bigger fool, trying to correct the mistake or trying to live with it-or drinking heavily and ignoring the question altogether?
I drive the interstate straight through to Athens. I get to the cottage in the early hours of morning. I go to bed and don't get out of it for a week.
I try to maintain things with Maya; I call her all the time. I smoke cigarettes and stare at the ceiling for days on end. I cry. I punch the concrete wall. I agonize over the poetry of it all. I am the apologist. I write a long letter to April explaining how bad I feel about stealing her money, but half way through I notice that its more about how much I enjoy having her money. I throw the letter in the trash.
I am positive impotent.
After a few weeks, Maya stops returning my calls.
Maya is gone.
The Mayan priest and his demonic escorts hold court daily in my bedroom. He has taught me how to master pain. He tells me that mastering pain puts you next to the gods. The snarling creature is always outside the door. I am scared to leave the house. I go out for food and nothing else. Waves of nausea overwhelm me whenever I think of Maya. The priest says this will pass. He tells me that everything will pass. But I knew that it would.
It's the middle of the afternoon and I haven't gotten out of bed. Torturous visions of Maya making love to other people are crackling through my head like static on an AM radio. Jimmy knocks at the door and I reluctantly let him in. I haven't seen anyone since I got back. I have been hiding out. I tell him the whole story and make him swear to never repeat it. He's losing his job, and overall seems to be about as depressed as I am. He insists that we go out and get a drink. I reluctantly accompany him to Five and Ten. After a couple shots of whisky and a few beers, the priest is nothing but an incoherent mumble and the repulsive visions of Maya taper off.
I drink more. I don't stop. Eventually Jimmy heads home and I walk downtown. I end up passing out in the alley behind the Flicker Bar. Morning finds me covered in garbage and smelling like a dead fish. I catch the bus home to take a shower. The boy is selling chiclets in the living room; the priest is siting on the couch. Giant eels circle around his feet. The priest has constructed a giant labyrinth around the couch, extending out past the coffee table. Ten foot long serpentine beasts circle through the labyrinth, gnashing their teeth and hissing at my feet. I quit the house for Five and Ten. Several nights in a row I wake up in the midst of plastic garbage bags. I regret the intense happiness I feel. Alternately I feel like a sponge wrung dry, discarded like yesterdays newspapers. I love the pain.
Weeks turn to a month. Just like they always do. I feel nothing. But. Yes. One day the eels get loose and in an effort to destroy them I burn everything I own in the fire ring. The billowing black smoke draws Jimmy over. He stops short in the driveway and stands back, watching me mutter and curse as I drag everything out of the house and into the fire. I burn my books, my furniture, my heirlooms, my artwork, and most of my clothes. Jimmy helps me get the mattress in the fire and then he heads off to buy me some alcohol. We sit around the rest of the afternoon drinking and smashing the bottles against the living room wall. Then we start in on the plates, then the glasses, then light bulbs, then clay pots. We wrap towels around our hands and punch out the windows. There is pile of glass several inches deep and several feet wide, extending out from the wall. Dean would have loved it.
At the end of the night, just before he leaves, Jimmy mentions that he is concerned about my mental health. I assure him that I share his concern. He offers me the use of a cabin that his family owns. He says it's situated on a hill overlooking the surrounding area, he says you can see downtown glowing at night.
I vacate the cottage the next morning. Jimmy gives me a map and a key. I am going deeper into retreat. I stop at the liquor store and stock up. I buy fifteen bottles of scotch, a case of canned beans, five dozen eggs, six pounds of bacon, and ten cartoons of cigarettes. I ask for polar bear fat, but the pimple-faced clerk says they don't have any.
The cabin is quiet and peaceful; there is no stereo, no phone, no mail, no running water. It's a single room with a sliding glass door in the back. There is a kerosene stove, an icebox, and a pump handled sink against one wall. To the side there is a dilapidated old couch and a tiny forty-watt lamp. Jimmy brings out a table and few chairs. Everything is coated with in a layer of dust and smells of mildew. In the cupboard above the sink I find a jar of moldy, fermented fruit and a key to the outhouse down the road. I sit around drinking, smoking and wallowing in self-effacing pity. I have a nervous tick in my leg that makes it bounce incessantly, but the priest and his host of fiendish consorts can no longer find me. I am not a pretty sight, but at least no one is watching. The cabin is on an outcropping overlooking the hills. The leaves still cling to the trees, the hills are a riot of color. Everything is hanging on to some slender thread of life, shuddering at thought of deep winter chill. Everything except for one charred, lightening struck, tree about two hundred yards down the hill. Its craggy blackened remains disrupt the otherwise pastoral scene. The tree is my best friend. Everyday I sit on the back porch, drinking scotch and staring out vacantly at the tree. Trying to make it mean something. A burnt charred tree. Lightening, careless matches, smokey the bear ads... But. It looks like lightening. As hot as the core of the sun. I can do this forever.
Jimmy and Ulric come out to visit me and bring provisions. I give them wrinkled twenties stained with manicured fingerprints and Lubriderm.
Today Ulric tells me that his girlfriend has left him. He is broken up over it, but he says he is too busy to deal with it.
I'm happy for him.
"Ya I can't really say I miss her. I have more time, I don't have to call anyone when I show turns into a late night party or something you know."
"Oh I know." I pass him the bottle and we drink in silence. We drink like prospectors, like miners, like forty-niners. We drink like breaded men. We drink the way whisky was meant to be drunk. We are so ridiculously male.
"Next time you come will you bring me some dip? Or chewing tobacco? Or something really manly-Drum?
Is that all you want for Christmas?"
"Shit Christmas?"
"day after tomorrow"
"Jimmy, damnit. Why haven't you mentioned this?"
Jimmy shrugs. "You're not religious."
"You're right. Well then yes bring me some dip, some snuff, some chaw, some Drum and another case of whiskey and I'll give you double what its worth and we'll consider that a holiday exchange."
"Sounds good." Ulric laughs.
"We thought maybe we'd come out for new years..." Jimmy looks at me as if waiting for me to okay this idea.
"Its your house man. I'm just stealing it."
They make plans. I hear Chloe's name mentioned. But I keep thinking about a book I read years ago, Things Fall Apart, by somebody or other. In it thing fall apart. But I had expected that when I bought it.
A new year is dawning. We barbecue chicken and talk about old times. I enjoy the nostalgic sense of everything ending; it's a step up over sardonic heartache and confusion. Over dinner, Ulric tells us he is moving to Florida to do some recording. His band is under contract to produce their second album by the end of next summer. Jimmy is moving to Boston to go to law school, and out of nowhere, Chloe announces she's going to Europe in March. I tell them all about Dean and Paris. I tell Chloe to look him up. It is the end of the gang. I am to be the sole straggler.
It is quite a feast they bring out, chicken, greens, and corn on the cob, a real southern meal. In the center of the table is an enormous pile of well-gnawed bones with little chunks of cartilage and caked nuggets of barbecue sauce clinging to ends. Jimmy and Chloe are polishing off the last two pieces of chicken. Ulric is gnawing feverishly at a nearly naked corncob. I'm sucking on the ice from my empty glass. You wouldn't have even known it was New Year's, except for the box of illegal fireworks that Ulric brought back from a trip to South Carolina. Jimmy leans back in his chair and works his gums over with a toothpick. Chloe takes some plates and walks back inside the house. I watch her dress swirl about her knees until she disappears through the sliding glass door.
They all want to cheer me up and they all have their own little patented methods for it. Ulric favors humor, Jimmy the big picture, and Chloe just tries to listen. "Well, I know it does no good to say it," Jimmy shrugs, "but I have to anyway... there's plenty more of them out there." Jimmy has said very little else since I returned. He seems to believe that I need a little mantra to occupy my mind.
Ulric leans over and lightly smacks him in the back of the head. "Oh brilliant man, that really helps...." Ulric takes a big gulp of his drink and set his glass down hard with a clattering noise. "Oh Jesus I'm sorry, I forgot about the glass table," he smiles sheepishly. "I think the alcohol is a little ahead of the food right now."
It's a beautiful Georgia evening, unseasonably warm, probably in the fifties. We all have on light jackets, but no one's cold. We're on the back deck, overlooking the descending hills which, after three or four miles, surrender to the urban sprawl of Athens. With the binoculars Jimmy brought out you can see the two tall buildings of Athens poking out of the treetops.
Jimmy is clearing the scattered remnants of chicken off the table; Ulric and I smoke. Ulric stands up and goes over to the box of fireworks. He rummages around, talking to me in the process. "You can come down to Florida with me when I move, stay a while if you like. I got some friends I could introduce you to... maybe set something up for you. I could get you work that's for sure. Keep you busy." He smiles at me and pulls out an enormous three-foot long skyrocket.
I shrug and say maybe. Chloe comes back outside and sits down next to me. She puts her hand on my knee. It feels heavy and foreign, but I stop bouncing my leg.
Ulric tosses the rocket back in the box, picks up some sparklers and sits back down at the table. He lights one of sparklers and twirls it around making phosphorescent figure 8's in the air. His expression is serene. Chloe goes inside to help Jimmy. Shortly after, Jimmy comes outside again and sits down. There is a smear of lipstick on his cheek and Ulric throws a napkin at his face. Jimmy blushes and wipes it off. The sparkler fizzles out and Ulric sets the burnt stick on the table. He coughs and mutters something to himself. He fumbles in his pocket for another smoke.
Chloe brings out a fresh round of drinks. "I baked a pie," she says, "it'll be warm in a few minutes." She pulls her chair over and sits down between Jimmy and I.
"What I'd really like to know...." Ulric leans back in his chair and takes a long drag off his cigarette before continuing. "What I'd really like to know," he begins again, "is what happens to all this, well, call it 'love,' that I still have trapped in my heart? I can't express it, can't get it out, but eventually it goes away... where does it go?"
"Wilhelm Reich said it builds up tension and eventually leads to cancer." I chuckle and reach over the table and lift a cigarette out of Ulric's pack.
"That's great Sil, that's exactly what I wanted to hear." Ulric coughs as he exhales
"Well if it makes you feel any better Ulric, none of his colleagues believed him." I say. "He died disgraced and in seclusion." I light my cigarette and then a sparkler.
"Of cancer?" Ulric smiles at me.
"I don't know."
"But you know what I mean, I mean, after a little while its not the person you cry for feel bad about, it's the fact that you don't really care about the person that bothers you- right? I mean getting over someone is easy, getting over the fact that you got over them is the hard part"
No one says anything. Chloe straightens her dress over her crossed legs. I hand her the sparkler. She waves it about like a paintbrush, filling the air with glittering designs. Jimmy narrows his brows and eyes us all like a scolding mother. He sets the binoculars on the table and I snag them. I watch Ulric's mouth through the binoculars as he smokes, his lips are chapped and they crack revealing enormous fissures when he smiles. "What the hell are you looking at Sil?"
"Nothing. You need some chapstick." I was thinking about something Maya had said on the phone one night. I'll always love you, you always be in my life. I want to be the one you call when your old and you pull the winning hand in bridge....
"You okay Sil?" Chloe has an anxious look on her face.
I nod, take a deep breath and try to laugh. I put the binoculars back up to my face to hide the excess of fluid that suddenly appears in my eyes. Downtown I can see the leafy tops of the birches and elms. I imagine the clamoring of already drunk crowds moving from bar to bar shouting happy new year, but there is nothing, just trees listing in the gentle wind.
"This is stupid," Ulric says.
"Let's talk about something else," Chloe sits up and crosses her legs the other way in her chair. The sparkler burns down in her idle hand. Her attention has shifted to the other hand, which is lightly stroking Jimmy's head.
Ulric slouches back in his chair and crosses his arms over his stomach. "I mean how do you do that? Just shut yourself down, stop on an emotional dime? Christ I still love girls I dated for two weeks in high school... but I don't care about them" He looks at me.
"I still love women I saw on the street and never even spoke to." I am thinking of one I had seen at the bar last month or has it been longer?
"Oh god, that's the purest kind of love there is," Ulric sits up excited. "That look... you're walking down the street in a crowd of people, not paying any attention to them. Then suddenly you meet eyes with some girl just by chance, pure accident, but you both know there is some connection in the eyes." He stares off at the hillside as he speaks. "A look, that's all it takes, and you recognize something in each other in that instant."
"You mean love at first sight?" Chloe asks.
"Well, I don't know about love," Ulric says.
"I think what Ulric means is intimacy at first sight." They all look at me. "You don't act on it because of fear, because intimacy and strangers don't mix." My voice sounds tired to me. "You think you recognize something in them, and they in you, but you don't want to risk finding out. You don't know if they can be trusted or not. You feel vulnerable. You give up before you even start. Or at least I do, but it's not even that conscious, you just keep walking."
"Okay, now even I'm getting depressed," Chloe says. "How about the weather? It's a beautiful day...? The government...?" We all stare at her. No one says a word. She get up to get the pie.
The sun is an orange garnish on the edge of the horizon. Down the hill the lightening struck stump catches the last reddening glow. Jimmy and Ulric are both looking out at the hillside. Neither of them speaks; I can hear the clattering of the glass pie pan against the stove inside, the noise drifts out the door and crackles sharply in the stillness of the evening. Up the hill, a Poorwill tests it's song for the approaching night. Ulric rattles the ice at the bottom of his glass and throws his head back with it. He chews it loudly with his mouth open.
"You know why I left?" I say to no in particular. "The crowning achievement of the human experience is getting to share those little moments with each other, the minute by minute miracle. That's the only thing that makes us human; otherwise we're no different than any other creature. We have time and time allows us memory and perspective, which allow us love, but I left because it's more powerful in hindsight. I get nostalgic for the present. Once I realize that I have to step back and enjoy it." I light a fresh cigarette and take a long swig of scotch. I pitch the empty bottle into the trees. I see Maya standing by the window in that abominable apartment. She is smoking a cigarette, smiling at me. I keep her there in my memory, but right now I'm nostalgic for the memory of her, not her.
Chloe brings out more drinks. They are trying to keep me away from the bottles damn them. She goes back in and brings out four slices of warm apple pie with ice cream slowly melting on top of them. I take a couple bites, but my stomach turns at the sweetness. They devour theirs in silence. I rearrange mine, pushing it around like a child does with peas. After waiting a few minutes, so as not be rude, I stand up. "I'm going for a walk. I'll be back in little while," I say.
"Are you okay?" Ulric asks.
"I'm fine. I just need a walk." I say.
I hear them discussing me in whispers as I walk down the lawn and out the gate-nostalgic fools. There is a faint trail from the gate leading down the hill. It's rough going outside the yard; the hillside is choked with dogwood trees and other spindly, naked shrubs. It takes me ten minutes to get to the charred tree. I run my hands over the burnt wood, smearing the dusty charcoal around on my palms. I sit down leaning my back against the tree. The sun is gone now, a blue-gray twilight is settling in over the hills. The moon is to my back, but in front down, near the horizon stars are becoming visible. The spaces between the stars aren't dark. It's a void, but it's pure white light, that's where life started, in the nothingness. We live in the spaces in between.
I hear them laughing up the hill. I hear some distant pops and then one enormous bang, which jars me enough to look up and see the last twinkling sapphire remnants of the big skyrocket fading out above me. Little fragments of ash begin showering down toward me. I think of the tree, and the flashing cataclysm that tore it apart and set it on fire. I wonder what it looked like, the pure white light? Afterwards there is only empty silence and the gentle snowing of ashes. The world gives birth behind our eyes, not before them. Years ago Maya was staring up at the night sky. She propped herself up and kissed me. We made love on the roof... poetically nostalgic at the time.
The fireworks show downtown commences just as the last flakes of ash settle down around me. Showers of light burst up, temporarily outshining the stars and then gradually fading to darkness, only for another brilliant explosion to take its place. As I stand up to go back, I notice a small shoot of growth springing up from between the burnt roots. I run my fingers along the ground, circling the space around it, in between the roots. The light from the fireworks fades to blackness again. I turn up the slope, walking back toward the house. Fireworks fill the sky behind me, illuminating the path with flickering bursts of light.
I skirt around the house and go in the front door. I take a few long draws off a bottle of Wild Turkey. They are all still sitting at the table smoking and talking. They look beautiful, perfect, just the way I want to be, living in the spaces in between the temporal world. They are in the infinitude of my imagination, next to which my existence feels flat and tasteless as a junkyard tire, cracked and torn in the sun. It smacks you in the face when you perceive something in a moment that you know is not tangibly present and yet, it's there. A moment that you know will one day be a great memory, the fluid transmission of emotion across time. The hurricane of the unconscious whirls up to the surface for moment, imagination leaks into the real world, some interaction of the personal with the infinite, a stabbing at perfection transcends the ordinary moment. The world gives birth before our eyes and takes us spinning down reveries and private waterslides of imagination through the twisting spiral corkscrew of delirium. You know it in the present, nostalgia for now.
Eventually they notice me and insist that I come with them downtown. I don't really want to, but I consent because they are still here and already I miss them. At the bar it's scotch on the rocks followed by neat bourbon. Then I have a shot or two of whiskey and start in on the beers. The clink of pool balls, conversations of foreigner and gradually we are assimilated.
Later I ditch the gang and wander down toward the old house that Dean and his sister and I used to live in when we first arrived two years ago. Along the way, walking down Polaski, I cross over the railroad tracks. Out of nowhere I feel the urge to climb up on the cars. The steel ladder is cold as ice, and my fingers cramp before I get to the top. I balance on the metal grating, teetering drunkenly on the roof of the boxcar. The world is spinning and I decide it's best to sit down. The roof of the car is cold, so I slide back a little hatch and look inside. The darkness is impenetrable. I extend down a hand. I can't feel anything. I decide to climb in, slowing lowering myself down until my feet touch something about waist deep. I bend down and grab a handful of the unknown substance and pull it out in the moonlight-soybeans. I sit down in the darkness of the boxcar with the intention of having a rest before I walk on. I settle back, shifting about, making a seat for myself in the soybeans. I light a cigarette and look around the car; raw soybeans are everywhere around me. Maya suddenly feels farther away. She is living in her universe and I am here in mine. My illusions of her waiting for me are crushed beneath me as I sink into the soybeans. I stare up out of the hatch at the stars, lying flat on my back. The stars never judge one way or the other. They see no right or wrong, only what is happening. Everything else is an illusion of the human mind. The stars get to see now and forever. Everything is just as it should be. The soybeans absorb me and take me into their presence as the father greets the son. You got to get behind the mule every morning and plow. The night sky fades into dream.
Fourteen
Wake up-chew-swallow-regurgitate-newborn-you are free-to the bottom-cast yourself-sunrise on Cyprus-blind woman-something out there-one thing ignored-existence is love-smell it in the air-those who came before- preternaturally alive- moves you out of bed in the morning-carries you out the door-gives courage in moments of weakness-attacks conceited strength-quiet evening-walk under Alder trees-autumn light-scratches at the door-lost cat- forlorn hound-it's the only reason you're here-
I don't hear anything; I'm sound asleep. I don't feel anything because the soybeans are shifting anyway. What amazes me is that it's so quiet it doesn't wake me. You would think something as big as a train would be loud when it starts moving, but it's not. I passed drunk and by the time I realize I'm moving, it's a done deal. No backing down. I figure I'll ride to Atlanta and then take a bus back, but the train doesn't stop in Atlanta. In fact it doesn't stop until Memphis. I take one look around and decide I'm better off going all the way to California. Somewhere in the plains, I get a fever, delirium tremors. I shake uncontrollably and fear returns as I sit huddled in the corner of the dark boxcar. The Mayan priest comes back to preside over my death. I see marching columns of the dead bearing down on me. Shadowy, decomposing skeletons, hunks of chewed flesh clinging to the limbs, rattle bones and chatter teeth in the blackness. The priest dances in the corner shaking his death rattle and waving brightly colored feathers around the horrific skeletons. His arms swoop through the air and calls up the legions of the dead. Acrid smoke fills the boxcar and I start to choke, the smell of burning sulfur fills the air. The priest is wailing and fluttering his arms as more and more decomposed bodies fill the boxcar. The thick smell of death hit my nostril. It's a nauseating smell, my empty stomach recoils in horror and I retch involuntarily, trails of spit heave out and run down on my chin. I hear the chanting of legions, get up and run, get up and run, get up and run... The bodies are enveloped in smoke and I can no longer clearly see them, I hear a voice, a child crying. Out of the haze of acrid smoke steps a boy. Tears are running down his smudged face and he walks over to me with a box in his arms. Would you like to buy some chiclets meester? I kneel beside him and he smiles sadly at me. The boy selling chiclets sits down and says that he is sorry, that he does not want me to go. He tugs at my leg and his eyes go wide with terror. There is a horrible shrieking sound and the priest emerges out of the sulfuric fog, blade raised, his teeth chattering. I try to stop him, the boy covers his face, but it's too late. The blade rams home into the boy's throat. Gurgling sounds escape his mouth. The priest shrieks and twists the blade down, snapping the boy's sternum and splitting his chest open. The priest reaches in and rips out the boy's beating heart. He holds it out and turns toward me; his eyes are glowing embers. I shrink back in horror and stumble to my feet. The hatch lifts up and I climb up out into daylight; the priest is grabbing at my legs. I stand on top of the train, teetering in the icy rush of wind. We are pulling alongside another train. I carefully walk to the end of the boxcar and wait for a flatbed to come along side. I see the priest's feather headdress poke up out of the boxcar. He sees me and disappears below for a moment. He comes shooting up and out, landing a few feet from me. The train next to this one is much slower. I try and estimate the difference in speed, calculating when to jump. The priest charges at me, knife extended, a blood curdling scream echoes across the plains. I jump. I land on a flatbed car. A jarring pain shoots up through my legs and I pass out.
I come to with a hand shaking me.
"Hey kid wake up."
I open my eyes to a tiny bunk and take in a grisly, bearded, old man with heavy creases in his brow.
"Jesus Christ son... at least you're alive." He shakes his head from side to side and turns away from me. I sit up and hit my head on the ceiling. He turns around and chuckles. "Low ceiling there kid, you're on a train, remember?"
The pain in my head gives way to dull, throbbing ache in my leg. I look down and notice that it has been splinted. The old man is watching me. "I was a medic in the war," he offers. "I splinted it up for you, but you need to get to a hospital." He pauses and scratches his salt and pepper beard, "what the hell were you thinking?"
I shake my head.
"Well, here's the deal kid, we'll be in Denver sometime tonight and I can give you a lift down to the hospital, but until then, you'd best get some rest. There's some Delotid in this chest over here." He reaches in a toolbox and throws me a bottle of pills. "That'll cut the pain," he says.
He opens a door and I catch a glimpse of whirling lights and strange glowing computer screens. He closes the door leaving me alone in the room. I take one of the pills and lie back down on the bunk. Almost immediately a warm tingly sensation sweeps over me and everything fades slowly to black.
I come to again under the glare of white lights. I am lying on a bed; men in white coats are standing over me. A tube is sticking out of my arm. A woman is standing at the end of the bed dressed in a black gown with a veil over her face. I can see her thin lips moving. I pass out again.
This time I come to in the bunk. I sit up and look down at my leg. It's wrapped in an air brace. I slowly ease myself up on my elbows and swing my legs out, gingerly stepping down on the good one. I hobble to the door and open it. I step into a room filled with blinking lights and flashing screens, the old man is sitting on a stool staring out the window. He turns around and looks at me, "so you're up huh?" He extends his hand, "Joe."
I shake it and tell him my name.
"Sil? That's a new on me. How's the leg?"
I shrug.
"The doctors said you should take it easy for a while."
"We already went to the hospital?"
"Oh yes, last night. You don't remember? That Delotid must have done a number on you. They set your leg and then I was trying to leave and you started screaming and babbling hysterically," he laughs. "I signed you in, so they let me sign you out. I figured you needed a quiet place to come to your senses so I brought you back here."
He pours me a cup of coffee out of an old thermos and I hobble over to the window. Outside is a blurry rush of trees and rocks. There are patches of dirty, old, brown snow tucked back in steep ravines.
"Rocky Mountains," Joe says.
I nod. After a while I finish the coffee and ask Joe if I can go outside.
"Not the brightest idea in your condition, but ya sure." He slides open the side door and I step out onto a narrow metal grating. I steady myself against the cold steel of the engine compartment and, using the handrail as a crutch, I hobble back to the rear. After making my way around two more engines I come to the flatbed car that I landed on. I gingerly step over the coupling, trying not to look down at the dizzying blur of train tracks. I stretch out on my back and stare up at the sky. I dig through my pockets and find a half a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of unknown painkillers. I swallow one dry and chase it with a cigarette.
The train is not moving very fast, maybe twenty or thirty miles an hour. Towering snow covered peaks lean in on all sides. The air smells of pine forests, occasionally I catch a whiff of industrial scents from the engines, oil, fuel, and exhaust. I take a nap basking in the sun. I wake up under a canopy of Douglas furs and ponderosa pines. The air smells of needles and sap, there is a pinecone lying next to me.
I walk back up the engine and talk to Joe for a while. Joe is a rustic, agrarian man. He looks about sixty, he may be younger, but the years have taken their toll. He has piercing blue eyes. His skin is rough, like rawhide, tanned from a life spent outdoors. He keeps talking about the war, by which I think he means the Second World War. He has a wife in Utah somewhere and two daughters, both married, living back east. We spend the better part of the afternoon trading stories. His words come out in growling whispers, just loud enough to hear over the noise of the wheels and the engine, but without yelling or even appearing to raise his voice. He talks with the rhythm of the train, we go around a bend and Joe goes in on the beach at Normandy. We start up an incline and Joe moves out west after the war. We roll through a tunnel, Joe falls silent mid sentence, and when we emerge back into the blinding midday sun he starts up again without missing a beat. I guess, for Joe, when you're underground, it is best not to talk.
I begin to see a pattern emerge out of his stories. Joe is the kind of man that inhabits the backwater towns of this country, ornery you might say, but he is not ornery. He is simply inhuman, like me, which is to say that humanity has no hold on Joe. False modesty, false politeness, and false pretense have been shed like dry useless skin. Joe hails from somewhere older, livelier and healthier. His ancestors are the men who lived beside ponds and didn't write books, who held court with the mysteries of the universe and never say a word, who know what life has taught them and have no use for anyone else's ideas about morality, reality and humanity. I don't say much. He should have had me arrested back in Denver, or at least dumped me at the hospital, but he didn't because he felt it wasn't right. Joe doesn't seem to care at all what the rest of the world is doing; he simply lives his life and is content with that.
I step outside for a cigarette. The hood of the engine, or what would be the hood if it were a car, has a four-foot wide piece of metal grating on top of it. It makes an excellent seat and allows me to lean my head back against the window and enjoy the scenery. I light a cigarette and throw an old army surplus sleeping bag around my shoulders. It's February, I think. The air is biting cold. I let my good leg dangle off the side of the grating. We are doing about fifteen miles an hour I would guess, climbing up over the continental divide, or at least as close to the divide at these tracks get. Joe slides door open and hands me up a bowl of chili. I eat it greedily, watching the sun set in front of me.
I am thinking of Dean, wondering what his fate is... I am thinking of two years ago when we arrived in Athens, his hair was jet black, greased back, in a fashion that was at once a 1950's greaser, and not. He looked as if he were completely at ease in his own skin. We both had on suits, not expensive ones like we wanted, but ones handed down or purchased at thrift stores. I think of a photograph that I took at a bar in Los Angeles years ago. Dean was in the same pinstriped suit, carefully greased hairline framing his face, making it stand out, luminescent in the midst a black background. His eyes were laughing, but the lips barely curled, something intangibly wrong was lurking under his skin and bones. Another from the same night caught Dean unawares, as he leaned against the wall and watched the crowd. His arm was blurred, lifting the ever-present cigarette to his lips. All around him was the swirl of women's hair, the exited waving arms of men; it was all a faceless blur. In the middle there was Dean, standing still like a hummingbird.
As night falls, the wind picks up, howling through the canyons and whipping through my sleeping bag. We start to head downhill, picking up speed. I hobble back inside to warm up. Joe brews coffee and asks me if I like it. I shrug and tell him its fine. "Just wondering," he says smiling at me, "it's decaffeinated... I'm Mormon you know." He gives me a look as if this is his greatest hoodwinking surprise. I raise my eyebrows to encourage him; he looks like he needs to get it off of his chest.
"You know a lot of my friends were pretty hard on me for converting. They were downright pissed when I got hitched in the Tabernacle," he chuckles ruefully. "I tell ya, Mormons may have some strange beliefs, but on the whole, they are some of the best people I've ever met. Sure it's a little ridiculous, their bible and all, what with zebra's running around here -imagine that! Zebras! Here!- and I don't think the old Mr. Young really carried those gold tablets under his arm... and why god called himself Moroni I have no idea." He nudges me in the shoulder. "But in spite of all that ridiculousness, which really is no more ridiculous than the Catholic's eating wafers, or Jew's giving things up once or twice a year... it's all ridiculous when you think about it objectively." He stops for a bit and ponders his own words. "I'll tell you what I have noticed having a Mormon wife, and a lot of Mormon friends. They build real communities. They're good people at a level that is very basic; they know their human roots. Your average Catholic will walk by the poor bum on the street and give him a nickel or a quarter, but your average Mormon will invite the man to their home for a meal, offer them a shower, and of course, give them a little counseling on the true church of God." He nudges me again. "But when a man's belly is full and his body clean, he can listen to that sort of nonsense. I don't believe a word of it, but I took the vow because it made my wife happy and I would do anything to see that woman smile." He pulls out his wallet and extracts a faded, creased photograph. He hands it to me and I see a plump, smiling woman. Her cheeks are ruddy and she looks about fifty, maybe older, but I can tell that she was once very beautiful, and still is for that matter. I nod and smile, handing it back to him.
We talk a while longer. I try to elicit some sort of wisdom from him, but Joe is not the type to give it out. He knows what he knows, and he knows what he knows because he learned it the hard way. Words mean nothing. Joe helps me back to the rear engine, shining a flashlight along the grating while I swing between the railings. I sit up in the bunk for a while, skimming through The Book of Mormon. I notice the Mormons have ignored the Anazazi in their rewrite of history. I fall asleep with vision of Zebras running across the Utah desert.
I wake up before dawn, not having slept much, but that isn't out of the ordinary these days. It takes me a minute, after climbing out of the bunk, to find my balance and reorient myself to the sensation of movement. I stretch and yawn greedily, like an insomniac. Outside the eastern sky is pale green, not long until dawn. My precarious journey to the engine is rewarded with the smell of bacon, eggs, coffee and biscuits. Joe smiles his craggy grin, in the electric lights his teeth are yellow and stained from coffee and cigarettes. He hasn't always been a Mormon I note.
"I was just going to blow the whistle to let you know that breakfast is served." He smiles at me. He hands me a cup of coffee and I thank him, wrapping my freezing hands around the warm ceramic cup. "Sleep well?" He asks.
"Yes I did," I lie. The truth is that my life is all knotted up in my head and I have yet to untangle it, but I feel silly saying that to Joe. I realize suddenly that I think too much. I try to sip the coffee, but it is still too hot.
"Here," he hands me a plate full of greasy bacon and eggs with two biscuits perched on either side. We go out to the front of the engine and eat in silence. All around us the sky is a color show. The green begins to fade, replaced by the first crimson rays reflected on the bottoms of the wind carved clouds. I'm chewing on the last piece of bacon when the first direct rays of the sun strike me. I close my eyes and we welcome each other across the ninety-three million mile void. I open them to a squint and turn around. Behind us lie the Rocky Mountains. In front lies windswept eastern Utah, an endless sea of brown grass dancing like senoritas at the town fiesta. To our north there is the Escalante wilderness, which contains the La Salle Mountains, and the largest uninhabited area in North America. To the south and west lies Canyonlands National Park, the confluence of the Green and Colorado rivers, and somewhere, a tiny speck of a town called Moab. The end of the line for this train.
"They'll load quartz and sand mostly, bound for Memphis," Joe talks between mouthfuls of eggs. "But, whatever the case, I want to invite you to my house to have a home cooked meal with my wife and I. She's a real looker and great cook too." He laughs and nudges me in the ribs. "She was a beauty queen in high school. She was Miss Hoboken and might have been Miss America if she hadn't decided to give the whole thing up and go to college," he raises his eyebrows to accent the significance of these things. "Course I'm glad she did, because that's where I met her." He laughs.
I hem and haw, thanking him for the offer, but not agreeing to it just yet. I head back down to do the dishes. I splash cold water in my eyes in the tiny bathroom and study my face in the cracked tarnished little mirror. The scab from where I cut myself in New York is nearly gone. I lean in closer and my jaw drops. I notice that around the scab, where the old scar tissue has been torn open again, little hints of hair have started sprouting back. I stare at them in amazement. I run my fingers over them, trying to encourage their growth.
I smoke a cigarette outside while Joe calls into the Moab station. After a while he climbs up to tell me that the yard will be empty when we arrive. Today is Sunday, he informs me, and this is Mormon country, nothing happens on Sunday. Joe says that I can stay on the roof of the engine so long as he is down below. That way anyone watching will think that I am Joe. So I sit, letting the wind hit me in the face, sunning myself across Utah, land of Mormons-for now. One day I suspect the Tabernacle will fall; the religion will dwindle and disappear like every other, but for now they reign over God's last great piece of land. What a land this is here. The tracks are heading down into the canyon country. The desert sky is immense, it threatens to swallow the whole landscape. Tufts of white clouds float lazily across the blue background.
Soon we are on the mesa tops, cruising at thirty-five miles an hour, heading toward The Big Switch, as Joe calls it. The Big Switch is apparently the only non-computerized part of the journey. Joe will have to stop the train, get out and actually throw the heavy iron handle to switch us over to the track that heads down to Moab. Once he drives the train past it, he will stop again, walk back, and switch it back so that the next train can pass on by. It remains manual because most trains do not stop in Moab anymore, most of them pick up a few cars that have been hauled up or just don't even slow at all. We're going back in time, to the days when, if you wanted something happen, you had to do it yourself.
We hit the big switch around two o'clock. I talk Joe into letting me stay behind and throw it back so the next train can go by. It takes about ten minutes to move ours out of the way and then I throw the switch. It makes a piercing metallic screech and then slides back to let the next train pass. Part of me wants to leave it, to sidetrack the whole world down to Moab for a great gathering of trains, but I know it would only get Joe into trouble. I walk back up to engine. From here it is only about half an hour down into the canyon that the Green River carved long ago, where the empty loading yard waits. The desert plain is silent and peaceful. The gravel crunches under my feet. I feel like the only living thing in world. I decide that I will go out into the desert, go camping for a night. My life feels stripped clean of baggage, everything is falling away like great sheets of burnt skin, revealing shiny, pink, newborn flesh beneath the crusted surface.
It's four in the afternoon when I say goodbye to Joe and head down Moab's main drag. My life is like Utah, laid bare in the afternoon sun. Harsh and forlornly beautiful, the canyon walls lull me, spreading out my thoughts like the dotted Juniper trees, creosote bushes, and gnarled, twisted trunks of the mesquite that cover the landscape.
I go the bank and withdraw the last of my money. I eat lunch at a Mexican restaurant in an old adobe building. An ancient, wizened, Navaho woman serves me beans and handmade flour tortillas. I watch her as I eat. Two smudge-faced Indian girls, maybe four or five years old, help her stir an enormous pot of beans. The girls watched me intently, silently, with enormous liquid brown eyes that seemed irrigated with understanding. As the old woman wraps up my leftover tortillas and beans in foil, I try to absorb all the sights, sounds, and smells of her strange hobbit-like universe. The secret of life is revealed as beans and tortillas seen through the eyes of a child.
Next door is a mountaineering shop. I go in and ask around for a ride up to Canyonlands. I get one from two hippies, rock climbers. They seem out of place and foolish after the old Navaho woman. They are wearing the fashions of earth first and other environmental activists who share a fetish for Kakhi's, Tevas, Tofu, and flat tasteless foodstuffs. They mock a young couple in an SUV while we sit on the porch. The radical tree camping, pottery-making, hemp-weaving, Dave Foreman-worshipping, mushroom-eating, toms of Maine-consuming, hippie-environmental-social-consciousness-raising, guitar-playing radical of the outback is essentially the same as the BMW-driving, Starbucks-drinking, software-writing, technology-worshipping, juice-drinking, spa-loving, health club-hopping, sandals-wearing, dog-walking, family-raising, white picket fence-building, church-attending, drug-abstaining, yuppie, evil consumer, destroying the world, capitalist pig. One uses Tom's of Maine and the other Crest, but we're all still fundamentally lost.
My hippie climber friends stop at the supermarket for trail mix and candles. I opted for steak, beans, potatoes, and a bag of chemically enhanced briquettes that will light with the butt of my cigarette. It's just a matter of taste. I request paper bags and roll them down so the hippies won't abandon me for not being one of their own. I ride in the back of their VW bus, which turns the half hour drive from Moab to the east entrance of Canyonlands, into a two hour long crawl. As we switchback up the canyon walls to the top of the Mesa country, the hippies tell me their story. They're both college students on a semester long vacation. They are astonished to learn that I didn't vote, that I never have and I never will. They ask if I'm disillusioned or bitter. Strange question to ask a stranger. I tell them none of it matters one way or the other. I'm just trying to live. I light a cigarette and let them do the talking, and they do, all the way across the grasslands right on into the campground.
Finally we arrive and I escape their refrigerator drone into the peaceful silence of the campground, picking a spot at the opposite end of the loop from my sandal-shod friends. I proceed to build a fire in the light of the fading sun. The afterglow licks across the thunderheads to my back. Sizzling fat drips into the fire. It takes quite a while to cook the enormous side of beef bought. I kneel down beside the fire on the old sleeping bag that Joe gave me. I'm thinking of the woman I have never been able to see, staring at that well in Cyprus. She's there, she's always been there and now for the first time I realize who she's waiting for. I feel an effluence of enthusiasm; a taproot breaks through the dry soil and is swamped with underground water. I pull the meat off and through it on a paper plate. I sprinkle on salt and devour it with my hands. My plate is stained a greasy Moroccan-pink color. The potato swims in the greasy blood, trailing it's own gooey mixture of butter and pulverized potato flesh like a tanker ship leaking crude oil in the pristine sanctity of the ocean. Damn good food.
I finish the steak and potato. I save the beans for breakfast. I toss the plate in the fire and rinse my hands in the faucet near the entrance. Walking back I absorb the grandeur of the desert. It requires a careful tuning of the eye to detect beauty and life out here, like waking up in the gutter of a trash strew alley behind a bar in Athens, or noticing that the smog lifts slightly, almost imperceptibly, off the mountains in Mexico City everyday around seven o'clock. Life hangs on even in the toughest spots, like a juniper tree, alone, clinging to the side of the canyon wall. It's able to exist in the slightest, most overlooked, fissure, surrounded by a monolith of compressed sandstone, which yields nothing, there is only the one tree. That this tree could be able to survive is miraculous, but that I should be here, that I should be right here, in this place, at this moment, staring at this tree, is truly miraculous.
Pregnant memories swell up, miraculous moments, like when the light of the sun breaks through the sullen clouds of an afternoon thunderstorm and hits the steeple of an old church just as you come up over a crest in the road. You catch them when she stirs at night and tosses her hair so that so that it falls across your face with the delicate odor of peach blossoms and perfume mixed with the earthiness of her warm breath. You hear it when the crescendo of thundering drums climbs up out of the ninth symphony and lodges in the back of your brain, sending chills down your spine. Some interaction of the personal with the infinite, a stabbing at perfection transcends the ordinary moment. Every one of us has moments of transformation when we feel, if only for a mere second, that something larger than the present is in the sky or the music. How long must ancient man have wondered 'where do these feelings come from?' He must have ruminated over this for centuries and finally he invented language in order to describe how he felt to other domesticated monkeys. With language that great caveman Thak separated us from the entire animal kingdom. Not by virtue of communication, for any one who has ever observed even the simplest of animals, knows that they communicate. Thak gave us something entirely different, a means of creating memories. He forever severed us from time.
But memory has a price, it creates belief. Out of memory came dissention, other monkeys did not agree Thak's feelings. Time moved on and more voices from more and more places were heard and the general became divided and localized. Those that believed one explanation tended to associate with only those that agreed with them, they had their gods, and they were the only gods, the others, on the other side of the proverbial river, lacked THE TRUTH.
Today there are more gods than ever and even less comprehension of godliness. All of this dissention has not in anyway helped us to understand that initial question-where are emotions coming from? All the philosophizing rants of all the arrogant monkeys can not answer the simplest of questions: who am I? Where is this vitality teeming from? What is emotion? What the hell is really going on down here? Why?
The wonder and amazement that greeted our forebear's is lost for us. We have explained it away, dissected, mapped, catalogued, and miniaturized it. Unable to comprehend the universe we carefully construct a replication that could be understood. We ignore all the rest, saying in essence, that anything not comprehensible to the human mind does not exist. But it does. Maya knows what I am thinking before I say it. The light continues to pour through the clouds onto steeples, rocky pinnacles, and the front porch of a now vacant cottage in Athens. It is time we floated our way back up to the surface of the pond. Time to start over, to assimilate rather than dissect, to feel rather than speak, to live rather than abstract....
What good is knowing without feeling? Those moments when I am confronted with the essential mysteries of my life and yours, all of our lives, are not something that can be taken apart. I can not break it down, understand the smaller bits individually, and then hope they add up to the same thing I started with. If we stop taking things apart for a minute and just breathe in slowly, one breath at a time, it will flood the hatches and buoyantly draw us up to the surface of things. Not many people do. We have found a distraction, which eases the anxiety that unanswered questions provoked in us-ourselves. We wrote a lullaby called God and put ourselves to sleep.
Only an egocentric monkey would dream of being able to understand the orbit of the planets let alone the vastness of all existence. Only a very confused and disoriented creature would throw himself into a corner and examine every little microscopic piece of dirt without first discovering what a monkey was. Herman Hess once said that the only job of man was to find the road that led back to himself. But we, being the tragic creatures we are, doomed forever to a life lived in melodrama and confusion, seldom do such things. Seldom do we celebrate love or transcendence. At our best we celebrate the by-products-music and art. At our worst we record those who were farthest from themselves, the emperors, kings and queens, generals, bishops, monks, people who led the most perverted and hideous of lives. We have created a cult of worship to our egos, to the things that we think are so unique about ourselves at the inescapable expense of the things that we have in common. There are very few lovers rattling around in the tomes of recorded history, we haven't paid too much attention to them, or to what they knew, our editing is slanted in favor of violence and destruction. We have driven ourselves mad in the midst of a garden of delights.
But fear not, the subconscious mind is in the act of creating... always and forever.... It is creating even the conscious mind. Everything that you think you are is a dream that some other part of you is having. Only next to god are all the political games that divide men stripped away out here you arrive naked and proud. Only then do you see every man and woman as your ally and your love, only scorched clean of the petty differences of race, creed, and belief, do we draw together huddled in fear of insanity which we ourselves have wrought upon each other. Forged and smelt in the dry heat of rock furnaces, the charnel ovens brew alchemal liquid, souls fuse, combinations arise, the experiment of which we are all part, continues onward. No hope save love. No cure, but love and death and then, Quien Sabe?
The final rays of sun disappear, the chill of night settles in. I take my fresh pack of cigarettes and wander down to the edge of the canyon. I sit with my legs dangling off a rock that's perched on the rim and extends out into space. All around me there is nothing but air and under me only a brief moment of rock and then more timelessness we call air.
The internal merges with the external, the timeless with the unique. I go roaring back through memories of childhood, selves that I was truly, but am no longer today. I see all the marauding personalities, which have governed this thing called I. I cast off all doubts. I am ready. A thousand faces pass like the jerky photomontages of Man Ray, each pair of eyes radiant unto itself. Delicately, in the corners of a stray glance, I catch the recognition of understanding in other's eyes. Only love brings us any closer.
I watch a feast of thoughts and personalities coming together for the first time, yet dining like old friends. It's a reunion, a chance to catch-up on where each has been, what has happened, and what they have felt. It turns to a smorgasbord of love, but there is endless debate, dissention, and rising voices. A circus dine roars around my head, the wave crests at cacophony and breaks over me leaving only silence. Silence that carries on its back a poignant nostalgia for the past and a calm understanding of the future. I touch for a moment the void, the nothingness into which you must cast yourself if you wish to tap the source of everything. Riddles that once seemed ridiculous to me are solved with simplest of maneuvers of truth. They gleam like diamonds. In the blinking, blank-look of the deer just before impact, there is understanding, the look of recognition that it is all nothing. No thing. What do I want out of this life? Nothing. Nothing at all. I understood suddenly and with sharp focus the difference between understanding how something works and understand what it is. I see that even the void of understanding is not the end, but only a means to something else, which would also be yet another means, until the final thought was had and the conversation between self and the other ceases forever, wedding them together.
And the two shall be joined as one. A net was cast over the side of the ship and the wheel turned starboard to trawl the giant net through the waters of the past. It plays out in slide show fashion. Endless images of my own arrogance play themselves onto the back of my closed eyelids like a cinema of embarrassment. I go to myself, as stranger might go, out of pity, to reach down a hand and help myself up. And then love flows through me and makes everything hyperreal and tactile, as if feelings were rock and trees. Desert silence is the answer to the endless question of the universe. The transitory nature of my own existence is illuminated and I am washed with feelings of warmth and celebration. The embarrassment fades and is replaced by the sheer hilarious joy. My own folly falls along side the folly of all those I have ever know and ever will know, a giant heaping ball of laughter. Coiled up tight like yarn, batted about by the kitten of the universe, it dances nightly behind the moon, all our selves playing as children, endlessly.
The moon rises from the east; I watch in silence. My life unfolds behind my eyes. I watch memories I had no conscious knowledge of, like a father watching his son play in the yard. They start off recent memories, of Maya, of Dean, of Jimmy, of moments shared with each and then it races backward, to college classes, high school girlfriends, playground friends.... Until I am in utero listening to my mother's heart beating steadily. And then farther back to a point of no consciousness, other stories unfold-genetic memories. I see the light of the fifteen-century breaking through the night, hitting church spires and scorching the brass coffers of foreign temples. Wild and scenes from Arabian Nights appear with silken tapestries, women's arms entwined in gold bands; and then sagas of Hassan I Sabbah, all the wisdom seekers of the Fertile Crescent. I fade into a background of Egyptian palaces. I am carried about by the wafting fragrance of spices and silk from the orient. There was a warm glow of light at the end of hallway that slowly, as the eyes adjust, reveals itself as a temple of splendors. The walls are adorned with rugs and woven tapestries in designs that act out the living myths of the sun gods. The floor is blanketed in pillows and a sweet incense smoke floated in wafts of Jasmine and myrrh. In the center of the room slightly elevated on steps was an alter upon which lies a beautiful and naked goddess, a statue, an answer, a testament to any question that you might ask. In her silence I swim the thalassic of sorrow and joy in placid, caressing laps. I learn infinite things, make them finite, knowable. I build great castles, great monuments, great societies, great people, and tear them all down again to start over. I live a thousand lonely, huddled nights, from bearskin to tapestries, to the silk sheets of Manhattan penthouses. I climb every mountain peak, slide down the scree and talus slopes, and meet with pharaohs and voudans, with Moses and God. I hold a billion women lovingly in my arms and give birth to a trillion children through all history's wombs. From Sarah to Satan, all fill themselves with my nourishment. A spiraling double helix of love corkscrews all about my mind.
She is waiting by the fountain, in the park, just outside of the town in Cyprus where I have never been. I watch her sit for hours, staring at nothing, or so it looks to me. She wears a black dress with a matching veil. Her eyes are fixed on the pump handle of the well. She sits motionless with the quiet smile of a woman in rapture, a woman in private, mysterious thoughts. I see Maya's face in the background, in that indeterminable second after where everything is. I see the source of my unhappiness, being so overwhelmed with consciousness of myself I lost myself. Everything is laid unequivocally bare in the austerity of that truth, the contradiction finally fades. All things are true and not true all at the same moment, a place indescribable, incommunicable precisely because it exists below the refinement of words. It is too raw to be explained in words, it must be devoured with the intensity of an animal ripping at its prey. I feel it for what seems like an eternity. I remember coming back to fire in dazed kind of trance like state that held me like a loved one returned from a long voyage at see. I want to feel this always to live in this mindscape-whole world be damned.
I eventually fall asleep in a huddled pose beside the fire; I sleep fitfully under the starscape dreaming of the Mayan shaman riding a silver gelding, like Icarius, out of the fiery sun-gilded gates of hell. The Shaman swerves and bears down on the I that is me with menacing intent, jolting the dream element awake and into a sleepnonsleep trance on the isthmus of reality. I am bewildered, but not afraid. He growls and leaps at me, but I stand my ground. He rattles bones and conjures hideous demons, but I don't move. He stops and smiles at me. He clasps his hand over mine and leads me outside. We are on the corner of dusty street in Cyprus, pedestrians are frozen in time, nothing moves save the Shaman and I. Not a breath stirs, there is no wind, we are in a vacuum. The shaman motions for me to sit on a fallen tree and he pulls out a cigarette. He lights it and inhales. From the smoke of his cigarette there emerges a pattern, loose at first, but then it begins rapidly organizing itself. He keeps smiling at me as he smokes. The smoke it still, it hangs in the air. He's about half way done with the cigarette before I recognize that the smoke is turning to the ghost figure of the woman. She steps out of the smoke and sit down beside me. She has a face of smoke and mirrors, more beautiful than any human face could be. I have to squint to look at her. She smiles and a thousand angel trumpets blast. She takes my hand in hers. She stands and leads me across the street to the town well. She leads me right up to the edge of it so that I can look down into it. I can't see the bottom. I grow afraid, but she squeezes my hand again and I relax. Slowly at first, scenes begin to appear in the well. Opulent scenes play themselves out for us. I see great Persian empires laid out, expanding and retracting, moving across time in slow molasses-like motions, cities where the sun stands still and bow to monstrous creations of the mind, horrifying and seductive at the same time. Like ancient Tibetan art, there is no distinction between the province of my mind and the province of my body. Women swim in south china seas of ambient warmth, moving in playful erotic motions, cresting like dolphins. Creatures of all forms walk streets of ancient origin; I see cobblestones and whitewashed buildings with European wrought iron balconies. Tapestries hang out from the window beckon the passersby to climb up into untold pleasures of body and mind. Everything is beautiful beyond the limits of imagination. The woman turns and wraps me in her arms, her lips never move but I hear a voice say, "see, I love you."
I wake up several times during the night and put more wood on the fire. It's freezing when I get up at dawn. I do jumping jacks and run in circles to warm myself up. I realize I don't have can opener for the beans so have nothing for breakfast. I decide to walk back to Moab. I take the road most of the way in case the desert or fatigue should get the better of me. About half way there, around noon a young couple in a camper picks me up. They drop me off just outside of town, on the banks of the Green River. I go down to the shoreline and sit down for a while. I smoke a couple of cigarette and spend some time without thinking of anything. My mind is completely blank. Dean is gone, Jimmy and Chloe are leaving, there is nothing for me in this world to return to. I feel free of everything. I kneel down by the edge the Green River and lean over a pool of still water to washing my face. My reflection stops me. I sit on my knees, staring at my face, as if meeting it for the first time. My eyebrow has completely grown back. I run my fingers through the thick black hair. My reflection smiles up at me.
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\ No newline at end of file diff --git a/veryold/very old writings/_Tomorrow is the Desert backup 9_1.zip b/veryold/very old writings/_Tomorrow is the Desert backup 9_1.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..7fb5ee0 --- /dev/null +++ b/veryold/very old writings/_Tomorrow is the Desert backup 9_1.zip diff --git a/veryold/very old writings/existential ich/existential ichiness.txt b/veryold/very old writings/existential ich/existential ichiness.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2031436 --- /dev/null +++ b/veryold/very old writings/existential ich/existential ichiness.txt @@ -0,0 +1,691 @@ + + + + + + + + + + + + +Prologue + +(Ordering food at the drive thru) + + + + +Write what you know... What if you don’t know anything? Don’t write. An entirely unacceptable solution. Learn something. Far too great an output of emotional energy. Do some drugs? Esoteric solutions always being the best. I need what every writer needs -some giant epochal adventure by which to define a generation while I myself, like those before me, mumble about being misunderstood and quietly drift into a life of oblivion, all the while snickering at those who bought the bullshit and made my life easy. + “Chicken sandwich with cheese and grilled onions” + “Honey mustard of that?” + “Sure and an order of fries” + Its amazing even in this day and age that one can obtain food by talking into a metal box. + Side note for the book on tape version: Reader please lean a little closer to the microphone in the million dollar studio and repeat the following... “I (insert celebrity name who recently starred in the movie version) love to grease my ass with Vaseline and insert a string of sausages with the other end in my mouth; I then eat until I reach my belly button at which point I come and enjoy a slice of watermelon and bask in the warm after glow of sex.” + Everyone these days is completely obsessed with The Bizarre. So much so that nothing really is The Bizarre anymore. Yuppies ride Harleys and frequent bondage parlors on the weekends while pulling in double incomes of 150K during the week scurrying from house to latte to work to the onceaweekmatrimonialassfucking. This is not bizarre this is vaudevillian comedy gone real life. + “$6.35 next window please.” + “I only got five bucks better hold the fries.” + “4.95 second window.” + “Thanks.” + You need bizarre, truly bizarre. You need circus freaks castrating themselves on the street corners and pimps shooting heroin in there balls while screaming whores accost their long dead mothers in hotel rooms cockroach won’t set foot in while lawyers sit on the roof television antenna protruding from there limbs as policemen ritualistically torture themselves gouging out there own eyeballs to avoid the scene below them. + “I think we need to get out of town.” + “Why? So we can live that tired old Kerouac/Thompson road trip in our quintessential american kind of way?” + “No. Because rent is two months overdue and I heard from our neighbors that the landlady’s gonna have the sheriff at our place in the morning.” + “What?! Fuck! Gimme my sandwich I’m fucking starved.” + “Fuck is not a adjective for every situation you know. I thought You were a writer.” + “For your information Fuck is a multi-purpose word to be used whenever other modifiers are deemed inappropriate or lacking or -in this case- when one does not feel the situation merits the construction of a complex descriptive metaphor. So what you’re saying is that we need to leave or all our shit will get seized in the morning?” + “Ya.” + “Alright lets pack.” + + + +Teridactal winged birds flew overhead and the ground was squirming the way heat waves shimmer the horizon. The Fort at San Juan rose distinctly to my left as if my subconscious were unabashed stealing its imagery from salvador dali. I licked my fingers and and found them to be an interesting Teriyaki-lemon flavor quite unlike anything I had ever tasted before. I looked at my shoes and realized I was standing on a giant skeleton key which I somehow knew was to the old Fort at San Juan. I tried to pick it up and carry it to the door but it was much to heavy for one man. In the distance I could see a bus approaching and felt as though I had been waiting for it the whole time. It pulled up next to me and all my college friends were gesturing for me to come aboard. The door opened. + + We left the following morning with me disparaging about the existential ichiness I felt toward driving a Japanese Sedan on what should be a quintessential american journey. That’s the problem these days, everything is ever so slightly perverted so as real insanity goes almost totally unnoticed. He was real quiet. A good neighbor. Kept to himself. I never imagined. It’s just terrible. Real insanity is left to drugs and those are hardly worth a writer’s time anymore (god rest your gonzo souls). We’re left with a watered-down silicon-infused Pop culture whose art is its adverts and whose only god is commodity. You snicker and suggest that television is to blame. The Media. Fuck you I am the media and I blame everyone but the media. As if the puppets on your TV screen were capable of destroying a culture. Proctor and Gamble destroyed your culture and we’ve all been put on the payroll. I’ll keep complaining so long as the checks keep rolling in. + Nice fucking sneakers from Indonesian slave labor camps propped up on your italian leather ottoman watching you stare at your state of the art hi-fidelity TV babbling about what's wrong. Headless chicken man is here to save the day. Rush Limbaugh isn’t right and probably doesn’t even believe the shit he spews out, its show biz folks your whole life has been pre-scripted so that you will know what to say and when. No stumbling over lines, the computer chip in you brain has precision craftsmanship unequalled in its uncompromising quality. No expense has been spared in the programming of your life. + “What's the scrapping noise?” + “My internal anger” + “Seriously, is that your brakes.” + “What brakes?” + “Are you stabbing at existentialism?” + “Its the brakes.” + You the insolent reader wishing you knew what was going on here. Who is having this conversation anyway? Wouldn’t you like to know? Too fucking bad you can’t have it all on a plate. Hallucinogens would help of course; you understand. I’m not talking about LSD here, no your medulla doesn’t need to slowed down anymore that it already has. I’m talking about the greatest drug of all the strongest hallucinogen known to man: the television. The great Tractor Beam of America sucking out your insides, and turning your guts to mush that I can spoon out and pour over ice cream. It’s oozing from your clawed out eye sockets, slowly at first and then in a fiery blast your projectile vomit squirts unrecognizable organs mashed into goo across the room to the smiling screen of the television. Ted Turner loves you. Turn the page and read the goddamn book. + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +Chapter 1 + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +Chapter 2 + +The Legalization of Marijuana +(three straw theory) + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + Somewhere in Texas I fell asleep. I awoke at the exit of a drive thru wide-eyed in Terror clutching three straws. + “Are you okay?” Ed asked. + “No.” + “Maybe we should let the dog drive.” + “We don’t have a dog.” + “Right. What’s with you?” + “They gave us three straws.” + “So?” + “We only needed two.” + “So?” + “The next time we go to a drive thru it’ll be late at night and in the middle of nowhere and we’ll be back on the road again before we realize that they gave us only one straw.” + “So...Why don’t we just save this one?” + “It’ll never last. Look at it. It knows what just happened. You can’t just go around bending the rules of fast food physics.” + “You are genuinely strange.” + + + I had a dream last night and Johnny Depp was not in it. I was twenty-three. Again. It was the twentieth century. Again. I hadn’t finished college. Again. I was scraping by on a Dean Moriarty salary parking cars nine hours a day. I got off at three and went home to find a sailor on my couch. There was a needle in his arm; he was watching soap operas. The woman on television was pregnant by her daughter’s husband. We laughed. I sat down and the sailor put a needle in my vein. William Burroughs walked in from the kitchen and stood over us. He smiled sadistically, knowingly. + “I wanted to be a writer,” I said to him. + He laughed obnoxiously. + “Shoot up kid its the easiest thing to do. I’d love to stay but they're expecting me in Tangiers.” He left and I awoke feverish and uncertain of where I began and ended. + I had another dream that night. The world’s end was at my doorstep. A white hot light had flashed civilization out. Cities ran as great metalglassconcrete rivers of deathdisfiguremanglement. Citizen’s charred limbs protruded like rocks that were floating with the stream. The searing smell of burning flesh darted through the hazy yellow air. A great clock tower was dripping time from its hands and my one true love stood beneath, arms severed and lying by her side. Her face had been burned off and eyes dissolved. Her head was upturned and its jaw hung down swinging stupidly in the yellow flesh burning air. Time was pooling in her mouth and dribbling done her chin like come. I awoke deeply offended by my subconscious mind. + I got out of bed convinced that we must find my Georgia friend Todd before it was too late. We were in Louisiana still and dangerously low on hallucinogens. + “I’d hate to have to go home early because we ran out of drugs.” + “I’d hate to run out of drugs.” + I ate the last of the mushrooms and relaxed staring at the dresser on the opposite wall. Presently it began to change. It dissolved into millions of tiny ants that crawled up on to the wall and began to flash messages like those signs at the side of the road that warn of up coming delays. + “Hello. We are ants.” +THIS IS WHAT WE KNOW: + Our purpose is singular. To inform you as to your mission. + “Hey are you seeing this Ed?” + “Probably not.” +SHUT UP AND READ, HOW OFTEN DO ANTS IMPART ADVISE? + <<<<<<Our singular purpose is to inform you of you mission, should you choose to accept it (even ants it seems are aware of televisions finest moments). Should you not accept we will devour your flesh <choices choices>. Orders from above. You understand. Nothing personal. Actually we like you. Proceed from above dialog to TODD’S HOUSE. There you will be seduced by the enemy. Do not believe them. LIE is in the middle of believe. Talk to The Pigeon Man. He will be perched on the rain gutter out back above the patio. He will tell you how to proceed. You are our greatest hope. Avoid the cock-eating sirens as you may need your cock in the future. If locating TODD’S HOUSE proves difficult go to Ed’s Pets in Watsonville and buy Stevie Wonder. He is the chocolate lab just before the back door. He knows the way. <<<<<<<<<END TRANSMISSION>>>>>>> + They slowly moved off the wall and structurally reformed the dresser. I got up and opened the drawer suspiciously. You just never know who to trust these days. + “Ah ha! just as I suspected. We must leave at once. The Gideons have been here.” + + + Nothing makes me as uncomfortable as organized religion. Especially one that sounds like some boxy Ford from the seventies. We checked out five minutes later after confirming that the effects of the mushrooms had indeed vacated my brain. For the most part anyway. Actually truth be told I was pretty out of it still and I just kind of threw the key at a bewildered looking Pakistani man. Or was that fear? + “Drive,” I said jumping in the already running car “I think he was on to us.” + The tires spit Gravel and we were off. (I love a good cliche.) + “We need to get to Watsonville.” + “Where the fuck is that?” + “Its just outside of Athens.” + “How the hell are we going to get to Athens?” + “Not Athens Greece you idiot, Athens Georgia.” I said impatiently. + “I know that you idiot, but we don’t have the gas money to get to Georgia.” + “Okay. Lets rob a gas station.” + “You know you would be dead by now if I wasn’t here, right?” + “How do you mean?” + “Look around you, we are in THE SOUTH. People here have guns, big guns, and they use them. Alot. What do we have?” + “Good point. But we have to go to Stevie Wonder’s Pet store and buy Al the chocolate lab. I need to have dog on this trip.” + “Buy a dog? Are you not hearing me? Money?” + “Well shit I don’t know what did Kerouac do?” + “His PUBLISHER IN NEW YORK wired him money.” + “Right. Find a phone.” + “You don’t have a PINY.” + “I know I don’t.” + We pulled over at a Exxon station and I strode in saying I was Capt. XXXXX XXXXXXXXX and I needed to use the phone to report an accident. The attendant look straight out of a Flannery O’Conner novel but he handed me the phone. + “Hello Penguin Books? Yes this is Edward Abbey. I’m in a spot of trouble and I need you to send some money.” + <Edward Abbey is dead asshole.> click. + Shit. I leaned out the door and yelled to Ed “whose America’s most noted literary figure that's alive?” He looked puzzled. + “Tom Clancy?” + “Good thinking. Hello Random House? This is Tom Clancy, I’m in a spot of trouble I need some money.” + <Who? What? Hold on.> + <Tom is that you?> male voice. + “Ya the CIA’s harassing me down here in Louisiana and I need you to wire me some money. They took my wallet and all.” + <Could you confirm your identity?> + “Do you think anyone is stupid enough to try and mess with a publishing company?” “Now look,” I said raising my voice, “If you want to see anymore of my manuscripts tell Ralph here to give me whatever is in his safe and you’ll wire him a reimbursement alright?” + <Okay, okay, calm down.> + I handed the phone to the attendant who listened for a moment, eyes widening and nodded the way some people do as if the person on the other end can see you nodding. He hung up and went in the back room without saying a word. He returned with a bag of money under one arm and The Hunt for Red October and Clear and Present Danger in the other. + “I just love your books here would you mind signing them?” + I snatched the money and scrawled quickly in Hunt for Red October, To Ralph. I love you, Thomas Clancy and flipping to the back of Clear and Present Danger I wrote Ralph you are a true American. Call me sometime 555-8216, love Tom. I ran out the door and jumped in the car. + “What took so long?” + “I had my first book signing, it couldn’t be rushed.” + We split the rest of Earls potion and I drifted into a semi-conscious day dream state. + Fragments of Ash falling. +White washed ceilings hanging so ominous +Hallucination of bubble headed figures +crawling like the Michelin Man +across an indescribable mountain of tires +Motels Motels Motels +Whiskey Bourbon. +Tow truck +non-ordinary state of reality +precludes a state of reality +that something is real Point at +the autistic man woman child +Autistic man pointing at you +laughing unable to fathom how you brain +functions and quite self righteously +you you cling to its definitions. +Must delineate between abnormality +and those of us who Understand +The Human Virus breeding +like rats unconsciously conscious and aware +of our disorganization. +Gas Station Cold Fusion dreams +of the Anarchist are breeding +in the minds of the oil men +who don’t want to +lose they're stranglehold of reality. +(where is Earl nice guy.) +Fragments of Ash falling +the continual settling of dust +weighing down humanity and the +French Maid masturbates discreetly in +the next room. you need her +to keep the dust off your mortal +coil spring. +Rebirth mythology. +Mythology of reality. We must +distinguish between what will be defined as +sane and what shall be referred to +as insanity. Kevlar definitions +constructed to make a better shampoo +seem like a logical item on which +to squander your paperbacked slavery bills. +After all these years Tide still +gets your socks whiter +Its a wonder +they aren’t transparent by now. +that your brain retarded +in its development +that evolution had not +anticipated the advent +of the opposable thumb the unopposable +domination of the thumb leading +to and insect superiority of mating +rituals stolen from a textbook +on damselflies darning needles +sewing shut your lips, mind atrophy. +Weber's White Race Enriched for Superiority +Scorched earth campaigns raining Ash. +Shit from the sky. Tax man came +for your baby in exchange for unpaid balance. +You understand. Nothing Personal +Just doing our job. Same as the +next guy. From Auzwich on down the +line. Didn’t make the rules. Sorry. +We perfected them. +There are no innocents in a world of +free will. You don’t have to survive +at the expense of others. You could +die with puncture wounds in your hands +and other would create a new mythology +strange irony would find another with holes +in his hands unwilling to accept +cockroach mentalities. +You want to beLIEve Hitler +was a madman but he lives on +buried under restraint in everyone mind. +Only taking orders you understand. Didn’t have +a CHOICE. Got a family to feed. +radio crackle. pop. hiss. +silence. +<<<<<<<<<<<END TRANSMISSION>>>>>>>>> + + + + Georgia is a beautiful state if you take the right drugs. The drugs obscure the frightening backward racist mentality that the New South’s propaganda claims is gone. A thing of the past. I’ve been through Macon and if that’s the New South I’m damn glad I wasn’t here for the old. Earl’s miracle potion wears off as we pass through Jasper. + + + + +I have a penchant for old cars. Actually I have a penchant for anything old, anything with heritage. Items found tucked in the back of junk shops layered in dust still settling from the days of Atlantis. Heritage is the human element that lingers long after the actual owner of an old ford "woody" station wagon has disappeared. There is a feeling one gets from holding up a slightly rusted coca-cola sign, hung for years of the wall of a small country store where an old man used to sit of the porch and smile at the customers as they walked in. An old man who used to show local children the holes in his wrists where they pounded through the nails. + Salvation lies in artifacts, coca-cola signs from old stores or advertisements for the old clipper-ship routes to Paris where a young woman once went to be alone, to write, to create. Slow spoken words sink in, unlike gibberish sloganeering of our day, sliding quickly off the deaf ears of time. I treasure artifacts left behind to carry on memories when there is no clipper ship route for her to take anymore. + Artifacts are not a part of "americana," they are a part of lives. Old cars talk. Drive one a thousand miles east into your own past, they will find you. Words can always find you even across the ages. "Americana" is the garbage hawked in front of tourist landmarks. The artifacts are gone, for when the voices leave to escape the throngs of unwisemen, the artifacts leave with them. Of course trinkets of "americana" remain, to sold for thirty pieces of silver. + Artifacts must be sought after, they are never found. Most began as the dream in some ancient person's head, a fanciful dream to which only they adhered. Their voices can be heard of course, even without the artifact, for dreams inhabit the earth. Anyone who has spent any time in the canyon country of southern Utah will tell you as the old man did, "there are voices in the hills." Voices yes, but precious few listeners. Falling trees need ears to hear their sound, lest they remain simply vibrations and sudden movements of air. + Science has taught modern man to understand the how, but it can not answer the more ancient "why?" The voices in the hills know why, and those who spend the time sinking roots into the land and into the artifacts of the land, they know why. Technological society has entrapped itself in an ever more complex web of "how's" at the cost of listening ears. Deafness is a disease. + It is a disease wrought upon those who have cut loose their roots and float expressionless dangling ten feet above the earth. I have observed such people and wanted to help them, but I am small and could not reach. I have watched as some people, giants rather, Abbey, Thoreau, or a young girl named Anna, pulled them down. All this I have observed, but observation is nothing --reflection and meditation is where creation lies. In meditation I find only loss and sorrow, pain and dread, an overwhelming sense of my unimportance. This is the trouble with writers, they know only pain for reflecting back on life is to see a series of goodbyes farewells, a never-ending and complex web of leaving ears. Until there's no left to listen to the stories you tell; death is the process of being absorbed into the land, into artifacts. + Old Ford "woodies" were artifacts --simple in-line six engines without air conditioning, tape decks or alarm systems. You rolled down the window and listened. Listened to the wind rushing through the car, carrying the voices to your ears. You stopped at gas stations where old men wore overalls and you bought coca-cola beneath a shiny new metal sign. You could drive for days and in the end you might well have picked up a woman headed for New York to catch a clipper ship to Paris, or an old man who had holes in his wrists. + + + + Every so often in the course of observation one finds the kind of simple beauty on the face of a simple person that gives us pause. Pause to smile and wonder how we could have done without such a smile, such a radiance, such a pair of eyes. God made beauty and radiance and chose to call them children. I saw a photograph recently of a captivating child whose moment of radiance and simple beauty had been frozen for eternity by a shutter-click. An image lighted with a spirit and essence of beauty about it. Children have the kind of light about them that you need in April. By the time I'm eighty I hope I will have that radiance again. + Promise. Promises are what people need in April when the Earth is just beginning to warm up. The light tends to be clearer and the ocean swell finally arrives from some distant Mexican shore bringing the scent of flowers from the sand dunes. Flowers and passion are so often breathed in the same sentence they tend to loose there connection, but it lingers. Passion and flowers both need spontaneity and freedom to bloom. Is that the connection they seek? + Passion and Promise. Sometimes you push down the shutter of a camera and look back in a year only to find that you hate half the faces you froze. The good times are when you look back at a single face and stare right through it into the soul --the light behind the eyes. + Her eyes are windows into a soul, a soul which we create in reeling pitches of beauty and strength. If I had my way I should make her queen of the world. Oh Queen of the World won't you rescue me? I need a savior, and behind some immeasurable depth of eyes there is a kind of salvation. In the midst of a generation spinning and hurling violently around the sun one girl smiled to save me. + Passion, Promise and Salvation. I wish I could thank her, give her my hand to hold as we spin across the face of the sun at 68,000 miles an hour. It's a fast-paced world. I hardly have time to breathe, but in the air I do find I find a kind of vision. A hallucination and vague dream of a street in New York many years ago when Diane Arbus froze in time "a girl and a watch cap." + April's fading fast. The world's spinning faster and faster falling slowly and inevitably out of its orbit. I hope it hangs in there long enough for me to find a copy of that photo to hang on my wall. I'll hang it next to Christ. Christ is holding hands with that smiling little girl. She's helping him to his feet. She holding her hand out to me. + + + + + Some people say that after a rain the earth is cleansed and everything washed anew, and then, claim they, we are also. Oddly most of them own umbrellas. And now I stand in the rain watching them run, cursing their luck at being caught naked in the middle of salvation. Water drips down her nose onto the already soaked grass. I picked up a pen and called you to say... + I only want to love people, and I do in my fashion, but I am angry that not everyone wants to love everyone. I'm not bitter at people, I'm just saddened that they don't want to love each other. Race, Culture, Religion, all these things divide us, and to what purpose? I only want to stop them in their tracks and dump buckets of water, wet, cold, and painfully truthful, on their heads. To bandage the shallow petty wounds and wipe the blood away. "In his blood you are saved" --as if I needed more blood. Your hands are punctured, sir, give me your shroud and I will bandage them, stop the bleeding. + Rain falls evenly on the surface of rock, but it runs off and pools in the places where the granite has dug into itself to create depth. Granite is salvation, it is firm. On a granite surface you can climb, I can pull myself up granite cliffs and stand atop their holiness. But it is the depressions, cracks, and holes in the rock where I place my hands and feel secure. + "I heard the rainfall on my tentfly" and promptly took it off. I sleep much better when the rain can pool in my mouth. I dreamed long dreams of gold and silver snakes. A young boy found them, brilliant, shining creatures, deep in the forest. He brought them back to his village to keep them as pets. They began to grow and soon the boy was forced to spend much of his time finding them food. Soon they became so large that the boy had to toil from dawn to dusk just to keep their bellies full. They were consuming him, devouring up all his time until the day they devoured him. Two massive snakes of silver and gold hissing and striking poison into the body of a once curious young boy. + I awoke to a world where people carried their religions and philosophies tidily on the bumpers of their cars. Buildings and jewelry, smiles and sunsets, rings and promises all sparkled --silver and gold. Somewhere an old man was standing, holes in his hands, rain washing down on him. Water filled his eyes. He wept. + A freeway snaked across the land, its blood coursing with little religions and philosophies. This is where we lived, this is what we lived for. + + + + Nothing is ever as it seems. It has been sunny and warm lately so I thought I ought to tell about the time a dark-haired girl told me about people who lie in the sun. To tan of course. But a cynic informed me that a tan was merely the preliminary stage of cancer. No more of death. I have to much of death in my life, too much altogether. The Phoenix is dead. No life comes out of death, only pain, and sad memories, stored carefully from the beginning, for everyone knows there will be a time when memories are all we have. + So I set out to dance the sun up past the morning, catching with it the approving eye of sleeping squirrels and a once called god, old man. Life would be this much simpler if only I could clear thought from my mind. Truth. So truth is what you seek? + Our truth is only what we have known the longest. Men are stronger than women. That is the truth. We have known it the longest, heavy-handed down from weak lying old men who crawled about from bath to bath, groveling after truth. I have heard that men have been to the moon, but I have also heard that it was all staged. No. Truth must be that they have been there, I have heard that lie the longest. + Truth. The oldest and rankest lie is what we call truth. + And so shall be truth, there is nothing you can do to avoid it. You know you can not fly, it is the truth, and you will never fly. It is truth that you will never know whether your failure is because you can't fly or because you think you can't fly. Birds have hollow bones. That is truth. That is how they fly. Humans have hollow heads. That is truth, that is why they can not fly. + Boxcars and trains haunt my truth, a vision of a girl; black hair and smoky eyes. Fire. Fire is the one truth I can never escape, heat is all that is need to live. Fire in her eyes. Fire in Laguna's hills. Fire burning through her cheeks, her smile, flames licking and consuming her body. If only for a moment. + Images of dark and light arise from the depths only to be slapped in the face, clawed, bit, pulled under by the hair, ripped, torn and ravaged entirely by cliche. That in the end is truth enough for anyone. Especially a writer. + "You can cut a chicken's head off and it will keep on running," how's that for truth? Truth that death isn't death and isn't life, it is monotonous continuing about life without a head. Truth that spirit is inseparable from body. Truth that the spirit is in the body and the body is in the spirit. Our roots tell us that truth can be found by denying the body. By detaching it. What has sex to do with love? Sharpen your knives and prepare to cut lose the next limb. The truth is you don't know how to use it anyway. + I can cut your head off and you will keep on running too. Running about from your government to your economy to your business to your bedroom, but the blood doesn't stop spewing and bubbling out of your stump-neck, waiting for a moment, trickling down your body as if hoping some god will be your savior. It clots and dries and the only thing left is fire. Fire to burn you up without ceremony, only a faint crackling and sizzling as you burn without your headless for truth. + She didn't lose her head she only smiled and the flames cooled her. Shadrach and a girl with black hair. She was lifted, she did not twitch, only floated, and was delivered on. That is truth. You have blood. She has herself. Go ahead break it drink it. She'll never know. + +To me that image produces such strong emotions of longing for the road that sometimes I just want to break down and cry. The simplicity of life, the sheer joy and love I felt on the road last fall confirmed what I'd always believed, that I was born to travel. I don't know exactly what it is that is so enticing and alluring to me. I guess maybe its the freedom; the freedom to not have a job, to not have anyplace to go, not have anything to do that I don't really want to do. The simplicity, the essentials of life food, cigarettes, beer and gas. Give me those and I could live a million years in total ecstasy and bliss. The wind in my hair, the open road in front of me -its utter poetry for my heart and soul. The warmth of loneliness and the peace that it brings is overwhelming. Its not a sad loneliness, but rather one of infinite gratitude and joy in simply being alive and I know that might sound kind of corny but its really how I feel. If I could step into that photograph and just smell the air and hear the beautiful sounds of cars wizzing by and the talk of local folk, I could disappear forever + + + + + +I had a dream last night and Johnny Depp was not in it. I was twenty-three. Again. It was the twentieth century. Again. I hadn’t finished college. Again. I was scraping by on a Dean Moriarty salary parking cars nine hours a day. I got off at three and went home to find a sailor on my couch. There was a needle in his arm; he was watching soap operas. The woman on television was pregnant by her daughter’s husband. We laughed. I sat down and the sailor put a needle in my vein. William Burroughs walked in from the kitchen and stood over us. He smiled sadistically, knowingly. + “I wanted to be a writer,” I said to him. + He laughed obnoxiously. + “Shoot up kid its the easiest thing to do. I’d love to stay but they're expecting me in Tangiers.” He left and I awoke feverish and uncertain of where I began and ended. + I had another dream that night. The world’s end was at my doorstep. A white hot light had flashed civilization out. Cities ran as great metalglassconcrete rivers of deathdisfiguremanglement. Citizen’s charred limbs protruded like rocks that were floating with the stream. The searing smell of burning flesh darted through the hazy yellow air. A great clock tower was dripping time from its hands and my one true love stood beneath, arms severed and lying by her side. Her face had been burned off and eyes dissolved. Her head was upturned and its jaw hung down swinging stupidly in the yellow flesh burning air. Time was pooling in her mouth and dribbling done her chin like come. I awoke deeply offended by my subconscious mind. + I got out of bed convinced that we must find my Georgia friend Todd before it was too late. We were in Louisiana still and dangerously low on hallucinogens. + “I’d hate to have to go home early because we ran out of drugs.” + “I’d hate to run out of drugs.” + I ate the last of the mushrooms and relaxed staring at the dresser on the opposite wall. Presently it began to change. It dissolved into millions of tiny ants that crawled up on to the wall and began to flash messages like those signs at the side of the road that warn of up coming delays. + “Hello. We are ants.” +THIS IS WHAT WE KNOW: + Our purpose is singular. To inform you as to your mission. + “Hey are you seeing this Bill?” + “Probably not.” +SHUT UP AND READ, HOW OFTEN DO ANTS IMPART ADVISE? + <<<<<<Our singular purpose is to inform you of you mission, should you choose to accept it (even ants it seems are aware of televisions finest moments). Should you not accept we will devour your flesh <choices choices>. Orders from above. You understand. Nothing personal. Actually we like you. Proceed from above dialog to TODD’S HOUSE. There you will be seduced by the enemy. Do not believe them. LIE is in the middle of believe. Talk to The Pigeon Man. He will be perched on the rain gutter out back above the patio. He will tell you how to proceed. You are our greatest hope. Avoid the cock-eating sirens as you may need your cock in the future. If locating TODD’S HOUSE proves difficult go to Ed’s Pets in Watsonville and buy Stevie Wonder. He is the chocolate lab just before the back door. He knows the way. <<<<<<<<<END TRANSMISSION>>>>>>> + They slowly moved off the wall and structurally reformed the dresser. I got up and opened the drawer suspiciously. You just never know who to trust these days. + “Ah ha! just as I suspected. We must leave at once. The Gideons have been here.” + + + Nothing makes me as uncomfortable as organized religion. Especially one that sounds like some boxy Ford from the seventies. We checked out five minutes later after confirming that the effects of the mushrooms had indeed vacated my brain. For the most part anyway. Actually truth be told I was pretty out of it still and I just kind of threw the key at a bewildered looking Pakistani man. Or was that fear? + “Drive,” I said jumping in the already running car “I think he was on to us.” + The tires spit Gravel and we were off. (I love a good cliche.) + “We need to get to Watsonville.” + “Where the fuck is that?” + “Its just outside of Athens.” + “How the hell are we going to get to Athens?” + “Not Athens Greece you idiot, Athens Georgia.” I said impatiently. + “I know that you idiot, but we don’t have the gas money to get to Georgia.” + “Okay. Lets rob a gas station.” + “You know you would be dead by now if I wasn’t here, right?” + “How do you mean?” + “Look around you, we are in THE SOUTH. People here have guns, big guns, and they use them. Alot. What do we have?” + “Good point. But we have to go to Stevie Wonder’s Pet store and buy Al the chocolate lab. I need to have dog on this trip.” + “Buy a dog? Are you not hearing me? Money?” + “Well shit I don’t know what did Kerouac do?” + “His PUBLISHER IN NEW YORK wired him money.” + “Right. Find a phone.” + “You don’t have a PINY.” + “I know I don’t.” + We pulled over at a Exxon station and I strode in saying I was Capt. XXXXX XXXXXXXXX and I needed to use the phone to report an accident. The attendant look straight out of a Flannery O’Conner novel but he handed me the phone. + “Hello Penguin Books? Yes this is Edward Abbey. I’m in a spot of trouble and I need you to send some money.” + <Edward Abbey is dead asshole.> click. + Shit. I leaned out the door and yelled to Ed “whose America’s most noted literary figure that's alive?” He looked puzzled. + “Tom Clancy?” + “Good thinking. Hello Random House? This is Tom Clancy, I’m in a spot of trouble I need some money.” + <Who? What? Hold on.> + <Tom is that you?> male voice. + “Ya the CIA’s harassing me down here in Louisiana and I need you to wire me some money. They took my wallet and all.” + <Could you confirm your identity?> + “Do you think anyone is stupid enough to try and mess with a publishing company?” “Now look,” I said raising my voice, “If you want to see anymore of my manuscripts tell Ralph here to give me whatever is in his safe and you’ll wire him a reimbursement alright?” + <Okay, okay, calm down.> + I handed the phone to the attendant who listened for a moment, eyes widening and nodded the way some people do as if the person on the other end can see you nodding. He hung up and went in the back room without saying a word. He returned with a bag of money under one arm and The Hunt for Red October and Clear and Present Danger in the other. + “I just love your books here would you mind signing them?” + I snatched the money and scrawled quickly in Hunt for Red October, To Ralph. I love you, Thomas Clancy and flipping to the back of Clear and Present Danger I wrote Ralph you are a true American. Call me sometime 555-8216, love Tom. I ran out the door and jumped in the car. + “What took so long?” + “I had my first book signing, it couldn’t be rushed.” + We split the rest of Earls potion and I drifted into a semi-conscious day dream state. + Fragments of Ash falling. +White washed ceilings hanging so ominous +Hallucination of bubble headed figures +crawling like the Michelin Man +across an indescribable mountain of tires +Motels Motels Motels +Whiskey Bourbon. +Tow truck +non-ordinary state of reality +precludes a state of reality +that something is real Point at +the autistic man woman child +Autistic man pointing at you +laughing unable to fathom how you brain +functions and quite self righteously +you you cling to its definitions. +Must delineate between abnormality +and those of us who Understand +The Human Virus breeding +like rats unconsciously conscious and aware +of our disorganization. +Gas Station Cold Fusion dreams +of the Anarchist are breeding +in the minds of the oil men +who don’t want to +lose they're stranglehold of reality. +(where is Earl nice guy.) +Fragments of Ash falling +the continual settling of dust +weighing down humanity and the +French Maid masturbates discreetly in +the next room. you need her +to keep the dust off your mortal +coil spring. +Rebirth mythology. +Mythology of reality. We must +distinguish between what will be defined as +sane and what shall be referred to +as insanity. Kevlar definitions +constructed to make a better shampoo +seem like a logical item on which +to squander your paperbacked slavery bills. +After all these years Tide still +gets your socks whiter +Its a wonder +they aren’t transparent by now. +that your brain retarded +in its development +that evolution had not +anticipated the advent +of the opposable thumb the unopposable +domination of the thumb leading +to and insect superiority of mating +rituals stolen from a textbook +on damselflies darning needles +sewing shut your lips, mind atrophy. +Weber's White Race Enriched for Superiority +Scorched earth campaigns raining Ash. +Shit from the sky. Tax man came +for your baby in exchange for unpaid balance. +You understand. Nothing Personal +Just doing our job. Same as the +next guy. From Auzwich on down the +line. Didn’t make the rules. Sorry. +We perfected them. +There are no innocents in a world of +free will. You don’t have to survive +at the expense of others. You could +die with puncture wounds in your hands +and other would create a new mythology +strange irony would find another with holes +in his hands unwilling to accept +cockroach mentalities. +You want to beLIEve Hitler +was a madman but he lives on +buried under restraint in everyone mind. +Only taking orders you understand. Didn’t have +a CHOICE. Got a family to feed. +radio crackle. pop. hiss. +silence. +<<<<<<<<<<<END TRANSMISSION>>>>>>>>> + + + + Georgia is a beautiful state -if you take the right drugs. The drugs obscure the frightening backward racist mentality that the New South’s propaganda claims is gone. A thing of the past. I’ve been through Macon and if that’s the New South I’m damn glad I wasn’t here for the old. Earl’s miracle potion wears off as we pass through Jasper. + + + + + We arrived in Watsonville this morning and went to Steve's Pets where we bought a chocolate lab we named Al The Wonder Dog or ATW for short. A couple dozen milk bones later we arrived at Todd's house. Todd was looking worried and not at all glad to see us. + "I figured you freaks were on your way out here, this came in the mail yesterday," he said handing me a letter. + "It's good to see you too" I shot back. They always seem to know when I'm coming like I am the anti-stealth bomber. + "I'm sorry man, its just that Carol lee's parents are coming up from Macom' and I don't know what to do with you guy's." + "Well, we already got somewhere to stay so don't sweat it we weren't expecting anything but a cold beer." + "Of course, of course come inside." + I went out back on the porch and opened the letter and sat relaxing in the sticky humid southern evening. It went like this. + + Dear Wayfarer, + Thanks for your piece on Mardi Gras. It was definitely a first, and perhaps only, of its kind for the magazine. You should see the stack of letters sitting on my desk, people love you or hate you. Actually seven people loved you and over two hundred found you and your story to be the most offensive thing they had ever read -which I figured you would be delighted to know. + Anyway I was hoping you could do something on this piece I clipped from -------- magazine (our major competition in the LA and New York markets). I called them and got permission to rerun it in "an editorial form" (which I have on tape) so I think our butts are covered. + + Do the math. Many hosts are unsure how much liquor to buy for cocktail parties. When in doubt turn to arithmetic. Most drink recipes call for two ounces of liquor. + A 750mL bottle contains 25 ounces allowing for spillage. You can expect 12 serving per bottle. Figure most quests will have two drinks in an evening so you get one bottle per six people. + + + + + + Richard says to tell your to keep going up to D.C. Next week he wants you to cover some event that the Rev Farrakkan is having. Gimme a call, 'cause I think I actually got him to book a hotel room for you. + + + good luck, + + Dean + + + + I reread the letter several times trying to figure out what the hell I'm supposed to do with the clipping. I mean shouldn't we be writing our own shit not just making fun of other people's shit? It occurs to me however, that magazines seldom blantantly make fun of each other, so who better to do it than me? I get another beer from Todd's fridge while he's playing with ATW, and I roll a cigarette on the porch. What sort of people need to have a formal theory for mixing drinks anyway? No one I've ever known has ever had a cocktail party, we usually all just show up at some often unsuspecting friend's house after the bars are all closed and proceed to raid there supplies of liquor and pharmaceuticals. Two ounces per drink. Who the hell knows how much two ounces is by sight? Besides that's the reason you drink at home -because you can make a God's honest beverage sure to alter your normal brainwaves after a few sips, instead of paying five dollars for a drink that wouldn't faze a second grader. I like to have two drinks in a evening too. Preferably poured in leftover 32 oz 7 eleven plastic cups. About three quarters full of alcohol (preferably clear and of Russian origin) and one quarter something else for taste. I like to drink in large quantities. + But it'll make you sick (sound of church ladies agast). Well your pointless life of boorish toiling from dawn to dusk with an hours worth of watered down pissass drinks at the pub on the way home to the overpriced, style-challenged suburban dwelling with your weekend cocktail parties where you gag on your bosses short dick angling for a promotion makes me sick. So fuck you and your organized society with stoplights and clockwise circles and social security cards and adverts drooling over the latest piece-of-shit-got-to-have-it plastic automobile so big you can't even drive it. Get the fuck out my way. Come out here sit on this porch in languid evening sun, relishing the sweet sticky smell of the southern air fanning across your bare chest as the Godless afternoon heat relents into a warm evening breeze. Then you'll understand what I'm talking about. + On second thought don't. You've got that big mortgage payment to worry about, and well, quite frankly, I just wouldn't be as relaxed if anyone else was here. Be content with your life and enjoy your smug possessions and play armchair enthusiast. I am your omnipotent guide and everything is under control. Actually if you must know I'm lost and everything about this god awful society is totally fucked-up. But nevermind, we'll get to that. + I set down the pen and my seventh beer and gaze cross-eyed at my response written in column form to impress THE EDITORS. + + Forget the math, you'll be too drunk to figure it out anyway. Buy one 750mL bottle per person bare minimum. When in doubt buy two. most drinks should be made with 12-15 ounces of alcohol and spillage will only earn the ridicule of your friends. Buy some pouring nipples or steal them from a bar you don't go to very often. + Figure that most guests will be belligerently drunk by ten so to save funds bust out the cheap stuff (re: Ralph's charcoal filtered vodka). Another excellent way to cut costs is to have a readily available supply of marijuana amphetamines and opiates. Avoid hallucinogens at you own party, better to bring them to someone else's house. That way should the neighbors find you huddled naked beneath a tree barking like a dog and foaming at the mouth, at least they won't be your neighbors. + + I have the strangest drunken feeling that that will never be printed in a magazine and that if it were I would be forever hounded by every law enforcement agency from coast to coast. I hurriedly scrawl a note that, if printed, not to put my name on it. Cops are like rattlesnakes there's no sense throwing rocks at 'em you know what they'll do. In fact I think in all likelihood the name on the jacket of this book will not by mine. People stopped believing in fiction along time ago, twentieth century imagination-atrophy syndrome. + I wander inside and find Bill and Todd staring mindlessly at the television. Creature of a human resemblance are cavorting on screen to a ten cent laugh track background designed to cover up the fact that sitcoms are basically not even remotely funny. They have to be stoned I realize and after a moments search I pick up the rest of the joint laying next to the ashtray. I light it and ease onto the couch. + "We should go down and see what's happening at the Knight." + No response. I take another drag hoping to catch up. I glance at Todd's glazed over eyes and realize that more than pot might be involved in this situation. I’m not talking about LSD here, no ours medulla don’t need to slowed down anymore than they already have. I’m talking about the greatest drug of all, the strongest hallucinogen known to man: the television. The great Tractor Beam of America sucking out your insides, and turning your guts to mush that I can spoon out and pour over ice cream. It’s oozing from your clawed out eye sockets, slowly at first and then in a fiery blast your projectile vomit squirts unrecognizable organs mashed into goo across the room to the smiling screen of the television. Ted Turner loves us. He's given us our own alter state of reality that we can all share together. + I wave my hand in front of Bill's face. + "Hey man shut up I'm trying to watch this thing." + I turn off the television and ask "have you ever considered that maybe it is watching you?" + "Yes," answers Todd, "but I don't publisize my paranoia" + They seem to have snapped out of their primordial trance state so I again suggest the Little Knight and this time they agree, but Todd the dutiful husband can only go for an hour. Uh hu. I'm going to need more than an hour I love Georgia girls and the most beautiful and intelligent ones (no thats not a oximoron) hang out at the Little Knight + Besides which, I'm full from all that beer, and am feeling the need to lighten up my head with something clear. Something Russian. We sit in the customary back booth where Todd and I first shared a beer. And I do mean shared, we were both so broke at the time that between the two of us we had only enough for one pint of Guiness. But that was many moons ago. I gave Todd some ecxtasy the New Orleans club girls had given me, and despite his protests of coming in-laws (whats worse in-laws on extasy or a wife stood up because you're on exctasy? Tough call.) Now he and Bill have become thoroughly enchanted with the red velvet texture that cover the walls. I'm not big on X its too tactile of a drug. I start thinking of the how long its been since I've been here. I miss this one little outpost nestled in the middle of anotherwise boring and featureless state. Perhaps boring is the wrong word, sufficeto say that Georgia's beauty is in its subtlies. the little pockets of beauty that you can't find anywhere except Georgia. And of the eccentricies of the folk the land has given birth to. + I think, for instance, of Leo the crazy cook back in Athens Georgia, black like the greasy skillets and pots he is forever clanging around and the glum ceilings of the kitchen, greasy smoke crawling up the wall to rest at the top, muddy brown, delicious looking. Automatic. Your food is thrust at you by a wide-eyed black woman who appears to be Leo’s wife but never says anything except "Greens, potatoes or Yams?" "Greens please." The first time we were there she added "sweet tea is on the left regular right." After that when we would come back she seem satisfied the we could figure the tea situation ourselves. "Greens, potatoes or yams?" Yams please. And cigarettes, always cigarettes, after a meal the soothing feel of smoke blowing out you nose, relaxing your greasy full belly. I would like to sing an ode to cigarettes at the top of my lungs, at the top of my hills at the bottom of my valleys. Cigarettes are always there. Food and Women come and go and can be enjoyed properly when you have them, but cigarettes you must always have cigarettes. + And MY My my the southern girls (why always girls? Why not?). The true peaches of Georgia. Lips honey sweet and dripping with southern accents. The hot sticky air that seems to cling to you like unwanted jackets your mother used to put on you when you went out to play in the snow. It makes you want to throw off whatever garments propriety dictated onto your unwitting frame and dive naked in the cool river, swim naked with the girls, women, water moccasins, and the lucky alligator or two if any are around. + But tonight the Knight is empty save for the token Frat boys playing pool. And of course Anthony Luigie Bruno. Or Tony as we call him. Bartender extrodiniarar. I don't know anything about Tony. Or at least I don't know anything for sure about Tony. I could probably fill twenty pages with the bullshit stories I've heard him tell unsuspecting "freshies" as he calls them. He really is Italian and he really pours stiff drink and he rarely makes me pay for them. That's the extent of the truth about Tony and beyond that in all honesty I'm really not mush interested. + + + +Brian a quiet shy nice good, weed suppling friend. We’ve been in the back rooms of Frat houses just passing time. Hendrix, Zepplin, tie-dyed Jerry Garcia staring down from the stark plaster-patched walls. Michael and I flat on our backs listening to Adam Sandler sing "I’m fucking wasted/its the best shit I’ve ever tasted." It’s all down hill from here, such beautiful silence between songs, minds scouring for thoughts like a thousand skinny starved rats devouring a single crumb. Giant looping conversations chasing bumblebee ideas through great open fields of thoughtless silence. + Hey what day is it? Lets go downtown, by the fountain, cool jazz music drifting out the open windows of the too crowded to enter bar. I try. Can I get a beer? In a minute. Didn’t have a minute, life was flying by, Amtrak coast to coast flyer, stopping causes derailment. Back out into the dizzying flow of human traffic. We’re trying hard not to get trampled like those poor soccer fans at the stadium riots in Italy that I always am reading about. Its Brian, It’s his fault where are the girls? "Lets go to Tangz!" he says. So we warder through throngs of drunken kids --college towns 20,000 people with nothing to do but drink Tangz! is too crowded full of Hootie and the Blowfish listeners for Michael’s tastes, so we leave. Brian stays. + Wandering together like we always end up. Drunk now, the tea worn off. Streets swirl and in my daze I hear horns and skidding tires, get out of the street you moron. A cop cruises by this city is fucking chocked full of cops, we duck down an alley. Half way down a drunken bum accosts us. + "This is my alley college boys." + "We are not college boys," Michael babbles with little coherency, but a lot of conviction, "we are upon a sojourn." Big words usually piss bums off and I am fully prepared to run from a spraying onslaught of cheap red wine, but it never comes. + "Where are you sojourning to?" mumbles the bum. + "Tonight we decided to share your alley, I say, trying to keep the world upright, but it refuses. "I think I better sit down." I lean against the wall next to the bum and slowly slide down, the bricks bumping my back, until I arrive on the ground with the bum. A small journey downward amongst some larger incoherent vision. Sitting relieves the mind of its burdens if only for a second while the brain floats downward and lodges back in your drugged skull. + "Chinese?" + The bum offers me food. + "Shouldn’t I be offering you food?" I laugh. + "Food is food right now I’ve got some and you don’t so I’m offering it to you, someday you’ll have some and maybe you’ll offer it to me." + I acquiesce and eat a bite. Pass it to Michael. He jabs his finger in to scoop up some noodles. + "Shit boy wheres your manners?" the bum croaks in disgust. + "I don’t know how to use chopsticks." + "Shit you’re out here on your own ‘sojourning’ around and you can’t even use chopsticks. Come here I’ll teach you." + I’m laughing at the comic nature of the bum trying to show Michael how to eat with chopsticks, ready to slouch down and say goodbye to the world for a while. No, not yet. I raise my heavy head banging it into the bricks. OW! The bricks are laughing at me manic side splitting laughter. I try desperately to focus on the wall on the opposite side of the alley. I notice lights and I become aware for the first time of music, not just music, but Prince. It occurs to me that its probably Tangz! right down the street. Drunks usually don’t wander very far. + The faint lights down toward the end of the alley fade out of focus I squint and suddenly all I can see is some coastal port for France. My brain gives in to the illusion and start to see it clearer the faraway sparkle as one might see from an ocean liner steaming across the channel, glittering insane promises of wine whore and Henry miller. Miller and I are in some dim lit alley, scrounging for scraps of bread in the flickering shadows of gas lamps. We come to a door, a pastry shop! Straining my head I can see glass shelves behind a counter displaying torts, cheesecakes, eclairs, raspberry torts, blueberry, lemon. lime, blackberry, and chocolate cake dripping fudge, carrot cake, pineapple upside down cake, buns muffins all seductively delicious in rows and piles, food to feed armies, countries, continents. But the counter is made of barbed wire, we can’t get to them. All the food to feed the world and I can’t reach it. I am trying but the razor barbs cut me, I am bleeding, Miller is gone, I’m no longer in the store, my neck aches and throbs. + I open my eyes and am suddenly blinded by the midday Colorado sun. I am desperately craving a raspberry tort. I can’t figure out why, then I remember the dream. Walls come into focus and that rushing of blood to my head that signals the onslaught of a terrific headache. Michael’s head is resting on my shoulder and his arm is strewn across my legs. I heave him off and stand up. We arm in the alley still I notice just a few doors down from the back entrance to Tangz! A horrid thought strikes me and I reach for my back pocket, but no my wallet and all its money ($23) is still there. Maybe bums are the last honest people left. + Michael is up and rubbing his eyes. + "Take those contacts out one or these days or your going to go blind," I warn. + "I am blind. Where are we?" + "In that alley still." + "oh yeah, hey you passed out, I kept trying to wake you up man that bum was one wacky cat." Michael unconsciously imitating the slang of the cool old ponytailed Jazz musician who runs and open mike night at this little coffee shop in LA. Michael and I used to go there me with guitar and him singing, we’d slaughter Bruce Springsteen song and the guy would just say "you cats are pretty cool -I can dig you." I loved that guy. + + + + +I talk to bums. I smile at there stories and listen in reverence to the quiet theories of conspiracy. Why not who else to talk to in these most disheartening of times. The manic glow of thought that echoes hollowly from our collective lips is little more than the endless glow of faceless faces radiating a cheap phosphorescent light streaming stupidly by on the streets. What have you to say to me what have I to say to you? Bums are crazy not one has ever made any attempt to shed any sort of sanity into my life. I talk to bums. I give them money for food for cigarettes for alcohol to numb the stupidity of their lives. If I were rich I would by everyone a bottle of wild turkey and hand them out on the corner of 6th and Broadway. Here take off your mask admit the insanity of our lives. Face it square on, look into its eyes, grab it by the throat and choke the life right out of it until you are numb and your hands relax from your own throat. I hate my generation. sickened swine what have you to say to me? Same as I to you not a goddamned thing. + I tried to do that, to choke the marrow out of life or some other ridiculous sophomoric whine that passes for art. Now I talk to bums. The more I rant in aimless circles the more they listen. They have nowhere to go no one to believe in. Who would you believe in if no one believed in you? Bums don’t lie. They tell stories that never happened they bow their heads to priest whose god disowned them, but they don;t lie. We lie. The ones with the warm houses ,the comfortable chairs, the endless sewer of easy loves and voluptuous non existence, that I wouldn’t trade for one instant of truth or enlightenment. We lie. To ourselves to the empty communitiless society we have created. What we wouldn’t give for true vulgarity in our lives. Not the false hopeless vulgarities we have dreamed up -pornography, narcotics, state supported war. But real vulgarity live stripped back to the essential to the marrow of existence. To have to forage for our own food for one mere night, to find shelter for ourselves and our families, to love life as the precious dirty scuffed diamond in the rough. To sink your hands into the dry desert sand clawing for a God who doesn’t hear with the sun beating endlessly on your naked back ,your fetal heart. + I talk to bums because they seem not amazed at the contradictions of life. They know the hideous lie of monogamy and the false happiness in sorrow. They are not loyal to state to man not even to each other I have no doubt they would rob me blind if they could and I respect them for it. Better bitter honesty than the stinking filth of the man who marries one woman and disowns four others in the process. We bought this lie this one mate, one country, one planet in the face of a 250 billion other galaxies. we are the ones the only ones. We are at least probably the only ones who have the audacity to believe we are the only ones. Would the mule deer grazing in land locked Colorado deny the existence of whales in an ocean it has never seen? I have asked many, but in there silence I can only assume they do. After all if we found life outside out planet would we remain calm and un moved and go about our business as we always had. Would our beliefs hold up in the face of such a test? would our religions crumble, our faith in the “order of the universe” be irrevocably shaken? Ask the mothers whose sons and daughter have been struck down on our streets about the “order of the universe” God may not play dice with the universe, but physics don’t control it either + + + + + + + + + +Sitting at a table in upstate New York- + And the Galaxy girl walks down the street, boyfriend in tow, brown stomach seductively bare, midriff shirt. They're meeting friends later at the gate hanging ten feet high down town. She and her shirt with GALAXY GIRL written in glittering silver, would like to get drunk, high on little golden yellow pills, and float in the ecstasy of swirling music. Who wouldn't? + Three marines drive smiling and pointed in squirish red truck (marines de reguir) desperately hoping for some sweet young girl to cross the street coming back from the beach. Stoplights are a woman’s worst nightmare. Catcalls. Warbles, like sex crazed crows float up the street. Victim. Hoping for a smile of a acknowledgement to insincere flattery. Them squirming in their truck. Hey baby... Marines cruising for cunt. Any cunt will do + And the aging club girl with bright cherry lips painted extra red by the contrast in her black leather jacket eyeing me. She sits slouched in a chair as if resigned that she will never make it back to New York. CEBE JEBES THE ALIGATOR LOUNGE. Those were the good days. Now its just slouched days in slouched chairs cigarette aimed skyward dreaming of darkness and the wild seductive wails of guitar (what was that blonde guys name?) the rhythmic pounding of the beat forcing its way into your chest, the throb, the guttural appeal of all thing taboo and enticing. + The surfer and his girl stroll by, her breasts spilling out of the too small top, losing its Herculean battle to save the world from nudity. They wander into the cafe’ for snacks, drinks, to gorge the thirst induced by the haughtless sun now carving the end of its tyrannical arc. They order designer water and leave. + The tired shopkeeper is out smoking her obscenely thin cigarettes again (excuse me is there any tobacco in those?). She smokes constantly pausing only to give a tired answer to the same tourists she has to stare at day after day. An endless reminder that they not her are the ones enjoying life. Too many of them day after day year after year look look looking never buying. THE LEATHER CONNECTION doesn’t do a lot of business on hot spring days. Nor is it the kinky sort of fetish shop you might hope for. Not even any leather in the windows. She moves her lips mumbling incoherences intelligible only to herself. She’s probably thinking like I am that she shouldn’t have married that conceited machoistic slob, that cigar smoking house tyrant who will be demanding dinner the moment she walks in the door. She lights another cigarette. Get some thicker smokes, they’ll last longer I want to say. But I can tell she’s not the type to take unsolicited advise. + The sharp eyed Asian hawk sitting behind me closes her purse, pen safely secured inside. She licks stamps and affixes them to postcards. Notes for those at home. “Jenny: New York is great -warm sunny. I’m having a great time. Remind me to tell you about this guy Bill I met the other day. Take care of yourself. Say hi to Tom for me. Love....” + Families wander by looking for a nice place to eat. The neon signs offer Mexican Italian Greek food, “but we need a children's menu.” “Tommy’s only nine, he can’t eat a whole meal himself.” “Do you think they could split a dinner, I’m not very hungry myself?” “You brought the credit card right?” “No, but I’ve still got some cash left over from breakfast this morning. “Wasn’t that a charming little place?” “What was it called?” “Lets go there again before we leave.” + And the girls the beautiful girls yes they keep going by, but I ignore them all I can ever think of them is what color lace covers there sweet impressionable pussies... + The locals, the non-travelers, the doomed-forever-to-live-in-one-placers stream by in shinny cars coming home from work in THE BIG CITY. Their flimsy soda can Japanese cars that look as if a good size bird could with good aim crush the plastic colored roofs. Remember when Kerouac and his crazy friends roamed the highways remember when cars were made of steel? Me either. The locals drive with windows up and frowns turned down. “Did I remember to e-mail that memo to Tony at the office in Chicago? I wonder what sort of crap Diane cooked for dinner tonight? She is the worst cook. What happened to that tri-tip on Friday? I wouldn’t have known what is was if I hadn’t bought it myself. Dave and Linda smiled and said it was delicious the lying bastards. don’t encourage her she might actually believe she can cook. Dave probably just wants to sleep with her. That whore. I wonder if she’s fooling around behind my back? She never wants to have sex anymore. Its always the same routine. Me still dripping from a shower her reading some book I crawl onto of her . ‘Not tonight honey I’m to tired.’ I wait till she’s fast a sleep and sneak down to the kitchen reach behind the fridge and pull out the nudie magazines off quietly to the bathroom. I wonder what Diane would look like in tight leather probably fat. She still hasn’t lost all the wait from the pregnancy. God its been what like eighteen months Justin’s starting to walk for christsakes. The light is green, fucking traffic.” The typical suburbian woes. + Fog is settling in from the hills meeting up with banks rolling in from the sea, threatening the star’s view, tiny windows of the gods peeping in watching our silly games in continued amusement. (“they keep doing it every night”) Reminding me of San Francisco, the golden gate after sundown glowing like it were Apollos chariot itself. Proudly beckoning the traveler with tale of endless wanderlust -out here the final frontier come swim discover secrets hidden from mankind...Come the sharks are hungry. The mashing of teeth and bone the tearing of flesh. Being ripped to sheds in the jaws of nature that is a glorious death. + A bitter couple take a seat behind me. “out here in the great outdoors the largest smoking section in America.” Amen brother. Places out of reach of the spreading TYRANTS OF HEALTH. Would you like extra grease on that steak? Why, yes please. Breakfast in Memphis, eggs pancakes toast slices of orange parsley, juice and a happy go lucky waiter offering free Sprite? Why, yes please and keep it coming. Michael could I borrow you lighter? Certainly sir. Cigarettes coffee and more open road that's what I need. Bad coffee, bad roads full of chuckholes and entire lanes wiped out in flood, and of course really good cigarettes, that's what I really need -enough of this damn city. + But it the girls the girls the girls. Sweet tight little asses hidden under Levis soft pillowly breasts rounding out tight white black blue silver t-shirts, arms cut short and stomachs exposed by some ingenious designer who truly understands life. Belly buttons sunken gently with the hint of what sweet candy lies below wrapped in red green white black lace, curly auburn hairs, not brown, never true blond, but in between --auburn. In between indeed. + And the men at the bench across the way cackle and pop with laughter pointing and gesticulating as if begging for some passerby to take interest and join in their conversation. The dizzying roar of a departing bus temporarily drowns them out. That was seven moons ago and any return is several moons hence. I am here, California. The Queen Bitch. No more humid smiles. + The milk of human kindness. The smiles of a five year old with grandmother eyes. Don’t look at me it is to late for me, save yourself. + Brave is the soul who dare to parallel park in the clanging honking impatient drone of six o'clock traffic. They have other destinations, other places they want to be unlucky soul giving in and going away. Only to return moments later and steal stealthily into that same spot! The triumph of the human spirit is reduced to finding good parking. And she exits to the roar of cheers, friends waiting on the balcony above me. Greek. Ladies night out at the Aegean Cafe’. Park the husbands on the couch, insert beer, and leave. Ladies night out. + The eastern couple hesitates on the steps below he Indian she Asian. Such a wonderfully raceless baby they could have. We need a worldwide orgy to end racial differences. End racism, fuck a foreigner! And of course end culture, diversity and everything interesting about people. + I would not fuck you in Thailand/ I would not fuck you in a plane over Japan. One of Dr. Suess’ lesser known couplets. Brain candy. Soul fodder. + Three big beefcake men approach in white t-shirts, dripping fake tans. Score! Find a cunt jack off in. Find us all one. Dewy eyed art school girls who want nothing to do with the beefcakes’ piercing horny lecherous stares, they want coffee cigarettes and conversation. And maybe, just maybe some weird vampire sex with blood sucking and candle wax dripping, burning nipples. But you wouldn’t know any better than I. Such eroticisms sparkle and fade. Sparkle and fade. + A limo. Movie stars? Sparkle and fade. A beautiful Spanish style villa to return to after a night on the town, bring the press along we’ll write it all up for the morning papers. We’ll waltz under the comet’s tail, our bare feet shuffling in the sand falling between naked toes making the sound of a a rainstick, its seeds forever trapped in a cactus skull, only too quiet to hear. + Four sweet college girls pause and seeming ask no one “‘didn’t this use to be called Fahrenheit 451?’ Sure I reply. They study me uncertain. It cooled off I guess. Poor smiles for a poor attempt at humor. ‘What are you writing?’ (The blond too.) A bunckofworthlesscrap no one will ever read. ‘Can I try?’ (Shit.) My writings pretty bad. + +. + + + + + + I woke up this morning in a sleeping bag with no where left to run. We are in Wyhoming. Again. It's still the twentieth century and not much else appears to have changed. Al is licking my face and appears to want food. That dog is eating me out of House and home. House being a battered sixty-nine Ford Pickup and home having disappeared several months ago. + + + + + +As it turned out it was a good day to ask. I was going through one of my increasingly frequent fazes of moping. What Dr. Fredrick called depression, but he didn’t understand people very well, on account of his being a psychiatrist and all. I cut him slack though because he did provide for the occasionally insightful discussions. I think it was boredom that held me in its jaws, not chemical depression. I was going through a cliche period, I was pondering the meaning of life. + I have nothing that could be termed a skill so as my friends and neighbors began to get more and more involved in jobs and families, I spent more and more time in my room staring at ominously blank sheets of paper sticking out of my antique, but fully functional Underwood typewriter. Lacking anything better to say, all I ever typed was I am bored. Forty of fifty sheets of paper were neatly pinned on the wall above my desk reading just that. I was just arriving at the conclusion that perhaps it was the city and its claustrophobic patches of grey sky wedged angularly between skyscrapers that was getting me down. I was contemplating moving to France when a friend pointed out that the sun rarely shone in Paris either. I have lived in this city for five years and have yet to run across anyone who can explain why this place never sees the sun. A half an hours drive in any direction will generally produce sunshine, but the city itself seems to have been built in the world’s only perpetual fog bank. + In lieu of any logical explanation I have conceived my own; the weather is out to bore me into depression. Dr. Fredrick’s eyes lit up when I mentioned this theory to him, and he immediately asked if I ever heard voices. I told him yes, but generally only on the cordless phone. I told him that the company had said that if wanted to up grade to digital the noises would go a way. Dr. Fredrick’s smile widened for a moment and vanish along with his grandiose idea that perhaps I was a paranoid schizophrenic. Dr. Fredrick’s mission, and hence my reason for visiting him, was to study the psyche of the artist and try to prove that artistry was perhaps a chemical imbalance in the brain which led to increased creative urges. He a big grant from some fancy university back east and paid me to be one of his test subjects. Unable to hold down a job, lack of motivation or sheer laziness its your call, I needed easy money so I had answered his ad and apparently did a good job of convincing him that I was a writer. The fact that I had never really sat down and written anything of substance didn’t seem to bother him. “Its not so much the act of writing, but the heartfelt need to write that interests me,” he used to say. I usually just nodded and let him inject me with some chemical that let his scanners see what parts of my brain were active and which weren’t. The five hundred dollars I received every Friday cinched the idea for me. + I never mentioned it to him, but I had already exorcized my right to self diagnosis and in my educated opinion I was chronically afflict with the disorder of humanity, that is to say that I was human and subject to the usual symptoms of emotional turmoil and occasional serious ups and downs of life. A condition which I concluded was both terminal and incurable. + + This morning started like any other, I struggled to get out of bed before noon and after I finished typing my usual rendition of I am Bored and pinned it next to the others, I headed out for some fresh if foggy air and a cup of coffee. That's what you do if your an artist I learned you frequent coffee shops with a pen and sketch pad order a cup of coffee, sit preferably in a dark corner table and put on airs of deep thought and cosmic contemplation. So it was with a sense of heavy obligation that a swung open the door at Jittery Joe's and strolled over to my table in the dark corner opposite the front door. I deposited my pen and sketch pad and strolled to the coffee bar trying my best to appear distracted and preoccupied with my very own “big idea.” + Supposedly I was researching a book which was to be my masterpiece, I wanted to storm on to the scene as the triumphant and brilliant new writer who would issue in a new area in modern fiction. The mundane reality was a little bit different. I was facinateed at the time, with aboriginal world views and the native minds connection with the earth. I had gotten so far as the ominous one hundred page mark when my puplisher told me in an exited voice that this was exactly the book the were looking for to break into the burgening new age genre. I set the phone down and ran into the other roon scooped up my manuscript and flushed the entire contents down the toilet. My masterpiece work of genius was beginning to look like a lucrative career ghost writing for Penthouse Letters. + But, as I settle back into the plush highbacked chair that I am forever dragging from one end of joes to the other, whatwas mainly on my mind was hwo to get to Utah. My publisher had kindly arranged some time ago for me to sit in with some members of the hopi tribe on a dream quest or something of that nature. Not wanting to miss such an opportunity I had yet to tell my publisher about the toilet flushing insident, so I was left without a ride to Utah. He was supposed to give me his car, but since that would involve my giving up what I had written I was at present, screwed. + + + + + Wake up and walk down never having satopped. Beginnings are always violent; the universe sxploded from a single point, achild is pushed out of a whole that is normally tight around my cock. Violence is the natural state of beginnings. Without violence there is sterilty a barren wasteland. Test tube babies sickening smell of death waiting like a vulture, to ooze out of the scientists lab. The good Dr. B having a bowl of weavils for breakfast sucking them up out of a 1920's huca smoke seeping out the floorboards of the room + + + + + + + + diff --git a/veryold/very old writings/gone book/D iam diff version.txt b/veryold/very old writings/gone book/D iam diff version.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9c3d7de --- /dev/null +++ b/veryold/very old writings/gone book/D iam diff version.txt @@ -0,0 +1,88 @@ + Denver is a clicking noise, a perfect symphany of flying fingers, words and shoes. The collision of bodies results in equal and opposite repultion into free form voids of their own peruvian designs, fre form abstracts of temples and vines, jungle book black cats. The mayan caper recast north of the equator. But as is started to say it was a clicking noise… It came in with wheels slowing west of the main station and it continued in the cab ride to mikes house as I sat mexmerized by the meter, and it finally collided when I opened the door to his house and I saw Dean typing on a laptop on the couch. I said Mike, I should have said Mike and Halley which is whole different sort of beast. +Mike and Halley had come about because of me, at least that was how it looked when you poked around the edges of their relationship. The official story was that Halley’s job had led them Denver, but I wasn’t buying. Mike and I went back a long time ago to a galaxy far far away. Actually it was closer to Spaceballs that Star Wars… right down to the trailer. Mike and I had both dropped out of college and being broke as hell working coffeeshops we could only afford a one-room trailer. There was never any money or food other than noodles. The one thing we had tons of though were friends, friends from high school, friends from college, friends from work, friends friends friends and they were there every fucking night like band of chimpanzees throwing there own feces about and giggling and whooping with laughter. We were all just finding drugs. We were late bloomers. I got out of that trailer atrocity by sheer force of will; well that and the luck that my parents hadn’t done anything with my own room. Mike’s parents already had a home office and they weren’t keen on getting him back. They had vaccinated themselves with furniture, a cruel reality that I only point out because it helps explain Mike. Mike was forced by circumstance to escape via Halley, love was only one side of the coin, the side that Halley saw, but in Denver I saw something colder, something more reptile-olike creeping behind his eyes —necessity. Love and necessity colliding with all the fanfare of a plane wreck. + Denver was a crash landing, a bust in grandest old western sense of the word. I remember three things rising up out of the rollicking sautéed cacophony; they float in my recollection like enormous turds. There was the windowless tomb of stone blocks that constituted a house inhabited by five people in two bedrooms in which Dean developed a Heroin habit, Betty drowned in despair and Mike and Halley fought great crusades for the dominance of their sexes. The cinderblock walls sustained all their momentum for seven months. Mike and Halley fell out of love, Dean fell in, Betty climbed over love, and I watched totally unable to act; I was paralyzed and could do nothing for myself or them. It was bliss while it lasted. I watched Dean until he faded into love and heroin becoming too thin to see, then I watched Mike and Halley dissolve into Mike, and Halley, and then finally out of self-pity Dean inadvertently propelled Betty and I out with him on an arcing trajectory that landed me in New Orleans, Betty back in Las Vegas, and Dean in Washington D.C. Throughout it all the television reigned. Betty and I were stationed like zombis before the master god of all creation and its blue aura. Dean was one with the place; he existed by the skin of his teeth, I have little or no recognition of him while we were there, he was either shooting up or talking to Amanda on the internet or both. Otherwise he did not really exist. Dean did that from time to time, became invisible and disappeared only to resurface again at the oddest moment possible. Most of all what sticks out was the sound of it all. The mad clicking that brought me into Denver was always in background like the sound of time itself walking about in the rooms, banging pots, cooking rice in the kitchen, arguing with itself in the bathroom, throwing shoes at Mike as he runs out of the bedroom. +Dean is typing, it’s a furious noise, he is pounding the keys nodding his head to the sounds from his headphones. He has drowned out his own fingers, doesn’t realize the force with which he is pounding the keys, mad telegraphs spitting out like lizard tongues firing themselves out into electrostatic love notes wired and flung off to Maryland where another pair of fingers responds…. the thing itself it flying back and forth maddening! + And the outside world is no better, what filters in on the TV is reflected back all around us, cold insensitive innocuous suburban delight… detachment. We lived in a decidedly residential area of Denver, a cityvoid that occurs in every big American city where an arbitrary line is drawn around some houses, a couple of suburban strip-mall shopping-centers, and gas stations and it is given a purposefully pedestrian name like Irvine or Turtle Rock… the streets of Douglas Copeland's nightmares. The perpetual warm blue glow of television sets emanated from the windows of vinyl sided endura-homes —guaranteed to last a lifetime or your money back! The television a great luminous third eye watching the affair with the indifference of god. Walking around in the evenings I felt the pride of it’s inventor. Every house was glowing quiet blue light the streets bathed in its iridescence, cobalt streets, sapphire lawns, purple skies, everything lit from within blue, blue noise humming softly… in the background blue people wandered, silhouettes dancing in front of kitchen windows and shadows lurking in open garages. The blue is grating irritating, gets under your skin like the flesh eating virus boils spring up and burst revealing slick blue oil and puss. They slide under the arm; you can see them moving just below the skin. But in background faint at first but growing in decibels is the maddening chant of the newsman and the Maytag man and all the talking heads disembodied and floating in the sky singing choruses. It’s all in timing! The process must be subtle and slow, but steady until the critical mass is reached then summon them like zombies to their own deaths in the gamma ovens… the mad scientist paces about suburban streets in a kind of furious strut. Every thing is planned; everything reflects precision. + Around the cave we lived in even the trees were well manicured as if the force the random act of god even into simplistic conformity, but not with menacing intent… only so that it will match the lawn and the wife’s nails all neatly polished like jewels. I used to work in a town like this, for a couple of days anyway, just long enough to collect such gems as the story of the woman who abandoned her dog on the beach one day because its spots clashed with her new interior design ideas. Or the man who smothered his baby because his wife was paying more attention to the child then his dick. Precious people we all aspire to be and yet you and I somehow we will be different isn’t that right? Somehow it will not get to us, all these trapping we can see through it now and we will see through it then; it never occurred to the monsters either that you don’t have eyes in the back if your head. +You and I though, we can’t afford to do that we must work real hard and get where the rich people are. Funny logic. Fuzzy math. Keep it I’m outta here me the old man said sitting on his rocker, a Kansas porch, hot summer day, cats, an orgone box, a southerner, and glass of clear liquid refilled constantly. Keep it, I’m outta here me. So long. And there is a witch stirring her cauldron; stir in a few European brains, some Irish brawns, a twinkle of pigs’ feet to sniff out the hidden truffles and simmer for two hundred years until the whole cesspool turns into a soufflé. +Outside is America. The sound is deafening. It comes in waves of music, horns, engines, electricity, spinning warbles of neon light echoing asphalt dreams of sanity. Vibrations given off by the turn of espresso handles, the pull of yogurt machines, the spinning of laundry mats, the chopping of the Chinese cook’s knife atop the trash can, chunks of chicken fat and bone accumulating on the floor; all of it whirls in a hurricane melee reverberating about through the dry air of the plains. Crisp air that offers no resistance to the pealing clamor, it just carries it about silent as a tomb offering no comment on the meaning of it all. Standing air listens like a woman in orgasm to the totality of nothingness like wood hewn by sandpaper until smooth contrasted against the sanding sound of ocean waves, rivers feed by rain, driftwood and manicured wood lying side by side. And running your hand over each to notice the artificial feel of the polished hard wood and the prickling organic sensuality of the rough hewn driftwood tossed like a cork, a bottle, a note, all of them riding over seas of imagination and somehow in the landlocked spirit of place Denver sounds like cancer. The insidious beat of death. Tribal drums still heralding the rising moon, wood blocks clanging about in alleys, homeless people rattling shopping carts up one street and down another the mad mad mad sound of science. +Sound I am told by Dean is nothing more than pressure waves being interpreted by my ears. “Horseshit” I mutter and then there is Mike ducking and the sound of Halley yelling, her voice wailing in anguish over something he had done, but we don’t know what it is we don’t know if it is that bad or if she is insane. Betty and I serve the madness in silence, in the background Chandler is broken up over Joey moving out and that mousy guy that’s always ‘the other guy’ in movies is moving in, homoerotic jokes are sticking to vellum walls like flies. + The shoe hits the wall above the couch and tumbles down between Betty and I, she looks at it, I look at it, we look at each other, we look at Mike (he is crying), and we look at the television it is moving on trying to sell me deodorant. On the table is a bong. Betty rouses herself and packs a bowl. Halley is crying and Mike is holding her, but she is pulling away from him. I can’t help finding her sexy, her legs are vulnerable, succulent, but I think of last night when I accidentally walked in on them having sex. The only bathroom has a doorway through the closet that opens into their bedroom, and as I was digging around for a condom I looked in the mirror and saw Mike’s bare ass bouncing enthusiastically off the bed, presumably pounding his cock into her. It made me laugh. Laughter followed by waves of nausea born on seas of alcohol and girl named Jen and then Mike’s ass bouncing furiously… wham!, right into the toilet, into the floor, into walls, the roof the place reeked of laughter, mine, Deans, Betty’s, the studio audience, the children of war celebrating peace. And now I can’t laugh anymore, but Halley is still looking good, her ass is stretched tight in the mirror behind her, it murmurs sex in spite of the shrill of her voice and the sobs that wrack her body; they feel like they are sucking all the air right out of the room. I look at Betty to make sure she has not imploded, but it is too late she is hacking and coughing smoke, a bit of spit flies out of her mouth and she tries to stop it, to regain some composure it all makes me laugh which earns me the finger. I take a big lazy hit. + Halley’s sobs quiet to weeping; she is one with the floor now, her head grazing stupidly against Mike’s knees, he is standing indifferently, they look like the cover of European vacation, a horrible twisted picture of Chevy Chase as a superhero with his family at his feet and Mike looks every bit as ridiculous as Chevy Chase. He has a defiance to his posture that looks wholly artificial and it occurs to me that he ought to be the one on the ground, he ought to be begging, not to Halley, but begging god to give him his humility back. +Peace talks continued in Kosovo today with both parties saying that progress was made, but meanwhile fighting continues in the country side where sporadic violence and sharp shooting snipers continue to take there toll on the moral and hope of the people who live here…. +And then there is silence, an editing fuck up at the news station, the television is silent, and Halley is not weeping and I hear the air rushing out of my lungs with a asthmatic hiss as I exhale the bonghit. Mike is breathing hard, Betty is holding her breath and suddenly from the other room the tapping stops and a drunken, stoned Dean comes walking through the kitchen. He stops in the frame of the doorway slightly hunched, holding a beer and squinting his eyes…. “What?” +Little phantoms of the house, strange shadows that lurk in the corners without regard for the science of light… they moved in dreary circles, little red blocks all stacked in the living room and the angels sing… how many would die for you?/I’m not talkin’ ‘bout those that get high with you… Over and over scenes of confusion, jumbled words, jumbled phrases, Deans finger flying and the little green men in the shadows that have no regard for the science of light and they sing…. Did you lock into a pattern you couldn't see through? You can no longer trust the metaphor because you saw it coming in focus and you realized it's something from your childhood —endless tapes loping across eons. And you see the game for what it was —something cold-blooded, reptile, slinking across the room. You know the menu is not the meal and you have your metaphors and language bounded in all its unique epochal glory and you see through the epochs, but you can't shake the fear. You know that change is inevitable; you know what you want, you say what you want, and you build the metaphor until it casts its shadow into time. You think you know the end of it and still your sitting on the curb, hungry, apathetic, waiting for the sewer water to splash and wake from the nightmare of history. You're thinking this isn't me, this can't be me. +There is peace in between the news of Kosovo and Halley’s mournful sobs and Betty sucking down another hit of pot and Dean returning from the bathroom pausing again like a half cocked gun squinting, observing and leaving again. The sound of finger tapping reaches us before he is seated, but now the cartoon man wants me to buy his paper towels and you are wondering… what is it that we are wondering? +Everyone walks with unshakable self confidence, but not slow enough to remember that they are walking and when they laugh they pretend to be unafraid. This isn't you. This isn’t me. + + + Its two nights later, the war is over, peace reigns, rich people’s financial interests are secured, Friends’ reruns have come and gone with dinner and Halley is cuddled up on Mike’s lap. She is serene and beautiful tonight because she fucked Dean in bathroom at her work this afternoon. For once there is no typing, the television is on still… commercials. The sound of typing is still hanging in the air translated by the TV as if the noise itself was a force that could pick and choose its manifestation. Mike is happy because he thinks that he is the one making Halley happy and he goes right back for more like one of those rats pulling the lever to get its dosage of nicotine in the studies that Philip Morris wakes up sweating to in the middle of the night. And Halley is making out with Mike now; Mike is not wearing any pants. Halley seems intent on fucking Mike right there in the chair in front of us. I think what would happen if I lobbed the hand grenade into the silence… so Halley how was Dean this afternoon? I hear you fucked him on the sink counter of women’s restroom… that didn’t even work for Tom Cruise in Top Gun at that club… what did Dean do to get you to do that…? I just ask so I can get some pointers you know…? + But I don’t. Obviously. If I had a gun I might have. Dean would have forgiven me in a few weeks, Halley I could do without and Mike already lived with the fantasized notion that Halley fucked everyone when his back was turned. Hell he probably thought I was fucking her, and I probably would have if I thought Halley would have if any of it. If we had any sense at all we would have probably all just fucked each other like blow up toys, like the lecherous little weasels we were, but we didn’t Dean, Betty and I just watched while they dry fucked in the chair, but when Mikes little half-chubbed alcohol-soaked wiener rose up like a miniaturized Cobra from under Halley's mini skirt I had had enough. Dean and I started laughing and Mike reached down and tried to tuck it back under but the thing had a mind of its own and before I knew what I was doing I turned the video camera one and aimed it at them. Dean, Betty and I sneaked out while they went out of it. I left the camera running. + In the bar the talking head from CNN is telling us how the people are safe and the world is somehow better and nothing has changed here because the fingers are the thing that hold it all together and they keep at it every night. And I think of the governors and tyrants of the world celebrating just like they did when the war started I imagine and the man behind the counter wants to know what I want and the girl in the booth wants to know why I haven’t noticed her yet and everything is just wonderful. Being around Mike has us all spinning loops and watching our backs until we find ourselves at the end of night all twisted up and tangled in the ephemeral confusion of nothingness trying to stand on the legs of somethingness. It all swirls together with the past, with Mexico City with San Francisco and Ed’s loft and the bathroom floor, the cabby squealing about fried chicken, the woman on the arch is mixing with Voodoo, gringos and the Quantum Uncertainty principle. Oh you mean this can really happen? Or am I just thinking that it’s happening? Or is it happening because I think its happening? Or am I thinking that it is really happening and I'm just dreaming? Am I going to wake up one day and not remember this dream? Fuzzy logic dogs chasing each other around on a 1987 street in a Mexico City neighborhood. And the Spanish soldier selling chiclettes say no good no bueno, pictures worth not even half a thousand words. Wouldn't give you ten words, worthless gringo words don’t mean shit. no good no bueno, not worth the blood their written in. The blood of all peoples not yours, not your shoes, by god keep your slave labor camps a closed-mouthed secret. Gotta keep that in house must remain forever sealed in baby pissshitguts. No that's not true. No comment. No need for comment, the preceding has been since proved to be untrue, cut to shots of smart bombs. Couldn’t get fifty words for those now gringo -over exposure- nobody buying. Same old stinking shit. No Good. No Bueno. Gringo go home in thousand languages in a million words, why don’t you crawl back in your cave get your tail so far between your legs it goes half way up your ass? Lead me to the holy spigot and we’ll show you the bidet of death, constructed by gringos, for gringos, to flush out gringos, to show them all what you do behind closed doors. Can’t close them all —we have our technicians as well and they’re getting to be better than yours. We got the money rolling in —even offered you the picture words but you don’t want them. No Good. Can’t use those, too strong. No fair, crying boy heads home for cave to lick his dirty balls clean. + The girl in booth has her arm over my shoulder she is stroking my hair but the little street urchin with the chiclettes is at the table; he can’t be shut up, hawking wares for death, little powders potions and peppers hanging from his arms, but the CNNhead says all is well, justice is served. The television is close curcuit captioned for the hearing impaired, the little boy is adament no captions only pictures for the blind. Rustling of paper behind boardroom walls sends him into fits…. I gotta picture for you I on vacation in your country go to hear senator’s speak but all door are closed, all sealed. So i gotta fiber optic and feed it in from the roof show all senators mad with sexual lust and blood thirsty, clamoring for war and stealing souls and bodies and driving them off wherever they see fit…. The CNNhead is protesting this outburst… get off of my lllaaaawwwwnnnnn!!! But the boy will not be silenced there are thousands of them now a chorus of little brown boys singing, chanting like Benetine Monks…All that you consider to be a accident was carefully orchestrated for your benefit by a benevolent cocksucking god from the twenty-third dimension to just plain old irritate the fuck out of you like a bad rectal itch. Stupid gringo got no cure for the ass itch i show you some pictures, yes very dirty, little girls you like? But the girl in the booth has a name, a face we will not hurt her, she will be the last innocent and my tongue slides in her mouth, hand up her skirt she is wet the last innocent. Her breath is short it comes in rasps I hear it against my ear. The boys are chanting to the beat of drums… I got pictures for you gringo… pictures you hear? Her breath. The commander in chief of the NATO forces in Europe is fucking small refugee boy in the ass, the boy cries for his mother the general is laughing, your mother’s down the hall boy, she’s busy with the president of France right now. But maybe later you’d like to lick his come off her dead face… Ban those words tear them right out snip snip. Can’t say that, its disgusting. War is a snuff film for the rich. The CNNhead is confering, the girl is breathing the boys are chanting. “We gotta step up the bombing chief the public’s losing innarest in us” screams the chief of staff running in circles jerking off and slapping his ass until it turns a bright purple and with all seriousness General Jesse Helms pauses to reflect: I remember a time when life was good no one got in our way, why in Europe under Patton i musta raped twenty thirty little boys and a handful of nuns too. He smiles lost in memory...but God hath given us these trying times.... Yes it is bit hard to get cunt these days isn’t it, mumbles the chief of state as he strokes his wife’s cock....Yes dear start a war, get me some cute refugee boys, i so love snapping their necks when I'm coming, she growls affectionately. That's it gentlemen were going to war! The president stands and ejaculates on a map of the world KOSOVO it is he says as his thick oatmeal consistency sperm all but covers the former republic of Yugoslavia. + You like? You like, no? Too bad. You can’t have those words, too strong. I get power, you give me power, I steal power from you, to expensive to buy it. I get power and you get pictures and maybe I tell you how to cure rectal itch? Eh? Eh? Eh? She comes and lights a cigarette. The man behind the counter turns off the TV and we leave. Her name was Maya. + +By the time we got back the camera was on its side, the tripod was broken and they were screaming at each other + “Fucking slut….” + “You’re an asshole…!” + “Fuck you! I love you!” + “You don’t know what love is! You’re a little child!” + “You’re cold bitch! Don’t you have any feeling in that dried hard little cuntheart of yours!?” + “Do not call me a cunt! + “I didn’t call you a cunt! I said you have a fucking hard little fucking CUNTHEART!!!! + “Fuck you! You wouldn’t know what to do with cunt anyway!” +At that point a little air shot out of my chest involuntarily, I knew what was coming. There was the sound of skin, a sickly slapping, stinging horribly thin kind of sound, the unmistakable sound of hatred and self doubt bring itself into realtime like an airborne virus. Then silence. Dean and I sit passing joint on Betty’s bed, listening through the wall. + “I’m sorry……… I didn’t mean to hit you!” + “Then how the fuck did you HIT ME! How can you not mean to hit someone? There is no such thing as ACCIDENTALLY hitting someone, that doesn’t happen… nooneaccidentally hits anyone…youmeant to hitme…(sobs)… you FUCKING PRICK! (Sounds of crashing, light bulbs pop and the light streaming under the door disappears)” + “Oh that’s FUCKING great! You stupid bitch!” (Now there is a dull thud followed by a low moan and Dean and I look at each other. We are too fucked up for this….) + By the time we turn on the kitchen light they are wrestling at the door and before we can get across the room Mike throws Halley out the front door wearing only a thin nightgown. Its February in Denver, Colorado and they are in hysterics. Tears are streaming down Mike’s face and whether they are from the marijuana, the alcohol, the pain and anguish of heartbreak or the red welt atop his forehead it is still February in Denver and he is still in hysterics and he stands there trying to manage a thin strained smile as he collapses against the door. Dean and I are frozen. + “She fuck some guy.” + I try not to move or show any signs. + “The BITCH FUCKED SOME OTHER GUY!” he yells at the door but there is no answer. “You hear me you dumb bitch! I hope you fucking freeze to death. I hope his cock keeps you warm out there! I hope you know where he lives! I hope you get there before you lose any fingers or toes… you FUCKING CUNT! Jesus Christ….” He is weeping on the floor with his hands over his face I try to move him and he punches wildly but accurately hitting me in the jaw. Out of anger I kick him and he makes no protest. I shove him aside and go out to look for Halley. She didn’t go far. She is sitting on the neighbor’s couch the neighbors are up wearing bathrobes, rubbing her back and rocking her on the couch. She is shaking like a leaf. + “What’s wrong with him Sil? Why is he doing this? I am good to him aren’t I? I shouldn’t be putting up with this, this is bullshit, I can’t keep doing this…. (head in her hands) What the fuck is wrong with him? What wrong with you, with all of you? (Tears are running down her face) There is this thing in you that can’t let go, can’t admit that you’re wrong… all of you, your so damn sure that your little feelings and your little emotions have to be so goddamn right that you think you can just pull them down like shades over the whole fucking world! (yelling up at me, wild eyes) Every emotion, every thought, every fucking little thing can be broken down and analyzed and dismissed with some cynical diatribe that you think is so witty and fucking funny… goddamn all of you. (lunging towards me and hitting my chest, near screaming hysterics) You make me sick… I make me sick for letting myself be involved with him…. (collapsing onto me) I outta fucking be able to do better than this if this is love… this… this… fucking little hyper universe that you guys live in.... (pulling her self up and off of me) This is not love… I don’t always know what I am doing… I don’t always know what I am feeling OKAY! FUCK! (arms raised in exasperation) Don’t you ever, doesn’t he ever, just have moment of absolute confusion where he wants to do something completely irrational not out of love even just because its there and it can be done and.... and fuck… I don’t know why I fucked him…….(staring at the ground, pacing) It had just been so long since there was any passion you know, Mike and I are an old couple this shit happens, it doesn’t mean anything, right? …and I know Mike has fucked around, I know he fucked around in Europe, but he won’t admit it that’s the thing that makes me so fucking mad is he won’t admit it… and why? Why? Because if he admitted that then he’d have to face up to the fact that I am as weak as he is… whereas now he can call me a slut and make himself out to be better, that’s all I am to him this thing against which he can measure himself, this thing… this superwoman which I am supposed to be to him… this …fuck! (arms up exasperated) Do you know what this is doing to me? I am losing my mind… I’m not going to go nuts over him… I knew I should have run away right after we made love for the first time… I should have just run, because now I’m here and he’s throwing me out the door in my fucking night gown… in my FUCKING NIGHTGOWN!!!” +And then she collapsed or rather doubled over in sobs. I turned around and went back to see if Mike had calmed down. He and Dean were smoking a cigarette on the couch. Betty was in the chair dispensing wisdom that sounded like it would have solved all his problems, but Mike is a man and men can’t hear a word that women are saying, just like women can’t hear a word that men are saying and whole so-called battle of the sexes could be stopped just like Capt. Cook didn’t have to die on that island if only we had a goddamn interpreter that could translate the two languages and solve the riddle. Translate the emotion and feeling into the logic and predictable precision and then back out into the chaotic no-man’s-land of feeling again. Some guru, some pygmy, some monk, some alien that can add it all up and give us some kind of answer, that’s all we really want. +And the newscaster is talking about chemical warfare and he says that chemicals are weapons of mass destruction, but they are not, they are very selective and Mike turns the channel and there is a leopard or an ocelot tearing away the flesh of wildebeest and then the image changes to an ad for a moisturizing soap that will make us all look ten years younger and there is girl who looks ten years younger and her head is moving her lips are moving, but her voice is hollow and detached she comes out the side of the television and echoes falsely about the room and then I turn off the TV. And Mike starts in. + “Fuck man what am doing? (tugs at his hair with one hand and rolls the phone absently in the other hand, the whole movement seems false.) What did you do? Did you do this? I mean with Leah, she was you first love… and now look at you… you’re fine, you haven’t talked to her in years… what did you do? How did you fill this hole that I feel growing in me…. (looking at me pleading for some answer) Do you just harden yourself?… she thinks I’m hardened because I pushed her out the door, but that wasn’t the hard part of me that was the raw nerve endings of pain that was me trying to find love….or fight love… (looking for the answer as if it might be on the ceiling) that was my love that pushed her out the door… the cold hard part of me is the part that will go over there in a couple of hours and talk to her… (reflective self-analyzed pose of mock security) the hard part of me is the part that will make love to her while the love in me fades, gets up and leaves the room…. The horrible thing about losing love isn’t that it makes you hard it’s that you realize or you start to realize that love can be lost…. (serene face of philosopher dispensing wisdom) That’s what is tearing me up right now, the reality I am beginning to see is that there is no sacredness to love like they want you to believe… whoever they are…. (momentarily side tracked by a novel thought) But that’s not the point… the point is that once you realize that love can be lost, once you know that this can happen… its doomed to happen again…. You will never again be able to look at someone and to see a relationship that doesn’t end… I know now that for every beginning there is an ending already written…. (with disgust) Like that goddamn book you think you’re writing… the end’s already there isn’t it? I bet that was the first thing that you thought of… (sobbing, despair again) Oh god! How the fuck do you get out of this… how do you find hope again… and even if you do what do you do when it is dashed? How many times can you do this? Is there a limitation to the number of times you can have your heart broken…? (serene face of philosopher dispensing wisdom) Is it like one of those Lithium batteries where it never recharges all the way again and its starts looping back until there is nothing and then right when you think you have it… oh I underst…WHAM! And then it’s gone, you’re gone, the thing is gone… (silence in which feeling flashes across his face like a forgotten memory) Jesus what is she doing over there does she really hate me? She really hates me now doesn’t she? Fuck and the horrible thing is that somewhere deep down I wanted her to fuck that guy whoever he is… it doesn’t matter… god I want a whole gang of giant cocked black guys to gang fuck her through eternity if that’s what it takes, but I want to feel something… I’m not feeling anything anymore, the only time I feel anything is when I hurt her… then I feel hate. I mean I feel her hating me, but when she’s not hating me I don’t feel anything… I don’t feel loved…” +And he broke down into pure honest crying. Dean and I looked at each other and then at the VCR clock, it was ten till two and we both had the same thought. Run. + + + + + +Months rolled by and I have dim images of fall colors and an unsettling chill to the air. The mountains colored like firestorms and then the snow, lots of it, too cold to go outside. I took a job at a paper writing the horoscopes and occasionally I broke down and delivered pizza with Dean. Halley and Mike were at each other all the time. The television no longer mentioned Kosovo and there was a new game show sweeping the nation where you answered a series of stupid questions and got a million bucks. It was in the same vein as the Idiots Guide series… the steady decline of intelligence perfectly laid out like military campaign. Can’t figure out how to tie your shoes? Get the Idiot’s Guide to tying you shoes. I was waiting for the only useful title… the Idiots Guide to suicide… I wrote a letter to the publisher, but got no reply. And there was Regis Philman presiding over the burning hills and the freezing snow gleefully like a weatherman issuing a hurricane warning he smiled over it all. Great floating teeth that hung in the nightmares of f. Scott Fitzgerald’s. Signs of the apocalypse. This is hardly the first collective suicide. It's all part of history, the endless tumults, hills and glades and all the while we look at the crimson leaves and think that fall is in the air. But the spacemen never showed and the Nikes and the black suits with spaghetti ties were all in vain because the CD is skipping and we’re all stuck on endless repeat. +The fingers kept flying and the months fell away with them. I hear them from a distance now like the sound of an approaching marching band or a clock that hasn’t chimed yet. Sometimes I would wake up at dawn and hear the fingers. Marching marching marching. Dean as a tireless soldier of seduction…. Mike on the other hand remained a tireless soldier of reductionist emotional rationalism, which is what we named his peculiar nit-picked version of life. His idea of a worldview was crumbs, the confetti after the parade has passed. Christ all the way. Quick get us a tree, somebody make two boards… hurry before he loses the courage and does it himself. Christ was on a suicide trip, that much we know now he’d have gone with or without the Romans… how else do you end a story like that? +By March it was getting so bad that Dean and I used to just sit and smoke and listen to them for entertainment —familiarity breeds contempt.... We tuned them in and out of our own conversation the way television comes and goes. Betty would pass out on the bed and we would sit with out backs to the wall and just listen for hours. We had running bets on who would go insane first Mike or Halley? As time when on we both switched our bets to lie on ourselves. One morning we had to leave at nine because they were throwing things and we just wanted to sleep, but it’s hard to sleep in the midst of reckless friendly fire. I remember that morning because I was awoken from a nap by a lamp hitting my head. The couch was no longer safe. I kicked Dean and we darted out. We tried sleeping in his car but it was a no go so we wound up getting coffee and after that we went for a drive to get a feel for Denver. We wound up downtown since we just kind of aimed for tallest buildings or at least that’s how it seemed but Dean might have know what he was doing… I wouldn’t put it past him to have been buying down there for sometime, but I ignored his heroin use. If you ignore something long enough eventually it just goes away. +It is finally warm enough to take off the jackets. We sit on the steps of an old warehouse loading bay and listen to drone of afternoon. Listen for the returning Spring, which creeps in like a virgin newlywed glimpsing her first erect penis. And the thing is jerking with anticipation and the virgin is meek, but something is stirring some hunger that can never be satisfied starts to gnaw at the hidden parts of her mind, of her stomach, of her cunt. Spring is coming amid the fantastical ruins of downtown Denver, anywhere. It’s a disquieting sight, a testament to the durability if not of buildings than the certainty of mankind that he out always to have more of them. The macabre feeling of mobile decay struck me as we drove out of the sparkling sterile business hub of the new downtown where cars run with silent hums, exhausts hits the air clean without additives, fat free business men and women scurry, rat feet scrapping the ceiling at night and the cars are bigger, they sound like squirrels scampering up trees. Push cart coffee salesmen in sharp uniforms chat with professional desk sitters over bagels and reduced fat cream cheese and the heart attack penthouse office fat men in suits collect like windblown lead trash in front of the roach coach. We can see them, hear them, smell them from down here, two blocks south where all is not well. Brick steps pad silent under our feet and crumbled bits of mortar from the buildings settles with the rustling of the air, little whirlpools, miniature tornadoes that circle the vast open parking lot that once was a truck loading zone. Everything is in various states of disarray, here and there a tree sprouting out a window. A chiming laughter of the gods whose frail leaves still quake like the virgin. You may build with your precious creations of pressed gravel, but we, we are here always perpetuating a grand cycle of which you are only an upstart movement an attempt to catalogue, and what did you get for it? You get fantastic ruins, testaments to your own malleability, silly creatures struggling to leave a mark in competition against the eons of geology and botany. Water stained brick has a romance that the Nouevvo downtown can not match it has a weathered face to it that is gained only with the infinite passing of time like an old man with wrinkled wizened face sitting in a rocking chair on the porch of roadside store in Louisiana. Even material so simple as brick will outlast you and I, our own permanence is in the stories we create, whether living them out, dreaming them aloud, or writing them down, we beat nature on one account, we can record the past and bring it into the future even if it never actually happened. Sheet metal roofing that collapsed inward to the lofts that it sheltered is now stick out at awkward angles through broken industrial windows and a giant piece hangs precariously over a second story doorway, threatening to give up and fall clanging down the stairs to the ground where Dean and I are sitting. We walked about in the industrial ruin taking a few pictures and sipping on now cold coffee. I was wandering about in the ruins the way tourists of room head out to Pompeii with a sense that here is a monument to times past. Times I never knew, times that remain locked in my own phantasmal imagination where errand boys skipped about street delivering messages from the factory to the office uptown. Merchants pushing carts sold pomegranates, oranges, and onions to welfare mothers in the great depression. The launch pad for a thousand tragedies —it could be Denver or anywhere. + Ed lives in a part of LA that looks remarkably similar to this, an unholy contract between artist renovated lofts and slowly dying industrial shipping companies, metal recycling facilities, and giant distribution warehouses. All things move in circles and so after the first settlements leave in come the companies bulldozing blocks of shabby tenement buildings to put up cement factories, iron workings, and canning plants. The residents retreat in the face of endless employment the deep consciousness of the working man knows to keep ahead of drudgery, but then the factories run out and the economy shifts to some new fresh means of creation. The buildings are abandoned in favor of new warehouses outside of town; the industrial complex collapses and leaves a twenty-year void with its passing. Twenty years give or take of rotting fermenting nature slowly eking its way back onto the scene until the streets relinquish themselves to the ceaseless torrents of rain and snow in the winter and the broiling summer heat until they are broken like spirited horses that once walked over them, they begin to crack and then patches of grass come up out of the soil beneath, followed by weeds and shrubs. Nature is heliotropic, always moving up toward the sun, whereas man is constantly being knocked back to the substrata of his origins the crumbling of the old to give rise to the new. The new screams, the new anguish the new drama the newborn slapped on the ass by the god of it all. + + “What do you want from me? I fucking try so hard to love you… even when you throw me out the door, and you throw me out the door, but then you want me back and then you tell me to go again.... WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT? + “I want you… I want… I don’t fucking know what I want why are you always harping on what I want why can’t we just live and exist and be… like Sil and Dean and Betty and every other fucking person on this planet… why can’t we just be happy? Why do we have to have these issues… why do we have to have these things to work on? What are these things what the fuck is going on around here? When did this start?” + “What do you mean? What are you talk” + WHAT DO MEAN ‘WHAT DO I MEAN? You know what I mean, this all of this… look at us…” + “Why are you bringing Dean and Sill into this? Why do you have to live up to some manly ideal that you think they embody? (Dean cracked an eyebrow at me) I got new for you they don’t embody shit! The two of them would be living in goddamn dumpster if we weren’t putting them up!” + “Why does this have to be about my friends? Why is it a problem I asked you if it was alright for them to crash here and now you say its not?” + “It has nothing to do with them…. Its you that I’m talking about. You say we used to be happy we used to not be like this… we used to ‘just live’ as you put it. Well do the fucking math Michael when did this start? When they showed up! And I’m not blaming anything on them, I like them both and Betty too, fuck I like them more than I like you sometimes, but its you. Its what showed up in you that wasn’t here before, this fucking over analyzation shit that you didn’t use to have…” + Police said the suspect was dressed in business suit and may be armed do you have time to cook a meal every night in the midst of balancing… So this guy comes up to me… guaranteed to last a lifetime… + “What the fuck are you talking about?” + “This indecision this fucking shit” + “My indecision? (Derisive laughter) My fucking indecision? And who pray tell FUCKED SOMEBODY else! Who is indecisive? It’s not me I know exactly what I want… I want to be with you, but you won’t let me just be… you question my every fucking move, want to know my every thought, every feeling, don’t you ever not have a feeling? Isn’t it ever just a blank page of white with little blue lines… little fucking blue lines and not word not a fucking thought in sight… do you ever get that… or is it just constant fucking emotional fucking input from the far reaches of the earth and heavens all pouring though your precision little hear that occasionally seems to feel that it need some other guys DICK!” +“Yes Michael we all fucking go a bit nuts every now and then I am as clueless as you are and someone in the midst of this insanity I think that I see and feel and what I see and feel is you, but you won’t let me in you won’t let yourself be hurt and I can’t figure out if its because your scared or because you just don’t fucking care about me like I’m just some sort of ornamental drama that you have been pursuing over the last two fucking years because it happened to interest you and now, now that some bigger fucking part of the drama that you think you are… now that its here I just get shoved to the side cast off like so much luggage…. Fuck me! Fuck you! I don’t know if I was some whim, some thing you wanted to try on in the dressing room and then when you thought it was out of style you can just hang it back up on the rack. No id don’t know anything about anything and neither do you but that doesn’t mean anything, none of it means anything….” + “No that not what you mean, everything means something, it may not make any difference, but goddamn it all means something, who you fuck who you eat dinner with what time you get up, what kind of fucking bombs they drop on everyone, the jails, the murders, it all fucking means something, all of this, everything that is happening it all means something. Maybe none of it matters but it all means something goddamn it! (There is silence in which we here Mike heaving for air and then) “I just don’t know what it is, I just need some time to figure out what the hell I am what I am doing, what this life is, were all fucking try to figure it out… I don’t fucking know what I want okay, I can’t give you some fucking pat little answer that’s going to explain exactly how I feel. Some days I want to be with you and some days you drive me up the fucking walls….” + Researchers have concluded that including a glass of wine with your regular meal may actually increase your life span… but Jim we can’t just leave them here… We’re tiny were toony we’re all a little loony… the initial results indicate HIV… we will be appealing your case… Mr. president the girl from Arkansas is on line to… did you or did you not engage...?… the white house denies… tide gets your colors looking bright… guaranteed to last a life time… I like to buy a vowel… what is the Serengeti?… that is my final answer… +“Oh great! Fucking great now I drive you up the walls!” + “Why the fuck do focus in on the negative, see that’s what I’m talking about I say that some days I want to be with you and some days I don’t and what do we have to get into the days I don’t this must be explained, there is a reason for this, this is what needs to be fixed…. Has it ever occurred to you that I must just want to be alone some days, has it ever occurred to you that I can love you without liking you every now and then? + “You are sick fucking man Michael, I am going to Ally’s to spent the night. I can’t sleep next to you, ugh I can’t be near you…” + And the door slammed. +Betty sleeps, Social Distortion plays in the background and Mike is a flood of meaningless gibberish goes internal and bounces endlessly about in the echo chamber…. Michael was cold calculated psychology distilled out of textbooks through all the vital organs of his body until it fills up his soul with formaldehyde and preserves him eternally, preventing any growth; everything is preserved like jams for the future. He collapsed on to the couch with shrug and I see him standing in on the bridge from now to forever and trying to figure out why he can’t get to tomorrow. He needs to have the bridge blown out from under him, otherwise there will be no growth, just canned life, evaporated stale milk. He is a root bound tree in desperate need of transplanting. He is a leech, it seems so unreal to me that I might have once lived with him, liked him even as a friend. Michael’s insidiousness extends far deeper now than it did back then or at least back then it was never played out in front of me so I didn’t notice it as much, but now I see it overflowing like a boiling kettle. He has lost all traces of humor and runs about madly chasing after this invisible spirit that he thinks will somehow enlighten him, give his life the meaning, the purpose, the joy that it lacks. I remember once years ago an incident that now seems more revealing then it did at the time. I got up and went to take a leak around noon. There was a woman I didn’t know sitting on the toilet chewing on her fingernails, her head bent down and emitting peculiar sniffling sounds; I couldn’t tell if she was laughing or crying. I should have turned around and gone right back to bed but I didn’t because instead of jealousy I am afflicted with pity —incurable. I do it not for them but for me because I can’t bring myself not to, I have no intention of helping I just don’t have reason to do otherwise. So I asked her if she was all right. Yes fine, she said between what I now took to be sobs. “Fine, is there anything I can get you?” A coat hanger…. She smiled weakly and I just started laughing. Laughter that swallowed her up and digested her image sitting there on the toilet hunched over her twat, sniffling like a wounded cornered animal —the perfect specimen of humanity. “You must be a friend of Michael’s?” Yes she was what did Michael do with the creature? He keeps her around because she has constant drama that she dumps on his fragile little middle class heartstrings and it gives him something to do. Something that can be solved that’s all he wants from life, a problem that can be solved something to which he can point and say see it is all better now…. He has no use for whole people, just the ragged torn edges of the pages… preferably dripping fresh blood, new wounds to cauterize and in the process open old ones… poke at the soft scar tissue… induce hemorrhages… leech the life out…. +Michael is an only child like myself, but he is of a different breed rather than independent of self-serving like most (myself included), Michael is like frail wounded animal huddled into corner cowering before the world. What he is cowering from or about I can only assume to be his own personal, self-created demons and to get relief from them, to stand up straight, facing the world and lock arms with it to struggle out life… or some other Hemingwayesque metaphor… he assumes the burdens of others. In great leaders who have already faced up their own demons such a facility would be revered, but in one who can only act on the behalf of others and never for himself it is repulsive, even comical in its stupidity. +He wants to go out and have a drink, but really he doesn’t he wants to keep fighting he should keep fighting, but he should fight with himself beat his own face to a pulp. This is America we beat each other; like the Marquis he stands bleeding and asking if wasn’t good for us…? +(clutching a glass) “She’s fucking nuts you know that only reason I can’t leave her is her body, sex is this thing… this… force that swarms over me and I’m hating her but its pulling at me and no matter how much we scream and even when I hit her that night I am still seeing her tits heave and the way her ass looks when she’s crouched over and the other night she was crying leaning against the door jam and I was standing over her blind with hate… I looked down and she wasn’t wearing any underwear and there is the cunt staring at me, this furry little thing that is the source of all the problems in my life and just stared at it, it enveloped me swallowed me up. What is that warm stick squishy thing that I want? Or maybe (trying to enlist support of dementia through body language, leans in conspiratorially) may be the trouble is everything around the cunt… that’s the real mystery what I need is lust, just pure cunt with no feeling warm and sticky.” +“Yes Michael I think you would be better off with a blow up doll.” Dean is rakish tonight, he is already gone, his body remains to propel the dream further. Mike is menacing tonight too. I can here the masticating of hatred being chewed… mulled over… teeth grinding in his sleep… +“You think so? Ya fuck you! You guys don’t understand with Halley its all about the sex, beyond the sex we don’t get along at all. I can stand over and kick her teeth in if I thought that her cunt would stay warm. Damn that hairy fucking little cunt. She’s too sexy. I get swallowed up.” +Mike was running on and on and I was getting swallowed up and I saw Halley's cunt between her legs I see an aborted fetus hanging out of it bloody and covered in afterbirth with umbilical cord still attached, and cord is there just dangling out of the cunt and I see Mike with scissors trying to cut it and Halley is screaming trying to stop him. The doctor takes the fetus and throws it in the incinerator; the furnace flares and is silent as a slaughterhouse. Halley lies on the table spread eagle, naked and Mike circles her holding blunt object tubular and made out of the words that describe it. It is black and plugged into the wall. Dean and Mike are yelling through me, words pass like water though a screen and there is mike in room with the cattle prod standing over Halley and a symphony strikes up. Marching bands.. fingers tapping… tapping… violins… rhythm of kettle drums… and his arm rises. . He is floating, watching as choked up gasoline-napalm sores sear off his tongue and lick up his body in flames. The air is hot and thick like the worst humidity and the scorching of the flesh sizzles in my nostrils and I just watch. Hell is for voyeurs, the control addicts that like to watch. You just have to ride it out and hope that the cynicism doesn't burn you up right up with them or you find yourself in the liquid fire ripping out your own eyes and sawing off your tongue to run away. Withdrawal in disgust is not the same as apathy.... A little red light comes on signaling that the cattle prod is fully charged. In front of him is Halley, beautiful with short black hair like ravens. She is lying naked with her legs were splayed wide and restrained with leather straps and buckles, her arms are restrained above her head. He smiles weakly at her. Hand the symphony reaches fever pitch, the clash of horns and strings and drums and Mike is looking into her eyes watching the pupils dilate. And it fell, his arm fell, the cattle prod fell; and her body went rigid and she shot up off the table as if suddenly turned into a stiff board. He keeps his eyes locked on her as she collapse back onto the table. He sees something flash through them and he feels a tremor in his guts, his muscles spasm involuntarily. Big uncontrollable sobs wracked his whole body and he falls on his knees and proceeds to curl up in little ball on the floor. He lies like that for a while until the sobs work themselves out the violence fall silent and only a lone lunatic flute floats over the scene. Halley gets up and begins to undress him, starting by unbuttoning his shirt. When she undoes his belt she reaches down and rather gently holds his rigid cock as she eases the pants down over it. She stands embracing him strongly with her arms around his neck pulling herself up until her cunt lips part and she slides down on his cock. Mike is fucking her but she can’t feel it. She can’t feel anything and then the strings return crescendo builds…. She spreads his legs and restrains them along with his arms. She strokes his cock hard again and teases him by biting his nipples. All at once her eyes go black and she thrusts the cattle prod into his balls… Mike is blown up off the table by some kind of wind. He doesn't even feel his come splash of his face as the electricity causes an involuntary muscle spasm that makes it arc out of his cock in unnaturally thick spurts. He lands back on the table his voice is a violin, an inhuman screeching kind of wail. + “What the fuck you know…. What the fuck do you have that lets you glide through this existence like some strange cloud a vapor that is there and you can see it but it doesn’t hurt you? How do you have to turn things over and around and rearrange them so that you can see it in a bright light? Don’t you ver get tired of laughing that smug glib little smirk?” Things are not well at this table, the glasses have accumulated and the pent aggressions are knocking them over. +“Hey watch it Michael, you can insult Sil all you want but don’t bring me into your quaint little semantic psychoanalyzed universe where you little puny mind thinks it understands me….” Dean leans in toward me and around at Mike. I turn my back and while trying not to laugh I harangue the little fucker in hopes that maybe he will listen, but the trouble with me is that I didn’t care, I wanted to make a point, but I knew it was already lost, I could just as easily have stood by while Dean beat him to a pulp. I talked to shut out the symphony the close off the images of torture playing on an endless film loop flickering through the eons. I talked to put an end to Denver, to bury the ugly future in the overflowing sewer of the past, not to thwart violence. So when Dean forced the issue I didn’t do anything to stop it…. +“You know what you stupid little fuck, I don’t need your hospitality I don’t need your food, and certainly don’t need your advise seeing that while financially I may be fucked I am at least fucked and can fuck while you are nothing but a confused mediocre little spoiled piece of shit that can’t do much beyond leave his girlfriend in a half fucked state of longing. That why she called me one day and invited me to lunch one day.” +And then there was an absolute motionless silence for a full five or six seconds. And Mike leaped over me and things went the way things go. +Dean beat the crap out of him. We went home gathered up our bags and hit the road in Dean’s car. In Kansas Dean turned right on my assurances that Mark Pledger would welcome us with open arms. + diff --git a/veryold/very old writings/gone book/D iam.txt b/veryold/very old writings/gone book/D iam.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a110e5e --- /dev/null +++ b/veryold/very old writings/gone book/D iam.txt @@ -0,0 +1,87 @@ + It turned out that Dean and Betty were in Denver too. We all crashed with Mike and Halley. Mike and Halley had come about because of me at least that was how it looked when you poked around the edges of their relationship. The official story was that Halley’s job had led them Denver, but I wasn’t buying. Mike and I were ancient friends (though not as ancient as Clay Mike did know him) we went back a long time ago to a galaxy far far away. Actually it was closer to Spaceballs that Star Wars… right down to the trailer. Mike and I had both dropped out of college and being broke as hell working coffeeshops we could only afford a one-room trailer. There was never any money or food other than noodles. The one thing we had tons of though were friends, friends from high school, friends from college, friends from work, friends friends friends and they were there every fucking night like band of chimpanzees throwing there own feces about and giggling and whooping with laughter. We were all just finding drugs. We were late bloomers. I got out of that trailer atrocity by sheer force of will; well that and the luck that my parents hadn’t done anything with my own room. Mike’s parents already had a home office and they weren’t keen on getting him back. They had vaccinated themselves with furniture, a cruel reality that I only point out because it helps explain Mike. Mike was forced by circumstance to escape via Halley, love was only one side of the coin, the side that Halley saw, but in Denver I saw something colder, something more reptile like creeping behind his eyes —necessity. Love and necessity colliding with all the fanfare of a plane wreck. + Denver was a crash landing for all of us, a bust in grandest old western sense of the word. I remember three things rising up out of the rollicking sautéed cacophony; they float in my recollection like enormous turds. There was the windowless tomb of stone blocks that constituted a house inhabited by five people in two bedrooms in which Dean developed a Heroin habit, Betty drowned in despair and Mike and Halley fought great crusades for the dominance of their sexes. The cinderblock walls sustained all their momentum for seven months. Mike and Halley fell out of love, Dean fell in, Betty climbed over love, and I watched totally unable to act; I was paralyzed and could do nothing for myself or them. It was bliss while it lasted. I watched Dean until he faded into love and heroin becoming too thin to see, then I watched Mike and Halley dissolve into Mike, and Halley, and then finally out of self-pity Dean inadvertently propelled Betty and I out with him on an arcing trajectory that landed me in New Orleans, Betty back in Las Vegas, and Dean in Washington D.C. Throughout it all the television reigned. Betty and I were stationed like zombis before the master god of all creation and its blue aura. Dean was one with the place; he existed by the skin of his teeth, I have little or no recognition of him while we were there, he was either shooting up or talking to Amanda on the internet or both. Otherwise he did not really exist. Dean did that from time to time, became invisible and disappeared only to resurface again at the oddest moment possible. Most of all what sticks out was the sound of it all. A mad kind of humming that was always in background like the sound of time itself walking about in the rooms, banging pots, cooking rice in the kitchen, arguing with itself in the bathroom, throwing shoes at Mike as he runs out of the bedroom. +Dean is typing, it’s a furious noise, he is pounding the keys nodding his head to the sounds from his headphones. He has drowned out his own fingers, doesn’t realize the force with which he is pounding the keys, mad telegraphs spitting out like lizard tongues firing themselves out into electrostatic love notes wired and flung off to Maryland where another pair of fingers responds…. the thing itself it flying back and forth maddening! + And the outside world is no better, what filters in on the TV is reflected back all around us, cold insensitive innocuous suburban delight… detachment. We lived in a decidedly residential area of Denver, a cityvoid that occurs in every big American city where an arbitrary line is drawn around some houses, a couple of suburban strip-mall shopping-centers, and gas stations and it is given a purposefully pedestrian name like Irvine or Turtle Rock… the streets of Douglas Copeland's nightmares. The perpetual warm blue glow of television sets emanated from the windows of vinyl sided endura-homes —guaranteed to last a lifetime or your money back! The television a great luminous third eye watching the affair with the indifference of god. Walking around in the evenings I felt the pride of it’s inventor. Every house was glowing quiet blue light the streets bathed in its iridescence, cobalt streets, sapphire lawns, purple skies, everything lit from within blue, blue noise humming softly… in the background blue people wandered, silhouettes dancing in front of kitchen windows and shadows lurking in open garages. The blue is grating irritating, gets under your skin like the flesh eating virus boils spring up and burst revealing slick blue oil and puss. They slide under the arm; you can see them moving just below the skin. But in background faint at first but growing in decibels is the maddening chant of the newsman and the Maytag man and all the talking heads disembodied and floating in the sky singing choruses. It’s all in timing! The process must be subtle and slow, but steady until the critical mass is reached then summon them like zombies to their own deaths in the gamma ovens… the mad scientist paces about suburban streets in a kind of furious strut. Every thing is planned; everything reflects precision. + Around the cave we lived in even the trees were well manicured as if the force the random act of god even into simplistic conformity, but not with menacing intent… only so that it will match the lawn and the wife’s nails all neatly polished like jewels. I used to work in a town like this, for a couple of days anyway, just long enough to collect such gems as the story of the woman who abandoned her dog on the beach one day because its spots clashed with her new interior design ideas. Or the man who smothered his baby because his wife was paying more attention to the child then his dick. Precious people we all aspire to be and yet you and I somehow we will be different isn’t that right? Somehow it will not get to us, all these trapping we can see through it now and we will see through it then; it never occurred to the monsters either that you don’t have eyes in the back if your head. +You and I though, we can’t afford to do that we must work real hard and get where the rich people are. Funny logic. Fuzzy math. Keep it I’m outta here me the old man said sitting on his rocker, a Kansas porch, hot summer day, cats, an orgone box, a southerner, and glass of clear liquid refilled constantly. Keep it, I’m outta here me. So long. And there is a witch stirring her cauldron; stir in a few European brains, some Irish brawns, a twinkle of pigs’ feet to sniff out the hidden truffles and simmer for two hundred years until the whole cesspool turns into a soufflé. +Outside is America. The sound is deafening. It comes in waves of music, horns, engines, electricity, spinning warbles of neon light echoing asphalt dreams of sanity. Vibrations given off by the turn of espresso handles, the pull of yogurt machines, the spinning of laundry mats, the chopping of the Chinese cook’s knife atop the trash can, chunks of chicken fat and bone accumulating on the floor; all of it whirls in a hurricane melee reverberating about through the dry air of the plains. Crisp air that offers no resistance to the pealing clamor, it just carries it about silent as a tomb offering no comment on the meaning of it all. Standing air listens like a woman in orgasm to the totality of nothingness like wood hewn by sandpaper until smooth contrasted against the sanding sound of ocean waves, rivers feed by rain, driftwood and manicured wood lying side by side. And running your hand over each to notice the artificial feel of the polished hard wood and the prickling organic sensuality of the rough hewn driftwood tossed like a cork, a bottle, a note, all of them riding over seas of imagination and somehow in the landlocked spirit of place Denver sounds like cancer. The insidious beat of death. Tribal drums still heralding the rising moon, wood blocks clanging about in alleys, homeless people rattling shopping carts up one street and down another the mad mad mad sound of science. +Sound I am told by Dean is nothing more than pressure waves being interpreted by my ears. “Horseshit” I mutter and then there is Mike ducking and the sound of Halley yelling, her voice wailing in anguish over something he had done, but we don’t know what it is we don’t know if it is that bad or if she is insane. Betty and I serve the madness in silence, in the background Chandler is broken up over Joey moving out and that mousy guy that’s always ‘the other guy’ in movies is moving in, homoerotic jokes are sticking to vellum walls like flies. + The shoe hits the wall above the couch and tumbles down between Betty and I, she looks at it, I look at it, we look at each other, we look at Mike (he is crying), and we look at the television it is moving on trying to sell me deodorant. On the table is a bong. Betty rouses herself and packs a bowl. Halley is crying and Mike is holding her, but she is pulling away from him. I can’t help finding her sexy, her legs are vulnerable, succulent, but I think of last night when I accidentally walked in on them having sex. The only bathroom has a doorway through the closet that opens into their bedroom, and as I was digging around for a condom I looked in the mirror and saw Mike’s bare ass bouncing enthusiastically off the bed, presumably pounding his cock into her. It made me laugh. Laughter followed by waves of nausea born on seas of alcohol and girl named Jen and then Mike’s ass bouncing furiously… wham!, right into the toilet, into the floor, into walls, the roof the place reeked of laughter, mine, Deans, Betty’s, the studio audience, the children of war celebrating peace. And now I can’t laugh anymore, but Halley is still looking good, her ass is stretched tight in the mirror behind her, it murmurs sex in spite of the shrill of her voice and the sobs that wrack her body; they feel like they are sucking all the air right out of the room. I look at Betty to make sure she has not imploded, but it is too late she is hacking and coughing smoke, a bit of spit flies out of her mouth and she tries to stop it, to regain some composure it makes me laugh which earns me the finger, and the bong. I take a big lazy hit. + Halley’s sobs quiet to weeping; she is one with the floor now, her head grazing stupidly against Mike’s knees, he is standing indifferently, they look like the cover of European vacation, a horrible twisted picture of Chevy Chase as a superhero with his family at his feet and Mike looks every bit as ridiculous as Chevy Chase. He has a defiance to his posture that looks wholly artificial and it occurs to me that he ought to be the one on the ground, he ought to be begging, not to Halley, but begging god to give him his humility back. +Peace talks continued in Kosovo today with both parties saying that progress was made, but meanwhile fighting continues in the country side where sporadic violence and sharp shooting snipers continue to take there toll on the moral and hope of the people who live here…. +And then there is silence, an editing fuck up at the news station, the television is silent, and Halley is not weeping and I hear the air rushing out of my lungs with a asthmatic hiss as I exhale the bonghit. Mike is breathing hard, Betty is holding her breath and suddenly from the other room the tapping stops and a drunken, stoned Dean comes walking through the kitchen. He stops in the frame of the doorway slightly hunched, holding a beer and squinting his eyes…. “What?” +Little phantoms of the house, strange shadows that lurk in the corners without regard for the science of light… they moved in dreary circles, little red blocks all stacked in the living room and the angels sing… how many would die for you?/I’m not talkin’ ‘bout those that get high with you… Over and over scenes of confusion, jumbled words, jumbled phrases, Deans finger flying and the little green men in the shadows that have no regard for the science of light and they sing…. Did you lock into a pattern you couldn't see through? You can no longer trust the metaphor because you saw it coming in focus and you realized it's something from your childhood —endless tapes loping across eons. And you see the game for what it was —something cold-blooded, reptile, slinking across the room. You know the menu is not the meal and you have your metaphors and language bounded in all its unique epochal glory and you see through the epochs, but you can't shake the fear. You know that change is inevitable; you know what you want, you say what you want, and you build the metaphor until it casts its shadow into time. You think you know the end of it and still your sitting on the curb, hungry, apathetic, waiting for the sewer water to splash and wake from the nightmare of history. You're thinking this isn't me, this can't be me. +There is peace in between the news of Kosovo and Halley’s mournful sobs and Betty sucking down another hit of pot and Dean returning from the bathroom pausing again like a half cocked gun squinting, observing and leaving again. The sound of finger tapping reaches us before he is seated, but now the cartoon man wants me to buy his paper towels and you are wondering… what is it that we are wondering? +Everyone walks with unshakable self confidence, but not slow enough to remember that they are walking and when they laugh they pretend to be unafraid. This isn't you. This isn’t me. + + + Its two nights later, the war is over, peace reigns, rich people’s financial interests are secured, Friends’ reruns have come and gone with dinner and Halley is cuddled up on Mike’s lap. She is serene and beautiful tonight because she fucked Dean in bathroom at her work this afternoon. For once there is no typing, the television is on still… commercials. The sound of typing is still hanging in the air translated by the TV as if the noise itself was a force that could pick and choose its manifestation. Mike is happy because he thinks that he is the one making Halley happy and he goes right back for more like one of those rats pulling the lever to get its dosage of nicotine in the studies that Philip Morris wakes up sweating to in the middle of the night. And Halley is making out with Mike now; Mike is not wearing any pants. Halley seems intent on fucking Mike right there in the chair in front of us. I think what would happen if I lobbed the hand grenade into the silence… so Halley how was Dean this afternoon? I hear you fucked him on the sink counter of women’s restroom… that didn’t even work for Tom Cruise in Top Gun at that club… what did Dean do to get you to do that…? I just ask so I can get some pointers you know…? + But I don’t. Obviously. If I had a gun I might have. Dean would have forgiven me in a few weeks, Halley I could do without and Mike already lived with the fantasized notion that Halley fucked everyone when his back was turned. Hell he probably thought I was fucking her, and I probably would have if I thought Halley would have if any of it. If we had any sense at all we would have probably all just fucked each other like blow up toys, like the lecherous little weasels we were, but we didn’t Dean, Betty and I just watched while they dry fucked in the chair, but when Mikes little half-chubbed alcohol-soaked wiener rose up like a miniaturized Cobra from under Halley's mini skirt I had had enough. Dean and I started laughing and Mike reached down and tried to tuck it back under but the thing had a mind of its own and before I knew what I was doing I turned the video camera one and aimed it at them. Dean, Betty and I sneaked out while they went out of it. I left the camera running. + In the bar the talking head from CNN is telling us how the people are safe and the world is somehow better and nothing has changed here because the fingers are the thing that hold it all together and they keep at it every night. And I think of the governors and tyrants of the world celebrating just like they did when the war started I imagine and the man behind the counter wants to know what I want and the girl in the booth wants to know why I haven’t noticed her yet and everything is just wonderful. Being around Mike has us all spinning loops and watching our backs until we find ourselves at the end of night all twisted up and tangled in the ephemeral confusion of nothingness trying to stand on the legs of somethingness. It all swirls together with the past, with Mexico City with San Francisco and Ed’s loft and the bathroom floor, the cabby squealing about fried chicken, the woman on the arch is mixing with Voodoo, gringos and the Quantum Uncertainty principle. Oh you mean this can really happen? Or am I just thinking that it’s happening? Or is it happening because I think its happening? Or am I thinking that it is really happening and I'm just dreaming? Am I going to wake up one day and not remember this dream? Fuzzy logic dogs chasing each other around on a 1987 street in a Mexico City neighborhood. And the Spanish soldier selling chiclettes say no good no bueno, pictures worth not even half a thousand words. Wouldn't give you ten words, worthless gringo words don’t mean shit. no good no bueno, not worth the blood their written in. The blood of all peoples not yours, not your shoes, by god keep your slave labor camps a closed-mouthed secret. Gotta keep that in house must remain forever sealed in baby pissshitguts. No that's not true. No comment. No need for comment, the preceding has been since proved to be untrue, cut to shots of smart bombs. Couldn’t get fifty words for those now gringo -over exposure- nobody buying. Same old stinking shit. No Good. No Bueno. Gringo go home in thousand languages in a million words, why don’t you crawl back in your cave get your tail so far between your legs it goes half way up your ass? Lead me to the holy spigot and we’ll show you the bidet of death, constructed by gringos, for gringos, to flush out gringos, to show them all what you do behind closed doors. Can’t close them all —we have our technicians as well and they’re getting to be better than yours. We got the money rolling in —even offered you the picture words but you don’t want them. No Good. Can’t use those, too strong. No fair, crying boy heads home for cave to lick his dirty balls clean. + The girl in booth has her arm over my shoulder she is stroking my hair but the little street urchin with the chiclettes is at the table; he can’t be shut up, hawking wares for death, little powders potions and peppers hanging from his arms, but the CNNhead says all is well, justice is served. The television is close curcuit captioned for the hearing impaired, the little boy is adament no captions only pictures for the blind. Rustling of paper behind boardroom walls sends him into fits…. I gotta picture for you I on vacation in your country go to hear senator’s speak but all door are closed, all sealed. So i gotta fiber optic and feed it in from the roof show all senators mad with sexual lust and blood thirsty, clamoring for war and stealing souls and bodies and driving them off wherever they see fit…. The CNNhead is protesting this outburst… get off of my lllaaaawwwwnnnnn!!! But the boy will not be silenced there are thousands of them now a chorus of little brown boys singing, chanting like Benetine Monks…All that you consider to be a accident was carefully orchestrated for your benefit by a benevolent cocksucking god from the twenty-third dimension to just plain old irritate the fuck out of you like a bad rectal itch. Stupid gringo got no cure for the ass itch i show you some pictures, yes very dirty, little girls you like? But the girl in the booth has a name, a face we will not hurt her, she will be the last innocent and my tongue slides in her mouth, hand up her skirt she is wet the last innocent. Her breath is short it comes in rasps I hear it against my ear. The boys are chanting to the beat of drums… I got pictures for you gringo… pictures you hear? Her breath. The commander in chief of the NATO forces in Europe is fucking small refugee boy in the ass, the boy cries for his mother the general is laughing, your mother’s down the hall boy, she’s busy with the president of France right now. But maybe later you’d like to lick his come off her dead face… Ban those words tear them right out snip snip. Can’t say that, its disgusting. War is a snuff film for the rich. The CNNhead is confering, the girl is breathing the boys are chanting. “We gotta step up the bombing chief the public’s losing innarest in us” screams the chief of staff running in circles jerking off and slapping his ass until it turns a bright purple and with all seriousness General Jesse Helms pauses to reflect: I remember a time when life was good no one got in our way, why in Europe under Patton i musta raped twenty thirty little boys and a handful of nuns too. He smiles lost in memory...but God hath given us these trying times.... Yes it is bit hard to get cunt these days isn’t it, mumbles the chief of state as he strokes his wife’s cock....Yes dear start a war, get me some cute refugee boys, i so love snapping their necks when I'm coming, she growls affectionately. That's it gentlemen were going to war! The president stands and ejaculates on a map of the world KOSOVO it is he says as his thick oatmeal consistency sperm all but covers the former republic of Yugoslavia. + You like? You like, no? Too bad. You can’t have those words, too strong. I get power, you give me power, I steal power from you, to expensive to buy it. I get power and you get pictures and maybe I tell you how to cure rectal itch? Eh? Eh? Eh? She comes and lights a cigarette. The man behind the counter turns off the TV and we leave. Her name was Maya. + +By the time we got back the camera was on its side, the tripod was broken and they were screaming at each other + “Fucking slut….” + “You’re an asshole…!” + “Fuck you! I love you!” + “You don’t know what love is! You’re a little child!” + “You’re cold bitch! Don’t you have any feeling in that dried hard little cuntheart of yours!?” + “Do not call me a cunt! + “I didn’t call you a cunt! I said you have a fucking hard little fucking CUNTHEART!!!! + “Fuck you! You wouldn’t know what to do with cunt anyway!” +At that point a little air shot out of my chest involuntarily, I knew what was coming. There was the sound of skin, a sickly slapping, stinging horribly thin kind of sound, the unmistakable sound of hatred and self doubt bring itself into realtime like an airborne virus. Then silence. Dean and I sit passing joint on Betty’s bed, listening through the wall. + “I’m sorry……… I didn’t mean to hit you!” + “Then how the fuck did you HIT ME! How can you not mean to hit someone? There is no such thing as ACCIDENTALLY hitting someone, that doesn’t happen… nooneaccidentally hits anyone…youmeant to hitme…(sobs)… you FUCKING PRICK! (Sounds of crashing, light bulbs pop and the light streaming under the door disappears)” + “Oh that’s FUCKING great! You stupid bitch!” (Now there is a dull thud followed by a low moan and Dean and I look at each other. We are too fucked up for this….) + By the time we turn on the kitchen light they are wrestling at the door and before we can get across the room Mike throws Halley out the front door wearing only a thin nightgown. Its February in Denver, Colorado and they are in hysterics. Tears are streaming down Mike’s face and whether they are from the marijuana, the alcohol, the pain and anguish of heartbreak or the red welt atop his forehead it is still February in Denver and he is still in hysterics and he stands there trying to manage a thin strained smile as he collapses against the door. Dean and I are frozen. + “She fuck some guy.” + I try not to move or show any signs. + “The BITCH FUCKED SOME OTHER GUY!” he yells at the door but there is no answer. “You hear me you dumb bitch! I hope you fucking freeze to death. I hope his cock keeps you warm out there! I hope you know where he lives! I hope you get there before you lose any fingers or toes… you FUCKING CUNT! Jesus Christ….” He is weeping on the floor with his hands over his face I try to move him and he punches wildly but accurately hitting me in the jaw. Out of anger I kick him and he makes no protest. I shove him aside and go out to look for Halley. She didn’t go far. She is sitting on the neighbor’s couch the neighbors are up wearing bathrobes, rubbing her back and rocking her on the couch. She is shaking like a leaf. + “What’s wrong with him Sil? Why is he doing this? I am good to him aren’t I? I shouldn’t be putting up with this, this is bullshit, I can’t keep doing this…. (head in her hands) What the fuck is wrong with him? What wrong with you, with all of you? (Tears are running down her face) There is this thing in you that can’t let go, can’t admit that you’re wrong… all of you, your so damn sure that your little feelings and your little emotions have to be so goddamn right that you think you can just pull them down like shades over the whole fucking world! (yelling up at me, wild eyes) Every emotion, every thought, every fucking little thing can be broken down and analyzed and dismissed with some cynical diatribe that you think is so witty and fucking funny… goddamn all of you. (lunging towards me and hitting my chest, near screaming hysterics) You make me sick… I make me sick for letting myself be involved with him…. (collapsing onto me) I outta fucking be able to do better than this if this is love… this… this… fucking little hyper universe that you guys live in.... (pulling her self up and off of me) This is not love… I don’t always know what I am doing… I don’t always know what I am feeling OKAY! FUCK! (arms raised in exasperation) Don’t you ever, doesn’t he ever, just have moment of absolute confusion where he wants to do something completely irrational not out of love even just because its there and it can be done and.... and fuck… I don’t know why I fucked him…….(staring at the ground, pacing) It had just been so long since there was any passion you know, Mike and I are an old couple this shit happens, it doesn’t mean anything, right? …and I know Mike has fucked around, I know he fucked around in Europe, but he won’t admit it that’s the thing that makes me so fucking mad is he won’t admit it… and why? Why? Because if he admitted that then he’d have to face up to the fact that I am as weak as he is… whereas now he can call me a slut and make himself out to be better, that’s all I am to him this thing against which he can measure himself, this thing… this superwoman which I am supposed to be to him… this …fuck! (arms up exasperated) Do you know what this is doing to me? I am losing my mind… I’m not going to go nuts over him… I knew I should have run away right after we made love for the first time… I should have just run, because now I’m here and he’s throwing me out the door in my fucking night gown… in my FUCKING NIGHTGOWN!!!” +And then she collapsed or rather doubled over in sobs. I turned around and went back to see if Mike had calmed down. He and Dean were smoking a cigarette on the couch. Betty was in the chair dispensing wisdom that sounded like it would have solved all his problems, but Mike is a man and men can’t hear a word that women are saying, just like women can’t hear a word that men are saying and whole so-called battle of the sexes could be stopped just like Capt. Cook didn’t have to die on that island if only we had a goddamn interpreter that could translate the two languages and solve the riddle. Translate the emotion and feeling into the logic and predictable precision and then back out into the chaotic no-man’s-land of feeling again. Some guru, some pygmy, some monk, some alien that can add it all up and give us some kind of answer, that’s all we really want. +And the newscaster is talking about chemical warfare and he says that chemicals are weapons of mass destruction, but they are not, they are very selective and Mike turns the channel and there is a leopard or an ocelot tearing away the flesh of wildebeest and then the image changes to an ad for a moisturizing soap that will make us all look ten years younger and there is girl who looks ten years younger and her head is moving her lips are moving, but her voice is hollow and detached she comes out the side of the television and echoes falsely about the room and then I turn off the TV. And Mike starts in. + “Fuck man what am doing? (tugs at his hair with one hand and rolls the phone absently in the other hand, the whole movement seems false.) What did you do? Did you do this? I mean with Leah, she was you first love… and now look at you… you’re fine, you haven’t talked to her in years… what did you do? How did you fill this hole that I feel growing in me…. (looking at me pleading for some answer) Do you just harden yourself?… she thinks I’m hardened because I pushed her out the door, but that wasn’t the hard part of me that was the raw nerve endings of pain that was me trying to find love….or fight love… (looking for the answer as if it might be on the ceiling) that was my love that pushed her out the door… the cold hard part of me is the part that will go over there in a couple of hours and talk to her… (reflective self-analyzed pose of mock security) the hard part of me is the part that will make love to her while the love in me fades, gets up and leaves the room…. The horrible thing about losing love isn’t that it makes you hard it’s that you realize or you start to realize that love can be lost…. (serene face of philosopher dispensing wisdom) That’s what is tearing me up right now, the reality I am beginning to see is that there is no sacredness to love like they want you to believe… whoever they are…. (momentarily side tracked by a novel thought) But that’s not the point… the point is that once you realize that love can be lost, once you know that this can happen… its doomed to happen again…. You will never again be able to look at someone and to see a relationship that doesn’t end… I know now that for every beginning there is an ending already written…. (with disgust) Like that goddamn book you think you’re writing… the end’s already there isn’t it? I bet that was the first thing that you thought of… (sobbing, despair again) Oh god! How the fuck do you get out of this… how do you find hope again… and even if you do what do you do when it is dashed? How many times can you do this? Is there a limitation to the number of times you can have your heart broken…? (serene face of philosopher dispensing wisdom) Is it like one of those Lithium batteries where it never recharges all the way again and its starts looping back until there is nothing and then right when you think you have it… oh I underst…WHAM! And then it’s gone, you’re gone, the thing is gone… (silence in which feeling flashes across his face like a forgotten memory) Jesus what is she doing over there does she really hate me? She really hates me now doesn’t she? Fuck and the horrible thing is that somewhere deep down I wanted her to fuck that guy whoever he is… it doesn’t matter… god I want a whole gang of giant cocked black guys to gang fuck her through eternity if that’s what it takes, but I want to feel something… I’m not feeling anything anymore, the only time I feel anything is when I hurt her… then I feel hate. I mean I feel her hating me, but when she’s not hating me I don’t feel anything… I don’t feel loved…” +And he broke down into pure honest crying. Dean and I looked at each other and then at the VCR clock, it was ten till two and we both had the same thought. Run. + + + + + +Months rolled by and I have dim images of fall colors and an unsettling chill to the air. The mountains colored like firestorms and then the snow, lots of it, too cold to go outside. I took a job at a paper writing the horoscopes and occasionally I broke down and delivered pizza with Dean. Halley and Mike were at each other all the time. The television no longer mentioned Kosovo and there was a new game show sweeping the nation where you answered a series of stupid questions and got a million bucks. It was in the same vein as the Idiots Guide series… the steady decline of intelligence perfectly laid out like military campaign. Can’t figure out how to tie your shoes? Get the Idiot’s Guide to tying you shoes. I was waiting for the only useful title… the Idiots Guide to suicide… I wrote a letter to the publisher, but got no reply. And there was Regis Philman presiding over the burning hills and the freezing snow gleefully like a weatherman issuing a hurricane warning he smiled over it all. Great floating teeth that hung in the nightmares of f. Scott Fitzgerald’s. Signs of the apocalypse. This is hardly the first collective suicide. It's all part of history, the endless tumults, hills and glades and all the while we look at the crimson leaves and think that fall is in the air. But the spacemen never showed and the Nikes and the black suits with spaghetti ties were all in vain because the CD is skipping and we’re all stuck on endless repeat. +The fingers kept flying and the months fell away with them. I hear them from a distance now like the sound of an approaching marching band or a clock that hasn’t chimed yet. Sometimes I would wake up at dawn and hear the fingers. Marching marching marching. Dean as a tireless soldier of seduction…. Mike on the other hand remained a tireless soldier of reductionist emotional rationalism, which is what we named his peculiar nit-picked version of life. His idea of a worldview was crumbs, the confetti after the parade has passed. Christ all the way. Quick get us a tree, somebody make two boards… hurry before he loses the courage and does it himself. Christ was on a suicide trip, that much we know now he’d have gone with or without the Romans… how else do you end a story like that? +By March it was getting so bad that Dean and I used to just sit and smoke and listen to them for entertainment —familiarity breeds contempt.... We tuned them in and out of our own conversation the way television comes and goes. Betty would pass out on the bed and we would sit with out backs to the wall and just listen for hours. We had running bets on who would go insane first Mike or Halley? As time when on we both switched our bets to lie on ourselves. One morning we had to leave at nine because they were throwing things and we just wanted to sleep, but it’s hard to sleep in the midst of reckless friendly fire. I remember that morning because I was awoken from a nap by a lamp hitting my head. The couch was no longer safe. I kicked Dean and we darted out. We tried sleeping in his car but it was a no go so we wound up getting coffee and after that we went for a drive to get a feel for Denver. We wound up downtown since we just kind of aimed for tallest buildings or at least that’s how it seemed but Dean might have know what he was doing… I wouldn’t put it past him to have been buying down there for sometime, but I ignored his heroin use. If you ignore something long enough eventually it just goes away. +It is finally warm enough to take off the jackets. We sit on the steps of an old warehouse loading bay and listen to drone of afternoon. Listen for the returning Spring, which creeps in like a virgin newlywed glimpsing her first erect penis. And the thing is jerking with anticipation and the virgin is meek, but something is stirring some hunger that can never be satisfied starts to gnaw at the hidden parts of her mind, of her stomach, of her cunt. Spring is coming amid the fantastical ruins of downtown Denver, anywhere. It’s a disquieting sight, a testament to the durability if not of buildings than the certainty of mankind that he out always to have more of them. The macabre feeling of mobile decay struck me as we drove out of the sparkling sterile business hub of the new downtown where cars run with silent hums, exhausts hits the air clean without additives, fat free business men and women scurry, rat feet scrapping the ceiling at night and the cars are bigger, they sound like squirrels scampering up trees. Push cart coffee salesmen in sharp uniforms chat with professional desk sitters over bagels and reduced fat cream cheese and the heart attack penthouse office fat men in suits collect like windblown lead trash in front of the roach coach. We can see them, hear them, smell them from down here, two blocks south where all is not well. Brick steps pad silent under our feet and crumbled bits of mortar from the buildings settles with the rustling of the air, little whirlpools, miniature tornadoes that circle the vast open parking lot that once was a truck loading zone. Everything is in various states of disarray, here and there a tree sprouting out a window. A chiming laughter of the gods whose frail leaves still quake like the virgin. You may build with your precious creations of pressed gravel, but we, we are here always perpetuating a grand cycle of which you are only an upstart movement an attempt to catalogue, and what did you get for it? You get fantastic ruins, testaments to your own malleability, silly creatures struggling to leave a mark in competition against the eons of geology and botany. Water stained brick has a romance that the Nouevvo downtown can not match it has a weathered face to it that is gained only with the infinite passing of time like an old man with wrinkled wizened face sitting in a rocking chair on the porch of roadside store in Louisiana. Even material so simple as brick will outlast you and I, our own permanence is in the stories we create, whether living them out, dreaming them aloud, or writing them down, we beat nature on one account, we can record the past and bring it into the future even if it never actually happened. Sheet metal roofing that collapsed inward to the lofts that it sheltered is now stick out at awkward angles through broken industrial windows and a giant piece hangs precariously over a second story doorway, threatening to give up and fall clanging down the stairs to the ground where Dean and I are sitting. We walked about in the industrial ruin taking a few pictures and sipping on now cold coffee. I was wandering about in the ruins the way tourists of room head out to Pompeii with a sense that here is a monument to times past. Times I never knew, times that remain locked in my own phantasmal imagination where errand boys skipped about street delivering messages from the factory to the office uptown. Merchants pushing carts sold pomegranates, oranges, and onions to welfare mothers in the great depression. The launch pad for a thousand tragedies —it could be Denver or anywhere. + Ed lives in a part of LA that looks remarkably similar to this, an unholy contract between artist renovated lofts and slowly dying industrial shipping companies, metal recycling facilities, and giant distribution warehouses. All things move in circles and so after the first settlements leave in come the companies bulldozing blocks of shabby tenement buildings to put up cement factories, iron workings, and canning plants. The residents retreat in the face of endless employment the deep consciousness of the working man knows to keep ahead of drudgery, but then the factories run out and the economy shifts to some new fresh means of creation. The buildings are abandoned in favor of new warehouses outside of town; the industrial complex collapses and leaves a twenty-year void with its passing. Twenty years give or take of rotting fermenting nature slowly eking its way back onto the scene until the streets relinquish themselves to the ceaseless torrents of rain and snow in the winter and the broiling summer heat until they are broken like spirited horses that once walked over them, they begin to crack and then patches of grass come up out of the soil beneath, followed by weeds and shrubs. Nature is heliotropic, always moving up toward the sun, whereas man is constantly being knocked back to the substrata of his origins the crumbling of the old to give rise to the new. The new screams, the new anguish the new drama the newborn slapped on the ass by the god of it all. + + “What do you want from me? I fucking try so hard to love you… even when you throw me out the door, and you throw me out the door, but then you want me back and then you tell me to go again.... WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT? + “I want you… I want… I don’t fucking know what I want why are you always harping on what I want why can’t we just live and exist and be… like Sil and Dean and Betty and every other fucking person on this planet… why can’t we just be happy? Why do we have to have these issues… why do we have to have these things to work on? What are these things what the fuck is going on around here? When did this start?” + “What do you mean? What are you talk” + WHAT DO MEAN ‘WHAT DO I MEAN? You know what I mean, this all of this… look at us…” + “Why are you bringing Dean and Sill into this? Why do you have to live up to some manly ideal that you think they embody? (Dean cracked an eyebrow at me) I got new for you they don’t embody shit! The two of them would be living in goddamn dumpster if we weren’t putting them up!” + “Why does this have to be about my friends? Why is it a problem I asked you if it was alright for them to crash here and now you say its not?” + “It has nothing to do with them…. Its you that I’m talking about. You say we used to be happy we used to not be like this… we used to ‘just live’ as you put it. Well do the fucking math Michael when did this start? When they showed up! And I’m not blaming anything on them, I like them both and Betty too, fuck I like them more than I like you sometimes, but its you. Its what showed up in you that wasn’t here before, this fucking over analyzation shit that you didn’t use to have…” + Police said the suspect was dressed in business suit and may be armed do you have time to cook a meal every night in the midst of balancing… So this guy comes up to me… guaranteed to last a lifetime… + “What the fuck are you talking about?” + “This indecision this fucking shit” + “My indecision? (Derisive laughter) My fucking indecision? And who pray tell FUCKED SOMEBODY else! Who is indecisive? It’s not me I know exactly what I want… I want to be with you, but you won’t let me just be… you question my every fucking move, want to know my every thought, every feeling, don’t you ever not have a feeling? Isn’t it ever just a blank page of white with little blue lines… little fucking blue lines and not word not a fucking thought in sight… do you ever get that… or is it just constant fucking emotional fucking input from the far reaches of the earth and heavens all pouring though your precision little hear that occasionally seems to feel that it need some other guys DICK!” +“Yes Michael we all fucking go a bit nuts every now and then I am as clueless as you are and someone in the midst of this insanity I think that I see and feel and what I see and feel is you, but you won’t let me in you won’t let yourself be hurt and I can’t figure out if its because your scared or because you just don’t fucking care about me like I’m just some sort of ornamental drama that you have been pursuing over the last two fucking years because it happened to interest you and now, now that some bigger fucking part of the drama that you think you are… now that its here I just get shoved to the side cast off like so much luggage…. Fuck me! Fuck you! I don’t know if I was some whim, some thing you wanted to try on in the dressing room and then when you thought it was out of style you can just hang it back up on the rack. No id don’t know anything about anything and neither do you but that doesn’t mean anything, none of it means anything….” + “No that not what you mean, everything means something, it may not make any difference, but goddamn it all means something, who you fuck who you eat dinner with what time you get up, what kind of fucking bombs they drop on everyone, the jails, the murders, it all fucking means something, all of this, everything that is happening it all means something. Maybe none of it matters but it all means something goddamn it! (There is silence in which we here Mike heaving for air and then) “I just don’t know what it is, I just need some time to figure out what the hell I am what I am doing, what this life is, were all fucking try to figure it out… I don’t fucking know what I want okay, I can’t give you some fucking pat little answer that’s going to explain exactly how I feel. Some days I want to be with you and some days you drive me up the fucking walls….” + Researchers have concluded that including a glass of wine with your regular meal may actually increase your life span… but Jim we can’t just leave them here… We’re tiny were toony we’re all a little loony… the initial results indicate HIV… we will be appealing your case… Mr. president the girl from Arkansas is on line to… did you or did you not engage...?… the white house denies… tide gets your colors looking bright… guaranteed to last a life time… I like to buy a vowel… what is the Serengeti?… that is my final answer… +“Oh great! Fucking great now I drive you up the walls!” + “Why the fuck do focus in on the negative, see that’s what I’m talking about I say that some days I want to be with you and some days I don’t and what do we have to get into the days I don’t this must be explained, there is a reason for this, this is what needs to be fixed…. Has it ever occurred to you that I must just want to be alone some days, has it ever occurred to you that I can love you without liking you every now and then? + “You are sick fucking man Michael, I am going to Ally’s to spent the night. I can’t sleep next to you, ugh I can’t be near you…” + And the door slammed. +Betty sleeps, Social Distortion plays in the background and Mike is a flood of meaningless gibberish goes internal and bounces endlessly about in the echo chamber…. Michael was cold calculated psychology distilled out of textbooks through all the vital organs of his body until it fills up his soul with formaldehyde and preserves him eternally, preventing any growth; everything is preserved like jams for the future. He collapsed on to the couch with shrug and I see him standing in on the bridge from now to forever and trying to figure out why he can’t get to tomorrow. He needs to have the bridge blown out from under him, otherwise there will be no growth, just canned life, evaporated stale milk. He is a root bound tree in desperate need of transplanting. He is a leech, it seems so unreal to me that I might have once lived with him, liked him even as a friend. Michael’s insidiousness extends far deeper now than it did back then or at least back then it was never played out in front of me so I didn’t notice it as much, but now I see it overflowing like a boiling kettle. He has lost all traces of humor and runs about madly chasing after this invisible spirit that he thinks will somehow enlighten him, give his life the meaning, the purpose, the joy that it lacks. I remember once years ago an incident that now seems more revealing then it did at the time. I got up and went to take a leak around noon. There was a woman I didn’t know sitting on the toilet chewing on her fingernails, her head bent down and emitting peculiar sniffling sounds; I couldn’t tell if she was laughing or crying. I should have turned around and gone right back to bed but I didn’t because instead of jealousy I am afflicted with pity —incurable. I do it not for them but for me because I can’t bring myself not to, I have no intention of helping I just don’t have reason to do otherwise. So I asked her if she was all right. Yes fine, she said between what I now took to be sobs. “Fine, is there anything I can get you?” A coat hanger…. She smiled weakly and I just started laughing. Laughter that swallowed her up and digested her image sitting there on the toilet hunched over her twat, sniffling like a wounded cornered animal —the perfect specimen of humanity. “You must be a friend of Michael’s?” Yes she was what did Michael do with the creature? He keeps her around because she has constant drama that she dumps on his fragile little middle class heartstrings and it gives him something to do. Something that can be solved that’s all he wants from life, a problem that can be solved something to which he can point and say see it is all better now…. He has no use for whole people, just the ragged torn edges of the pages… preferably dripping fresh blood, new wounds to cauterize and in the process open old ones… poke at the soft scar tissue… induce hemorrhages… leech the life out…. +Michael is an only child like myself, but he is of a different breed rather than independent of self-serving like most (myself included), Michael is like frail wounded animal huddled into corner cowering before the world. What he is cowering from or about I can only assume to be his own personal, self-created demons and to get relief from them, to stand up straight, facing the world and lock arms with it to struggle out life… or some other Hemingwayesque metaphor… he assumes the burdens of others. In great leaders who have already faced up their own demons such a facility would be revered, but in one who can only act on the behalf of others and never for himself it is repulsive, even comical in its stupidity. +He wants to go out and have a drink, but really he doesn’t he wants to keep fighting he should keep fighting, but he should fight with himself beat his own face to a pulp. This is America we beat each other; like the Marquis he stands bleeding and asking if wasn’t good for us…? +(clutching a glass) “She’s fucking nuts you know that only reason I can’t leave her is her body, sex is this thing… this… force that swarms over me and I’m hating her but its pulling at me and no matter how much we scream and even when I hit her that night I am still seeing her tits heave and the way her ass looks when she’s crouched over and the other night she was crying leaning against the door jam and I was standing over her blind with hate… I looked down and she wasn’t wearing any underwear and there is the cunt staring at me, this furry little thing that is the source of all the problems in my life and just stared at it, it enveloped me swallowed me up. What is that warm stick squishy thing that I want? Or maybe (trying to enlist support of dementia through body language, leans in conspiratorially) may be the trouble is everything around the cunt… that’s the real mystery what I need is lust, just pure cunt with no feeling warm and sticky.” +“Yes Michael I think you would be better off with a blow up doll.” Dean is rakish tonight, he is already gone, his body remains to propel the dream further. Mike is menacing tonight too. I can here the masticating of hatred being chewed… mulled over… teeth grinding in his sleep… +“You think so? Ya fuck you! You guys don’t understand with Halley its all about the sex, beyond the sex we don’t get along at all. I can stand over and kick her teeth in if I thought that her cunt would stay warm. Damn that hairy fucking little cunt. She’s too sexy. I get swallowed up.” +Mike was running on and on and I was getting swallowed up and I saw Halley's cunt between her legs I see an aborted fetus hanging out of it bloody and covered in afterbirth with umbilical cord still attached, and cord is there just dangling out of the cunt and I see Mike with scissors trying to cut it and Halley is screaming trying to stop him. The doctor takes the fetus and throws it in the incinerator; the furnace flares and is silent as a slaughterhouse. Halley lies on the table spread eagle, naked and Mike circles her holding blunt object tubular and made out of the words that describe it. It is black and plugged into the wall. Dean and Mike are yelling through me, words pass like water though a screen and there is mike in room with the cattle prod standing over Halley and a symphony strikes up. Marching bands.. fingers tapping… tapping… violins… rhythm of kettle drums… and his arm rises. . He is floating, watching as choked up gasoline-napalm sores sear off his tongue and lick up his body in flames. The air is hot and thick like the worst humidity and the scorching of the flesh sizzles in my nostrils and I just watch. Hell is for voyeurs, the control addicts that like to watch. You just have to ride it out and hope that the cynicism doesn't burn you up right up with them or you find yourself in the liquid fire ripping out your own eyes and sawing off your tongue to run away. Withdrawal in disgust is not the same as apathy.... A little red light comes on signaling that the cattle prod is fully charged. In front of him is Halley, beautiful with short black hair like ravens. She is lying naked with her legs were splayed wide and restrained with leather straps and buckles, her arms are restrained above her head. He smiles weakly at her. Hand the symphony reaches fever pitch, the clash of horns and strings and drums and Mike is looking into her eyes watching the pupils dilate. And it fell, his arm fell, the cattle prod fell; and her body went rigid and she shot up off the table as if suddenly turned into a stiff board. He keeps his eyes locked on her as she collapse back onto the table. He sees something flash through them and he feels a tremor in his guts, his muscles spasm involuntarily. Big uncontrollable sobs wracked his whole body and he falls on his knees and proceeds to curl up in little ball on the floor. He lies like that for a while until the sobs work themselves out the violence fall silent and only a lone lunatic flute floats over the scene. Halley gets up and begins to undress him, starting by unbuttoning his shirt. When she undoes his belt she reaches down and rather gently holds his rigid cock as she eases the pants down over it. She stands embracing him strongly with her arms around his neck pulling herself up until her cunt lips part and she slides down on his cock. Mike is fucking her but she can’t feel it. She can’t feel anything and then the strings return crescendo builds…. She spreads his legs and restrains them along with his arms. She strokes his cock hard again and teases him by biting his nipples. All at once her eyes go black and she thrusts the cattle prod into his balls… Mike is blown up off the table by some kind of wind. He doesn't even feel his come splash of his face as the electricity causes an involuntary muscle spasm that makes it arc out of his cock in unnaturally thick spurts. He lands back on the table his voice is a violin, an inhuman screeching kind of wail. + “What the fuck you know…. What the fuck do you have that lets you glide through this existence like some strange cloud a vapor that is there and you can see it but it doesn’t hurt you? How do you have to turn things over and around and rearrange them so that you can see it in a bright light? Don’t you ver get tired of laughing that smug glib little smirk?” Things are not well at this table, the glasses have accumulated and the pent aggressions are knocking them over. +“Hey watch it Michael, you can insult Sil all you want but don’t bring me into your quaint little semantic psychoanalyzed universe where you little puny mind thinks it understands me….” Dean leans in toward me and around at Mike. I turn my back and while trying not to laugh I harangue the little fucker in hopes that maybe he will listen, but the trouble with me is that I didn’t care, I wanted to make a point, but I knew it was already lost, I could just as easily have stood by while Dean beat him to a pulp. I talked to shut out the symphony the close off the images of torture playing on an endless film loop flickering through the eons. I talked to put an end to Denver, to bury the ugly future in the overflowing sewer of the past, not to thwart violence. So when Dean forced the issue I didn’t do anything to stop it…. +“You know what you stupid little fuck, I don’t need your hospitality I don’t need your food, and certainly don’t need your advise seeing that while financially I may be fucked I am at least fucked and can fuck while you are nothing but a confused mediocre little spoiled piece of shit that can’t do much beyond leave his girlfriend in a half fucked state of longing. That why she called me one day and invited me to lunch one day.” +And then there was an absolute motionless silence for a full five or six seconds. And Mike leaped over me and things went the way things go. +Dean beat the crap out of him. We went home gathered up our bags and hit the road in Dean’s car. In Kansas Dean turned right on my assurances that Mark Pledger would welcome us with open arms. + diff --git a/veryold/very old writings/gone book/LA iam.txt b/veryold/very old writings/gone book/LA iam.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8321427 --- /dev/null +++ b/veryold/very old writings/gone book/LA iam.txt @@ -0,0 +1,67 @@ +Things are looking up for me here in LA I have migrated from Andy’s closet to Dean’s dining room; he never uses it as he never really dines, if I renamed it the drinking room he would kick me out on the street and be in it every night. Dean has a place about an hour south of Los Angeles proper and then my good friend Ed has a place smack dab in the middle of LA so if I want the city I can have it and I can escape it again when it gets old. The real strangeness started about a week ago when Betty, Dean’s sister, showed up. Her husband has just shipped off to Japan for a year and she is morbidly depressed about it moping about the house all day like a slug, oozing existence but absent of all life. Betty is especially monstrous in the morning and I try to slip out before she gets up, luckily she sleeps a lot so I can usually make it out around noon without having to face her and then when I come back in the evening she is awake and more or less harmless, but I fear her before ten AM. +As I say she brought the strangeness, or maybe she just drew it out and reflected the strangeness back so I could see it again, whatever the case it is here like an epidemic of the plague. Not long after she arrived we dragged her up to Ed’s we felt it was our duty to entertain her and get her mind off the missing husband. I tend to drink far to much when I am at Ed’s, drinks role down my throat like wild horses rampaging through my hands with a life and will of their own, and so it came to be that I broke Ed’s cutting board, door, chair and took to lighting his floor on fire one night. It was round Christmas that much is certain because I woke up under a toppled Christmas Tree; I blame the whole affair on Ed. He should have known better than to give me a whole bottle of scotch all to myself. Of all the people in my life who’s homes I have wrought destruction and chaos upon Ed was he least deserving. +Ed is perhaps the gentlest of all the maniacs that I associate with, he had an almost feminine kind of glow about him that comes across like light through a stained glass window —in odd chaotic fragments of color. There are for instance the little things like the way he is sure to have fresh towels and clean blankets for us when we arrive. He cooks little pizzas and sometimes pastas, the mornings after he is libel to be up brewing coffee and frying eggs, Ed had always been the perfect host. +Other shimmies of light come through in his art, his paintings (the best of which he insists on hanging sideways), his photographs and mostly his endless curiosity. He stalks through the conversations like a man eager to learn something eager to be shown something new. Ed craves novelty and doesn’t yet know how to find it; he finds it in Dean and I. He cultivates our company like one takes care of pets with the utmost love and concern asking only to be entertained in return. Ed knows that his lot in life is not to burn cities with ideas, scorch the earth with paint and revolutionize the modern aesthetic or whatever painters are up to these days. Ed is destined to paint quietly with the patience and understanding of a true saint. Ed of Ark I call him in letters. +But back to the destruction…. +It must have been a Thursday, because Dean and Betty left for LA on a Friday, that much I know for sure. I got up early, around six, and went to serve my time for being a citizen of the United States —jury duty. It was my first time in a courthouse and I was certainly not to used to that hour of the morning; much like I assumed it was horrid —a half day of exposure to the radiation dangers of white middle class suburban values. I was bored. My inner child was beginning to putrefy in the stale smokeless air of the waiting rooms, I felt like sheets of burnt skin must be slowly slipping off my face I felt grotesque and obvious, like I stuck out as the most-likely-to be back of the other side of the room. +I had hoped perhaps to have a fellow juror to slide off with into a broom closet, but there were no attractive jurors, nor did I catch any broom closets. The nuts and bolts of democracy were frigid and even asexual. The halls of justice sported the sophisticated airs of wood veneer and fake marble floors whose undistinguished patterns inhabited a no-man’s-land between linoleum and whatever is just a bit nicer than linoleum. The architecture was studiously formal in a painful way that only psychiatrists, number theorists, and judges find appealing. Courts are strange places; they have a sense of doom about them. You’re accused from the moment you walk in the door regardless of why you might be there; the tribunals of architecture condemn your very presence. Walking in those doors I got the sense of dread that the great cathedrals of medieval Europe must have inspired in the serf peasants. The state is the new dominant religion and the court is a place of worship; you don’t just go to jury duty, you serve jury duty; you serve the state and the state has some things they want you to know. +They bring juries into the court room to remind even the law abiding citizens of what will happen should they decide to stray out of the neat little square boxes that hold the officially accepted rules about what is permitted and what is not. It reeks of textbook Freudian repression. They even put you in a “jury box” either with a straight-faced synchronicity that tapers over into irony or to make sure that the burden of life sinks into your wee little cellular glob. I’m still unsure if everyone there really believed the crap they feed you in those jury notices about your civic duty or if they were like me, offended at the very concept, but intimidated by the bottom sentence which used the words… failure to comply will result in criminal penalties… The government talks like an abusive spouse —it needs you so that it will have someone around to walk all over and beat the crap out of. You wouldn’t want the government to get its feelings hurt when no one turns up for the public spankings now would you? Without you whom the hell would they spank? The whole show was ludicrous; no one wanted to be there, it was only under the threat of jail that most of us had shoed up there. Mostly people talked amongst themselves waited irritably, hoping to avoid an OJ trial, bitching about time lost at work or conversely reading and enjoying a break from work. A few of us, smokers all, congregated outside and swapped stories about our lives, a couple of them looked like me —guilty, as if this was only an observational run through. +I could have been doing a thousand things all of them infinitely more interesting than sitting on the patio of a jury call room smoking and listening to stories from a trucker about life on the road. I kept hoping for that one sexy young juror to come strolling outside but she didn’t. I’m from LA true, but I just can’t surrender my optimism…. It was a morning steeped in boredom. I read a book and listened here and there to catch snippets of someone’s life randomly dropping out of the sky like seagull shit in the desert. +Make the courtroom fun? That had seemingly never occurred to anyone. Why not turn it into a burlesque show with a little skin, some singers, and few dirty jokes between trials? It would be huge. You could even charge a few bucks at the door and the average citizen would finally have reason to participate in government. Instead of jails a dominatrix judge could administer spankings and trade her gavel for a paddle. And of course the stenographer would have to turn into a photographer, which would open up the whole print aspect of the courts —the monthly newsletter for patrons. From there as word spread it would become a full fledged magazine with centerfolds, feature interviews and reviews of crimes…. But the stunted pedophilic minds in power will hear of no such thing…entirely unacceptable….why it makes a mockery of the justice system… I will not hear of it!!! +Libel to give one a coronary the way it is now. The whole morning left me feeling strangely violated; some faceless uncontrollable monster had sequestered four hours of my life away from me. I wanted to sue the judge for making me get up at six in the morning a trauma which doubtless took years off my life in stress and mental anguish, but I let it go… no paddles, no burlesque, no photographer, no show… what’s the point? +They released me at noon. I spent the remainder of the day wandering around the beach looking a tide pools and picking up little snails and trying to organize them into juries and try a starfish for sloth, but nothing cooperated the way humans do so I gave up and read a book on the steps to the beach. I stayed almost until sunset when I caught the last bus into Laguna Beach and had dinner a restaurant where my friend Matt works. +When I got home I was full and content, wanting only to stretch myself with a short walk and then go to bed, but Dean was at manic pace, it is imperative that we go to Ed’s tonight he must wake up in the city tomorrow he can not take the suburbs anymore…. +“If I see one more rich cunt in a BMW sitting at a green light talking on her cell phone to Erik the Viking workout coach that she is meeting to fuck before going home to her idiotic husband who has spent the day licking his boss’s ass for pocket change, I am going to kill. This entire fucking town ought to be a toxic waste dump; I was thinking Sil, about that plan I had to take over the world and make Kansas a prison colony… I am relocating the colony here just like that terrible movie that was out a few years ago what was it called?” +Dean is in a frenzy of blind hatred, the kind of frenzy which all the dead must surrender to occasionally and what’s more he is beginning to get me in a frenzy as well, he feeds off that… “The worst thing is that there is no fucking reason whatsoever for me to be here I hate my job I hate the people rent is too damn expensive and there’s never anything to do but get drunk or high. The monotony of it is numbing it tears away my flesh….” He looked around exasperated as if we were going to somehow come to his aide but then he just started pacing in silence for bit. All the sudden he said he was going to Ed’s house right then if we cared to join him. I went for it and so we drove up there and on the way Dean told a curious story about a Muslim. +“I was sitting on a bench smoking and reading as usual, and this guy sat next to me. He works in the mailroom, always says hello, real happy chap, friendly as fuck, in a genuine way. I suspected he was Muslim, but I had never talked to him. So he sits down and asks me what I’m reading...I hate that question. Last week someone stopped me in the hall and asked what Naked Lunch was about..."um.... a guy living in tangier...." week before that I was reading Junky....not sure if anyone is paying attention or doing any math over there could be only a matter of time… Anyway... I try to get across that Western Lands is Burroughs going through death and meditating on the afterlife myths et cetera while he was nearing the Great Divide himself. This guy starts laying down some thick rap about Islam, and I was mesmerized. Their stories are fucking INTENSE. He laid down this Angel of Death gig that was a definite keeper. I closed my book and was genuinely enthralled. Not by what he was saying but by him. He’s one of those people who, regardless of what they are spouting, give off this haze of education, and inner peace, and wisdom. Maybe I’m working with numbers too much and my brain is melting. I keep "waking up" at work. Wondering where I am and how I got there. Not unlike realizing that you're dancing on a table because you've had to much Bombay, and politely excusing yourself to the boy's room. I get stuck in trance like internalization periods that last for hours, sometimes days, and then I snap back into this reality. +The freeway roared in the vacuum of silence that Dean left hanging there, as if it were a painting and he were steeping back to admire it for bit, check to make sure it hung straight and true. +“I had a fucked dream the other night. Sis and mom and I were living in Texas again, where I grew up and I was walking barefoot outside. I walked through a stagnant pool of water to avoid a vicious barking dog. When I got to the house, I lit a cigarette and tied up for a shot. I saw my skin move. REALLY move. I thought I was hallucinating, and it started moving all over. The stagnant water had some sort of microscopic parasite in it—like a tapeworm with a leech body. It had seeped through my pours and reproduced and grown. I ran around the house freaking out, my skin moving in little bumpy wave-like black ripples. I could feel them crawling under the epidermis. I stopped suddenly and had an epiphany. I began kneading my flesh, corralling the parasites to my extremities and forcing them out through the skin. My skin was shredding like latex paper mache`, and blood burst from the ribbons of flesh, covering my arms and face. When I had finally gotten the last one out, and crushed it in my hand, I lay back knowing I was in agonizing pain, but only feeling the smooth balance of shock soothing my nervous system, fooling it into feeling okay. I felt tired, and realized I was bleeding to death. I didn’t fight, I just slipped away.” +Ed apparently had been expecting us as the door was unlocked and there was a note explained that he had run to the store to get beer. On top of the fridge we found a bottle of scotch bearing my name and bottle of Gin bearing Dean’s, we were well on our way through them before Ed got back. By the time he showed up with the beer it was nearly midnight and things were getting fuzzy. +I can hear Ed and Dean talking about the implications of time travel. I keep slipping into near coma in which I start to turn their dialogue into the inner workings of my own mind. I am living in a terrible Dostoevskyian land of cross-examination and self-doubt. Although I know they are not talking about me or even too me I can hear the across the room and I keep thinking that they are. Th world feels heavy and I sit down in front of the sideways painting and contemplate the endless thick erotic paint that loops and curls its way about the canvas propelling the eye with it inertia, allowing itself to be converted by the viewer into latent energy. You walk away from it feeling refreshed rejuvenated except that I can’t walk away from it anymore I am too drunk with scotch and the very intoxication of the paint itself; I lie down complete staring up at it floating about in the oily oceans of pigment, vermilion waves crest with whitecaps on a sea of lavender. The waves grow larger as I move, rippling away from me and then I start to sink as if in quicksand. I begin to shuffle my arms and feet but that only sinks me deeper and I remember that in quicksand one must remain perfectly still. I lie perfectly still and feel myself slowly slip down into the oil depths, out to the tattered edges of consciousness the ragged glories of existence and individuality bow before the divine circumstances of the universe and all is lost amid a swirling see of alcohol, pigment, dream, hallucination and reality muddled in the roaring deep baritones of Beethoven, Ed’s painting, Van Gogh’s ear, Burrough’s pinky all gathering up in the comic dust to form a cherubic symphony wailing incessantly across the crepuscule of darkness. + When I woke up I was still wearing my pants and had somehow or other been dropped face down on the couch. My head hurt before I moved not good sign. As I sit up I am gradually aware that I don’t have a hang over. In fact I am still drunk which cheers me slightly and give me the courage to look around. Ed is already brewing coffee, he is standing if front of the sink absently scratching his ass, staring into space and looking for all the world like roman gladiator after the battle. Its then that he notices me and shakes his head. +It turned out that I had not passed out I had blacked out, a first for me. It was unsettling to realize that someone other than the me that is usually me had been me. Who was this other me? Where did he come from and what did he want? Why did he break things and set them on fire? Was it even a he? Perhaps it was a she? The true disappointment is that I didn’t get to meet him. From what Dean and Ed piece together for me I probably wouldn’t have liked the guy, but it would nevertheless have been nice to meet him since he was hijacking my body. +It took me two days to fully regain myself, in the interim the weirdness grew, I lounged about all day watching television with Betty; we could both hear it the rumbling of a distant and future overture. Friday rolled around and they went back up to Ed’s but I stayed behind; I was still feeling sheepish about my behavior and I thought it would be good to do a little recording, to take some time off of life. I had decide that I would not change a word of what I wrote, I would record the life as it unfolded with entirely too much honesty —record things exactly as they were. I was trying to write what all my mentors had left out of their books; I was going to fill in the gaps in the cannon of literature. It is all going to be laid bare for the world, the ideas will become real through seeing and doing, not through the telling… the word would be flesh as was recommended by another writer. I sat down Friday night after they had left for LA and I wrote furiously through the night and all the next day, I was Jack Kerouac on a bender, drunk with words they flowed out in rhythm with the river that is life, they cascaded over the boulders of my fingers and tumble underground into keyboard and finally flooding the deltas of white space that the computer had decreed would now serve as my ocean. I had been writing for almost twenty-four hours solid when the phone rang and the whole perilous structure collapsed in on itself and I looked at the clock. +. It was quarter of twelve and I was pretty sure that nothing good would come from answering the phone at that hour. I stared at it until the machine picked it up. +“Hello? Sil are you there?” There was a silence on the other end for a moment and then came a more thoughtful, lonely drawn-out sounding voice, “well if you get this message call me tonight, my roommates are gone and I feel king of unsafe…(there was a pause) I was wondering if you would come over and stay with me… if not at least call. Okay? Goodbye.” +I sat for moment staring at the pattern of plaster on the wall wondering what my will would do with me. The voice was Amy, my ex-wife whom I had waked out on six months prior. I stared at the wall and tried to figure out how she could possibly have known that I was here, I smelled the evil artistry of Dean who in moments weakness might have squealed my whereabouts to Hillarie his own little nightmare who would have been sent by Amy to find me. Women are insidious little creatures and I could see Dean sitting on the edge of his bed with Hillarie on her knees, his cock in her hand… Dean tell me where he is or I’m leaving. Oh well I’d have done the same. +Besides all that was irrelevant. Why not give the ex a good poke? One last poke and then I’m gone, through with whole sordid affair. And what a clever little girl, wanting protection, so Amy she would never have had the courage to admit that she wanted a good fuck and nothing more, with Amy there was always something more, more more more. I knew that she wasn’t lying, the apartment above her had been burglarized the last I was there. The poor woman had ended up in the ghetto after I split. I would be little more than psychological comfort. She wanted me there for reasons well above and beyond her safety —she wanted sex. She wanted sex because a) she was horny or b) it was the only substitute she could thing of for the emotional hole I had torn in her heart. +I was a bit of a loss, but not entirely surprised. I was feeling free and floating in the effervescent vapors of my new freedom and now here was the old, the familiar, like sliding a foot into the comfort of a well worn boot… But was it a good idea? I called her back and in her voice I caught it the indeterminable mystery that had always gotten me and always could from the beginning to the end. The alpha and the omega—the only thing that ever drew me to anyone —the mystical enigma of the unknown. The familiarity of anything makes it pedestrian and undesirable to me whether it is a place, a person or an emotion. It was on this point that I realized that Dean too bore the mark, bore a mark; I never told him how profound his words were to me when I read them but it was he who put it best: familiarity breeds contempt. +It was the contempt for the familiar that had driven me from Amy; it was never anything to do with her, but try as I might I could never sell her on that point. Whatever it is I can change… those words of desperation that we use when we are in danger of losing our tenuous grasp on the world are the very ones that seal our fate and guarantee that we lose hold. When things are mysterious they remain perpetual wellsprings from which I draw all my hopes dreams and fantasies, but the closer in to actual thing I get, the longer I stay in one place, the more familiar I am with a friend the more intimate I am with a lover the less mysterious they become. Without the mystery I have nothing from which to draw, my existence is not unlike that of the vampire, but unlike the vampire my victims do not die. I shatter their worlds and they come crawling right back again for more. I felt sickened by myself, by the fact that I could recognize such a thing, but feel powerless to stop it; worse still was the dawning realization that I didn’t care to stop it, I had no reason to stop it. My brain squirmed looking for a way out constantly and when Amy gave me one the wheels were already turning. Like a man trying to fly I felt the words in my head, but what if it doesn’t work and I fell like a rock. Doubt kills. +I ended up at Amy’s house twenty minutes later; I tried briefly to resist to see how serious she was and when she offered to come over and pick me so I wouldn’t have to walk I knew there was only one way to go about this. I walked over so as to not be stuck there and also to give myself time to get right down into the sands and dig a little hole, take a closer look at the fragments of my passing even as they were going by. What propelled me was something other than what I think of as me, something I no longer considered myself; I was merely along for the ride. I began to see this temporal me with increasing clarity it seemed to have crawled up from inside and it hung on to edges of reality leaving me to wander in dream and observe form a distance all the beauty that surrounds the dreamer. + Amy was in a shiny satin dress that clung to her lithe frame; it was green and made her eyes glow the deep luster of emerald stones. Her hair was a little bit longer and she had it pulled up behind her head to give unrequited views of the curve of her shoulder as it snaked its way up to her neck. Her nipples poked out of the thin green material and her lips curled playfully as I walked in the door. +I accepted a beer and we talked for a while, she told me of a few dates she had been on, how worthless men were in general, asked how I was how was I enjoying myself, did I have any plans? It was preliminary nonsense to an inevitability of habit, probably mutual fear as much as need, it was to be a construction fuck, the best sex of your life even as the walls are being built up again. For me the walls would never go up, they never do, I could walk into her house ten years from now and feel as familiar with her as I did at the height of our relationship, but for her they went back up. She needed to know that she was the only one before she let the guard down and I had hurt her so up they went, slowly at first day by day, week by passing week she moved farther and farther away from me. I know longer try to fight that emotion, let her go don’t question her is my new mantra. Amy thought I was cold and callous for being able to break her heart, but she didn’t understand that I did suffer, I suffered far more, I had nowhere to place the blame, I broke my own heart as well. I had done it before and I was destined to do it again. She had moved through all the stages of depression that you find in the first chapters of grief psychology. +First there was anger; my nose took the brunt of that off her closed fist. Then silence, my favorite stage —denial. And her we were in surrender where the inevitable is accepted but not yet acted out, and of course there was one yet to come —acceptance. In surrender you give up on the ghost and live on autopilot, from the rear window of the plane you can see the tragedy and the comedy, and the tragedy in the comedy and occasionally even the comedy in the tragedy. The rear door opens and from that artificial altitude you can see the surface of convoluted emotion smoothed flat with distance. We were, for that night, up there together standing on the back of the plane just looking down and admiring the view. How we got there and where we were going was irrelevant, it was all about the view. I knew she would call again tomorrow and that would not be good, but for now… +What a view! She stopped talking and leaned into gently kiss my lips; she started to pull away, but could not the tantalizing attraction of the unknown came over us both, would it be the same? That was the mystery which created the inclination keep our lips pressed together, softly at first until the craving appetite of carnality parted them with hunger and by the time our tongues met we were sealed in our fate. She straddled me on the couch and my hands explored her sphinx-like body as though it were a newfound treasure. My fingers tugged gently at her nipples and pulled the back of her head, pushing my tongue farther around her mouth. The tugging became pinching and her hands fumbled at my belt in a frenzy until she had firm hold of my hard cock and she stroked it gently at first and then just held it in a vise grip as my own trailed down her legs and hiked up her dress. Her legs parted and I twisted my arm to get a finger in her cunt. She was gushing; I rubbed her smooth hairless cunt, probing my fingers in to the knuckles; it wrapped them up like a closing sea anemone. +I pulled the dress off over her head and pushed her up onto the couch as I slid onto the floor. She squatted and moaned as I went to work on her cunt. The taste was familiar and called up memories as only taste and smell can. Infinite desires that spanned far beyond this lifetime into some timeless place where the expression of desire is infinite and perfectly tied to everybody all at once in an ecclesiastic orgasm. Her cum was dripping of my chin and she pulled me up under her again by tugging my hair. She licked her cum from my chin as I fingered her some more, she began to gasp into me ear and I felt her cunt contract on my fingers. She had never come just from my hand before; it empowered me and made my cock rigid as a cement light post. In one move I impaled her on it, she pushed me back against the couch and began to —what better word than ride? I lay there with a sense of relaxed enjoyment born out of the certainty that I would not cum until I was ready. +I wanted to feel every thrust, to feel those warm stretching walls of cunt gripping like a vise, I knew I never would again and I savored it. I kissed her breasts as they bounced delectably in front of my lips. I trailed her juices down to her asshole and reached my hand around her to her ass and slid into her puckered hole. She lifted herself slightly and leaned her head down dragging her lips breathily across my cheek until she bit at my lips and her tongue snaked into my mouth. I held my hand still and kissed her letting her grind as she raised and lowered herself up and down slowly building momentum. +She rode me through two orgasms after which I lifted her up and threw her over the arm of the couch. I slipped it into her with ease and began to fuck her with that intensity where you momentarily forget whether you are trying to please or destroy the cunt. Her cunt milked at my cock until in was near bursting. I watched the swing of her ample breasts as her body thrust back to meet me. +“Don't cum...!…I want to feel it in my ass” +This was a new idea, not one I was all the keen on, but she looked back at me with a expression of lust so primeval and inhuman that I could see her no longer as the wounded animal that lashed out two weeks ago and more like the whole person that knew what she wanted and was going to get it however she pleased. I pulled out and tongued her asshole teasing her to moans and making her beg. Amy loved that cheesy sex talk in the ears…Fuck me harder! had evolved over the years until I was breathing stories of group orgies and gang fucks with stadium crowds full of dicks and cunts swarming over the flesh like inflamed fire ant hills, searing every raw nerve with sex burn. Amy would cum a kind of intensity that startled and scared me almost as much as it turned me on. I told her about watching her with other men, other women, forcing her to watch, rapes scenes where I passed her like meat on a platter to a group of friends, slavery where she led me on a leash. Everything I could ever dream up just made her cum harder and harder the more far-fetched it got. Sometimes I felt like I was an abstract fantasy that was given bodily form to enhance what could otherwise have been a masturbation session. As my cock choked its way slowly into her tight ass I asked her who she had been fucking in my absence and she recounted (maybe she made it up, who knows?) the night previous when she had sucked off a girl in the toilet stall of nightclub restroom and then let her boyfriend jerk off and cum on her tits. In the heat of sex stuff like that usually does the trick and I filled her ass with the biggest squirt I had ever felt leave the tip of my prick. I kept pounding into her fascinated by the intimate squishing sounds of my cum oozing and dribbling out of her ass. +I collapsed into a chair panting, but my mind was reeled about the room. I was exhausted but had never felt so alive, my only thought was to escape her and get out into the streets into the pulse of life, to go and go and go and never look back, but Amy rolled over and begged me to make her come again. I rolled her over and dove into her cunt trying to morph my tongue into an electric eel. + Later we lay for a while in silence and smoked a cigarette. She kissed me and fell asleep with her head on my chest. Around four I gently slipped out from under her and left. I smoked a cigarette walking home and stopped a lot to luxuriate in the good fortune that seems to follow me around. I was living in a kaleidoscope of realities that swirled with all the vibrancy and color of my youth, but it was alive now, here, in this moment, fairly bursting out of my chest. At home I devoured left over Thai food and fell into a deep coma like sleep. I dreamed a radio broadcast of unknown origins pilling down the universes own information superhighway at a genetic tilt, coming across the galaxy without static pure unadulterated reception of signal and through it all the fragment of ash kept falling, fragments of history written on burnt paper and cast about in a hurricane of now. Fragments of falling ash. Fragments of ash falling. White washed ceilings hanging so ominous.... Hallucination of bubble-headed figures crawling like the Michelin Man across an indescribable mountain of tires. Motels Motels Motels Whiskey Bourbon. Tow truck non-ordinary state of reality precludes a state of reality that something is real. Point at the autistic manwomanchild Autistic man pointing at you laughing unable to fathom how your brain functions and quite self-righteously you cling to its definitions. Must delineate between abnormality and those of us who UNDERSTAND.... The Human Virus breeding like rats unconsciously conscious and aware of our disorganization. Gas Station Cold Fusion dreams of the Anarchist are breeding in the minds of the oilmen who don’t want to loose their stranglehold of reality. Fragments of Ash falling, the continual settling of dust weighing down humanity and the French Maid masturbates discreetly in the next room. You need her to keep the dust off your mortal coil spring. Rebirth mythology. Mythology of reality. We must distinguish between what will be defined as sane and what shall be referred to as insanity. Kevlar definitions constructed to make a better shampoo seem like a logical item on which to squander your paperbacked slavery bills. After all these years Tide still gets your socks whiter Its a wonder that they aren’t transparent by now...that your brain retarded in its development that evolution had not anticipated the advent of the opposable thumb the unopposable domination of the thumb leading to and insect superiority of mating rituals stolen from a textbook on damselflies darning needles sewing shut your lips, mind atrophy. Weber's White Race Enriched for Superiority Scorched earth campaigns raining Ash. Shit from the sky. Tax man came for your baby in exchange for unpaid balance. You understand. Nothing Personal Just doing our job. Same as the next guy. From Auzwich on down the line. Didn’t make the rules. Sorry. We perfected them. There are no innocents in a world of free will. You don’t have to survive at the expense of others. You could die with puncture wounds in your hands and others would create a new mythology strange irony would find another with holes in his hands unwilling to accept cockroach mentalities. You want to beLIEve Hitler was a madman but he lives on in quiet cafes centralsouthamerica not so free not all the communists have been shot yet Your mistook misunderstood missed the lesson in the situation that unfolded Dr. of dialectic excuses you want to beLIEve Hitler was a madman Hitler killed everybody's body only taking orders you understand just doing my job from Independence on down the line. It was a sad money grubbing hunter gather up his children and thank his gods they are his and he their god behold I have come to tell you that everything you know is wrong stop doing your job it is not yours see Hitler in your mind you want him dead but he's not he lives on buried under restraint in everyone's mind. Only taking orders you understand. Didn’t have a CHOICE. Got a family to feed. Radio crackle. Pop. Hiss. Silence. End transmission. + + + +Somewhere in the background of all these goings on there was Betty. I did not know her save that she was Dean’s sister, had married a Marine who was overseas, and seemed for all practical purposes to be settled into what most of the country would call a normal healthy existence. Her only problem so far as I could tell was that she had exposed herself to Dean and I. When they came back from Ed’s Sunday evening I was feeling muted, as if I did not exist at all, but was merely a spectral figure watching over the chaos and insanity of this tiny little rock spinning about a nearly equally tiny burning rock. I had attained the kind of Zen State that I had always wanted. I observed everything just as it was without subjecting it to my own opinions, beliefs and feeble desires. +I watched Dean and Betty come home. I watched them smoke a joint and drink some beers. I watched swirling patterns of conversation float about the room as radiant butterflies. I chased them in silence. And then somewhere in midst of conversation about the sheer futility and meaninglessness of everything I snapped out of it and floated back down to my body, my life and my animal desires. It was the same sort of detachment that had led me out of LA up to San Francisco and then back only now instead of happening in dreams with strange men leading the way, it was happening while I was awake. Indeed for the first time I was awake, aware. Despite the fact that I had not slept all weekend (or perhaps because of it) I felt more refreshed and alive than ever. +I talked Dean and Betty into going with me for a nightcap. We drove down to a local tavern that Dean and I were known at in, the golden days of youth we had passed many a night there. Bruno, our favorite bartender who greeted you like Odysseus returning every time you walked through the door, was working. Bruno had the most awe inspiring memory I have ever witnessed, which he combined with a fantastic power to ‘exaggerate’ as he called it (lie as the rest of us called it), to create an atmosphere an Italian family reunion. Everyone always felt welcome and loved when Bruno was working, no matter how pathetic their lives might have been during the day they were all on the same level even playing field when Bruno was around. He should have been a cult leader or spiritual adviser, but this is the twenty-first century and there are no spiritual advisers there are bartenders. +Tonight he is in rare form: +“Dean! Sil!” He fairly jumped over the bar. “How have you been?” +“Since last weekend?” Dean has the same arrogant self-mocking sense of humor that I do. “You know… ‘nother week, ‘nother check and we come here to spend it!” +“That’s why I love you guys; did I ever tell you that? I love you guys!” He grabbed us by the shoulders and shook us with all his Italian might. He leaned back over the bar and took off his shirt. “Watch this…” +The bar had this pole in the middle of it, but the ceiling was too low to actually stand on the bar so Bruno jumped up and kind of crouched his back down so that his already enormous gut looked even bigger. “Hey ladies!” He hovered over two girls sitting at the bar and began to pole dance to the music from the jukebox. Catcalls from the locals drown out whatever the girls were trying to say and several patrons ran up to stuff money in Bruno’s pants. He hammed it up flipping his hair and shimmying his enormous Santa belly around the pole. His pants were falling down to plumber level and I knew we weren’t getting beer any time soon. Dean and I joined Betty in the corner booth by the door. Cached safely with my back to the wall I settled into watch the familiar show. +Bruno was now running up and down the bar flexing his muscles; he had stuffed enormous wrenches, screw drivers, and other tools of the plumbers’ trade into his belt loop and down his pants. He squatted in front of a forty-year-old businesswoman and shoved his three exposed inches of ass crack in her face and circle-swooshed it around like a Vegas showgirl. She roared with laughter and tucked a five spot into his crack. He took off down the bar to clean up on the drunken thirty-something’s that had never seen such “hilarious antics.” Bruno was a one of kind; he was the only person I know that could dance so badly, stick pretzels into his gums like fangs, pull his pants down like a plumber and make money while he was at it. +I deeply admired him for that. It wasn’t something you see everyday, but eventually the act got old (drunks have a short attention span) and Bruno came over to the table to see what we wanted. + “Gentlemen,” He screwed up his expression to a face of mock seriousness, “what flavor will you be having this evening?” +“Guinness,” came out of Dean and I in unison. An Irishman would have wept, but Bruno, being Italian only smiled. He went off to pour and I tried in vain to explain what had happened to me while Dean and Betty were at Ed’s house. But there were no words, that was the overwhelming thing that pulled me around and around as a wrestled with the feelings and emotions. Somewhere near the edges of what is here and now and what is always and forever there comes in the grips of eternity a feeling so exhilarating and blinding that it transcends all language all communication. In trying to explain myself I only felt more and more that what I knew was mine alone and could never be shared. In celebrating myself I had lost myself something I never would have expected I kept remembering odd phrases of mystics and cryptic jokes that no one understood except the jokesters themselves. I thought a lot about Andy Kaufman and for the first time felt that I had some sense of what he was doing; or Beckett or Joyce or countless others that had hitherto seemed only deranged lunatics babbling in rhythm and rhyme. +Dean and Betty listened intently but I felt sure that I was inarticulate and confused when inside I was bursting with clarity. In my reverie of several hours previous I had experience extreme chest pains; I felt as if life itself whatever it might be god… dog… you name it… was pouring right through me like Shaterack Meshak and abandego I stood and in the fire and was untouched and yet there was nothing that could be said to describe it. Just when I felt on the brink of madness and isolation Dean interrupted me with a story of William Burrough’s the last old man of the mountain. +“That sounds a lot like the western lands… the sort of middle ground between life and death to which mystics and all character of that sort are always propelled…. The western lands where everything is unwritten, unwritable even, quite a treacherous place I would imagine. You ought to read the Tibetan Book of Dead, see if that rings your bell a bit….” +“Ya? See the supremely frustrating thing is that I feel like I saw a cure for all that ails us… all the worlds problems were solved from where I was… beyond good and evil, but not philosophically; vitally… damn I’m at a loss for words again…. But I will tell you one thing I can’t stay here anymore… I appreciate you putting me up and all, but I have to keep moving what is going through my head is taking over my life, it is the supreme and indeed the only important thing that has ever happened to me. It keeps saying move move move; sitting still is going to drive me mad. Even writing it out on paper, writing a book is futile for this is something entirely separate this art that had to be lived to understand it….” And once again I grew drunk with out liquor swirling the clouds of inception circling with Hesse’s eagle and the swooping brown pelicans of literature, pouches heavy with something new, something fresh which must be shat from on high to land with a dull splatter that covers the earth with a new freshness a new fecundity from which new life could spring, new wells could be draw, new myths created, new words invented new dreams, new ideas, new art forms that would blend seamlessly with old, taking there place in the long infinite line of creation +I had worked myself into a bit of a frenzy by now and I could see that it was catching, little gears and wheels of machinery were turning in Dean’s eyes. Betty too seemed infected by the virus of sanity; the diseased atrophied limbs of lives were beginning to amputate themselves, to fall off useless as the leper’s tongue. We were on the verge of a virtual appendectomy. I gave up and lapsed into silence surrendering all dreams and fate to wind, to the room, to Dean, to anyone who might have taught me anything, I grew sponge-like with anticipation. At this point Bruno delivered another round and now with a little rich Irish nectar to coat my throat I really laid into it. It all came spilling out in an avalanche that swept down and plowed me over until I was beside myself. +“What we ought to do my friend is to light out for the territories. We ought to do those things that living people —I mean people that are alive and eager to go about the business of living — do. They sure as fuck don’t hang around here I spent all weekend watching the scurrying rats running from hole to hole and I just about can’t take it anymore. I am bursting I am alive, am that one little thistle that turns green after the rain on an abandoned lot. And you, look at you, what the fuck is wrong with you? You know better than to go showing up at some job every day like it matters in the grand scheme of things. We are monkeys and yet all we do is mimic the rat on the wheel or the ceaseless activity of the worker ant to serve a queen what? What we ought to be, what we ought to be concerned with is something real something of value that extends beyond this barren womb this business capital of humanity. Even the landscape is mostly boring and drab except by the coast. What is the rest of this place mediocre rolling hills that are brown from lack of rain three quarters of the year. The whole place is so sterile there aren’t even any animals running amuck. This place these people all of them are beyond hope and even if they weren’t you and I are hardly the savior types we look our for ourselves and those that come to us… we don’t go looking for help it comes to us don’t you see? Its coming to us it’s drawing us away from here away away away! We will be embarking on a radical change and no matter if we should end up destitute selling children in the back alleys of Rumanian because no matter what might possible happen it will at least not be this. This is nothing this is a static oasis on the edge of desolate gasoline holocaust.” +I was not surprised that Dean was up for such an alteration, but I must confess I was surprised at Betty’s willingness to but herself in league with such rapscallions as Dean and I. Betty reasoned that she had nothing to lose, but that was only half of it she wanted to do something different as much or maybe more than us. I was exuding enough enthusiasm to power a small city and the Guinness was the only thing keeping me in line I watched it spread around the table first to Dean who began to launch a thousand thoughts much as I had done silently in the pool. We talked of Europe and South America with such enthusiasm that listeners would have been shocked to hear that neither of us had ever been there. We walked the dusty camel choked streets of Morocco and took the Marrakech express across the desert and then ported ourselves to the coast and caught freighters back to Brazil to sail up the Amazon. We had splendid adventures and our table was bursting with a bubbling exuberance that lit up the bar like a rocket ship. Soon the place was packed and we were hemmed in to the table by a wall of drinkers willing to stand for the privilege. I sat up on the back of the booth and had a look around. Dean used the break in conversation to leap up on the table and yell for more beer. As heads turned to see the face of the roaring noise that took the bartender away from their own precious little drinks Dean found himself with an audience. +“Come on Bruno! You know tomorrow is meaningless to now! We’re here, right now and we have to live here right fucking now! I’m not going to work tomorrow because it’s never going to be tomorrow and I don’t want the things I have to pay for today. Every moment of everyday is only one thing —now. What the fuck are you people looking at? If I could be anywhere doing anything why would I be here? Do you realize the odds stacked against me? Against you? The sheer probability of any of this ever occurring, let alone occurring like this, in this exact fashion, at this exact time, in this exact bar? But here we are… what can you say beyond that? You’re going to pass out tonight and happily assume in the seething cesspool of your unconscious that you will wake up again tomorrow, but the odds are equally against you…” +At this point in his ranting Dean wandered off into Quantum physics, Astrology and Chaos math. Most of the drunks were lost before that and the ones that weren’t raised their glasses and got lost rather quickly, but Dean had tapped into something and soon we had new friends. +Cristof, who turned out to be from Rumania, and Charles who could have been from anywhere outside the general atmosphere of earth, bought us round after round of expensive whiskey. Cristof said Dean’s speech was, as he put it, “the only intelligent thing I’ve ever heard an American say.” +Soon there were girls and the world took on a kaleidoscope quality. Time passed as a jerky black and white slideshow, moments were projected onto a screen and just as I was scrutinizing them they were gone replaced by another that seemed out of order. The world got jumbled rather quickly as if my proverbial house of cards was sort of collapsing rather harmlessly about me. I was kissing and pawing roughly at a girl from Arizona. She fairly dragged me with her hand on my collar into the women’s restroom where I threw her against the floral print walls, lifted her skirt and slipped it in roughly and drunkenly. She moaned heavy in my ear but I was beyond caring about her, she was merely a vessel through which I was vainly trying to propel myself into the full stream of life, the raging river…. I came hard seeing stars and then left it slide out, tore off the condom threw it in the toilet and ducked out the back door with lipstick still smeared on my face. Betty drove home. + diff --git a/veryold/very old writings/gone book/LA3 iam.txt b/veryold/very old writings/gone book/LA3 iam.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1670a76 --- /dev/null +++ b/veryold/very old writings/gone book/LA3 iam.txt @@ -0,0 +1,128 @@ +The first week I did nothing but work. Dean’s job was peculiar in that he wrote things before they happened. That is for every concert he reviewed we each wrote a review ahead of time, one good and the other bad with all sorts of adjective cut out and scattered through text. Then we would go to the show or the movie or whatever it happened to be that he was reviewing and about halfway through, when we felt like we had the gist of it we left. Getting the gist of it actually consisted of deciding what more people wanted to hear, it frightened me somewhat to notice that reviewers generally put no thought into the actual art or music or whatever. Everything is in terms of numbers. Are this bands numbers going up or down? Is this exhibit fresh and new with the brightest most of the moment people or is it that washed up nobodies that were huge stars in the past? If the numbers are rising good review, unless of course you're working for an alternative magazine in which case the rising numbers mean bad review —sell out talk. If the numbers are falling it can go to ways one the artist or art is washed up and past tense or it is the artist staying true to his roots and allowing the culture to pass him by. These were the things Dean and I dealt with on a daily basis. In the end none of it really mattered and if you were a performer, an actor, a musician, or a writer or a director there was always one camp set up to support you and another to ridicule you. In some way the two functioned to keep the whole thing and perhaps even the person or art being reviewed in a weird violent balance like a tight rope walker at the circus. Occasionally if one of us were irritated we would shoot the tightrope walker for fun without even bothering to find out what they were doing. We spent an entire afternoon slaughtering Infinite Jest though neither of us had read more than twenty pages. Too much tennis. No one care about tennis. But we praised the Thin Red Line because it was written and directed by Terence Malik and we like his name. Such are whims which journalists bounce around in. Then they asked us to go to a concert for the latest boy band. I quit outright and Dean caught a cold. With a couple of days off we decide to head up the Ed’s place in LA +I tend to drink far to much when I am at Ed’s, drinks role down my throat like wild horses rampaging through my hands with a life and will of their own, and so it came to be that I broke Ed’s cutting board, door, chair and took to lighting his floor on fire one night. It was round Christmas that much is certain because I woke up under a toppled Christmas Tree; I blame the whole affair on Ed. He should have known better than to give me a whole bottle of scotch all to myself. Of all the people in my life who’s homes I have wrought destruction and chaos upon Ed was the least deserving. +Ed is perhaps the gentlest of all the maniacs that I associate with, he had an almost feminine kind of glow about him that comes across like light through a stained glass window —in odd chaotic fragments of color. There are for instance the little things like the way he is sure to have fresh towels and clean blankets for us when we arrive. He cooks little pizzas and sometimes pastas, the mornings after he is libel to be up brewing coffee and frying eggs, Ed had always been the perfect host. +Other shimmies of light come through in his art, his paintings (the best of which he insists on hanging sideways), his photographs and mostly his endless curiosity. He stalks through the conversations like a man eager to learn something eager to be shown something new. Ed craves novelty and doesn’t yet know how to find it; he finds it in Dean and I. He cultivates our company like one takes care of pets with the utmost love and concern asking only to be entertained in return. Ed knows that his lot in life is not to burn cities with ideas, scorch the earth with paint and revolutionize the modern aesthetic or whatever painters are up to these days. Ed is destined to paint quietly with the patience and understanding of a true saint. Ed of Ark I call him in letters. +But back to the destruction…. +It must have been a Thursday, because we left for LA on a Friday, that much I know for sure. I got up early, around six, and went to serve my time for being a citizen of the United States —jury duty. It was my first time in a courthouse and I was certainly not to used to that hour of the morning; much like I assumed it was horrid —a half day of exposure to the radiation dangers of white middle class suburban values. I was bored. My inner child was beginning to putrefy in the stale smokeless air of the waiting rooms, I felt like sheets of burnt skin must be slowly slipping off my face I felt grotesque and obvious, like I stuck out as the most-likely-to be back of the other side of the room. +I had hoped perhaps to have a fellow juror to slide off with into a broom closet, but there were no attractive jurors, nor did I catch any broom closets. The nuts and bolts of democracy were frigid and even asexual. The halls of justice sported the sophisticated airs of wood veneer and fake marble floors whose undistinguished patterns inhabited a no-man’s-land between linoleum and whatever is just a bit nicer than linoleum. The architecture was studiously formal in a painful way that only psychiatrists, number theorists, and judges find appealing. Courts are strange places; they have a sense of doom about them. You’re accused from the moment you walk in the door regardless of why you might be there; the tribunals of architecture condemn your very presence. Walking in those doors I got the sense of dread that the great cathedrals of medieval Europe must have inspired in the serf peasants. The state is the new dominant religion and the court is a place of worship; you don’t just go to jury duty, you serve jury duty; you serve the state and the state has some things they want you to know. +They bring juries into the court room to remind even the law abiding citizens of what will happen should they decide to stray out of the neat little square boxes that hold the officially accepted rules about what is permitted and what is not. It reeks of textbook Freudian repression. They even put you in a “jury box” either with a straight-faced synchronicity that tapers over into irony or to make sure that the burden of life sinks into your wee little cellular glob. I’m still unsure if everyone there really believed the crap they feed you in those jury notices about your civic duty or if they were like me, offended at the very concept, but intimidated by the bottom sentence which used the words… failure to comply will result in criminal penalties… The government talks like an abusive spouse —it needs you so that it will have someone around to walk all over and beat the crap out of. You wouldn’t want the government to get its feelings hurt when no one turns up for the public spankings now would you? Without you whom the hell would they spank? The whole show was ludicrous; no one wanted to be there, it was only under the threat of jail that most of us had shoed up there. Mostly people talked amongst themselves waited irritably, hoping to avoid an OJ trial, bitching about time lost at work or conversely reading and enjoying a break from work. A few of us, smokers all, congregated outside and swapped stories about our lives, a couple of them looked like me —guilty, as if this was only an observational run through. +I could have been doing a thousand things all of them infinitely more interesting than sitting on the patio of a jury call room smoking and listening to stories from a trucker about life on the road. I kept hoping for that one sexy young juror to come strolling outside but she didn’t. I’m from LA true, but I just can’t surrender my optimism…. It was a morning steeped in boredom. I read a book and listened here and there to catch snippets of someone’s life randomly dropping out of the sky like seagull shit in the desert. +Make the courtroom fun? That had seemingly never occurred to anyone. Why not turn it into a burlesque show with a little skin, some singers, and few dirty jokes between trials? It would be huge. You could even charge a few bucks at the door and the average citizen would finally have reason to participate in government. Instead of jails a dominatrix judge could administer spankings and trade her gavel for a paddle. And of course the stenographer would have to turn into a photographer, which would open up the whole print aspect of the courts —the monthly newsletter for patrons. From there as word spread it would become a full-fledged magazine with centerfolds, feature interviews and reviews of crimes…. But the stunted pedophilic minds in power will hear of no such thing…entirely unacceptable….why it makes a mockery of the justice system… I will not hear of it!!! +Libel to give one a coronary the way it is now. The whole morning left me feeling strangely violated; some faceless uncontrollable monster had sequestered four hours of my life away from me. I wanted to sue the judge for making me get up at six in the morning a trauma which doubtless took years off my life in stress and mental anguish, but I let it go… no paddles, no burlesque, no photographer, no show… what’s the point? +They released me at noon. I spent the remainder of the day wandering around the beach looking a tide pools and picking up little snails and trying to organize them into juries and try a starfish for sloth, but nothing cooperated the way humans do so I gave up and read a book on the steps to the beach. I stayed almost until sunset when I caught the last bus into Laguna Beach and had dinner a restaurant where my friend Matt works. +When I got home I was full and content, wanting only to stretch myself with a short walk and then go to bed, but Dean was at manic pace, it is imperative that we go to Ed’s tonight he must wake up in the city tomorrow he can not take the suburbs anymore…. +“If I see one more rich cunt in a BMW sitting at a green light talking on her cell phone to Erik the Viking workout coach that she is meeting to fuck before going home to her idiotic husband who has spent the day licking his boss’s ass for pocket change, I am going to kill. This entire fucking town ought to be a toxic waste dump; I was thinking Sil, about that plan I had to take over the world and make Kansas a prison colony… I am relocating the colony here just like that terrible movie that was out a few years ago what was it called?” +Dean is in a frenzy of blind hatred, the kind of frenzy which all the dead must surrender to occasionally and what’s more he is beginning to get me in a frenzy as well, he feeds off that… “The worst thing is that there is no fucking reason whatsoever for me to be here I hate my job I hate the people rent is too damn expensive and there’s never anything to do but get drunk or high. The monotony of it is numbing it tears away my flesh….” He looked around exasperated as if we were going to somehow come to his aide but then he just started pacing in silence for bit. All the sudden he said he was going to Ed’s house right then if I cared to join him. I went for it and so we drove up there and on the way Dean told a curious story about a Muslim. +“I was sitting on a bench smoking and reading as usual, and this guy sat next to me. He works in the mailroom, always says hello, real happy chap, friendly as fuck, in a genuine way. I suspected he was Muslim, but I had never talked to him. So he sits down and asks me what I’m reading...I hate that question. Last week someone stopped me in the hall and asked what Naked Lunch was about..."um.... a guy living in tangier...." week before that I was reading Junky....not sure if anyone is paying attention or doing any math over there could be only a matter of time… Anyway... I try to get across that Western Lands is Burroughs going through death and meditating on the afterlife myths et cetera while he was nearing the Great Divide himself. This guy starts laying down some thick rap about Islam, and I was mesmerized. Their stories are fucking INTENSE. He laid down this Angel of Death gig that was a definite keeper. I closed my book and was genuinely enthralled. Not by what he was saying but by him. He’s one of those people who, regardless of what they are spouting, give off this haze of education, and inner peace, and wisdom. Maybe I’m working with numbers too much and my brain is melting. I keep "waking up" at work. Wondering where I am and how I got there. Not unlike realizing that you're dancing on a table because you've had to much Bombay, and politely excusing yourself to the boy's room. I get stuck in trance like internalization periods that last for hours, sometimes days, and then I snap back into this reality.” +The freeway roared in the vacuum of silence that Dean left hanging there, as if it were a painting and he was stepping back to admire it for bit, check to make sure it hung straight and true. +“I had a fucked dream the other night. Sis and mom and I were living in Texas again, where I grew up and I was walking barefoot outside. I walked through a stagnant pool of water to avoid a vicious barking dog. When I got to the house, I lit a cigarette and tied up for a shot. I saw my skin move. REALLY move. I thought I was hallucinating, and it started moving all over. The stagnant water had some sort of microscopic parasite in it—like a tapeworm with a leech body. It had seeped through my pours and reproduced and grown. I ran around the house freaking out, my skin moving in little bumpy wave-like black ripples. I could feel them crawling under the epidermis. I stopped suddenly and had an epiphany. I began kneading my flesh, corralling the parasites to my extremities and forcing them out through the skin. My skin was shredding like latex paper mache`, and blood burst from the ribbons of flesh, covering my arms and face. When I had finally gotten the last one out, and crushed it in my hand, I lay back knowing I was in agonizing pain, but only feeling the smooth balance of shock soothing my nervous system, fooling it into feeling okay. I felt tired, and realized I was bleeding to death. I didn’t fight, I just slipped away.” + + +Ed apparently had been expecting us as the door was unlocked and there was a note explained that he had run to the store to get beer. On top of the fridge we found a bottle of scotch bearing my name and bottle of Gin bearing Dean’s, we were well on our way through them before Ed got back. By the time he showed up with the beer it was nearly midnight and things were getting fuzzy. +I can hear Ed and Dean talking about the implications of time travel. I keep slipping into near coma in which I start to turn their dialogue into the inner workings of my own mind. I am living in a terrible Dostoevskyian land of cross-examination and self-doubt. Although I know they are not talking about me or even too me I can hear the across the room and I keep thinking that they are. Th world feels heavy and I sit down in front of the sideways painting and contemplate the endless thick erotic paint that loops and curls its way about the canvas propelling the eye with it inertia, allowing itself to be converted by the viewer into latent energy. You walk away from it feeling refreshed rejuvenated except that I can’t walk away from it anymore I am too drunk with scotch and the very intoxication of the paint itself; I lie down complete staring up at it floating about in the oily oceans of pigment, vermilion waves crest with whitecaps on a sea of lavender. The waves grow larger as I move, rippling away from me and then I start to sink as if in quicksand. I begin to shuffle my arms and feet but that only sank me deeper and I remember that in quicksand one must remain perfectly still. I lie perfectly still and feel myself slowly slip down into the oil depths, out to the tattered edges of consciousness the ragged glories of existence and individuality bow before the divine circumstances of the universe and all is lost amid a swirling see of alcohol, pigment, dream, hallucination and reality muddled in the roaring deep baritones of Beethoven, Ed’s painting, Van Gogh’s ear, Burroughs' pinky all gathering up in the comic dust to form a cherubic symphony wailing incessantly across the crepuscule of darkness. + When I woke up I was still wearing my pants and had somehow or other been dropped face down on the couch. My head hurt before I moved not good sign. As I sit up I am gradually aware that I don’t have a hang over. In fact I am still drunk which cheers me slightly and give me the courage to look around. Ed is already brewing coffee, he is standing if front of the sink absently scratching his ass, staring into space and looking for all the world like roman gladiator after the battle. Its then that he notices me and shakes his head. +It turned out that I had not passed out I had blacked out, a first for me. It was unsettling to realize that someone other than the me that is usually me had been me. Who was this other me? Where did he come from and what did he want? Why did he break things and set them on fire? Was it even a he? Perhaps it was a she? The true disappointment is that I didn’t get to meet him. From what Dean and Ed piece together for me I probably wouldn’t have liked the guy, but it would nevertheless have been nice to meet him since he was hijacking my body. +It took me two days to fully regain myself, in the interim the weirdness grew, I lounged about all day watching television with Betty; we could both hear it the rumbling of a distant and future overture. Friday rolled around and they went back up to Ed’s but I stayed behind; I was still feeling sheepish about my behavior and I thought it would be good to do a little recording, to take some time off of life. I had decide that I would not change a word of what I wrote, I would record the life as it unfolded with entirely too much honesty —record things exactly as they were. I was trying to write what all my mentors had left out of their books; I was going to fill in the gaps in the cannon of literature. It is all going to be laid bare for the world, the ideas will become real through seeing and doing, not through the telling… the word would be flesh as was recommended by another writer. I sat down Friday night after they had left for LA and I wrote furiously through the night and all the next day, I was Jack Kerouac on a bender, drunk with words they flowed out in rhythm with the river that is life, they cascaded over the boulders of my fingers and tumble underground into keyboard and finally flooding the deltas of white space that the computer had decreed would now serve as my ocean. I had been writing for almost twenty-four hours solid when the phone rang and the whole perilous structure collapsed in on itself and I looked at the clock. +. It was quarter of twelve and I was pretty sure that nothing good would come from answering the phone at that hour. I stared at it until the machine picked it up. +“Hello? Sil are you there?” There was a silence on the other end for a moment and then came a more thoughtful, lonely drawn-out sounding voice, “well if you get this message call me tonight, my roommates are gone and I feel king of unsafe…(there was a pause) I was wondering if you would come over and stay with me… if not at least call. Okay? Goodbye.” +I sat for moment staring at the pattern of plaster on the wall wondering what my will would do with me. The voice was Amy, my ex-wife whom I had waked out on six months prior. I stared at the wall and tried to figure out how she could possibly have known that I was here, I smelled the evil artistry of Dean who in moments weakness might have squealed my whereabouts to Hillarie his own little nightmare who would have been sent by Amy to find me. Women are insidious little creatures and I could see Dean sitting on the edge of his bed with Hillarie on her knees, his cock in her hand… Dean tell me where he is or I’m leaving. Oh well I’d have done the same. +Besides all that was irrelevant. Why not give the ex a good poke? One last poke and then I’m gone, through with whole sordid affair. And what a clever little girl, wanting protection, so Amy… she would never have had the courage to admit that she wanted a good fuck and nothing more, with Amy there was always something more, more more more. Not that she was outright lying; the apartment above her had been burglarized the last I was there. The poor woman had ended up in the barrio after I split. I would be little more than psychological comfort, both she and I knew that I would be out the window before the door was half open. She wanted me there for reasons well above and beyond her safety —she wanted sex. She wanted sex because a) she was horny or b) it was the only substitute she could thing of for the emotional hole I had torn in her heart. +I was at a bit of a loss, but not entirely surprised. I was feeling free and floating in the effervescent vapors of my new freedom and now here was the old, the familiar, like sliding a foot into the comfort of a well worn boot… But was it a good idea? I called her back and in her voice I caught it the indeterminable mystery that had always gotten me and always could from the beginning to the end. The alpha and the omega—the only thing that ever drew me to anyone —the mystical enigma of the unknown. The familiarity of anything makes it pedestrian and undesirable to me whether it is a place, a person or an emotion. It was on this point that I realized that Dean too bore the mark, bore a mark; I never told him how profound his words were to me when I read them but it was he who put it best: familiarity breeds contempt. +It was the contempt for the familiar that had driven me from Amy; it was never anything to do with her, but try as I might I could never sell her on that point. Whatever it is I can change… those words of desperation that we use when we are in danger of losing our tenuous grasp on the world are the very ones that seal our fate and guarantee that we lose hold. When things are mysterious they remain perpetual wellsprings from which to draw all hope, dream and fantasy, but the closer in to actual thing I get, the longer I stay in one place, the more familiar I am with a friend the more intimate I am with a lover the less mysterious they become. Without the mystery I have nothing from which to draw, my existence is not unlike that of the vampire, but unlike the vampire my victims do not die. I shatter their worlds and they come crawling right back again for more. I felt sickened by myself, by the fact that I could recognize such a thing, but feel powerless to stop it; worse still was the dawning realization that I didn’t care to stop it, I had no reason to stop it. My brain squirmed looking for a way out constantly and when Amy gave me one the wheels were already turning. Like a man trying to fly I felt the words in my head, but what if it doesn’t work and I fell like a rock. Doubt kills. +I ended up at Amy’s house twenty minutes later; I tried briefly to resist to see how serious she was and when she offered to come over and pick me so I wouldn’t have to walk I knew there was only one way to go about this. I walked over so as to not be stuck there and also to give myself time to get right down into the sands and dig a little hole, take a closer look at the fragments of my passing even as they were going by. What propelled me was something other than what I think of as me, something I no longer considered myself; I was merely along for the ride. I began to see this temporal me with increasing clarity it seemed to have crawled up from inside and it hung on to edges of reality leaving me to wander in dream and observe form a distance all the beauty that surrounds the dreamer. + Amy was in a shiny satin dress that clung to her lithe frame; it was green and made her eyes glow the deep luster of emerald stones. Her hair was a little bit longer and she had it pulled up behind her head to give unrequited views of the curve of her shoulder as it snaked its way up to her neck. Her nipples poked out of the thin green material and her lips curled playfully as I walked in the door. +I accepted a glass of wine and took a seat on the couch. It was a Chilean wine, a pinot, light and sweet. We talked for a while, she told me of a few dates she had been on, how worthless men were in general, asked how I was how was I enjoying myself, did I have any plans? It was preliminary nonsense to an inevitability of habit, probably mutual fear as much as need, it was to be a construction fuck, the best sex of your life even as the walls are being built up again. For me the walls would never go up, they never do, I could walk into her house ten years from now and feel as familiar with her as I did at the height of our relationship, but for her they went back up. She needed to know that she was the only one before she let the guard down and I had hurt her so up they went, slowly at first day by day, week by passing week she moved farther and farther away from me. I know longer try to fight that emotion, let her go don’t question her is my new mantra. Amy thought I was cold and callous for being able to break her heart, but she didn’t understand that I did suffer, I suffered far more, I had nowhere to place the blame, I broke my own heart as well. I had done it before and I was destined to do it again. She had moved through all the stages of depression that you find in the first chapters of grief psychology. +First there was anger; my nose took the brunt of that off her closed fist. Then silence, my favorite stage —denial. And her we were in surrender where the inevitable is accepted but not yet acted out, and of course there was one yet to come —acceptance. In surrender you give up on the ghost and live on autopilot, from the rear window of the plane you can see the tragedy and the comedy, and the tragedy in the comedy and occasionally even the comedy in the tragedy. The rear door opens and from that artificial altitude you can see the surface of convoluted emotion smoothed flat with distance. We were, for that night, up there together standing on the back of the plane just looking down and admiring the view. How we got there and where we were going was irrelevant, it was all about the view. I knew she would call again tomorrow and that would not be good, but for now… +What a view! She stopped talking and leaned into gently kiss my lips; she started to pull away, but could not the tantalizing attraction of the unknown came over us both, would it be the same? That was the mystery which created the inclination keep our lips pressed together, softly at first until the craving appetite of carnality parted them with hunger and by the time our tongues met we were sealed in our fate. She straddled me on the couch and my hands explored her sphinx-like body as though it were a newfound treasure. My fingers tugged gently at her nipples and pulled the back of her head, pushing my tongue farther around her mouth. The tugging became pinching and her hands fumbled at my belt in a frenzy until she had firm hold of my hard cock and she stroked it gently at first and then just held it in a vise grip as my own trailed down her legs and hiked up her dress. Her legs parted and I twisted my arm to get a finger in her cunt. She was gushing; I rubbed her smooth hairless cunt, probing my fingers in to the knuckles; it wrapped them up like a closing sea anemone. +I pulled the dress off over her head and pushed her up onto the couch as I slid onto the floor. She squatted and moaned as I went to work on her cunt. The taste was familiar and called up memories as only taste and smell can. Infinite desires that spanned far beyond this lifetime into some timeless place where the expression of desire is infinite and perfectly tied to everybody all at once in an ecclesiastic orgasm. Her cum was dripping of my chin and she pulled me up under her again by tugging my hair. She licked her cum from my chin as I fingered her some more, she began to gasp into me ear and I felt her cunt contract on my fingers. She had never come just from my hand before; it empowered me and made my cock rigid as a cement light post. In one move I impaled her on it, she pushed me back against the couch and began to —what better word than ride? I lay there with a sense of relaxed enjoyment born out of the certainty that I would not cum until I was ready. +I wanted to feel every thrust, to feel those warm stretching walls of cunt gripping like a vise, I knew I never would again and I savored it. I kissed her breasts as they bounced delectably in front of my lips. I trailed her juices down to her asshole and reached my hand around her to her ass and slid into her puckered hole. She lifted herself slightly and leaned her head down dragging her lips breathily across my cheek until she bit at my lips and her tongue snaked into my mouth. I held my hand still and kissed her letting her grind as she raised and lowered herself up and down slowly building momentum. +She rode me through two orgasms after which I lifted her up and threw her over the arm of the couch. I slipped it into her with ease and began to fuck her with that intensity where you momentarily forget whether you are trying to please or destroy the cunt. Her cunt milked at my cock until in was near bursting. I watched the swing of her ample breasts as her body thrust back to meet me. +“Don't cum...!…I want to feel it in my ass” +This was a new idea, not one I was all the keen on, but she looked back at me with a expression of lust so primeval and inhuman that I could see her no longer as the wounded animal that lashed out two weeks ago and more like the whole person that knew what she wanted and was going to get it however she pleased. I pulled out and tongued her asshole teasing her to moans and making her beg. She got up and ran to the bathroom, returning with jar of Vaseline. She lay down on her stomach and smeared Vaseline on her ass, working it in with her fingers. +“Ughuuuuuhhuhuhhhhh… you know you want my ass…. I was masturbating the other day and I started fucking myself in the ass with that dildo you gave me [I couldn’t just leave her you understand] and I’ve been wanting to feel your cock ever since.” She smiled slyly at me. +The veins in my cock were bulging like I had never seen them before. I climbed on top of her and slowly, gently as I could ease myself into her ass while she spread her cheeks. I watched her face wince at first and then relax. Soon I had a good rhythm going and Amy came again twitching violently and screaming. I exploded in her ass and collapsed onto her back. After a while I propped myself up and pushed at her asshole; I was fascinated by the squishing sounds of my cum oozing and dribbling out of her ass and the way it refused to mix with Vaseline. +I collapsed into a chair panting, but my mind was reeled about the room. I was exhausted but had never felt so alive, my only thought was to escape her and get out into the streets into the pulse of life, to go and go and go and never look back, but Amy rolled over and begged me to make her come again. I rolled her over and dove into her cunt trying to morph my tongue into an electric eel. + Later we lay for a while in silence and smoked a cigarette. I was fucked out, but I couldn’t help commenting on the candles. The place was lit up like a Catholic Church, a voodoo ceremony; candles on the coffee table, the end table, the wall, even some hanging from the ceiling suspended in gnarled balls of wire that Amy had bent and twisted for the purpose. +“Why is it that in movies when ever white people start to have sex candles appear and everything gets soft lighting and feels like a hallmark greeting card?” +She laughed. “Was I trying to hard?” +“Absolutely.” +“Well thanks for humoring me….” She got up and more cum slipped out her ass and landed on the floor. “Oh my god! Elsa will kill me if we stain this carpet,” and she ran off to get a towel and clean herself up. I heard running water and her yelling form the bathroom, “Jesus you haven’t gotten laid in a while…. There's a ton of cum up my ass.” +“Fuck You!” But it was true. After a minute I walked in, “let me know what it feels like next time you take a shit.” She was sitting on the toilet wiping the Vaseline off, cum was dribbling slowing into the toilet. I went into the kitchen to clean myself. I had the water running and I was studying my cock intently noticing that it was darker in tone after sex than before sex, but it didn’t wash off so I knew it wasn’t shit. I chalked it up to blood circulation. As I was turning it around and twisting it in knots Elsa, Amy’s roommate walked in the kitchen behind me. Apparently she had been here the whole time in her room. I naturally assumed that she had been gone otherwise Amy wouldn’t have fucked me in the living room, but as I turned off the sink and went to grab the dishtowel I saw her. Her face had a wide-eyed look of wonder and I froze like a deer. We stood there staring at each other in absolute silence for a full minute and then Amy came charging around the corner with a wineglass in each hand and nearly sent Elsa flying. They both yelped and screamed and then Amy started laughing uncontrollably rolling on the floor still holding the glasses up off the ground. It was so ridiculous that I had to laugh in spite of myself. The last time I had been over, Amy had tried to get me to seduce Elsa with her. I forget why we never went through with it that night, but I do know that this was not exactly how we had planned it. The absurdity of it made me burst out laughing; Amy and I were rolling on the floor and Elsa just stood there in shock for a while. And then non-plused as a kitten she strode over grabbed the wine and a glass and poured it and walked off to her bedroom. Amy and I looked at each other thinking perhaps she was genuinely offended. +“Great, now you freaked her out…” Amy knocked on her bedroom door softly and then slipped inside. I hunted through their refrigerator looking for something to eat. I found an apple and hunk of Gouda cheese, which I took out to the patio, along with the bottle of wine and a glass. The patio was small and choked full of plants. Most of them were mine or had been mine before I split for San Francisco; it seemed like ages ago that Amy and I had split up and we weren’t even divorced yet. The ivy was wilting she had it in direct sunlight; I fondled the brittle leaves. The flowering plants were doing much better, the snapdragons were getting so tall they could be seen from the other side of the fence. They were slender explosions of red and purple jutting out of the moss lined baskets I had built. I sat on the couch and lit a cigarette. I had to admit that this patio was better than our other one and for some reason that irked me. There were more plants more candles; it was more…. I gave up. I thought I heard the sound of running water and I figured that someone was in the shower. It seemed fairly obvious to me that we were all going to have sex at some point; it hung in the air like stale smoke. It was inevitable. I propped my feet up on the table and sat back to enjoy. I left the details of the scenario to Amy; it was after all her house. I was a guest, little more than a friendly cock at this point. I heard a murmuring sound and looked up, there was Amy dripping wet standing in the frame of the sliding door, “would you like to join us in the shower?” +“Sure.” This is where the trouble starts I thought to myself, but I went anyway and there was Elsa standing under the warm water. She was shorter than Amy and thinner, her breasts were bigger though and she had shiny black hair that clung to her neck in strands. I got in and Amy followed, Amy and I kissed for a while and then she pulled away and pushed me toward Elsa who kissed me hesitantly at first and then as if giving in to something unseen she reached both arms around my neck and tried to chew my lips off. Then the girls kissed and fondled each other softly while I stood under the water. +“Stop hogging the water come here…” Amy pulled me over to them and the three of us kissed at the same time as best we could, but by then the water was running cold and we got out to dry off. I wrapped a towel around my waist and went back to the kitchen to see about more food. Once I start eating late at night its hard to stop, this time I set about to make a fruit shake out of frozen packaged peaches and blueberries. Elsa came in to see what I was up to, she was wearing only a silk bathrobe and looked at my coyly. +“Would you like to dance?” She walked over casually and took the towel off my waits. I was already hard and she just stood there for a moment fondling my prick. +Elsa turned up the stereo and went outside onto the patio dragging me by the cock. The fenced enclosure was small but we didn’t really dance we just kind of turned to the soft tones of a mysterious violin. It warped out the screen and wrapped our arms lazily about as we explored each other’s bodies. She pulled me into her smashing her breasts against my chest, grinding her pubic hair into mine and nibbling at my neck. I circled around sliding a finger down the crack of her ass and stroking her cunt from behind. Amy came outside and sat on the couch and lit a cigarette. She exhaled and smiled at me. She twisted her mouth up into a sly grin and spread her legs and began stroking her cunt and watching us. Every time my back was to her Elsa would fondle my ass, then she went to my cock. She seemed to be testing Amy to see how far she could go. My cock was ridged again by now and stabbing her in the stomach. She reached down and pointed it under her, rubbing it across her cunt and mashing at her clitoris. Without a word she dropped on her knees and popped it in her mouth. I was standing sideways to Amy and I saw that she was fucking her pussy with two fingers and gently patting her clit with her other hand while staring intently at Elsa’s head bobbing up and down on my cock. I reached down and stroked Elsa’s head, gently pushing my cock further into her mouth. +“Ya, fuck her in the mouth,” Amy purred and Elsa’s murmurs tickled at the hair on my balls. I was feeling a bit too good and eased out of her mouth. +“Why don’t you two dance for a minute? I need a cigarette.” I sat down on the couch and lit one. They never even really danced. Amy walked up and Elsa fairly seized her head and started tearing at her lips. Amy pulled herself away. +“You want me bad don’t you?” +“Yessss….” +She pushed her down to her knees and lifted one leg over her shoulder bearing her cunt down on her face. I had sat on that same couch a million times when we were married and never had a cigarette tasted so good. An incongruous thought came to me as I leaned forward for the ashtray, why hadn’t we done this more often? In fact why didn’t everyone do this more often? Surely this was better than watching television? It was definitely better than talking. It occurred to me that this felt natural, that in fact every thing I had ever done that was looked down upon or judged to be morally reprehensible felt natural. I was a natural sinner; I was even good at it I realized. This was my calling. I would be a professional sinner; I would apply to the pope for a position in his majesty’s satanic army. I would stand up and be the ting toward which all catholic hatred could be directed and then I would go the presidents of all the countries of the earth and I would give them the very image of debauchery and self-slaughter until all hatred was focused on me. Then I figured I would fuck it out. Fuck until it was all dispersed and there was finally peace on earth. Debauchery will cure everything I thought. It was a novel approach. +I leaned back and glanced around; the place was a jungle. Plants in pots on the walls on the table, and even in metal stands on either side of the couch. I stared laughing because it was just like the candles. Amy came over leading Elsa by the hand. When I laughed she bent over and reached between her legs spreading her swollen red cunt lips and wiggling her ass at me. I pulled her down on me and entered her as she wiggled about on my cock. +Elsa stood next to us on the couch and I stroked her fur with one hand while pinching Amy’s nipple with the other. Elsa was moaning low and she started to move around until she was in front of us half straddling the coffee table. I leaned Amy to the side and pressed my tongue into Elsa’s cunt. Pulled back savoring the taste of her cunt. It was bittersweet, more like wine to Amy’s nectarine fruit flavor. Amy’s was better, but Elsa’s was foreign. There was something about Amy’s cunt and the way it tasted that made the back of my throat salivate. She was wiggling on my fingers and now I felt Amy’s hand furrowing through her bush. I moved my away to allow her to continue and I began to slowly lift Amy up and down on my cock. Amy leaned back onto of me so that I was pressed up against the couch. Everywhere I put my hand there were tits and nipples and hungry mouths laughing and biting playfully at my finger. Then Amy began to rub at her clit and occasionally my balls kissing Elsa frantically and then she came. She went off like a bomb tensing and jerking as if invisible forces kicked her. She used to scare me when she came jerking and thrashing about like that. She hung on the Elsa’s lip and never stopped fingering her. +“I need to be fucked,” she moaned to Amy. Amy nodded and stood up. +Elsa straddled me facing me and Amy fed my cock into her cunt, coated her fingers in juice and then stepped back and licked them clean. Elsa wasted no time and fucked me like a hellion, digging her nails in and snarling at me. I pounded upwards to meet her frantic rhythm. He cunt was long and hotter than Amy’s; I could feel my balls slapping up and down out of control. +“You like that don’t you? You like getting fucked hard don’t you.” Amy pulled Elsa’s hair and snarled at her ear. Elsa grabbed widely at Amy and came with little muffled cries; I could feel her cunt tightening in silken spasms. By now Amy was worked up and again and I still hadn’t cum so we moved back into the living room and they spread out a bedspread and some pillows. +“Let’s do something together,” I suggested and they went about arranging themselves in a sixty-nine position. After some debate with myself I decided I wanted to cum in Elsa. I maneuvered myself behind her on my knees straddling Amy’s head. Amy licked at Elsa’s clit and my balls and I rammed her in deep slow strokes while she leaned over and ate Amy out. After a minute Elsa announced that she was cumming and I actually felt the juice pouring out of her cunt down my balls and onto Amy’s face. Amy must have seen my balls tighten because she grabbed me buy the base of the cock and pushed Elsa forward off of me. She sat up and urged me to lean back. I did and the two of them went to work on me. Amy kissed me for while; her face was covered in Elsa’s cream and was more of a cunt than a mouth. Elsa was licking my balls, which by now were on the verge of pain, if I didn’t cum soon I was worried that I might never be able to cum again. Amy leaned into my ear and whispered, “I want you to cum on her face, on both our face’s.” And she went down with Elsa and began sucking on me. The licked and sucked and nibbled and kissed each other with my cock between there lips. Finally I came. I came so hard I got tunnel vision and arched my back off the ground. I stayed like that forever it seemed. It felt natural, I wasn’t even aware I had arched off the ground until my leg threatened to cramp and I collapsed down. I lifted my head in time to see them licking my cum off each other’s face’s giggling like schoolgirls. +We all lay around completely fucked out. We had some more wine, and some cigarettes. I laid them both out on the couch and inspected the differences between their cunts. Amy’s cunt had thick lips that sealed it up like a sea anemone while Elsa’s was wider with little lips that stuck out like flaps. They were same little flaps of skin that stuck apart with her cum and gave a slutty well-fucked honest look to her cunt. I told her it was beautiful. Amy leaned over to look at her with me and it wasn’t long before we were both eating her out and she came again and then she watched exhausted, as Amy bounced up and down on my cock until she came. +Around four we all climbed into Amy’s bed and I lay between them feigning sleep. Jut after I heard the familiar breathing of Amy in deep sleep, Elsa grabbed at my cock and whispered that she wanted me to fuck her again nice and slowly from behind. I tried to protest. I was tired, but my cock was hard in no time and she feed it into her cunt. It was still wet from earlier. We swayed gently fucking for a long time and then I heard her gasping she came again and rolled her head around to face me. +“Oh cum in me, please cum in me I wanna feel it squirting…” +I pulled out of her cunt and nudged at her ass. +“Oh yes fuck my ass… oh my god…ouch…uuugh....yes… god…” And somewhere in the middle I came. +We lay in silence for a while and then out of nowhere Else blurted out in whispers and gasps, “oh god that was amazing! I saw stars and right then you came and I felt stars shooting into my ass…I want you to fuck me again sometime… just you… “ She stopped and stroked my face, “you will won’t you? How about tomorrow? Amy will be gone, “god I must fuck you again…” +“Yes yes, okay we will fuck again.” I started giggling she was so adamant about it. She rolled over and I lay on my back staring at the ceiling. Elsa kissed me and fell asleep with her head on my chest. The clock read 6:23 and I still wasn’t asleep. They were both purring softly and had been for some time. I was bursting with energy and honesty; I felt expansive, like I was floating, orbiting the moon. I had been lying there for a while just staring at the rough plaster ceiling, it’s texture seemed to resemble the surface of the moon. I lay there a minute more orbiting the lunar surface and then gently without waking her, I eased myself out from under Elsa and climbed over Amy. I went in the living room and got dressed. The house smelled warm and organic. The windows were fogged over and condensation was forming on them. The sun was not yet up but the sky was already glowing a soft pale blue color. I went in and kissed both of them. I slipped out and locked the door behind me +I smoked a cigarette walking towards Dean’s house, but a donut shop seduced me and I sat in the silent morning air outside eating a blueberry filled donut covered in powdered sugar and dripping filling. It stands out as a pregnant moment stopped a lot to luxuriate in the good fortune that seems to follow me around. I was living in a kaleidoscope of realities that swirled with all the vibrancy and color of my youth, but it was alive now, here, in this moment, fairly bursting out of my chest. I collapsed on the couch that doubled as my bed and fell into a deep coma like sleep. +I dreamed a radio broadcast of unknown origins pilling down the universes own information superhighway at a genetic tilt, coming across the galaxy without static pure unadulterated reception of signal and through it all the fragment of ash kept falling, fragments of history written on burnt paper and cast about in a hurricane of now. Fragments of falling ash. Fragments of ash falling. White washed ceilings hanging so ominous.... Hallucination of bubble-headed figures crawling like the Michelin Man across an indescribable mountain of tires. Motels Motels Motels Whiskey Bourbon. Tow truck non-ordinary state of reality precludes a state of reality that something is real. Point at the autistic manwomanchild Autistic man pointing at you laughing unable to fathom how your brain functions and quite self-righteously you cling to its definitions. Must delineate between abnormality and those of us who UNDERSTAND.... The Human Virus breeding like rats unconsciously conscious and aware of our disorganization. Gas Station Cold Fusion dreams of the Anarchist are breeding in the minds of the oilmen who don’t want to loose their stranglehold of reality. Fragments of Ash falling, the continual settling of dust weighing down humanity and the French Maid masturbates discreetly in the next room. You need her to keep the dust off your mortal coil spring. Rebirth mythology. Mythology of reality. We must distinguish between what will be defined as sane and what shall be referred to as insanity. Kevlar definitions constructed to make a better shampoo seem like a logical item on which to squander your paperbacked slavery bills. After all these years Tide still gets your socks whiter Its a wonder that they aren’t transparent by now...that your brain retarded in its development that evolution had not anticipated the advent of the opposable thumb the unopposable domination of the thumb leading to and insect superiority of mating rituals stolen from a textbook on damselflies darning needles sewing shut your lips, mind atrophy. Weber's White Race Enriched for Superiority Scorched earth campaigns raining Ash. Shit from the sky. Tax man came for your baby in exchange for unpaid balance. You understand. Nothing Personal Just doing our job. Same as the next guy. From Auzwich on down the line. Didn’t make the rules. Sorry. We perfected them. There are no innocents in a world of free will. You don’t have to survive at the expense of others. You could die with puncture wounds in your hands and others would create a new mythology strange irony would find another with holes in his hands unwilling to accept cockroach mentalities. You want to beLIEve Hitler was a madman but he lives on in quiet cafes centralsouthamerica not so free not all the communists have been shot yet Your mistook misunderstood missed the lesson in the situation that unfolded Dr. of dialectic excuses you want to beLIEve Hitler was a madman Hitler killed everybody's body only taking orders you understand just doing my job from Independence on down the line. It was a sad money grubbing hunter gather up his children and thank his gods they are his and he their god behold I have come to tell you that everything you know is wrong stop doing your job it is not yours see Hitler in your mind you want him dead but he's not he lives on buried under restraint in everyone's mind. Only taking orders you understand. Didn’t have a CHOICE. Got a family to feed. Radio crackle. Pop. Hiss. Silence. End transmission. + + + +I didn’t wake up until five in the evening. I was just sitting up and lighting a cigarette when Dean burst through the door laughing. +“Jesus, what happened to you,” Dean let his bag fall to the floor and stared at me with a questioning look. +“I don’t really know… I think I went over to Amy’s and fucked her and her roommate for a really long time, but I might have dreamed it. Dean walked over threw my bedding off the couch and sat down. Then he sniffed and then he leaned in and sniffed at my face. +“No my friend I think that whatever you think you remember most definitely happened.” He laughed and lit a cigarette. “Go take a shower man we’re going to the Knight to have a drink, I got some news for you and I want to hear all about your weekend….” In the shower I tried to snap the trance state I had awoken in but even the water failed to cut through. I felt like a was stoned, but I hadn’t smoked anything. +I was feeling muted, as if I did not exist at all, but was merely a spectral figure watching over the chaos and insanity of this tiny little rock spinning about a nearly equally tiny burning rock. I observed everything just as it was without subjecting it to my own opinions, beliefs and feeble desires. It followed me to the car and all the way to the Little Knight. In the parking lot I got out and saw two lithe girls stumbling drunkenly toward their car; something about them captured me and I stared at them intently. The one that seemed to be more sober looked over and smiled, “Hi, don’t worry I’m sober…” +“I’m not!” Gurgled her friend who hiccuped and laughed stumbling and lurching forward. They booth giggled insanely and tried to unlock there car. I went inside with Dean and we ducked into the restroom. I stood over the bathroom sink examining myself in the mirror splashing a little water on my face. +It came like lightning bolt that you never see you only hear the rippling crash of thunder; I was alive. It was that simple. There was no other thing that mattered at all. . I snapped out of it and floated back down to my body, my life and my animal desires. I sighed and Dean came out of the stall and scrutinized my reflection in the mirror +“Are you okay man? You’re not on anything are you?” +“No no, I feel fine now; come on I’ll tell you all about it.” +Bruno, our favorite bartender was working. Bruno had the most awe inspiring memory I have ever witnessed. He greeted you like Odysseus returning every time you walked through the door. He also had a remarkable power to ‘exaggerate’ as he called it (lie as the rest of us called it); he exaggerated everything, the very air that surrounded him. He looked more than anything, like Homer Simpson, but her claimed to be Italian, which was at least substantiated by his full name Anthony Luigi Bruno. The Little Knight was a hole in the wall, tucked between a dry cleaners and a driveway, but it had heart, it had an enormous carnivore heart that spun around like lions and roared with lights, alcohol soaked floors and cigarette smoke. Bruno brought out the atmosphere an Italian family reunion. Everyone always felt welcome and loved when Bruno was working, no matter how pathetic their lives might have been during the day they were all on the same level playing field when Bruno was around. He should have been a cult leader or spiritual adviser, but this is the twenty-first century and there are no spiritual advisers there are bartenders. +“Dean! Sil!” He fairly jumped over the bar. “How have you been?” +“Since last weekend?” Dean has the same arrogant self-mocking sense of humor that I do. “You know… ‘nother week, ‘nother check and we come here to spend it!” +“That’s why I love you guys; did I ever tell you that? I love you guys!” He grabbed us by the shoulders and shook us with all his Italian might. He leaned back over the bar and took off his shirt exposing his most telling homer Simpson trait —his enormous belly. “Watch this…” +The Knight had this pole in the middle of it, but the ceiling was too low to actually stand on the bar so Bruno jumped up and kind of crouched his back down so that his already enormous gut looked even bigger. “Hey ladies!” He hovered over two girls sitting at the bar and began to pole dance to the music from the jukebox. Catcalls from the locals drown out whatever the girls were trying to say and several patrons ran up to stuff money in Bruno’s pants. He hammed it up flipping his hair and shimmying his enormous Santa belly around the pole. His pants were falling down to plumber level and I knew we weren’t getting beer any time soon. Dean and I joined Betty in the corner booth by the door. Cached safely with my back to the wall I settled into watch the familiar show. +Bruno was now running up and down the bar flexing his muscles; he had stuffed enormous wrenches, screw drivers, and other tools of the plumbers’ trade into his belt loop and down his pants. He squatted in front of a forty-year-old businesswoman and shoved his three exposed inches of ass crack in her face and circle-swooshed it around like a Vegas showgirl. She roared with laughter and tucked a five spot into his crack. He took off down the bar to clean up on the drunken thirty-something’s that had never seen such “hilarious antics.” Bruno was a one of kind; he was the only person I know that could dance so badly, stick pretzels into his gums like fangs, pull his pants down like a plumber and make money while he was at it. +I deeply admired him for that. It wasn’t something you see everyday, but eventually the act got old (drunks have a short attention span) and Bruno came over to the table to see what we wanted. + “Gentlemen,” He screwed up his expression to a face of mock seriousness, “what flavor will you be having this evening?” He stood there waiting, stripped to the waste pants slung low halfway down his ass with two bread stick fangs hanging out of his mouth. +“Guinness,” came out of Dean and I in unison. An Irishman would have wept, but Bruno, being Italian only smiled and the bread sticks fell to the floor. He frowned and Dean and I burst out laughing. He went off to pour and I tried in vain to explain what had happened to me while Dean was gone. But there were no words, that was the overwhelming thing that pulled me around and around as I wrestled with it; there was of course the story the physical account you might say but there was no way to wrap up the emotional/mental account, the underlying thing that I was trying to reach out and give to them remained mysteriously buried under the heavy noise of concrete silence. Somewhere near the edges of what is here and now and what is always and forever there comes in the grips of eternity a feeling so exhilarating and blinding that it transcends all language all communication. +Dean listened intently but I felt sure that I was inarticulate and confused when inside I was bursting with clarity. In my reverie I experience extreme chest pains; I felt as if life itself whatever it might be god… dog… you name it… was pouring right through me like Shaterack Meshak and abandego. I stood in the fire and was untouched and yet there was nothing that could be said to describe it. Just when I felt on the brink of madness and isolation Dean interrupted me with a story of William Burroughs, the last ‘old man of the mountain.’ +“That sounds a lot like The Western Lands… the sort of middle ground between life and death to which mystics and all character of that sort are always propelled…. The western lands where everything is unwritten, unwritable even, quite a treacherous place I would imagine. You ought to read the Tibetan Book of Dead, see if that rings your bell a bit….” +“Ya? See the supremely frustrating thing is that I feel like I saw a cure for all that ails us… all the worlds problems were solved from where I was… beyond good and evil, but not philosophically; vitally… damn I’m at a loss for words again…. But I will tell you one thing; I can’t stay here anymore… I appreciate you putting me up and all, but I have to keep moving… what is going through my head is taking over my life, it is the supreme and indeed the only important thing that has ever happened to me. It keeps saying move move move; sitting still is going to drive me mad. Even writing it out on paper, writing a book is futile… this is something entirely separate… this is art that has to be lived to understand it….” And once again I grew drunk without liquor, swirling the clouds of inception circling with Hesse’s eagle and the swooping brown pelicans of literature, pouches heavy with something new, something fresh which must be shat from on high to land with a dull splatter that covers the earth with a new freshness a new fecundity from which new life could spring, new wells could be draw, new myths created, new words invented new dreams, new ideas, new art forms that would blend seamlessly with old, taking there place in the long infinite line of creation +Dean smiled at me. “Its funny you should mention that…” +But I ignored him, I had worked myself into a frenzy and I got drunk on the words, on the bear, on the ideas. “What we ought to do my friend is to light out for the territories. We ought to do those things that living people —I mean people that are alive and eager to go about the business of living — do. They sure as fuck don’t hang around here I spent all weekend watching the scurrying rats running from hole to hole and I just about can’t take it anymore. I am bursting I am alive, I am that one little thistle that turns green after the rain on an abandoned lot. And you, look at you, what the fuck is wrong with you? You know better than to go showing up at some job every day —like it matters in the grand scheme of things! We are monkeys and yet all we do is mimic the rat on the wheel or the ceaseless activity of the worker ant… to serve a queen? What we ought to be; what we ought to be concerned with is something real… something of value that extends beyond this barren womb… this business capital of humanity. Even the landscape is mostly boring and drab —except by the coast. What is the rest of this place? Mediocre rolling hills that are brown from lack of rain three quarters of the year…. The whole place is so sterile there aren’t even any animals running amuck…. This place —these people—all of them— are beyond hope and even if they weren’t you and I are hardly the savior type…. we look out for ourselves and those that come to us… we don’t go looking for help it comes to us don’t you see? Its coming to us it’s drawing us away from here away away away! We will be embarking on a radical change and no matter if we should end up destitute selling children in the back alleys of Rumanian because no matter what might possible happen it will at least not be this. This is nothing this is a static oasis on the edge of desolate gasoline holocaust.” +I was exuding enough enthusiasm to power a small city and the Guinness was the only thing keeping me in line. I watched it spread around the table first to Dean who began to launch a thousand thoughts much as I had done silently in the pool. We talked of Europe and South America with such enthusiasm that listeners would have been shocked to hear that neither of us had ever been there. We walked the dusty camel choked streets of Morocco and took the Marrakech express across the desert and then ported ourselves to the coast and caught freighters back to Brazil to sail up the Amazon. We had splendid adventures and our table was bursting with a bubbling exuberance that lit up the bar like a rocket ship. Soon the place was packed and we were hemmed in to the table by a wall of drinkers willing to stand for the privilege. I sat up on the back of the booth and had a look around. Dean used the break in conversation to leap up on the table and yell for more beer. As heads turned to see the face of the roaring noise that took the bartender away from their own precious little drinks Dean found himself with an audience. +“Come on Bruno! You know tomorrow is meaningless to now! We’re here, right now and we have to live here right fucking now! I’m not going to work tomorrow because it’s never going to be tomorrow and I don’t want the things I have to pay for today. Every moment of everyday is only one thing —now. What the fuck are you people looking at? If I could be anywhere doing anything why would I be here? Do you realize the odds stacked against me? Against you? The sheer probability of any of this ever occurring, let alone occurring like this, in this exact fashion, at this exact time, in this exact bar? But here we are… what can you say beyond that? You’re going to pass out tonight and happily assume in the seething cesspool of your unconscious that you will wake up again tomorrow, but the odds are equally against you…” +At this point in his ranting Dean wandered off into Quantum physics, Astrology and Chaos math. Most of the drunks were lost before that and the ones that weren’t raised their glasses and got lost rather quickly, but Dean had tapped into something and soon we had new friends. +Cristof, who turned out to be from Rumania, and Charles who could have been from anywhere outside the general atmosphere of earth, bought us round after round of expensive whiskey. Cristof said Dean’s speech was, as he put it, “the only intelligent thing I’ve ever heard an American say.” +Soon there were girls and the world took on a kaleidoscope quality. Time passed as a jerky black and white slideshow, moments were projected onto a screen and just as I was scrutinizing them they were gone replaced by another that seemed out of order. The world got jumbled rather quickly as if my proverbial house of cards was sort of collapsing rather harmlessly about me. I was kissing and pawing roughly at a girl from Arizona. She fairly dragged me with her hand on my collar into the women’s restroom where I threw her against the floral print walls, lifted her skirt and slipped it in roughly and drunkenly. She moaned heavy in my ear but I was beyond caring about her, she was merely a vessel through which I was vainly trying to propel myself into the full stream of life, the raging river…. I came hard seeing stars and then left it slide out, tore off the condom threw it in the toilet and ducked out the back door with lipstick still smeared on my face. +Dean drove home and it was in the car that he turned around said, “by the way, I forgot to mention this back at the bar… we kept getting sidetracked… hey did you fuck that girl back there?” +“Yes,” I slurred, “but what ere you going to tell me?” +“Oh, I’m moving to Vegas day after tomorrow… you want to come? We can stay with my mom for a while, 'til something cheap comes up….” +I was too drunk to fully comprehend what he had said. All I heard was Vegas and mom, I fell asleep convinced that we were going to Vegas to visit there mom sometimes soon. + +The next day I woke up and Dean was packing up his room. He had the entire thing down to a box of books, a suitcase of clothes and trash bag of miscellania. +“So what’s the story again? We’re moving to Vegas I take it?” +“Ya,” Dean set his things by the door and lit a cigarette. “You still up for it?” +“The question is more ‘is your mom up for me?’” +“You know Rachel; she loves rounding up the strays and setting them on the path to righteousness…” We laughed. And I figured what the hell. +“You already packed up? That couldn’t have taken more than five minutes what the hell’d you do if for at eleven in the morning on your day off?” +“I have less than twenty four hours to seduce Kim, finally give into Kala, and then fuck the shit out of Monique and finish it off with Corey because she doesn’t care if I’m fucked out… she’d fuck my lifeless corpse I think.” +“Yes she probably would.” I felt bad for Corey though because while she wasn’t in love with him she did care about him in that strange concerned abstract way that only women can care. It may not bother her that he fucked everything he could get his hands on, but I think it did bother her that to think that he thought of her more as a fuck than a friend. “They got any friends you can set me up with?” +“There is this one girl… Jen… friend of Monique's… she’s been wanting to get in with me…maybe Monique too… anyway she’d go for you. You can have her…she’s got great tits, but I can’t talk to her long enough to get her naked.” +“Give her a call…” +Dean went off to try and seduce Kim over lunch, but he called and told Monique that he and I were coming over and that Jen should join us all. With a few hours to myself I figured to go see a movie and get some breakfast. I wandered down to the coffeehouse where all the hipster art kids hang out. The place was a refurbished storage cellar with yellow-gray walls and a scattering of benches and tables. It was windowless and stale like most of the people it held captive. I tried to get a plant to grow down here a few years ago before but it didn't work; I forgot about heliotropism-nothing grows in darkness. A botany student who watched me try in vain to keep the poor ivy plant alive explained it to me in graphic detail; he was condescending like a scientists. Everything needs sunlight in one way or another. The kids that hung out in the cellar were bleached souls, burned by magic. Burned by money, by law, by a culture designed to seductively lull them into a sleep state of pacified stupidity where they could be exploited as a labor source of the robber barons of Washington. I don't think most of them were aware of that though which gave me comfort because knowledge is paralyzing and without it maybe a few of them would stumble blindly out of the cave and into the sunlight. + I got a cup and sat in the corner for while smoking a cigarette and watching a genetic reproduction of Ginsberg scrutinize the art on the walls. I wished I had on three-piece suit or a football jersey so we could have played beat generation dress-up, but I didn’t and he would never have seen the humor in it anyway. I contented myself to a cup of rich dark coffee and apiece oil saturated and extra gooey coffeecake. It was wonderful but I needed more. I approached the Ginsberg guy cold and laid it on him about selling my art to support myself hoping to his a sympathetic nerve that led to mommy and daddy’s money. He made we tell him all about what it was that I did and I thrust some tattered napkins under his nose and pulled them away before he could get too much into the meaning of the scribbles I talked circles around him once I realized that all it would take would be for him to feel inferior. Charity is always an inferiority complex —here you take this you need it more than I do… if I thought he had earned the money I might have felt bad, but i still would have taken it, and I did. Leaving with his five spot I went to get a sandwich at the donut shop on Newport Boulevard. It was an enormous sandwich coated in sweet vinegar and oil, dripping mayonnaise the constancy of slightly thinned-paint off the long strands of lettuce and delicately coated wafer-thin turkey breast that curled up and seemed to leap down my throat. I washed the whole operation down with a glass of ice water. When you're hungry the whole world is edible. And the minute I had the stomach taken care of I lapsed back into reverie trying to piece together why it was that I was going to Vegas. The main thing seemed to be that Dean was going. I thought I ought to pay a visit to the folks since they still thought I was married and just working in San Fran for a while. They were suitably alarmed when I laid it out honestly but I did with the firm conviction of one who knows he is right, but not why. For now I said I was winging it and nothing more. They gave me a hundred when left said to eat with it. They were always worried that I lived by not eating, but the reality was closer to my grandfather who was fond of saying after a meal so we eat… we eat again… we may not do much, but boy can we eat…. + Dean was pacing by the time I walked up the steps. "Come on Sil I’m trying to do you a favor here pass one you’re way and you have the gall to be late?” I told him I didn’t give a shit one way or the other, that he should have gone without me, but he wouldn’t hear of it, he was one some Herculean mission and had to have a guide for this little part of the test. He wasn’t just fucking these girls he was lining out some Greek sized life for a day. He had succeeded with both of the ones that morning; Kim had been to drunk for much but when he finally gave it Kala she was wildcat. We got to Monique’s house in time for dinner, but there was no talk of food; in fact there was really no talk at all. We walked in on them sitting watching television and then snap off went the TV Monique jumped up and grabbed Dean by the hand dragging him to the bedroom. The door slammed behind them and was left still standing in the entryway front door open behind me, staring at Jen. Jen was medium height with dark hair and huge tits. She smiled at me and I closed the door. After a few line of talk she reached calmly into my pants and pulled out my cock. She sucked and licked and bit at it until I was hard and then she stood up tore off her shirt and pants and sat on my lap. I mauled at her nipples for while squeezing her breasts in my hand. They were giant and weighty, things that demanded proper handling they sloshed in my hands. + She pulled my shirt over my head and then pushed me back and pulled off my pants. I was expecting her to crawl up on top of me, most women go straight to the top when there’s no emotion around, but Jen didn’t she climbed on the couch doggie style and said, “hurry and fuck me… I have to go soon.” + It was an odd way to put it. I felt like I was mounting a dead horse in bad western porno, it was a job at that point, a duty that I had been asked to serve. But of course once I had it in I forgot all about her and she forgot about me and the situation was no longer there. We were just fucking. We went at it like animals and suddenly I understood why she wanted it that way. I could feel the heat of her cunt but I couldn’t see her face, it was less like we were fucking than we were masturbating together. My hands were on her hips pumping her back and forth; I could feel the leaden texture of her skin. My hips moved like pistons, cold mechanical. My own body was strange foreign as if it were, a shell containing something much messier, more out of control; she rolled around on my cock so that she was tits up with her legs over my shoulders and I rammed her like that for a good while before she exhibited unusual hand gestures and undulations that I took to be an orgasm. And then the automaton turned off and my prick came alive again. Her tits were rolling in great ellipses as I pounded into her with abandon, I reached down and teased her clit with my finger until she came again and pulled out and shot a load on her chest. She lay there for a bit and I got up to clean myself off. When I came back she was gone which relieved me somewhat. I went outside and lit a cigarette. It was a warm night. One of the rare humid times when LA feels tropical, the kind of night when I enjoyed going down to the ocean and walking along the shore trying to see Hawaii. The glow of the sun had not yet disappeared entirely, but already the eastern sky was twinkling with stars. When I took a drag I could smell Jen on my fingers. I licked them to see what she tasted like. Electric. It mixed well with cigarette smoke. + + diff --git a/veryold/very old writings/gone book/LV iam.txt b/veryold/very old writings/gone book/LV iam.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8d32e15 --- /dev/null +++ b/veryold/very old writings/gone book/LV iam.txt @@ -0,0 +1,167 @@ +I didn’t wake up until we were past Barstow. I woke outside of LA, outside of everything, outside of myself. I awoke in a sinister little car on a ride through the wild forlorn California Desert; the only reason I woke up at all was the heat. It turned the pleasantness of my dream into a nightmare which I had to escape by waking up. I dreamed I was an emperor in a foreign land, a mystical Tibetan type of land where I sat in a palace of unrivalled spender and riches; I dreamed you were there, Orisis. Luxurious tapestries covered the walls and gold trimmed divans were arranged about the room so that you might receive visitors. I was trying to raise an army of thinkers to combat the problems of mankind; I had sent out messengers and courtesans to attract like-minded rulers to the palace. Word came back by means of an old telegraph machine, which sat on a cherry wood table in the corner. Next to it was an old high back throne such as one would find in Versailles, you sat in it searching, just like you Orisis, always scouring the world to put me back together. I wanted to wander about the palace and explore but every time I walked out of the room I would hear the telegraph machine and rush back to it, only to find that it was more negative response. I knew that you would never bother with the machine, if news was to be received it would be through me, you had given up entirely. Inexplicably, as it often happens in dreams, I found myself sailing in a glider over the tree dotted hills of northern Mexico. I was admiring the peaceful silence of gliding to and fro on thermals when I suddenly became aware of the unbearable heat of the cockpit, better drop down a bit I thought to myself, but as I eased the stick forward I lost control of the plane entirely and dropped like a rock toward the waiting rocky hills. In my descent I saw and felt what John Denver must have seen and felt when he plunged to his death off the coast of Santa Cruz. Within the dream I was musing over his actual death in an abstract way and then bang!, I hit the ground. I don’t know if I died, I couldn’t remember but I might as well have; waking up in the cramped confines of a glib Japanese car is a small relief from death itself. I sat sweating profusely with my forehead bumping gently against the windowpane, trying to reconstruct the details of my imaginary palace and quixotic dream quest. In reality as it is called I was going somewhere else, Las Vegas to be precise. +Air conditioning is no match for the desert phoebus, it only brings the nightmare into sharper focus, a palpable tease to remind you that somewhere it is not hot at all; even now as I sat there some Llama herdsman in Andes was warming his frostbitten toes by a roaring fire. Oh to be cold… The scorching sun made it too hot to go back to sleep. Dean was driving and Betty was still passed out in the back seat. It must have been around ten in the morning; I didn’t move to look at the clock on the dashboard, it didn’t really matter, one thing about travel —time has no meaning. There is only in the car and out of the car a sort of two-dimensional life. I’m not accustomed to functioning at the ungodly hours referred to by most as ‘morning’ and I wasn’t about to start now, here in the middle of nowhere. I hadn’t gone to bed until about six this same morning; I rested my eyes for a while longer and recounted the events in blackness. +There was a dim recollection of breakfast at Tiffany’s (or was it Denny’s?), pancakes and eggs with a side of bacon all tasteless and uneventful; a goodbye to some lingering friends, Carey, Dean and Betty’s father Mr. Dean; then conk! I was gone off in a Tibetan dream palace. I escaped the boredom of driving east out of LA, thank god. The drive out through the ‘inland empire’ as it’s called is a grand tour of hell (actually I would take the straight up inferno of hell served in a flaming glass before I would go of my own free will to the Inland empire). I missed the wrenching smell of the stockyards in Upland and the bucktoothed gas station attendants of Barstow, a crying shame to be sure. The stockyards especially amaze me; that the smell of a cow’s ass can somehow penetrated the near perfect Freudian-sterile seal of the modern automobile seems likely to remain, along with the Kennedy assassination and the pyramids, one of the true mysteries of the earth. +Just east of Barstow there is a sign that boldly states “Greensboro NC 1297 m;” I opened my eyes again in the shadow of that unpleasant knowledge, cracked my view of the world just in time to learn that the reconstructive dentistry capital of the world was a mere 1297 miles away. I wanted to let out a Homer Simpson “Woohoo!” but it was too hot for any unnecessary activity. I sat up, opened my eyes, stretched as best I could and wiped the drool off my cheek. I looked over and saw the pain on Dean’s face that only a drive through the California desert in the middle of August with a hangover can give you. God it was hot. And I was right it was not even eleven, which meant that the temperature was bound to climb at least another ten degrees before we got to Vegas. +Dean had volunteered to drive the whole way to Vegas (he always was charitable when he was drunk) and naturally Betty and I had thought that a lovely idea. He looked like he was in the throws of deep regret and cursing his own self-cast fortune, which for Dean is standard operating procedure. There isn’t a whole lot to look at out here in the desert, at least not a whole lot that you can see from the window of a Toyota Corolla. Of course that doesn’t mean there is nothing to see, its just that racing along in as enlarged soda can at ninety miles an hour limits your view of the world. The cramping stylings of a cheap Japanese car was hindering our view, or maybe not so much the car but the speed of it. We humans can move what! I mean real speed, airplanes, space rockets, trains; we can run like no other animal and with no personal effort whatsoever. Speed doesn’t allow for minutiae, even a mere gloss of the passing scenery is too much for the human eye at ninety miles an hour. The creosote and hohoba plants that dot its hills and serpentine sand dunes are the only relief the eye gets from the endless endless nothing. You don’t get details with speed, but its still the best way to travel —like comet we could crash into Vegas in a couple of hours, burn down the town and then go rocketing off again. +The car contained only the barest of essentials; Dean and I had thrown a few pants and shirts in a suitcase each and then I had a small courier bag with notepads, pens and a handful of books. A garment bag held two suits each because a stranger in a strange land ought to look his best we reasoned. Betty, being a woman, had the largest suitcase that occupied the majority of the trunk, but otherwise the interior of the car was uncluttered with the trappings of humanity. Music had been carefully selected for its road worth qualities, a healthy mix of raucous punk rock to keep us awake and soothing melodic pieces designed to lull the mind and drown the endless droning of the wheels. I insisted on bring Beethoven’s Ninth for nighttime drives. The upshot of our circumstances was the we traveled light, secretly though we kept it to ourselves, Dean and I mutually figured on having to lug most of it by foot at some point when the already suspect nature of the Toyota gave out entirely and finally surrendered its fate to the junkyard. We had all left behind an enormous pile of furnishings and creature comforts which for my part I hoped to never lay eyes on again, but our friends had assured us they would see that it all got into storage should any of us return someday and want it. + Happenstance carried me again I surrendered my own fate to that of the car, of the road, of the random complexities of life pure life with no entrapments, encumbrances, or dovetailed catches to hang me up. We have thrown ourselves to the wind to let the scattering process begin; the first day out and I was feeling as expansively free as the landscape, floating on the thermals of fortuitous caesura. Sheer chance drew me here and left me staring out the car window into nothingness, the pedigreed nothingness of freedom. The desert was a void from my window; it had the deceptive appearance of emptiness not unlike the silent inky surface of the ocean, which is not empty but teeming with life. The desert was once a sea floor, but the life wouldn't have it, the water rolled back to greener pastures. The desert is the void left by water and filled up with castoff bric-a-brac from the mountain regions. To the north glittery jewel peaks, the southern most tip of the White Mountains —snow. Its making my mouth water, I point it out to Dean which seems to snap him out of some trance state and he agreed to pull over so we can stand on top of his car and look at them through the binoculars. I imagined the cool streams, the whole painted backdrop from the set of Bambi coated in snow. Our enthusiasm lasted about thirty seconds and then we started to realize that in fact the air conditioning is helping and that without it we are forced to suck hot dry air like clamping your lips to an exhaust pipe. + Besides I knew the White Mountains didn’t look like a snow covered Bambi set; I’ve been there and they’re just as hot as the desert this time of year. I jumped down and we headed back out on the road. I lit a cigarette. Life was going bang! The epi-endo-genetic bang that finally turns on the radio, like when the old crystal quarts set gets cranked next to the digital signal, cold and clear you can taste it, metallic vibrations of noise it slam into your gut. Sock you like a plutonium fuzz blast. +The sun burned through the open window and the dry hot air sucked itself greedily down into my lungs so that the heat had the peculiar effect of feeling like it radiated out from within rather than coming from that detached burning globe that was nearing it’s apex. I felt like I might spontaneously combust just like those “rare” cases you hear about on That’s Incredible. I thought of saying I had heard —give a man a match and he can build a fire to warm himself through the night, but set a man on fire and he will be warm for the rest of his life. True what! +I stirred finally and Dean looked over at me. “How ya doin’?” he asked. +“Wonderful, except for the heat or course.” +“Ya that’s why I was willing to drive… so I didn’t have to sit in the sun…” he smiled mischievously. I knew there had to be some hidden insidiousness behind his offer… +“Ah, so you knew?” +He glanced at me with superiority, “come on now, I’m a professional.” +With the air conditioner on high and the fortuitous curve of the freeway I found myself becoming more comfortable. Heat radiates out from within. I found that if you keep that in mind you can cope with it, you just have to fan it out —blow the vents so to speak—burn it off at the right pace— with the right amount of water, cigarettes, ice-cold beer, and snack food. Eventually I came to find my mind relaxed and floating on the surface of a glassy pond. Gentle ripples between drags of the cigarette tuned my ears to the desert frequency. +Like the teeming depths of the ocean that once covered it there is an infinite web of natural and supernatural life out there. My father is a desert rat, so I am no stranger to the bristling spike infested country of California. When I was younger we used to make trips out here in the blistering heat and roaring silence to go hiking and camping; the sort of thing that most fathers didn’t do I found out later, but I had a good time on those trips. My father dragged me from one end of the desert to the other, up the 395 to Hisperia and down the 316 all the way across the Mexican border at Tecate. I learned a million tiny nuggets of knowledge to tidy my mind over through life’s boring stretches like riding about in a car. I can assure you that there is an unknown universe of life thriving out there in the sand and heat, a harsh unforgiving universe as the cliché would have it, but it is also a delicately beautiful latticework teeming with life. Complex and fragile ecosystems evolved over millennia of cooperation and mutually assured survival instincts are woven through the barren rock and sand washes. In the afternoons during a summer thunderstorm if you sit in the shade of a palo verde tree and watch the edges of a dry riverbed you can catch a glimpse of that universe. Lizards and snakes frolic and birds seem to rejoice at the smell of rain. (Lest you actually do this it is worth stating that you ought not to dally too long as that peaceful scene can be turned into a fifty mile an hour river of mud and rock that will jump out of nowhere and kill you before you have time to realize that you are going to die— I personally hope one day to die with such peace, but in case you aren’t ready don’t say I didn’t warn you). There are enormous anthills that look not unlike flying over Manhattan at midday. The desert works on a smaller scale, it is only for those with infinite patience, if you live in the desert you don’t want to have a lot to do. That’s why there are ghost towns from here clear up to the base of the Sierra Nevada, towns where people didn’t have anything to do. There was no reason per se to go to such towns and without reason they died. I went out to the famous Calico ghost town once; a collection of blue-gray wood shacks, collapsing roofs, broken out windows and ceaseless wind blowing dust in every crevice. But there were loads of people milling about in the summer heat, trying to keep the dust out of their teeth and see what a ghost town is. There are no ghosts in the traditional sense at least not any that I could see, but there were ghosts of ideas, of lives, and hopes and dreams. What must the inhabitants of thought living here in the wind blown back alley of nowhere? Was this entire town little more than a broken wagon wheel that changed a life? Or did someone plan this one out; did some one think this was a good idea? My friend Mike and I drank icy Coca-Cola in the shade and debated those and other questions. We watched the pasty bloated souls called Tourist Americanus and tried to decide what they would be isolated here instead of thriving in their air-conditioned Lysoled suburbs. +Dean’s stereo is just audible above the roar of our cracked windows and when I strain I can hear Morphine playing. She had black hair like ravens crawling down her neck… I quoted that line once as an example of the band’s genius and the man to whom I was speaking said ‘actually that’s basic literary imagery metaphor 101…’ I felt bad for him, but I didn’t reply. Its in the way it floats off the tongue, its in the way one simple image can carry you all the way to a seedy bar in Paris France, it’s the way it slides out of the lung and fits so smoothly in between the base and the drums. It can take you anywhere you want, but only if you want to go. If you want to hear cliches then I assure you, you will hear them everywhere you go. Have fun. Stay clear of me. +Take the subtlest of frequency modulations and dig until you find the pulsar of life; blasting straight through the chest and then stroking on soft cushions to sooth you down. In and out. Draws you from one world to the next, an electro- static charge, like a song played off an old Castagraf recorder. + You move the body electric in pulsation, with receptors that crawl — feeling warmth of the spine they head the back of the brain. The surge is ecstatic... drives me right on over into the next dimension -model -metaphor -you get the picture. You might have even hung it on your wall when you where younger, and hungrier —hunger drives the hierarchy and it’s there, even when your stomach is full... it hit raw exposed nerve endings with the high voltage throb of life that’s hard wired into our brains...in there like a virus you might say. Lust for what? It’s all gone from now. Ebb and flow, the surges come in waves. +I gotta run to make diving in smooth... feels in slow motion... you hang in the air for a timeless moment and then hit the water like a torpedo, the waves slip out from around the impact and form a circular blueprint... The pond turns in the throws of a tempest, frothing with uninterrupted motion. The animal body is an alternating current, suspended in perfect fluidity like the ecstatic dances of the trance-shamans carried slip-slow up into the magic of the beyond. Echoes abound like a caged sun gone supernova... atomizes and reforms as the cool wave hits the skin. Smooth blue skin. + I remember three —maybe four— days ago smoking filterless cigarettes listening to the voices trailing in from the mezzanine, a masterpiece composition of harmonized waves, sound —the trigger behind the motion. Dancing eyes so ravenous, spiral with giddiness, threw out the tired old man mind. Bring it back down... bring it back down cause I never quite got it the first time. +Lost in images, swirling words, sounds, smells miraculous warmth on the crawling embers of flesh.... The black on the starry night... Van Gogh and his goddamn ear always creeping in at the edges. Diggin' fast and furious: tunnelers. Roots and the little blooms—the moment—the purity—the wavelength transitions in simplicity—burned like hydrochloric acid onto the memory film. Scar tissue that languishes eternally. + + + + +We are staying with Rachel, here in Vegas, things are amuck amuck as the man said. First there is Rachel. Rachel is a cool-mom. In every collection of friends I have ever wandered into there is inevitably one whose mother is the cool-mom. Cool-moms are the ones that harbor the strays, know what clit piercing is and don’t mind the excesses of youth because they never forgot their own. Johnson through and through the cool-mom is and Rachel was the one in our circle. She was the one who didn’t mind wayward children crashing on the floor, junkies trying to kick locked in the bedroom and only god knew how many poor lost girls Dean had dragged home and put up in her house for a month or two, sometimes more. Through it all she was understanding and usually supportive of all human creatures. The cool-mom never judges or casts out someone because a simple disagreement or difference in beliefs. Rachel was every bit the part, she was a matronly woman heavy set and swaggering full of spice and fire spitting gusto, she could out drink Betty. Right now her life has taken a turn though, the cool-mom has had the bedrock foundation of the desert blown out from under her and for the first time in my life I feel old, old and weary the whole lot of us are slowly decaying in the heat, but the ambrosial smell of decay is good for us, like a hot brand on your ass, it might scar, but it’ll wake you up. +Then there is Rachel’s boyfriend Bob. Bob on the other hand is a redneck; the backwoods stripe ran through and through. Bob was the sort of alright guy that you realize isn’t alright after talking to him for twenty minutes. These types tended to hang around the Little Knight during the early hours of the evening where it seemed they were wrapping up a hard day of hard drinking. Mysteriously they always seemed to be loaded with cash. Most of the ones I had talked to were in some sort of construction related business and they were always trying to get “youngsters” like myself to give them or sell them or just get them pot. Bob had actually taken this cliché one step further and asked Dean and I to go up to Alaska, where he supposedly had a cabin, and grow Maui-wowi for him. Almost anybody else and I would have jumped at the chance, but the thought of getting into a small plane with that man at the controls made my blood turn to ice. I thought about it every time I see him. I see his false eyes glittering like pyrite in the alaskan mountains and I see our carcasses lying half eaten by the fire and Bob just sitting there smiling that absurd smile…. +True to the cliche Bob worked in construction (although he never seemed to actually work), drank hard and probably beat the crap out of Rachel —if not physically then emotionally. I pretended to watch television while carefully watching the two of them. From what I had seen of the man his mind consisted solely of illegible notes, beer stains and racist jokes. He possessed the outdated practical knowledge of one that works with his hands and knows how to downshift the mind into neutral in order to get things accomplished. There is nothing wrong with that per se but Bob seemed to have left his mind in neutral a little too long, maybe flooded the engine or something; maybe he was just dumber than a bag of rocks right out of the womb. There was something intangible in the air about him and all the others I have met like him, something sinister and vague in its intent; he is a bad man my grandmother would have said and I have had my fill of bad men for this lifetime. I avoid him like the plague. +Lately I have been spending all my time in the Double Down with Dean. Day’s pass like strolls through airpot loungues, arival and departure times listed in gambling winnings and losses, interims of waiting, waiting for the cards to come around waiting for a friendly drunk to throw a chip our way, waiting for the call girls to give in to the only thing money can’t buy… tenderness. typically we roll out of bed as the sun is setting and duck out before Bob comes home from work or the bar or wherever he whiles his time away. The Double Down is all the way on the other side of town so we don’t get there until eight o’clock. The sun has just set when we walked through the door tonight. We weave through the human menagerie and get drinks at the bar. In the back is a separate room a quieter one where you can have drinks with a date or a whore and talk before heading down the street to the hotel that rent by the hour where you can knock back for a few rounds and still some back for a nightcap because its Las Vegas and you can pretty much do whatever the hell you want and know one seems to care. This is the apex of modern ideals, Las Vegas. It’s the glitter capital of the world, the sky, the buildings, the streets all glitter, refracting light through the hollow core. +Las Vegas, is what happened when the fleshy ooze of humanity confronted the barbed souls of the barrel cactus, the spiny leaves of the Palo Verde tree, and all the otherworldly creatures of the desert. The first step in renovating what must have appeared as hell to early settlers was air-conditioned. Before air conditioning, not even the thrill of gambling would have made people come to Las Vegas in the summertime. But cool it down a bit and you can decorate hell up nice; some casinos, some brothels, curtains in the windows, now things are looking up. +Th puritains preachers of the four headed beast abstinance are the only humans that don’t like Vegas. In order to dislike Vegas you have to really dislike yourself. Any rudimentary logic, at least male logic, would dictate that a state where prostitution and gambling are legal and free alcohol is constantly being served is closer to heaven than hell. But these are unfortunate and trying times that we live in, they have wrought the heavy hand of the moral majority and its cronies all the way across the nation to squelch any fun you thought you might be able to have. The contradiction of the matter is ridiculous, but the uptight religious right seem to miss the irony entirely. Indeed I think that the American west is humanities final hope for salvation from the hideous forces of repression and the sad truth of the matter is that we are losing. It’s later in the game than you think —possibly we already lost. Our country’s history reads like cartoon strip of a small innocent child running from an overbearing stepmother; first it was England then New England; the poor child is tired and sat down to rest here in Las Vegas. Las Vegas used to be the grand ball of the country, but then the overbearing bitch of ‘prurient interests” showed up. The old casinos are being torn down and whorehouses are driven out of business every passing day and the mob has been beaten back to the landfills and over safer money laundering operations. Now instead of quasi-burlesque shows there are silly men in tights parading wholesomely around with white tigers amid a pyrotechnics background of high wire acts. Who the fuck wants to see tigers? We came to buy some whores and drink until we can’t see straight. To live more or less the way god intended —happy. +This evening I am sitting on a bench in the mezzanenie of the Double Down which is a casino/bar/night club/breeding ground for nefariousness; I am waiting for Dean who is chatting up a beautiful girl at the back of the bar who may or may not be a whore. It is Dean’s quest to find out and if the answer be yes then how much? In the meantime I am watching the cheapskate old ladies with blue hair clutch at their plastic cups slowly emptying them of quarters, which they drop mechanically into the slots. What goes through you mind when you do that all day long? Do you still have a mind, is anything happening in there? Perhaps this was there form of meditation, different but maybe the same idea as driving. They assume a purely mechanical nature in order to let their minds wander about, to frolic through lost memories of youth and life when it still meant something. More likely there was nothing going on upstairs I decide. It is nearly nine now and the sun is but a slice of irridecent orange peel slinking behind the glittery casinos of the strip skyline, but the heat is still hanging on even in the shadows. Off in the distance I can just see the tips of the high rise casinos where the rich gamble in private rooms waited on by topless cocktail girls and through the walls they listen to the thriving sounds of tourists dropping coins and laying down bills to line the velvet pockets which hold their Cuban cigars. The wheels are turning twenty four hours a day seven days a week for eternity. The velvet gets nicer every year and the girls prettier and the tourists dumber and fatter always wanting more! New! Bigger! By god!, screams the frustrated real estate Tycoon in horror. What the hell is going on here?! He stands up from the table in alarm, zombie eyes are peering vacantly through one way windows, what do they want? Well sir, says the nervous pimple employee who was sent in with a message, they want more... He speaks in a whisper unsure of whether to be more afraid of the Boss or the Mob. We gave them a pirate ship, recreated the pyramids, and the canals of Venice, what more do you people want from us?! I just can’t take it anymore, first it was the galls stones then kidney stones, two bi-pass surgeries (the second one a triple!) are you trying to kill me?! And off in the distance the throngs gather about and begin to chant as if spellbound by the ancient techniques trance revivals: We want more! We want new! The volume increases as the numbers grow from all over the world masses gather beneath the alter and chant…We want shiny! We want clean! The very enslaved that the bosses has so sneered at and exploited were now subtly fighting back with incessant dreams, the perfect slave became the uncontrollable master…We want to be fitter! We want to be happier! The Boss scratches his head and thinks for while, eyeing the faces in the mirror staring at him though they can not see him… alright kid, here’s what were going to do, you go out and tell them that I am currently drawing up plans to build a half size replica of the Eiffel tower, the hotel next to it is going to be immense, the restaurant will be in the middle with a clear view up ninety stories to sky. Tell them that I have plans for a tower to extend up five stories and I plan to fill it with wine bottles with will be delivered to their tables by a girl on a mechanical trapeze swing that can be raise and lowered as need to fetch their wine. Tell them the expensive stuff is going to be at the top, those cheap bastards’ll be order screw top crap that the waiters can get, but as long as somebody buys the good stuff they all get to see the show. The Boss is positively beaming now, inspiration has hit he is on to something. He shoos the kid outside and through the waitress’s out after him. He locks the door and starts sketching…. +Bordem. I wander over seeing that Dean is seated now and obviously not headed anywhere for a while; I join them in booth. Dean introduces me to Chloe who just as I had feared is gorgeous and a whore, I can see it in her eyes. The way she watches Dean while he talks, she is thinking that yes he will pay, but even if he didn’t she would enjoy it just the same, he has a tenderness in the dies of eyes, little flickers that light the whore imagination. She’s right, but its only half the story —her half. The room has the stale smell of too many smokers and not enough air filters built up over decades of excess and dapravity. I imagine the are walls a sickly yellow color coterized with smoke and splattered with sloshed beer, but its too dark to tell for sure. The is a sensual symphony gurgling and lurching through each minute with the ceaseless effort of the little engine that could. Cartoon character faces fill up chairs and resemble like the creatures that pop out of the walls at the Tiki room in Disneyland. Repulsive faces that seemed devoid of all humanity —zombies with coins. The frail frame of an elderly woman at a slot machine never so much as murmured as she dropped quarters in the machine; her arm moved from the handle to her plastic bucket full of change as if it were part of the machine rather than a warm body. Double Down became a swirl of lights, sex and drugs, the human effort to fulfill needs. + + +I watched with fascinated detachment as Chloe sucked on Dean's cock like something in a B movie. She looked like she was pretty good and I said as much to Dean. I think he found it all little too weird to have someone watching him while he got a blowjob and he made no response, which might, I guess, be the ultimate testament to quality. She however seemed turned on by the idea of a spectator and she kept looking over at me with Dean's cock halfway down her throat. + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +Chapter four falling in with the hippies and the trip across the mountains into colorado Character sketch of natasha and Zak plus Clay. + +Chapter five in neworleans using walks through the sity to tell the story of coming across the planes and lay the foundations of Dean and amanda thus giving th impetus for us to go to DC and then draw out Ashley who leads me to new york… we meet in a coffeeshop in DC where she is visiting Bill and then we go to bed and disappear to new york here through in the grand musings of life and lead up unit Dean shows up and we go to canada which allows for the critique of america to come to head and then ends with me back in new orleans and then to athens GA where the book clothes out into nothingness that is not an ending just as there is no beginning. + + + +Transcribed from tapes: the terminal disease clerk took orders by the turnstile, finding the story in the story and logging in the disease workers all night long. At five in the morning he got off and headed to a tavern as the sun was coming up. Direct confrontation with the terminal virus word is a bit confusing to those who are not properly prepared. poor fuckers never had a chance; the technical sergeant takes off his helmet and slams it on the table the near moronic mumbling of discontent. Waging war is semantically impossible without overtones of homosexuality. Heavy handed, the second wave fell in line with the technical sergeant at the lead. The thing you have to watch out for are the warblers —the distractions coming in at the sides, sound is their most effective weapon, primordial hangover he called it drunkenly raising a glass. And some of you may think this suspect, but take my advice sound's where it all started. In the beginning was the word and the word spoke. The sergeant stoops and cups his hands to light a cigarette. Then there is sex or not enough of it, both is equally dangerous —biology is not something to scoff at. sexuality is the best cover an agent can ever use. Rockets come searing in overhead ripping flesh and scoffing at the notion of eternity, out here you don't have time to talk, the thoughts are things, they are no longer words...keep your radios tuned boys its getting ugly. Another rocket sears in severed limbs fly out the explosion and olive drab body parts litter the scene. + Watch out for the bloody words, sharp words that hang in the air like knives and when uttered returned to slit the throat of their speaker and if every word you have spoken returned to act upon yourself would you survive the experience? Me no way I'm outta here. Situation getting sticky, humid like vaporous blood hanging on in the air. Still acrid smell of urine and small children playing in a asphalt playground ringed on all sides by immense brick walls with basketball hoops hung half way up each of the sides. Realize that that which we are taught from childhood to distrust is in fact a pawn of something far more immense and much much more dangerous. The governments and nations of the world are incidental pawns of there own control systems and then beyond them there are even more and so on like looking two mirrors facing each other and going on to infinity. The monster of power is faceless there is no one person or group that controls everything they are all parts of a immense and multi-headed monster that is constantly biting itself and attacking it own heads until some day it will destroy itself. The end of time leaves space and word alone together + we're taking heavy fire! The sergeant calls for back up, the captain says love one another and cryptically hangs up the phone. The Spanish soldier selling chiclettes say no good no bueno, pictures worth not even half a thousand words. Wouldn't give you ten words, worthless gringo words don’t mean shit. no good no bueno, not worth the blood their written in. The blood of all peoples not yours, not your shoes, by god keep your slave labor camps a closed-mouthed secret. Gotta keep that in house, dis-credit all news agencies by routinely feeding them false information. News doesn’t happen events happen, and the department of television information broadcasting inc. a subdivision of indoctrination inc. decides what gets out and what remains forever sealed in baby pissshitguts. No that's not true. No comment. No need for comment, the preceding has been since proved to be untrue, cut to shots of smart bombs. Couldn’t get fifty words for those now gringo -over exposure- nobody buying. Same old stinking shit. No Good. No Bueno. + Gringo go home in thousand languages in a million words, why don’t you crawl back in your cave get your tail so far between your legs it goes half way up your ass? Lead me to the holy spigot and we’ll show you the bidet of death, constructed by gringos, for gringos, to flush out gringos, to show them all what you do behind closed doors. Can’t close them all —we have our technicians as well and they’re getting to be better than yours. We got the money rolling in —even offered you the picture words but you don’t want them. No Good. Can’t use those, too strong. No fair, crying boy heads home for cave to lick his dirty balls clean. + I gotta picture for you I on vacation in your country go to hear senator’s speak but all door are closed, all sealed. So i gotta fiber optic and feed it in from the roof show all senators mad with sexual lust and blood thirsty, clamoring for war and stealing souls and bodies and driving them off wherever they see fit. + The technician is retro actively of course —the papers said the man was mentally ill. ‘my cod!’ screamed a church lady in the front row, ‘satan has garbled the lords message, this isn’t what he meant for you to hear, no it was not all like that, there was to be understanding.’ she is parading her old cunt bones whining at the justices —tissue conducts signals, animals communicate through the use of visual, acoustic , chemical, tactile and electrical signals. Our laboratory is an abundant and well preserved feed back loop to understand and interpret Eusocial behavior. negative feedback inhibition to make you shiver Gringo. Make you shiver good. + Repetition unsuccessful. The radiologist was called in to examine the patient —blisters and burns indicate high probability of skin mutation, what would you say Dr. Waiben? Crested and on the nod? Diminutively, yes definitely. + Information potential exists —its an unsettling thought, dependency —and what happens when things start to think? How do you draw the lines then? + HOW THE PLAGUE BEGAN: + The wish to preserve -not worth saving what already is- in this scenario. The word, the loss of body situated at the origins of recorded sound -the temporal metaphysical and esthetic possibilities. + <insert sounds of truck on dirt road> + Old man yelling. Get off of my laaawwwnnn! Sits down to oil his gun some more and then half turns in his chair to face the camera and says "i haven't left the porch since i got this CDRom PEOPLE version 3.0. Updated and expanded human potential at your fingertips. Its the only thing i need —got no use for the stinking gringos anymore— camera pans out and down revealing a yard strewn with shotgun-blasted bodies of young children. We see wife, face half torn off, crawling towards a pistol <shotgun blast stage left> her head disappears entirely. Old man: "human potential, the new CDRom makes wives unnecessary." cue logo: on sale now at a sanatorium near you.... + I'm going to finally send you the orgy papers this time -been fixing to get 'round to that for some time" <heavy southern drawl> don't think he's the type to do it though but i been wrong once or twice a'fore. Don't want people showing up on my lawn though that's never good. get off of my lllaaaawwwwnnnnn! <shotgun blast again, distant screaming sounds of deaths final agonies eeking out blood gurgling windpipes> Fucking Gringos! Go home in a thousand languages! + Experience as much of the human potential as possible, retain the container and forward the frog to the fun sun freaks of eastern Tibet —all is well with alkaline, and acidity is on the skids with death rooted out leaving only chicken shit shoveled scrapped and scraped like lemon lime Gatorade poured from a fuck buck of love. Stop talking to yourself —listen to the virus talk to you. All that you consider to be a accident was carefully orchestrated for your benefit by a benevolent cocksucking god from the twenty-third dimension to just plain old irritate the fuck out of you like a bad rectal itch. Stupid gringo got no cure for the ass itch i show you some pictures, yes very dirty, little girls you like?????? + <<<<<commander in chief of the NATO forces in Europe is fucking small refugee boy in the ass, the boy cries for his mother the general is laughing, your mother’s down the hall boy ,she’s busy with the president of France right now. But maybe later you’d like to lick his come off her dead face. Ban those words tear them right out snip snip. Can’t say that, its disgusting. War is a snuff film for the rich. <<<<We gotta step up the bombing chief the public’s losing innarest in us screams the chief of staff running in circles jerking off and slapping his ass until it turns a bright purple and with all seriousness General Jesse Helms pauses to reflect: I remember a time when life was good no one got in our way, why in Europe under Patton i musta raped twenty thirty little boys and a handful of nuns too. He smiles lost in memory... + But God hath given us these trying times.... + Yes it is bit hard to get cunt these days isn’t it, mumbles the chief of state as he strokes his wife’s cock....Yes dear start a war, get me some cute refugee boys, i so love snapping their necks when I'm coming, she growls affectionately. + That's it gentlemen were going to war! The president stands and ejaculates on a map of the world KOSOVO it is he says as his thick oatmeal consistency sperm all but covers the former republic of Yugoslavia. + You like? You like, no? Too bad. You can’t have those words, too strong. I get power, you give me power, I steal power from you, to expensive to buy it. I get power and you get pictures and maybe I tell you how to cure rectal itch? Eh? Eh? Eh? + + + +In the beginning was the word and the word was made flesh by a cacophonous blast out of heaven's pearly cum-stained ass creating the father, the son, and the holy spigot which lies in a secluded garden on the cliffs overlooking the Sargasso sea. The spigot is buried in a volcano designed by Czech ostriches in the eleventh hour of creation to drain all human excrement off the continent of Europe and into the Sargasso sea all lumpy with turd so thick Jesus "conny" Christ in drag is walking along to the amazement of the gullible, floating gently from turd to turd. The piss blood of a million cunts and cocks line the shores giving the whole place a radioactive iridescent red glow not to mention a awful stench. Mr. Rogers and Captain Kangaroo are standing on the bluffs watching the spectacle and scanning with hawk eyes for sweet tight asses in which they can stab their hungry cocks. The father caught the son sitting in the middle of the garden sucking on an apple and he became enraged and hog tied the boy and penetrated every orifice in his body with a peeled and sculpted cucumber cock; the boy was left a whimpering, quivering lump of fleshy jello from which spawned humankind. + The piss gut rotting flesh smell, air taunt necked and jerking at the nose, the captain's eyes role back into his head as is guts are blasted out his ass by a giggling man headed tape worm of extraordinary wit who was prone to quoting Joyce and Bugs Bunny in the same sentence in a way that reminded listeners of Buster Keaton in some strange drugstore hurricane kind of a way. The skatolic odor was rich and the worm refused to bath. Owing to the peculiar nature of its origin the soldiers did not disturb the worm preferring instead to watch the captain writhe in agony pulling his legs back behind his ear to attempt to lick the matted blood soaked pubic hair over the torn orangish flesh that hung in ribbons over a large hole that had once been a simple anus. The upshot of it all was that the worm ate less rations than the captain so the men were basically satisfied with the arrangement and they followed the worm wiggling through the jungle as it did impersonations of Fred Astaire... + Blasted rot gut con-artist with ten huge molars running across the front of his mouth in a clump owing to his mother's industrial accident with the cunt acid from the hyperdrill, drilled right on through back to china. The asshole couldn't even close the damn thing and the lower mandible just kind of hung there like a tire swing. + The giggling Hyenas are dressed in black and high on amphetamines looking to turn you inside out. + Tongue-tied porn queens scream obscenities at passersby "I'll suck your dick until your eyeballs pop out your ass..." + + + + + + + + + + +Every diner has its own subtle quality which distinguishes it from all the nearly identical establishments of its kind, this particular joint had enormous lazy houseflies crawling up the wall behind me which set it off in League with other infamous places I have eaten such as Ben’s Broasted Chicken an establishment that I had been to years ago. I was headed up to the Tahoe area by way of the back road, 395, a rickety operation that shoots you straight up the length of california always keeping the eastern escarpment of the Sierra Nevada just to the left. About three quarters of the way to Tahoe you pass through the blink-and-you-miss-it town of Bishop where among other things there is a roadside dive called Ben’s which serves Broasted chicken and corn on the cob for two dollars a plate. There were no other options no menu no choices no confusion, no arguing with the cook just broasted chicken and corn. I remember going in primarily because I wanted to know just what one did to a chicken to make it broasted. After that all I remember is the enormous lazy flies that crawled up the column next to my table. I still can’t recollect exactly what the chicken tasted or even looked like, the corn sticks out as being over cooked and mushy and of course the flies were lazy and didn’t move when you swatted them which led me to believe that in fact they were never swatted at. Indeed Ben’s was probably a kind of legend in fly circles, one to another word passed down the line and traveled all through the Eastern Desert of california, if you were a fly Ben’s was the place to be. I asked to meet the infamous Ben proprietor and presumably the genius behind the broasting, but unfortunately he was out of town. Instead the cook gave us a tour of the kitchen and that only served to make my experience at Ben’s a singular one. I was passing through Bishop several years after that and I tried to locate Ben’s Broasted Chicken so that Amy could share the wonder of broasted chicken with me, but the place was gone, no building nothing, even some locals in town acted like they had no idea what I was talking about. One old woman gave us that peculiar look that small town people always give to city folk as if to say you have no business poking around here asking questions, but I kept at her until she confessed that Ben’s was something she had never heard of, and what's more she informed us that she had lived in Bishop her whole life. I started to wonder if maybe I had hallucinated the whole thing and Amy, who was in love with my eccentricities as much as my banality, I am certain though that here was the definitive proof she had always wanted to know for sure that I was totally nuts. We snacked on bread from Shatz’s Bakery and drove up to Mammoth with me recounting the same story of Ben’s Broasted chicken that I had laid on her before Bishop, doubtlessly boring her to sleep which was just as well because my mind was pre occupied with broasted chicken not the inner depths of the female soul which was what Amy seemed to want to talk about all the time. + I recanted the story of Ben’s to Dean over double cheeseburgers. I still don’t let little things like fat lazy flies bother me, who ever heard of a fly that ate anything more than crumbs? They were doing no harm and the burgers were dripping greasy and quite yummy, as Amy would have said if she had been there. Every time I get to thinking about or talking about Ben’s Broasted Chicken strange things begin to happen, first the place disappears and then to reach across a span of maybe five years Ben’s came crashing into the present and my mouth dropped open full of half chewed cheese burger when who should come strolling in the door of this diner, but Clay Napier the very man who had been with me on that virgin trip to the land of broasted chicken. Actually the weirdness factor way have been slightly over played on my part as I did know that Clay was in Colorado somewhere, but it’s a big state and then even in Denver how many diners how many nights what are the odds? All of this can in someway be accounted for by the initial mystery that set it all in motion… what is broasted chicken? I no longer care (I also have made it a point never to consult a cookbook) I prefer the mystery to which broasted chicken has attended, at least for me. + Clay Napier was an ancient friend, not in a chronological sense but in the sense that we would always be friends regardless of the time between meetings we never had more then twenty or so awkward moments of catching up and then things fell naturally into place as if we had been together everyday for years. I waited until the waitress had seated him and then casually sauntered up while he was reading the menu and sat down across the booth from him. I cleared my throat and as I did so and he put down the menu to see who was disturbing him. I watched in slow motion as his face went from blank irritation to recognition, and then surprise. We smiled at each other for a moment and then nonplussed, as if it were perfectly natural that we should come upon each other five years and two states away from our last meeting, Clay slid out of the booth and we embraced for moment before the volume of words began to flow forth. + “My god what are you doing here?” + “I was going to ask you the very same question —I thought you were up in the mountains or was it in flagstaff?” + “Ya I was in Flagstaff until I graduated, now I’m actually living up in Boulder, but my girlfriend lives down here… she’s working right now so I was catching a late dinner… why are you in Denver last thing I heard you had gone back to school or something to that effect…?!” + I racked my brain; where would he have gotten such foolish ideas? Who was behind this? “Uh, no I haven’t gotten around to that yet, who told you that one?” + “I forget maybe Robert.” Robert K Statmore an upright human being if there ever was one, it had been years since I had even thought of Bob, except when I went camping and realized with a fresh new sense of shame that I still had the tent I borrowed one weekend almost four years ago. + “How is Bob?” + “Dunno, haven’t talked to any of those guys in a couple of years, I been out here doing odd jobs, I was working for a mining firm doing archeological impact studies, you know making sure they weren’t trampling on our people.” Our people was an old and very elaborate joke that had developed over the years, a sort of half joke actually as Clay and I were serious about some of it. Our people were the native American’s whose blood ran through both our bodies, in Clay it was the Cherokee, and in mine it was (I think) Ogalala, but either way it wasn’t much, not even enough to claim it for scholarship purposes. The both of us were middle European mutts, half breeds, the results of some horny individuals who had no qualms about fucking across international boundaries, but the point of “our people” was not so much about us, it was a continuous good natured way to needle the third point in our boyhood triangle of friendship. That third point was named Jim Stout and was proudly and definitely Irish. When we all got drunk conversation used to end up with Jim threatening to give us small pox blankets and us half-heartedly trying to scalp him while he slept. It’s funny now looking back how teenagers can turn genocide and torture into a source of humor and competition. We were a lot smarter back then. I smiled at Clay’s comment and was lost for moment in a nostalgic reflection over my boyhood. I saw Clay as I will always see him when he’s not around, he’s sitting in that diner smiling that old half crooked curve, and to this day his nasal voice echoes about in my ears whenever I think of him. He had slow manner of speech where you leaned in close so as not to miss a word. He often didn’t say much just shrugged or gave you a look, but the words that did fall out were carefully measured like a recipe and to miss one of them would ruin the flavor of what he was trying to say. And then there were The Looks, you have to know someone for a while before you can communicate with them on a subverbal level with just looks, but with Clay that time was double the norm. He had looks, which he held out in silence that could mean more than complex and overly verbose sentence. When he was feeling thoughtful and didn’t have an opinion he would stroke his chin with a bemused expression which only over time did I realize was not in fact an ironic mockery of Allen Ginsburg, but really the genuine article of inner reflection being measure out and stirred up. I have always thought in the time since Clay and I were fast boyhood friends that I would have liked to smoke pot with him. I remember the first time I got high I thought what wonderful qualities this little plant would bring out in my friend Clay, but he was gone by then, off in Arizona going to school and continuing down the boisterous outdoor life that we had all lead during high school. Nearly every weekend we headed out to Joshua Tree the local rock climbing hang out and Clay had patiently taught Jim and I how to climb until one day we were both better than him. Or at least to be fair that’s how I remember it. Every summer we had made glorious excursions through the Sierra Nevada, backpacking over the palisades, Mineral King, Sequoia, Yosemite and other mountains with names that I have surrendered to inaccessible regions of memory. We all came from adventurous sort of families. +Jim was the first to go his separate way, he ended up at brown University for four years and then Clay went to NAU and I went, well I went here. And then there and now back here. Crisscrossing paths occasionally with each of them making plans for trips we knew we would never go on. The last time I saw Jim, he had met me for a drink at the Little Knight and Tony had presided over our hour and a half meeting like a surgeon trying to revive the dead. I hadn’t seen Jim since and I didn’t know where he was and apparently neither did Clay. + “What are you doing tonight you want to come get a drink?” + “Ya I’m with a friend of mine,” I motioned to Dean the he should come over, he didn’t know Clay and I hadn’t really said anything when he walked in I just dropped my story and walked over to a strangers table, for all Dean knew I was making arms deals with the CIA. I introduce them and Dean went back to our both retrieved our burgers and we all sat down to dinner. “We were over a Tangz, but the gay scene got old so we ducked out… his sister and her friend are still there, but we left them the keys anyway. You got a ride?” + He did and that settled it. The three of us took off to a club/bar where Clay’s girlfriend Anna was working, on the way I filled Clay in on five years as best a could (he had heard stories it seemed —good to know that people talk about you when you’re not around). I left out a few things that I wanted to tell him, but as I said Clay and I are ancient and until I knew where he was at now I had no reason, based on the old Clay to think the one driving now would care about. I left out my gnosticism and the year or so that I spent trying to meet god. Not that I was embarrassed about that stuff, nor ashamed, but rather that they were between me and the handful of people that were aware of what was going on, to go beyond that circle would cost them their flavor, the unique character of insanity that marked them. It turned out that Clay had done about half of the things we always suspected he would do, like college, the master degree, the outdoorsy life, the move to Colorado… but there were things that I never would have thought to hear that Clay was doing. Back in the day, in fact how I met Clay was through the church youth group, and as I say we were both indoctrinated with the Presbyterian God, but to be honest I was mainly there because there were really cute girls (if I had know then what I know now I would have been down the street at the Mormon tabernacle). I grew out of religion around seventeen when I read a book on brainwashing and realized that even if all this malarkey they were feeding us was true, I knew nothing of it other than what I had been told. The same tactics are used by the US military, Indian gurus, Charlie Manson and nearly every other belief centered organization in the world. I got very angry with myself for being duped by these charlatan tricks that seemingly anyone could have employed by reading a textbook on conditioning psychology. I was smarter than that I realized, but unfortunately all my friends were not seeing my insights and what's more they seemed genuinely concerned about me for thinking such things. Subtle reminders were dropped hear and there over a dinner or later after we graduated, a beer, things that had the subtle subtext that good religious people can convey through even the most mundane conversation. At least that’s what I thought at the time and I embarked on this quest to convert them all to my new religion, to undermine the system from within. I gave them books, got them to smoke pot (well Jim anyway) got them to have some sex, in fact Dean and I even dragged Jim to meet a porn star once at some strip club, but then end up backing out when we learned that their was no alcohol allowed. I was the propaganda of hedonism. I always thought that Clay would come round, would wake up as I naively referred to my reactionary religion, but I was wrong. In fact Clay was quitting his job in a month to go back to California and work at the summer camp that we went to in high school. + Now since then I had as I said carried hedonism as far (actually a little further) as it would go and there waiting for me at the end was God and this time he wasn’t wearing the gilded robes of human flesh he was much more of a supernatural being than anything I had ever read has prepared me for and he was much subtler in its existence than I had assumed. He hated Presbyterians and hedonists with equal fervor. He looked like Hitler in Drag and had a nasty habit of sniffing opium tinctures at the most improbable of moments. He was related directly to the incident with the little gnomes on ether that were mentioned earlier and how do you relate that to anyone else? I hadn’t the foggiest and I realized that I was cut off, limited as much as freed by experience because I was so painfully aware of the limitations of being human I was limited. I was limited to trying to understand Clay when I should have been knowing. This thought ran like a subtle subtext through the conversation. Dean took over for me and started telling Clay about people, parties and things that I new Clay wouldn’t relate to, but I let him because I could see Clay shifting in his seat and having to realize that the other half exists and that was exactly what I had been trying to do. I tried every trick in the book back in my more clever days and I had forgotten about the one thing that doesn’t get into psychology textbooks: people. The best evidence for god is man, always has been always will be, any two bit strand of sporific DNA floating through the universe could have made the rest, but man now there is an odd one. Where did this thing come from and what the hell is wrong with it? Who would have made such a thing? I hold that what made us had a hell of a sense of humor and not much else going on upstairs. + When I snapped out of it they were talking about books. Dean was lamenting the recent demise of William S Burroughs and Clay was arguing that Burroughs was too obscure in his style to ever be the creative genius that people thought him to be. This I decide would be great time to go the bathroom and I excused myself; there is nothing Dean can talk about with the insane fever of dementia quite like William Burroughs. I had watched Dean discover and then devour William Burroughs the way some people get over imported chocolates. He savored each knew book with a delicacy that I reserved for other authors, I recognized immediately that whatever his merits or faults he had at least reached Dean and Dean was a tough nut to crack, I could never do it. He had lent me some books and then wham in I went to the world of the totally bizarre. Burroughs tunneled himself into my brain like cancer and ate it all up, then is found another and moved on to devour that author consuming that men and women who wrote as intrinsically part of what they were saying. I have always read that way being more interest in the whole scope of authors life rather than moving from book to book the way some people do. Whether it was Robert Wilson or Tom Clancy it was always the same way. + When I came back from the bathroom I could tell that things had gone awry which was just as well because I didn’t really want to talk philosophies I wanted to speed things up. I went up the bar and asked the bartender to point out Anna for me. He did and I knew that things between me and Clay would never be the same again. She was an absolute work of art with delicate pale skin like a Grecian urn and a face with high cheekbones that just kind hung amid a mass of perfect blond ringlets. She could have been a model, but she wasn’t she was Clay’s girlfriend and I was smitten. I have notorious bad habit of sweeping my friends girlfriend out from their arms and into my own consequently my friends don’t usually call for while when they meet someone. I was awash in cynicism from my earlier musings and I figured if Clay and I were destined to part then I might as well do it with a bang. I went up and introduced myself. Anna “had a smile that swerved, a smile that curved, a smile that swerved all over the road.” If ever there was a girl that Mark Sandman described with those lines it was Anna. She had a body that hugged the road like BMW and she laughed with the honest mirth that comes only those who know. I struggled over that sentence for some time trying to put it without sounding like mystic, but the simple truth is if you don’t know what I mean by that then don’t worry you don’t know and if you don’t know you’ll never learn. + Anna talked like a little demurring French pastry and once shy and bold with the dancing musical quality that seems to emanate mainly in the voices of women I find attractive and no one else. When you’re in the presence of a magical voice such as that all you want to do is listen, any other distraction becomes an immediate irritation and all you want is to stop it and get back the sweet music. Thus by the time a came back to the table with Anna I was already in the mood to do whatever she wanted whenever and wherever she wanted to do it (of course, and therein lies the rub, ten minutes from now it was very possible I would be smitten to another water nymph). + Clay looked visibly disturbed that I had gotten to Anna before he introduced us and being aware of my past he was already uncomfortable with the idea. The song was right is you want to be happy for the rest of your life you got to get yourself an ugly wife or in this case girlfriend, because if you’re dating the most beautiful girl in the room you have to continually maintain your Alpha Male presence or the other will swoop in and feed on your weakness. Women who find that statement offensive have never been the most beautiful girl in the room and the rest of them are evil because they know what power they have and they use it. Anna was the center of attention at out little table and she new it and she liked it from what I could tell because she announced before long that she was going to see if she could get off early and we were all to come with her to an exclusive party for some ban that none of use had ever heard of. But like I said whatever, whenever wherever and I could tell Dean was not going to put up a fight. She left and Clay wisely used this time to go to the restroom as it was not a good idea to leave the girl with the other dogs. +Dean and I talked it over and decided that we would each do our best to keep the other from sleeping with Anna, but in our quixotic logic we both agreed that the best way to do this was to each keep the other from the crime by committing it ourselves. We could have subtitled our logic with the slogan keep others out of trouble by getting yourself into it first or as one other put it, how I found the goddess and what I did to her then” to which I would only add and how she loved it. As they say good lovers are not born they’re made, like Mafioso bosses its all in the luck of the draw, but once you learn you will never look at life the same again. You will understand from experience. The question we were debating when Clay returned was whether or not good a Christian could possibly be capable of satisfying the goddess. We were in the neighborhood of a no when we had to seamlessly shift gears and make Clay believe that we were not talking about his girlfriend the minute he left the table, but of course he knew wouldn’t you? + I managed to suck down one more gin and tonic before the forces of control let Anna loose upon us and we all headed off in her car to this after-hours party that was supposedly in the swanky downtown area that Dean and I had been touring earlier. When we got there it turned out to be in the bar of a rather posh high rise hotel. The entire area was blocked off, but a couple of words between the security guards and Anna and we were all whisked in with nod here and there. Now only was it indeed a part for some band, but this musical flavor of the month had some rather famous friends. And suddenly Clay’s nightmare deepened because now he didn’t have to worry about Dean or I; there was new competition like Johnny Depp who was sitting by himself in the corner of the bar. Nor were Dean and I necessarily smitten on Anna anymore when there were an abundance of women that we would have recognized if we bothered to keep up on the fashion industry. Being from LA Dean, Clay and I were not overly impressed with celebrities anymore, you only run into a couple and then you start to realize that your own friends are infinitely more interesting. But one thing about celebrity parties that I never get tired of is the free food and booze and the wonderful abundance of substance abuse. How do you know if you live in LA? You can’t remember if cocaine is illegal or not. We made a beeline for the bar and left Clay with Anna who we figured was after all his problem not ours. We watched the vultures feeding as the celebrities divided and conquered among the groupies, admirers and hangers on. Its really hard to compete with a guy that’s internationally recognized as a sex symbol so we contented ourselves with the company of a guy who we thought might be the lead singer of the Black Crowes and who might have just been another emaciated scraggly haired kid that looked like the lead singer of the Black Crowes. In either case we chatted sporadically over the course of a half-hour or so before he offered us a joint. We graciously accepted and got up thinking we were to follow him outside when he lit it right there in the middle of the bar and with a minimum of discretion passed it to Dean who shrugged and smoked it. +“Be careful,” the dark locks leaned in closer as if to impart some clandestine knowledge, “this shits pretty hard core.” + I laughed in his face but managed to make it look like I was only coughing. Dean shook his hand and said thanks man don’t worry its cool or some other such dopehead lingo. From the minute the smoke hit my lungs it was very obvious that something more powerful than what I was used to was at work here. My toes got tingly and my hands heavy. Maybe thirty seconds after I inhaled I was catapulted into another universe that bore absolutely no resemblance to the one before it. Dean’s face went ashen and I thought thank god because I was going to need company on this one. + Ten minutes later I found myself discussing the literary merits of Dorothy Allison with Winona Ryder and her brother who I thought was her boyfriend. What I said I have no idea but I did later make it a point to read bastard out of Carolina and I was some disappointed when Winona Ryder was not in the movie. She seemed like she genuinely wanted to play that role and in my chaotic state I sensed that she would. Not everything that comes to you one drugs is brilliant not is all of it ‘just the drug.’ No matter what the prejudice the drug warriors have against chemicals the important thing that they ignore is that the chemicals are interacting with the human mind. Something happens when you smoke pot that not only feels good but also over time changes the entire way in which your brain processes information whether or not that is good thing is an individual judgement call. At this particular point that alternative brain function felt that it would only be just and fitting for Winona Ryder to play the lead in a movie version of Bastard out of Carolina. + Dean I soon noticed was actually talking the Johnny Depp. They seemed quite engrossed in conversation and I slid my way out from Winona and her brother and tried to cross the room without running, but I was so paranoid that I inadvertently missed the fact that Anna was calling my name behind me. Her voice blended in with the cacophonous swirl of background noise that surged and breathed in my ears as if it were a living thing. + Thus when she grabbed me from behind I almost punched her in the face I was so shocked. And I was way to out of it to try to cover up it up; she fairly jumped back from me and then let out a little yelp such that everyone in the room turned there heads. This was my worst nightmare. In my gamble to cross the crowded room this was the scenario that was too far fetched to actually happen so I disregarded it and sure enough I was frozen like a deer in the headlights, caught before a roomful of glaring eyes. Anna came to my rescue and gentle grabbed me by the waist and led me off into the hallway where Clay was waiting. They were leaving it turned out and if we were to have a ride home now was the time. I mumbled something about good to see you nice to meet you and ducked back into the party. This time I successfully navigated the room, but Depp had left and Dean was huddled in the corner looking a bit too much like cornered wounded animal. + I dropped in next to him and shook him a bit. + “How are you doing?” + “I don’t know what that shit was, but I would really like some more.” + “Ya.” I scanned the room for the scraggly haired kid but didn’t see him. It was pushing two in the morning, but the bar shoed no signs of caring and it wasn’t long before a waitress brought us more drinks. The staff seemed to be the most star struck people in the bar, they all walked about half gawking and half averting their eyes they way people do around so called celebrities. I’ve always treated celebrities with the subtle scorn that lonely men reserve for hookers, a caustic indifference held out on a stick of sarcasm and belittlement. I figured that if I were famous that would be more interesting then simple worship. We watched the room in silence for the better part of an hour. Dean told me later that he saw them all completely naked and thought that so much time had passed the place had turned into an orgy. I was musing over what life would be like if the struggle to survive were eliminated. Dangerous fantasies because you realize that whatever hardships might accompany having lots of money there was always the freedom to do whatever you wanted whenever you wanted. That most rich and famous people do not take advantage of that fact and work themselves to bones making more and more movies or albums as the case may be is the singular most depressing thing about them. At a quarter to three last call went out and low and behold Black Crowes guy slid seemingly out of nowhere into the both and offered up the remainder of the joint. + “You guys are holding up okay, the last time I shared this shit this girl freaked out and thought it was laced with something and tried to beat me up.” + “I hate it when that happens.” Dean took the rather small remnants of a joint and inhaled deeply. “My ex-wife tried to beat me up the first time I did mushrooms. I was really out of it and she came home all pissed off about something and she had never done mushrooms so she had no idea where I was and he started yelling at me on the stairs. I just kind of stood there and looked at her totally unable to comprehend what she was saying then she pushed me down the stairs and kicked me. Then my sister through her out of the house.” +Both Crowes and I were laughing by the time Dean finished his little yarn. Crowes seemed impressed more that Dean had been married than anything else or maybe that was all of the story that he actually heard seeing how most of the joint had disappeared without us participating. +“What was that like man, I mean being married.” +“Well I don’t really know we were only married two months when that happened I decided after that it was better if we went our separate ways.” + “Ya but what was it like to stand at the alter and look at that person and think ya I want to spend the rest of my life with this person. I mean what does that feel like?” He put a particular emphasis on fee as if this would someone affect Dean’s response. +Dean sat for moment in silence staring at his hands. “I don’t know, uh I never really had that go through my head. It was just a kind of little thing that got out of control. She asked me once after knowing her for like three weeks if I wanted to get married and I said sure because I thought she was joking and then next thing I knew she was dress shopping with my mom. It just happened so fast I didn’t have time to stop it.” + This seemed to have a profound impact on Crowes and he withdrew slightly in what I thought was a kind of meditative slouch. Dean and I exchanged a look after a few minutes and then with still no response we shook the kid. + Still nothing. Hmmmm. + “You want to get something for last call?” + “Ya that would probably be good.” I got up and went to the bar. I got three drinks and set one in front of Crowes who appeared to have settled off into a comfortable coma. + “Oh hey, Clay and Anna left.” I delivered the news as though it were no big deal and then saying it aloud I realized the gravity of the situation. We were fucked up out of our minds surrounded by people we didn’t know with no way out + “Oh really! How the fuck did that happen?” +“Uh well they wanted to go I didn’t and you were talking to Johnny Depp so I just kind of ditched them.” + “How exactly were you planning on getting home?” + “I didn’t really think that far in advance…” + “Ya I can see that.” + An idea nacently sprang forth in both our minds. I slide around the booth and prodded at Crowes a few time to make sure he was out for good and then I dug through his pockets to find his valet card. He didn’t have one so we figured he must have come in one of the limousines we had seen on our way in. Between the two of us we dragged him out of the booth and with an arm over each shoulder we carried him outside. It was then as we staggered to keep him from falling over that I noticed another joint in his breast pocket. I ferreted it away while Dean tried to enlist the help of the valets in locating our ride. In a few minutes an affable Tom Waites looking character pulled up in a black limousine and offered to drive us all home. We took him up on it and the three of us kind of pitched Crowe through the door. The driver, whose name was Jake Anderson, kept the divider window down and I did my best to guide him to marks house. I had him tuning about in a haphazard way that my autopilot intuition told me would end us up at Marks house. If you had drawn out our course on a map it would have looked like a staircase and we would have been falling down it like paraplegics thrown from their wheelchairs. +Eventually I managed to find the house but I felt bad because I had made the guy drive around for the better part of half and hour so I offered him the joint with a warning that it would probably be better not to smoke it and drive. He thanked me and asked if we wanted to cruise for while and smoke it with him. Dean ran inside and got Mark and Betty and we all took off to ride around Denver. Jake took us up the freeway toward Boulder and we pulled over atop a hill. We sat there for the rest of the night slowly smoking the joint in ten-minute spurts. Any longer and we were all so high that we forgot about the joint and it went out. Around six the sun rose over the eastern Colorado plain. It was a magnificent fiery red and orange spectacle. Jake told us stories about driving around the rich and famous, my favorite was the time he had driven Axl Rose’s legendary dolphin decaled limo from Hollywood out to palm Springs for the sole purpose of having a taco at some Mexican place that he really wanted to eat at. Apparently although he didn’t say it outright Jake had driven somebody our here all the way from LA for this concert which if we were to believe him was a political bigwig event that everybody who was anybody was at. There were more parties at other hotels that we had missed out on. Jake assured us that they were more of the dame with the didactic tone of the kings lap dog —always superior and never actually participating. Still he was awfully nice and as the night wore on he seemed to want to join our cross-country journey. Several times the conversation seemed headed toward a pregnant pause where if we wanted to we could have invited him along. We didn’t. +We did however take him to breakfast at a roadside diner that he suggested. After a hearty meal of eggs and bacon I was ready to call it a night and pass out. Jake dropped us off at the house around eight and I went to sleep assuming as I always do that I would wake up sober again the next morning. I didn’t and neither did anyone else. It was well past ten o’clock at night before any of us felt normal again. We spent the day sleeping it off or stumbling about the house in a mesmerized trance. To this day no other drug has fucked me up as completely or for as long as that stuff that Crowe gave us. He claimed it wasn’t laced with anything and he identified it only as Hawaiian Redhair a potent strain to be sure, but not that potent. Maybe it was the altitude, maybe it was us. Quein Sabe. + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/veryold/very old writings/gone book/LVR iam.txt b/veryold/very old writings/gone book/LVR iam.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b1f078b --- /dev/null +++ b/veryold/very old writings/gone book/LVR iam.txt @@ -0,0 +1,160 @@ +“You are my angel/come from way above/to bring me love….” +I didn’t wake up until we were past Barstow. I awoke outside of LA, outside of Barstow, outside of civilization, outside of intention, outside of desire, outside of myself. I awoke in a sinister little car on a ride through the wild forlorn California Desert; the only reason I woke up at all was the heat. It turned the pleasantness of my dream into a nightmare that I had to escape by waking up. I dreamed I was an emperor in a foreign land, a mystical Tibetan type of land where I sat in a palace of unrivalled spender and riches; I dreamed you were there, Orisis. Luxurious tapestries covered the walls and gold trimmed divans were arranged about the room so that you might receive visitors. I was trying to raise an army of thinkers to combat the problems of mankind; I had sent out messengers and courtesans to attract like-minded rulers to the palace. Word came back by means of an old telegraph machine, which sat on a cherry wood table in the corner. Next to it was an old high back throne such as one would find in Versailles, you sat in it searching, just like you Orisis, always scouring the world to put me back together. I wanted to wander about the palace and explore but every time I walked out of the room I would hear the telegraph machine and rush back to it, only to find that it was more negative response. I knew that you would never bother with the machine, if news was to be received it would be through me, you had given up entirely. Inexplicably, as it often happens in dreams, I found myself sailing in a glider over the tree dotted hills of northern Mexico. I was admiring the peaceful silence of gliding to and fro on thermals when I suddenly became aware of the unbearable heat of the cockpit, better drop down a bit I thought to myself, but as I eased the stick forward I lost control of the plane entirely and dropped like a rock toward the waiting rocky hills. In my descent I saw and felt what John Denver must have seen and felt when he plunged to his death off the coast of Santa Cruz. Within the dream I was musing over his actual death in an abstract way and then bang!, I hit the ground. I don’t know if I died, I couldn’t remember but I might as well have; waking up in the cramped confines of a glib Japanese car is a small relief from death itself. I sat sweating profusely with my forehead bumping gently against the windowpane, trying to reconstruct the details of my imaginary palace and quixotic dream quest. In reality as it is called I was going somewhere else, Las Vegas to be precise. +Air conditioning is no match for the desert phoebus, it only brings the nightmare into sharper focus, a palpable tease to remind you that somewhere it is not hot at all; even now as I sat there some Llama herdsman in Andes was warming his frostbitten toes by a roaring fire. Oh to be cold… The scorching sun made it too hot to go back to sleep. Dean was driving and Betty was still passed out in the back seat. It must have been around ten in the morning; I didn’t move to look at the clock on the dashboard, it didn’t really matter, one thing about travel —time has no meaning. There is only in the car and out of the car a sort of two-dimensional life. I’m not accustomed to functioning at the ungodly hours referred to by most as ‘morning’ and I wasn’t about to start now, here in the middle of nowhere. I hadn’t gone to bed until about six this same morning; I rested my eyes for a while longer and recounted the events in blackness. +There was a dim recollection of breakfast at Tiffany’s (or was it Denny’s?), pancakes and eggs with a side of bacon all tasteless and uneventful; a goodbye to some lingering friends, Carey, Dean and Betty’s father Mr. Dean; then conk! I was gone off in a Tibetan dream palace. I escaped the boredom of driving east out of LA, thank god. The drive out through the ‘inland empire’ as it’s called is a grand tour of hell (actually I would take the straight up inferno of hell served in a flaming glass before I would go of my own free will to the Inland empire). I missed the wrenching smell of the stockyards in Upland and the bucktoothed gas station attendants of Barstow, a crying shame to be sure. The stockyards especially amaze me; that the smell of a cow’s ass can somehow penetrated the near perfect Freudian-sterile seal of the modern automobile seems likely to remain, along with the Kennedy assassination and the pyramids, one of the true mysteries of the earth. +Just east of Barstow there is a sign that boldly states “Greensboro NC 1297 m;” I opened my eyes again in the shadow of that unpleasant knowledge, cracked my view of the world just in time to learn that the reconstructive dentistry capital of the world was a mere 1297 miles away. I wanted to let out a Homer Simpson “Woohoo!” but it was too hot for any unnecessary activity. I sat up, opened my eyes, stretched as best I could and wiped the drool off my cheek. I looked over and saw the pain on Dean’s face that only a drive through the California desert in the middle of August with a hangover can give you. God it was hot. And I was right it was not even eleven, which meant that the temperature was bound to climb at least another ten degrees before we got to Vegas. +Dean had volunteered to drive the whole way to Vegas (he always was charitable when he was drunk) and naturally Betty and I had thought that a lovely idea. He looked like he was in the throws of deep regret and cursing his own self-cast fortune, which for Dean is standard operating procedure. There isn’t a whole lot to look at out here in the desert, at least not a whole lot that you can see from the window of a Toyota Corolla. Of course that doesn’t mean there is nothing to see, its just that racing along in as enlarged soda can at ninety miles an hour limits your view of the world. The cramping stylings of a cheap Japanese car was hindering our view, or maybe not so much the car but the speed of it. We humans can move what! I mean real speed, airplanes, space rockets, trains; we can run like no other animal and with no personal effort whatsoever. Speed doesn’t allow for minutiae, even a mere gloss of the passing scenery is too much for the human eye at ninety miles an hour. The creosote and hohoba plants that dot its hills and serpentine sand dunes are the only relief the eye gets from the endless endless nothing. You don’t get details with speed, but its still the best way to travel —like comet we could crash into Vegas in a couple of hours, burn down the town and then go rocketing off again. +The car contained only the barest of essentials; Dean and I had thrown a few pants and shirts in a suitcase each and then I had a small courier bag with notepads, pens and a handful of books. A garment bag held two suits each because a stranger in a strange land ought to look his best we reasoned. Betty, being a woman, had the largest suitcase that occupied the majority of the trunk, but otherwise the interior of the car was uncluttered with the trappings of humanity. Music had been carefully selected for its road worth qualities, a healthy mix of raucous punk rock to keep us awake and soothing melodic pieces designed to lull the mind and drown the endless droning of the wheels. I insisted on bring Beethoven’s Ninth for nighttime drives. The upshot of our circumstances was the we traveled light, secretly though we kept it to ourselves, Dean and I mutually figured on having to lug most of it by foot at some point when the already suspect nature of the Toyota gave out entirely and finally surrendered its fate to the junkyard. We had all left behind an enormous pile of furnishings and creature comforts which for my part I hoped to never lay eyes on again, but our friends had assured us they would see that it all got into storage should any of us return someday and want it. Bastards. The idea was to go and keep going, but it didn’t quite work out that way. + Happenstance carried me again I surrendered my own fate to that of the car, of the road, of the random complexities of life pure life with no entrapments, encumbrances, or dovetailed catches to hang me up. We have thrown ourselves to the wind to let the scattering process begin; the first day out and I was feeling as expansively free as the landscape, floating on the thermals of fortuitous caesura. Sheer chance drew me here and left me staring out the car window into nothingness, the pedigreed nothingness of freedom. The desert was a void from my window; it had the deceptive appearance of emptiness not unlike the silent inky surface of the ocean, which is not empty but teeming with life. The desert was once a sea floor, but the life wouldn't have it, the water rolled back to greener pastures. The desert is the void left by water and filled up with castoff bric-a-brac from the mountain regions. To the north glittery jewel peaks, the southern most tip of the White Mountains —snow. Its making my mouth water, I point it out to Dean which seems to snap him out of some trance state and he agreed to pull over so we can stand on top of his car and look at them through the binoculars. I imagined the cool streams, the whole painted backdrop from the set of Bambi coated in snow. Our enthusiasm lasted about thirty seconds and then we started to realize that in fact the air conditioning is helping and that without it we are forced to suck hot dry air like clamping your lips to an exhaust pipe. + Besides I knew the White Mountains didn’t look like a snow covered Bambi set; I’ve been there and they’re just as hot as the desert this time of year. I jumped down and we headed back out on the road. I lit a cigarette. Life was going bang! The epi-endo-genetic bang that finally turns on the radio, like when the old crystal quarts set gets cranked next to the digital signal, cold and clear you can taste it, metallic vibrations of noise it slam into your gut. Sock you like a plutonium fuzz blast. +The sun burned through the open window and the dry hot air sucked itself greedily down into my lungs so that the heat had the peculiar effect of feeling like it radiated out from within rather than coming from that detached burning globe that was nearing it’s apex. I felt like I might spontaneously combust just like those “rare” cases you hear about on That’s Incredible. I thought of saying I had heard —give a man a match and he can build a fire to warm himself through the night, but set a man on fire and he will be warm for the rest of his life. True what! +I stirred finally and Dean looked over at me. “How ya doin’?” he asked. +“Wonderful, except for the heat or course.” +“Ya that’s why I was willing to drive… so I didn’t have to sit in the sun…” he smiled mischievously. I knew there had to be some hidden insidiousness behind his offer… +“Ah, so you knew?” +He glanced at me with superiority, “come on now, I’m a professional.” +With the air conditioner on high and the fortuitous curve of the freeway I found myself becoming more comfortable. Heat radiates out from within. I found that if you keep that in mind you can cope with it, you just have to fan it out —blow the vents so to speak—burn it off at the right pace— with the right amount of water, cigarettes, ice-cold beer, and snack food. Eventually I came to find my mind relaxed and floating on the surface of a glassy pond. Gentle ripples between drags of the cigarette tuned my ears to the desert frequency. +Like the teeming depths of the ocean that once covered it there is an infinite web of natural and supernatural life out there. My father is a desert rat, so I am no stranger to the bristling spike infested country of California. When I was younger we used to make trips out here in the blistering heat and roaring silence to go hiking and camping; the sort of thing that most fathers didn’t do I found out later, but I had a good time on those trips. My father dragged me from one end of the desert to the other, up the 395 to Hisperia and down the 316 all the way across the Mexican border at Tecate. I learned a million tiny nuggets of knowledge to tidy my mind over through life’s boring stretches like riding about in a car. I can assure you that there is an unknown universe of life thriving out there in the sand and heat, a harsh unforgiving universe as the cliché would have it, but it is also a delicately beautiful latticework teeming with life. Complex and fragile ecosystems evolved over millennia of cooperation and mutually assured survival instincts are woven through the barren rock and sand washes. In the afternoons during a summer thunderstorm if you sit in the shade of a Palo Verde tree and watch the edges of a dry riverbed you can catch a glimpse of that universe. Lizards and snakes frolic and birds seem to rejoice at the smell of rain. (Lest you actually do this it is worth stating that you ought not to dally too long as that peaceful scene can be turned into a fifty mile an hour river of mud and rock that will jump out of nowhere and kill you before you have time to realize that you are going to die— I personally hope one day to die with such peace, but in case you aren’t ready don’t say I didn’t warn you). There are enormous anthills that look not unlike flying over Manhattan at midday. The desert works on a smaller scale, it is only for those with infinite patience, if you live in the desert you don’t want to have a lot to do. That’s why there are ghost towns from here clear up to the base of the Sierra Nevada, towns where people didn’t have anything to do. There was no reason per se to go to such towns and without reason they died. I went out to the famous Calico ghost town once; a collection of blue-gray wood shacks, collapsing roofs, broken out windows and ceaseless wind blowing dust in every crevice. But there were loads of people milling about in the summer heat, trying to keep the dust out of their teeth and see what a ghost town is. There are no ghosts in the traditional sense at least not any that I could see, but there were ghosts of ideas, of lives, and hopes and dreams. What must the inhabitants of thought living here in the wind blown back alley of nowhere? Was this entire town little more than a broken wagon wheel that changed a life? Or did someone plan this one out; did some one think this was a good idea? My friend Mike and I drank icy Coca-Cola in the shade and debated those and other questions. We watched the pasty bloated souls called Tourist Americanus and tried to decide what they would be isolated here instead of thriving in their air-conditioned lysoled suburbs. +Dean’s stereo is just audible above the roar of our cracked windows and when I strain I can hear Morphine playing. She had black hair like ravens crawling down her neck… I quoted that line once as an example of the band’s genius and the man to whom I was speaking said ‘actually that’s basic literary imagery metaphor 101…’ I felt bad for him, but I didn’t reply. Its in the way it floats off the tongue, its in the way one simple image can carry you all the way to a seedy bar in Paris France, it’s the way it slides out of the lung and fits so smoothly in between the base and the drums. It can take you anywhere you want, but only if you want to go. If you want to hear cliches then I assure you, you will hear them everywhere you go. Have fun. Stay clear of me. +Take the subtlest of frequency modulations and dig until you find the pulsar of life; blasting straight through the chest and then stroking on soft cushions to sooth you down. In and out. Draws you from one world to the next, an electro- static charge, like a song played off an old Castagraf recorder. + You move the body electric in pulsation, with receptors that crawl — feeling warmth of the spine they head the back of the brain. The surge is ecstatic... drives me right on over into the next dimension -model -metaphor -you get the picture. You might have even hung it on your wall when you where younger, and hungrier —hunger drives the hierarchy and it’s there, even when your stomach is full... it hit raw exposed nerve endings with the high voltage throb of life that’s hard wired into our brains...in there like a virus you might say. Lust for what? It’s all gone from now. Ebb and flow, the surges come in waves. +I gotta run to make diving in smooth... feels in slow motion... you hang in the air for a timeless moment and then hit the water like a torpedo, the waves slip out from around the impact and form a circular blueprint... The pond turns in the throws of a tempest, frothing with uninterrupted motion. The animal body is an alternating current, suspended in perfect fluidity like the ecstatic dances of the trance-shamans carried slip-slow up into the magic of the beyond. Echoes abound like a caged sun gone supernova... atomizes and reforms as the cool wave hits the skin. Smooth blue skin. + I remember three —maybe four— days ago smoking filterless cigarettes listening to the voices trailing in from the mezzanine, a masterpiece composition of harmonized waves, sound —the trigger behind the motion. Dancing eyes so ravenous, spiral with giddiness, threw out the tired old man mind. Bring it back down... bring it back down cause I never quite got it the first time. +Lost in images, swirling words, sounds, smells miraculous warmth on the crawling embers of flesh.... The black on the starry night... Van Gogh and his goddamn ear always creeping in at the edges. Diggin' fast and furious: tunnelers. Roots and the little blooms—the moment—the purity—the wavelength transitions in simplicity—burned like hydrochloric acid onto the memory film. Scar tissue that languishes eternally. + + + + +We are staying with Rachel, here in Vegas; things are amuck amuck as the man said. First there is Rachel. Rachel is a cool-mom. In every collection of friends I have ever wandered into there is inevitably one whose mother is the cool-mom. Cool-moms are the ones that harbor the strays, know what clit piercing is and don’t mind the excesses of youth because they never forgot their own. Johnson through and through the cool-mom is and Rachel was the one in our circle. She was the one who didn’t mind wayward children crashing on the floor, junkies trying to kick locked in the bedroom and only god knew how many poor lost girls Dean had dragged home and put up in her house for a month or two, sometimes more. Through it all she was understanding and usually supportive of all human creatures. The cool-mom never judges or casts out someone because a simple disagreement or difference in beliefs. Rachel was every bit the part, she was a matronly woman heavy set and swaggering full of spice and fire spitting gusto, she could out drink Betty. Right now her life has taken a turn though, the cool-mom has had the bedrock foundation of the desert blown out from under her and for the first time in my life I feel old, old and weary the whole lot of us are slowly decaying in the heat, but the ambrosial smell of decay is good for us, like a hot brand on your ass, it might scar, but it’ll wake you up. +Then there is Rachel’s boyfriend Bob. Bob on the other hand is a redneck; the backwoods stripe ran through and through. Bob was the sort of all right guy that you realize isn’t alright after talking to him for twenty minutes. These types tended to hang around the Little Knight during the early hours of the evening where it seemed they were wrapping up a hard day of hard drinking. Mysteriously they always seemed to be loaded with cash. Most of the ones I had talked to were in some sort of construction related business and they were always trying to get “youngsters” like myself to give them or sell them or just get them pot. Bob had actually taken this cliché one step further and asked Dean and I to go up to Alaska, where he supposedly had a cabin, and grow Maui-wowi for him. Almost anybody else and I would have jumped at the chance, but the thought of getting into a small plane with that man at the controls made my blood turn to ice. I thought about it every time I see him. I see his false eyes glittering like pyrite in the Alaskan mountains and I see our carcasses lying half eaten by the fire and Bob just sitting there smiling that absurd smile…. +True to the cliche Bob worked in construction (although he never seemed to actually work), drank hard and probably beat the crap out of Rachel —if not physically then emotionally. I pretended to watch television while carefully watching the two of them. From what I had seen of the man his mind consisted solely of illegible notes, beer stains and racist jokes. He possessed the outdated practical knowledge of one that works with his hands and knew how to downshift the mind into neutral in order to get things accomplished. There is nothing wrong with that per se but Bob seemed to have left his mind in neutral a little too long, maybe flooded the engine or something; maybe he was just dumber than a bag of rocks right out of the womb. There was something intangible in the air about him and all the others I have met like him, something sinister and vague in its intent; he is a bad man my grandmother would have said and I have had my fill of bad men for this lifetime. +I avoid him like the plague, but its difficult to avoid someone when you live with them. Bob was a constant nuisance, he was always knocking on the door to Dean’s room where I was also staying for the time being and after a while he realized that we weren’t always asleep so he took it upon himself to barge in and offer us ‘a cold one.’ Now that doesn’t sound like such a bad man, but the problem lay in the fact that a cold one was rarely anything better than Pabst blue ribbon and he never just had one. He would perch there on the end of Dean’s bed with his bog construction boot on my pillow; it was his unsubtle way of reminding me that I was not welcome in his book. He would sit there and out of the blue launch into his troubles; work was working him to hard, alcohol was no longer solving all his problems (ya think? Dean and I would say), and worst of all was when he told a story. Bob had no sense of timing or point to his stories, they were uninteresting, delivered in a chaotic disjointed way that made no sense and they never had a point or an end they just kind of tapered off or led to a completely separate story with no relation to the one preceding it. My favorite were the ones that went… “I went down to the strip last night….” The middle parts changed according to the night but the end result was always the same, bob sitting somewhere too drunk to know where and trying to remember if a taxi was on its way or if he just thought it was on its way. Then there was the tapered ending in which he tried to remember where he lived and his voice would train off and he might say something like “did you ever meet my sister Bonnie?” Or what’s the score anybody know what the score to the game is?” Dean and I never even knew what game he was referring to let alone what the score was. The score was that Bob drove us out of the house to saner pastures where no one bothered us. +Dean had a nice little racket writing for the Vegas Gazette which was owned by one of his schoolmate’s father or something like that. He wrote inane little articles about the various society happenings of Las Vegas it was inane, but it came with perks such as the pretentious parties we had to attend; Dean as the writer and me as the photographer. We were the press. Or at least we were supposed to be, but we spent more time at the open bars than we did interviewing and photographing people. + + + +Lately I have been spending all my time in the Double Down with Dean. Day’s pass like strolls through airport lounges, arrival and departure times listed in gambling winnings and losses, the interim’s are spent waiting, waiting for the cards to come around waiting for a friendly drunk to throw a chip our way, waiting for the call girls to give in to the only thing money can’t buy… tenderness. Typically we roll out of bed as the sun is setting and duck out before Bob comes home from work or the bar or wherever he whiles his time away. The Double Down is all the way on the other side of town so we don’t get there until eight o’clock. The sun has just set when we walked through the door tonight. We weave through the human menagerie and get drinks at the bar. In the back is a separate room a quieter one where you can have drinks with a date or a whore and talk before heading down the street to the hotel that rent by the hour where you can knock back for a few rounds and still some back for a nightcap because its Las Vegas and you can pretty much do whatever the hell you want and know one seems to care. This is the apex of modern ideals, Las Vegas. It’s the glitter capital of the world, the sky, the buildings, and the streets all glitter, refracting light through the hollow core. +Las Vegas, is what happened when the fleshy ooze of humanity confronted the barbed souls of the barrel cactus, the spiny leaves of the Palo Verde tree, and all the otherworldly creatures of the desert. The first step in renovating what must have appeared as hell to early settlers was air-conditioned. Before air conditioning, not even the thrill of gambling would have made people come to Las Vegas in the summertime. But cool it down a bit and you can decorate hell up nice; some casinos, some brothels, curtains in the windows, now things are looking up. +Th puritan preachers of the four-headed beast abstinence are the only humans that don’t like Vegas, but they don’t like anything except God so that should come as no surprise. These are unfortunate and trying times that we live in, they have wrought the heavy hand of the Moral Minority and its cronies all the way across the nation to squelch any fun you thought you might be able to have. I only bring this up because another old casino was razed this afternoon, another shoddy rundown beautiful den of corruption and vice. What will replace it will no doubt sparkle and have a romper room for kids to play in while there conservative sort of middle class sort of middle of the road sort of white family fantasy parents gamble and “cut loose.” The very same people that vote republican and unconsciously model their morals after Alex P Keaton. They may not be religious but they are damn sure they no what is right and wrong —gambling and drink is right; whores and drugs is wrong. Therein they support the further degradation of the human animal that has been propagated by the Moral Minority for what seems like eternity. The American west was humanity’s final hope for salvation from the hideous forces of belief and repression, but its lost, all is lost… you know the story… odd isn’t it that the land of liberty has more citizens in prison than any other country on earth? Our country’s history reads like cartoon strip of a small innocent child running from an overbearing stepmother; first it was England then New England; the poor child is tired and sat down to rest here in Las Vegas. Las Vegas used to be the grand ball of the country, but then the overbearing bitch of ‘prurient interests” showed up. The old casinos are being torn down and whorehouses are driven out of business every passing day and the mob has been beaten back to the landfills and over safer money laundering operations. Now instead of quasi-burlesque shows there are silly men in tights parading wholesomely around with white tigers amid a pyrotechnics background of high wire acts. Who the fuck wants to see tigers, even if they are white? We came to buy some whores and drink until we can’t see straight. To live more or less the way god intended —happy. +This evening I am sitting on a bench in the mezzanine of the Double Down which is a casino/bar/night club/breeding ground for nefariousness; I am waiting for Dean who is chatting up a beautiful girl at the back of the bar who may or may not be a whore. It is Dean’s quest to find out and if the answer be yes then how much? In the meantime I am watching the cheapskate old ladies with blue hair clutch at their plastic cups slowly emptying them of quarters, which they drop mechanically into the slots. What goes through you mind when you do that all day long? Do you still have a mind, is anything happening in there? Perhaps this was there form of meditation, different but maybe the same idea as driving. They assume a purely mechanical nature in order to let their minds wander about, to frolic through lost memories of youth and life when it still meant something. More likely there was nothing going on upstairs I decide. It is nearly nine now and the sun is but a slice of iridescent orange peel slinking behind the glittery casinos of the strip skyline, but the heat is still hanging on even in the shadows. Off in the distance I can just see the tips of the high rise casinos where the rich gamble in private rooms waited on by topless cocktail girls and through the walls they listen to the thriving sounds of tourists dropping coins and laying down bills to line the velvet pockets which hold their Cuban cigars. The wheels are turning twenty four hours a day seven days a week for eternity. The velvet gets nicer every year and the girls prettier and the tourists dumber and fatter always wanting more! New! Bigger! By god!, screams the frustrated real estate Tycoon in horror. What the hell is going on here?! He stands up from the table in alarm, zombie eyes are peering vacantly through one way windows, what do they want? Well sir, says the nervous pimple employee who was sent in with a message, they want more... He speaks in a whisper unsure of whether to be more afraid of the Boss or the Mob. We gave them a pirate ship, recreated the pyramids, and the canals of Venice, what more do you people want from us?! I just can’t take it anymore, first it was the galls stones then kidney stones, two bi-pass surgeries (the second one a triple!) are you trying to kill me?! And off in the distance the throngs gather about and begin to chant as if spellbound by the ancient techniques trance revivals: We want more! We want new! The volume increases as the numbers grow from all over the world masses gather beneath the alter and chant…We want shiny! We want clean! The very enslaved that the bosses has so sneered at and exploited were now subtly fighting back with incessant dreams, the perfect slave became the uncontrollable master…We want to be fitter! We want to be happier! The Boss scratches his head and thinks for while, eyeing the faces in the mirror staring at him though they can not see him… alright kid, here’s what were going to do, you go out and tell them that I am currently drawing up plans to build a half size replica of the Eiffel tower, the hotel next to it is going to be immense, the restaurant will be in the middle with a clear view up ninety stories to sky. Tell them that I have plans for a tower to extend up five stories and I plan to fill it with wine bottles with will be delivered to their tables by a girl on a mechanical trapeze swing that can be raise and lowered as need to fetch their wine. Tell them the expensive stuff is going to be at the top, those cheap bastards’ll be order screw top crap that the waiters can get, but as long as somebody buys the good stuff they all get to see the show. The Boss is positively beaming now, inspiration has hit he is on to something. He shoos the kid outside and through the waitress’s out after him. He locks the door and starts sketching…. +Boredom. I wander over seeing that Dean is seated now and obviously not headed anywhere for a while; I join them in booth. Dean introduces me to Chloe who just as I had feared is gorgeous and a whore; I can see it in her eyes. The way she watches Dean while he talks, she is thinking that yes he will pay, but even if he didn’t she would enjoy it just the same, he has a tenderness in the dies of eyes, little flickers that light the whore imagination. She’s right, but it’s only half the story —her half. The room has the stale smell of too many smokers and not enough air filters built up over decades of excess and depravity. I imagine the are walls a sickly yellow color cauterized with smoke and splattered with sloshed beer, but its too dark to tell for sure. There is a sensual symphony gurgling and lurching through each minute with the ceaseless effort of the little engine that could. Cartoon character faces fill up chairs and resemble like the creatures that pop out of the walls at the Tiki room in Disneyland. Repulsive faces that seemed devoid of all humanity —zombies with coins. The frail frame of an elderly woman at a slot machine never so much as murmured as she dropped quarters in the machine; her arm moved from the handle to her plastic bucket full of change as if it were part of the machine rather than a warm body. Double Down became a swirl of lights, sex and drugs, the human effort to fulfill needs. +They want to eat. New needs, hierarchies, sex after food. Leaving there is whirlpool of words like white and dark chocolate swirled together atop a brownie of callous confusion. Words can not hurt me… but have you heard the words? Watch out for the bloody words, sharp words that hang in the air like knives and when uttered returned to slit the throat of their speaker and if every word you have spoken returned to act upon yourself would you survive the experience? Me no way I'm outta here. Situation getting sticky, humid like vaporous blood hanging on in the air. Still acrid smell of urine and small children playing in a asphalt playground ringed on all sides by immense brick walls with basketball hoops hung half way up each of the sides. Outside is America; a cop lights a whore’s cigarette near the corner. I laugh realizing that that which we are taught from childhood to distrust is in fact a pawn of something far more immense and much much more dangerous. The governments and nations of the world are incidental pawns of there own control systems and then beyond them there are even more and so on like looking two mirrors facing each other and going on to infinity. The monster of power is faceless there is no one person or group that controls everything they are all parts of a immense and multi-headed monster that is constantly biting itself and attacking it own heads until some day it will destroy itself. The end of time leaves space and word alone together. Information potential exists —it’s an unsettling thought, dependency —and what happens when things start to think? How do you draw the lines then? Where does the word go? In the beginning to be sure… but what about at the end…. In the beginning was the word and the word was made flesh by a cacophonous blast out of heaven's pearly cum-stained ass creating the father, the son, and the holy spigot which lies in a secluded garden on the cliffs overlooking the Sargasso sea. The spigot is buried in a volcano designed by Czech ostriches in the eleventh hour of creation to drain all human excrement off the continent of Europe and into the Sargasso sea all lumpy with turd so thick Jesus "conny" Christ in drag is walking along to the amazement of the gullible, floating gently from turd to turd. The piss blood of a million cunts and cocks line the shores giving the whole place a radioactive iridescent red glow not to mention an awful stench. Mr. Rogers and Captain Kangaroo are standing on the bluffs watching the spectacle and scanning with hawk eyes for sweet tight asses in which they can stab their hungry cocks. The father caught the son sitting in the middle of the garden sucking on an apple and he became enraged and hog tied the boy and penetrated every orifice in his body with a peeled and sculpted cucumber cock; the boy was left a whimpering, quivering lump of fleshy jello from which spawned humankind…? Outside is Las Vegas. Everywhere the neon glows; the giggling Hyenas tourists are dressed in black and high on somatic stasis —looking to turn you inside out. Tongue-tied whores scream obscenities at passersby "I'll suck your dick until your eyeballs pop out your ass..." + + +Chloe knows a diner, just a short drive… drunkenly Dean careens side streets and alleys while Chloe and I discuss the finer points of her profession. The oldest profession in the world fascinates me and I wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity to get the inside dope. +“For the most part I fuck who I want… I have my regulars… guys that come into town every month or two for recreation….” +She takes a drag off her cigarette and whips her nose; it’s a gesture of annoyance. I know that she doesn’t want to talk about work, but I press on because I have to, I have no shame, no bloody words reach me. +“Most of them are married, nice guys… I don’t work the streets… that’s where it’s dangerous… I used to work at a brothel but everyone treats you like a whore when you work in brothel. I got tired of it and when I left it turned out I was popular…” she laughed a hearty little chuckle. “So I just got a pager and now I go to them instead of them coming to me…. But why do you want to know all this stuff?” +Sharp words bloody words. “Uh I don’t know… isn’t that what you do when you talk to strangers.... Ask them about there work?” She laughs. +“I guess its just that when your job is sex most people tend to not ask… its impolite maybe I don’t know. I wasn’t trying to stop you I was just curious… so what do you guys do?” +“Umm… drink? Nothing I guess.” +“Hmm how do you afford it?” +“A carefully constructed world of lowered expectations….” Dean speaks. +“Hmm. But you have goals? You don’t seem like the types that would just hang around, you know barflies or are you on some kind Bukowski trip.” +Entirely inaccurate synopsis; I must defend us, but what is there to say? What is there to do? “Well I actually haven’t read any Bukowski, but yes I guess you could say that… I mean this is Vegas what the hell is there to do? ‘We’re writers’ sounds stupid because neither of us had actually published anything. I mean I guess it depends…” +“No I don’t think it does. You don’t have to published to be a writer, just like you don’t have to charge money to be a whore.” +And there the conversation reached a philosophical point that required further thought on all our parts, but the diner appeared and we parked and it was lost for the time being. Dean went in to get a table and Chloe and I finished out cigarettes in silence. I was marveling at the edifice of the place. I am a connoisseur of diners. Every diner has its own subtle quality which distinguishes it from all the nearly identical establishments of its kind; in order to qualify as a true diner the outside must be painted white and in a state of decay. This place fit the bill admirably; it looked like the last coat of paint probably still had lead in it, which would put it pre 1980 at least. Lead is what produces those strange patterned of flaking that leaves the look of weathered desert rock on stucco walls. Dean leaned out and yelled at us, “we can smoke inside you morons….” Inside it still lived up to the diner images; hard formica counters rose out of cold concrete floors scuffed from the worn heels of trucker boots treading season after season across the threshold and into the red glow just to rest wearied eyes. It calling up visions of lost highways long gone past; dredged out images blurred together; passing seasons traced out in the arks of headlights carved through concrete. We sat down in a booth by the side window. Dean went to go spin a few tracks on the jukebox; Chloe looked even more ravishing sitting in the red vinyl cushions her hair was auburn and looked best in the state of confused disarray she wore it. I fell in love with her the way every man falls in love with whores, a totally false way in the eyes of the cynical world and a totally real way in the eyes of the endlessly recreating universe. Music floated across the room burying the concrete +highway traces of noise, the freeway semi trailers flinging themselves through the night headlights dragging the past into the future and we sat, Chloe and I, here, now. +I was at piece by the time Dean came back; lazy houseflies crawled up the wall behind him and Chloe which set the diner off in league with other infamous places I have eaten such as Ben’s Broasted Chicken. I was headed up to the Tahoe area by way of the back road, 395, a rickety operation that shoots you straight up the length of california always keeping the eastern escarpment of the Sierra Nevada just to the left. About three quarters of the way to Tahoe you pass through the blink-and-you-miss-it town of Bishop where among other things there is a roadside dive called Ben’s which serves Broasted chicken and corn on the cob for two dollars a plate. There were no other options no menu no choices no confusion, no arguing with the cook just broasted chicken and corn. I remember going in primarily because I wanted to know just what one did to a chicken to make it broasted. After that all I remember is the enormous lazy flies that crawled up the column next to my table. I still can’t recollect exactly what the chicken tasted or even looked like, the corn sticks out as being over cooked and mushy and of course the flies were lazy and didn’t move when you swatted them which led me to believe that in fact they were never swatted at. Indeed Ben’s was probably a kind of legend in fly circles, one to another word passed down the line and traveled all through the Eastern Desert of california, if you were a fly Ben’s was the place to be. I asked to meet the infamous Ben proprietor and presumably the genius behind the broasting, but unfortunately he was out of town. Instead the cook gave us a tour of the kitchen and that only served to make my experience at Ben’s a singular one. I was passing through Bishop several years after that and I tried to locate Ben’s Broasted Chicken so that Amy could share the wonder of broasted chicken with me, but the place was gone, no building nothing, even some locals in town acted like they had no idea what I was talking about. One old woman gave us that peculiar look that small town people always give to city folk as if to say you have no business poking around here asking questions, but I kept at her until she confessed that Ben’s was something she had never heard of, and what's more she informed us that she had lived in Bishop her whole life. I started to wonder if maybe I had hallucinated the whole thing and Amy, who was in love with my eccentricities as much as my banality, I am certain though that here was the definitive proof she had always wanted to know for sure that I was totally nuts. We snacked on bread from Shatz’s Bakery and drove up to Mammoth with me recounting the same story of Ben’s Broasted chicken that I had laid on her before Bishop, doubtlessly boring her to sleep. + I recanted the story of Ben’s to Dean and Chloe over double cheeseburgers. I still don’t let little things like fat lazy flies bother me, who ever heard of a fly that ate anything more than crumbs? They were doing no harm and the burgers were dripping greasy and quite yummy, as Amy would have said if she had been there. Every time I get to thinking about or talking about Ben’s Broasted Chicken strange things begin to happen, first the place disappears and then to reach across a span of maybe five years Ben’s came crashing into the present and my mouth dropped open full of half chewed cheese burger when who should come strolling in the door of this diner, but Clay Napier the very man who had been with me on that virgin trip to the land of broasted chicken. Actually the weirdness factor way have been slightly over played on my part as I did know that Clay was in Flagstaff and often went to Vegas for the weekends, but it’s a big city and then even in Vegas how many diners? How many nights? What are the odds? All of this can in someway be accounted for by the initial mystery that set it all in motion… what is broasted chicken? I no longer care (I also have made it a point never to consult a cookbook) I prefer the mystery to which broasted chicken has attended, at least for me. + I watched Clay for moment without him seeing me. Clay Napier was an ancient friend, not in a chronological sense but in the sense that we would always be friends regardless of the time between meetings we never had more then twenty or so awkward moments of catching up and then things fell naturally into place as if we had been together everyday for years. I waited until the waitress had seated him and then casually sauntered up while he was reading the menu and sat down across the booth from him. I cleared my throat and as I did so and he put down the menu to see who was disturbing him. I watched in slow motion as his face went from blank irritation to recognition, and then surprise. We smiled at each other for a moment and then nonplussed, as if it were perfectly natural that we should come upon each other five years and two states away from our last meeting, Clay slid out of the booth and we embraced for moment before the volume of words began to flow forth. + “My god what are you doing here?” + “I was going to ask you the very same question —I thought you were up in the mountains or was it in flagstaff?” + “Ya I was in Flagstaff until I graduated, now I’m actually living in Wrightwood, but my girlfriend lives down here… she’s working right now so I was catching a late dinner… why are you in Vegas? Last thing I heard you had gone back to school or something to that effect…?!” + I racked my brain. Where would he have gotten such foolish ideas? Who was behind this? “Uh, no I haven’t gotten around to that yet, who told you that one?” + “I forget maybe Robert.” Robert K Statmore an upright human being if there ever was one, it had been years since I had even thought of Bob, except when I went camping and realized with a fresh new sense of shame that I still had the tent I borrowed one weekend almost four years ago. Which, it dawned on me now was one of the many things I had given away by leaving LA. + “How is Bob?” + “Dunno, haven’t talked to any of those guys in a couple of years, I been out here doing odd jobs, I was working for a mining firm doing archeological impact studies, you know making sure they weren’t trampling on our people.” Clay and I both laughed. +Our people was an old and very elaborate joke that had developed over the years, a sort of half joke actually as Clay and I were serious about some of it. Our people were the native American’s whose blood ran through both our bodies, in Clay it was the Cherokee, and in mine it was (I think) Ogalala, but either way it wasn’t much, not even enough to claim it for scholarship purposes. The both of us were middle European mutts, half breeds, the results of some horny individuals who had no qualms about fucking across international boundaries, but the point of “our people” was not so much about us, it was a continuous good natured way to needle the third point in our boyhood triangle of friendship. That third point was named Jim Stout and was proudly and definitely Irish. When we all got drunk conversation used to end up with Jim threatening to give us small pox blankets and us half-heartedly trying to scalp him while he slept. It’s funny now looking back how teenagers can turn genocide and torture into a source of humor and competition. We were a lot smarter back then. I smiled at Clay’s comment and was lost for moment in a nostalgic reflection over my boyhood. I saw Clay as I will always see him when he’s not around, he’s sitting in that diner smiling that old half crooked curve, and to this day his nasal voice echoes about in my ears whenever I think of him. He had slow manner of speech where you leaned in close so as not to miss a word. He often didn’t say much just shrugged or gave you a look, but the words that did fall out were carefully measured like a recipe and to miss one of them would ruin the flavor of what he was trying to say. And then there were The Looks, you have to know someone for a while before you can communicate with them on a subverbal level with just looks, but with Clay that time was double the norm. He had looks, which he held out in silence that could mean more than complex and overly verbose sentence. When he was feeling thoughtful and didn’t have an opinion he would stroke his chin with a bemused expression which only over time did I realize was not in fact an ironic mockery of Allen Ginsburg, but really the genuine article of inner reflection being measure out and stirred up. +Clay had left LA years ago living in Arizona going to school and continuing down the boisterous outdoor life that we had all lead during high school. Nearly every weekend we headed out to Joshua Tree the local rock climbing hang out and Clay had patiently taught Jim and I how to climb until one day we were both better than him. Or at least to be fair that’s how I remember it. Every summer we had made glorious excursions through the Sierra Nevada, backpacking over the palisades, Mineral King, Sequoia, Yosemite and other mountains with names that I have surrendered to inaccessible regions of memory. We all came from adventurous sort of families. +Jim was the first to go his separate way, he ended up at brown University for four years and then Clay went to NAU and I went, well I went here. And then there and now back here. Now we just crisscrossed paths occasionally with each of us making plans for trips we knew we would never go on. The last time I saw Jim, he had met me for a drink at the Little Knight and Tony had presided over our hour and a half meeting like a surgeon trying to revive the dead. I hadn’t seen Jim since and I didn’t know where he was and apparently neither did Clay. + “What are you doing tonight you want to come get a drink?” + “Ya I’m with some friends of mine,” I motioned to Dean and Chloe that they should come over. Dean didn’t know Clay and I hadn’t really said anything when he walked in I just dropped my story and walked over to a strangers table, for all Dean knew I was making arms deals with the CIA. I introduce them and Dean went back to our booth, retrieved our burgers and we all sat down to dinner. I introduced Chloe, but she had turned suddenly quiet and I wasn’t interested in her anymore. She and Dean fell into a conversation separate from Clay and I. I wasn’t sure but I thought that they were discussing sex and money in that nonplussed way that only a whore can do… so much for a handjob, so much of a blowjob, so much for what ever you want…. Clay was telling me about Anna, his girlfriend and asking what had become of my marriage. I was sober by the end of the burger and I had a sudden urge to run. Run away from everyone and everything that had ever been familiar to me and start over by reinventing my personality. It occurred to me that my initial nostalgia was misplaced, that Clay and I would not always be friends, that I was not who I used to be, that one day Dean would be a stranger as well. I was feeling quite lonely and wholesome when I came to. + “A rave? Hey Sil! Are you listening to me?” Dean was staring at me as if I was ill. + “What?” + “A rave. Chloe knows where a desert rave is… you up for it?” + I glanced at Clay and he nodded “just gotta go pick up my girlfriend.” Damn. I wanted them all to disappear; I wanted a director to yell cut, to take a break from this strange role I found myself cast into. “Uh ya sure… you drive and I’ll be there.” +The four of us took off to a club/bar where Clay’s girlfriend Anna was working, on the way I filled Clay in on five years as best a could (he had heard stories it seemed —good to know that people talk about you when you’re not around). I left out a few things that I wanted to tell him, but as I said Clay and I are ancient and until I knew where he was at now I had no reason, based on the old Clay to think the one now would care about. And Clay filled me in because I didn’t hear stories or if I did I never remembered them anyway. It turned out that Clay had done about half of the things we always suspected he would do, like college, the master degree, the outdoorsy life, the impending move to Colorado… but there were things that I never would have thought to hear that Clay was doing. +Back in the day, in fact how I met Clay was through the church youth group, and as I say we were both indoctrinated with the Presbyterian God, but to be honest I was mainly there because there were really cute girls (if I had know then what I know now I would have been down the street at the Mormon tabernacle). I grew out of religion around seventeen when I read a book on brainwashing and realized that even if all this malarkey they were feeding us was true, I knew nothing of it other than what I had been told. The same tactics are used by the US military, Indian gurus, Charlie Manson and nearly every other belief centered organization in the world. I got very angry with myself for being duped by these charlatan tricks that seemingly anyone could have employed by reading a textbook on conditioning psychology. I was smarter than that I realized, but unfortunately all my friends were not seeing my insights and what's more they seemed genuinely concerned about me for thinking such things. Subtle reminders were dropped here and there over a dinner or later after we graduated, a beer, things that had the subtle subtext that good religious people can convey through even the most mundane conversation. At least that’s what I thought at the time and I embarked on this quest to convert them all to my new religion, to undermine the system from within. I gave them books, got them to smoke pot (well Jim anyway) got them to have some sex, in fact Dean and I even dragged Jim to meet a porn star once at some strip club, but then end up backing out when we learned that their was no alcohol allowed. I was the propaganda of hedonism. I always thought that Clay would come round, would wake up as I naively referred to my reactionary religion, but I was wrong. In fact Clay working at the Christian summer camp that we went to in high school. + I got lost in myself again as he talked. As I said carried hedonism as far (actually a little further) as it would go and there waiting for me at the end was God and this time he wasn’t wearing the gilded robes of human flesh he was much more of a supernatural being than anything I had ever read has prepared me for and he was much subtler in its existence than I had assumed. He hated Presbyterians and hedonists with equal fervor. He looked like Hitler in Drag and had a nasty habit of sniffing opium tinctures at the most improbable of moments. He was related directly to the incident with the little gnomes on ether that were mentioned earlier and how do you relate that to anyone else? I hadn’t the foggiest and I realized that I was cut off, limited as much as freed by experience because I was so painfully aware of the limitations of being human I was limited. I was limited to trying to understand Clay when I should have been knowing. This thought ran like a subtle subtext through the conversation. Dean took over for me and started telling Clay about people, parties and things that I knew Clay wouldn’t relate to, but I let him because I could see Clay shifting in his seat and having to realize that the other half exists and that was exactly what I had been trying to do. I tried every trick in the book back in my more clever days and I had forgotten about the one thing that doesn’t get into psychology textbooks: people. The best evidence for god is man, always has been always will be, any two bit strand of sporific DNA floating through the universe could have made the rest, but man —now there is an odd one. Where did this thing come from and what the hell is wrong with it? Who would have made such a thing? I hold that what made us had a hell of a sense of humor and not much else going on upstairs. + When I snapped out of it they were talking about books. Dean was lamenting the recent demise of William S Burroughs and Clay was arguing that Burroughs was too obscure in his style to ever be the creative genius that people thought him to be. This I decide would be great time to go the bathroom and I excused myself; there is nothing Dean can talk about with the insane fever of dementia quite like William Burroughs. I had watched Dean discover and then devour William Burroughs the way some people get over imported chocolates. He savored each knew book with a delicacy that I reserved for other authors, I recognized immediately that whatever his merits or faults he had at least reached Dean and Dean was a tough nut to crack. I could never do it. He had lent me some books and then wham! in I went to the world of the totally bizarre. Burroughs tunneled himself into my brain like cancer and ate it all up, then I found another and moved on to devour that author consuming that men and women who wrote as intrinsically part of what they were saying. I have always read that way —being more interest in the whole scope of author’s life rather than moving from book to book the way some people do. Whether it was Robert Wilson or Tom Clancy it was always the same way, total consumption and digestion followed by a big healthy brown shit. + When I came back from the bathroom I could tell that things had gone awry which was just as well because I didn’t really want to talk philosophies I wanted to speed things up. I went up the bar and asked the bartender to point out Anna for me. He did and I knew that things between me and Clay would never be the same again. She was an absolute work of art with delicate pale skin like a Grecian urn and a face with high cheekbones that just kind hung amid a mass of perfect blond ringlets. She could have been a model, but she wasn’t, she was Clay’s girlfriend and I was smitten. I have notorious bad habit of sweeping my friends girlfriend out from their arms and into my own consequently my friends don’t usually call for while when they meet someone. I was awash in cynicism from my earlier musings and I figured if Clay and I were destined to part then I might as well do it with a bang. I went up and introduced myself. Anna “had a smile that swerved, a smile that curved, a smile that swerved all over the road.” If ever there was a girl that Mark Sandman described with those lines it was Anna. She had a body that hugged the road like BMW and she laughed with the honest mirth that comes only those who know. I struggled over that sentence for some time trying to put it without sounding like mystic, but the simple truth is if you don’t know what I mean by that then don’t worry you don’t know and if you don’t know you’ll never learn. + Anna talked like a little demurring French pastry at once shy and bold with the dancing musical quality that seems to emanate mainly in the voices of women I find attractive and no one else. When you’re in the presence of a magical voice such as that all you want to do is listen, any other distraction becomes an immediate irritation and all you want is to stop it and get back the sweet music. Thus by the time a came back to the table with Anna I was already in the mood to do whatever she wanted whenever and wherever she wanted to do it (of course, and therein lies the rub, ten minutes from now it was very possible I would be smitten to another water nymph). + Clay looked visibly disturbed that I had gotten to Anna before he introduced us and being aware of my past he was already uncomfortable with the idea. The song was right is you want to be happy for the rest of your life you got to get yourself an ugly wife or in this case girlfriend, because if you’re dating the most beautiful girl in the room you have to continually maintain your Alpha Male presence or the others will swoop in and feed on your weakness. Women who find that statement offensive have never been the most beautiful girl in the room and the rest of them are evil because they know what power they have and they use it. Anna was the center of attention at out little table and she knew it and she liked it from what I could tell because she announced before long that she was going to see if she could get off early and go with us to the rave. +But like I said whatever, whenever wherever and I could tell Dean was not going to put up a fight. She left and Clay wisely used this time to go to the restroom, as it was not a good idea to leave the girl with the other dogs. Dean and I talked it over and decided that we would each do our best to keep the other from sleeping with Anna, but in our quixotic logic we both agreed that the best way to do this was to each keep the other from the crime by committing it ourselves. Chloe said we were deranged. We could have subtitled our logic with the slogan keep others out of trouble by getting yourself into it first or as one other put it, “how I found the goddess and what I did to her then” to which I would only add “and how she loved it.” As they say good lovers are not born they’re made, like Mafioso bosses its all in the luck of the draw, but once you learn you will never look at life the same again. You will understand from experience. The question we were debating when Clay returned was whether or not good a Christian could possibly be capable of satisfying the goddess. We were in the neighborhood of a no when we had to seamlessly shift gears and make Clay believe that we were not talking about his girlfriend the minute he left the table, but of course he knew —wouldn’t you? + I managed to suck down one more gin and tonic before the forces of control let Anna loose upon us and we all headed off in her car to this rave. Chloe and Dean were already groping at each other in the car and Clay and Anna seemed to be having a bit of a spat in the front seat; I watched Anna’s face in the reflection of the side rearview mirror. She had a elegant sort of beauty that was all in the sharp line of her jaw and the way her chin met with the smooth luster of her neck; she felt to city born and refined to be with Clay. She wore a thin spaghetti strapped tank top shirt that made no effort to hide the silky black straps of her bra and a long flowing shiny skirt that danced across her ravishing legs when she walked. We were all walking and had been for some time the rave was in a campground outside of Vegas; to add to the irony of the evening the campground was a place called Red Rocks which during the day was a popular rock climbing spot, one that I had last visited with Clay. We talked about that as we walked toward the sound of pulsing techno beats and the smells of perfume and marijuana. Dean, Chloe and Anna walked in silence. + The rave was set up in a barren sandy expanse that served as a dance floor and was ringed with canvas tents serving alcohol and herbal ecstasy. It looked like a Bedouin settlement around an oasis in the desert. The largest tent was elaborately decorated to play up the North African vibe the walls were covered in Moroccan tapestries and the floor was scattered with pillows and people. The only light was from old oil lanterns that hung in the back corner. It cost ten bucks to get into the tent. Dean and I paid and the girls dragged Clay off to dance. Dean and I were more interested in getting drinks and whatever else might be lurking like cockroaches in the pillows. The tent was enormous and looked like it had been borrowed from the circus. In the rave culture of Las Vegas this was the grandest of all raves and one of the only that bothered to get permits and whatever else it takes to be able to dance legally in the desert. On the way in we passed limousines and Rolls Royce’s; this was not an underground affair. To the side of the tent, backlit by purple Christmas lights was the makeshift bar, actually a few tables pushed together and manned by a blond haired kid who never stopped bobbing his head to the beat. Dean and I secured drinks and found a space back in the darkened corner to relax and be anonymous. + We were half way through our drinks before I noticed Crowes. Not more than ten feet from us was a guy who we thought might be the lead singer of the Black Crowes and who might have just been another emaciated scraggly haired kid that looked like the lead singer of the Black Crowes. In either case he crawled over to us with what appeared to be a great amount of effort and sat cross-legged facing us without uttering a word. Dean greeted him coldly and then we chatted sporadically over the course of a half-hour or so before he offered us a joint. We graciously accepted and Dean got up thinking we were to follow him outside but Crowes lit it right there in the middle of the tent and with a minimum of discretion passed it to Dean who shrugged and smoked it. +“Be careful,” the dark locks leaned in closer as if to impart some clandestine knowledge, “this shits pretty hard core.” + I laughed in his face but managed to make it look like I was only coughing. Dean shook his hand and said thanks man don’t worry its cool or some other such dopehead lingo. But from the minute the smoke hit my lungs it was very obvious that something more powerful than what I was used to was at work here. My toes got tingly and my hands heavy. Maybe thirty seconds after I inhaled I was catapulted into another universe that bore absolutely no resemblance to the one before it. Dean’s face went ashen and I thought thank god because I was going to need company on this one. + “You guys are holding up okay, the last time I shared this shit this girl freaked out and thought it was laced with something and tried to beat me up.” + “I hate it when that happens.” Dean took the rather small remnants of a joint and inhaled deeply. “My ex-wife tried to beat me up the first time I did mushrooms. I was really out of it and she came home all pissed off about something and she had never done mushrooms so she had no idea where I was and he started yelling at me on the stairs. I just kind of stood there and looked at her totally unable to comprehend what she was saying then she pushed me down the stairs and kicked me. Then my sister through her out of the house.” +Both Crowes and I were laughing by the time Dean finished his little yarn. Crowes seemed impressed more that Dean had been married than anything else had or maybe that was the entire story that he actually heard seeing how most of the joint had disappeared without us participating. +“What was that like man, I mean being married.” +“Well I don’t really know we were only married two months when that happened I decided after that it was better if we went our separate ways.” + “Ya but what was it like to stand at the alter and look at that person and think ya I want to spend the rest of my life with this person. I mean what does that feel like?” He put a particular emphasis on fee as if this would someone affect Dean’s response. +Dean sat for moment in silence staring at his hands. “I don’t know, uh I never really had that go through my head. It was just a kind of little thing that got out of control. She asked me once after knowing her for like three weeks if I wanted to get married and I said sure because I thought she was joking and then next thing I knew she was dress shopping with my mom. It just happened so fast I didn’t have time to stop it.” + This seemed to have a profound impact on Crowes and he withdrew slightly in what I thought was a kind of meditative slouch. Dean and I exchanged a look after a few minutes and then with still no response we shook the kid. + Still nothing. Hmmmm. + “You want to get something from the bar?” + “Ya that would probably be good.” I got up and went to the bar tent. I got three drinks and set one in front of Crowes who appeared to have settled off into a comfortable coma + Eventually Clay and girls find us; they are tired from dancing and welcome Crowes’ offering except for Clay who didn’t smoke pot. I thought maybe we should warn them, but I was already lost seeing not a tent but an underground bar in France. I am underground. Anna’s face blurs into Nina’s, into Amy’s into a thousand different hybrids of herself like a shape-shifting shaman. I smile at her and she smiles back. Step aside and let the man go through. I feel like a featherweight-lead-train, muscles detached from their control centers, inoperable. My mind floats far out of the monkey body and glides in effortless circles, endlessly, a buzzard soaring on thermals and returning only to rest. And resting only with the throb of the music that drags us up and down over sand dunes and through thick stands of palms to water. Dean and Chloe go off to dance. Clay is gone too though I had not noticed it. I am lying on my back in a delicious see of cloth, sound and touch. +“How are you doing?” Anna attempts to drill through the ice. + “Just lovely how are you?” + (laughing) “Lovely I guess… So how long have you known Clay?” + “I dunno a decade or so, maybe more… it all runs together… how long have you two been dating?” + “Six months.” + Dead-end. Conversations that are substituting for sex are never any fun, nor are they easy to maintain— its best to get the sex out of the way before you start talking. Anna came to the rescue. + “Would you like to dance?” + “We could do that….” + “I’m a little stoned to go outside… why don’t we dance right here?” + I propped up on my elbows and stared right into her eyes searching for some hint of double entendre but she only stared back like a somnambulist. But she kept getting closer and closer and closer like a slow motion film of the casino collapsing and then we kissed. Her lips were warm and soft; they were full pouting lips and then they left. I opened my eyes slowly. Crowes walked by laughed and dropped a bag beside us. Inside was a gooey gray substance known to most as opium. Anna and I fumbled around through Chloe’s purse and found a pipe, which we filled with the roach and heaped on a healthy amount of opium. + The taste of opium is sweet like Nag Champa incense; it perfumes your lungs and wraps them it its warm hand, a delicious felling and then I exhaled it into her mouth. This is not Clay’s girlfriend nor do petty questions of loyalty or moral clouds of right and wrong concern me; this is simply life and it is beautiful. All the opium dreams I have ever had come back in desert windstorms, monsoons of the coast of Mandalay and this is no longer Nevada this is everywhere and the music is undulating in time with her body dancing lightly swaying on her knees hovering over my chest. It was a house beat the kind of palpitating serpentine rhythm that you can not help but move to; over in corner a young boy no more than eighteen is standing with his back to the wall watching, a non participant I am thinking and then I notice that he too is swaying almost imperceptible to the music, the virus of movement. His movement is both awkward and unconscious, but it has a naturalness to it that belies the sense that he is insecure, I am watching him, but in my own perhaps distracted way I too am awkward and in my distraction honesty has taken the reigns… my hands roam her body. I look up suddenly with what must be a face of horror as I realize that I am groping at Anna’s flesh, but her head is thrown back and she seems not to care so I continue my explorations. Her stomach is soft, tightly stretched skin like a drum, a jimbe with her breasts like two percussive bongos, her nipples are hard and feel like raisins sunk into the sink. And the music switches beats, this one exhaustive, tribal, jungle pulsation’s in juxtaposition to the Hindu décor it attacks like a jaguar tearing at me. I am exhausted. My head collapses back between and pillows and with the last bit of reason, last bit of will I pull her up and over my face. Her dress envelopes me in a sea of darkness and smell her musty and sweet like pungent orange blossoms sprinkled over seas of future dreams. The music sways in time with her body and all sense of place and time vanish. There are only temporal dreams lived out in paint in slick tempura of desiring swimming under her dress. I blow softly onto her cunt through the barrier of satin; as my eyes adjust to darkness a damp circle of humid desire becomes visible and tactile in its stickiness. Her juices flow freely and she moans softly over the music; she shifts slightly and her hand reaches down caressing my face and pulling her panties to the side. It leaves and she sinks down on me until her cunt covers my mouth and breathing through my nose I begin to worm my tongue up in her. Slowly probing and then when the flow of juices is too much I lift her ass in my hands forming a stool out of my hands and painting her clit with slow glazing strokes. I am lost for what seems eternity, not thinking about Anna, or the rave or any of it, but simply becoming cunt. Shape shifting as the shaman can I feel it from the inside coming out in waves pulsing waves so different than my own orgasms, waves that very in size and strength, waves that crest and break and other that I let roll by undisturbed. There is no tsunami, no end point, no differentiation no beginning no ending only fleeting twinkles of a glittering amaranthine orgasm. I am drawn back by her stillness and the sharp pain of her nails digging into arms. + She rolls off me and lies down beside me kissing and licking her come off my face. She is smiling, but does not speak. Minutes pass like hours. Clay returns and they go off to dance, as she leaves her hand moves behind her motioning at me to follow but I don’t yet. I lay there with out moving just feeling tangential mix of sex and opium. Sex. The feel of her nipple rubbing coarsely against mine the softness of mashed sweating breasts stuck to my skin, kissing, chasing her tongue around her mouth…. There is a reason writers are afraid of sex and hate trying to write it, they don't have words for it. They think its something that is happening, a thing that exists apart from us, but it is not. It is in us —we are sex. Sex is seeping from our pores and we hate it, we deny it. I want to celebrate it; I want to have a mad passionate orgy with the entire world. I want men I want Women I want plants I want animals, all life in one orgiastic embrace like Kali and Vishnu; mouths locked on mouths, on breasts, on cocks, on cunts, cocks in cunts, in asses, between breasts, tongues licking necks, licking nipples, licking asses, fingers probing flesh, FLESH FLEsh FLesh searing and popping with electrostatic sexual energy. No words for it. + Dean and Chloe return. They found the opium and pack themselves a bowl. Anna seemed slightly embarrassed and excused herself to look for Clay. Dean Chloe and I are lying like pictures out of the room of some Chinese Laundry joint; blank faceless bodies reveling in the glory of our own nervous systems and in the elastic beauty of each other. +Chloe roles on her side facing me and kisses me. She tastes it. I put my finger to her lips and she smiles. “Hey Dean… Sil saved you the trouble….” + Dean sits up “You fucked her?!” + “Not exactly” Chloe kisses me again this time plunging her tongue down my throat and then grabs Dean and kisses him. + “Oh I see. Wow that’s really odd… that right there I mean… you ate Anna… Chloe kisses you… and then me… so I taste Anna… I’m not sure how I feel about that… should that gross me out?” + Chloe laughs, “why would it gross you out, because it originated in Sil’s mouth? But it didn’t… what is with you men? You all want to be with two women and yet you can’t even stand to be hard around each other….” + It’s not that….” + “Yes it is, trust me if there is one thing I know it’s the sex habits of men. I can’t tell you how many guys freak out at the thought that I might have just had a cock other than theirs in me… it makes no sense at because that’s what I do, but even if I wasn’t it still wouldn’t make any sense. What is so revolting about men? What is so revolting about cocks? If you ask me I don’t think any of our hang up are from women…. Its men that can’t stand the sight of themselves. + “It’s not that….” Dean is at a loss for words. + “What do you mean its not that? What is it then? I mean if your so comfortable with you body why didn’t you want to fuck me in the middle of all those people? What is your hang up then?” + Dean is silent. I feel the need to defend him, but I can’t the girl is right. +“Down at the bottom of all the strange America hang ups about sex lies the sad truth that men are not comfortable in their own skins. Maybe a hand full here and there.... Freud would say its penis envy or a modified version of it that deals with size, but its more than that. Men have inherited genetic memory or past life memory or something handed across more than cultural boundaries that carries with it guilt. I have no idea why, but it’s there you can hear it in between that words when men talk about sex. There is a different language employed by men. Men always talk about sex in terms of women or a woman… like ‘we had sex’ or ‘she was sexy’ or whatever, but there is no talk of the self —everything sexual is transferred to the woman. She is the one that made him cum, she is the one that bent over, and she is bearer of all things wanton... Men dream of a wanton sexual woman, but they don’t want to be a wanton sexual person themselves. Everything that is desire is always ‘aroused’ that’s why they come to me because I am wanton or at least that’s how they see it. I don’t exist for them and that is the most wanton thing you seem to be able to imagine this abstract fantasy girl that is everything all rolled into one and doesn’t have to be dissected and pulled apart… just put the money on the dresser when you leave….” +“Does that bother you?” Dean lights a cigarette and props up on his elbows. He raises his eyebrows at me when he notices that I have been fondling Chloe while she talked. +“No it doesn’t bother me… but it doesn’t turn me on either…. I mean men like to think that whores don’t feel anything, like because money is involved we suddenly can’t experience pleasure of something, but that’s a load of shit…. If anything I have had better sex since I have been doing this… some of the guys I fuck are gorgeous, I would be intimidated to talk to them in a bar… but most of them still seem to think that being a whore is an odious task… that I must be faking because I couldn’t possible cum if money is involved…. Like this one guy who likes me to masturbate while he watches and then he’ll start masturbating too sitting in this chair. (her eyes close) at first it kind of crewed me out but then I started getting really turned on by it and he was telling me what to do and how fast and it was weird like I was masturbating, but he was in control… that turned me on big time, but he will not believe that. He still tells me that I can fake an orgasm better that anyone… but the thing is that usually I’m not faking it…. I mean I don’t want to get into it... its probably boring but….” +“No I’d be interested to know what strange things you have done… what’s the weirdest thing somebody has asked you to do?” I am intrigued. +“The weirdest? Wow um, probably the guy that wanted me to rape his wife, but refused to do that… the weirdest thing I have done….” Chloe’s face seemed refracted; split apart as if she were tapping some memory far removed from now, from this self. I wanted to attribute that to some reflex of her profession, some need to detach, but it seemed untrue in her case. Chloe had that relaxed ease of one who can change personality at will not simply out of necessity, but on whim, anything arbitrary that might have set her thinking. She was far too intelligent to do anything she didn’t want to do, at least to do it for money. “I guess the weirdest was this guy who liked me to take a shit in front of him. He had this warehouse/loft thing downtown and there was nothing in it except for a little bar on wheels that he kept against the wall by the door. The elevator opened right into the place which always reminds me of the forts my brother used to build in his room… he would stack pillows up so the when you opened the door and went inside you were automatically in the fort. But anyway this guy would send a limo for me and then I would go up to the loft in a French maid getup completely with the little feather duster and I would clean the place while he sat in the chair and watched. He would get furious if I acknowledged his presence… the place was clean to begin with so would just kind of wander around and bend over here and there and pretend that I was doing something. And then after about ten minutes of that I would get a silver platter from behind the bar and lay it in the middle of floor in front of his chair and take a shit on it. Then I left.” +Dean shook his head, “what did he do with it?” +“I have no idea; I don’t really want to know, but he paid me a thousand dollars to do it once a week for about six months and then he just disappeared. Probably found someone new… I dunno one day I was all dressed up waiting for the limo and it just never showed.” Throughout her story Chloe had her back to me and I was absently stoking her ass at first and then I moved in on her cunt, it was warm and soon wet and I was fingering her without reserve by the end of it. She still did nothing to acknowledge it. Dean told a story about his ex wife who had been stripper for some time. +“She did some er extra curricular stuff, but it used to bother me for some reason. There was this one guy though that liked her to come over… same kind of set up she showed up in a French maid outfit and made him a sandwich, it was even on a silver platter if I remember right… then she served it to him and she set in on his lap and straddled him and pissed on the sandwich. Then she left. What a weird fucking thing to want…. I mean most fantasies I have heard I could if not relate to at least understand, but that one is just lost on me….” +“It used to be lost on me too until I realized that it had nothing to do with me or with sex or anything, I think it was a way of touching some part of him that was sealed off in memory, something too painful to access everyday and he needed that intimacy to remind him….” +“But what’s intimate about watching someone take shit?” +“Well think about it Dean… I mean how many people have you seen taking a shit?” +“Not many.” +“Exactly, so if you saw me doing it it would likely remind you of someone you knew well, well enough to watch them going to the bathroom. At least that’s what I think… who knows though maybe there is some Freudian explanation… maybe they were hung up in the anal stage….” Silence drifts on reflection of the idea. +“Do you enjoy sex outside of work?” I had to know does making sex your job make sex into work?” +“Sil, what kind of question is that? Of course I enjoy sex even when I’m not getting paid… I mean its sex… just because you make money at it doesn’t mean you don’t have fun when you're not… am I making sense?” +“Sort of. I think the opium might be crossing a few wires.” I smiled at her and she lay back down. The three of us stared at the top of the tent. +Chloe started off talking again slowly at first. “The thing about me is that I have been exposed to some rather extreme forms of sex in my professional life and I keep trying to drag what I like out of them into my personal life, but it freaks men out. They can’t handle women who know what they want. I scared the living shit out of my last boyfriend. We had been dating about two months, having sort of vanilla sex, you know missionary, me on top, doggy, run of the mill stuff, so I thought maybe I should expose him to something more…. (laughing fits over took her and she paused for a minute) I’ll never forget the look on his face when I walked into the room wearing skin tight rubber boots that go all the way up my legs… I had on nipple clamps I was holding a dog collar and a chain. I told him ‘get on your knees and lick my asshole.’ He wouldn’t do it, he left me standing there... he just took off and I never talked to him again….” +“That’s a travesty….” Dean clearly would have stayed. So would I. +“Ya men are good at dishing out perversion and degrading you but most can't take it when it’s your perversion and you degrading them. That is why I prefer bisexual women, women who know that sex is everywhere inside you….” +“How long have you been bi?” Lesbian chic fascinates me, one day it just became perfectly acceptable for women to have sex with each other. Not that there is anything wrong with that, it just seemed to have happened one day. Odd. +“I’ve been sexual since I was born that’s that thing I don’t like about saying I’m bi, it like one day I woke up and liked women? No it doesn’t work like that… sex is this thing inside us that has to come out. Some people let more of it out than others that’s all…. I think sex with women is more exciting, and easier than sex with men. I know women's bodies; they are my own body. By the nature of things having sex with women is more like masturbating, there is no coming to terms with the other. There is no Other. And women are adventurous than with men.” +I was about to ask if she had a girlfriend when out of nowhere Chloe grabbed my arm and pulled my fingers out of her cunt with such ferocity that I thought I had offended her; she didn’t even look at me. Then I saw Anna and Clay approaching and I understood. +They were leaving; Anna looked disappointed, but I didn’t trust my instincts just then. It was around four and Clay had to drive back to Wrightwood. We all walked back to his car and headed for the diner. The ride was in an awkward silence. By the time we reached Dean’s car I was on the brink of madness from the silence from the unquenched longing and more than anything from the wan of opium. I hugged Clay and then Anna automatically like they were statues. And then they were gone. +I had a forlorn look on my face to which Dean made a point of saying, “poor Sil. That’ll teach you to let’em cum first.” +“Oh and you did any different?” Chloe raised an eyebrow at him. +Dean shrugged and replied, “I must have done something right you’re still here….” +“You are both morons of the highest degree… luckily for you I took the liberty of taking care of you… you seemed like you needed it…. Come on we need to go get a room at the kldjlkj hotel….” +“A room? What for?” +“Because that’s where Anna is meeting us after she gets rid of that Clay guy… what was with him anyway?” +“I dunno he’s an old friend… not his scene I don’t think….” +“Well come on I need to smoke some more of this opium.” + + +The room was small, two double beds crammed in between a closet and a window, the mattresses sagged and looked like they had been fucked to extinction. I called down to the lobby and ordered extra sheets which we laid over the bedspreads and only then did Dean feel comfortable enough to lie down on the bed. Chloe was on him in seconds and I was left to sit and wait. Waiting as I have said before is something I gave up on so I decided to go for a walk. We were on the outskirts of Las Vegas the budget travelers’ paradise where the rooms are cheaper than the cover charge at the clubs downtown. The area was artificial from the get go, no thought had been put into it, no planning councils, no zoning arguments, it wasn’t even within the city limits. Outside the familiar dry desert heat washed over me like a napalm bath. It was acrid air; it stunk with the worthlessness of lower middle class mediocrity, not rich, not poor, not anything at all —stale. The moon was just disappearing behind the White Mountains somewhere off near the horizon with its glow being the only thing visible from this side of the overpass. I walked up the embankment and watched cars on the freeway screaming past. The rush of the wind as the semis passed at ninety was strong enough to lean into. Lighting a cigarette proved impossible so I headed back. When I turned around I saw them. Or I saw it, which was a freight train at near crawl as it came around the bend and headed east out of Vegas. I was transfixed for moment and then a passing semi sent a blast of air and dust that sent me down the embankment and back to the hotel. +Anna bless her heart was not there when I got back. There was only Chloe sitting in bed smoking a cigarette. It seemed natural that she should be doing so and sat down next to her and smoked a cigarette too, neither of us spoke. About half way through mine, she crushed hers out and still without saying a word unzipped my pants and fished out my still flaccid prick. She pulled the covers over her head and I felt her warm mouth on my stomach. Her hands worked at my belt and she pulled down my pants and I kicked them off unto the floor, then she swallowed my cock whole. Or at least that’s what it felt like. I relaxed and smoked. + diff --git a/veryold/very old writings/gone book/SF iam older version.txt b/veryold/very old writings/gone book/SF iam older version.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4e53c04 --- /dev/null +++ b/veryold/very old writings/gone book/SF iam older version.txt @@ -0,0 +1,73 @@ + I am staying in Andy’s closet. It’s a walk-in, big enough for a futon pad and the rent is cheap —free. The rest of the rooms in the house were full before I got here. Andy lives in the master bedroom, which is really not much larger than my closet; down the hall on the left is Sarah, the art student/waitress who engages me daily in great feminist debates; on the right is Kobyoshi, a strange frail lad from Thailand with a mind that far outstretches the meager sphere that his body implies. This morning Kobyoshi informed me that he is quitting his position as a research assistant at a nuclear fission lab to pursue a career in ballet. Fine. Perhaps I ought to get a job in a fission lab, there are several around here, but I won’t. It’s a cheery little household. We’re all just waiting, biding our time; we’re all dead to the world. + Outside is America land of the free wage slaves, my corner for now is San Francisco. Not a bad corner of the nuthouse as things go, it seems endlessly expansive, solid city all the way down to Palo Alto through Silicon Valley and all the rest of the deranged suburbs that I only know about from reading the papers. I stick more toward the center of things, the city, the teeming thriving pulse of the city; at least here there is a distraction from banality and some outside drama by which to measure the immensity of my own failure. My economic failure, my failure to be assimilated, my refusal to die, my own obituary that is written in blood on the streets I wander. Once your dead the world takes on a spectacular detached glory that I heap over my rotting bones like a warm Indian bearskin. +The telephone rings and shortly after Andy informs me that we are to meet Brent for lunch downtown at Café Claude. Café Claude is an authentic little French bistro that the three of us like because it reminds us of better days, days we haven’t had yet, days we aren’t going to have. In America there is only one way to be happy and that is to have a lot of money. All other things are looked on with scorn and derision he who is not working to better his financial lot is a blight upon the national character. A disease that must cured. I am the biggest blight of them all having never held a job for more than year; at least Andy works at a bar which is a kind of halfway house into which he was thrust until he could be assimilated and digested by something bigger, something corporate, something with real teeth that can hold him for a lifetime. I doubt it will ever happen; Andy is too good a man to ever fall for such a downright ridiculous con. For the time being he cuts me in on his tips and we survive. He also steals a lot of liquor from his work so that we never want for drunkenness. I am constantly drunk, but rarely on liquor, I am drunk because I see everything around me with absolute clarity, I have two selves one which walks and the other which records and it is the other that concerns me now. +Andy is the last living being I know (except for Dean who is doing a stint with a girl in LA) we share the drunken enthusiasm of those without hope, and without hope there is no despair everything proceeds in splendor and glory one is left free to contemplate the details and minutia. Nighttime we regroup ourselves into his room and regale the days, I talk of buttons found in gutters and Andy talks wild futureyarns. He comes home stumbling having usually polished a bottle while closing and usually brings some flimsy woman with him under vague pretenses of incongruous behavior. Andy is a delirium his fever-struck eyes are always one step ahead of you, its dizzying to keep up, drives me mad keeps me up at nights long after he has peacefully lapsed into a coma and a girl I don’t know is asking for a ride home or cab fare or directions to the subway. His latest plan calls for Costa Rica, something about casinos and rich American bitches, as he calls them. + It’s cold outside still, morning is undercooked; I can feel the raw drafts that leak under Andy’s window. They come in waves wafting in and sinking down to the hardwood floors, swirling about propelled like a drunken countess’s foul smelling fart. They seek me out, countesses, farts and drafts they find me lying here wrapped in my pathetic collection of blankets. Ah it has found a way under the door! It creeps in and wraps me up in dank odorless fecundity leaving me in a clamshell. I take another drag off my cigarette and crush it out in the ceramic bowl by my head; no doubt later when we walk up the hill to the BART station it will be roasting —always hot or cold no in between. Andy asks what I think of the girl he had last night, he forgets that I was asleep before he got home. +“I mean she was no supermodel I realize that but did you see that kind of vacant peaceful stare in her eyes? I was on top of her just staring at her eyes they were like obelisks —Arabic mosques…. Did you not that twinge of religiosity about her? I think she was from Kansas, something weird about those people… so flat… so much sky they always have an air of wonder that hangs in their eyes…. Have you seen my jacket the one with fur lining?” + Andy is right over my head looking around the other side of the closet for his jacket. He’s hopping about trying not to step on me, rattling on about his new girl. She is going to come into his work again tonight, but that is not so good he informs me, it will blow his chances with “the randoms” as he calls them. + “It’s a Friday see and I didn’t think about that when she said she was coming in. Fridays you don’t want anyone hanging around because all the cunts that only come out on weekends are there and they’re only there to get a little. They’re a special kind those girls that work hard all week they go a little bit farther in there spare time… Do you remember that one a couple of weeks ago, Michelle I think her name was… turns out she had the herps so I went and got tested before work last night… hey,” He stops looking for his jacket and stares down at me he has a wistful look on his face, but his head is upside down and reminds me a potatohead toy with a pasted on goatee and slightly askew lips, eyes that look out of order and crazy, glinting. He ponders my face for minute and continues on earnestly now "you wouldn’t want to go with me to the clinic would you? I mean its one of those things I know it doesn’t kill you or anything, and I don’t have any symptoms… I went mostly to make sure that she wouldn’t accuse me of giving it to her… you know how women get on things like that these days, but still would you mind? I’d rather have someone there if it does turn out bad for me…. + “Sure Andy, let me take a shower.” I am mildly touched that he is dragging me into the sordid affairs of his life, that he thinks so highly of me, but they are nevertheless his own sordid affairs and frankly I want nothing to do with them, but he promises to buy me lunch if I accompany him. The shower is weak and barely wets your hair, but it’s hot and it washes off the sticky dampness of morning. By the time I get out my skin is pink and flushed, my reflection in the mirror reminds me of a newborn. +In the BART station Andy tries to convince me that we should attend a private party for the wrapping of Coppola’s new film On The Road. “I know you don’t like the book or any of that, but there will be beautiful women, actresses and hangers on, it like a Hollywood type of thing only right here in the city.” He tells me about the girl that invited him and somewhere lets it slip that the Daily Grill is catering the affair. Food! Now that’s worth any amount of hell, I would trudge across stygian mountains of insipid shallowness, fly low over enemy territory, flak batteries firing pointless banal conversations if only there be a sandwich at the end of the line. It is wonderful thing to go to bed with a full belly. Last night Andy didn’t come home until three in the morning, I fell asleep with my arms clenched against my stomach to stop the gnawing pain. +It’s almost noon when we hit the street at Embarcadero. Downtown has an cold electrical buzz to it, a peculiar conglomeration of sounds that phase-cancel each other and bounce around in the echo chamber of buildings to create a hoarse faintly bucolic noise. It rattles your teeth if you focus on it. The combination of a millions of computers humming, ovens cooking, stoves frying, refrigerators opening, cars starting, neon open signs lighting up, and all the other cryptic roaring noises from fires of the good life assail me like the smog in Mexico City. +I remember as a kid wanting to live here; I thought it was the greatest city in the world. It might be, but I want to check the rest of world before I settle on that opinion. I had been in Los Angeles minding my own business, eeking out a pathetic little existence full of long term goals, plans, marriage even and then one day I woke up in the middle of the night and there was a strange man beside the bed. He extended his hand and I took it. We floated up out of the room over the entire earth and looked down at the overflowing anthills of man, it looked like the view from the top of the empire state building. The entire country was in a state of rabble; the people moved through ruins like the retreating Napoleonic Army leaving Alba. Everywhere the lines were falling back, but it was not real war it was a ghost war, there was no enemy, nothing to run from only hunger, the wretched hunger of the human belly which forced us all the shoulder up and trade time in for tickets and ticket for money and money for food and all the grand dreams, the Horatio Alger myths were nothing more than a bankrupt game of miserly old men smoking cigars and trying to fill there own bellies. And everywhere the retreat continued, men racing in shadows hiding from everything from everyone who might steal their bread their wine their wives. The squirmed like little bugs fearing heal boot of the old men who were themselves only slightly bigger and therefore more grotesque bugs. The scene could have come from Dante but it didn’t it came from life itself, life without art, life needed art, something to hang on the walls something to read at night before bed, something… anything to stave off and hold the truth at bay, the ugly truth of sewer rat’s retreat. There was no art in life, it was not of life it was separate and detached it had no purpose. I saw my own retreat a steady shameful slink from one shadow to another until that night when the strange man thrust me forth into the light, into the realization that all life was without hope. Hope was a product of the human imagination not human life, life itself held out nothing, asked nothing and gave nothing. Hitherto I had been waiting. Waiting for something to happen, but now I saw clearly that nothing was ever going to happen, nothing had ever happened and all of history was but the meandering account of sad little creatures burrowing there way through the earth searching for death. The waiting had driven me mad, I had clutched onto any straw of hope that came my way and they had all turned to dust in my hands. The lilies of the field do not want for clothing said Christ why then did he wear a robe? All imitations of life are false to it, all reflections cast back by art or art under any other name are only broken dreams, hope dashed on the rocks of failure careening like a pirate ship with no port to call home. And then as the man faded out and I found myself hovering over the sewage mess of the earth I saw little fires burning, outposts in the western lands, retreat camps where those who had given up the ghostly illusion of hope were congregating. I drifted down out of the clouds and settled myself near a camp where I could observe and record. +The next day I got up out of bed after my wife had left for work and I packed up my things, what I couldn’t carry I gave away and I headed for Dean’s place where I new I could exist in relative peace. Two weeks later Andy sequestered me off Dean’s couch and said I would be much happier in San Francisco. He said the artificial plastic palm tree paradise of LA was making me myopic, I remember because I had to look up myopic in the dictionary. Andy always had a kind of word-for-the-day thing going on lately it had been mellifluent, which Minop said was akin to relaxed or mellow. I didn’t feel myopic in LA, but I had consigned my fate to the wind and Andy was the first to blow through, so I came here to San Francisco. For now I am content in this damp cramped world of fog. I’m not leaving until I solve the riddle of the fog, where does it come from (Brent told me there is a potato field up north by Stinson Beach where you can supposedly see it forming). Why is it here? What is it trying to tell me with its plodding ceaseless monotony? Why is it robbing us of our summer sunshine everyday around four o’clock? Why does it retreat again around noon? What are we to make of this four hour gap of sunshine? +Brent is waiting for us outside Café Claude, nervously smoking cigarettes and looking for all the world more like spectral ghost of machinery than a human being. He looks worse every time we see him, the better his life gets the worse he looks. Today he announces, opening the door as he says it, that he just landed a new ad campaign that’s going to earn him three thousand a week. Two thousand of which will go to support that massive heroin addiction he maintains and another nine hundred of which will pay rent on his swanky downtown loft that he insists of keeping. Brent would rather starve than live in the slum joints up the hill; his way of staying afloat in the all-consuming ocean of heroin is to elevate addiction to a form of art. He shoots with an old metal syringe won’t do it with a common ‘junky pick’ as he calls plastic syringes. He keeps it neatly in a hand carved cedarwood box on the coffee table. He ties off with a leather strap that he claims was tanned by an old Indian expressively for the purpose. When he shoots up its like watching a magician going through well rehearsed but cryptic methods, the spoon is real silver, the water distilled and filtered, the arm band tight and then bang in it goes, and the needle is always removed and carefully placed back in the cedarwood box before he allows himself to nod off. +But then once he comes round again all is cut loose and he turns to a manic clawing about the room scrapping his fingernails down the rough edges of ideas, he has an enthusiasm and energy such as I have never seen in another junky. He paints like he shoots, everything is methodically laid out and then without warning the frenzy begins, he leaps about in front of the canvas chaotically stabbing out with a passion borne more of frustration than inspiration. It’s the passion of one who strives for something and no longer knows why. Brent is the sergeant giving orders who can’t help wondering why it is that he has to take the hill. For Brent everything is suspect, life is a paranoid adventure where everyone moves their heads on cake turners, swiveling and scheming for each others mutual demise without know why, without having motivation for anything other than sheer existence. His only recourse is the ritual that is the only thing over which he can assert any control and he does it in such a way that gives him total control and then he steps back from himself and lets go. +The drinks are hardly on the table when Brent launches into how, despite his recent successes as the art director for an advertising firm, everything is more or less going to hell in a hand basket. I for the most part agree with him, but for wholly different reasons. Under his haranguing critics of his life the lunch brews like an oceanic storm; he only invites us in order to have an audience for his misery just like a priest has nothing without a congregation. The tempest starts slowing, small lapping boat wakes at first, bread, wine, a plate of cheese, I try not to woof it down because I am not accustomed to rich foods. Richness Brent claims is merely ritualized discontent…. Then breakers roll into the jetty, seared ahi salad with warm honey mustard sauce, delicately arranged on white plates with fresh ground pepper. The walls swim in light floating textures of wine and palpated with bread soaked in balsamic vinegar and oil. The other patrons begin to veer and swerve about, their food passes by rousing a selfish hunger, dessert carts cloud up the sky and signal the coming danger, and then finally the tsunami. A beautiful girl named Holly serves us Terrine of Sole and Salmon in three different colors, fish arranged like impressionist art with all the delicacy of the Louve only to be shoveled brutally into hungry mouths with the blunted points of a fork. Skewering money, chewing up delicacy and putting it back where it belongs in the churning stomach of slime and guts. Holly is lascivious and I see her bent over a table begging for it, wanting the flesh, the warmth, the wild freedom of penetration. The restaurant turns to a saturnalia and patrons falls into unadulterated orgies of stinking flesh smeared with sweat and cum; they regress into hair covered hunchbacks slobbering and drooling, crawling all over each other with snarling lust, all the hidden stresses of their lives turn them backward, relics of DNA that reek of perfumes, jewels, and other masks to cover the organic septic tank of their origins. By the end of the meal I am in pain again clutching my stomach and loosing my belt, the richness of the food swells on contemplation and we float, whisked by vaporous entrails back out into the street. That’s the way it’s always been starvation followed by gluttony; I wouldn’t have it any other way. +Because Brent bought lunch I talk Andy into buying us all a cup of coffee. We catch a cab to north beach because Brent refuses to use public transportation —another method of rising out of the cesspool, the crème of the junky crop. +“I’m gonna check into a clinic as soon as I get this job finished because I’m tired of struggling to get junk when I should be enjoying my life. You know this is the first time I’ve left the house in three days? I’ve been working so much I just don’t have time to get out anymore. If I do go out its only over to Oakland to get some shit and then straight back, I’m sick of it, sick to death, but you can’t just quit you know… or at least I can’t. I need to be forced off the shit, weaned slowly…” +“You serious?” Andy retains great faith in Brent; I retain great faith in heroin. +“Ya. And I know I’ve said it before but this time I mean it I gotta get off of this roller coaster and do something with my life.” +I laugh in his face, I just couldn’t help it, but he ignores me and continues on. “I want to travel see the world, see my painting hang in a gallery; I went to an opening about a week and half ago and it was terrible. Fucking terrible! Lacquered checks that was one of the pieces, just lacquered ordinary bank checks! What the fuck is that about?” +Brent is convinced that he only needs to find the right person to represent him, give him money or at the very least just believe in him because he doesn’t believe in himself he never has from what I can gather. He is always putting the final touches on the perfect piece, but we can’t see it, we can’t see it until it is exactly as he wants it, as if the thing had no life beyond what he was capable of vesting it with, and indeed for that very reason his painting don’t have any life beyond him. No one ever saw these paintings and I for one didn’t really think they existed anywhere but in Brent's own head. They weren’t even paintings anymore they were representations of his entire enormous bloated cosmology distilled into crystalline existence by the very force of his own will. Brent should have been a priest, he was better suited for a life where nothing can ever possibly be experienced, where hope keeps you outside life, everything is constantly elsewhere, unreachable, only to be shouted at and begged for. He was a cur dog lapping at the crumbs fate had dealt him when all the while everything he ever wanted was sitting right on the other side of the door. It was torturous to listen too and I fairly bounded out of the cab when it stopped. I slipped out like a neutrino unaffected by the gravity of the black hole. +We stop in at La Boheme, THE place for an artist to be seen in San Francisco. We went there because the place makes us laugh or it makes Brent laugh, it makes me think of Celine’s comment: “I piss on all from a great height.” Inside is like a trough urinal at a baseball stadium, people sit at booths and stand by tables peeing out their mouths. The neo-bohemian set is pissing all over themselves today with extravagant warm streams of urine out of one and into the mouth of another where the recipient will swill it around for a day maybe two and then when you come back they will be pissing the same thing into the mouth of another. I order a cup of coffee and head outside letting Andy pick up the tab. Walking to the door I can hear the streams of piss splashing, great Niagara’s cascading from the mouths of privilege, children of tomorrowland who mortgage the future for a bit of today. Children who can’t stop pissing out inane theories and ideas, principles and mottoes, quoting dead authors like their words where written solely for them to drink down. Drink rich and deep and then piss it out like a bulimic myna bird mimicking everything it hears, the voice is hollow detached, devoid of feeling. I find a corner table and wait. +Wait. Wait. Waiting for the sun, the moon and the stars to keep shining, waiting for Brent to kick junk, waiting for the bohemian children to be flash pasteurize in the blinding white light of creation. Waiting for the world to curdle like sour milk, buttermilk, sweet and sour. Waiting for nothing and everything to join forces in celestial alchemy and produce —something. Waiting for the world to escape the nightmare of history. Waiting for James Joyce to come waltzing down the street with great crowd of children gathering behind him. Bugs Bunny, Maldorf, Harvey Milk, and Anwar Sadat sit at the head of great float bespeckled with roses and bearing a banner that reads: Come As You Are. Forget life; forget everything only come as you are. When there is no hope there is no despair, there is only now, no plans, no future, just now. And that seemed utterly more valuable than the despair of misguided hope. Despair exists only for those who are unhappy in the moment those who live future bound or those that choke to death on the weighted words of the past. Waiting. No more waiting, everything is herenow. + Andy and Brent round the corner and head toward the table, Nina the French girl I am in love with hangs on Brent’s arm. Her head curls back in slow rippling laughter with the jerkiness of stop-motion film, her emerald eyes dance in sunshine when there is none, she breaths different air than the rest of us. She is done waiting. She is missing nothing. She belongs to a hidden race of seekers, of living people dead to the world, those who take the body and eat. The rest of them do not know what she knows; they are looking still like some forgotten, wayward evolutionary glitches lying in languid rooms of far off dream cities —Paris, Prague, Peking, Peoria, or St Petersburg. She is dancing in a netherworld dream with Joyce and the rest, ripe like a pomegranate bursting forth pure cleansing light that washes over all of us. Cleansing the urine out of our minds, the poisons from our bodies until all is love. Because all is love and it only takes Nina to show it. Love should never have been a verb, it is object of love, the noun, that initiates its action, that mysterious thing that is not an action at all but a moment, a fleeting feeling that draws us out of ourselves, beyond this world and the next. It is not Nina it is me, everything is radiating out of me…. The Eucharist of flesh will lead the way out of the valley of the shadow of death to borrow from the ancients, and we will lie beside the oracle as Van Winkle beside his river and together we dream eternal. No more waiting we are here to go… Nina… Sky…. Dizzying leaf patterns chaotically thrown up by Maples, Oaks, Birch…. An Italian family with a stroller…. Circling swooping gulls… the dull hum of the city… inorganic and intoxicating… without human passion it becomes all too metallic and dull… shimmering like a mirage in the heat of existence… Nina… Nina…. + + +Later after Brent leaves Andy draws me aside and asks if I am still going with him to the clinic. I had forgotten entirely, we have to get rid of Nina; we make false excuses and head off in opposite directions and rendezvous on the other side of the block, all of which was Andy’s clever plan for giving Nina the slip. He’s in love with her too. Everyone is in love with Nina. It so happens that we meet in front of the American Express Travel Agency; we are both temporarily frozen by the lush photograph of New York from the sky that hangs in the window. The tag below it reads: only 399 roundtrip. Neither of us had much more than the necessary monies to survive travel is out of the question. Travel in the twentieth century is left solely for the rich; even hitchhiking is portrayed as a nightmare likely to end only in death; the rich have something and they want it kept to themselves. Not that I blame them. +“Damn it man if I don’t have the herps lets head down to LA for the weekend, Kobyoshi got enough money to buy gas and my bus is running quite well. I bet you could talk him into going to see his family and then we’ll tag along…look up Dean and Ed? See what’s changed down there?” +“Absolutely nothing I would imagine…” +“Alright then lets go somewhere, anywhere, lets just get out of the damn city for while… doesn’t it bear down on you? Man I think I’m going to go mad sometimes when I look up and I can only see a tiny little sliver of sky. I get claustrophobic in these buildings, with all these damn people scurrying about like ants.” He pauses because we’re walking uphill and out of breath. “The thing is you have to have money to travel, you have to have leisure time, you have to get up and catch flights at hours of the day that I don’t see, you have to do all these things and then you go somewhere for like a week and then home again back to the grind. Only its worse then because you have to pay for all the money you spent while you were on vacation, and then to top it all off the whole time you’re there wherever you go… it doesn’t really matter… every time you see a clock it reminds you that you have to leave. Do you get that? Man when I see a clock when I’m on vacation I get furious I remember throwing one out the window when I was in Mexico, it’s like they put ‘em there to make sure you won’t stay, to remind you that this is there paradise and you can enjoy it for a time but then… you gotta go gringo! +“Of course if I do have the herpes I’m going to get monumentally depressed and jump out the window tomorrow night….” +“Isn’t it hard for a man to get herpes?” +“How the hell should I know, I mean they told us all that in health class I think, but when you’re seventeen you don’t listen to that crap that’s what happens to adults, its not going to happen to us you know? Shit even if it did I wouldn’t have believed it back then, I mean here we are trying to discover this wonderful sweaty world of sex and they march right in the door and tell us its going to kill us? That shit used to piss my off, just one more way of still reinforcing those old Christian ideas about sex being dirty. And then I have to sleep with the people who did listen and they have all these terrible neurotic beliefs about love and sex and they can’t understand how I might possibly want to just fuck because it feels good and I don’t need much motivation beyond that… how do you do it man you always seem to sleep with these wonderful liberated women that actually enjoy sex… you’re always getting the kinky ones, I envy you on that…. I might get laid more, but you’re record speaks of quality, real quality not drunken bravado or pointless casual sex. Laura and I were talking about that the other day… I think she’d like to get a piece of you I think she’s tired of hearing the moaning and wondering what you do to provoke it. You should give her a lay she’s practically dying for it.” +We were at the door of the free clinic on Hyde. It was quite a scene all the effeminate fags from the Castro district decked out in loud colors, a riot of magentas, oranges, sapphires, rainbows of happy homos getting free condoms marching out the door with the badge of I Get Laid plastered on there foreheads accompanied by the sublime look on their faces that only a horny male can radiate. I waited outside observing the gay community while Andy went in and got his results. Gays are like the Jews relegated to history's ghettos they have found themselves in the dungheaps of humanity and carefully painstakingly rearranged the dung to form beautiful living communities. Fragile rickety alliances one borne by blood the other by sexual preference, both very odd ways to bring people together, but they did and both cultures had the ghetto sensibilities and lust for life that is lacking in the stuffed belly’s of there oppressors. A gay man, no matter how high on the social ladder is still first and foremost a gay man. Assuming of course he is open about it and very few are, but nevertheless you will find that those in positions of power that are gay tend to put that up first. I pity the first gay male president; his lot will be a rough one, along with the first woman, the first black, the first Hispanic. In America if you aren’t a straight white male you are a freak from the get go, the whole thing is set up, even the ones who aren’t persecuting you want to know about “your people” or what its like to be gay or black, are you friends gay? Are your friends black? The Jews have been here for long enough that the daft ignorant Martha’s vineyard morons who run things have about figured them out, its not tres chic to be Jewish anymore, sorry. But just about anything else and especially lesbians, from the scene around LA you would think that the vast majority of the population had just realized that lesbians existed. As the bottom feeders of the past begin to leave the pond and gain the notice of the so-called mainstream they are greeted on one side by hatred and on the other by incredulous fascination, either way you turn you are no longer human, you’re lesbian, you’re black, you’re Mexican, you’re gay, you’re fat, you’re a vegesexual, and then if we can wrap our feeble minded idiocy around that…. then in a hundred years or so we just might remember that you are first and foremost a human. Welcome to land of the dead or should I say those who have died to the world? +Nietzsche talked and wrote a lot about the dead, the inhuman, the new philosophers he called them. A strange breed this those that turned there back on the so-called human values and proudly declared themselves in human. He believed that as time went on more and more would turn there backs and let the false pretense of the world die its horrid stinking death, and he was right, but he didn’t take into account the mutual growth of humanity. Humanity this loose leafed term through which all the pages of history are turned like that dream of idiots, humanity sprints through time in a straight line, the arrow launched by cupid that hit the apple in eve’s hand and sent it whirling to the far reaches of the galaxy. Beside, running parallel, but on a different set of track, the track of individuals, run the stream engines of Nietzsche's beliefs. All these artist of the future to which he spoke are dead to the world. The world won’t give them so much as a hasty acknowledgement, the world is still trying to figure out why some people like boys and some like girls, the world can not look itself in the mirror it slinks like a shamefaced soldier who ran from the battle to the comfort of his own dead mothers bosom. The world rots on top of the dead god’s cunt. Head stuck to the primordial womb like imbeciles or children that suck their thumbs. Look at all the pretty things, lovely things, look at what we have built, look at what we can do! Look at all the pretty pictures; hear the pretty stories and sleep tight at night! Never never dare to question the underlying fundamentals shake up your field if you must but leave the essential framework of shithouse alone. And yet we crawl down here in the basement where you pay us no mind and slowly like industrious beavers we gnaw at the wood frame of the house the monkeys built, the house that world trembles in fear of us and we will bring it crashing down one day, the beavers, the termites, the wood fungi, the decay always wins in the end. Children of the true warmth know that, they watch it, they live it, first they eat themselves out and then they turn their back and die sinking out of sight, but they are not gone, no they are here. + +It turned out that Andy didn’t have the herps but he did have a gall bladder infection, which came a surprise to both him and me, as neither of us knew we had a gall bladder. We had heard of them, but never had to actually realize we had one, and I thankfully still didn’t. Andy was right Laura did want me to give her a lay. She had set her sights on me and made me her knew goal. I felt awkward at the house and began to only come home late at night. In the mornings I wandered down to the university area and had coffee and listened to the poor witless school children drivel about test and papers and things that had to be done. It made me feel better about my life. To listen to them you would think that the entire world is one series of deadlines to be met and knowledge to be regurgitated, even the ones who had passion only had passion for the ideas, they had no passion for the act of living, they were bending life to fit the ideals. Why it never occurred to them to bend the ideals to fit the life is beyond me, but then from where I sit looking back I do occasionally see myself at times back when I was waiting for something to happen back when it thought that the world “happened. +After coffee at the café I head over to Starbucks and wait around for a cute girl to pull up and then, positioning myself casually just outside the door, I wait until they come out and ask for ride downtown, if they happened to be head that way, if not I sometimes just went wherever they were willing to take me. Sometimes I spent the day with one of them, but more often I spent the day trying to find a ride back to the city, occasionally barring all other methods I would call Andy and have him pick me up. Once I made him drive all the way the Stintson Beach to get me during rush-hour traffic, but he never complained. +There were those days though when Laura got me before I had a chance to escape. She tried so hard and without ever coming right out and saying it either, maybe she was too scared that I would have said no, but she never just asked. It would always start with a casual question, what was I doing? Did I have plans? Would I like to go for walk? Would I like to have a beer and watch a movie in her room? Of course I never had plans and when I ran out of excuses I would end up in her room watching movies or listening to records and drinking beer or gin; she would feign interest in whatever I said and I feigned interest in what she said, we developed a wonderful sense of conversation where one of us would tell a story with the appropriate prompts so that the other would have a chance to say his lines. It was an elaborate daytime drama played out in her room, the conversations were never between two people they were lines read off a script that life had handed us. Sometimes I almost lost my will and gave in, give her a lay I figured let her have some, but I knew my heart wasn’t in it and when your hearts not in sex is mechanical and disgusting. To have lust there has to be heart, wild robust hearts full of consumption like feasting leopards tearing at the raw meat with fury, but if I had gone ahead she would have turned leopard and I would have been eaten alive in my boredom. Not that she wasn’t attractive, she was beautiful, but she just didn’t have any life to her. +With Laura everything was an example of something she had read, there was no green life, it was buried under the words of the past before it ever had a chance to come out and shine, it stretched in the early morning and then bam!, a ton of bricks fell on its head. It had all been done and said before according to Laura; I would hardly start a sentence and she would tell me I was paraphrasing someone whose name I had never heard. She was most fond of discussing philosophy because Andy had told her that I used to study it. I had the conversation down to where I only listened for my cues, the interim’s I spent musing over her figure trying to appreciate the subtleties of it, the nuances that only a lover is supposed to know. She wanted me in the flesh but it liked her in my mind, a character I never could have sketched. A creature so bizarre I wouldn’t have believed it if it were a dream. Her words tore out and ripped the room to shreds, but I sat silently meditating on the core of existence, the body, the body electric he sang… +“Who is you favorite philosopher,” she would ask. How is one to answer such a question? My favorites were the ones I disagreed with the most which always led to arguments between us, with her accusing me of philosophical treason for calling Nietzsche (her favorite) a bore. He was so I thought then, quite a bore always moping about the miserable condition of mankind which is all good and well, but what of the inherent beauty what of the passion what of the celebration? The majority of Americans may be clinically insane, but down there in the cesspool of life lies the forgotten individual and the individual can do remarkable things with him or herself even in the midst of a mad world. Nietzsche was blinded by the numbers, couldn’t see the tree for the forest as it were. Or I would say Whitman and she would correct me saying he was a poet, not philosopher and I would say poetry is the true philosophy and then she would launch like a rocket into the space of her own carefully constructed latticework of belief. +“Poets serve different ends they reach for the gut, the emotions, the philosopher applies cool reasoning and evaluates with out judgement. Poets are too hot headed to be philosophers…. A philosopher sees things as they are, even if that is only as they are to him, it is still the way they are… or they way they see it, they reorder the world. That’s what I am trying to get at, poets observe the world and philosophers reorder it.” +At times like that I wanted to strangle her for my own sanity, but legally all I could do was defend the Leaves of Grass. “Poets reorder the world just as much as the next man, that’s all we do in fact we reorder the world to suit whatever it is that we happen to believe. We only see what we want to see, because that is all we can see. If you believe that blades of grass are nothing more than cellulose and water than that is all you will see when you look at grass. But if you shut your ridiculous preconceived notions off for a minute and lie down on the grass then you might for just one instant start to see the world from the grasses point of view and you will notice that grass does not philosophize, it just is.” +That particular day I was in a bad mood and things ended with me refusing to discuss anything further until she read Science and Sanity. I loaned that precious tome to her though I already knew she wouldn’t get much past the second introduction. I led the horse to water let her drink for herself. I never expected her to actually read it. I gave up on philosophy for the simple reason that it failed to accurately resonate the world of existence. For me the chaotic registers of the poets and novelists captured the illusive passion of reality far better in the garbled code of metaphor and warm blankets of experience they wrapped existence in a picture of song, a symphony of anarchy that matched the one I saw when I walked down the street. The world of the philosopher is like Laura’s world, its cold confusing and you never get what you want and even though you know that you can’t get it you keep trying all the same playing out the uneventful script that is the martyr’s. +One day I kissed her to see what she would do, if she would act on restraint or try to take me like she wanted to, if she had I would have let her for the simple reason that at least then she might be alive for just one second. I would have liked her to rape me, to show some life to her, but there was nothing, she hung on my lips romantically like the stale ideas that hung on them when she talked, there was nothing but romance and empty meaninglessness in her. I figured at least the kiss had sealed it and I knew if ever I was down on my luck she would take me in and that was far better than love or passion for a man in my circumstances. + +I have taken to wandering the neighborhood again, playing word association games with myself trying to see how much of my childhood I can remember. I can never get back beyond the memory of walking down a trail in a forest somewhere. I am singing a song as I walk, singing a song with my mother and father. We are hiking down a mountain somewhere. But I can’t see the forest; I can’t hear the song or see my parents. I just have the fuzzy out lines of it, I called my mother one evening and she said that I must have been around four or five which only served to further depress me, I hate that some people can remember as far back as their crib while for me even kindergarten is a stretch. +Coit Tower is beautiful at night, a proud phallic overlook for city teeming with sex. San Francisco is the only city in America where you actually run across lover in alleys, exhibitionists in front of glass windows on the hill tops and discreet blowjobs in movie theatres, fitting then that it should have a giant concrete cock of light looking over it. The trip across town from Andy’s place off Ashbury, through the mission district and little Italy to Coit is like a sociological tour. The Mission District has many of the landmark houses that you have seen of San Francisco, the fronts are colorful and happy, but is artificial and only looks colorful and happy in postcards. In reality they are at the catacombs of the city, the doldrums south of the equator. They are home to the middle class city dweller an aging variety of Consumerus Americanus, usually grouped with the yuppies but wrongly so. These peculiar neighborhoods are the breeding ground of the suburbs. These are in fact why there are suburbs. The Mission is set back from downtown and is a primarily residential neighborhood steeped in the lukewarm water of mediocrity. It is here that librarians, office managers, public officials and otherwise uneventful people arise from, and it is here that the whole suburban utopia of better newer shinier gadgets was born. Here the old gadgets stick out and show the datedness of their species, they were overrun, can no longer keep up, the ones trampled down on the battlefield of progress, they did not win, they failed even to retreat, they lie where they fall waiting for stretcher bearers to carry them off to the morgue. They have cellular when they should have digital, they had beta when they should have waited for VHS, and they got the eighttrack player installed in their car about a month before the advent of the cassette. This post war generation turns around in profound confusion, they are assaulted on all sides by constant change, they have felt out of control ever since the first greaser put a comb in his pocket and took one of their wives behind the college stadium and showed her what sex should be like. The wanted to discover the world and instead they built suburbs because it seemed to be the thing to do. +I feel at home amongst such failures, we share the common wounds of the dead, though theirs were not fatal, they are as good as dead the world turned its back on them and they wander about like zombies, preoccupied with the future, but to cautious to gamble on it. They are always going somewhere, doing something when all the while a little voice is driving them mad whispering sweet perfumed fables in their ear like: it is all nothing…. They never say hi or wave like gays do further down in Castro, they don’t try to hustle you like the Hispanics and blacks downtown, there are in fact no homeless in this neighborhood, better to lie in a rat infested dumpster downtown than to lie here. Makes you nervous, a neighborhood where people won’t sleep on the streets, whether its for fear of the cops or the thugs makes no difference they’re both in the same league. The denizens of the Mission District all walk with there eyes glued to the ground if they are alone or glued to the person they are with, the world slips by unnoticed by them, they are creatures of habit, serial killers never plague them, they are too easy. +Like this guy… he is right here everyday like clockwork, like me in fact, but his routine is so old and I am such a recent addition that I don’t register, he never turns his head. I stop and block his path and he goes absently around the back of his car up the driveway as though I was invisible. I begin to feel curiously invisible, a bit separated from the tactile world, unsettled and hyperaware I continue up the steps that lead to Coit tower, I feel as if I am teetering on the razor edge of awareness. About half way up I hear the muted grunting of what sounds like a television set playing pornography. I snap my head to the side and listen because sex sounds move at a frequency to which I am acicular, they moves in waves like any other, but sex has another more primordial quality, just beyond the edge of conscious hearing. It makes you turn your head involuntarily, like a traffic accident or a machine gun at the family reunion in Kansas. +I follow the sound climbing up the hill instead of using the path, about half way from where I left the steps to the top I turn around and see a couple fucking doggie style in there couch in plain view of all the world, except that all the world is hidden by trees. I light a cigarette and watch them go at with wild animal abandon, not like most rich women I have been with who are so disinclined toward any sort of dirtiness be it on the linens or during sex. These two have taken Woody Allen to heart, sex is only dirty when you do it right. She comes before I am halfway through my cigarette and sits down on the couch to suck him off. It comes as electrostatic charge this feeling of peeking into the lives others, of watching them harmlessly, but yet they would likely have jumped up had they seen me, so strange that we like to hide the most personal of human expressions and yet will kill and degrade each other in the streets before live television crews. It all stems from not showing any cock in R-rated films, but that’s not important right now. Right now her warm mouth is drawing him out and I am leaving, not wanting to see the end of the show, preferring to leave it eternally occurring in memory like a loop of film flapping in an empty theatre…. +Memories shrouded in gauze and muslin, filters that are colored and toned by what I brought to them when they happened… mixing like oil and water with what I bring to them now. Take for instance Mexico City: I remember Mexico City in hazy brown discolored way, but it’s not the smog, it’s the nature of memory —the nature of my memory. The images overlay each other like a photomontage. I see it in moving pictures: cut to a shot of the subway, sad brown faces and I want to know why they aren't on vacation like me… lay on top of it an image of pyramid excavation digging up and trying to solve the Mayan Caper. Years ago you would. Understand she was standing right next to me and then...Warm sweet smelling cab and my father says “hey, look a Kentucky fried Chicken” and sure enough I see one. Americana right in the middle of foreign chaos it threw me into a different world, a sudden realization that life is not ordered like the clockwork metaphors I learned in grade school. It became in that instant a chaotic kaleidoscope of astonishment and splendor … the shock of fried chicken. +Everything became focused up into the sun; it burned in fantastical visions that existed only for me, leaving me alone and for a long time afraid. Not fear in the sense that you feel threatened, it is much worse, not conscious, it just lingers in the back of the mind occasionally eliciting a paralysis that would haunt me for a while and then fade again in the face of day to day activities. +It’s a fear that leaves you like a woman I saw once stone still and shell shocked, stuck right in the middle of this enormous arch in Canyonlands National Park, Utah. She just stood there unable to move, feeling the digging hooks of unbridled terror burning into her brain and creating an endless and spellbinding feedback loop that forbids you to move. It anchors your mind right back in the primate body because you feel it and yet rips you right out of the very fabric of collective reality and propels you into strange land where there is no you. I watched her sit there unable to help herself, doubtless staring at the two thousand-foot drop off on both sides of her and the meager four foot wide sandstone arch that was holding her there. She was suspended in mid air, seeing herself for the first time the way we are: naked cold and deathly afraid. + But the cab driver just laughed and said, “here in Mexico City there is no Kentucky Fried Chicken, maybe Kentucky Fried Cat, Kentucky Fried Dog, But definitely no Kentucky Fried Chicken.” He smiled this crooked smile revealing gold caps and over moist gum structure that was so large it seemed to be slowly crawling right down over his teeth. He then sternly advised in all seriousness against eating there, of course I wouldn't have anyway; he merely gave me a rational reason for that. And all this was years before I would ever get to India to learn that, first there is a mountain, then there is no mountain, then there is... +I realize my legs are moving as fast as the random associations of the mind and I am in North Beach again without even realizing that that was where I was headed. I slow a bit and notice the damp cold, a glance at the sky reveals the story —gray again—nighttime fog in the middle of April. +Weather everywhere is getting more severe, mudslides, floods, droughts, tornadoes. It’s as if something really big were building up to vent on us. The Ancients placed great stock in weather and saw storms as harbingers that something was wrong within the tribe. Many of them associated the outside as intimately connected to the inside of the tribe. Educated people (historically that reads white) first scoffed at such notions, but now two thousand years of theories later we have elaborate sciences which are beginning to prove the simple wisdom that tribal people know just from observing life +Jostling through the crowds of Jackson street brings back tapeloops of Boston —Harvard square—fall—the Charles River slips by without a sound, the streets corral throngs of people— onlookers drunk beyond comprehension of what they were there to look at— they stumble out of bars and lurch through doorways like grenades rolled out on the street. Inside the Radcliffe boathouse a reserve of surplus energy is released in muscular spasms that pulse in orgasm. Her breasts pool salt onto my tongue. Her flesh is hard and metallurgic turning brittle under my hands, the life is slowing slipping out of her, out of the sewers of life up celestial heights of orgasm, among the eagles, the screaming eagles, the German philosophers sitting like a nineteen ten bankers awaiting the thief. The tape is endless, looping across eons, cultures, genetic hardwired associations to the galaxies, interstellar abbreviations of life. Cool hard water distilled in my mouth and then she falls from my arms like a limp rag and I am cast down a tube a tunnel endlessly falling, clattering of the walls building speed, a vacuum with no terminal velocity I want to reach out for limbs for human hands to catch me…. I scream and there is no sound save the rush of air passing my ears and finally I settle in the twinkling light still shining from above and I relax to the falling sensation no longer concerned surrendered eternity forever to remain here now and then the light goes dim… the taxi’s in times square… Truman Capote… An auburn haired girl I liked in seventh grade… tumbling of great vistas into nothingness into all timelessness…. + + +It was inevitable that Dean would come for me, we always rendezvous at some point and then we set off for a while and bounced apart again, things had been that way for as long as I can remember. Things had taken a turn for the worse. Andy was leaving for Costa Rica to work on a cruise ship. Apparently the late night talks had not been all smoke screen as took them, to make matter worse I could have a hob myself, but raising the air fare seemed impossible. In a vain effort I started panhandling downtown and serving cocktails one night a week at club 36 where he worked, but money was hardly rolling in, and when it did it left just as fast. The panhandling I enjoyed, it reminded me that people weren’t such horrible creatures after all, when you beg you are forced to look for Emerson’s little spark of divinity in everyone. +Sometimes panhandling was just something to do while you were reading; a way of making some money for the age old magic of deciphering words into images, into thoughts, into life. I would get up before dawn and catch the first train downtown. Around five the flow picked up, traders, analysts, number theorists, restroom attendants, secretaries, janitors, the streets were thriving in the still murky dawn. In an hour, in New York City the grand number game would pitch off on another day of “trading.” What they are trading and why was totally lost on me, but I liked to watch them go about it. By six I would have in the neighborhood of ten dollars, sometimes more sometimes less, but when the bell sounded six the number of people on street declined. + I was reading Robert Anton Wilson’s Prometheus Rising, a wildly fascinating tour through quantum physics, modern psychology, and ancient shamanic ecstasy. I had never encountered a mind that could so formidably wrangle about entire worldviews with such succinct explanations and clarity of language, always with a sense of humor too. Irish authors are geniuses at working that quirky clever humor of theirs into the most unlikely of places; I thought of Joyce, Wilde, McKenna, even Beckett is hilarious to see on stage. Its actually more fun to watch the audience watch the play; you understand Beckett’s logic much better from observing it in action than from him telling it to you, but he is there like a ringleader assembling the drugged lions so that you can safely walk amongst them. Beckett saw the emptiness of the game and stood in the middle of the court slowly, inanely bouncing the ball to see if anyone would notice. + The Irish seem to know best how to write and how to drink, how to live you might say if you had my view of things. Of course it doesn’t do anything for you in this country. In America if you want to succeed you have to suck seed, the seed of fat cat bosses, lawyers, politicians, Hollywood stars, washing machine salesmen, sitcoms, the latest way to get your socks whiter, the newest car, the biggest television… plenty of buying, consuming and swallowing of the preverbal seed around here. Precious little living though, a melting pot was never where one ought to have looked for the distinctive flair that marks man as alive. In becoming individualists we lost ourselves; all that’s going on in American thought is newer and cleverer way of differentiating between the individuals, creating categories. A carrot here, cabbage there, and celery, beans, beets, broth, turnips, potatoes, and freeze-dried madmen to spice the grand stew. Everybody fits in a category, everybody can be marketed to on somehow or other. Ordering chaos and turning the stew into pureed banality might be the only thing we ever accomplish before the whole shit-house country turns into a police state. It was demoralizing to be American, you were either a human or citizen and the two remained separated as violently and far more successfully than church and state. + And what of the separation of church and state? It sounds good in the ear but by the time it hits the brain its curdling like old milk. It didn’t turn out quite the way it was supposed to, instead of separating them we just threw away the church and made the State into god. Maybe it was inevitable and we were merely the ones to do it, we had needed a new god for a long time when this country came to fruition—might as well give the state a try. Someone once said that the defining characteristic of Americans is that they will try everything wrong before they get themselves around to doing what they knew was right in the first place. Who better to head that racket than the State? Who better to make god? We’re heading the right direction maybe, god’s face is coming into view more and more and more people I meet are ready to wake up from the nightmare of history as Joyce put it. The history of god is no different: first he was everywhere, then he was in an animal, then he was in a building, then he was in some guy, now he’s in all our heads… can’t the man just sit still for a few centuries? No, God’s on the run doesn’t want to be found because he doesn’t think he’ll be liked when we find him. Same reason we off ourselves, every human action are a tiny suicide until we give up the ghost. + The conquest of death will be the end of science and then we’ll have flushed god out, left him nowhere to hide. In the mean time… alms for the poor? + And maybe another quarter drops from a passerby and jingles as it lands in my cup. I have learned not to look up; they don’t want you to. Non-confrontational begging is the wave of the future; it’s the atheist’s way of tithing. They never look at you, just drop some change in the cup as they pass never even break their stride. I had decided long ago that these busy nessmen and women were all raised in some flat monotonous religion like Presbyterianism, sheltered from god by money but still open to manipulation via guilt. I was guilt, a reminder, the dogshit that made them remember they were dogs too. They made it quite obvious that giving was an odious task, one they would just as soon not do, but something compelled them nonetheless. Some mysterious lingering Presbyterian guilt, or perhaps it was a calculated attempt to cover their doubts, just in case there was a god of judgement they needed a few legal briefs in their corner, someone they could subpoena as a character witness before St Peter, as they tried to grovel and argue their way into heaven. Ah heaven! The good life! Wouldn’t it be great if we could still live in fairytales… perhaps I gave them a bit of childhood fairytale back, reminded them that at least they had things…. The rich need the poor that way, it gives them some comfort to know that there are less fortunate, makes them feel like they have gotten somewhere in their fervent march to the top of the national muck heap. +What they liked even more was to support street musicians and comic performers, the modern court jesters playing in the palace of the Everyman. The streets, the city lights, this was the group palace for the middle and upper class; high above it behind the thousands of mysterious glass stories those with real power and real money moved about in hushed whispers, prowling in the shadows and watching the show from above. It was Celine who said near the end of his life when someone asked him what he thought of the human race (an odd question to put to someone, but then Celine was an odd man), “I spit on you all from a great height” was the old boy’s reply. “I spit on you reaching great height” I would have said; I like it down here at the bottom in the trenchant, pitched battle for survival. The people were of a better character, more aware of the things that money can’t buy, namely anything of value. Wait till they start bottling the air my Dad used to say well Dad they have, in Mexico City —they sell it right there on the street corner. The swan song of the earth will be sung by asthmatics and the trumpets of the end days will be blown by lungs measuring out bottled air. Bottling the air! Things are fine, really! No more wars, no more uprisings, no more taxes... no more anything save the eerie hum of the refrigerator cascading about the silence of your house late at night. Hmmmmmmmmmm Hmmmmmmmmmmmm. It crawls cockroach-like over your face while you sleep, it perches on your forehead and listens to your heart beat —admires the cacophonous organic simplicity of human sleep. +I was out of town when Dean arrived, an old girlfriend, Leah Wright had seen me begging downtown and taken pity on me; she insisted on putting me up for a vacation. She was married and I could tell that her husband didn’t like me, but he thought I was funny and didn’t mind to much that I stay with them. They were both appalled to learn that I lived in a closet. He loved the I’m still in the closet joke of it, laughed like the honest farmboy that he was. After leaving her I lost track of Leah for a while; she went and married a Canadian farmboy who used to play hockey and now plays golf and he talked a lot about being a sports newscaster. It was a different life than what I had in the city, they were in the rather ritzy suburbs of Marin, a nice house tucked back in the near forest of the hills. It was the suburbs to be sure, but a suburb that was not artificially planted which made it livable even attractive sometimes. They ate three square meals a day and went work like the good little citizens that they were. I sat around all day smoking cigarette and typing in their garage because neither of them could stand smoking. After a week or so I started to run dry of ideas. I took to hoeing out a patch of land to plant them some tomato plants and it was as I was in fact planting the seeds that I saw Andy and Dean pull up. +I felt slightly ridiculous standing their looking at them, I had temporarily slipped into a mild dementia over the tomatoes, I was obsessing over the universe in great detail and then they got out of the bus. Dean looked ridiculous himself getting out of Andy’s VW bus in his customary suit and tie, it was an incongruous image and I couldn’t help laughing. Andy just stood on the running board and yelled over the car. +“Come on lets go!” +It was simple enough, I ran inside grabbed my bag and my laptop and threw them in the back of the bus. I ran back into the house and pilfered about for a bit looking for some stowed cash, I hit the jackpot in the middle of Leah’s g-string underwear, almost two hundred dollars. I grabbed it and scribbled an IOU to take its place, as an afterthought I held one of the g-strings up to my nose, it had the unmistakable odor of Tide. Nothing fecund in that house I realized, all the surfaces were clean to hide the smell of rot that permeated their flesh. I shuddered and ran out the door, I dove in and we headed off. diff --git a/veryold/very old writings/gone book/SF iam.txt b/veryold/very old writings/gone book/SF iam.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..67ac1de --- /dev/null +++ b/veryold/very old writings/gone book/SF iam.txt @@ -0,0 +1,165 @@ + I am staying in Andy’s closet. It’s a walk-in, big enough for a futon pad and the rent is cheap —free. The rest of the rooms in the house were full before I got here. Andy lives in the master bedroom, which is really not much larger than my closet; down the hall on the left is Sarah, the art student/waitress who engages me daily in great feminist debates; on the right is Kobyoshi, a strange frail lad from Thailand with a mind that far outstretches the meager sphere that his body implies. This morning Kobyoshi informed me that he is quitting his position as a research assistant at a nuclear fission lab to pursue a career in ballet. Fine. Perhaps I ought to get a job in a fission lab, there are several around here, but I won’t. It’s a cheery little household. We’re all just waiting, biding our time; we’re all dead to the world. + Outside is America land of the free wage slaves, my corner for now is San Francisco. Not a bad corner of the nuthouse as things go, it seems endlessly expansive, solid city all the way down to Palo Alto through Silicon Valley and all the rest of the deranged suburbs that I only know about from reading the papers. I stick more toward the center of things, the city, the teeming thriving pulse of the city; at least here there is a distraction from banality and some outside drama by which to measure the immensity of my own failure. My economic failure, my failure to be assimilated, my refusal to die, my own obituary that is written in blood on the streets I wander. Once your dead the world takes on a spectacular detached glory that I heap over my rotting bones like a warm Indian bearskin. +The telephone rings and shortly after Andy informs me that we are to meet Brent for lunch downtown at Café Claude. Café Claude is an authentic little French bistro that the three of us like because it reminds us of better days, days we haven’t had yet, days we aren’t going to have. In America there is only one way to be happy and that is to have a lot of money. All other things are looked on with scorn and derision he who is not working to better his financial lot is a blight upon the national character. A disease that must cured. I am the biggest blight of them all having never held a job for more than year; at least Andy works at a bar which is a kind of halfway house into which he was thrust until he could be assimilated and digested by something bigger, something corporate, something with real teeth that can hold him for a lifetime. I doubt it will ever happen; Andy is too good a man to ever fall for such a downright ridiculous con. For the time being he cuts me in on his tips and we survive. He also steals a lot of liquor from his work so that we never want for drunkenness. I am constantly drunk, but rarely on liquor, I am drunk because I see everything around me with absolute clarity, I have two selves one which walks and the other which records and it is the other that concerns me now. +Andy is the last living being I know, excepting Dean who is still down in Los Angeles fettering away at a newspaper job that he hates and which, if he is not careful, will kill him. For now, right here, Andy is the only one alive; we share the drunken enthusiasm of those without hope, and without hope there is no despair everything proceeds in splendor and glory one is left free to contemplate the details and minutia. Nighttime we regroup ourselves into his room and regale the days, I talk of buttons found in gutters and Andy talks wild futureyarns. He comes home stumbling having usually polished a bottle while closing and usually brings some flimsy woman with him under vague pretenses of incongruous behavior. Andy is a delirium his fever-struck eyes are always one step ahead of you, its dizzying to keep up, drives me mad keeps me up at nights long after he has peacefully lapsed into a coma and a girl I don’t know is asking for a ride home or cab fare or directions to the subway. His latest plan calls for Costa Rica, something about casinos and rich American bitches, as he calls them. + It’s cold outside still, morning is undercooked; I can feel the raw drafts that leak under Andy’s window. They come in waves wafting in and sinking down to the hardwood floors, swirling about propelled like a drunken countess’s foul smelling fart. They seek me out, countesses, farts and drafts they find me lying here wrapped in my pathetic collection of blankets. Ah it has found a way under the door! It creeps in and wraps me up in dank odorless fecundity leaving me in a clamshell. I take another drag off my cigarette and crush it out in the ceramic bowl by my head; no doubt later when we walk up the hill to the BART station it will be roasting —always hot or cold no in between. Andy asks what I think of the girl he had last night, he forgets that I was asleep before he got home. +“I mean she was no supermodel I realize that but did you see that kind of vacant peaceful stare in her eyes? I was on top of her just staring at her eyes they were like obelisks —Arabic mosques…. Did you not that twinge of religiosity about her? I think she was from Kansas, something weird about those people… so flat… so much sky they always have an air of wonder that hangs in their eyes…. Have you seen my jacket the one with fur lining?” + Andy is right over my head looking around the other side of the closet for his jacket. He’s hopping about trying not to step on me, rattling on about his new girl. She is going to come into his work again tonight, but that is not so good he informs me, it will blow his chances with “the randoms” as he calls them. + “It’s a Friday see and I didn’t think about that when she said she was coming in. Fridays you don’t want anyone hanging around because all the cunts that only come out on weekends are there and they’re only there to get a little. They’re a special kind those girls that work hard all week they go a little bit farther in there spare time… Do you remember that one a couple of weeks ago, Michelle I think her name was… turns out she had the herps so I went and got tested before work last night… hey,” He stops looking for his jacket and stares down at me he has a wistful look on his face, but his head is upside down and reminds me a potatohead toy with a pasted on goatee and slightly askew lips, eyes that look out of order and crazy, glinting. He ponders my face for minute and continues on earnestly now "you wouldn’t want to go with me to the clinic would you? I mean its one of those things I know it doesn’t kill you or anything, and I don’t have any symptoms… I went mostly to make sure that she wouldn’t accuse me of giving it to her… you know how women get on things like that these days, but still would you mind? I’d rather have someone there if it does turn out bad for me…. + “Sure Andy, let me take a shower.” I am mildly touched that he is dragging me into the sordid affairs of his life, that he thinks so highly of me, but they are nevertheless his own sordid affairs and frankly I want nothing to do with them, but he promises to buy me lunch if I accompany him. The shower is weak and barely wets your hair, but it’s hot and it washes off the sticky dampness of morning. By the time I get out my skin is pink and flushed, my reflection in the mirror reminds me of a newborn. +In the BART station Andy tries to convince me that we should attend a private party for the wrapping of Coppola’s new film On The Road. “I know you don’t like the book or any of that, but there will be beautiful women, actresses and hangers on, it like a Hollywood type of thing only right here in the city.” He tells me about the girl that invited him and somewhere lets it slip that the Daily Grill is catering the affair. Food! Now that’s worth any amount of hell, I would trudge across stygian mountains of insipid shallowness, fly low over enemy territory, flak batteries firing pointless banal conversations if only there be a sandwich at the end of the line. It is wonderful thing to go to bed with a full belly. Last night Andy didn’t come home until three in the morning, I fell asleep with my arms clenched against my stomach to stop the gnawing pain. +It’s almost noon when we hit the street at Embarcadero. Downtown has an cold electrical buzz to it, a peculiar conglomeration of sounds that phase-cancel each other and bounce around in the echo chamber of buildings to create a hoarse faintly bucolic noise. It rattles your teeth if you focus on it. The combination of a millions of computers humming, ovens cooking, stoves frying, refrigerators opening, cars starting, neon open signs lighting up, and all the other cryptic roaring noises from fires of the good life assail me like the smog in Mexico City. +I remember as a kid wanting to live here; I thought it was the greatest city in the world. It might be, but I want to check the rest of world before I settle on that opinion. I had been in Los Angeles minding my own business, eeking out a pathetic little existence full of long term goals, plans, marriage even and then one day I woke up in the middle of the night and there was a strange man beside the bed. He extended his hand and I took it. We floated up out of the room over the entire earth and looked down at the overflowing anthills of man, it looked like the view from the top of the empire state building. The entire country was in a state of rabble; the people moved through ruins like the retreating Napoleonic Army leaving Alba. Everywhere the lines were falling back, but it was not real war it was a ghost war, there was no enemy, nothing to run from only hunger, the wretched hunger of the human belly which forced us all the shoulder up and trade time in for tickets and ticket for money and money for food and all the grand dreams, the Horatio Alger myths were nothing more than a bankrupt game of miserly old men smoking cigars and trying to fill there own bellies. And everywhere the retreat continued, men racing in shadows hiding from everything from everyone who might steal their bread their wine their wives. The squirmed like little bugs fearing heal boot of the old men who were themselves only slightly bigger and therefore more grotesque bugs. The scene could have come from Dante but it didn’t it came from life itself, life without art, life needed art, something to hang on the walls something to read at night before bed, something… anything to stave off and hold the truth at bay, the ugly truth of sewer rat’s retreat. There was no art in life, it was not of life it was separate and detached it had no purpose. I saw my own retreat a steady shameful slink from one shadow to another until that night when the strange man thrust me forth into the light, into the realization that all life was without hope. Hope was a product of the human imagination not human life, life itself held out nothing, asked nothing and gave nothing. Hitherto I had been waiting. Waiting for something to happen, but now I saw clearly that nothing was ever going to happen, nothing had ever happened and all of history was but the meandering account of sad little creatures burrowing there way through the earth searching for death. The waiting had driven me mad, I had clutched onto any straw of hope that came my way and they had all turned to dust in my hands. The lilies of the field do not want for clothing said Christ why then did he wear a robe? All imitations of life are false to it, all reflections cast back by art or art under any other name are only broken dreams, hope dashed on the rocks of failure careening like a pirate ship with no port to call home. And then as the man faded out and I found myself hovering over the sewage mess of the earth I saw little fires burning, outposts in the western lands, retreat camps where those who had given up the ghostly illusion of hope were congregating. I drifted down out of the clouds and settled myself near a camp where I could observe and record. +The next day I got up out of bed after my wife had left for work and I packed up my things, what I couldn’t carry I gave away and I headed for Dean’s place where I new I could exist in relative peace. Two weeks later Andy sequestered me off Dean’s couch and said I would be much happier in San Francisco. He said the artificial plastic palm tree paradise of LA was making me myopic, I remember because I had to look up myopic in the dictionary. Andy always had a kind of word-for-the-day thing going on lately it had been mellifluent, which Minop said was akin to relaxed or mellow. I didn’t feel myopic in LA, but I had consigned my fate to the wind and Andy was the first to blow through, so I came here to San Francisco. For now I am content in this damp cramped world of fog. I’m not leaving until I solve the riddle of the fog, where does it come from (Brent told me there is a potato field up north by Stinson Beach where you can supposedly see it forming). Why is it here? What is it trying to tell me with its plodding ceaseless monotony? Why is it robbing us of our summer sunshine everyday around four o’clock? Why does it retreat again around noon? What are we to make of this four hour gap of sunshine? +Brent is waiting for us outside Café Claude, nervously smoking cigarettes and looking for all the world more like spectral ghost of machinery than a human being. He looks worse every time we see him, the better his life gets the worse he looks. Today he announces, opening the door as he says it, that he just landed a new ad campaign that’s going to earn him three thousand a week. Two thousand of which will go to support that massive heroin addiction he maintains and another nine hundred of which will pay rent on his swanky downtown loft that he insists of keeping. Brent would rather starve than live in the slum joints up the hill; his way of staying afloat in the all-consuming ocean of heroin is to elevate addiction to a form of art. He shoots with an old metal syringe won’t do it with a common ‘junky pick’ as he calls plastic syringes. He keeps it neatly in a hand carved cedarwood box on the coffee table. He ties off with a leather strap that he claims was tanned by an old Indian expressively for the purpose. When he shoots up its like watching a magician going through well rehearsed but cryptic methods, the spoon is real silver, the water distilled and filtered, the arm band tight and then bang in it goes, and the needle is always removed and carefully placed back in the cedarwood box before he allows himself to nod off. +But then once he comes round again all is cut loose and he turns to a manic clawing about the room scrapping his fingernails down the rough edges of ideas, he has an enthusiasm and energy such as I have never seen in another junky. He paints like he shoots, everything is methodically laid out and then without warning the frenzy begins, he leaps about in front of the canvas chaotically stabbing out with a passion borne more of frustration than inspiration. It’s the passion of one who strives for something and no longer knows why. Brent is the sergeant giving orders who can’t help wondering why it is that he has to take the hill. For Brent everything is suspect, life is a paranoid adventure where everyone moves their heads on cake turners, swiveling and scheming for each others mutual demise without know why, without having motivation for anything other than sheer existence. His only recourse is the ritual that is the only thing over which he can assert any control and he does it in such a way that gives him total control and then he steps back from himself and lets go. +The drinks are hardly on the table when Brent launches into how, despite his recent successes as the art director for an advertising firm, everything is more or less going to hell in a hand basket. I for the most part agree with him, but for wholly different reasons. Under his haranguing critics of his life the lunch brews like an oceanic storm; he only invites us in order to have an audience for his misery just like a priest has nothing without a congregation. The tempest starts slowing, small lapping boat wakes at first, bread, wine, a plate of cheese, I try not to woof it down because I am not accustomed to rich foods. Richness Brent claims is merely ritualized discontent…. Then breakers roll into the jetty, seared ahi salad with warm honey mustard sauce, delicately arranged on white plates with fresh ground pepper. The walls swim in light floating textures of wine and palpated with bread soaked in balsamic vinegar and oil. The other patrons begin to veer and swerve about, their food passes by rousing a selfish hunger, dessert carts cloud up the sky and signal the coming danger, and then finally the tsunami. A beautiful girl named Holly serves us Terrine of Sole and Salmon in three different colors, fish arranged like impressionist art with all the delicacy of the Louve only to be shoveled brutally into hungry mouths with the blunted points of a fork. Skewering money, chewing up delicacy and putting it back where it belongs in the churning stomach of slime and guts. Holly is lascivious and I see her bent over a table begging for it, wanting the flesh, the warmth, the wild freedom of penetration. The restaurant turns to a saturnalia and patrons falls into unadulterated orgies of stinking flesh smeared with sweat and cum; they regress into hair covered hunchbacks slobbering and drooling, crawling all over each other with snarling lust, all the hidden stresses of their lives turn them backward, relics of DNA that reek of perfumes, jewels, and other masks to cover the organic septic tank of their origins. By the end of the meal I am in pain again clutching my stomach and loosing my belt, the richness of the food swells on contemplation and we float, whisked by vaporous entrails back out into the street. That’s the way it’s always been starvation followed by gluttony; I wouldn’t have it any other way. +Because Brent bought lunch I talk Andy into buying us all a cup of coffee. We catch a cab to north beach because Brent refuses to use public transportation —another method of rising out of the cesspool, the crème of the junky crop. +“I’m gonna check into a clinic as soon as I get this job finished because I’m tired of struggling to get junk when I should be enjoying my life. You know this is the first time I’ve left the house in three days? I’ve been working so much I just don’t have time to get out anymore. If I do go out its only over to Oakland to get some shit and then straight back, I’m sick of it, sick to death, but you can’t just quit you know… or at least I can’t. I need to be forced off the shit, weaned slowly…” +“You serious?” Andy retains great faith in Brent; I retain great faith in heroin. +“Ya. And I know I’ve said it before but this time I mean it I gotta get off of this roller coaster and do something with my life.” +I laugh in his face, I just couldn’t help it, but he ignores me and continues on. “I want to travel see the world, see my painting hang in a gallery; I went to an opening about a week and half ago and it was terrible. Fucking terrible! Lacquered checks that was one of the pieces, just lacquered ordinary bank checks! What the fuck is that about?” +Brent is convinced that he only needs to find the right person to represent him, give him money or at the very least just believe in him because he doesn’t believe in himself he never has from what I can gather. He is always putting the final touches on the perfect piece, but we can’t see it, we can’t see it until it is exactly as he wants it, as if the thing had no life beyond what he was capable of vesting it with, and indeed for that very reason his painting don’t have any life beyond him. No one ever saw these paintings and I for one didn’t really think they existed anywhere but in Brent's own head. They weren’t even paintings anymore they were representations of his entire enormous bloated cosmology distilled into crystalline existence by the very force of his own will. Brent should have been a priest, he was better suited for a life where nothing can ever possibly be experienced, where hope keeps you outside life, everything is constantly elsewhere, unreachable, only to be shouted at and begged for. He was a cur dog lapping at the crumbs fate had dealt him when all the while everything he ever wanted was sitting right on the other side of the door. It was torturous to listen too and I fairly bounded out of the cab when it stopped. I slipped out like a neutrino unaffected by the gravity of the black hole. +We stop in at La Boheme, THE place for an artist to be seen in San Francisco. We went there because the place makes us laugh or it make Brent laugh, it makes me think of Celine’s comment: “I piss on all from a great height.” Inside is like a trough urinal at a baseball stadium, people sit at booths and stand by tables peeing out their mouths. The neo-bohemian set is pissing all over themselves today with extravagant warm streams of urine out of one and into the mouth of another where the recipient will swill it around for a day maybe two and then when you come back they will be pissing the same thing into the mouth of another. I order a cup of coffee and head outside letting Andy pick up the tab. Walking to the door I can hear the streams of piss splashing, great Niagara’s cascading from the mouths of privilege, children of tomorrowland who mortgage the future for a bit of today. Children who can’t stop pissing out inane theories and ideas, principles and mottoes, quoting dead authors like their words where written solely for them to drink down. Drink rich and deep and then piss it out like a bulimic myna bird mimicking everything it hears, the voice is hollow detached, devoid of feeling. I find a corner table and wait. +Wait. Wait. Waiting for the sun, the moon and the stars to keep shining, waiting for Brent to kick junk, waiting for the bohemian children to be flash pasteurize in the blinding white light of creation. Waiting for the world to curdle like sour milk, buttermilk, sweet and sour. Waiting for nothing and everything to join forces in celestial alchemy and produce —something. Waiting for the world to escape the nightmare of history. Waiting for James Joyce to come waltzing down the street with great crowd of children gathering behind him. Bugs Bunny, Maldorf, Harvey Milk, and Anwar Sadat sit at the head of great float bespeckled with roses and bearing a banner that reads: Come As You Are. Forget life; forget everything only come as you are. When there is no hope there is no despair, there is only now, no plans, no future, just now. And that seemed utterly more valuable than the despair of misguided hope. Despair exists only for those who are unhappy in the moment those who live future bound or those that choke to death on the weighted words of the past. Waiting. No more waiting, everything is herenow. + Andy and Brent round the corner and head toward the table, Faith the French girl I am in love with hangs on Brent’s arm. Her head curls back in slow rippling laughter with the jerkiness of stop-motion film, her emerald eyes dance in sunshine when there is none, she breaths different air than the rest of us. She is done waiting. She is missing nothing. She belongs to a hidden race of seekers, of living people dead to the world, those who take the body and eat. The rest of them do not know what she knows; they are looking still like some forgotten, wayward evolutionary glitches lying in languid rooms of far off dream cities —Paris, Prague, Peking, Peoria, or St Petersburg. She is dancing in a netherworld dream with Joyce and the rest, ripe like a pomegranate bursting forth pure cleansing light that washes over all of us. Cleansing the urine out of our minds, the poisons from our bodies until all is love. Because all is love and it only takes Faith to show it. Love should never have been a verb, it is object of love, the noun, that initiates its action, that mysterious thing that is not an action at all but a moment, a fleeting feeling that draws us out of ourselves, beyond this world and the next. It is not Faith it is me, everything is radiating out of me…. The Eucharist of flesh will lead the way out of the valley of the shadow of death to borrow from the ancients, and we will lie beside the oracle as Van Winkle beside his river and together we dream eternal. No more waiting we are here to go… Faith… Sky…. Dizzying leaf patterns chaotically thrown up by Maples, Oaks, Birch…. An Italian family with a stroller…. Circling swooping gulls… the dull hum of the city… inorganic and intoxicating… without human passion it becomes all too metallic and dull… shimmering like a mirage in the heat of existence… Faith… Faith…. + + +Later after Brent leaves Andy draws me aside and asks if I am still going with him to the clinic. I had forgotten entirely, we have to get rid of Faith; we make false excuses and head off in opposite directions and rendezvous on the other side of the block, all of which was Andy’s clever plan for giving Faith the slip. He’s in love with her too. Everyone is in love with Faith. It so happens that we meet in front of the American Express Travel Agency; the lush photograph of New York from the sky that hangs in the window temporarily freezes us both. The tag below it reads: only 399 roundtrip. Neither of us had much more than the necessary monies to survive travel is out of the question. Travel in the twentieth century is left solely for the rich; even hitchhiking is portrayed as a nightmare likely to end only in death; the rich have something and they want it kept to themselves. Not that I blame them. +“Damn it man if I don’t have the herps lets head down to LA for the weekend, Kobyoshi got enough money to buy gas and my bus is running quite well. I bet you could talk him into going to see his family and then we’ll tag along…look up Dean and Ed? See what’s changed down there?” +“Absolutely nothing I would imagine…” +“Alright then lets go somewhere, anywhere, lets just get out of the damn city for while… doesn’t it bear down on you? Man I think I’m going to go mad sometimes when I look up and I can only see a tiny little sliver of sky. I get claustrophobic in these buildings, with all these damn people scurrying about like ants.” He pauses because we’re walking uphill and out of breath. “The thing is you have to have money to travel, you have to have leisure time, you have to get up and catch flights at hours of the day that I don’t see, you have to do all these things and then you go somewhere for like a week and then home again back to the grind. Only its worse then because you have to pay for all the money you spent while you were on vacation, and then to top it all off the whole time you’re there wherever you go… it doesn’t really matter… every time you see a clock it reminds you that you have to leave. Do you get that? Man when I see a clock when I’m on vacation I get furious I remember throwing one out the window when I was in Mexico, it’s like they put ‘em there to make sure you won’t stay, to remind you that this is there paradise and you can enjoy it for a time but then… you gotta go gringo! +“Of course if I do have the herpes I’m going to get monumentally depressed and jump out the window tomorrow night….” +“Isn’t it hard for a man to get herpes?” +“How the hell should I know, I mean they told us all that in health class I think, but when you’re seventeen you don’t listen to that crap that’s what happens to adults, its not going to happen to us you know? Shit even if it did I wouldn’t have believed it back then, I mean here we are trying to discover this wonderful sweaty world of sex and they march right in the door and tell us its going to kill us? That shit used to piss my off, just one more way of still reinforcing those old Christian ideas about sex being dirty. And then I have to sleep with the people who did listen and they have all these terrible neurotic beliefs about love and sex and they can’t understand how I might possibly want to just fuck because it feels good and I don’t need much motivation beyond that… how do you do it man you always seem to sleep with these wonderful liberated women that actually enjoy sex… you’re always getting the kinky ones, I envy you on that…. I might get laid more, but you’re record speaks of quality, real quality not drunken bravado or pointless casual sex. Laura and I were talking about that the other day… I think she’d like to get a piece of you I think she’s tired of hearing the moaning and wondering what you do to provoke it. You should give her a lay she’s practically dying for it.” +We were at the door of the free clinic on Hyde. It was quite a scene all the effeminate fags from the Castro district decked out in loud colors, a riot of magentas, oranges, sapphires, rainbows of happy homos getting free condoms marching out the door with the badge of I Get Laid plastered on there foreheads accompanied by the sublime look on their faces that only a horny male can radiate. I waited outside observing the gay community while Andy went in and got his results. Gays are like the Jews relegated to history's ghettos they have found themselves in the dungheaps of humanity and carefully painstakingly rearranged the dung to form beautiful living communities. Fragile rickety alliances one borne by blood the other by sexual preference, both very odd ways to bring people together, but they did and both cultures had the ghetto sensibilities and lust for life that is lacking in the stuffed belly’s of there oppressors. A gay man, no matter how high on the social ladder is still first and foremost a gay man. Assuming of course he is open about it and very few are, but nevertheless you will find that those in positions of power that are gay tend to put that up first. I pity the first gay male president; his lot will be a rough one, along with the first woman, the first black, the first Hispanic. In America if you aren’t a straight white male you are a freak from the get go, the whole thing is set up, even the ones who aren’t persecuting you want to know about “your people” or what its like to be gay or black, are you friends gay? Are your friends black? The Jews have been here for long enough that the daft ignorant Martha’s vineyard morons who run things have about figured them out, its not tres chic to be Jewish anymore, sorry. But just about anything else and especially lesbians, from the scene around LA you would think that the vast majority of the population had just realized that lesbians existed. As the bottom feeders of the past begin to leave the pond and gain the notice of the so-called mainstream they are greeted on one side by hatred and on the other by incredulous fascination, either way you turn you are no longer human, you’re lesbian, you’re black, you’re Mexican, you’re gay, you’re fat, you’re a vegesexual, and then if we can wrap our feeble minded idiocy around that…. Then in a hundred years or so we just might remember that you are first and foremost a human. Welcome to land of the dead or should I say those who have died to the world? +Nietzsche talked and wrote a lot about the dead, the inhuman, the new philosophers he called them. A strange breed this those that turned there back on the so-called human values and proudly declared themselves in human. He believed that as time went on more and more would turn there backs and let the false pretense of the world die its horrid stinking death, and he was right, but he didn’t take into account the mutual growth of humanity. Humanity this loose leafed term through which all the pages of history are turned like that dream of idiots, humanity sprints through time in a straight line, the arrow launched by cupid that hit the apple in eve’s hand and sent it whirling to the far reaches of the galaxy. Beside, running parallel, but on a different set of track, the track of individuals, run the stream engines of Nietzsche's beliefs. All these artist of the future to which he spoke are dead to the world. The world won’t give them so much as a hasty acknowledgement, the world is still trying to figure out why some people like boys and some like girls, the world can not look itself in the mirror it slinks like a shamefaced soldier who ran from the battle to the comfort of his own dead mothers bosom. The world rots on top of the dead god’s cunt. Head stuck to the primordial womb like imbeciles or children that suck their thumbs. Look at all the pretty things, lovely things, look at what we have built, look at what we can do! Look at all the pretty pictures; hear the pretty stories and sleep tight at night! Never never dare to question the underlying fundamentals shake up your field if you must but leave the essential framework of shithouse alone. And yet we crawl down here in the basement where you pay us no mind and slowly like industrious beavers we gnaw at the wood frame of the house the monkeys built, the house that world trembles in fear of us and we will bring it crashing down one day, the beavers, the termites, the wood fungi, the decay always wins in the end. Children of the true warmth know that, they watch it, they live it, first they eat themselves out and then they turn their back and die sinking out of sight, but they are not gone, no they are here. + +Faith dropped inonus around seven wanting to take e to dinner. I was more than happy to ditch the on The Road party; I always hated Kerouac’s Jock/Buddhist inanity and I definitely didn’t care to hang out with bloated egos dedicated to recreating that inanity. Faith was wearing tight black leather pants and a thin strapped sleeveless shirt that barely contained her breasts. I would have followed her gladly right aross the Styx, but she only wanted Italian food and patio seating so we went to ldkjadlkj and sat under the soft glow of heat lamps. It was an eerie little patio, the heat lamps burned the pea soup fog off so that the air was damp, but clear about twenty feet up and then dissolved into a misty whiteness that acted as a kind of raised outdoor ceiling. Bread and salad arrived without a word from either of us —a mark of great restaurant. When food is served without being requested there is a hint of what lies at your finger tips, it whets the appitie andopens up a world of edible delights that seems more mysterious and inviting than the simple words of the menu. It wasn’t just bread either, it was flatbread fried and delicately coated in fine strips of lox with sprinkles of capers and sprigs of parsley. Nina insisted on a bottle of cabarnet before anything else. I studied her face as she prattled on about the various wines her then boyfriend had introduced to her. She had a nose for wine, Faith, she hardly needed her boyfriends help, in fact it was Faith that had gotten me on the endless wine kick that made me in terrible standing with the average red blooded beer drinking males that I tend to have as friends. I remember the first night I met Nina or remet Nina or something. Actually the first night I met her she was do to leave in the morning for Paris so little happened, I forgot all about her while she was gone and then one night she showed up again. It turned out she had been back for some time and was seeing a clothing designer who lived somewhere in a loft downtown. We sat at the bar and drank for a while and then she hatched this crazy plan to get back at the designer boyfriend… we ended up breaking into his loft and stealing two bottles of Merlot, kfjlkdj private reserve (I know this because Faith made the bottles into candle holders…); we then drove back across town to Golden Gate Park where we sat in moonlight and looked at the twinkling lights of Sausilito. There was a little kissing, maybe even some groping but it has faded into memory and now as she prattled about Cabrenate and Merlot and Pinots and whatnot all the kissing and groping is definitely gone and there is only this strange lovable girl Faith, that is more beautiful than anyone I have ever gone to bed with, buti have no desire to go to bed with her. It sets me in a weird mood to spend time with Faith. She makes me question my value system and what I want… that is to say that I want her and yet I don’t want her and this leaves a sort of tension in the air that makes everything prickily and more alive than when I am with most others. That’s why I love her. +“What are you going to do with yourself Sil?” She has that look of concern in her eyes, it a look that says far more than the question itself. Faith knows me well enough to know that I can take care of myself, but she likes to know that plans before everyone else. +“dunno, no plan yet…” +“At least you left that awful ogre…” she laughs. Amy hated Faith. Women always hate women that they know are more attractive than themselves. Faith had quietly waited in wings while Amy ran her course and now that she was gone Faith could finally gloat. It was a healthy gloat; afterall she knew well enough that it wasn’t going to last. “I told you… you run off with these girls and don’t talk to me for practically years… but you always come back to me.” Her face lit up with a kind of pride. “that’s why we don’t have sex… I love you too much to let you go getting possessive and jealous and whatever it is that you men turn into when you stick your little things into us….” She laughed again. +“We could always give it a shot… you know maybe test the theory…?” +“No.” She popped a stray caper in her mouth and smiled sarcastically. +“Okay. But I still think we could have some great sex….” +“I don’t doubt that, but I don’t need great sex as much as I need great friends. Besides,” she cracked that mischievious smile again, “your cock doesn’t have dual speed settings and a clit massager….” +“You don’t know that for sure….” +“Uh huh… call it an educated guess… what do you think of the wine” +The wine, the wine, my dear Faith I am not thinking of the wine…. But now that you mention it its heavy and sweet, an ambrosial wine. Quite good. +“Yes the wine… its good…” +“Stop it… I am wearing clothes you know… +“Yes it’s a true tragedy…” +“Sil you’re starting to annoy me… haven’t you had any sex lately?” +“Ya friend of Andy’s… she wasn’t very good though.” +“What do you mean?” +“I don’t know… somepeople have an enthusiasm for sex and others don’t you know? Well she didn’t” +“too bad.” +“ya” +Dinner swings through; Linguini with clams, more bread, more wine, more wine more wine. +“So you love this guy or what?” +“um it’s a bit early to decide something like that… hey can I ask you a question?” +“Sure.” +“Have you ever not been able to get a hard on?” +“Umm, well that’s depends how you define things… there have been times wheniwas so drunk I had the good sense not to try having sex….” +“No I mean not drunk or anything… you just couldn’t get it up….” +“Faith I’m only twenty seven… ask me again in twenty years… why?” +“I dunno the other night we were fooling around and I tried to go down on him and it wouldn’t get hard… I mean I didn’t want to have sex or anything, I just wanted to go down on him. I don’t know if its me? Am I doing something wrong?” +“I wouldn’t know obviously… um how old is this guy?” +“thirty eight.” +“Oh shit. God please let me be able to get it up… I wonder about that sometimes though. I mean I hear these sorts of stories or read the in magazines and such, but it’s a problem I can’t relate to… yet. It must be weird I mean if you were to just whisper a few words in my ear I could fuck you right here on this table… they tell me that I am well past my sexual peak, but I don’t see it. I think it mainly happens to menwhose wives get fat, whose jobs are stressful you know factors I don’t have in my life….” +“But what if its me?” +“ya so? What do you do when you’re down there?” +“Uh I don’t know the usual I guess…” +“The usual what the fuck is the usual? Is that like where you walk into the bedroom and he says I’ll have the usual?” +(laughing) “no you know I lick and nibble and suck and I don’t know….” +“the secret is all in the hands.” +“The hands?” +“Yes the right combination of hands and mouth and saliva, saliva is key… you have to be messy about it. Theres a little licking a little sucking then the hands… and don’t forget we have balls… woment seem to forget that we have balls. Give em a lick or two… real gentle there though otherwise it hurts…. Jesus I’m turning myself on.” +“I do all that stuff… that’s the usual…” +“then its him… maybehe had an off night….” +After dinner we walked around Sasalito for a while and Faith decided that we had to go into a paint your own pottery store and, well, paint some pottery. I chose a giant ashtray and swabbed it dully in mottled gray paint. Faith went in for a rice bowl and was adorning it with fairly intricate patterns of astrological symbols and such. +“I got a tarot reading the other day… the woman told me all about my realtionship with Garret; it was kind of creepy she was pretty accurate…. She also said I would get a roll in a film soon and the next day my friend brian called and wants me to do his student film….” +“You really believe all that shit don’t you?” +“I am a very religious person, you know that.’ +“Ya I know, its just refreshing, I forgot about it. Everyone I know is so cynical about things like that, we’ve all chased down the mystery for so long its not a mystery anymore. Its good the hear someonespeak with a little Faith in their voice. No pun no offense.’ +“None taken. But thank you.” +“It was telling Andy the other day that I think intelligence has become synonamous with cynical… some sort of legacy of Frued and Neitchze. It might be that all these new fangled explanations of the world, like psychology or science in general are easier to understand than something that requires faith, but they loose something… you know? I think to be completely convinced of something, even if you find yourself indisbelieve years later, is one of life supreme joys. I love to fall. Love to be taken in…it doesn’t matter if it’s the latest theory of physics or the ornate world of new girlfriend.. the thing is never that important it’s the feeling I get from falling in completely and being emersed and saturated with belief. Fantastic.” +“I know. That’s why I didn’t get mad at you for ignoring me for two years.. when you were with Amy, I knew that you didn’t love her you loved the idea of her… I knew you would be back someday.” She smiled at me. It was a smile of supreme happiness of one who was falling… it was beautiful to look at, floated there in the air, not teeth not gums not flesh and blood, but some understanding of the universe that came from the fall. The fall of man. The redemption of being human. I painted a whale on the bottom of the ashtry as an after thought. +Walking home we debated whether or not modelling made one stupid and whether or not Johnny Depp and Uma Thermin could produce the ultimate manifestation of DNA or whther the forces of nature would intervien and create a moster. And of course the tradgedy inherent in the fact that we would never get to know. Faith kissed me at her steps and went inside. I sat down to smoke a cigarette, but her new beau pulled up so I slipped off. I didn’t want him to get any wrong ideas about the situation. As I left I tried to through a little sexual energy his way, maybe send it across invisible wires that run between all of us. Walking home on the deserted nighttime streets I wondered why I had stopped going for my walks. I made a mental decision to start them up again. Andy was gone when I got back, but I didn’t care. I stayed up for while smoking under the cover of inky still darkness watching the blue grey rings of smoke drift about in the still air. + + +It turned out that Andy didn’t have the herps but he did have a gall bladder infection, which came as a surprise to both him and me, as neither of us knew we had a gall bladder. We had heard of them, but never had to actually realize we had one, and I thankfully still didn’t. Andy was right Laura did want me to give her a lay. She had set her sights on me and made me her knew goal. I felt awkward at the house and began to only come home late at night. In the mornings I wandered down to the university area and had coffee and listened to the poor witless school children drivel about test and papers and things that had to be done. It made me feel better about my life. To listen to them you would think that the entire world is one series of deadlines to be met and knowledge to be regurgitated, even the ones who had passion only had passion for the ideas, they had no passion for the act of living, they were bending life to fit the ideals. Why it never occurred to them to bend the ideals to fit the life is beyond me, but then from where I sit looking back I do occasionally see myself at times back when I was waiting for something to happen back when it thought that the world “happened. +After coffee at the café I head over to Starbucks and wait around for a cute girl to pull up and then, positioning myself casually just outside the door, I wait until they come out and ask for ride downtown, if they happened to be head that way, if not I sometimes just went wherever they were willing to take me. Sometimes I spent the day with one of them, but more often I spent the day trying to find a ride back to the city, occasionally barring all other methods I would call Andy and have him pick me up. Once I made him drive all the way the Stintson Beach to get me during rush-hour traffic, but he never complained. +There were those days though when Laura got me before I had a chance to escape. She tried so hard and without ever coming right out and saying it either, maybe she was too scared that I would have said no, but she never just asked. It would always start with a casual question, what was I doing? Did I have plans? Would I like to go for walk? Would I like to have a beer and watch a movie in her room? Of course I never had plans and when I ran out of excuses I would end up in her room watching movies or listening to records and drinking beer or gin; she would feign interest in whatever I said and I feigned interest in what she said, we developed a wonderful sense of conversation where one of us would tell a story with the appropriate prompts so that the other would have a chance to say his lines. It was an elaborate daytime drama played out in her room, the conversations were never between two people they were lines read off a script that life had handed us. Sometimes I almost lost my will and gave in, give her a lay I figured let her have some, but I knew my heart wasn’t in it and when your hearts not in sex is mechanical and disgusting. To have lust there has to be heart, wild robust hearts full of consumption like feasting leopards tearing at the raw meat with fury, but if I had gone ahead she would have turned leopard and I would have been eaten alive in my boredom. Not that she wasn’t attractive, she was beautiful, but she just didn’t have any life to her. +With Laura everything was an example of something she had read, there was no green life, it was buried under the words of the past before it ever had a chance to come out and shine, it stretched in the early morning and then bam!, a ton of bricks fell on its head. It had all been done and said before according to Laura; I would hardly start a sentence and she would tell me I was paraphrasing someone whose name I had never heard. She was most fond of discussing philosophy because Andy had told her that I used to study it. I had the conversation down to where I only listened for my cues, the interim’s I spent musing over her figure trying to appreciate the subtleties of it, the nuances that only a lover is supposed to know. She wanted me in the flesh but it liked her in my mind, a character I never could have sketched. A creature so bizarre I wouldn’t have believed it if it were a dream. Her words tore out and ripped the room to shreds, but I sat silently meditating on the core of existence, the body, the body electric he sang… +“Who is you favorite philosopher,” she would ask. How is one to answer such a question? My favorites were the ones I disagreed with the most which always led to arguments between us, with her accusing me of philosophical treason for calling Nietzsche (her favorite) a bore. He was so I thought then, quite a bore always moping about the miserable condition of mankind which is all good and well, but what of the inherent beauty what of the passion what of the celebration? The majority of Americans may be clinically insane, but down there in the cesspool of life lies the forgotten individual and the individual can do remarkable things with him or herself even in the midst of a mad world. Nietzsche was blinded by the numbers, couldn’t see the tree for the forest as it were. Or I would say Whitman and she would correct me saying he was a poet, not philosopher and I would say poetry is the true philosophy and then she would launch like a rocket into the space of her own carefully constructed latticework of belief. +“Poets serve different ends they reach for the gut, the emotions, the philosopher applies cool reasoning and evaluates with out judgement. Poets are too hot headed to be philosophers…. A philosopher sees things as they are, even if that is only as they are to him, it is still the way they are… or they way they see it, they reorder the world. That’s what I am trying to get at, poets observe the world and philosophers reorder it.” +At times like that I wanted to strangle her for my own sanity, but legally all I could do was defend the Leaves of Grass. “Poets reorder the world just as much as the next man, that’s all we do in fact we reorder the world to suit whatever it is that we happen to believe. We only see what we want to see, because that is all we can see. If you believe that blades of grass are nothing more than cellulose and water than that is all you will see when you look at grass. But if you shut your ridiculous preconceived notions off for a minute and lie down on the grass then you might for just one instant start to see the world from the grasses point of view and you will notice that grass does not philosophize, it just is.” +That particular day I was in a bad mood and things ended with me refusing to discuss anything further until she read Science and Sanity. I loaned that precious tome to her though I already knew she wouldn’t get much past the second introduction. I led the horse to water let her drink for herself. I never expected her to actually read it. I gave up on philosophy for the simple reason that it failed to accurately resonate the world of existence. For me the chaotic registers of the poets and novelists captured the illusive passion of reality far better in the garbled code of metaphor and warm blankets of experience they wrapped existence in a picture of song, a symphony of anarchy that matched the one I saw when I walked down the street. The world of the philosopher is like Laura’s world, its cold confusing and you never get what you want and even though you know that you can’t get it you keep trying all the same playing out the uneventful script that is the martyr’s. +One day I kissed her to see what she would do, if she would act on restraint or try to take me like she wanted to, if she had I would have let her for the simple reason that at least then she might be alive for just one second. I would have liked her to rape me, to show some life to her, but there was nothing, she hung on my lips romantically like the stale ideas that hung on them when she talked, there was nothing but romance and empty meaninglessness in her. I figured at least the kiss had sealed it and I knew if ever I was down on my luck she would take me in and that was far better than love or passion for a man in my circumstances. + +I have taken to wandering the neighborhood again, playing word association games with myself trying to see how much of my childhood I can remember. I can never get back beyond the memory of walking down a trail in a forest somewhere. I am singing a song as I walk, singing a song with my mother and father. We are hiking down a mountain somewhere. But I can’t see the forest; I can’t hear the song or see my parents. I just have the fuzzy out lines of it, I called my mother one evening and she said that I must have been around four or five which only served to further depress me, I hate that some people can remember as far back as their crib while for me even kindergarten is a stretch. +Coit Tower is beautiful at night, a proud phallic overlook for city teeming with sex. San Francisco is the only city in America where you actually run across lover in alleys, exhibitionists in front of glass windows on the hill tops and discreet blowjobs in movie theatres, fitting then that it should have a giant concrete cock of light looking over it. The trip across town from Andy’s place off Ashbury, through the mission district and little Italy to Coit is like a sociological tour. The Mission District has many of the landmark houses that you have seen of San Francisco, the fronts are colorful and happy, but is artificial and only looks colorful and happy in postcards. In reality they are at the catacombs of the city, the doldrums south of the equator. They are home to the middle class city dweller an aging variety of Consumerus Americanus, usually grouped with the yuppies but wrongly so. These peculiar neighborhoods are the breeding ground of the suburbs. These are in fact why there are suburbs. The Mission is set back from downtown and is a primarily residential neighborhood steeped in the lukewarm water of mediocrity. It is here that librarians, office managers, public officials and otherwise uneventful people arise from, and it is here that the whole suburban utopia of better newer shinier gadgets was born. Here the old gadgets stick out and show the datedness of their species, they were overrun, can no longer keep up, the ones trampled down on the battlefield of progress, they did not win, they failed even to retreat, they lie where they fall waiting for stretcher bearers to carry them off to the morgue. They have cellular when they should have digital, they had beta when they should have waited for VHS, and they got the eighttrack player installed in their car about a month before the advent of the cassette. This post war generation turns around in profound confusion, they are assaulted on all sides by constant change, they have felt out of control ever since the first greaser put a comb in his pocket and took one of their wives behind the college stadium and showed her what sex should be like. The wanted to discover the world and instead they built suburbs because it seemed to be the thing to do. +I feel at home amongst such failures, we share the common wounds of the dead, though theirs were not fatal, they are as good as dead the world turned its back on them and they wander about like zombies, preoccupied with the future, but to cautious to gamble on it. They are always going somewhere, doing something when all the while a little voice is driving them mad whispering sweet perfumed fables in their ear like: it is all nothing…. They never say hi or wave like gays do further down in Castro, they don’t try to hustle you like the Hispanics and blacks downtown, there are in fact no homeless in this neighborhood, better to lie in a rat infested dumpster downtown than to lie here. Makes you nervous, a neighborhood where people won’t sleep on the streets, whether its for fear of the cops or the thugs makes no difference they’re both in the same league. The denizens of the Mission District all walk with there eyes glued to the ground if they are alone or glued to the person they are with, the world slips by unnoticed by them, they are creatures of habit, serial killers never plague them, they are too easy. +Like this guy… he is right here everyday like clockwork, like me in fact, but his routine is so old and I am such a recent addition that I don’t register, he never turns his head. I stop and block his path and he goes absently around the back of his car up the driveway as though I was invisible. I begin to feel curiously invisible, a bit separated from the tactile world, unsettled and hyperaware I continue up the steps that lead to Coit tower, I feel as if I am teetering on the razor edge of awareness. About half way up I hear the muted grunting of what sounds like a television set playing pornography. I snap my head to the side and listen because sex sounds move at a frequency to which I am acicular, they moves in waves like any other, but sex has another more primordial quality, just beyond the edge of conscious hearing. It makes you turn your head involuntarily, like a traffic accident or a machine gun at the family reunion in Kansas. +I follow the sound climbing up the hill instead of using the path, about half way from where I left the steps to the top I turn around and see a couple fucking doggie style in there couch in plain view of all the world, except that all the world is hidden by trees. I light a cigarette and watch them go at with wild animal abandon, not like most rich women I have been with who are so disinclined toward any sort of dirtiness be it on the linens or during sex. These two have taken Woody Allen to heart; sex is only dirty when you do it right. She comes before I am halfway through my cigarette and sits down on the couch to suck him off. It comes as electrostatic charge this feeling of peeking into the lives others, of watching them harmlessly, but yet they would likely have jumped up had they seen me, so strange that we like to hide the most personal of human expressions and yet will kill and degrade each other in the streets before live television crews. It all stems from not showing any cock in R-rated films, but that’s not important right now. Right now her warm mouth is drawing him out and I am leaving, not wanting to see the end of the show, preferring to leave it eternally occurring in memory like a loop of film flapping in an empty theatre…. +Memories shrouded in gauze and muslin, filters that are colored and toned by what I brought to them when they happened… mixing like oil and water with what I bring to them now. Take for instance Mexico City: I remember Mexico City in hazy brown discolored way, but it’s not the smog, it’s the nature of memory —the nature of my memory. The images overlay each other like a photomontage. I see it in moving pictures: cut to a shot of the subway, sad brown faces and I want to know why they aren't on vacation like me… lay on top of it an image of pyramid excavation digging up and trying to solve the Mayan Caper. Years ago you would. Understand she was standing right next to me and then...Warm sweet smelling cab and my father says “hey, look a Kentucky fried Chicken” and sure enough I see one. Americana right in the middle of foreign chaos it threw me into a different world, a sudden realization that life is not ordered like the clockwork metaphors I learned in grade school. It became in that instant a chaotic kaleidoscope of astonishment and splendor … the shock of fried chicken. +Everything became focused up into the sun; it burned in fantastical visions that existed only for me, leaving me alone and for a long time afraid. Not fear in the sense that you feel threatened, it is much worse, not conscious, it just lingers in the back of the mind occasionally eliciting a paralysis that would haunt me for a while and then fade again in the face of day to day activities. +It’s a fear that leaves you like a woman I saw once stone still and shell shocked, stuck right in the middle of this enormous arch in Canyonlands National Park, Utah. She just stood there unable to move, feeling the digging hooks of unbridled terror burning into her brain and creating an endless and spellbinding feedback loop that forbids you to move. It anchors your mind right back in the primate body because you feel it and yet rips you right out of the very fabric of collective reality and propels you into strange land where there is no you. I watched her sit there unable to help herself, doubtless staring at the two thousand-foot drop off on both sides of her and the meager four foot wide sandstone arch that was holding her there. She was suspended in mid air, seeing herself for the first time the way we are: naked cold and deathly afraid. + But the cab driver just laughed and said, “here in Mexico City there is no Kentucky Fried Chicken, maybe Kentucky Fried Cat, Kentucky Fried Dog, But definitely no Kentucky Fried Chicken.” He smiled this crooked smile revealing gold caps and over moist gum structure that was so large it seemed to be slowly crawling right down over his teeth. He then sternly advised in all seriousness against eating there, of course I wouldn't have anyway; he merely gave me a rational reason for that. And all this was years before I would ever get to India to learn that, first there is a mountain, then there is no mountain, then there is... +I realize my legs are moving as fast as the random associations of the mind and I am in North Beach again without even realizing that that was where I was headed. I slow a bit and notice the damp cold, a glance at the sky reveals the story —gray again—nighttime fog in the middle of April. +Weather everywhere is getting more severe, mudslides, floods, droughts, tornadoes. It’s as if something really big were building up to vent on us. The Ancients placed great stock in weather and saw storms as harbingers that something was wrong within the tribe. Many of them associated the outside as intimately connected to the inside of the tribe. Educated people (historically that reads white) first scoffed at such notions, but now two thousand years of theories later we have elaborate sciences which are beginning to prove the simple wisdom that tribal people know just from observing life +Jostling through the crowds of Jackson street brings back tapeloops of Boston —Harvard square—fall—the Charles River slips by without a sound, the streets corral throngs of people— onlookers drunk beyond comprehension of what they were there to look at— they stumble out of bars and lurch through doorways like grenades rolled out on the street. Inside the Radcliffe boathouse a reserve of surplus energy is released in muscular spasms that pulse in orgasm. Her breasts pool salt onto my tongue. Her flesh is hard and metallurgic turning brittle under my hands, the life is slowing slipping out of her, out of the sewers of life up celestial heights of orgasm, among the eagles, the screaming eagles, the German philosophers sitting like a nineteen ten bankers awaiting the thief. The tape is endless, looping across eons, cultures, genetic hardwired associations to the galaxies, interstellar abbreviations of life. Cool hard water distilled in my mouth and then she falls from my arms like a limp rag and I am cast down a tube a tunnel endlessly falling, clattering of the walls building speed, a vacuum with no terminal velocity I want to reach out for limbs for human hands to catch me…. I scream and there is no sound save the rush of air passing my ears and finally I settle in the twinkling light still shining from above and I relax to the falling sensation no longer concerned surrendered eternity forever to remain here now and then the light goes dim… the taxi’s in times square… Truman Capote… An auburn haired girl I liked in seventh grade… tumbling of great vistas into nothingness into all timelessness…. + + +It was inevitable that Dean would come for me, we always rendezvous at some point and then we set off for a while and bounced apart again, things had been that way for as long as I can remember. Things had taken a turn for the worse. Andy was leaving for Costa Rica to work on a cruise ship. Apparently the late night talks had not been all smoke screen as took them, to make matter worse I could have a hob myself, but raising the air fare seemed impossible. In a vain effort I started panhandling downtown and serving cocktails one night a week at club 36 where he worked, but money was hardly rolling in, and when it did it left just as fast. The panhandling I enjoyed, it reminded me that people weren’t such horrible creatures after all, when you beg you are forced to look for Emerson’s little spark of divinity in everyone. +Sometimes panhandling was just something to do while you were reading; a way of making some money for the age old magic of deciphering words into images, into thoughts, into life. I would get up before dawn and catch the first train downtown. Around five the flow picked up, traders, analysts, number theorists, restroom attendants, secretaries, janitors, the streets were thriving in the still murky dawn. In an hour, in New York City the grand number game would pitch off on another day of “trading.” What they are trading and why was totally lost on me, but I liked to watch them go about it. By six I would have in the neighborhood of ten dollars, sometimes more sometimes less, but when the bell sounded six the number of people on street declined. + I was reading Robert Anton Wilson’s Prometheus Rising, a wildly fascinating tour through quantum physics, modern psychology, and ancient shamanic ecstasy. I had never encountered a mind that could so formidably wrangle about entire worldviews with such succinct explanations and clarity of language, always with a sense of humor too. Irish authors are geniuses at working that quirky clever humor of theirs into the most unlikely of places; I thought of Joyce, Wilde, McKenna, even Beckett is hilarious to see on stage. Its actually more fun to watch the audience watch the play; you understand Beckett’s logic much better from observing it in action than from him telling it to you, but he is there like a ringleader assembling the drugged lions so that you can safely walk amongst them. Beckett saw the emptiness of the game and stood in the middle of the court slowly, inanely bouncing the ball to see if anyone would notice. + The Irish seem to know best how to write and how to drink, how to live you might say if you had my view of things. Of course it doesn’t do anything for you in this country. In America if you want to succeed you have to suck seed, the seed of fat cat bosses, lawyers, politicians, Hollywood stars, washing machine salesmen, sitcoms, the latest way to get your socks whiter, the newest car, the biggest television… plenty of buying, consuming and swallowing of the preverbal seed around here. Precious little living though, a melting pot was never where one ought to have looked for the distinctive flair that marks man as alive. In becoming individualists we lost ourselves; all that’s going on in American thought is newer and cleverer way of differentiating between the individuals, creating categories. A carrot here, cabbage there, and celery, beans, beets, broth, turnips, potatoes, and freeze-dried madmen to spice the grand stew. Everybody fits in a category, everybody can be marketed to on somehow or other. Ordering chaos and turning the stew into pureed banality might be the only thing we ever accomplish before the whole shit-house country turns into a police state. It was demoralizing to be American, you were either a human or citizen and the two remained separated as violently and far more successfully than church and state. + And what of the separation of church and state? It sounds good in the ear but by the time it hits the brain its curdling like old milk. It didn’t turn out quite the way it was supposed to, instead of separating them we just threw away the church and made the State into god. Maybe it was inevitable and we were merely the ones to do it, we had needed a new god for a long time when this country came to fruition—might as well give the state a try. Someone once said that the defining characteristic of Americans is that they will try everything wrong before they get themselves around to doing what they knew was right in the first place. Who better to head that racket than the State? Who better to make god? We’re heading the right direction maybe, god’s face is coming into view more and more and more people I meet are ready to wake up from the nightmare of history as Joyce put it. The history of god is no different: first he was everywhere, then he was in an animal, then he was in a building, then he was in some guy, now he’s in all our heads… can’t the man just sit still for a few centuries? No, God’s on the run doesn’t want to be found because he doesn’t think he’ll be liked when we find him. Same reason we off ourselves, every human action are a tiny suicide until we give up the ghost. + The conquest of death will be the end of science and then we’ll have flushed god out, left him nowhere to hide. In the mean time… alms for the poor? + And maybe another quarter drops from a passerby and jingles as it lands in my cup. I have learned not to look up; they don’t want you to. Non-confrontational begging is the wave of the future; it’s the atheist’s way of tithing. They never look at you, just drop some change in the cup as they pass never even break their stride. I had decided long ago that these busy nessmen and women were all raised in some flat monotonous religion like Presbyterianism, sheltered from god by money but still open to manipulation via guilt. I was guilt, a reminder, and the dogshit that made them remember they were dogs too. They made it quite obvious that giving was an odious task, one they would just as soon not do, but something compelled them nonetheless. Some mysterious lingering Presbyterian guilt, or perhaps it was a calculated attempt to cover their doubts, just in case there was a god of judgement they needed a few legal briefs in their corner, someone they could subpoena as a character witness before St Peter, as they tried to grovel and argue their way into heaven. Ah heaven! The good life! Wouldn’t it be great if we could still live in fairytales… perhaps I gave them a bit of childhood fairytale back, reminded them that at least they had things…. The rich need the poor that way, it gives them some comfort to know that there are less fortunate, makes them feel like they have gotten somewhere in their fervent march to the top of the national muck heap. +What they liked even more was to support street musicians and comic performers, the modern court jesters playing in the palace of the Everyman. The streets, the city lights, this was the group palace for the middle and upper class; high above it behind the thousands of mysterious glass stories those with real power and real money moved about in hushed whispers, prowling in the shadows and watching the show from above. It was Celine who said near the end of his life when someone asked him what he thought of the human race (an odd question to put to someone, but then Celine was an odd man), “I spit on you all from a great height” was the old boy’s reply. “I spit on you reaching great height” I would have said; I like it down here at the bottom in the trenchant, pitched battle for survival. The people were of a better character, more aware of the things that money can’t buy, namely anything of value. Wait till they start bottling the air my Dad used to say well Dad they have, in Mexico City —they sell it right there on the street corner. The swan song of the earth will be sung by asthmatics and the trumpets of the end days will be blown by lungs measuring out bottled air. Bottling the air! Things are fine, really! No more wars, no more uprisings, no more taxes... no more anything save the eerie hum of the refrigerator cascading about the silence of your house late at night. Hmmmmmmmmmm Hmmmmmmmmmmmm. It crawls cockroach-like over your face while you sleep, it perches on your forehead and listens to your heart beat —admires the cacophonous organic simplicity of human sleep. +I was out of town when Dean arrived, an old girlfriend, Leah Wright had seen me begging downtown and taken pity on me; she insisted on putting me up for a vacation. She was married and I could tell that her husband didn’t like me, but he thought I was funny and didn’t mind too much that I stay with them. They were both appalled to learn that I lived in a closet. He loved the I’m still in the closet joke of it, laughed like the honest farmboy that he was. After leaving her I lost track of Leah for a while; she went and married a Canadian farmboy who used to play hockey and now plays golf and he talked a lot about being a sports newscaster. It was a different life than what I had in the city, they were in the rather ritzy suburbs of Marin, a nice house tucked back in the near forest of the hills. It was the suburbs to be sure, but a suburb that was not artificially planted which made it livable even attractive sometimes. They ate three square meals a day and went work like the good little citizens that they were. I sat around all day smoking cigarette and typing in their garage because neither of them could stand smoking. After a week or so I started to run dry of ideas. I took to hoeing out a patch of land to plant them some tomato plants and it was as I was in fact planting the seeds that I saw Andy and Dean pull up. +I felt slightly ridiculous standing their looking at them, I had temporarily slipped into a mild dementia over the tomatoes, I was obsessing over the universe in great detail and then they got out of the bus. Dean looked ridiculous himself getting out of Andy’s VW bus in his customary suit and tie, it was an incongruous image and I couldn’t help laughing. Andy just stood on the running board and yelled over the car. +“Come on lets go!” +It was simple enough, I ran inside grabbed my bag and my laptop and threw them in the back of the bus. I ran back into the house and pilfered about for a bit looking for some stowed cash, I hit the jackpot in the middle of Leah’s g-string underwear, almost two hundred dollars. I grabbed it and scribbled an IOU to take its place, as an afterthought I held one of the g-strings up to my nose, it had the unmistakable odor of Tide. Nothing fecund in that house I realized, all the surfaces were clean to hide the smell of rot that permeated their flesh. I shuddered and ran out the door, I dove in and we headed off. + On the way into the city Andy got to telling Dean about his bar job and Dean was all gung-ho for it. Dean collected women the way some people collect art once he had them they never really left. He was telling Andy and I about his latest one Monique the strangest girl he’d ever fucked. He said she was dumb as nails and she didn’t even like him she just wanted to fuck. He said it was what he always wanted in a woman, but it was not a good as he thought it would be. Even she got to be a burden her said, “if its not love they want then its sex whatever it is the point is that they have got to have it all the time, it doesn’t matter what it is women must control it. I think its natural result of patriarchal society or maybe just human nature — you want what you can never really have….” + Crossing the bridge we got stuck in traffic and Dean took the opportunity to get out of his car and get a new cartoon of cigarettes. Andy and I were catching up on details, but then we realized that Dean had been gone for a few minutes and the car in front of ours had moved forward. I got out to find Dean and he came running up through me the keys and got into a car with some girl I had never seen before. +About three hours after we got to Andy’s Dean came over and the three of us headed to the kfjla bar. I wasn’t really of the mind to go there, but Dean insisted and I just found myself going along with the will of others. The sky bar is a swanky joint all decked out in purple lights with silent cocktail waitresses that never write anything down or say any acknowledgement or recognition and then mysteriously show up with drinks and then later the bill. The inside was done up in the stylings of a seventy’s porno set in the nineties —if you follow that. That sort of peculiar intangible decorating term art deco, which used to mean Miami Vice and now means feng shui. + We sat down in the corner and drinks appeared to Andy’s sign language gestures. Dean still hadn’t made any mention of the bridge girl and I was ready to drop the thought forever when he sets down his drink and launches into a story. + “Alright now the bridge thing, that was a forced experiment on my part a psychology experiment to see if I could meet someone on a bridge in traffic and go home and have dinner and then sex with them than I had decided that I would quit the newspaper and just slowly weave about the country burning down towns and whole cities behind me, but still being myself with out any worry of bills, rent, food all of it gone. The thing is though I didn’t figure I would be able to do it; in fact I didn’t really do it some other guy did it and I watched. It was a very surreal afternoon. She had two kids man that was weird, made me miss my daughter…” He stared off into space of brief sniped moment and then exhaled smoke. “I don’t know… I sort of had a deal with myself here… and now I’m not entirely sure I’m ready for what I thought would remain an abstract idea. I dunno fuck it why not? Why not make people my job? Can I earn their trust and tell them what they want to hear with such grace as for them to offer me food? Or money? Or their bodies?’ + Dean routinely subjects himself to these little psychology self-experiments in his quest to understand. He put considerable effort into it; he never when to college and I think that the experiments were what he used for his own little private college where he was the only teacher and only student. + “See Sil the thing is I came up to see how you were and now I realized that I was the one who needed some help. Shit man you were staying with Leah! My god how many years ago was that? And her husband too. He he well done.” + I was sleeping in their garage; it wasn’t like there was anything going on with her; I really did just need to get out of the city for a while and write. I was going bonkers though… I mean I felt fine now, but I was planting vegetables, but I figured if Dean saw it that way then who am I to correct him. Things teetered along like they would have any night any where and then something strange happened that had never happened to me before. After we had been there about an hour a guy bought a round of drinks for the house, which at this point must have been sixty people and certainly cost a pretty penny, but it happens every now and again. We got our free drinks and settled down again when the music was cut and guy jumped up on a barstool. He asked if everyone had their drink and then announced that he was closing the door and making the place into a private party. At that point people groaned and started yelling but he silenced them simply by raising his hand. He said he had bought us the drinks so that we could drink with him and from right now on all of us were guests at his party now patrons in his bar. He said that he had just asked his girlfriend to marry him and that she had said yes and he was very happy and wanted us to share in his happiness. He said that he wanted us to toast his new and he pulled her up onto the table next to him and we all clapped and he said that he had met her three years ago in this very bar and that she was the most important thing in his life now. He said that people always told him that you don’t meet someone in bars and he said that he was here to say that they were wrong and that whereever your heart leads you, you will find happiness. Or words to that effect. He carried on like that for almost ten minutes and then finally he sat back down and the music went on again, but everything was different now and people were talking across tables and they were moving across the room and strangers could be seen shaking hands all around us. Some sort of flood gate had been opened by the man; even I felt better though I was not looking for happiness I felt better know that someone who was had succeeded in the endeavor. + Suddenly instead of a bar the place gained some intimacy, it was a private party and we were all invited, we were alone together so to speak. Dean said that it reminded him of how he pictured an Italian wedding, like the one in Deerhunter and enormous party that could go on for days if it wanted to. He was right the place had an air of electricity to it as if now that there was a reason to be happy it could spread and affect all of us even though it really meant nothing to any of us. Same sort of thing the evangelists have always been doing from Christ on down to a Baptist revival in the rural south. What the man did was conquer that last human demon and he did it with simple heartfelt honesty and generosity. He succeeded in making all of us together, all of us suddenly human and frail, but not alone in our humanity, not alone in our frailty. The thing about modern Americans is that we like to think we are the big kind hearted freedom loving people of our mythology deep down we all believe that the world need our help with its problems and we all believe that we can solve them. There is no human event happening on the earth that we can not improve with our very presence and yet behind that when you strip away the mythology and look at the cold hard truth you see that we are mucking it all up. We are killing people to set them free and we ourselves are not free. We are not the happy go lucky people we think we are. We all carry this private despair around with us that wiggles around under our skin when we sleep at night. Just like we are destroying the world we are destroying ourselves and yet all it takes to rectify the situation is one man in a bar with a bottle of happiness. We came undone the little creatures under our skin popped out and ran away unable to live in the boiling cauldron of happiness. They were forced extinct by the change in environment, like the dinosaurs unable to adapt they died. + In their place came an air of enthusiasm a sense of shared adventure that was hitherto not present. The movement of bodies about seemed to stir it up in the air and soon it was fever pitched. Couples were dancing in the isles between tables, in corners shadows could be seen groping at each other and men clapped each other on the back while women cuckold in circles. Everywhere stories spun out, true ones, false ones, exaggerated ones, downplayed one, stories that rang out and were delightful no matter what they said. None of us were actually aware of what we were daying we just knew that it felt good to talk felt good to pour out our innards to strangers. Commiseration and celebration wrapped each other up like packages and dropped down the chimney from the grip of an invisible hand with red sleeve. + Five girls at the booth next to us can over and introduced themselves and soon we were all squished in together and talking like old friends. They were mostly from the university across the bay. Graduate students getting their MA’s in philosophy and heavy stuff, but we all tossed it about like it was cotton candy. We were at the circus and no matter if Plato or Nietzsche were on the ferriswheel because it was still a carnival and everything is welcome at a carnival. Thing kept up well past two when the alcohol stopped flowing. No one waned to leave we all felt like it would fall apart if we left the room. Finally around three large groups started to head off to various impromptu parties and we went with the girls back over to Berkeley where they had an enormous old house that they all lived in or at least most of them did. By that time we were all a little sketchy on the details of the situation. On the subway we all careened back and forth into each other with the way of the train. I was sitting forward in the car away from the main group with my arm around a girl who had said she was an art theorist. We had talked art theory in detail at the bar but now in wan of it all we just made out. We were deep into a tongue battle when catcalls and whistles were heard from the other end of the car. Everyone gathered around to watch us and we gave him or her a show. It seemed like the right thing to do at that moment some way of pulling everybody in together simultaneously intimate and yet encompassing all. We finally broke it off to breathe and there was a round of applause. Some one from the train had joined into the party; he and his friend were swept up by us, and they came all the way back to house. + Around four we finally fell asleep; I don’t think anyone had sex that night though there was plenty of groping and exploring going on. I passed out with my head between the girl’s legs. Around nine Dean kicked me and I opened my eyes to see him and Andy all dressed and ready to go. + “Come on man lets get some breakfast and go for a drive” + I got up and put my shirt back on. We went down Telegraph and all had huge omelets at ldjflkdjfl. Afterward we worked our way back to Andy’s stopping off for a drink at an Irish pub and some chocolate from Geridelli. It was early in the morning on a Thursday and no one was in Gerridelli square. It was pleasant; everything glowed. After another beer at Andy’s Dean talked me into coming and staying with him for a while. He needed some help at the newspaper and offered free rent and some money. I went for it on the condition that we drive down the long way, on highway one and stop off a few places, make of day of it. He agreed and we blew out of town around eleven. We had lunch in downtown Santa Cruz and went swimming at the nude beach just north of there. It was a beautiful June day on the coast. Seagulls circled low over the kelp beds and the sun was bright and warm without being hot. We ate sandwiches in silence with the voracious hunger of the hungover souls. Breakfast seemed like years ago. +From Santa Cruz down to Nepenthe we talked at length about Dean’ plan to prostitute himself which he had turned around so many times in his head that he no longer saw it as that. At most he was willing to concede that it was opportunistic, but didn’t see any real harm in it. I assured him that it was indeed harmful and would only tie him down to those that he was indebted to. I know Dean and I knew that he was not that mercenary; even if he had convinced himself that he was it would have faded eventually leaving him high and dry. I consented to working at the newspaper for a while to cheer him up. In Nepenthe we had dinner and walked along the bluffs watching the sea otters out in the kelp beds. The sunset was typical California beautiful, gilded light that slowly worked its way through the color spectrum from the first rays of orange then to fiery red and finally gentle purple hues that gave way to the blue green cover of darkness. Just south of Big Sur we cut over to the 101. +I’m not sure how we got on the subject, but we were soon talking about Rick. To say he was a friend would have been hyperbole, to say he was an enemy wouldn’t be accurate either. Rick was just kind of there. And then one day he wasn’t. He was one of those people that just kind of shows up without warning, without rhyme or reason, but he was there. He became the butt of most of our jokes; the biggest and best of which was supplied by his own so-called girlfriend. Her name was never worth committing to memory, but I do remember that night at the bar when she let it slip that Rick had a misshapen penis. Actually she didn’t just let it slip; she seemed to get a perverse little pleasure out of telling us that. + “Rick probably wore tighty-whiteys until he was seventeen.” Dean had no respect for Rick; I couldn’t blame him. Rick was nice enough, but there was something about his ignorant spoiled approach to the world that had grown increasingly repulsive over the years. + I started laughing, “actually he still wears them now.” + “Are you serious? Did he ever have a girlfriend?” + “Not since I knew him, not until her anyway.” + “So that’s why he puts up with her…” + “whadya mean?” + “I’m sorry she’s just foul… I mean Rick’s not a bad looking guy.” + “He’s kind of goofy though.” + “Ya. I guess, but she’s gross, have you seen her face?” It was a regretible reality that Rick must have faced every night when he climbed in bed. She was hideous. I used to wonder what he said to himself in the mirror when he confronted the fact that this was not the ideal woman that will be on the cover of magazines… probably he was consoled by the fact that she was willing to put out. With Rick’s rudementary grasp of the sexual act she was probably the best thing that could have happened to him because she was very likely the only person willing to show him the ropes. + “Which way do you think it curves?” + “You know its thoughts like that that I wish weren’t forced into my brain. I have this thing where if you say it I see it and there I am now its right there, his cock is in my brain, you put the guy’s cock in my brain….. I would guess its to the left.” + “Really I was thinking right, you know cause of the tighty-whiteys…” + “No well I don’t know maybe but most guys hang to the left. In my experience” + “I know, but I’m assuming he was a freak of nature all the way around you know?” + “I can see your point, but I mean have you ever met a righty? I mean I suppose there are righties out there but I believe they are the minority. I’m not sure why I believe that; I think I read it somewhere.” + “What do you read?” Dean was sitting up wide eyed. + “Oh you know The Lefty Times, it the official journal of the Lefty Alliance, a loosely organized federation of men dedicated to service of Lefty Cause.” + “The left Nut Cause?” + “Ya we take stands of issues that are important to the lefty voters and represent their interests in Congress. We’re actually going to have a table at Woodstock this year and MTV is putting out spot on right after total request live.” + Dean picked it up too and soonwe had constructed our own plans for world domination based somehow on the fact that if your cock hangs to the right there is something fundamentally wrong with you. I reeled it out like a politician or political consultant —a door to door whore in another universe. We switched it up after conquest, we instituted a new means of government, instead of voting for politicians they were forced to go door to door and perform for voters. Whatever sexually act the voter desired they had to go through with to get the vote. Then the voters picked their favorite and who became THE MOST EXAULTED COCKSUCKER as we renamed the office of president. It fell apart there and Dean went back to sleep. + I was left alone in this universe where ideas rule and sex is relegated to fulfilling basic mammalian urges. Here and there a handful experiment a little with tantra and Kundalina techniques. A desiple of reich and a fan of de Sade lurk around the edges of brains that lurk around the edges of bodies, but for the most part its hidden amongst ten maybe twenty friends and confdants to whom we dare share the “intimate” details of our sex lives. The thought depressed me and by the time I got to Dean’s apartment I was morbid. I flopped on the couch and fell asleep without word. Dream it off someone once told me; so I did. + + diff --git a/veryold/very old writings/gone book/Train iam.txt b/veryold/very old writings/gone book/Train iam.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a4adfed --- /dev/null +++ b/veryold/very old writings/gone book/Train iam.txt @@ -0,0 +1,104 @@ + I tried to sneak out of the stockyards in flagstaff, but rent-a-cop caught me. I worked my way out of it eventually, but that says nothing about right now. I am right now. Right now night feels torn apart by the clutching, broken-china voice of the wheels grinding uphill wailing the ancient Indian woman’s song. Song of what I am not sure, she speaks, they speak a different language something more primal, more guttural and I can not understand what they mean, but I feel it rattling its way up through my dangling feet, feel it in the vibration of the boxcar floor as it rattles and lurches across the uneven tracks. My head lists involuntarily, pulled downward by the inescapable gravity of the desert. Utah is laid bare in moonlight, harsh and forlornly beautiful it lulls the mind, spreads out ones thoughts like the dotted Juniper trees, creosote bushes, and gnarled twisted trunks of the mosquite; vast open tracks of sand and rock inhabit the empty spaces like waves of light in space, they exist but only as a vacuum as a reminder of emptiness. The moon is full tonight reflecting its pale solar continace across the land in imitation daylight, the mosquite lowlands are beginning to be usurped by once more by grasslands and Junipers of the high desert. +This train is slow, a plodding freighter loaded with something that is apparently in no great rush to get anywhere, it’s a better ride than the first on I hopped… that one was fast, blinding fast and I suffered from velocity sickness which is my name for the strange restless queasy feeling I had the entire time I was in that car. This train is slow lazy and I managed to befriend the brakeman; I am not hiding anymore I am not slinking about in the shadows. I am stretched out on a flatbed; an open car that the brakeman says will be filled with logs at some point through the Rockies. I haven’t decided yet if I will go that far, in the mean time, because we have to stop a lot for faster trains to pass, the brakeman will wait for me to get coffee and food provided I bring him some which I do without hesitation, I even buy it for him despite his protests. His name is Joe and originally he was supposed to drive me from the railyard in Flagstaff down to the sheriff’s station where I was to be book on several counts of trespassing, vagrancy (a fancy name for existence, which sadly is illegal in most places), and several others I am not sure of, but I talked him out of it. We reached a more amicable solution, one of mutual aid; I wanted to ride the rails and Joe wanted someone to talk to on his lonely ride from here to Denver. So today I sat up with him in the engine room where the whirling lights and strange computer guidance systems dragged us out of the pine forests of Flagstaff and across the windswept high country where for more than five hours we did not see a tree or any shrub save the endless seas of grass dancing like senoritas at the town fiesta. +Joe hails from the lexicon of true Americanism —individuality. He is a rustic grisly type of man, the kind that inhabit the backwater towns of the west, ornery you might say, but he is not ornery he is simply inhuman like me. Which is to say that humanity or ‘syphilization,’ as one misanthropic author referred to it, has no hold on Joe, false modesty, false politeness and false pretense have been shed here like dry useless lizard skin. Joe hails from somewhere older, livelier and healthier his ancestors are the men who lived beside ponds and didn’t write books, who hold court with the mysteries of the universe and don’t attend church, who know what life has taught them and who have there own ideas about morality, reality and humanity. Joe represents a rare breed one that should have flourished on this continent, but as in the case with a seed that never gets water, their lot is small and dwindling. +Joe could well be me in thirty years, he looks about sixty maybe younger but the years he has walked through have taken their toll. He has a salt and pepper scruff beard and piercing blue eyes; he told me about the war by which I think he meant the second world war; he hates Steven Spielberg, says it wasn’t like that movie at all; he has a wife in Moab and two daughters both married and living back east. His stories are endless and my patience is too so we drifted, undulating with the sway of the train, his words came out in growling whispers just loud enough to here over the noise of the wheels and the engine, but without yelling or even appearing to raise his voice. He talked with rhythm of the train, we went around a bend and Joe went in on the beach at Normandy, we started uphill and Joe moved out west after the war, we went through a tunnel and Joe fell silent mid sentence. That kind of creeped me out, but when we emerged back into the blinding midday sun he started into his courtship and marriage without missing a beat and I learned that for Joe, when you are underground it is best not to talk. +Lying on my back trying to piece his life together I get lost, lost in the stars. The moon is to my back but in front down near the horizen the stars are visible, scant few tonight but they are there; the invisble the inky blackness that is between them is the pure white void of space. It is the void, the spaces in between them, the vast open empty tracks of sky, the darkness that is the platinum setting into which little diamonds, rubies, amethysts, and emeralds are laid… it is there that life exists in between the arbitrary line of reality and phantsmal yawning mouth of imagination. Look at the stones, the setting, the band, but none of it is so beautiful as the empty space between her finger in which all life hides. The space that allows it to pass through your hair, to fit your fingers, to stroke your chest, kneed your back and for the space and the space alone you should be grateful. Grateful that there is emptiness for without there would be nothing. I am grateful for you, I am grateful to all the spaces in between so that you can ignore them so that you can continue to fill them with jealousy, with fear, without understanding, but do not be afraid everything is okay…. +The night sky was thrown into being by the great god badger who in an effort to steal it from the last world accidentally pulled to hard and it went soaring up over his head where it stuck to the ceiling of life. No Hopi mythology there, just my educated opinion, just how it looks from here... But I am not thinking about the sky right now I am just looking at it; I am thinking about the Indian town back on the reservation where I bought us dinner. I bought cornmeal cakes and beans from a wizened old Navaho woman who inhabited an abode hut that glowed orange in the setting sun. The store was closed but the woman approached me asked if I wanted to buy dinner, I did and she took me to her hut; in the middle there was a fire and a pot of food on it along with too smudge faced Indian girls maybe four or five years old. They watched me intently in silence with enormous liquid brown eyes that seemed irrigated with understanding far beyond the physical age of their bodies. As the old woman wrapped the corn cakes and beans in foil I got lost in a strange hobbit-like land where the true secrets of the universe were about to be revealed as beans and corn bread seen through the eyes of a child, it was a pregnant moment. Then she brought me to by insisting that I take one of her chocolate Jesus statues for desert. I thought about a Tom Waits’ song, about a minister I knew once who wouldn’t allow his parishioners to sell donuts at church and about the good Jesus himself; what must he think if he really was the son of god and really is watching, what must he think of being molded in wax, filled with chocolate and wrapped in colored foil? +I thought that Joe, being a Mormon by conversion might be offended, he struck me as a serious guy when it came to religion, but he just laughed and laughed said “what will they think of next?” or words to the effect and he devoured Christ’s chocolate body. Finally I thought as I watched Joe eat, someone is enjoying the body of Christ. And even now I think, in arrogantly retelling history, that if Christ was indeed the son of god he will come down here tonight in fire and brimstone and he will extend a hand out to the two men, the only two men who ever took of his body and ate with lust, with vigor with the true enjoyment of being alive, for if there is one thing undeniable out here it is that we are alive. We may not being doing anything, we may be talking or staring at the passing scenery through the dirty cockpit window or we may be climbing on the roof of a boxcar, but whatever we are doing we fundamentally alive. I say this because there is no reason for humans to exist out here at all. We lack the specialization of desert evolution, we are not covered with barbs and spikes, we do not have thick skin which can hold water seemingly indefinitely, we are pulpy fragile creatures we ought to be dead, but somehow we are not and we are more alive because of it, we are aware. We are here by an act of will —our own. It takes an act of will to realize that you are alive that is my revelation for tonight. +I light a cigarette and throw back the sleeping bag, it is September and the night is cool, I throw on my jacket and walk to edge of the car and let my feet dangle off the side. We are doing about forty I would guess, fast enough to do some serious damage if I fall, but slow enough to study individual plants as they pass by at about ten yards away. I have never been to Coney island, but for me this is an amusement park the landscape itself is so alien as to remain forever fascinating. It illuminates a part of my personality that is as esoteric as this desert. We are picking up speed and heading downhill into the canyon country. I know this because Joe showed me the maps, pointed out scenic spots when I ought to sleep and when I ought to be awake and amazed, but I like it all. Sometimes the less scenic things are the more beautiful they become, that quite ineffable sense of beauty which require the careful turning of the eye to detect; such as a trash strew alley that you find yourself staring at after waking up in a gutter behind a bar in SoHo. Or the way the smog lifts slightly almost imperceptibly off the mountains surrounding Mexico City everyday around seven o’clock. +Or the way this juniper tree is sitting alone clinging to the side of the canyon wall able to exist in the slightest most overlooked fissure surrounded by a monolith of compressed sandstone which yields nothing, there is only the one tree here. That this tree could be able to survive is miraculous, but in end explainable, what is not explainable is me, that I should be here, that is should be right here on this train, at this moment, staring at this tree is truly miraculous. I was not scattered to the wind with thousands of my fellow seeds, I did not lodge in a crevasse, I was not carried by wind, I did not get just the right amount of sunlight and water. I was planned from the beginning, I nice addition to a nice couple who were themselves nice additions to an already nice town that was part of nice and highly advanced civilization almost at the end of its second thousand years of existence. All my life is orchestrated by something, pushed and pulled about by forces which can be explained with, goddesses, DNA, evolution, badgers, crows, old women, trister poets, visionary superbeings of alpha centary, but the end conclusion by all humanity it seems is that something is controlling things. There is no freedom for me, no wind to carry me, no water or soil to nourish and no light by which I can grow. There is no visible thing gravity that pulls on me, there is nothing tangible about DNA, I live in betseen all mythology sandwiched like a chucalwalla in a sandstone crevasse. I have learned infinite things, made them finite, knowable. I have built great castles, great monuments, great societies, great people and torn them all down again to start over. I have lived a thousand lonely huddled nights from bearskin to tapateries to the silk sheets of Manhattan nights; I have climbed every mountain peak slide down the cree and talus slopes of meeting with pharoahs, Voudans, with moses and god; I have held a billion women lovingly in my arms and give birth to a trillion children through all historyies wombs from Sarah to Satan all filled themselves with my nurishments. but I still do not know who I am or why I am here. I am Everyone and I am driving myself mad. + + + +Today at dawn this is the most beautiful place on earth. I get up not having slept much, not that that is out of the ordinary these days, balancing myself and reorienting to the sense of movement that has not left my head for almost 36 hours now, I stretch and yawn greedily like an insomniac does. The sky is green yet, not long till dawn by when I must be in the engine compartment because today the tracks run beside US highway 60 and I can not be seen. I am secret, I must be hard to find. My precarious journey over four boxcars to the engine is rewarded with the smell of frying bacon, eggs, coffee and biscuits. Joe smiles his craggy grin, in the electric lights his teeth are yellowed and stained with coffee and cigarettes, but rather than being grotesque the seem only to add character. +“I was just going to blow the whistle to let you know that breakfast is served.” He hands me a cup of coffee. “Beautiful night wasn’t it?” Joe seems to now sleep at all. +“Yes it was,” I mumble as I try to sip the coffee, but it is still too hot. +“Here….” He hands me a plate full of greasy bacon and eggs with two biscuits perched precariously on either side. “Let's eat on the roof, we’re not by the road yet.” The way he says road gets me, his voice has a hatred in it, a bitterness towards this thing the road. We go up on the roof and eat in silence. All around us the sky is a color show. The green begins to fade, replaced by the first crimson rays reflected on the bottoms of the wind carved clouds. The first direct rays of the sun find me chewing on the last piece of bacon, I close my eyes and we welcome each other across the ninety three million-mile void. +I open to a squint and turn around, behind us lies the akdjflkd, endless grass and somewhere in the middle the kdjlkadkj; to the north there is the escalanted wilderness, the green river and the largest uninhabited area in north America; to the south and east there is the maze, Canyonlands and Natural bridges National parks, the confluence of the green and Colorado rivers, and somewhere a tiny speck of a town called Moab where we will be putting in for two days to load rock and other assorted things. +“Quartz and sand mostly, which we’ll be dumping in Denver, but whatever the case I wanted to invite you to my house to have a home cooked meal with my wife and I. She’s a real looker and great cook too.” He laughs and nudges me in the ribs. “She was a beauty queen in high school, she was miss Hoboken and might have been Miss America if she hadn’t decided to give the whole thing up and go to college… course I’m glad she did ‘cause that’s where I got her….” +I hem and haw non commitally thanking him for the offer, but not agreeing to it just yet. I head back down to do the dishes and then I splash cold water on my face in the tiny bathroom and study my face in the cracked tarnished little mirror. Things look good; a little haggard here and there, weathered a bit by the years perhaps, but still young still enthusiastic. I spot a gray hair sprouting out of my closely cropped scalp, but the skin is still soft and smooth; I need a shave, but that is of no concern out here. Back on the roof I smoke a cigarette while Joe calls into the Moab station. After a while he yells up to tell me that the yard will be empty when we arrive, today is Sunday he informs me, and this is Mormon country —nothing happens on Sunday. +“You know a lot of my friends were pretty hard on me for converting and they was downright pissed when we got hitched in the Tabernacle, but I tell ya… Mormons may have some strange ideas and beliefs but on the whole they are some of the best people I’ve ever met. Sure it’s a little ridiculous there bible and all what with zebra’s running around here —imagine that! Zebras here!— and I don’t think the ol Mr. Young really carried those gold tablets under his arm, and why god called himself Moroni I have no idea…. But in spite of all that ridiculousness which really is no more ridiculous than the Catholic’s eating wafers of gods body or the Jew’s giving things up for no real reason at all once or twice a year… it all ridiculous when you think about it objectively. But what I have noticed having a Mormon wife and a lot of Mormon friends is that they build real communities… they are good people at a level that is very basic and seemingly below the more refined religions…. Your average Catholic will walk by the poor bum on the street and give him a nickel or a quarter, but your average Mormon will invite the man to their home for a meal and offer them a shower and of course a little counselling on the true church of God, but when a man’s belly is full and his hair clean he can listen to that sort of nonsense. I don’t believe a word of it, but I took the vow because it made my wife happy and I would do anything to see that woman smiling….” +Joe smiled at me and said that I could stay on the roof of the engine so long as he was down below, that way anyone watching would think that I was him. So I sat up there letting the wind hit me in the face, sunning myself across Utah, land of Mormons —for now. One day I suspect the Tabernacal will fall, the religion will dwindle and disappear like every other civilization, but for now they reign over god’s last piece of land. And what a land this is here. The tracks have climbed back out of the canyon country and we are on the mesa tops cruising at thirty five toward the Big Switch as Joe called it. The Big Switch is apparently the only non computerized part of the journey where Joe will have to stop the train and get out and actually throw the heavy iron handle to switch us over to the track that heads down to Moab. Once he drives the train past it he has to stop again and walk back and switch it again so that the next train can pass on by. It remains manual because most trains do not stop in Moab anymore, most of them pick up a few cars that have been driven up or just don’t even slow at all. + It was Dean who pointed out the curve in the tracks behind his mother apartment complex, which he really only did for one reason —so that I could catch a train. I had never ridden on a train be it hoping a boxcar or buying a ticket. I didn’t have enough for the ticket that much was certain and I knew that there were some lingering stiff vagrancy laws and such penalties as to keep people from riding for free, but I had never been on a train. The chief reason that I had never been on a train though was that I had never been near a train. Never lived near a station or had a track pass through the neighborhood. As child the best part about going to my grandmother’s house was that in the course of the hour long drive we crossed a train track and occasionally we would even get there just as a train was passing. Something about them always got to me, the way they roared along, not fast, but roaring a primal movement that harkens back to more primitive days. You could see the past in them when travel was something worth doing. Airplanes had power and thrill, but trains have something bigger something all together more massive about them, they do not roar they lumber and lurch they are more human than the smooth sterility of the car or the powerful speed of the plane +I stare off at the distant looming La Salle Mountians where first frosts are melting in the morning sun, Dean my old friend who set all this in motion, whose life existed as a catalyist for my own just as mine existed as a catalyst for his; so it is with brothers be they of blood or not. When I think of Dean I think of him as he was a year ago when we touched down in Paris, his hair jet black and greased back in a fashion that was at once greaser and not, he looked as if he were completely at ease in his own skin. We both had on suits, not expensive once like we wanted, but ones that we handed down or bought at thrist stores, we were highly incongruous with the international image of what an American ought to be. Or I think of a photograph I took at the Little Knight so many years ago or was that only months? Dean is in the a pinstriped suit, carefully greased hairline pure black and illuminating his face framing it in the luminesnce of empty space, the eyes are laughing, but the lips barely curl, womething intangible is lurking under the skin and bones. Another from the same night caught Dean unawares as he leaned against the wall and watched the crowd. His arm is blurred lifting the everpresent cigarette to his lips and all around his swirling women’s hair and exited arm waving men fade into a faceless blur, in the middle there is Dean, standing still like the hummingbird. +Dean is right now probably just getting off the internet where he was undoubtedly chatting with bilixa66 the girl whom he is in love with, but tries to deny it. Right now his weary bones are preparing for rest and I am gliding along through Elysian fields. So it goes. Everyone everywhere is doing something different than me right now, I know this because I am alone. I am playing mental solitare then infinite game which doesn’t pay anymind to rulles like time or space. Time is an inconsequential and inconvenian human invention which the traveler learns to disregard and ignore. There are two games going on one is the time game in which all society and interaction with humanity, ones culture, ones beliefs, once hopes and goals all thing bounded by time, in the other game there is the infinte self which has no time no dreams, no humanity, no space no thing. It is the seemless interaction of the two that create what we formally call the ego, the self, the thing that is perceivable, identifiable, and recognizable. One can see or be seen depending on which game you want to play. The train is slowing, the turn off to Moab is nearing, from the Big Switch it is only about half an hour down into the canyon carved long ago by the green river. I am wandering back to my flatbed to gather up my things and hide out in the cabin of the engine; I am thinking about how to ditch Joe without offending him, I need to get off the train andout into the desert, Everything is falling away like great sheets of burn skin sliding off the greasy shiny red flesh that lies beneath the surface. That was how it went this morning. + + + +It was four in the afternoon when I said goodbye to Joe and headed off down Moab’s main drag toward the mountaineering shop to see about a ride up into canyonlands. I left it open with Joe so that if the urge struck to go back to the train into denver I could, but I was intent only on getting to Canyonlands for now. One thing at a time, evverything one at a time, nothing in pieces everything all at once fell to pieces. I got a ride from two hippies rock climbers clad in the fashion of the earth first and other environemtnal activitists who share aside from a love of the wilderness apparently the same love of Kakhi’s, Tevas, Tofu and flat tasteless foodstuffs that originate in the same facotires that make oreos. Funny folks the country culture these days, like ldemocrats and republicans they are differential from there enemies primarily by custom and fashion. The radical tree camping, pottery making, hemp weaving, Dave Foreman worshipping, mushroom eating, toms of maine consuming hippie-enviromental-social consciousness raising-guitar playing radical of the outback is no different than the BMW driving, Starbucks drinking, software writing, technology worshipping, juice drinking, spa loving, health club hopping, slandes wearing dog walking, family rasing white picket fence building, church attending drug abstaining yuppie eviel consumer destroying the world capitalist pig set that the so-called radical crowd hates with such superior disdaim. One uses Tom’s of Maine and the other crest, beyond that they are the same. My hippie climber friends bought trail mix and candles at the super market while I opted for steak, beans and potatos with a bag of chemically enhanced brickets that would light from my cigarette butt. Its all a matter of taste. I requested paper bags and rolled them up so they wouldn’t abandon me for not being one of there own. I rode in the back of there bus which turned the hourlong drive from Moab to the Est entrance of Canyonlands into a three hour long crawl. As we switchbacked up the canyon walls to the top of the Mesa country Dave and Tom grilled me on my beliefs, they were both college student on a semester long vacation so I could forgive them for still being tangeled up in ideas but it wore on me after a while. They were astonished that I did not vote, that I never had, but was not disillusioned with the political system, I just don’t give shit one way or the other. +“Man if you don’t vote you give up your say in what goes on in the world man, come on how are we going to change things if everybody has that attitude? Why are you going to be giving up your power to change things man? Some people would die for a chance to vote…?” +Its better those people go right a head and die I am think but aloud I try to formulate something less offensive to their tender idealist hearts. “Perhaps Tom I don’t want to change anything… perhaps I coulld if a itried, but what if I don’t want too?” +I figured to let them do the talking and they did all the way across the grasslands right on into the campground, I learned the Toms of Maine was better because it was natural, Teva was better because it did not use child slave labor and that one acre of farmland can support a faimly of ten with vegetables of two hamburgers worth of cow if it is grazed. I don’t personally give a shit either way. Is fast as I could I said my thanks to the Dave and Tom and wandered down the road to an open campsite where I proceeded to build a fire in the light of the fading sun with its crimson glow licking across the thunderheads to my back. It was the still about eighty degrees and I was sweating in the heat of the fire, but I wanted a steak. I was staring at the sizzling fat dripping from the enormous side of beef I had bought thinking of a woman I had never seen staring at a well in the French countryside. I felt an effluence of enthusiasm; the taproot broke through dry soil and was swamped by underground water. The sizzled meat melted down to the flavor of sweet salt, the mixture of spices and blood. My plate was stained a greasy pink Moroccan-color with each carving slice of the knife and the potato swam about in the bloody grease tailing is own gooey mixture of butter and pulverized potato flesh like a tanker ship leaking crude oil in the pristine sanctity of the ocean. +I was fucking famished. With the tired wise-consumer guru advise I had endured all the way up the mountain made the dripping animal fat like a tonic elixer cleansing my artieries of stale plache of idealism realism. Nothing is ever seems so real as fiction. The world I exist in is finite, bounded and ruled by certain inescapable laws, here a house, there a job, and everywhere by the transient people and events that make up so called life. Existence takes place in the world of not I’s, the mysterious other, but that is not where I do my living. Nor does any one else. We live in the spaces in between the temporal world, the infinitude of the imagination, next to which our terrestrial existence looks flat and tasteless as a junkyard tire cracked and torn in the sun. In these moments where the internal merges flawlessly with the external I go roaring back through memories of childhood, of selves that I was truly, but am no longer today, through all the marauding personalities which have governed this thing called I. Pregnant moments are these, usually catching me unawares and throwing down a track of thought I had not expected; moments when the light of the sun breaks through the sullen clouds of an afternoon thunderstorm and hits the steeple of an old church just as you come up over a crest in the road. It smacks you in the face when you perceive something in a moment that you know is not tangibly present and yet it is real, the fluid transmission of emotion that can be tasted on the back of your tongue as well as felt beaming into your chest. The hurricane of the unconscious whirls up to the surface for moment, the imagination leaks into the real world. You catch it when she stirs at night and tosses her hair so that so that it falls across you face with the delicate odor of peach blossoms and perfume mixed with the earthiness of her organic body, fecund and warm. You hear it when the crescendo of thundering drums climbs up out of the ninth symphony and lodges in the back of your brain sending chills down your spine. Some interaction of the personal with the infinite, a stabbing at perfection transcends the ordinary moment. Every one of us has moments of transformation when we feel if only for a mere second, that something larger than the present is in the room, the sky or the music. The world gives birth before our eyes and takes us spinning down reveries and private waterslides of imagination through the twisting spiral corkscrew of imagination. How long must ancient man have wondered where do these thoughts come from? What am I to do with them? +Looking backwards with clever red sunglasses I could trace the history for you; the first thing the human species got out of these encounters was a loose clumsy word: spirituality. One day caveman Thak felt with authority that there was something beyond the simple organic, fertile, pussing matter of his body, there must be a realm august to this temporal one. Thak ruminated over this for time and finally invented language in order to describe how he felt to other prehensile monkeys. With language Thak separated us from the entire animal kingdom. Not by virtue of communication, for any one who has ever observed even the simplest of animals knows that they communicate, but rather what Thak gave us was a means of creating memories —severing us from time. Out of memory came dissention as other monkeys did not buy into Thak’s explanations and as time moved on and more voices from more and more places were heard and the general became divided and localized. Those that believed one explanation tended to associate with only those that agreed with them, they had their “gods” and they were the only gods, the contrarians on the other side of the proverbial river lacked THE TRUTH. Not much changed from then until now, there are more gods and even less comprehension of the godliness, but other than that we still behave in much the same manner as our ancient ancestors, some would same we have actually gotten worse not better. +And all of this reasoning has not in anyway helped us to understand that initial question —where are thoughts coming from? All the philosophizing rants of all the arrogant monkeys can not answer the simplest of questions: who am I ? Where is this vitality teeming from? What is emotion? What the hell is really going on down here? Why? Why can one person be moved to tears by a quartet and another put to sleep? +Much of the wonder and amazement that greeted our forebear’s is lost for us. We have explained it away, dissected, mapped, catalogued, and miniaturized it. Unable to comprehend the universe we carefully construct a replication that can be understood and ignore all the rest saying in essence that anything not comprehensible to the human mind does not exist. But it does and she knows what I am thinking before I say it and the light continues to pour through the clouds onto steeples, rocky pinnacles and the back porch of an antique house in the south where I am forced once more to stand face to face with the unknowable. Miniaturization is for small minds I say. Science is the culprit here they wrecked the whole show shrank it down and claimed to understand how it all worked. I hope they all choke on those miniaturized hors' dorve corns or get mauled by a tiny, shrunken Doberman pincer. It would give them back the humility they have tried to shed. +For a long time this miniature world was all I could see and it threw me into a depression every time it crossed my mind, but I studied it with great enthusiasm because I was looking for way out of it. The more I looked at all the evidence the farther I felt from the truth. The truth is that sometimes the light is magic and being able to explain why it has the tones and hues, how the electrons spin, says nothing about the experience of it. What good is knowing without feeling? Those moments when I am confronted with the essential mysteries of my life and perhaps even yours, all of ours, all life, are not something that can be taken apart. I can not break it down, understand the smaller bits individually and then hope they add up to the same thing I started with. +If we stop taking apart things for a minute and just breathe in slowly one breath at a time it will flood the hatches and bouyantly draw us up to the surface of things. It is time we stopped this nonsense of science and floated our way back up to the surface of the pond. Time to start over, to assimilate rather than dissect, to feel rather than know, to live rather than abstract…. +But back to our brief history of LOVE… +Unfortunately by the time you and I got on the scene it resembled uncooked spaghetti, thin strands of information imparted over the years, scattered clumsily about the kitchen, there is no pot, no water, nothing to cook it with just dry hard idea that crunches when you bite into it and sticks between your teeth long after. We externalized the internal, brought all out, the good with the bad, so that we could take it apart and understand it. We live amid the rubble of Decarte and the mechanized universe. We dissect, we want answers, but we ask questions that can’t be answered by the narrow methods of research that are considered valid. Joseph Kellar ought to be our patron saint, to preside over every convening moment to remind us that we are looking for our tail while it is in our mouths, right below our noses where we can’t see it… we can taste it though and it drives us with even greater fury, mouths watering and ravenous fangs dripping the saliva of untold desire. But we want to see it with these eyes, these imperfect eyes that we know are not even used for seeing. We want answers to appear, to be made real. We want Christ to appear, we want spacemen to appear, we want something to appear, but we are not by god going to accept anything that we haven’t had tested up and down with all the rigorous insanity of a mathematician trying to write out equations for her emotions. +What is science doing if not that? Making the world better? For whom? Scientsists? I don’t want to live in a Cartesian nightmare where history is mechanically plodding along with the cold calculated precision of a steam engine. No many people do, consciously speaking and so came religions, sects, and politics… but none of that comes close to pulling the sense of wonder that science threw out the window. None of it brings back the endless nature of grainy experience. Have become more enthralled with the human created side of life and in doing so sacrafized the intertwining of the individual with the universal. We have found a distraction which eases the anxiety that unanswered questions provoked in us —our selves. Don’t think the church/state/priest/politician/scientist/special action committee on the overexertion of gray matter will take care of it for you. We wrote a lullaby called god and put ourselves to sleep. Until today we find ourselves at a crossroads in human evolution. +As we come to understand the ineffable world around us in increasingly greater minutia, we are reaching the end of the external line. We can measure and measure search and search the world for new discoveries in a world that we once thought was infinite and impossible to wrap our minds around we are in danger of knowing the limits of knowing. + The scientific community has been the first to realize that such a day is coming and true to the morbid and yet curious nature of scientists the future is being drawn with great caution and precision. And yet if one were to delve into the that world with the skepticism of a mystic looking at a computer code one would eventually notice that the experience of science is really not much different in that of the eastern philosophers of millennia past. + It is very popular these days to write books about the connections between the physics of indeterminacy and the constant contradictions of the Tao Te Ching. (One of the best is actually called the Tao of Physics.) And what has this endless search given us? + Nothing. Nothing more than a system of belief, which in the end says that no system, can describe anything that is outside of the system. What that fancy phrase means to anyone who is not absolutely enthralled by making things a lot more complicated than they need to be, is that we don’t anything about anything and we never will. +But Lao-Tzu already said that: The farther you go the less you know. So what’s the big deal? What has the “cutting edge of science to report back? That it can’t describe anything that can’t be measured. You can’t measure the emotion that light hitting a church steeple evokes, you can’t measure they way you feel propped up in bed watching the sleeping form of the one you love. You can’t measure them because they are encoded in you, they are uniquely yours and there is no way to translate them to others. + Science’s end will be when it achieves what art has been doing for most of recorded history —trying to give the uniqueness of experience a form which allows it to transcend the individual and share it. Science is but a new language and nothing more. +Perhaps with virtual reality we will one day be able to exactly encode everything that another has experienced and feed it all into our own nervous system, but the response will still be different. In order for emotions to be communicated everyone would have to have the exact same history, exact same thoughts, and exact same experience felt be all at once. Even supposing the absurdity of this to be possible what would be gained? + Fuck science; fuck it along with religion, society and culture, fuck them all because they say nothing other than what any two year old could tell you is obvious. It is obvious because we have all felt it. All the records of how we felt pall in the face of the question of what? What is it that sends the chill down our spines, the warmth out of our heart or the goosebumped hair up on our arms? + No one knows and I think that it would be safe bet to assume that as long as we all have different brains we never will. The technology fanatics will burn themselves up the same way the drug gurus of the sixties did, they will fall prey to the one thing that makes them human —ego. It killed the belief in god, it killed the belief in the cultural reformers and it will always kill any attempt to transcend because it is the point at which belief originates. + Only an egocentric monkey would dream of being able to understand the orbit of the planets let alone they vastness of all existence. Only a very confused and disoriented creature would throw himself into a corner and examine every little microscopic piece of dirt without first discovering what a monkey was. +Herman Hess once said that the only job of man was to find the road that led back to himself. But we being the tragic creatures we are doomed forever to a life lived in melodrama and confusion, seldom do such things. Seldom do we celebrate love or transcendence. At our best we celebrate the by-products such as art of music. At our worst we record those who were farthest from themselves, the emperors kings and queens, generals, bishops, monks, people who led the most perverted and hideous of lives. + Very few lovers rattling around in the tomes of recorded history. Oh to be sure there were lots of them, but we haven’t paid too much attention to them, or to what they knew. We have created a cult of worship to our egos to the things that we think are so unique about ourselves at the inescapable expense of the things which we have in common. + Its built into our culture and if we Americans seem particularly arrogant to the rest of the world it is only because we house the temples in which the worship of the ego if held. We play host to humanity’s darkest hour, an experiment that has fallen off track and yet it is so ingrained in our minds that it forms an unbroken circle which steadily contracts into smaller and smaller rings the closer we come to the zero hour. + We will do anything to draw the attention away from ourselves and as Freud hinted and Reich out right said we do it by manifesting our fear into the real world. The only things that happen are ones that someone wants to happen. The problem is that none of us really know for sure what we want. The subconscious mind is in the act of creating… always and forever…. It is creating even the conscious mind. Everything that you think you are is dream that some other part of your brain is having; to explain this we had to invent something called chaos which says that you are, in mathmatical terms living in an endless noisy feedback loop called non-causality and non causality is merely causality that is too complicated to trace, but there is a cause nonetheless. + Their will always be a cause without it the world could not exist, without a beginning then there can be know end and we all know there is an end, an end to ourselves and from all appearances an end to the whole damn show. The end has in fact already happened because time like everything in the universe is something that someone wanted to exist. + Where does this terrible looping logic take us? Right back where we started. It’s a loop remember —really nothing to marvel at. You can travel the whole distance or just stay where you are and let it come back around. In the end even those are no different. So here we are again, perhaps there it is another person next to me in bed when I watch them sleep, perhaps it is a techno song that sends the chills down my spine, and perhaps the next time the sun breaks through the clouds it will be illuminating a mountain instead of a church. + At the end of the line the breakdown of the word I realized there was no hope for communication to take place I was too isolated in experience to hope to relate it to anyone other than myself. I was not close enough to anyone so close was I to god. It is not near the bottom in the sewers of cities that humanities hope lies but out here in the great heights, closer to god and only then to we seem so much alike. Only next to god are all the political games that divide men stripped away out here you arrive naked and proud. Only then do you see every man as your ally every woman your love, only scorched clean of the petty differences of race, creed, color of skin do we draw together huddled in fear of insanity which we ourselves have wrought upon each other. No hope for a cure is on earth, no hope save death. No cure but death and then Quien Sabe? +With the bleakness of snow and the blanketed certainty of disillusionment I cast off all doubts. I was ready. Ready for what I did not know —a thousand faces before the day is half over passing like the jerky photomontages of Man Ray. Each pair of eyes radiant unto itself delicately in the corners of a stray glance I caught the recognition of understanding though only tragedy brings them any closer. Forged and smelt in the dry heat of rock furnaces here the charnel ovens brew alchemal liquid souls and fuse combinations of liquor and lips, souls to the experiment of which we are all part. + The medieval alchemists searched in the stone, the modern physicist searches the heavens, and perhaps the future shaman will try to fuse man with machine. All have missed the most obvious of truths with the dedication to illusion that had carried the Catholic Church on its back for so long. We want ourselves to so make or form each other into the god that we were fashioned after that we forget that such is already true. The wisdoms of heaven are in the DNA strand yes, but what are we to do with them? Copper may be turned to steel, but what are we to do with it? Everything may be taken apart and put back together differently, but what will have changed? + She waited by a fountain in a park just outside of Paris where I have never been. I watched her sit silently for hours staring at nothing or so it looked to me her eyes were fixed on the pump handle of the well. She sat motionless and never without the quite smile of a woman in rapture, a woman in the private mysterious world of orgasm. I see it on the face of the ones I have loved in that indeterminable second after where everything is. + Which brings you right back to the steak, but now there was a woman or there was the sheading of a woman, an inescapable need to be at once masculine and feminine, cunt and cock, both sides of the coin as it were, but tonight the blood of the cow is burning away the feminine scorching it like so many glowing crimson embers that glow and warm, but which fade in the spectacular face of flame. Meat sizzling over a campfire gets rid of girlfriends and wives, gets rid of lots of entrapments, like a cure for the plague. It’s a proven fact. +With the final rays of sun went the final heat; as the gentle coolness of night settled in the humidity of the rain began to evaporate and the desert returned to it’s dry self again. Eating the salty and sweet steak with a baked potato and a pot of baked beans I wandered off on a walk. At first it was just my mind bouncing lightly among the juniper trees that were behind my campsite, but then when the food was gone, my body grabbed me a beer and a pack of cigarettes and carried me down to the edge of the canyon. I sat with my legs dangling off a rock that was perched on the rim and extended out into space. All around me there was nothing but air and under me only a brief moment of rock and then more timelessness we called air. + We call it air. But it used to be called ether, before that it was liquid, now it’s mostly dirt in some places. Here it is air. +I thought about Dante, about God, about steak and about women. It was beautiful just to be alive and to able to think. I thought about that for along time. There came an utter silence in which I watched myself think in the way that you might listen to another talk. It detached but remained aware that it must return back and live with those thoughts that it could only then recognize. It was a spiraling double helix of a logic that corkscrewed all about my mind drilling little holes hear and there opening wine thoughts and pouring glasses for the self that continues to stream in the door. It was to watch a feast of thoughts or personalities come together for one sort time and dine like old friends. A reunion to catch-up on where each had been what had happened and what they had done. It turned to a smorgasbord of philosophy and love and there was endless debate, dissention and rising voices. A circus dine roared around the room slap happy train car attendants moved about taking ticket and slapping the men in the faces for not having the right change. +And then the wave crested at cacophony and confusion and broke leaving only silence in the room. Silence that carried on its back a poignant nostalgia for the past and a calm understanding of the future. I touched for a moment the void that Buddha preached, the nothingness into which you must cast yourself if you wish to understand. Riddles that seemed ridiculous to me before where solved with simplest of maneuvers truth gleamed with the caustic light of florescent light posts on an asphalt road. In the blinking blank look of the deer just before impact is the look of understanding the look of recognition that it is all nothing. No thing. What do I want out of this life? Nothing. Nothing at all. +I understood with sharp focus the difference between understanding how something works and understand what it is. I came to see that even the void of understanding was not the end but only a means to something else which would also be yet another means until the final thought was had and the conversation between self and the other ceases forever and weds them together. +And the two shall be joined as one. I have acted that out with others; I have joined souls with several men and women in my life but I had never had the sensation of meeting myself on that plane until that moment. A net was cast over the side of the ship and the wheel turned starboard to trawl a giant net through the waters of the past which played out in slide show fashion, a game show in which I had to meet myself + Endless images of my own arrogance played themselves onto the back of my closed eyelids like a cinema of embarrassment and I went to myself, as stranger might go, out of pity, to reach down a hand and help myself up. All love flowed through me and made everything hyperreal and tactile as if thoughts were the rock and the trees and the silence was the minds way of answering the endless question of the universe. The transitory nature of my own existence was illuminated and I was washed with feeling of warm and celebration of the embarrassment and I felt the sheer hilarious joy of my own folly fall along side the folly of all those I have ever know and ever will know, a giant heaping ball of laughter. Coiled up tight like yarn and batted about by the kitten of the universe the ball dances nightly behind the moon, all our selves playing as children endlessly. A cat. A cat in the hat. The trick top hat. + As the moon rose up from the east I watched in silence as my life unfolded behind my eyes I watched memories I had no conscious knowledge of the way a father watches his sun playing in the yard. They started off recent memories of Amy, of Dean, of Ed, of moments shared with each and then it kept racing backward to college classes, high school girlfriends, playground friends…. Until I went back in utero to a point of no consciousness at all and then other stories unfolded as if out of some kind of genetic memory. I saw the light of the fifteen-century break through the night hitting church spires and scorching the brass coffers of foreign temples. Wild and uncharted regions played out scenes from Arabian Nights with silken tapestries women’s arms entwined with gold bands; and then sagas of Templars, all the wisdom seekers of the fertile crescent and the girl in France by the well came up near the end like a phantom as if to introduce herself but only disappeared again into a background of Egyptian palaces and the fragrance of silk and spices from the orient. There was a warm glow of light in the room that slowly as the eyes adjusted revealed itself as a temple of splendors. The walls were adorned with rugs and woven tapestries in designs that acted out the living myths of the sun gods. The floor was blanketed in pillows and a sweet incense smoke floated in wafts of Jasmine and myrrh; in the center of the room slightly elevated on steps was an alter upon which a beautiful and naked goddess lay, a statue, an answer, a testament to any question that you might ask. She was a goddess and in her silence I swam the thalassic of sorrow and joy in placid caressing waters that even now three years later come back with absolute lucidity as if I were returning to the vision at will just by writing it again. + And then the moment itself swelled beyond its proportions and burst leaving me only in awe of it, but dancing on to new lines, new tap roots burrowing intensity turned up by the alchemal union of soul and steak, god and potato, desert and breast, me and my self. The minute I became conscious of the fact that I was having a thought all sense of it was lost. I saw in this the futility of my own quest to know. I saw the source of my unhappiness that I could not live here now but only came looking and in being so overwhelmed with consciousness of myself I lost myself. Everything was laid unequivocally bare to the opulent austerity of the truth the contradiction when contradiction finally fades and all things are true and not true all at the same moment. A place indescribable, incommunicable precisely because it exists below the refinement of words. It is too raw to be said or explained it must be devoured with the intensity of an animal ripping at its prey + I felt it for what seemed like an eternity. I remember coming back to fire in dazed kind of trance like state that held me like a loved one returned from a long voyage at see. My spine trembled and doubt slowly crept in. What if this stops? I want to feel this always to live in this mindscape whole world be damned and with these thoughts so went the vision. + I awoke feeling an eternal peace settled into my chest and the words of Terence McKenna came to my mind. “If you have seen the end you take your place in the drama and you live without anxiety.” I don’t know what he meant by those words what space he went to what he felt, but they mean something to me. They mean something as if I myself had said them. I did not see an end or anything so literal as that at best I can saw that I felt everything as it really was beautiful and unbounded and I felt the release of anxiety that he attempts to approximate with words. + I made breakfast in the morning heat. The desert was waking up and it wouldn’t be long before I could have cooked the eggs right on the rocks. I drank the last beer to wash down the eggs and I asked around the campground for a ride back into Moab finally at the last sight right by the entrance I found a young couple who let me ride in the camper shell of their truck crouched between my gear and theirs, it was a long bumpy ride into Moab, but I didn’t have to suffer lectures on political duties. Instead I thought about Joe, he was expecting me at the yard around five which gave me a hour to kill in Moab. The bulk of the hour I spent trying to figure out why some people meet someone and they share there live and other meet people they share there ideas. I like to think that my life is an idea and every idea a life, but then again I have a fondness for wordplay, deceit, double entandre. delibrete acting and outright lying when it comes to talking to strangers. I just try to stay one step ahead of my brain as if I were writing myself into existence all the time. + + + +At the end of the street there was a group of surly looking Indians who were probably surly +about the fact that this is Utah and beer is 3.2 which makes it awfully hard to get drunk. I could probably have got a ride with them, it’s a common custom among the people of third world nations to help each other and the Hopi are certainly a third world nation. I toyed with the idea of trying to stay with them, but the winds blew the other way and they left before I could finish my cigarette. I decided to go back to the train. In the middle of my reverie when the reflections of my life played out I was quite moved by the portrait of Mark Pledger I decided to visit him in New Orleans. There is naturally no reason for hurry so I might as well take the slowest mode of travel. If there had been a river I would’ve strapped together some sticks and headed off. +But there was no river running that direction so I called the number Joe had given me when we parted and crossed my fingers. Sure enough I heard Joe yelling “who is it?” Before his wife even said hello. I explained myself hoping that perhaps a story had preceded me and then she handed the phone to Joe who just said “where you at?” +That how it goes with some people they take care of the important stuff first. Joe was there in ten minutes and in another ten we were at “the homestead” as Joe referred to it. It was About five miles outside of Moab near the entrance to a box canyon, a nice house that had an added onto appears such that it sprawled about with rooms attached to the sides of what had once been a simple miners shack. The bulk of it was adobe —use what’s on hand. Joe told me it was built by a prospector during the Uranium rush of the fifties the man, so went Joe’s story had come out west trying to strike it rich and was then double crossed by his partner and lost his wife, his son and eventually his own life to the greedy partner. +“You can imagine the times… everybody was hungry for uranium and cash, but the truth of the matter was that the government had all the good claims and the majority of what was left never got anymore rich. The best way to get rich in Moab back then was to swindle the newcomers. The guy that built this place was from Michigan —easy pickin’s…. Anyway some other guy meets him in the bar… the west is full of these stories, but this one ended up with everybody dead except the cheating wife and she wanted to clear out of town afterwards… it just so happened that we arrived at the right time… I bought this place for three hundred bucks and as it turns out I have claim to that whole canyon you see up there….” +He gestured to the rock walls that towered over our heads and then kicked at the gravel in the driveway. Cottonwood trees dropped behind the house and I guessed that there must have been a tributary stream running behind the place. It was beautiful spread, we stood by the truck in silence for a minute or two just staring at the tops of the cliffs watching the setting sun climb up them. Finally Joe suggested I “meet the little woman” and have some dinner. Jean was every bit the Mormon matriarch, she greeted me with a smile and hug and made me feel like one of the family, but there was an element of mischief about her something mysterious and wise that danced in the corner of her eyes. After introductions and such we sat down to big home cooked spread of ham, mashed sweet potatoes, collared greens, fresh rolls, and corn on the cob; throughout the meal the smell of cherry pie drifting in from the kitchen. The meal was spent in near silence all of us eating it should have been awkward but it wasn’t. With the food in ruins Joe pushed back his chair and lit a cigarette which I am pretty sure is against Mormon policy, but his wife said nothing. Then the stories started rolling out and Joe turned our two day trip across Arizona into an odyssey of Olympic proportions we were all laughing and then Joe shocked me by getting up and going over by the stereo where after rummaging for a while he returned with a joint and lit it up and passed it to his wife. The image of this fifty-year-old Mormon woman toking a joint as if it were ancient habit threw me out of myself and before I knew it we were all rolling in our chairs clutching out stomachs in fits of laughter. She had a high pitched rippling laughter a free honest curl to it that seemed impossible for the Mormons to have allowed. When we settled down and silence overtook us I ventured to ask what the Mormon religion thought of dope smoking. +God it seems does not care about what Mormons do with the plants he has bequeathed upon the earth, “besides,” she said, “once you understand what it is telling you, you realize that it is the right thing to do.” +I agreed with her and I am quite familiar with Marijuana and what it has to say, but as I pointed out the argument against it makes sense if your goal is to maintain the status quo. It undermines any desire for consumption or working hard to get somewhere all of which are infinitely necessary in our little American nightmare… marijuana says ‘enjoy yourself and don’t worry…. This little stoned thought struck a nerve in Jean and she launched into a political diatribe. +“That’s the trouble with all these laws they were written by people who don’t know what marijuana is saying because they have never smoked it. And I don’t mean smoked it every now and then I mean smoked it every moment of everyday to see what the world would be like if it were part of our diet….” She dragged off a cigarette and eyed me suspiciously for moment before continuing. “I’m a Mormon, this is hardly the first thing that I have believed that has been contrary to the government and I’ll tell you when I lost the church was when they said god had changed his mind on the issue of polygamy. I still believe in god and I still believe in love, but I don’t believe in governments or churches. I am listening I am aware I am in control of my life and I can make decisions for myself. Government is obsolete we no longer need someone to tell us what to do in order to assure the survival of the species, as individuals we know this, but at the collective level we are still acting out old games. Some people think its that not enough people know how to take care of themselves and that is the myth that gets perpetuated by the machinery of government. But stop for a minute and think. What does the government do for you on a daily basis that is beneficial to your quality of life? How is it helping you? Stoplights come to mind and then after that a big blank space where you try and search for something else and you think to yourself what does the government do again? Exactly. +“I’m sorry I rant when I get high, I didn’t mean to bring up taxes and the government and stupid things that don’t matter… you must think I’m a lunatic Ted Kazinyski follower or something out here in the middle of nowhere and lecturing you on the evils of government….” +“Not at all.” I assured her that I couldn’t care less about the government for the very reason she had stated. No one does when you really get down to it. The chief function of the government is to give you a topic of conversation with stranger whether in bars or subways or in a house in the middle of Utah. It’s a linguistic litmus test for the compatibility of the future. It’s a dead dog on a long car drive, it gives you something to say that does not reveal anything about you a way of rotating the air by venting words and spinning to the sound of each others voice, a verbal ballet that circled us about the room waltzing entourne. +Joe and his wife talked like giant friendly clowns billowing stories and cackling at nothing the way people do when they have been married for twenty years and are still in love. It was bit odd to watch; I couldn’t shake visions of symphonies and the jerky movement of violin bows jerking about mixed with the slower warble of cellos. There laughter sang and I was dragged into living room for a family tour… children in goofy clothes, grandchildren in baby baskets, great hordes standing in front of Niagara Falls, the Washington Monument, Delicate Arch, lakes, rivers, mountains, Joe holding up a trout, Jean at the rim of the grand canyon it all swirled and danced before my eyes. Then came the cherry pie made more delicious by chemically induced longing, sweeter, redder, and flakier… Marijuana could be an advertisers greatest tool if only we let ourselves go. And then Vavaldi, the four seasons suite tearing the walls apart, then the Ninth, then Rockmonanoff and on and on until Jean dropped off to bed and Joe and I fell into silence moved in waves by the churning hip thrusting glory of Elvis’s 1972 karate kicking, orchestra backed concert in Madison Square Gardens +“So you want to go on to Denver I take it?” +“Yes I do… from there I think I’m going to take the bus down to new Orleans and look up a friend I haven’t seen in a few years….” +“New Orleans… I’ve never been there.” +“It’s a different world… a foreign country right here in America….” +I told him a bit about it tried to cast the spell of the place in the room. There were railings around the windows and gas lamps in the corner and we both had accents by the end of it, but later when I was alone in my room staring about the ceiling with its little glow in the dark constellations, I couldn’t help but think the I really didn’t know New Orleans at all, I was only there a week, I had the merest gloss. I wanted to know the city to crawl under its insidious belly and render it swallowed, digested and crapped out my ass in great putrid heap of shit…. +I slept fitfully under the moonless starscape ceiling dreaming of a stale, smoky bar's liquor-stained floors and a headless horseman riding like Icarius out of the fiery sun-gilded gates of hell. The headless horseman swerved and bore down on the I that is you with menacing intent, jolting the dream element awake and into a sleepnonsleep trance on the isthmus of reality. The horseman dismounted and walks in to the bar. He caught us all unawares, I was bewildered and in my heavy-lidded gaze saw a man with no head standing just inside the mosquito netting that covers the tropical doorway. The bar is on the corner of dusty street in a barrio of Lima, the patrons are frozen in time nothing moves save the horseman reaching behind the counter and filling his glass with whiskey; he sat on the stool next to me and turned so he was facing me. I turned my stool toward him somewhat surprised that I could move, in light of my freedom I turned full circle surveying the statues arranged at the tables, not a breath stirs, no wind, we are in a vacuum. Turning my attention back to the headless man I stared at the empty space where his head ought to have been but wasn’t; I searched for something on him which I could address myself to ought since there is no face by which I can gain his attention… closer inspection revealed a pair of blinking eyes peering at me from where the necktie should have been. A hand slipped out from the waist and motioned for me to rise. I climbed clumsily off of my barstool and followed him out into the middle of the jungle night. The headless horseman motioned for me to sit on a fallen tree and pulled out a long stick of cinnamon, he lit it and inhaled through a buttonhole in his chest. I sat down on the log opposite him and staring eye-level at the cinnamonette and I began to appreciate the sheer size of the horseman and realized that even without his head he was beautiful. + Time passes by in jerky motions not unlike the first motion pictures uneven and without regard for continuity. Maybe moments maybe hours maybe at the same time, an old man with a sickly gray beard and a ridiculous suit is sitting where the horseman had been. One hand is out of sight down his pants and the other wags a long finger at you and he begins to jerk his cock screaming i want you i want YOU i WANT YOU! +There were opulent scenes passing by as if played on blue screens real but not. I saw great Persian empires laid out, expanding and retracting, moving across time in slow molasses-like motions. Cities where the sun stood still in the sky and monstrous creations of the mind, horrifying and seductive at the same time. Like ancient Tibetan art there was no distinction between the province of the mind and the province of the body. Women swam in south china seas of ambient warmth moving in playful erotic motions, cresting like dolphins. Creatures of all forms walked streets of near ancient origin, cobblestones and whitewashed buildings with European wrought iron balconies. Tapestries hung out from the window beckon the passersby to climb up into untold pleasures of body and mind. The scene was overwhelming and indescribable; beautiful and horrifying in a way that held horror and beauty to be ultimately different reactions to the same observed phenomena. +I woke up with unshakable thought that the only thing better than solitude is society. The other game was looking like a hot roulette wheel from the steel illusions of self-certainty. I mean of course the society of friends or even a friend…. By breakfast I was in a chatty mood and wanted to stay and talk to Jean for a while, but Joe insisted that we had to moving before noon. I thanked Jean and said goodbye to her at the railyard. I went for a quick swim in the Green River while Joe signed out for the train and went through his checklist of the computer guidance systems. The water was cool and yes green, so green I couldn’t see past my dick; I started wondering about leeches and quickly got out. Sunning myself on a rock I noticed that my belly button was itching and burning slightly, I sat up and discovered a tick burrowed into my skin, swollen fat with my blood. The parasitic little bastard was stealing my lifeblood. Try as I might I could not get him loose, I held a cigarette as close as I could stand for as long as I could stand but he refused to let go. Finally I just tore him out ripping a chunk of flesh off with him. I dug around for a while with a knife making sure that I had got the head. Damn little bastard better not have given me Lyme Disease I thought as I popped his fat blood laden belly between my fingers. The purpose of the tick is like government entirely unclear to me, but the tick did serve as a healthy reminder that I too am organic, subject to disease and vermin, something you forget when you have lived the vast majority of your life in the confines of the Lysoled suburban dreamland. +I heard the groan of the engine moving and Joe’s voice yelling over it, I threw my shirt back on and ran over to the nearest flat car and we were off. I hung back on the car alone munching some cheese and fruit that I bought at the store in Moab and consuming the better part of bottle of wine. Wine is the only alcohol legal in Utah that can actually get you drunk. +It was five in the evening by the time we got back to the big switch where we once again headed east and by then I was good and drunk. Drunk enough that walking on a moving train seemed like thoroughly stupid idea so I just lay on my back all even and stared at the sky. Somewhere in the midst of my looping jagged butterfly thoughts I hit upon a memory of having read that a thousand years ago Venus was visible with naked eye in the day time. It got me to thinking why it wasn’t now… which got me to thinking about selective attention. There is a myrid of information assaulting our sense ever moment ninety nine percent of which we do not see, that is it is not seable being that it is beyond the visual spectrum everything from radio to ultraviolet or nuclear radiation is dombarding us and we ignore it because we have never need to know about it to survive, but what I was thinking about was beyond mere survival. The human brain is the most powerful information processor in the known universe and yet it is unable to see venus and at one point it could. Indeed people in some cultures still can. It has nothing whatsoever to do with a decline in visual skills but ratherit has to do with need. Two thousand years ago your brain needed to be able to see venus and there it was clearly visible in the middle of the day. Chances are that anyone able to see Venus would not however be able to drive a car on the freeway. Such a skill requires intense amounts of complex organization of brain signals and body responses and yet we do it automatically without having to think at all. But we do no see venus in the day time. It got me to thinking about cultural brainwashing. Cultural brainwashing is theprocess by which the indivdual is integrated into his or her society and world that surounds them; it is the fancy way of explaining why you do not see venus and with the self reflexive glory of its inescapablity it is a product of my brainwashing. Only in westernized nations with notions like science and psychiatry do you find people talking about cultural brainwashing. Those people who noticed it like to think they have escaped it, that they have transcended it, but they haven’t they are indeed the most brainwashed among us. Just as you only find Zombi’s in Haiti and you only find death at end of a pointed bone Aborigonal Australia so you only find cultural brainwashing among westerners. You can not escape brainwashing without losing all context of who you as an individual are; worldwide the most common method of transcending oneself is psychoactive compounds whether it be peyote, ayahuasca, hashish, or aminita Muscarathe common element is brain alteration. Only when we are in this or other brain changing states can one escape one’s self and through that ones culture. These brain alterations are also possible with LSD. +The thing that wanted to say to Jean when she was talking about the govenent was that they know what she knows even better than most of us who feel oppresed by them. They know how useless and futile there positions are because thy have to defend them on a daily basis. Increasingly the politician and reformer is shown to be in the game only for personal gain and the common cry of the people is that everyone is corrupt, but this is not true. More and more “leaders” are greedily enhancing their own lot at the expensive of others for a very good reason… they know the end is near we no longer need them and they no it, like squirrils cacheing nuts or polar bears retaining extra fat for the winter they are storing up for the lean times ahead. They also sensed that if the general public was to get ahold of LSD or anything like it their time would come to an end a whole lot sooner so they have kept it away for now, but it will never really go away. It was not the acid dropping hippies that worried them they were never going to get far they smelled which make a bad impression on anyone in almost any culture; no what they feared were the men in suits the men from their own ranks who were touting the benefits of LSD. Men that the public at large looked up to artists, actors, psychiatists, chemists, anthropolgists, celebrites, even politicians, men like Tim Leary, Cary Grant, John Lilly, Harvey Milk; men with influence. +In every culture there is a shaman figure sometimes it’s a weird guy in the hut down the roade who talks to himself as walks about and sometimes it’s the weird guy in thirtyith floor office of a Manhattan highrise who walks around talking to himself. When the psychologists and psychiatrists got a hold of LSD the threat to the then reigning shamans, the politicians, was real and they got rid of it. There was no conspiracy that put Tim Leary in prison for a twenty five year term for possession of marijuana, it was a calculated move to shut him up and certainly he knew it. He did what any reasonable man would do, he shut up. He stopped talking about LSD and chemical methods of emacipation from the self and started talking about the one other thing that seems to work… meditation and yogaic excersizes. +It’s 1999 right now and try as I might I can’t do Yoga on a moving train. Nor do I have any LSD which means that I am fucked, trapped here in this culturally brainwashed condition and unable to see Venus. Venus —godess of Love. Makes you wonder. +The air is nipping at my arms like darning needles and faint traces of our breath is visible in the glow of the gas lantern. Jow and I ware roasting marshmellows on a coleman latern in the back of a box car. It almost works. Right now though as night finds us creeping through the mountains a warm marshmellow is exactly what we need to plug the worm holes. The worms are eating us alive, Joe and I. They’re eating you too whereever you are whenever you are. They tell you that worms invade your body afterdeath and they go to great lengths to keep them out of the coffin with formaldahyde and by draining the blood out of your body, but the worms are there already, they have been eating us up all along. They pierce like invisible bullets fired at birth across aphrodites enteral dancing forever and piercing Apollo’s languishing nowflesh rotten to the core eat up and leaking like sieves we stuff ourselves with air injected sugar balls to stop the vaporous bleeding. The marshmellows do the trick tonigh hold it all intact no leaking of vaporous lifeblood al is well. I stretch out the sleeping bag on the floor of the box car and joe heads toward the engine compartment with the lantern. I am alone in the dark, with the holes, the leaking, the LSD, the cultural brainwashing, Zombis, shamans, Tim Leary and a small spider that I named steve after a fish I had along time ago. Everything is okay. We are moving east, slowly. + diff --git a/veryold/very old writings/gone book/for lv iam.txt b/veryold/very old writings/gone book/for lv iam.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2d4e1cc --- /dev/null +++ b/veryold/very old writings/gone book/for lv iam.txt @@ -0,0 +1,96 @@ +Transcribed from tapes: the terminal disease clerk took orders by the turnstile, finding the story in the story and logging in the disease workers all night long. At five in the morning he got off and headed to a tavern as the sun was coming up. Direct confrontation with the terminal virus word is a bit confusing to those who are not properly prepared. poor fuckers never had a chance; the technical sergeant takes off his helmet and slams it on the table the near moronic mumbling of discontent. Waging war is semantically impossible without overtones of homosexuality. Heavy handed, the second wave fell in line with the technical sergeant at the lead. The thing you have to watch out for are the warblers —the distractions coming in at the sides, sound is their most effective weapon, primordial hangover he called it drunkenly raising a glass. And some of you may think this suspect, but take my advice sound's where it all started. In the beginning was the word and the word spoke. The sergeant stoops and cups his hands to light a cigarette. Then there is sex or not enough of it, both is equally dangerous —biology is not something to scoff at. sexuality is the best cover an agent can ever use. Rockets come searing in overhead ripping flesh and scoffing at the notion of eternity, out here you don't have time to talk, the thoughts are things, they are no longer words...keep your radios tuned boys its getting ugly. Another rocket sears in severed limbs fly out the explosion and olive drab body parts litter the scene. + Watch out for the bloody words, sharp words that hang in the air like knives and when uttered returned to slit the throat of their speaker and if every word you have spoken returned to act upon yourself would you survive the experience? Me no way I'm outta here. Situation getting sticky, humid like vaporous blood hanging on in the air. Still acrid smell of urine and small children playing in a asphalt playground ringed on all sides by immense brick walls with basketball hoops hung half way up each of the sides. Realize that that which we are taught from childhood to distrust is in fact a pawn of something far more immense and much much more dangerous. The governments and nations of the world are incidental pawns of there own control systems and then beyond them there are even more and so on like looking two mirrors facing each other and going on to infinity. The monster of power is faceless there is no one person or group that controls everything they are all parts of a immense and multi-headed monster that is constantly biting itself and attacking it own heads until some day it will destroy itself. The end of time leaves space and word alone together + we're taking heavy fire! The sergeant calls for back up, the captain says love one another and cryptically hangs up the phone. The Spanish soldier selling chiclettes say no good no bueno, pictures worth not even half a thousand words. Wouldn't give you ten words, worthless gringo words don’t mean shit. no good no bueno, not worth the blood their written in. The blood of all peoples not yours, not your shoes, by god keep your slave labor camps a closed-mouthed secret. Gotta keep that in house, dis-credit all news agencies by routinely feeding them false information. News doesn’t happen events happen, and the department of television information broadcasting inc. a subdivision of indoctrination inc. decides what gets out and what remains forever sealed in baby pissshitguts. No that's not true. No comment. No need for comment, the preceding has been since proved to be untrue, cut to shots of smart bombs. Couldn’t get fifty words for those now gringo -over exposure- nobody buying. Same old stinking shit. No Good. No Bueno. + Gringo go home in thousand languages in a million words, why don’t you crawl back in your cave get your tail so far between your legs it goes half way up your ass? Lead me to the holy spigot and we’ll show you the bidet of death, constructed by gringos, for gringos, to flush out gringos, to show them all what you do behind closed doors. Can’t close them all —we have our technicians as well and they’re getting to be better than yours. We got the money rolling in —even offered you the picture words but you don’t want them. No Good. Can’t use those, too strong. No fair, crying boy heads home for cave to lick his dirty balls clean. + I gotta picture for you I on vacation in your country go to hear senator’s speak but all door are closed, all sealed. So i gotta fiber optic and feed it in from the roof show all senators mad with sexual lust and blood thirsty, clamoring for war and stealing souls and bodies and driving them off wherever they see fit. + The technician is retro actively of course —the papers said the man was mentally ill. ‘my cod!’ screamed a church lady in the front row, ‘satan has garbled the lords message, this isn’t what he meant for you to hear, no it was not all like that, there was to be understanding.’ she is parading her old cunt bones whining at the justices —tissue conducts signals, animals communicate through the use of visual, acoustic , chemical, tactile and electrical signals. Our laboratory is an abundant and well preserved feed back loop to understand and interpret Eusocial behavior. negative feedback inhibition to make you shiver Gringo. Make you shiver good. + Repetition unsuccessful. The radiologist was called in to examine the patient —blisters and burns indicate high probability of skin mutation, what would you say Dr. Waiben? Crested and on the nod? Diminutively, yes definitely. + Information potential exists —its an unsettling thought, dependency —and what happens when things start to think? How do you draw the lines then? + HOW THE PLAGUE BEGAN: + The wish to preserve -not worth saving what already is- in this scenario. The word, the loss of body situated at the origins of recorded sound -the temporal metaphysical and esthetic possibilities. + <insert sounds of truck on dirt road> + Old man yelling. Get off of my laaawwwnnn! Sits down to oil his gun some more and then half turns in his chair to face the camera and says "i haven't left the porch since i got this CDRom PEOPLE version 3.0. Updated and expanded human potential at your fingertips. Its the only thing i need —got no use for the stinking gringos anymore— camera pans out and down revealing a yard strewn with shotgun-blasted bodies of young children. We see wife, face half torn off, crawling towards a pistol <shotgun blast stage left> her head disappears entirely. Old man: "human potential, the new CDRom makes wives unnecessary." cue logo: on sale now at a sanatorium near you.... + I'm going to finally send you the orgy papers this time -been fixing to get 'round to that for some time" <heavy southern drawl> don't think he's the type to do it though but i been wrong once or twice a'fore. Don't want people showing up on my lawn though that's never good. get off of my lllaaaawwwwnnnnn! <shotgun blast again, distant screaming sounds of deaths final agonies eeking out blood gurgling windpipes> Fucking Gringos! Go home in a thousand languages! + Experience as much of the human potential as possible, retain the container and forward the frog to the fun sun freaks of eastern Tibet —all is well with alkaline, and acidity is on the skids with death rooted out leaving only chicken shit shoveled scrapped and scraped like lemon lime Gatorade poured from a fuck buck of love. Stop talking to yourself —listen to the virus talk to you. All that you consider to be a accident was carefully orchestrated for your benefit by a benevolent cocksucking god from the twenty-third dimension to just plain old irritate the fuck out of you like a bad rectal itch. Stupid gringo got no cure for the ass itch i show you some pictures, yes very dirty, little girls you like?????? + <<<<<commander in chief of the NATO forces in Europe is fucking small refugee boy in the ass, the boy cries for his mother the general is laughing, your mother’s down the hall boy ,she’s busy with the president of France right now. But maybe later you’d like to lick his come off her dead face. Ban those words tear them right out snip snip. Can’t say that, its disgusting. War is a snuff film for the rich. <<<<We gotta step up the bombing chief the public’s losing innarest in us screams the chief of staff running in circles jerking off and slapping his ass until it turns a bright purple and with all seriousness General Jesse Helms pauses to reflect: I remember a time when life was good no one got in our way, why in Europe under Patton i musta raped twenty thirty little boys and a handful of nuns too. He smiles lost in memory... + But God hath given us these trying times.... + Yes it is bit hard to get cunt these days isn’t it, mumbles the chief of state as he strokes his wife’s cock....Yes dear start a war, get me some cute refugee boys, i so love snapping their necks when I'm coming, she growls affectionately. + That's it gentlemen were going to war! The president stands and ejaculates on a map of the world KOSOVO it is he says as his thick oatmeal consistency sperm all but covers the former republic of Yugoslavia. + You like? You like, no? Too bad. You can’t have those words, too strong. I get power, you give me power, I steal power from you, to expensive to buy it. I get power and you get pictures and maybe I tell you how to cure rectal itch? Eh? Eh? Eh? + + + +In the beginning was the word and the word was made flesh by a cacophonous blast out of heaven's pearly cum-stained ass creating the father, the son, and the holy spigot which lies in a secluded garden on the cliffs overlooking the Sargasso sea. The spigot is buried in a volcano designed by Czech ostriches in the eleventh hour of creation to drain all human excrement off the continent of Europe and into the Sargasso sea all lumpy with turd so thick Jesus "conny" Christ in drag is walking along to the amazement of the gullible, floating gently from turd to turd. The piss blood of a million cunts and cocks line the shores giving the whole place a radioactive iridescent red glow not to mention a awful stench. Mr. Rogers and Captain Kangaroo are standing on the bluffs watching the spectacle and scanning with hawk eyes for sweet tight asses in which they can stab their hungry cocks. The father caught the son sitting in the middle of the garden sucking on an apple and he became enraged and hog tied the boy and penetrated every orifice in his body with a peeled and sculpted cucumber cock; the boy was left a whimpering, quivering lump of fleshy jello from which spawned humankind. + The piss gut rotting flesh smell, air taunt necked and jerking at the nose, the captain's eyes role back into his head as is guts are blasted out his ass by a giggling man headed tape worm of extraordinary wit who was prone to quoting Joyce and Bugs Bunny in the same sentence in a way that reminded listeners of Buster Keaton in some strange drugstore hurricane kind of a way. The skatolic odor was rich and the worm refused to bath. Owing to the peculiar nature of its origin the soldiers did not disturb the worm preferring instead to watch the captain writhe in agony pulling his legs back behind his ear to attempt to lick the matted blood soaked pubic hair over the torn orangish flesh that hung in ribbons over a large hole that had once been a simple anus. The upshot of it all was that the worm ate less rations than the captain so the men were basically satisfied with the arrangement and they followed the worm wiggling through the jungle as it did impersonations of Fred Astaire... + Blasted rot gut con-artist with ten huge molars running across the front of his mouth in a clump owing to his mother's industrial accident with the cunt acid from the hyperdrill, drilled right on through back to china. The asshole couldn't even close the damn thing and the lower mandible just kind of hung there like a tire swing. + The giggling Hyenas are dressed in black and high on amphetamines looking to turn you inside out. + Tongue-tied porn queens scream obscenities at passersby "I'll suck your dick until your eyeballs pop out your ass..." + + + + + + + + + + +Every diner has its own subtle quality which distinguishes it from all the nearly identical establishments of its kind, this particular joint had enormous lazy houseflies crawling up the wall behind me which set it off in League with other infamous places I have eaten such as Ben’s Broasted Chicken an establishment that I had been to years ago. I was headed up to the Tahoe area by way of the back road, 395, a rickety operation that shoots you straight up the length of california always keeping the eastern escarpment of the Sierra Nevada just to the left. About three quarters of the way to Tahoe you pass through the blink-and-you-miss-it town of Bishop where among other things there is a roadside dive called Ben’s which serves Broasted chicken and corn on the cob for two dollars a plate. There were no other options no menu no choices no confusion, no arguing with the cook just broasted chicken and corn. I remember going in primarily because I wanted to know just what one did to a chicken to make it broasted. After that all I remember is the enormous lazy flies that crawled up the column next to my table. I still can’t recollect exactly what the chicken tasted or even looked like, the corn sticks out as being over cooked and mushy and of course the flies were lazy and didn’t move when you swatted them which led me to believe that in fact they were never swatted at. Indeed Ben’s was probably a kind of legend in fly circles, one to another word passed down the line and traveled all through the Eastern Desert of california, if you were a fly Ben’s was the place to be. I asked to meet the infamous Ben proprietor and presumably the genius behind the broasting, but unfortunately he was out of town. Instead the cook gave us a tour of the kitchen and that only served to make my experience at Ben’s a singular one. I was passing through Bishop several years after that and I tried to locate Ben’s Broasted Chicken so that Amy could share the wonder of broasted chicken with me, but the place was gone, no building nothing, even some locals in town acted like they had no idea what I was talking about. One old woman gave us that peculiar look that small town people always give to city folk as if to say you have no business poking around here asking questions, but I kept at her until she confessed that Ben’s was something she had never heard of, and what's more she informed us that she had lived in Bishop her whole life. I started to wonder if maybe I had hallucinated the whole thing and Amy, who was in love with my eccentricities as much as my banality, I am certain though that here was the definitive proof she had always wanted to know for sure that I was totally nuts. We snacked on bread from Shatz’s Bakery and drove up to Mammoth with me recounting the same story of Ben’s Broasted chicken that I had laid on her before Bishop, doubtlessly boring her to sleep which was just as well because my mind was pre occupied with broasted chicken not the inner depths of the female soul which was what Amy seemed to want to talk about all the time. + I recanted the story of Ben’s to Dean over double cheeseburgers. I still don’t let little things like fat lazy flies bother me, who ever heard of a fly that ate anything more than crumbs? They were doing no harm and the burgers were dripping greasy and quite yummy, as Amy would have said if she had been there. Every time I get to thinking about or talking about Ben’s Broasted Chicken strange things begin to happen, first the place disappears and then to reach across a span of maybe five years Ben’s came crashing into the present and my mouth dropped open full of half chewed cheese burger when who should come strolling in the door of this diner, but Clay Napier the very man who had been with me on that virgin trip to the land of broasted chicken. Actually the weirdness factor way have been slightly over played on my part as I did know that Clay was in Colorado somewhere, but it’s a big state and then even in Denver how many diners how many nights what are the odds? All of this can in someway be accounted for by the initial mystery that set it all in motion… what is broasted chicken? I no longer care (I also have made it a point never to consult a cookbook) I prefer the mystery to which broasted chicken has attended, at least for me. + Clay Napier was an ancient friend, not in a chronological sense but in the sense that we would always be friends regardless of the time between meetings we never had more then twenty or so awkward moments of catching up and then things fell naturally into place as if we had been together everyday for years. I waited until the waitress had seated him and then casually sauntered up while he was reading the menu and sat down across the booth from him. I cleared my throat and as I did so and he put down the menu to see who was disturbing him. I watched in slow motion as his face went from blank irritation to recognition, and then surprise. We smiled at each other for a moment and then nonplussed, as if it were perfectly natural that we should come upon each other five years and two states away from our last meeting, Clay slid out of the booth and we embraced for moment before the volume of words began to flow forth. + “My god what are you doing here?” + “I was going to ask you the very same question —I thought you were up in the mountains or was it in flagstaff?” + “Ya I was in Flagstaff until I graduated, now I’m actually living up in Boulder, but my girlfriend lives down here… she’s working right now so I was catching a late dinner… why are you in Denver last thing I heard you had gone back to school or something to that effect…?!” + I racked my brain; where would he have gotten such foolish ideas? Who was behind this? “Uh, no I haven’t gotten around to that yet, who told you that one?” + “I forget maybe Robert.” Robert K Statmore an upright human being if there ever was one, it had been years since I had even thought of Bob, except when I went camping and realized with a fresh new sense of shame that I still had the tent I borrowed one weekend almost four years ago. + “How is Bob?” + “Dunno, haven’t talked to any of those guys in a couple of years, I been out here doing odd jobs, I was working for a mining firm doing archeological impact studies, you know making sure they weren’t trampling on our people.” Our people was an old and very elaborate joke that had developed over the years, a sort of half joke actually as Clay and I were serious about some of it. Our people were the native American’s whose blood ran through both our bodies, in Clay it was the Cherokee, and in mine it was (I think) Ogalala, but either way it wasn’t much, not even enough to claim it for scholarship purposes. The both of us were middle European mutts, half breeds, the results of some horny individuals who had no qualms about fucking across international boundaries, but the point of “our people” was not so much about us, it was a continuous good natured way to needle the third point in our boyhood triangle of friendship. That third point was named Jim Stout and was proudly and definitely Irish. When we all got drunk conversation used to end up with Jim threatening to give us small pox blankets and us half-heartedly trying to scalp him while he slept. It’s funny now looking back how teenagers can turn genocide and torture into a source of humor and competition. We were a lot smarter back then. I smiled at Clay’s comment and was lost for moment in a nostalgic reflection over my boyhood. I saw Clay as I will always see him when he’s not around, he’s sitting in that diner smiling that old half crooked curve, and to this day his nasal voice echoes about in my ears whenever I think of him. He had slow manner of speech where you leaned in close so as not to miss a word. He often didn’t say much just shrugged or gave you a look, but the words that did fall out were carefully measured like a recipe and to miss one of them would ruin the flavor of what he was trying to say. And then there were The Looks, you have to know someone for a while before you can communicate with them on a subverbal level with just looks, but with Clay that time was double the norm. He had looks, which he held out in silence that could mean more than complex and overly verbose sentence. When he was feeling thoughtful and didn’t have an opinion he would stroke his chin with a bemused expression which only over time did I realize was not in fact an ironic mockery of Allen Ginsburg, but really the genuine article of inner reflection being measure out and stirred up. I have always thought in the time since Clay and I were fast boyhood friends that I would have liked to smoke pot with him. I remember the first time I got high I thought what wonderful qualities this little plant would bring out in my friend Clay, but he was gone by then, off in Arizona going to school and continuing down the boisterous outdoor life that we had all lead during high school. Nearly every weekend we headed out to Joshua Tree the local rock climbing hang out and Clay had patiently taught Jim and I how to climb until one day we were both better than him. Or at least to be fair that’s how I remember it. Every summer we had made glorious excursions through the Sierra Nevada, backpacking over the palisades, Mineral King, Sequoia, Yosemite and other mountains with names that I have surrendered to inaccessible regions of memory. We all came from adventurous sort of families. +Jim was the first to go his separate way, he ended up at brown University for four years and then Clay went to NAU and I went, well I went here. And then there and now back here. Crisscrossing paths occasionally with each of them making plans for trips we knew we would never go on. The last time I saw Jim, he had met me for a drink at the Little Knight and Tony had presided over our hour and a half meeting like a surgeon trying to revive the dead. I hadn’t seen Jim since and I didn’t know where he was and apparently neither did Clay. + “What are you doing tonight you want to come get a drink?” + “Ya I’m with a friend of mine,” I motioned to Dean the he should come over, he didn’t know Clay and I hadn’t really said anything when he walked in I just dropped my story and walked over to a strangers table, for all Dean knew I was making arms deals with the CIA. I introduce them and Dean went back to our both retrieved our burgers and we all sat down to dinner. “We were over a Tangz, but the gay scene got old so we ducked out… his sister and her friend are still there, but we left them the keys anyway. You got a ride?” + He did and that settled it. The three of us took off to a club/bar where Clay’s girlfriend Anna was working, on the way I filled Clay in on five years as best a could (he had heard stories it seemed —good to know that people talk about you when you’re not around). I left out a few things that I wanted to tell him, but as I said Clay and I are ancient and until I knew where he was at now I had no reason, based on the old Clay to think the one driving now would care about. I left out my gnosticism and the year or so that I spent trying to meet god. Not that I was embarrassed about that stuff, nor ashamed, but rather that they were between me and the handful of people that were aware of what was going on, to go beyond that circle would cost them their flavor, the unique character of insanity that marked them. It turned out that Clay had done about half of the things we always suspected he would do, like college, the master degree, the outdoorsy life, the move to Colorado… but there were things that I never would have thought to hear that Clay was doing. Back in the day, in fact how I met Clay was through the church youth group, and as I say we were both indoctrinated with the Presbyterian God, but to be honest I was mainly there because there were really cute girls (if I had know then what I know now I would have been down the street at the Mormon tabernacle). I grew out of religion around seventeen when I read a book on brainwashing and realized that even if all this malarkey they were feeding us was true, I knew nothing of it other than what I had been told. The same tactics are used by the US military, Indian gurus, Charlie Manson and nearly every other belief centered organization in the world. I got very angry with myself for being duped by these charlatan tricks that seemingly anyone could have employed by reading a textbook on conditioning psychology. I was smarter than that I realized, but unfortunately all my friends were not seeing my insights and what's more they seemed genuinely concerned about me for thinking such things. Subtle reminders were dropped hear and there over a dinner or later after we graduated, a beer, things that had the subtle subtext that good religious people can convey through even the most mundane conversation. At least that’s what I thought at the time and I embarked on this quest to convert them all to my new religion, to undermine the system from within. I gave them books, got them to smoke pot (well Jim anyway) got them to have some sex, in fact Dean and I even dragged Jim to meet a porn star once at some strip club, but then end up backing out when we learned that their was no alcohol allowed. I was the propaganda of hedonism. I always thought that Clay would come round, would wake up as I naively referred to my reactionary religion, but I was wrong. In fact Clay was quitting his job in a month to go back to California and work at the summer camp that we went to in high school. + Now since then I had as I said carried hedonism as far (actually a little further) as it would go and there waiting for me at the end was God and this time he wasn’t wearing the gilded robes of human flesh he was much more of a supernatural being than anything I had ever read has prepared me for and he was much subtler in its existence than I had assumed. He hated Presbyterians and hedonists with equal fervor. He looked like Hitler in Drag and had a nasty habit of sniffing opium tinctures at the most improbable of moments. He was related directly to the incident with the little gnomes on ether that were mentioned earlier and how do you relate that to anyone else? I hadn’t the foggiest and I realized that I was cut off, limited as much as freed by experience because I was so painfully aware of the limitations of being human I was limited. I was limited to trying to understand Clay when I should have been knowing. This thought ran like a subtle subtext through the conversation. Dean took over for me and started telling Clay about people, parties and things that I new Clay wouldn’t relate to, but I let him because I could see Clay shifting in his seat and having to realize that the other half exists and that was exactly what I had been trying to do. I tried every trick in the book back in my more clever days and I had forgotten about the one thing that doesn’t get into psychology textbooks: people. The best evidence for god is man, always has been always will be, any two bit strand of sporific DNA floating through the universe could have made the rest, but man now there is an odd one. Where did this thing come from and what the hell is wrong with it? Who would have made such a thing? I hold that what made us had a hell of a sense of humor and not much else going on upstairs. + When I snapped out of it they were talking about books. Dean was lamenting the recent demise of William S Burroughs and Clay was arguing that Burroughs was too obscure in his style to ever be the creative genius that people thought him to be. This I decide would be great time to go the bathroom and I excused myself; there is nothing Dean can talk about with the insane fever of dementia quite like William Burroughs. I had watched Dean discover and then devour William Burroughs the way some people get over imported chocolates. He savored each knew book with a delicacy that I reserved for other authors, I recognized immediately that whatever his merits or faults he had at least reached Dean and Dean was a tough nut to crack, I could never do it. He had lent me some books and then wham in I went to the world of the totally bizarre. Burroughs tunneled himself into my brain like cancer and ate it all up, then is found another and moved on to devour that author consuming that men and women who wrote as intrinsically part of what they were saying. I have always read that way being more interest in the whole scope of authors life rather than moving from book to book the way some people do. Whether it was Robert Wilson or Tom Clancy it was always the same way. + When I came back from the bathroom I could tell that things had gone awry which was just as well because I didn’t really want to talk philosophies I wanted to speed things up. I went up the bar and asked the bartender to point out Anna for me. He did and I knew that things between me and Clay would never be the same again. She was an absolute work of art with delicate pale skin like a Grecian urn and a face with high cheekbones that just kind hung amid a mass of perfect blond ringlets. She could have been a model, but she wasn’t she was Clay’s girlfriend and I was smitten. I have notorious bad habit of sweeping my friends girlfriend out from their arms and into my own consequently my friends don’t usually call for while when they meet someone. I was awash in cynicism from my earlier musings and I figured if Clay and I were destined to part then I might as well do it with a bang. I went up and introduced myself. Anna “had a smile that swerved, a smile that curved, a smile that swerved all over the road.” If ever there was a girl that Mark Sandman described with those lines it was Anna. She had a body that hugged the road like BMW and she laughed with the honest mirth that comes only those who know. I struggled over that sentence for some time trying to put it without sounding like mystic, but the simple truth is if you don’t know what I mean by that then don’t worry you don’t know and if you don’t know you’ll never learn. + Anna talked like a little demurring French pastry and once shy and bold with the dancing musical quality that seems to emanate mainly in the voices of women I find attractive and no one else. When you’re in the presence of a magical voice such as that all you want to do is listen, any other distraction becomes an immediate irritation and all you want is to stop it and get back the sweet music. Thus by the time a came back to the table with Anna I was already in the mood to do whatever she wanted whenever and wherever she wanted to do it (of course, and therein lies the rub, ten minutes from now it was very possible I would be smitten to another water nymph). + Clay looked visibly disturbed that I had gotten to Anna before he introduced us and being aware of my past he was already uncomfortable with the idea. The song was right is you want to be happy for the rest of your life you got to get yourself an ugly wife or in this case girlfriend, because if you’re dating the most beautiful girl in the room you have to continually maintain your Alpha Male presence or the other will swoop in and feed on your weakness. Women who find that statement offensive have never been the most beautiful girl in the room and the rest of them are evil because they know what power they have and they use it. Anna was the center of attention at out little table and she new it and she liked it from what I could tell because she announced before long that she was going to see if she could get off early and we were all to come with her to an exclusive party for some ban that none of use had ever heard of. But like I said whatever, whenever wherever and I could tell Dean was not going to put up a fight. She left and Clay wisely used this time to go to the restroom as it was not a good idea to leave the girl with the other dogs. +Dean and I talked it over and decided that we would each do our best to keep the other from sleeping with Anna, but in our quixotic logic we both agreed that the best way to do this was to each keep the other from the crime by committing it ourselves. We could have subtitled our logic with the slogan keep others out of trouble by getting yourself into it first or as one other put it, how I found the goddess and what I did to her then” to which I would only add and how she loved it. As they say good lovers are not born they’re made, like Mafioso bosses its all in the luck of the draw, but once you learn you will never look at life the same again. You will understand from experience. The question we were debating when Clay returned was whether or not good a Christian could possibly be capable of satisfying the goddess. We were in the neighborhood of a no when we had to seamlessly shift gears and make Clay believe that we were not talking about his girlfriend the minute he left the table, but of course he knew wouldn’t you? + I managed to suck down one more gin and tonic before the forces of control let Anna loose upon us and we all headed off in her car to this after-hours party that was supposedly in the swanky downtown area that Dean and I had been touring earlier. When we got there it turned out to be in the bar of a rather posh high rise hotel. The entire area was blocked off, but a couple of words between the security guards and Anna and we were all whisked in with nod here and there. Now only was it indeed a part for some band, but this musical flavor of the month had some rather famous friends. And suddenly Clay’s nightmare deepened because now he didn’t have to worry about Dean or I; there was new competition like Johnny Depp who was sitting by himself in the corner of the bar. Nor were Dean and I necessarily smitten on Anna anymore when there were an abundance of women that we would have recognized if we bothered to keep up on the fashion industry. Being from LA Dean, Clay and I were not overly impressed with celebrities anymore, you only run into a couple and then you start to realize that your own friends are infinitely more interesting. But one thing about celebrity parties that I never get tired of is the free food and booze and the wonderful abundance of substance abuse. How do you know if you live in LA? You can’t remember if cocaine is illegal or not. We made a beeline for the bar and left Clay with Anna who we figured was after all his problem not ours. We watched the vultures feeding as the celebrities divided and conquered among the groupies, admirers and hangers on. Its really hard to compete with a guy that’s internationally recognized as a sex symbol so we contented ourselves with the company of a guy who we thought might be the lead singer of the Black Crowes and who might have just been another emaciated scraggly haired kid that looked like the lead singer of the Black Crowes. In either case we chatted sporadically over the course of a half-hour or so before he offered us a joint. We graciously accepted and got up thinking we were to follow him outside when he lit it right there in the middle of the bar and with a minimum of discretion passed it to Dean who shrugged and smoked it. +“Be careful,” the dark locks leaned in closer as if to impart some clandestine knowledge, “this shits pretty hard core.” + I laughed in his face but managed to make it look like I was only coughing. Dean shook his hand and said thanks man don’t worry its cool or some other such dopehead lingo. From the minute the smoke hit my lungs it was very obvious that something more powerful than what I was used to was at work here. My toes got tingly and my hands heavy. Maybe thirty seconds after I inhaled I was catapulted into another universe that bore absolutely no resemblance to the one before it. Dean’s face went ashen and I thought thank god because I was going to need company on this one. + Ten minutes later I found myself discussing the literary merits of Dorothy Allison with Winona Ryder and her brother who I thought was her boyfriend. What I said I have no idea but I did later make it a point to read bastard out of Carolina and I was some disappointed when Winona Ryder was not in the movie. She seemed like she genuinely wanted to play that role and in my chaotic state I sensed that she would. Not everything that comes to you one drugs is brilliant not is all of it ‘just the drug.’ No matter what the prejudice the drug warriors have against chemicals the important thing that they ignore is that the chemicals are interacting with the human mind. Something happens when you smoke pot that not only feels good but also over time changes the entire way in which your brain processes information whether or not that is good thing is an individual judgement call. At this particular point that alternative brain function felt that it would only be just and fitting for Winona Ryder to play the lead in a movie version of Bastard out of Carolina. + Dean I soon noticed was actually talking the Johnny Depp. They seemed quite engrossed in conversation and I slid my way out from Winona and her brother and tried to cross the room without running, but I was so paranoid that I inadvertently missed the fact that Anna was calling my name behind me. Her voice blended in with the cacophonous swirl of background noise that surged and breathed in my ears as if it were a living thing. + Thus when she grabbed me from behind I almost punched her in the face I was so shocked. And I was way to out of it to try to cover up it up; she fairly jumped back from me and then let out a little yelp such that everyone in the room turned there heads. This was my worst nightmare. In my gamble to cross the crowded room this was the scenario that was too far fetched to actually happen so I disregarded it and sure enough I was frozen like a deer in the headlights, caught before a roomful of glaring eyes. Anna came to my rescue and gentle grabbed me by the waist and led me off into the hallway where Clay was waiting. They were leaving it turned out and if we were to have a ride home now was the time. I mumbled something about good to see you nice to meet you and ducked back into the party. This time I successfully navigated the room, but Depp had left and Dean was huddled in the corner looking a bit too much like cornered wounded animal. + I dropped in next to him and shook him a bit. + “How are you doing?” + “I don’t know what that shit was, but I would really like some more.” + “Ya.” I scanned the room for the scraggly haired kid but didn’t see him. It was pushing two in the morning, but the bar shoed no signs of caring and it wasn’t long before a waitress brought us more drinks. The staff seemed to be the most star struck people in the bar, they all walked about half gawking and half averting their eyes they way people do around so called celebrities. I’ve always treated celebrities with the subtle scorn that lonely men reserve for hookers, a caustic indifference held out on a stick of sarcasm and belittlement. I figured that if I were famous that would be more interesting then simple worship. We watched the room in silence for the better part of an hour. Dean told me later that he saw them all completely naked and thought that so much time had passed the place had turned into an orgy. I was musing over what life would be like if the struggle to survive were eliminated. Dangerous fantasies because you realize that whatever hardships might accompany having lots of money there was always the freedom to do whatever you wanted whenever you wanted. That most rich and famous people do not take advantage of that fact and work themselves to bones making more and more movies or albums as the case may be is the singular most depressing thing about them. At a quarter to three last call went out and low and behold Black Crowes guy slid seemingly out of nowhere into the both and offered up the remainder of the joint. + “You guys are holding up okay, the last time I shared this shit this girl freaked out and thought it was laced with something and tried to beat me up.” + “I hate it when that happens.” Dean took the rather small remnants of a joint and inhaled deeply. “My ex-wife tried to beat me up the first time I did mushrooms. I was really out of it and she came home all pissed off about something and she had never done mushrooms so she had no idea where I was and he started yelling at me on the stairs. I just kind of stood there and looked at her totally unable to comprehend what she was saying then she pushed me down the stairs and kicked me. Then my sister through her out of the house.” +Both Crowes and I were laughing by the time Dean finished his little yarn. Crowes seemed impressed more that Dean had been married than anything else or maybe that was all of the story that he actually heard seeing how most of the joint had disappeared without us participating. +“What was that like man, I mean being married.” +“Well I don’t really know we were only married two months when that happened I decided after that it was better if we went our separate ways.” + “Ya but what was it like to stand at the alter and look at that person and think ya I want to spend the rest of my life with this person. I mean what does that feel like?” He put a particular emphasis on fee as if this would someone affect Dean’s response. +Dean sat for moment in silence staring at his hands. “I don’t know, uh I never really had that go through my head. It was just a kind of little thing that got out of control. She asked me once after knowing her for like three weeks if I wanted to get married and I said sure because I thought she was joking and then next thing I knew she was dress shopping with my mom. It just happened so fast I didn’t have time to stop it.” + This seemed to have a profound impact on Crowes and he withdrew slightly in what I thought was a kind of meditative slouch. Dean and I exchanged a look after a few minutes and then with still no response we shook the kid. + Still nothing. Hmmmm. + “You want to get something for last call?” + “Ya that would probably be good.” I got up and went to the bar. I got three drinks and set one in front of Crowes who appeared to have settled off into a comfortable coma. + “Oh hey, Clay and Anna left.” I delivered the news as though it were no big deal and then saying it aloud I realized the gravity of the situation. We were fucked up out of our minds surrounded by people we didn’t know with no way out + “Oh really! How the fuck did that happen?” +“Uh well they wanted to go I didn’t and you were talking to Johnny Depp so I just kind of ditched them.” + “How exactly were you planning on getting home?” + “I didn’t really think that far in advance…” + “Ya I can see that.” + An idea nacently sprang forth in both our minds. I slide around the booth and prodded at Crowes a few time to make sure he was out for good and then I dug through his pockets to find his valet card. He didn’t have one so we figured he must have come in one of the limousines we had seen on our way in. Between the two of us we dragged him out of the booth and with an arm over each shoulder we carried him outside. It was then as we staggered to keep him from falling over that I noticed another joint in his breast pocket. I ferreted it away while Dean tried to enlist the help of the valets in locating our ride. In a few minutes an affable Tom Waites looking character pulled up in a black limousine and offered to drive us all home. We took him up on it and the three of us kind of pitched Crowe through the door. The driver, whose name was Jake Anderson, kept the divider window down and I did my best to guide him to marks house. I had him tuning about in a haphazard way that my autopilot intuition told me would end us up at Marks house. If you had drawn out our course on a map it would have looked like a staircase and we would have been falling down it like paraplegics thrown from their wheelchairs. +Eventually I managed to find the house but I felt bad because I had made the guy drive around for the better part of half and hour so I offered him the joint with a warning that it would probably be better not to smoke it and drive. He thanked me and asked if we wanted to cruise for while and smoke it with him. Dean ran inside and got Mark and Betty and we all took off to ride around Denver. Jake took us up the freeway toward Boulder and we pulled over atop a hill. We sat there for the rest of the night slowly smoking the joint in ten-minute spurts. Any longer and we were all so high that we forgot about the joint and it went out. Around six the sun rose over the eastern Colorado plain. It was a magnificent fiery red and orange spectacle. Jake told us stories about driving around the rich and famous, my favorite was the time he had driven Axl Rose’s legendary dolphin decaled limo from Hollywood out to palm Springs for the sole purpose of having a taco at some Mexican place that he really wanted to eat at. Apparently although he didn’t say it outright Jake had driven somebody our here all the way from LA for this concert which if we were to believe him was a political bigwig event that everybody who was anybody was at. There were more parties at other hotels that we had missed out on. Jake assured us that they were more of the dame with the didactic tone of the kings lap dog —always superior and never actually participating. Still he was awfully nice and as the night wore on he seemed to want to join our cross-country journey. Several times the conversation seemed headed toward a pregnant pause where if we wanted to we could have invited him along. We didn’t. +We did however take him to breakfast at a roadside diner that he suggested. After a hearty meal of eggs and bacon I was ready to call it a night and pass out. Jake dropped us off at the house around eight and I went to sleep assuming as I always do that I would wake up sober again the next morning. I didn’t and neither did anyone else. It was well past ten o’clock at night before any of us felt normal again. We spent the day sleeping it off or stumbling about the house in a mesmerized trance. To this day no other drug has fucked me up as completely or for as long as that stuff that Crowe gave us. He claimed it wasn’t laced with anything and he identified it only as Hawaiian Redhair a potent strain to be sure, but not that potent. Maybe it was the altitude, maybe it was us. Quein Sabe. + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/veryold/very old writings/gone book/gone1-7.txt b/veryold/very old writings/gone book/gone1-7.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..39ada1a --- /dev/null +++ b/veryold/very old writings/gone book/gone1-7.txt @@ -0,0 +1,915 @@ + “I’m here to go…! I am ready damnit! Lets get the fuck out of here! + Andy is shouting at the talking head on the television screen who just reminded us that this is the space age. Andy has (wittingly or not) just echoed words written more than thirty years ago; I think something is wrong. I have always thought something is wrong. The entire potential of so called reality so outweighs the aajjjjjflk as to make the whole damn circus show seem as worthless as a used tampon, but in spite of that pessimism that lurks behind every thought, if you take Andy’s enthusiasm and mine and combine them you have something bigger you have created the only thing that has ever gotten anyone anywhere, the only energy that the mind feeds on is hope. I hope that I can see space, I hope that I can set foot everywhere at least once, I hope that I can reach out to my fellow humans in love, I hope that I can suck down all the wine of Europe, I hope that I can eat something latter tonight because I have eaten nothing all day long. I am man. that is all I know for sure, I have no future, there is nothing behind me, I am. I’ll leave it at that because I don’t know for sure that I am a man or a woman or a child or a walrus. Lets go. + “Let’s go to dinner.” + “Yes.” + “don’t worry Sil, I’ll take care of ya, I don’t mind I got money right now and there’s nothing I’d rather do than use it to keep you around a while longer… well maybe I might get rid of you later and go see if I can get a little cunt, but you got your writing to do anyhow…. Whutter u writing these days? More of that peculiar science-magic-realism stuff like you showed me last night? “ + “No. Actually I’m just writing down everything that happens to me.” And not change a damn word of it either I am thinking. If the story isn’t working than I’ll change myself, but not the words, the words must lie as they fall. They aren’t coming from me there coming through me and I finally understand that. The book will be one narrow slice from the book of man, my slice of man, the reckless, passionate, obscene, perverted, boisterous, obtuse human slice. I am no longer thinking of who will read it or even what it is about I am thinking only that it has become me, that all of it carries me on its back because I could not move without it, because I am happy to stay inert, because I want only to record that which I have seen and those whom I have known. No apologies given. + +Morning. Cold. Blanket. Cigarette. +I am staying in Andy’s closet. The rest of the rooms in the house are full. Andy lives in the master bedroom, which is really not much larger than the closet; down the hall on the left, in what used to be a sun room (back in the day when people had sun rooms) is Sara, who uses her masters degree in philosophy to wait tables in spiritual peace. Off the bathroom is Kobyoshi, the last true holy man. The first day I met him I knew it would be years before I could say anything true about him, if ever. He is a strange frail lad from Thailand with a mind that far outstretches the meager sphere that his body implies; last night Kobyoshi informed me that he is quitting his position as a research assistant at a nuclear fission lab to pursue a career in ballet. Fine. It’s a cheery little household. None of us are really doing anything. Outside a purple asylum of fog is retreating across the bay, dragging it’s feet and sulking all the way back to a potato patch near Stinson beach where its said to originate from. Inside the ringing telephone is a signal of something to do. +It’s cold still, morning is undercooked. I can feel the raw drafts that leak through the crack in Andy’s window. They come in waves wafting in and sinking down to the hardwood floors, swirling about, propelled like a drunken countess’s foul smelling fart. They seek me out, countesses, farts, drafts; they find me wherever I go. It creeps in and wraps me up in a dank smoky clamshell. I take another drag off my cigarette and crush it out in the ceramic bowl by my head. Lying back on the pillow I stare up at the frayed pant cuffs and the hastily tucked shirts that would probably be in better shape if we just threw them on the floor. I can hear Andy saying yes to something and I hear the phrase “ya I’ll get him up.” + +The phone will be Brent; he will want to meet us for breakfast; he knows it’s my favorite meal and he makes it a point to buy me one once or twice a week. He gets upset if I don’t show because for some reason he is convinced that I am the only one who understands him. I don’t understand him at all, but I love breakfast; eggs, waffles, bacon, pancakes, fruit platters, home fries, lox on bagels, ham, grits, huevos rancheros, bloody mary’s, mimosas, orange juice, french toast, cereal, count chocula, lucky charms, mangos, papayas, omelets… that’s all I need to understand Brent. I eat and listen, which in these thin hollow days passes for understanding. +Andy works at the 23 Bar on the top floor of the building real swanky joint. He get in about five or six in the morning and he is up again now at nine. He seems inhuman at times. There are times when I think he is genius and times when I think he is fool, in either case he is loud and alive. +Andy is going to dupe them he has told me a thousand times. It always ends in Costa Rica. Jungle laced beaches and vermilion palms, coconut milk for lunch in the ocean breezes, warm tropical breezes that blow in from the spice islands, Mandalay; maddening lush nations of hyperspacial teleological reality. Everything ends in Costa Rica where all time stops and we just stare with absolute certainty on cresting white caps of ocean surf peeling orange in the twilight and burning like outpost camps on the final frontier. Costa Rica —where we wake up from the nightmare of everything that isn’t, spliced clamshell blades glistening in the chirping twilight of cricket dreams—Costa Rica. +The door opens and I am besieged by a crazy bearded man with spinning clown eyes attached to the ends of stalks. Breakfast is served. Andy is the last living human among us and he is only here for a limited time —like various fast food specials, but more nourishing. Andy is the only one alive; he holds the drunken enthusiasm of those without hope. To be without hope means that there is no despairing, hope and despair are the same thing at different points in time —they exist only in tomorrowland. Without Hope everything proceeds in splendor and glory, one is left free to contemplate the details and minutia. +“So what did you think of Charlize?” +“Is that the one you were with last night?” +“Ya ya, come on man get up,” Andy kicks half hearted at my ribs and steps into the closet. “I mean she was no supermodel I realize that, but did you see that kind of vacant peaceful stare in her eyes? I was on top of her and I just got lost staring at her eyes; they were like obelisks —arabic mosques… temples or something —like you’re always running on about. Did you notice that twinge of religiosity about her? I think she was from Kansas, something weird about those people… so flat… so much sky… they always have an air of wonder that hangs in their eyes…. Have you seen my jacket? The one with fur lining?” + Andy is right over my head looking around the other side of the closet for his jacket. He’s hopping about trying not to step on me, rattling on about Charlize. She is going to come into his work again tonight, but that is not so good he informs me, it will blow his chances with the randomness that guides his sexual appetite. + “It’s a Friday see and I didn’t think about that when she said she was coming in. Fridays you don’t want anyone hanging around because all the cunts that only come out on weekends are there and they’re only there to get a little. They’d rather it be with the bartender in the backroom… saves them the trouble of going anywhere. They’re a special kind those girls that work hard all week they go a little bit farther in there spare time… Of course see maybe its good she’s coming in because I really do like her and this way I won’t go off chasing something pointless….. Do you remember that one a couple of weeks ago; Michelle I think her name was…? Turns out she had the herps —Ya how do like that, she calls me up and says she tested positive so I went and got tested before work last night… hey,” He stops looking for his jacket and stares down at me. He has a wistful look on his face, but his head is upside down and reminds me a potatohead toy with a pasted on goatee and slightly askew lips; eyes that look out of order, screwed up and glinting earnestly at me. He has a T-shirt wrapped around his head like a turban; "you wouldn’t want to go with me to the clinic would you? I mean its one of those things… I know it doesn’t kill you or anything, and I don’t have any symptoms… I went mostly to make sure that she wouldn’t accuse me of giving it to her… you know how women get on things like that these days, but still would you mind? I’d rather have someone there if it does turn out bad for me….” + “Sure Andy, we’ll go after breakfast.” I am mildly touched that he is dragging me into the sordid affairs of his life, that he thinks so highly of me, but they are nevertheless his own sordid affairs. The shower is weak and barely wets your hair, but it’s hot and it washes off the sticky dampness of morning. By the time I get out my skin is pink and flushed, aboriginal corpse flesh. + +It just warming up as we climb the hill to the BART station. We walk up backwards so we can look off at the bay and watch the transformation near the top where for a moment we are above standing in a sea of cloud warmed by the crystal light of morning. The houses lining the street have window eyes that watch us and doors that yawn at the street. I nearly trip on the same can of beer that Andy tripped on yesterday, this time I kick it out in the middle of the street. We’re dizzy and getting vertigo from walking backwards, a freebie Andy calls it. Charlize is on his brain this morning, he hasn’t stopped talking about her yet. It a barrage of words and phrases and questions and twirls of logic and flight of fancy and then descending into the station the roar of the train drowns him out, but he never stops. He has caught some sort of virus, some sort of mad soul disease that has to get itself out in words, in panic because if he stops it might all disappear. “I know you don’t like the book or any of that, but there will be beautiful women, actresses and hangers on, it like a Hollywood type of thing only right here in the city. It’ll be fun man Charlize can bring a friend for you if you want, man you should see this girls friends… its catered and everything, open bar, you can smoke on the rooftop and look out at the whole city, its worth it just for that” +Food! Now that’s worth any amount of hell, I would trudge across stygian mountains of insipid shallowness, fly low over enemy territory, flak batteries firing pointless banal conversations if only there be a sandwich at the end of the line. It is wonderful thing to go to bed with a full belly. Last night I fell asleep with my arms clenched against my stomach to stop the gnawing pain. +I went upside down six month ago and in the time since I have distilled myself down to the core of existence; the primal urges, which turned out to be food, drink and sex. On top of that I plan to liberally heap some ideas and live them out too until I am living sex and living food and living ideas with the guttural hunger of the malnourished bloated belly of the victims of famine, victims of loss, of hunger, of pain, of cold gnawing lunacy clasping ice fingers around the Aqualung hearts of modern man. +And now a view too, I started to get curious to the point of asking what it was, but we jostled our way through the gates and joined the crowd. It’s just after ten when we climb the stairs to Embarcadero Street. Downtown San Francisco has a cold electrical buzz to it, a peculiar conglomeration of sounds that phase-cancel each other and bounce around in the echo chamber of buildings to create a hoarse faintly bucolic noise. It rattles your teeth if you focus on it —the combination of a millions of computers humming, ovens cooking, stoves frying, refrigerators opening, cars starting, neon open signs lighting up, and all the other cryptic roaring noises from fires of the human den. It assails you like the smog in Mexico City or the ocean of cabs in New York. Too many window-eyes in downtown peering in on you, you lose track of whose watching who or what. +I remember as a kid wanting to live here; I thought it was the greatest city in the world. Last night I decided that it’s like any other city in the world. Last night I decided to stop trying to write a book and instead to live one and in doing so shove all existence back up its own ass and set it off, a deafening roar, burning words blasting the whole thing to shreds. I decided to bring back Rabelias via the interstellar radio channel of the word behind which all is chaos and unintelligible gibberish, the rattling mouths of saints would fall open aghast and men would tear there succulent eyes from their sockets and feed on them, devouring the insanity that had created. There would be great golden orgies in the ancient temples of Atlantis and the fires at Almont would re-light after centuries of pitch black silence and out of the warm glow would come the hum of the word. I will set it all down with the Castagraf, not change a word of it because to blow creation it will have to rough hewn and wind blown like the world it will destroy and create and destroy again. Rabelias will drink imported beer and belch a million ideas to every one of mine and still hold still for one moment or we will seize upon you we will give in to the voices that besiege us to tear out the eyes and live forever in caves. But yes Rabelias will be there and he will smoke cigarettes with the angels as golden goblets of blood are served to the practitioners of the ancient faiths.… +So I decided not to write a book; I decided to write an abomination, all the false propositions held up by the teetering insanity of slander, bias, joy, awareness, idea, thought, faith, death and love can not contain one single shred of life. Words are only the beginning. Words make things, this is not a book this is a creation of things. I am working backward to catch one single moment unawares and hold it up to light and admire its reflection. To pull out of it the timelessness of eternal nows and stop the shivering voice of collective humanity groping pathetically in darkness. The entire country is in a state of rabble; the people moved through ruins like the retreating Napoleonic Army leaving Waterloo. Everywhere the lines are falling back, but it is not real war it’s a ghost war, there is no enemy, nothing to run from, only hunger, the wretched hunger of the human belly which forces us all to shoulder up and trade time in for tickets and ticket for money and money for food… and all the grand dreams, the Horatio Alger myths are nothing more than a bankrupt game of miserly old men smoking cigars and trying to fill there own bellies. And everywhere the retreat continues, men racing in shadows hiding from everything from everyone who might steal their bread their wine their wives. They squirm like little bugs fearing heal boot of the old men who are themselves only slightly bigger and therefore more grotesque bugs. The scene could have come from Dante but it didn’t it came from life itself. I used to wait for it to change, for the orders to come in to halt the retreat, but one day I got tired of waiting and so I stopped. I stopped hoping things would be better tomorrow and realized that it didn’t matter one way or another. Rabelias did his smug ‘now you know’ lip curl that everyone hated him for, but life itself holds out nothing, asks nothing and gives nothing. Hitherto I had been waiting. Waiting for something to happen, but now I saw clearly that nothing was ever going to happen, nothing had ever happened and all of history was but the meandering account of sad little creatures burrowing there way through the earth searching for death. The waiting had driven me mad, I had clutched onto any straw of hope that came my way and they had all turned to dust in my hands. All imitations of life are false to it, all reflections cast back by art or art under any other name are only broken dreams, hope dashed on the rocks of failure careening like a pirate ship with no port to call home. And then as it faded out I found myself hovering over the sewage mess of the earth I saw little fires burning, outposts in the western lands, retreat camps where those who had given up the ghostly illusion of hope were congregating. I drifted down out of the clouds and settled myself near a camp where I could observe and record. + +Brent is waiting for us outside Café Claude, nervously smoking cigarettes and looking more like spectral ghost of machinery than a human being. He looks worse every time we see him, yet every time we see him he is doing better and better. The better his life gets the worse his body gets; today I can’t smell him, I can’t smell anything around him, he has sucked smell out of the room into a mysterious cavern. His hands have started shaking with excitement. His eyes glow piss yellow. His voice is pureed smooth with cool collectivity. Today he announces, opening the door as he says it, that he just landed a new ad campaign that’s going to earn him three thousand a week. +Nine hundred of that is addicted to heroin, an additional two thousand will go to pay rent on his swanky downtown loft that he insists of keeping. Brent would rather starve than live in the slum joints up the hill; his way of staying afloat in the all-consuming ocean of heroin is to elevate addiction to a form of art. He shoots with an old metal syringe won’t do it with a common ‘junky pick’ as he calls plastic syringes. He keeps it neatly in a cedarwood box with a hand carved mandala on the front. He ties off with a leather strap that he claims was tanned by an old Indian expressively for the purpose. When he shoots up its like watching a magician going through well rehearsed but cryptic methods, the spoon is real silver, the water distilled and filtered, the arm band tight and then bang, in it goes, and the needle is always removed and carefully placed back in the cedarwood box before he allows himself to nod off. +But then once he comes round again all is cut loose and he turns to a manic clawing about the room scrapping his fingernails down the rough edges of ideas, he has an enthusiasm and energy such as I have never seen in another junky. He paints like he shoots, everything is methodically laid out and then without warning the frenzy begins, he leaps about in front of the canvas chaotically stabbing out with a passion borne more of frustration than inspiration. It’s the passion of one who strives for something and no longer knows why. Brent is the sergeant giving orders who can’t understand why it is that he has to take the hill. For Brent everything is suspect, life is a paranoid adventure where everyone moves their heads on cake turners, swiveling and scheming for each others mutual demise without know why, without having motivation for anything other than sheer existence. His only recourse is the ritual it’s the only thing over which he can assert any control and he does it in such a way that gives him total control and then he steps back from himself and lets go. He claims he wasn’t raised Catholic. +The drinks are hardly on the table when Brent launches into how, despite his recent successes as the art director for an advertising firm, everything is more or less going to hell in a hand basket. I for the most part agree with him, but for wholly different reasons. Brent only invites us in order to have an audience for his misery, meanwhile breakfast brews like an oceanic storm. The tempest starts slowing, small lapping boat wakes at first, orange juice, a plate of fruit and cheese, I try not to woof it down because I am not accustomed to rich foods —richness, Brent claims, is merely ritualized discontent. Breakers roll into the jetty brings basil and tomato stuffed crepes oozing jack cheese. The walls swim in light, floating textures of papaya and palpate with sleek smooth fruit flesh. The other patrons begin to veer and swerve about, their food passes by rousing a selfish hunger, dessert carts cloud up the sky and signal the coming danger, and then finally the tsunami. A beautiful girl named Holly serves me french toast dusted with sugar and swimming in syrup. On a separate plate she dishes out scrambled eggs with dark crispy strips of bacon; a feast fit for kings and yet it is only me so I decide that I am king. I decree that all should eat and all shall eat with gusto and fever like hungry animals snarling in the blood soaked guts of sweat and sex; the animal appetites so long in slumber shall be woken afresh to stretch there muscles and devour the world in a single gulp, skewering art, chewing up delicacy and putting it back where it belongs in the churning stomach of slime and guts. I decree that Holly is lascivious and shall be rewarded for wanting the flesh, the warmth. The restaurant turns to a saturnalia and patrons falls into unadulterated orgies of stinking flesh smeared with sweat and cum; they regress into hair covered hunchbacks slobbering and drooling, crawling all over each other with snarling lust, all the hidden stresses of their lives turn them backward, relics of DNA that reek of perfumes, jewels, and other masks to cover the organic septic tank of their origins. By the end of the meal I am in pain again clutching my stomach and loosing my belt, the richness of the food swells on contemplation and we float, whisked by vaporous entrails back out into the street. +Because Brent bought breakfast I talk Andy into buying us a cup of coffee. We catch a cab to North Beach because Brent refuses to use public transportation —another method of rising out of the cesspool, the crème of the junky crop. +“I’m gonna check into a clinic as soon as I get this job finished because I’m tired of struggling to get junk when I should be enjoying my life. You know this is the first time I’ve left the house in three days? If I do go out its only over to Oakland to get some shit and then straight back, I’m sick of it, sick to death, but you can’t just quit you know… or at least I can’t. I need to be forced off the shit, weaned slowly…” +“You serious?” Andy retains great faith in Brent; I retain great faith in heroin. +“Ya. And I know I’ve said it before but this time I mean it, I gotta get off of this roller coaster and do something with my life.” +I laugh in his face, I just couldn’t help it, but he ignores me and continues on. “I want to travel see the world, see my painting hang in a gallery; I went to an opening about a week and half ago and it was terrible. Fucking terrible! Lacquered checks that was one of the pieces, just lacquered ordinary bank checks! What the fuck is that about?” +Brent has given me this very same spiel about quitting several times before. He has heroin and painting tied to the same hitching post of intervention. He is convinced that he only needs to find the right person to represent him, give him money or at the very least just believe in him and he will sell paintings or quit heroin or fly to the fucking moon if that strikes his fancy. He needs this mythological character to help him because he doesn’t believe in himself and he never has from what I can gather. He is always putting the final touches on the perfect piece, but it’s never done, we can’t see it until it is exactly as he wants it, as if the thing had no life beyond what he was capable of vesting it with, and indeed for that very reason his painting don’t have any life beyond him. Some of them are very good, but he won’t let them out of his sight. They aren’t even paintings anymore they were representations of his entire enormous bloated cosmology distilled into crystalline existence by mysterious forces of his own will. Brent should have been a priest, he was better suited for a life where nothing can ever possibly be experienced, where hope keeps you outside life, everything is constantly elsewhere, unreachable, only to be shouted at and begged for. He was a cur dog lapping at the crumbs fate had dealt him when all the while everything he ever wanted was sitting right on the other side of the door. It was torturous to listen to; the minute the cab stopped I slipped out like a neutrino. +We stop in at La Boheme, THE place for an artist to be seen in San Francisco. Brent loves the place because it's full of college students that look up to him and give him the feeling of having an audience, having a group of disciples. The kids are still all right, and years after the Who weighed in the appraisal, but they talk too much. They are drunk on their own voices and they don’t have anything to say yet, they haven’t lived yet to know one thing from the next they only dance like hopped up caffeine chipmunks or deranged marsupials lifting their hind legs to mark intellectual territories. In the corner back against the way is Satre and depression, up by the window looking out on the tables that line the sidewalk are the poets of divine light sucking up every lyric word of Ginsberg and Yeats; the only ones I can stand are the ones that work behind the counter and know the value of human kindness. Little groups divided and conquered before they knew there was a war going on; La Boheme is a trough urinal at a baseball stadium, people sit at booths and stand by tables peeing out their mouths. The neo-bohemian set is pissing all over themselves with extravagant warm streams of urine out of one and into the mouth of another where the recipient will swill it around for a day, maybe two, and then piss the same thing into the mouth of another. Recycling at its finest, but I only hate it because I outgrew it. There was a time when I pissed with the best of them, but now I just order a cup of coffee and head outside where the tourists sit. Walking to the door I smile at the sound of piss splashing, great Niagara’s cascading from the mouths of privilege, children of tomorrowland who mortgage the future for a bit of today. Children who can’t stop pissing out inane theories and ideas, principles and mottoes, quoting dead authors like their words where written solely for them to drink down. Drink rich and deep and then piss it out like a bulimic myna bird mimicking everything it hears, the voice is hollow detached, devoid of feeling. I find a corner table and wait for nothing. The kids are all right. +Out in the fields… the sun, the moon and the stars to keep shining, Brent will kick junk, the bohemian children will be flash pasteurize in the blinding white light of creation. The world will curdle like sour milk, buttermilk, sweet and sour strange beautiful new fungus will grow a slick slime on top of the curdle. Nothing and everything will join forces in celestial alchemy and produce —something. The world will escape the nightmare of history. James Joyce will come waltzing down the street with great crowd of children gathering behind him. Bugs Bunny, Rabelias, Harvey Milk, and Anwar Sadat will be sitting at the head of great float, bespeckled with roses and bearing a banner that reads: Come As You Are. Forget life; forget everything only come as you are. When there is no hope there is no despair, there is only now, no plans, no future, just now. And that is utterly more valuable than the despair of misguided hope. Despair exists only for those who are unhappy in the moment, those who live future bound or those that choke to death on the weighted words of the past. + Andy and Brent swing through the door bearing enormous cups of coffee and Faith, one of girls that works mornings at La Boheme and whom I am in love with. Her head curls back in slow rippling laughter with the jerkiness of stop-motion film, her nuclear blue eyes dance in sunshine when there is none, she breaths different air than the rest of us. She is missing nothing. She belongs to a hidden race of seekers, of living people dead to the world, those who take the body and eat. The rest of us do not know what she knows; we are looking still like some forgotten, wayward evolutionary glitches lying in languid rooms of far off dream cities —Paris, Prague, Peking, Peoria, or St Petersburg. She is dancing in a netherworld dream with Joyce and the rest, ripe like a pomegranate, bursting forth pure cleansing light that washes over us, cleansing the urine out of our minds, the poisons from our bodies until all is love. Because all is love and it only takes Faith to show it. Love should never have been a verb, it is object of love, the noun, that initiates its action, that mysterious thing that is not an action at all but a moment, a fleeting feeling that draws us out of ourselves, beyond this world and the next. It is not Faith at all, it is me, everything is radiating out of me…. The Eucharist of flesh will lead the way out of the valley of the shadow of death to borrow from the ancients, and we will lie beside the oracle as Van Winkle beside his river and together we dream eternal. No more waiting, we are here to go… Faith… Sky…. Dizzying leaf patterns chaotically thrown up by Maples, Oaks, Birch…. An Italian family with a stroller…. Circling swooping gulls… the dull hum of the city… inorganic and intoxicating… without human passion it becomes all too metallic and dull… shimmering like a mirage in the heat of existence… Faith… breasts heaving with laughter… Faith… hair dancing on the strings of the ninth…. + +Later, after Brent leaves, Andy draws me aside and asks if I am still going with him to the clinic. I had forgotten entirely, we have to get rid of Faith; we make false excuses and head off in opposite directions and rendezvous on the other side of the block, all of which was Andy’s clever plan for giving Faith the slip. He’s in love with her too. Everyone is in love with Faith. It so happens that we meet in front of the American Express Travel Agency; the lush photograph of New York from the sky that hangs in the window temporarily freezes us both. The tag below it reads: only 399 roundtrip! +“Damn it man if I don’t have the herps lets head down to LA for the weekend, Kobyoshi’s got enough money to buy gas and my bus is running quite well. I bet you could talk him into going to see his family and then we’ll tag along…look up Dean and Ed? See what’s changed down there?” +“Absolutely nothing I would imagine…” +“Alright then lets go somewhere, anywhere, lets just get out of the damn city for while… doesn’t it bear down on you? Man I think I’m going to go mad sometimes when I look up and I can only see a tiny little sliver of sky. I get claustrophobic in these buildings, with all these damn people scurrying about like ants.” He pauses because we’re walking uphill and out of breath. “The thing is you have to have money to travel, you have to have leisure time, you have to get up and catch flights at hours of the day that I don’t see… you have to do all these things and then you go somewhere for like a week and then to top it all off the whole time you’re there wherever you go… it doesn’t really matter… every time you see a clock it reminds you that you have to leave. Do you get that? Man when I see a clock when I’m on vacation I get furious I remember throwing one out the window when I was in Mexico, it’s like they put ‘em there to make sure you won’t stay, to remind you that this is there paradise and you can enjoy it for a time but then… you gotta go gringo! Then home again back to the grind, only its worse then because you know that everything you loved about your vacation is still there going on the same as always without you being able to enjoy it.” We stare in silence at the picture of New York. “Of course if I do have the herpes I’m going to get monumentally depressed and jump out the window tomorrow night….” +“Isn’t it hard for a man to get herpes?” +“How the hell should I know, I mean they told us all that in health class I think, but when you’re seventeen you don’t listen to that crap —that’s what happens to adults, its not going to happen to us you know? Shit even if it did I wouldn’t have believed it back then, I mean here we are trying to discover this wonderful sweaty world of sex and they march right in the door and tell us its going to kill us? That shit used to piss me off, just one more way of still reinforcing the old Christian idea that sex is dirty. And then I have to sleep with the people who did listen and they have all these terrible neurotic beliefs about love and sex and they can’t understand how I might possibly want to just fuck because it feels good and I don’t need much motivation beyond that… how do you do it man you always seem to sleep with these wonderful liberated women that actually enjoy sex… you’re always getting the kinky ones, I envy you on that…. I might get laid more, but you’re record speaks of quality, real quality not drunken bravado or pointless casual sex. Sara and I were talking about that the other day… I think she’d like to get a piece of you; I think she’s tired of hearing the moaning and wondering what you do to provoke it. You should give her a lay man, she’s practically dying for it.” +We were at the door of the free clinic on Hyde. It was quite a scene —all the effeminate fags from the Castro district decked out in loud colors, a riot of magentas, oranges, sapphires, rainbows of happy homos getting free condoms marching out the door with a badge of -I Get Laid-plastered on there foreheads and accompanied by the sublime look that only the face of a horny male can radiate. I waited outside observing the gay community while Andy went in and got his results. Gays are like the Jews, they have been relegated to history's ghettos. They have found themselves in the dungheaps of humanity and carefully painstakingly rearranged the dung to form beautiful living communities. Fragile rickety alliances, one borne of blood the other of sexual preference, and both cultures have the ghetto sensibilities and lust for life that is lacking in the stuffed bellies of their oppressors. I wonder how long it will be before we have a gay president? I wonder if we have already had one and didn’t know it? I pity the first openly gay president; his lot will be a rough one, along with the first woman, the first black, the first Hispanic. In America if you aren’t a straight white male you are a freak from the get go, the whole thing is set up, even the ones who aren’t persecuting you want to know about “your people” or what its like to be gay or black… are your friends gay? Are your friends black? The Jews have been here for long enough that the daft ignorant Martha’s vineyard set that seems to be running things have about figured them out —its not tres chic to be Jewish anymore, sorry. But just about anything else… especially lesbians. From the scene around LA you would think that the vast majority of the population had just realized that lesbians existed. As the new creations, the cultural left turns begin to leave the pond and gain the notice of the so-called mainstream they are greeted on one side by hatred and on the other by incredulous fascination. Either way you turn you are no longer human, you’re lesbian, you’re black, you’re Mexican, you’re gay, you’re fat, you’re a vegesexual, and then if we can wrap our feeble minded idiocy around that…. Then in a hundred years or so we just might remember that you are first and foremost a human. Its enough to make one want to die or crawl back into the uterus and go for a second take… only a trial run you see… never realized we were on trial…. +Nietzsche talked and wrote a lot about the dead, the inhuman, the new philosophers he called them. A strange breed this those that turned there back on the so-called human values and proudly declared themselves in human. He believed that as time went on more and more would turn there backs and let the false pretense of the world die its horrid stinking death, and he was right, but he didn’t take into account the mutual growth of humanity. Humanity this loose leafed term through which all the pages of history are turned like that dream of idiots, humanity sprints through time in a straight line, the arrow launched by cupid that hit the apple in eve’s hand and sent it whirling to the far reaches of the galaxy. Beside, running parallel, but on a different set of track, the track of individuals, run the stream engines of Nietzsche's beliefs. All these artist of the future to which he spoke are dead to the world. The world won’t give them so much as a hasty acknowledgement, the world is still trying to figure out why some people like boys and some like girls, the world can not look itself in the mirror it slinks like a shamefaced soldier who ran from the battle to the comfort of his own dead mothers bosom. The world rots on top of the dead god’s cunt. Head stuck to the primordial womb like imbeciles or children that suck their thumbs. Look at all the pretty things, lovely things, look at what we have built, look at what we can do! Look at all the pretty pictures; hear the pretty stories and sleep tight at night! Never never dare to question the underlying fundamentals shake up your field if you must but leave the essential framework of shithouse alone. And yet every real change, every real improvement to the lot of the uncommon common man has come from the mind of the marginalized minority; we crawl down here in the basement where you pay us no mind and slowly like industrious beavers we gnaw at the wood frame of the house the monkeys built. The house that world trembles in fear of us and we will bring it crashing down one day, the beavers, the termites, the wood fungi, the decay always wins in the end. Children of the true warmth know that, they watch it, they live it, first they eat themselves out and then they turn their back and sinking out of sight, but they are not gone, no they are here —invisible. + +Andy did not have the herps. Faith came by the house around seven to take me to dinner. I was more than happy to ditch Andy’s party which it turned out was a wrap party for Francis Coppola’s new film On The Road. I always hated Kerouac’s Jock/Buddhist inanity and I definitely didn’t care to hang out with bloated egos dedicated to recreating that inanity. Faith was wearing tight black leather pants and a thin strapped sleeveless shirt that barely contained her breasts. I would have followed her gladly right across the Styx, but she only wanted Italian food and patio seating so we went to Luna and sat under the soft glow of heat lamps. It was an eerie little patio; the heat lamps burned the pea soup fog off so that the air was damp, but clear. About twenty feet up it dissolved into a misty whiteness that acted as a kind of raised outdoor ceiling. Bread and salad arrived without a word from either of us —the mark of great restaurant. When food is served without being requested there is a hint of what lies at your finger tips, it whets the appetite and opens up a world of edible delights that seems more enigmatic and inviting than the simple words of the menu. It wasn’t just bread either, it was flatbread fried and delicately coated with fine strips of lox and sprinkled with capers and sprigs of parsley. Nina insisted on a bottle of cabernet before anything else. I studied her face as she prattled on about the various wines her then boyfriend had introduced to her. She had a nose for wine, Faith, she hardly needed her boyfriends help, in fact it was Faith that had gotten me on the endless wine kick that left me in terrible standing with the average red-blooded, beer drinking males that I tend to have as friends. I remember the first night I met Faith or re-met her, since really I have known her forever. The first night I met her was in a bar down the street from my old place in LA; she was leaving for Paris the next morning —I have a history of meeting people just in time for them to disappear, but Faith didn’t disappear she came back and we became good friends. One night she showed up again, same bar, different night. It turned out she had been back for some time and was seeing a clothing designer who lived somewhere in a loft downtown, he was coming she wanted me to meet him. But then he stood her up and Faith started to stew. We sat at the bar and drank for a while and then she hatched this crazy plan to get back at the designer boyfriend… we ended up breaking into his loft and stealing two bottles of Merlot, Louis Felipe Edwards private reserve. We drove down the coast and up a hill overlooking the ocean where we sat in moonlight and looked at the twinkling lights of Laguna Beach. There was a little kissing maybe even some groping but it has faded into memory. I introduced her to Andy and they too became the best of friends so much so that when she found out we were all in San Francisco she came up herself. And now as she prattled about Cabernet and Merlot and Pinots and whatnot all the kissing and groping is definitely gone and there is only this strange lovable girl Faith, that is more beautiful than anyone I have ever gone to bed with, but I have no desire to go to bed with her. It sets me in a weird mood to spend time with Faith. She makes me question my value system and what I want… that is to say that I want her and yet I don’t want her and this leaves a sort of tension in the air that makes everything prickly and more alive than when I am with most others. That’s why I love her. +“What are you going to do with yourself Sil?” She has that look of concern in her eyes, it a look that says far more than the question itself. Faith knows me well enough to know that I can take care of myself, but she likes to know my plans. +“Dunno, no plan yet…” +“At least you left that awful ogre…” she laughs. She is referring to my ex-wife, Amy. It was only six months ago but already I have trouble remembering her face. Amy hated Faith. Women always hate women that they know are more attractive than them, so I stopped seeing Faith, but Faith had quietly waited in wings while Amy ran her course and now that she was gone Faith could finally gloat. It was a healthy gloat, “I told you… you run off with these girls and don’t talk to me for practically years… but you always come back to me.” Her face lit up with a kind of pride. “That’s why we don’t have sex… I love you too much to let you go getting possessive and jealous and whatever it is that you men turn into when you stick your little things into us….” She laughed again. +“We could always give it a shot… you know maybe test the theory…?” +“No.” She popped a stray caper in her mouth and smiled sarcastically. +“Okay. But I still think we could have some great sex….” +“I don’t doubt that, but I don’t need great sex as much as I need great friends. Besides,” she cracked that mischievous smile again; “your cock doesn’t have dual speed settings and a clit massager….” +“You don’t know that for sure….” +“Uh huh… call it an educated guess… what do you think of the wine” +“Yes the wine… its good…” +“Stop it… I am wearing clothes you know… +“Yes it’s a true tragedy…” +“Sil you’re starting to annoy me… haven’t you had any sex lately?” +“Ya friend of Andy’s… she wasn’t very good though.” +“What do you mean?” +“I don’t know… some people have an enthusiasm for sex and others don’t you know? Well she didn’t” +“Too bad.” +“Ya” +Dinner swings through, Linguini with clams, more bread, more wine, and more wine more wine. Faith won’t stop talking about this new guy, though I never caught his name. It doesn’t bother me though I am swimming in wine, dark crimson waves, coasting down to the tough where I lean my chair back and slouch into a comfortable relaxed position. The sea splendor lies at my feet, the candles, the little crystal salt and pepper shakers; the lupines in the rusted water can vase on the rock patio wall. Everything is exactly as it should be, Faith’s voice is a canary flitting gaily from branch to branch every thing unfolds with a peculiar splendor that comes from a kind of hyperawareness as if time itself slowed down to let us catch a glimpse of the timeless point toward which we strive. It would not surprise me if Faith took off her clothing and lay back on the table for me to ravish and ravish it I would with preternatural desires frog-leaping off the spring boards of clamshells which are circled on her naked smooth stomach. +Instead Faith orders another bottle of wine; “Can I ask you a question?” +“Sure.” +“Umm well this might sound kind of weird but I need some help here…. Have you ever not been able to, you know, get a boner?” +The way she said boner made me laugh, such a strange way of putting it, a bone in my prick, a skeletal pile driver, “A boner huh?” +“Well, whatever a hard on, you know what I mean.” +“He he he, yes I do, as a matter of fact… nevermind… Umm, well that’s depends how you define things…. There have been times when I was so drunk I had the good sense not to try having sex….” +“No I mean not drunk or anything… you just couldn’t get it up….” +“Faith I’m only twenty seven… ask me again in twenty years… why?” +“I dunno the other night we were fooling around and I tried to go down on him and it wouldn’t get hard… I mean I didn’t want to have sex or anything, I just wanted to go down on him. I don’t know if it’s me? Or it’s just something that happens sometimes to guys. Am I doing something wrong?” +“I wouldn’t know obviously… um how old is this guy?” +“Thirty eight.” +“Oh shit. God please let me be able to get it up… That’s gotta be nightmare… I mean what if it just stopped working one day? I wonder about that sometimes. I mean I hear these sorts of stories or read about them in magazines and such, but it’s a problem I can’t relate to… yet. It must be weird I mean if you were to just whisper a few words in my ear I could fuck you right here on this table… they tell me that I am well past my sexual peak, but I don’t see it. I think it mainly happens to men whose wives get fat, whose jobs are stressful you know factors I don’t have in my life….” +“But what if it’s me?” +“Ya so? What do you do when you’re down there?” +“Uh I don’t know the usual I guess…” +“The usual what the fuck is the usual? Does he just march up and say ‘I’ll have the usual?’” +(Laughing) “No…. you know I lick …and nibble …and suck and… I don’t know….” +“The secret is all in the hands.” +“The hands?” +“Yes the right combination of hands and mouth and saliva, saliva is key… you have to be messy about it. There's a little licking a little sucking then the hands… and don’t forget we have balls… women seem to forget that we have balls. Give em a lick or two… real gentle there though otherwise it hurts…. Jesus I’m turning myself on.” +“I do all that stuff… that’s the usual isn’t it, I mean I’ve seen a few pornos and girls are always talking about that shit…” +“Right, well, then its him… maybe he had an off night….” +After dinner we caught a cab over to Sausalito and walked around for a while. For some reason Faith got it into her head that we had to go into a paint your own pottery store and, well, paint some pottery. Some sort of artifact to remind us of this moment. She was very into that sort of thing, always saving wine bottles, picking up rocks at the beach, chopsticks from Chinese food we shared during the black out two months ago. It wouldn’t surprise me if she saved condoms from her ex boyfriends. We went to Color Me Mine because Ed’s father owns it. I chose a giant ashtray and swabbed it dully in mottled gray paint. Faith went in for a rice bowl and was adorning it with fairly intricate patterns of astrological symbols and such. +“I got a tarot reading the other day… the woman told me all about my relationship with Garret; it was kind of creepy… she was pretty accurate. She also said I would get a role in a film soon and the next day my friend Brian called and wants me to do his student film….” +“You think all that happened because of the astrologer?” +“I am a very religious person, you know that.’ +“Ya I know, its just refreshing, I forgot about it. Everyone I know is so cynical about things like that, we’ve all chased down the mystery for so long its not a mystery anymore. Its good the hear someone speak with a little Faith in their voice. No pun there." +“None taken. But thank you.” +“It was telling Andy the other day that I think intelligence has become synonymous with cynical… some sort of legacy of Freud and Nietschze. It might be that all these new fangled explanations of the world, like psychology or science in general are easier to understand than something that requires faith, but they loose something… you know? I think to be completely convinced of something —even if you find yourself in disbelief years later— is one of life supreme joys. I love to fall. Love to be taken in…it doesn’t matter if it’s the latest theory of physics or the ornate world of new girlfriend... the thing is never that important it’s the feeling I get from falling in completely and being immersed and saturated with belief. Fantastic!” +“I know. That’s why I didn’t get mad at you for ignoring me for two years... when you were with Amy, I knew that you didn’t love her you loved the idea of her… I knew you would be back someday.” She smiled at me. It was a smile of supreme happiness of one who was falling… it was beautiful to look at, floated there in the air, not teeth not gums not flesh and blood, but some understanding of the universe that came from the fall. The fall of man. The redemption of being human. I painted a whale on the bottom of the ashtray as an after thought. +Walking home we debated whether or not modeling made one stupid and whether or not Johnny Depp and Angelina Jolie would produce the ultimate manifestation of DNA or whether the forces of nature would intervene and create a monster. And of course the tragedy inherent in the fact that we would never get to know. Faith kissed me at her steps and went inside. I sat down to smoke a cigarette, but her new beau pulled up so I slipped off. I didn’t want him to get any wrong ideas about the situation. As I left I tried to throw a little sexual energy his way, to maybe send it across invisible wires that run between all of us. I stayed up for while smoking under the cover of inky still darkness watching the blue gray rings of smoke drift about in the still air. + + + + +2 +The hard working faceless men assemble morning to perfection. The work feverishly all night long hauling in raw materials from the future and set about building now. Now they are hard at work on now they are hard at work on now they are hard at work on. Strange Loop. A new manicure of rain adorns the streets and houses everything is freshly washed. Brent doesn’t call for breakfast anymore, he is in jail. This morning, before he went to go see him, Andy told me to be on edge, be aware he said… Sara is getting tired of teasing, she want to know if she can cash in her chips he says… make me into some sort of sexual servant +Sara is standing in front of the bay window that looks out from the kitchen onto the patch of yard behind the house. She is wearing a purple satin robe with ochre trim, her leg is propped up on a chair and she sways with the stereo, with Mile’s screaming horn. Her flesh is milky white against the dark robe and, as she turns back around toward me, the light catches the vee of her legs and frames it in purple majesty. I can see momentarily through the robe, the finest silhouette in which hides the delicate forest of gnarled hair sparkling purple light right in my eye. She walks back to the stove and scraps at the eggs; she swings her ass to the music, but only for my benefit. Do not worry Sara. I have decided that I must have you, but it must be the right moment. Be on edge; be aware! I am letting you grow inside me Sara I am incubating you for a little while longer so that when you hatch it will be like stepping into a cage with lions, no club, no gun, only fear and throbbing. +She looks nubile standing at the stove, one hand on the frying pan, the other scratching absently at her thigh. She is naked unaware. She turns around with the skillet and gently piles over-cooked eggs onto my plate. Smiling at me, “what?” she says. Nothing Sara, nothing at all. I am eating you while you sit there and smile. I am watching you watch me. I am seeing what you see. I feeling your own touch against your own skin when you masturbate in the afternoons. When you think that I am hard at work on this book. When I sit at the machine I can hear you stirring awake. I can see you smile to yourself as you stroke your cunt slow and soft. The rain swept wind that comes in the window and circles your room is watching you too. We are both watching you, we are both running our hands over your body as you pull, tweak and tug at your clit. We are the warmth of your cunt, the slick coating of desire that you rinse off in the shower. +There is daytime drama playing out in this house. Kobyoshi deserted us for New York, but he told me I was welcome whenever I wanted. I smiled and took his room. I have been working hard at the book that is not a book; it is bloated with telegraphs from faraway lands. I sit in my room all day receiving and dispatching cryptic telegrams. A monumental structure begins to take shape. I have nearly constructed the sponge that will absorb everything, the sponge that will erase the world and scrub it free of vermin and lice. Soon San Francisco will be gone it will be absorbed into infinity and the three of us will stand on the skeletal shores of napalm seas and light our cigarettes with simmering coals that line the charcoal beach. +Andy and Sara both work nights and sleep all day so I have peace and quiet in which to work, but I hear Sara moaning every afternoon about three and then I know to wrap up whatever I am doing because that new drama that is Sara and me will begin again. Andy mostly just watches; he is happily dating Charlize and for the first time in his life seems to have lost interest in pointless numerical sex, the sex of notches. I gave Charlize a copy of 100 days of Sodom behind his back and told her that Andy wanted to explore domination and submission but didn’t have the courage to bring it up for fear she would leave him. He hasn’t said anything, but I notice that he never takes off his shirt in front of us anymore. +Every afternoon the three of us crack a bottle of wine and sit in the kitchen, eat breakfast, drink and talk. Sara is like me; everything anyone says only reminds her of something she has read. She makes me glad that I was able to drop out of college before I got in as deep as she did. There is no green sapling life in her, it’s buried under the words of the past before it ever has a chance to come out and live in the sun. She will get herself out of it eventually, the branches break through in the end for most everyone; her obsession with getting me in bed is already making her cheeks glow a little. As much as she hates her overly analytical self she is an artist with it. Her words tear out and rip the room to shreds. +“Why do you think differently when you drink? And more importantly how do we know that what comes out when you’re drunk isn’t the real you? And if it is then why aren’t we drunk all the time?” she would ask. How is one to answer such a question? It rhetorical of course, she knows Andy and I aren’t going to respond, its just a launch pad and then off she goes, rocketing into the space of her own carefully constructed latticework of belief. It’s a strange little world she wants to build; everything is constantly subject to the harshest of criticisms and the most obsessive of critiques. She could talk for hours if we didn’t add our two cents worth of nonsense designed to quite things down a bit, to bring her down for minute or two. Sometimes she will catch herself and stop; she will smile and apologize as if she had offended someone unseen by carrying on. It was terrible to listen to sometimes, but I loved it, it was fascinating to watch. The wine and the fact that she was too brilliant to match wits with and get out alive quaffed any criticisms I might have had. I gave up on philosophy for the simple reason that it failed to accurately resonate with the world of existence. For me the chaotic registers of the poets and novelists captured the illusive passion of reality far better in the garbled code of metaphor and analytic insights of the philosopher. I would write her silently while she talked; her body spoke its own language when she was lost out there in the ephemeral universe of ideas and words. Sara awakened in me some crude and primordial translator that read body language as if it were words. I learned how to interact with her by responding to various unspoken body movements and discovered to my amazement that it is easy to convey information without opening your mouth. Sara Sara come down I would sing… come down from your heights… the body is electric… come down… +man leaning on fence…terra cotta… firma…smell of perfume… egg and bacon grease on her hands… floral shampoo lingering in the hair… a leg shifts… the card house crumbles…sing humans… Sara come down…. + +As I started to say, this morning everything is freshly constructed and virgin. I leave Sara to incubate for a while longer and go for a walk. One of my oldest memories is of walking down a trail in a forest somewhere. I am singing a song as I walk, but I am not really walking, I am on my dad’s shoulders and I am singing a song with him and my mother. We are hiking down a mountain somewhere, but I can’t see the forest; I can’t hear the song or see my parents. I just have the fuzzy outlines of it all. The song is right there on the edge of the memory, it has been all morning, but I can’t bring it in and hold it for long enough to catch it. +Not having anywhere particular to go, I head for the one thing that is visible everywhere on this side of town —Coit Tower. Coit Tower is a beautiful spot, from the proud phallic heights I can see all of the city teeming with people, food, desire, dreams, music, sex. San Francisco is full of sex. It marches down the street in great parades, it sneaks into the back stalls of bar bathrooms, it tugs at its clothes in alleys, it gives discreet blowjobs in movie theatres; fitting then that it should have a giant concrete cock looking over it. +The trip across town from Ashbury where the house is through the mission district, across Little Italy and up Coit Hill is a sociological tour. The Mission District has many of the landmark houses that you have seen of San Francisco, the fronts are colorful and happy, but is artificial and only looks colorful and happy in postcards. In reality they are at the catacombs of the city, the doldrums south of the equator. They are home to the middle class city dweller, an aging variety of Consumerus Americanus, usually grouped with the yuppies but wrongly so. These peculiar neighborhoods are the breeding ground of the suburbs. These are in fact why there are suburbs. The Mission is set back from downtown and is a primarily residential neighborhood steeped in the lukewarm water of mediocrity. It is here that librarians, office managers, public officials and otherwise uneventful people arise from, and it is here that the whole suburban utopia of better newer shinier gadgets was born. But this is the first wave, here the old gadgets stick out and show the datedness of their owners. Here you can tell a residents age by the color and type material that covers their windows. The first wave is reaching their fifties, they were overrun, can no longer keep up, they were the ones trampled down on the battlefield of progress, they did not win, they failed even to retreat, they lie where they fall waiting for stretcher bearers to carry them off to the morgue. They have cellular when they should have digital, they had beta when they should have waited for VHS, and they got the eighttrack player installed in their car about a month before the advent of the cassette. This post war generation turns around in profound confusion, they are assaulted on all sides by constant change, they have felt out of control ever since the first greaser put a comb in his pocket and took one of their wives behind the college stadium and showed her what sex should be like. The wanted to discover the world and instead they discovered the world of gadgets. Now they wander about like zombies, preoccupied with the future, but too cautious to gamble on it; their children are gone, there is no laughter in their houses anymore. They are always going somewhere, doing something when all the while a little voice is driving them mad whispering sweet perfumed fables in their ear like: it is all nothing…. They never say hi or wave like gays do further down in Castro, they don’t try to hustle you like the Hispanics and blacks downtown. There are no homeless people in this neighborhood, better to lie in a rat infested dumpster downtown than to lie here. Makes you nervous, a neighborhood where people won’t sleep on the streets, whether its for fear of the cops or the thugs makes no difference they’re both in the same league. The denizens of the Mission District all walk with there eyes glued to the ground if they are alone or glued to the person they are with, the world slips by unnoticed by them, they are creatures of habit, serial killers never plague them, they are too easy. +Little Italy by contrast is bursting with life and hidden treasures. Shop fronts are still in the neighborhood instead of relegated to a separate block. There is the common bond of blood flowing in the streets, the area is shrinking but it needs to. It needs to regroup itself because it was in danger of becoming just more suburbia. Suburbia is isolation; here everything is thrown together in a big messy smelly, beautiful shit sty. The streets are littered and the children play with garbage, but it has vitality, even the trash is used. Here people smile at me, nod, even say hello. Many of them are recent immigrants transplanted from Italy and many from new York where Little Italy is all but gone, overrun as is happening here, by Chinatown. Down here the world is still moving and changing, what is now covered in green white and red may next year be adorned with dragons and Chinese scripts. Nothing is certain and you see it in the faces of the people, they are aware, alive because they have to be, because if they lull themselves they will be over run. But they are not paranoid they are acceptant of their fate, they are in fact consigned to it, its part of there culture to be overrun and yet still find ways to carry on. Europe has overrun and survived itself more times the we will ever likely get, it has added extra chromosomes to the souls of its people, they have a resilient spirit that pulls up beauty even in the midst of death. +I continue up the side of Coit Hill into the million dollar homes that have views all the way out to the Golden Gate Bridge and the Pacific Ocean. Here are the successes of consumerism, commercial artists, computer experts, actors, old money houses, not the super elite, but elite anyway. This is the neighborhood of forbidden pleasures, behind drawn curtains there is sex and drugs, cocaine and beautiful women, scholars of the occult, witches, politicians, starlets, limousines. At the end of the street I start up the steps that lead to Coit tower. Here and there are little cottage homes tucked in the corners where artists and shop owners still live an unfettered existence. About half way up I stop to admire a Japanese garden of carefully manicured bonsai trees, there is a bubbling fountain at the far end. It has a peaceful midday stillness to it. I turn around to head up again, but I stop and listen. I hear the muted grunting of what sounds like a television set playing pornography. I snap my head to the side and listen because sex sounds move at a frequency to which I am hyperaware, it moves in waves like any other, but sex has another more primordial quality, just beyond the edge of conscious hearing. It makes you turn your head involuntarily, like a traffic accident or a machine gun at the family reunion in Kansas. +I follow the sound climbing up the hill instead of using the path, about half way from where I left the steps to the top, I turn around and see a couple fucking doggie style in there couch in plain view of all the world, except that all the world is hidden by trees. I light a cigarette and watch them go at with wild animal abandon. She is not like most rich women I have been with whom are so disinclined toward any sort of dirtiness be it on the linens or during sex. These two have taken Woody Allen to heart; sex is only dirty when you do it right. She comes before I am halfway through my cigarette and sits down on the couch to suck him off. It comes as electrostatic charge this feeling of peeking into the lives others, of watching them harmlessly. Her warm mouth is drawing him out and I am leaving, not wanting to see the end of the show, preferring to leave it eternally occurring in memory like a loop of film flapping in an empty theatre. +Memories shrouded in gauze and muslin, filters that color and toned the past with palate of the present. Mexico City: I remember Mexico City in hazy brown discolored way, but it’s not the smog, it’s the nature of memory —the nature of my memory. The images overlay each other like a photomontage. I see it in moving pictures: cut to a shot of the subway, sad brown faces … lay on top of it an image of pyramid excavation digging up and trying to solve the Mayan Caper… years ago you would understand… she was standing right next to me and then...a warm sweet smelling cab and my father says “hey, look a Kentucky fried Chicken.” It though me out in the middle of foreign chaos; it threw me into a different world, in that instant a chaotic kaleidoscope of astonishment and splendor … the shock of fried chicken. Everything became focused up into the sun; it burned in fantastical visions that existed only for me, leaving me alone and for a long time afraid. Not fear in the sense that you feel threatened, it is much worse, not conscious, it just lingers in the back of the mind occasionally eliciting a paralysis that would haunt me for a while and then fade again in the face of day to day activities. +It’s a fear that leaves you like a woman I saw once stone still and shell shocked, stuck right in the middle of this enormous arch in Canyonlands National Park, Utah. She just stood there unable to move, feeling the digging hooks of unbridled terror burning into her brain and creating an endless and spellbinding feedback loop that forbids you to move. It anchors your mind right back in the primate body because you feel it and yet rips you right out of the very fabric of collective reality and propels you into strange land where there is no you. I watched her sit there unable to help herself, doubtless staring at the two thousand-foot drop off on both sides of her and the meager four foot wide sandstone arch that was holding her there. She was suspended in mid air, seeing herself for the first time the way we are: naked cold and deathly afraid. + But the cab driver just laughed and said, “here in Mexico City there is no Kentucky Fried Chicken, maybe Kentucky Fried Cat, Kentucky Fried Dog, But definitely no Kentucky Fried Chicken.” He smiled this crooked smile revealing gold caps and over moist gum structure that was so large it seemed to be slowly crawling right down over his teeth. He then sternly advised in all seriousness against eating there. +I crush out the cigarette and decide to head downtown and catch the subway rather than walk all the way back. Its already dark and a lazy nighttime storm is drifting in from the ocean. Jostling through the crowds of Jackson street brings back tapeloops of Boston —Harvard square—fall—the Charles River slips by without a sound, the streets corral throngs of people— onlookers drunk beyond comprehension of what they were there to look at— they stumble out of bars and lurch through doorways like grenades rolled out on the street. Inside the Radcliffe boathouse a reserve of surplus energy is released in muscular spasms that pulse in orgasm. Her breasts pool salt onto my tongue. Her flesh is hard and metallurgic turning brittle under my hands, the life is slowing slipping out of her, out of the sewers of life up celestial heights of orgasm, among the eagles, the screaming eagles, the German philosophers sitting like a nineteen ten bankers awaiting the thief. The tape is endless, looping across eons, cultures, genetic hardwired associations to the galaxies, interstellar abbreviations of life. Cool hard water distilled in my mouth and then she falls from my arms like a limp rag and I am cast down a tube a tunnel endlessly falling, clattering of the walls building speed, a vacuum with no terminal velocity I want to reach out for limbs for human hands to catch me…. I scream and there is no sound save the rush of air passing my ears and finally I settle in the twinkling light still shining from above and I relax to the falling sensation no longer concerned surrendered eternity forever to remain here now and then the light goes dim… the taxi’s in times square… Truman Capote… An auburn haired girl I liked in seventh grade… tumbling off great vistas. + + +I ran out of money some time ago and I have been spending most of the days wandering around trying to make friends and bum a meal or two. I was downtown panhandling and then trying to talk my way into free meal with a girl from the 23 Club, Sabrina. She was beautiful and I hated asking her for anything. I stared out the window into space when a familiar blur walked through my field of vision. She was thinner, had straight blond hair rather than curly red, and she had been in the sun too much, but she was definitely my high school love. You never forget the first, you never get another like that and Audrey was the one. At least for while and then I met another, the one and even then only until I met the next the one. I watched her for a minute, looked back across the table at Sabrina, Andy’s waitress friend, her lips were moist, and I bolted. I ran out the door and chased Audrey up the steps. I slowed for a minute to watch her, I caught her at the door and spun her around and kissed her and jumped back. She screamed. And then we had lunch. She told me about her job, she was swimming with brine, she had gotten married. I fought back all my urges to follow her to the bathroom…. She quizzed me on my job, uh don’t have one, where are you staying? Andy Driesen’s closet. Oh my god. What? You live in a closet? Ya kind of ironic huh? San Francisco too? Did you finish school? Nope. Are you going back? Nope. So what are you doing with yourself? Are you still writing a book? Still? No. +As I ate I ran my eyes around her, over her down her and I tried to go right through, but that takes proximity and I was far far away. When I knew her Audrey was a teenager, swarming and slightly naïve, her family made fun of her because she thought islands floated… until she was thirteen. She had her own internal rhythm that produced its own sort of logic, but from the looks of things she had learned the truth about it all. Islands are pushed up from the sea Audrey, but I always liked your vision better than reality, reality being as it is… flexible. But I could tell from her questions that I had bent a little more, a little farther than Audrey, but we always knew that’s how it would be. “We had a good time didn’t we?” +For one strange timeless moment crossing the Golden Gate Bridge when she said that and then stared into my eyes I dropped through the rabbit whole and went back to wonderland. Orisis was there, he was in the car, the third part, where ever two or more are gathered in my name… which is what is never… There was this sycamore tree in the back of their yard, Audrey’s bedroom was on the second floor and in the afternoons on the weekdays, before her parents came home from work we used to lie naked and I would stare up out her window at the orange glow and those leaves, the way those gentle spiked leaves moved like fluttering octopus arms clawing at the sky. I remembered lying there remembering… that I would be here now. I remember the brown wood slated patio cover and the debris of dead leaves that gathered on it and blew all over the yard in windstorms of fall. I remember the curtain blowing in the hot dry afternoon in August. We had just come back from the beach; we arrived ahead of her family and went at it before they came home. And I silence you shall hear every thing, and the wind blew, the hot dry Santa Ana wind coming down out of the desert and pushing the salt breezes far out to sea. We dried up and chapped. Cracked and bled. +Her father was quite a man too. Probably as much responsible for my current world as she was. He was a minister, but I never held it against him that sort of thing can happen to the best of us. Like so many in the neighborhood of my youth I was sent off the church at a young age. The church was undergoing renovations so I spent a good portion of my time there ditching Sunday school class and running through the debris and catacombs of the construction site. It was heaven for fifth grader…. Eventually the dark underground tunnels became cinderblock hallways with red velvet carpeting and contained things like choir rehearsal rooms or storage closets for chairs and bibles. Heaven was remodeled into gaudy ugly hell. But by the time the new chapel was done and the once mysterious tunnels were reduced to a bad parody of the pentagon I was in Jr. high and I had a new interest in church —girls. If all it took to get the girls was a little praying, singing some goofy songs and enduring the mindless chattering of uninspired thirty-something yuppies on a do-good trip (ministers they called themselves), then so be it. By high school we were all more anxious to get off in the woods at summer camp than we were in any strange white-haired old man and his inane set of rules. God and his rules sounded as stupid then as they do today. As for philosophies on life you could read them in the library if you really wanted to know what some dead guys thought about life. I was a strange child and for some reason I did want to know so I read them, but they meant nothing to me. My only enjoyment out of them was the response their names got at church on Sunday’s. Say “Nietzsche” or “Leary” to the ministers and you were in bigger trouble than playing Judas Priest in your room at summer camp. Nietzsche worked them into more a frenzied state then the Bible ever did and of course that only served to make me more curious. In a contrarian way the church educated me. +By the end of high school I had my first real girlfriend —Audrey. We met at church camp; she was from a church nearby and had come up to the mountain camp the same week I did. I met her because she was dating my best friend, but that is a whole other narrative. It lasted until I dropped out of college and moved away. + All too predictably I had fallen for a preacher’s daughter. Yes…the rebellious boy seduces the preacher’s daughter and leads her into a life of sin, it wasn’t until later that I felt robbed, like I had been living out a tired cultural myth, suburban legend, but contrary to the way the story usually runs, her father liked me. Her father, Steven, was a different sort of man than the ministers at my church; Steven made me realize that there is a difference between ministers and saints. In my experience ministers were more like lawyers, intermediaries between you and god; they argued god’s case and you decided for yourself —gotta have faith my boy! This coming from men who had obviously never given a thought to much more than their paycheck and the eventual reward of a shining happy afterlife. Their nasal whining and paunch cheeks reeked of comfort and boredom; they were as lifeless as the chalk dust that floated down from the black board where they listed the things we were not to do. Ministers are somnambulists stumbling dully and quietly through life doing the bidding of words written two thousand years ago, their souls were putrid like rotten milk, coagulated like dried blood and mummified while still alive. +Steven was nothing of the sort; he had the title of minister, but he wasn’t one, he was a saint. Steven glowed like a sunset when he spoke of god. He had enthusiasm for life and wanted to live drunkenly serenely aware. Steven was alive; there was enthusiasm coursing though his veins leaking out when he spoke, it was mist in air that held stillness and serenity like the spray beneath a waterfall. He had the sensibilities of a man with an inquisitive and alert mind —an aware mind. A mind that that was aware of the ambiguities and subtleties of life, a mind that did not insist on taking a rigid, brittle grid of belief and forcing it to fit over a convoluted serpentine existence. +Steven never spoke of god as an anthropomorphic figurehead with a long index finger extended toward the earth, he spoke of god as ‘the other.’ “The part of life, which we cannot understand, is god, ” he said. God the unnamable one writer called it; god of chaos, of the burnished virile thing called life —now that is something a twenty-year-old with a sex drive can relate to. And Stevenell didn’t just quote the Bible, he could move from the Dhammapada to Tolstoy, to Emerson, to Job, and back around through Nietzsche, Kirkagaard, Lewis, Joyce…. Steven was a scholar in the oldest, most living sense of the word, but he didn’t just talk philosophies he sang them, great hymns dropped out of his mouth like transmorphing deities bathed in iridescence (to borrow Terence’s imagery). He lived and breathed a rhythm full of vitality, understanding, and above all else —openness. He had all the markings of a saint… that is, one who knows god. +Steven and I only actually had a couple of conversation on the subject of life, but I always watched and listened when he was around because you learn far more that way than to just ask questions and get answers. I was an inquisitive youth and spent much of my time in the world of books, but not just any books; I read the ones that you weren’t supposed to read, heretical texts, pornographic treatises, transcendental meditations, books that called into question not just God or values but the very nature of the universe and struggle to understand the human experience. By the time my senior prom rolled around I was done with the trite simplistic world of Christianity. Part of it was due to a book I read on brainwashing, which made me, realized that even if all this malarkey they were feeding me was true, I knew nothing of it other than what I had been told. The US military, Indian gurus, Charlie Manson, and nearly every other belief centered organization in the world use the same tactics. I got very angry with myself for being duped by these charlatan tricks that seemingly anyone could have employed by reading a textbook on conditioning psychology. I mentioned that to Steven once and he mentioned a strange system of belief that he alternately called transcendentalism and gnosis. Steven inadvertently sent down a path that led here, to the steps, to the very diner I sit in waiting for Dean. He introduced me to the convoluted world of the unknown. There are two types of things, those known and those unknown (to paraphrase); once I got a taste of the unknown I lost all interest in the known. +Steven never had any answers, only more questions. Had I read Emerson? Whitman? Steven defined gnosis as direct personal confrontation with god or the unnamable or the Logos or subconscious or whatever you wanted to call it. The important thing was not what you named it but rather what you got from it —your interaction, the way you lived. This philosophy, unlike most I had heard, held that the self —the individual— already had the answers to all your questions… it was only a matter of confronting them. He dropped some names I knew as the so-called transcendentalists who had occupied a scant afternoon in my senior English class. +I remember standing uncomfortably in the doorway while Mrs. Williams read in her nightgown and Steven dug through his desk drawers looking for this tape. I remember him ranting on in that slightly wild-eyed fashion of his about how brilliant Terence McKenna was; “he has a clarity to his mind that is just unbelievable. It’s in the very way he speaks his voice carries you off into your imagination…” Steven paused to stare into space for a moment. “And then you start to hear what he is saying… and it’s this incredible message of hope and inspiration. You see he is mainly interest in brain transformation and exploring altered state of consciousness….” The poetics of his praise sticks out in contrast to the discomfort I felt at invading their personal space. Eventually he found the tape and handed it to me; he smiled and said for me to listen to it for a few days and then give it back. +Then he closed the door and went to bed. I remember driving home down the 405 listening to a magical leprechaun voice warbling excitedly and then rhythmically as if drumming; it would rise to a crescendo, a flourish and then back to the gentle elf that seemed in control of the whole thing. It was better than most music I had heard. That was Steven. That was Audrey. This was once just a thought in an architect’s head. Suspension wires, wink and smile. +And then Audrey smiled and we pulled off the bridge and then nothing more was said, but she went too, I could see it in her eyes, we use that phrase a lot and most of the time we don’t even know what we mean by it, but it happens. She had insisted on putting me up at her house, so I could write she said. She failed to realize that in order to write you have to be able to live, but I figured free food was nothing to scoff at. I went along for the ride. Audrey had gone and married a Canadian farmboy who used to play hockey and now plays golf and he talked a lot about being a sports newscaster. It was a different life than what I had in the city, they were in the rather ritzy suburbs of Marin, a nice house tucked back in the near forest of the hills. It was the suburbs to be sure, but a suburb that was not artificially planted which made it livable even attractive sometimes. They ate three square meals a day and went work like the good little citizens that they were. I sat around all day smoking cigarette and typing in their garage because neither of them could stand smoking. It was a blissful week of insanity, I invited Andy out for dinner one night, he and Audrey knew each other and I thought it would be fun, but Andy and I together proved not to be compatible. +That night on the way back into the city Andy told me there was a letter from Dean. When we got home we opened it and I read it out loud to him. It was more the ranting of a madman than a letter proper. Dean was in the throws of an existentialist dilemma, he had no enthusiasm left in him. He was coming up he said for a little R and R, to take his mind off it. He was arriving at the Oakland station in six hours and expected us to meet him at the all night diner on Telegraph and Broadway. He sounded like he had finally lost his marbles completely living alone in LA. We got up the next morning and talked it over on the way across the bay. Andy figured he had met someone; I put five on genuine insanity. +Dean shows up at the corner of telegraph and Broadway, two o’clock, just like he said he would. He is wearing his trademark pin striped suit and slightly goofy fedora. I appreciated what he was trying do, but a man can’t where a fedora until he’s over thirty —it just doesn’t work. His hair is greased back like it’s 1956 and he is slightly ahead of his time. Enemy of the people. We did a round of hugs and dove in the car. None of us had any desire to be in Berkeley, it was just a landmark we all knew. Dean had never been to San Fran so we take him in on the Oakland and then through town, over the Golden Gate and back. In the car Andy starts telling Dean the same story he told me on the subway ride this morning: he is going to Costa Rica. He’s got job all lined up working on a cruise ship, free room and board two weeks a month, the rest he spends in hotels, which are cheap he says. He does the same thing to Dean, he wants the two of us to head down and look him up, but what he fails to realize is that for us to get there we would have to walk. +And now to make it more of a build up, Andy is dragging out Costa Rica, the jungles, and the smell of napalm. Finally I couldn’t take it. “Shut up Andy, we’re not going to Costa Rica, have a good time, send a postcard, now the real question is what the hell is wrong with Dean here that he should send a letter quoting Sartre….” I clapped him on the shoulder, “So what’s her name?” +“No it’s not that….” +“Pay up….” Andy gives me the five bucks we wagered. +“What was your call Sil?” Dean smiled as the money changed hands. +“Genuine, certifiable insanity.” +“I don’t know about that…. Don’t you ever just sit around a wonder what the fucking point is? I mean from a strictly clinical point of view we know that none of this is really here… so why it here? I don’t know I get in these moods, I’ll wake up at work and realize that I am work and I don’t even remember getting there…. Its like I have some robot driving my body around. See and that started to bother or at least it got me thinking… I started to wonder what other robots were lurking around. I started doing these self-experiments; you know weird shit just to see what people would do. Every morning I let one cockroach go in the copy editors office and then I’d leave. Two weeks later he got them to spend four thousand dollars getting the whole building fumigated. So I did other stuff, you know went door to door preaching the word of god, just to see how people reacted… then I started thinking shit I could use this to get laid a lot more and see what the life of the cold hearted average bastard American male is like. It was simple I just acted like one and sure enough I got laid. I don’t mean just one or two on the weekends. I had them coming at me like flies and then I started to freak out and I got paranoid that they would figure out the game and get pissed you know… I mean they weren’t the brightest girls in the world you understand, they weren’t the type of girls that would think my method acting was funny, they were the type that will smash the windows of your house and boil your cat. +“You don’t have a cat.” +“That’s not the point… the point is that I sort of lost track of myself, I mean I found that when I just got up the nuts to be whatever the fuck I wanted to be that day… I could. So if that’s true than what are we? See now that’s one of those questions that you’re not supposed to be able to answer right? If you figure out that then you have sold your soul to the devil right?” +He stops suddenly and car is silent for moment. Andy had started to take the five bucks back, but he stopped and pushed my hand away. Dean has done these sorts of things before, he reminds me of Dr. Lilly who argued that one shouldn’t do anything to his patients that he hadn’t done or wouldn't do to himself, except that Dean didn’t have patients, he just had himself. But taking acting off of the movie screen and putting it in real life was a bit extreme even for Dean. I couldn’t think of anything to say. Andy cocked his head sideways for a minute and then blurted out, “Ya man, everyone knows that.” +“Ya but no one takes advantage of it.” +“That’s cause they have other things they would rather do. I mean you like to do that, so it’s not like that is the secret to life, its just the secret to your life, personally it sounds like hell to me.” +It sounded like hell to me too, but Dean gets obsessive about things. I actually did figure this stemmed from a new love, but I knew Dean wouldn’t cop to it yet, it was early in the game.... Dean has this strange addiction to women, he only goes to bed with ones he doesn’t like because every time he goes to bed with one he does like he is devoured by this all consuming burning passion that eats him alive. For those of us that have know him for a long time now it’s easy to see coming. The philosophical smoke screen of mercenary behavior is the first clue that something is rumbling just beyond the event horizon. By the time we came back across the bridge after stopping for a cigarette at the scenic outlook, we were all ready for a drink. Andy had Dean all riled up over the promise of free drinks and beautiful waitresses at the Sky Bar. I tried to talk him out of it, but Andy insisted, he said it would be a night to remember. He knew something we didn’t. + +It’s just past nine when the elevator doors open into the obnoxiously bright lobby of the Sky Bar. Andy greets the doormen and we are ushered inside. It was only the third time I had been there; the place was overwhelming in my opinion, like a strange blue parallel universe. All the walls are covered with shimmery hanging strips of blue foil, back lit with blue light and rustled with fans that blow out the ceiling and give the walls the appearance of movement. The booths are along the back wall and covered in faux white fur and lit with black lights so that when you laugh your teeth glow. It was demented, insane, beautiful and frightening. The ceiling is laced with blue icicle Christmas light and the whole room is one giant swarming sea of female flesh, you have to swim to get to the bar, undulating eels and serpentine cocktail waitresses. Andy swore up and down that they were not for sale, but I refused to believe him. There were just too many of them; beautiful women are not herd animals, they travel alone or with a pack of males. If you ever see to many in one place something is up, something polymorphously perverse is going on. Lecherousness was in the architecture, the place was a harem den in spirit if not practice, sitting there I got the feeling I was on the set of porno circa 1977 with no expense spared. The last days of disco… a peculiar intangible decorating term —art deco— which used to mean Miami Vice and now means feng shui. + We grab a seat in the corner booth and Andy gestures to a waitress. Drinks appeared. Things teetered along like they would have any night anywhere and then something strange happened that had never happened to me before. After we had been there about an hour Sara showed up. She was with a group of girls from the university and they all crowded into the booth with us. Conversations swirled around overlapped ideas, volume, and meaning. Dean hunkered down with a short dark haired girl; they got lost in a conversation about time travel and sleep. I listened to the morphing voices clatter about the table, snippets of conversation darted in my ears from five different directions and then one singled itself out. It was a booming loud voice of a man and it came from the vicinity of the bar; it was overwhelming and spoke with authority and conviction. Th music stopped and the place fell silent. The man jumped up on a rickety table just adjacent the main bar and offered up a round of drinks for the house. By now the bar held well over a hundred people and a round would certainly cost a pretty penny, but it happens every now and again. Without the music the magical sound of conversation died and everyone sort of milled about as if lost or waiting, waiting for something more, the entire place was incomplete, you would feel it in the air. The pregnancy lasted until everyone who wanted a drink had one and then the man started in. He asked if everyone had their drink and then announced that he was the owner of the joint and he was closing the door and making the place into a private party. At that point people groaned and started yelling but he silenced them simply by raising his hand. He said he had bought us the drinks so that we could drink with him; all of us were guests at his party now. He said that he had just asked his girlfriend to marry him and that she had said yes and he was very happy and wanted us to share in his happiness. He said that he wanted us to toast his new and he pulled her up onto the table next to him and we all clapped and he said that he had met her three years ago in this very bar and that she was the most important thing in his life now. He said that people always told him that you don’t meet ‘ that someone special’ in bars and that had built the Sky Bar to prove them wrong. He said that he had found exactly what he was looking for and he had found it by following his heart. He said that wherever your heart leads you, you will find happiness. +It was quite a speech. What amazed me was the silence that he achieved, its no easy feat to shut up a hundred drunken revelers, he might have owned the building but he sold them with his heart. He carried on like that for almost ten minutes and then finally he sat back down and the music went on again, but everything was different; people were talking across tables and they were moving across the room and strangers could be seen shaking hands all around us. The man had opened some sort of floodgate; even Dean said he felt better. It felt better know that someone had succeeded in making sense out of the world, that he had created his life and looked around at it and said this good, I will rest now… rest? Drink! Drunken debauchery is the highest form of worship. Someone had turned the mysterious other, the beloved unknown, into the known and we all wanted to celebrate that. + Suddenly instead of a bar the place gained some intimacy, it was a private party and we were all invited, we were alone together so to speak, much like being trapped in burning airplane, we all had something in common suddenly. Dean said that it reminded him of how he pictured an Italian wedding like the one in Deerhunter an enormous party that could go on for days if it wanted to. He was right, the place had an air of electricity to it as if now that there was a reason to be happy it could spread and affect all of us even though it really meant nothing to any of us. Same sort of thing the evangelists have always been doing from Christ on down to a Baptist revival in the rural south. What the man did was conquer that last human demon and he did it with simple heartfelt honesty and generosity. He succeeded in making all of us together, all of us suddenly human and frail, but not alone in our humanity, not alone in our frailty. It was a rare moment in modern American, a moment of unity. +For a time we were no longer isolated from each other, the cold scientific belief in the individual as an isolated universe was conquered and all the mythology of the tribe, the community came into the room with a flourish, borne on the wings of alcohol no doubt, but wedded to something bigger, something that perhaps without the alcohol would still have been there. We were drunk, but not of spirits, we were drunk on the words of a man in love. For a moment all the private despair around with us that wiggles around under our skin when we sleep at night, disappeared. We came undone the little creatures under our skin popped out and ran away unable to live in the boiling cauldron of happiness. They were forced extinct by the change in environment, like the dinosaurs, unable to adapt to joy, sorrow dies. + In its place came an air of enthusiasm a sense of shared adventure that was hitherto not present. The movement of bodies about seemed to stir it up in the air and soon it was fever pitched. Couples were dancing in the isles between tables, in corners shadows could be seen groping at each other and men clapped each other on the back while women cuckold in circles. Everywhere stories spun out, true ones, false ones, exaggerated ones, downplayed one, stories that rang out and were delightful no matter what they said. None of us were actually aware of what we were saying we just knew that it felt good to talk felt good to pour out our innards to strangers. Commiseration and celebration wrapped each other up like packages and dropped down the chimney from the grip of an invisible hand with red sleeve. + Even Sara and her graduate student friends who were all getting their MA’s in philosophy and generally had seemed quite cynical, were lifted up and tossed about like cotton cAndy. We were at the circus and no matter if Plato or Plutarch were on the ferriswheel because it was still a carnival and everything is welcome at a carnival. +Things kept up well past two when the alcohol stopped flowing. No one waned to leave, we all felt like it would fall apart if we left the room. Finally around three, large groups started to head off to various impromptu parties; we went with the girls back over to Berkeley where they had an enormous old house that they all lived in or at least most of them did. By that time we were all a little sketchy on the details of the situation. On the subway we all careened back and forth into each other with the sway of the train. Sara pushed me down into a bench and climbed on top of me. We were deep into a tongue battle when catcalls and whistles were heard from the other end of the car. Everyone gathered around to watch us and we gave them a show. It seemed like the right thing to do at that moment some way of pulling everybody in together simultaneously intimate and yet encompassing all. We finally broke it off to breathe and there was a round of applause. Some one from the train had joined into the party; we swept up him and his friend, and they came all the way back to house. There was music and dancing and Andy climbed up on the roof with their dog and tried to get him to howl at the moon, but he was too domesticated to understand the meaning of it all. Dean and a girl named Monique disappeared into the back room and then others drifted off until it was only Sara and I on the couch. She kissed me for while and then without much warning passed out. I tucked her in with a blanket I found in the hall and went up on the roof with Andy. He was standing up there staring at the sky with his mouth open and a cigarette in his hand. Neither of us said a word for while. +“You gonna go down to LA with Dean?” +“Ya I guess… Sara’s said she’s going to get two of those girls and take over the lease and I don’t really want to stick around for that… trouble that one….” +“Ya you better watch out, I think she’s in love with you.” He stopped and stared at me for a minute. “You know Sil, you ought to get out of this country. You don’t exactly fit in with Americans… you’re different, you don’t give a fuck….” +“Neither do you… neither does Dean.” +“Ya I know that’s why I’m leaving and you and Dean ought to too… I mean whether you get down to see me or not doesn’t really matter… you just ought to get out. Forget loose ends for get all that you think you have to do and just go. Just go and keep going because you’re the only one of us that has half a chance of making it.” +“What do you mean?” +“Look man where do you see me I five years? I’ll tell you where I see myself, I see myself being well off, with a family that I love and job that’s decent, I see myself shifting gears, I can smell it coming, its involuntary and you have no idea what I’m talking about do you? You can’t fathom me doing any of that can you? No you can’t and I used to not believe you when you said you were going to take over the world and all that sort of nonsense… and I still don’t, but lately I’ve been thinking a lot and I realized that you are going to do something, something big. Maybe its that book, maybe its taking over the world…. People respect you and people will follow you, people are impressed by you… I don’t know man, I thought about it the other night when we were at Audrey’s house. I thought about back in high school how everyone followed you and I around and thought we were so crazy or whatever dumb shit they were thinking and I realized that while I was the nutball full of antics; you were the one they looked up to. And I have no idea why I am saying this… probably because you’ll be leaving and who knows when I’ll have another chance. Whatever, I said my piece… I’m drunk as fuck, I gotta pass out before things start spinning.” And he walked down the stairs and went inside. + + + +“Come on man lets get some breakfast and go for a drive.” I woke Dean up at nine. + He got up out of bed without waking the girl and put his clothes back on. He brushed the hair back from her eyes and we stared at her sleeping face. Her skin was young and smooth. She stirred and smiled. We left. +We went down Telegraph and all had huge omelets at the all night diner. Afterward we worked our way back to Andy’s stopping off for a drink at an Irish pub and some chocolate from Ghirardelli Square. It was early in the morning on a Thursday and no one was around the Ghirardelli area. It was pleasant; everything glowed. Back at the house I threw my clothes in trash bag, backed up my manuscripts and laptop, and we headed out. Dean needed some help at the newspaper and offered me a place to stay. +We took the 101 south through the dry brown grassy hills of Palo Alto and Silicon Valley where the high tech industry has grown like a cancer on the land. From there we cut down across the coastal range. It cooled down and pine trees replaced barren hills. From the final crest in the road all the way down into Santa Cruz the view o the ocean was magnificent. It was one of those clear warm days that make California what it is; a wild crazy kind of energy is in that air. It’s the vast sea that brings it in, air that has traveled ten thousand miles of churning ocean to deliver itself fresh to our noses. We had lunch in downtown Santa Cruz and went swimming at the beach just north of there. Seagulls circled low over the kelp beds and the sun was bright and warm without being hot. +From Santa Cruz down to Nepenthe Dean explained his mind experiments to me again in more detail. He still said nothing about anyone other than himself. +“Have you written anything of interest lately?” +“You mean anything other than for the newspaper?” +“Ya” +“No.” + In Nepenthe we had dinner and walked along the bluffs watching the sea otters out in the kelp beds. The sunset was beautiful, gilded light that slowly worked its way through the color spectrum from the first rays of orange then to fiery red and finally gentle purple hues that gave way to the blue green cover of darkness. Just south of Monterey we cut back over to the 101. +“Hey. Guess who I ran into last week?” +“Who?” +“Rick. Remember Rick?” +To say Rick was a friend would have been hyperbole; to say he was an enemy wouldn’t be accurate either. Rick was just there. And then one day he wasn’t. He was one of those people that just kind of shows up without warning, without rhyme or reason, but he was there. He became the butt of most of our jokes; the biggest and best of which was supplied by his own so-called girlfriend. Her name was never worth committing to memory, but I do remember that night at the bar when she let it slip that Rick had a misshapen penis. Actually she didn’t just let it slip; she seemed to get a perverse little pleasure out of telling us that. +“Ya once you know something like that there is no way of making it go away; you just can’t look at them that same —ever.” +“It was weird, we had a drink and he told me all about his business plans and how he’s going back to school and whatnot… and the whole time I just kept picturing it. This is that best part though… when I was leaving he went to take a piss and so I’m standing there at the urinal next to him and… well don’t take this the wrong way, but I wanted to see it you know… maybe she lied and there’s nothing wrong with it at all… so I glance over and by god I tell you it was crooked even though it wasn’t hard.” Dean burst out laughing. Dean had no respect for Rick; I couldn’t blame him. Rick was nice enough, but there was something about his ignorant spoiled approach to the world that had grown increasingly repulsive over the years. + I started laughing too, “that has got to suck, I mean what can you do? Of all the things….” + “Well, if I were in his spot I would at least stop wearing those tighty whities, I mean come on? That certainly isn’t going to help things you know?” + “Are you serious? He wears briefs? God I hate briefs. Is he still with her?” + “No, and he was hitting on everything in sight, it was embarrassing. But I guess nothing at all would be an improvement on that woman…. She was one ugly girl.” Dean mused. +We lapsed into a silence that only an ugly woman could inspire. And it wasn’t that she was all that unattractive, she was, but you compound that with the fact that she fucked Rick’s cockeyed penis and told all his friends about it… you came up with an image that would silence the most gregarious of poets.... + “Which way do you think it curves?” Dean and I have one common trait, when we find something truly horrifying we have to follow it through to the end. + “You know its thoughts like that that I wish weren’t forced into my brain. I have this thing where if you say it I see it and there I am now its right there, his cock is in my brain, you put the guy’s cock in my brain… I would guess it’s to the left.” + “Really I was thinking right, you know cause of the tighty-whiteys…” + “No well I don’t know maybe but most guys hang to the left. In my experience” + “I know, but I’m assuming he was a freak of nature all the way around you know?” + “I can see your point, but I mean have you ever met a righty? I mean I suppose there are righty's out there but I believe they are the minority. I’m not sure why I believe that; I think I read it somewhere.” + “What do you read?” Dean was sitting up wide-eyed. + “Oh you know The Lefty Times, it the official journal of the Lefty Alliance, a loosely organized federation of men dedicated to service of Lefty Cause.” + “The left Nut Cause?” + “Ya we take stands of issues that are important to the lefty voters and represent their interests in Congress. We’re actually going to have a table at Woodstock this year and MTV is putting out spot on right after total request live.” + Dean picked it up too and soon we had constructed our own plans for world domination based somehow on the fact that if your cock hangs to the right there is something fundamentally wrong with you. I reeled it out like a politician or political consultant —a door to door whore in another universe. We switched it up after conquest, we instituted a new means of government, instead of voting for politicians they were forced to go door to door and perform for voters. Whatever sexually act the voter desired they had to go through with to get the vote. Then the voters picked their favorite and who became THE MOST EXAULTED COCKSUCKER as we renamed the office of president. It fell apart there and Dean went back to sleep. + I drove all the way in from Santa Barbara alone. It gave me time to settle internal accounts and ready myself for LA. I had an ex wife that was sure to get wind of me, but there were also some friends of mine still hanging around. I had no plans to stay. I just needed to finish a few things and then I would be on my way. At Dean’s place I flopped on the couch and fell asleep. It was a long dreamless void. + + +3 + +The first week I did nothing but work. It was strange work. The lifestyle editor employed us as contributing freelancers, which was the paper’s clever way of screwing us out of medical insurance. Mostly we reviewed concerts, movies, occasionally art openings or museums, sometimes we even went to them. Dean had set things up so that we were opposite reviews right next to each other on the page. That way whether one of us took one view or the other, it didn’t matter because we put in the same details and it sounded like we were really there. The details were lifted from the press releases or magazine articles we had read. It wasn’t plagiarism per se since the details were in the movie and we were no more stealing them than the first reviewer, but it did walk in some interesting gray areas. It was easy work, but it was still work. +In the world of reviews there are only two possible positions to take. One it was bad and two it was good. With the details in hand we would write them out weeks before the thing happened and never have to go. We had an expense allowance that provided us with dinner every time we had to go somewhere so usually we just ran up a bar tab at whatever restaurant was nearby and then split. Sometimes when we could find nothing better to do we actually went to the things. We would go to the show or the movie or whatever it happened to be that we were reviewing and about halfway through, when we felt like we had the gist of it we left. Getting the gist of it actually consisted of deciding what more people wanted to hear, it frightened me somewhat to notice that reviewers generally put no thought into the actual art or music or whatever. Everything is in terms of numbers. Are this bands numbers going up or down? Is this exhibit fresh and new with the brightest most of the moment people or is it the washed up nobodies that were huge stars in the past? If the numbers are rising good review, unless of course you're writing for something with an alternative target audience in which case the rising numbers mean bad review —sell out talk. If the numbers are falling it can go two ways, one the artist or art is washed up and past tense or two it is the artist staying true to his roots and allowing the culture to pass him by. In the end none of it really mattered and if you were a performer, an actor, a musician, or a writer or a director there was always one camp set up to support you and another to ridicule you. In some way the two functioned to keep the whole thing and perhaps even the person or art being reviewed in a weird violent balance like a tight rope walker at the circus. Occasionally if one of us were irritated we would shoot the tightrope walker for fun without even bothering to find out what they were doing. We spent an entire afternoon slaughtering Infinite Jest though neither of us had read more than twenty pages. Too much tennis. No one cares about tennis. But we praised the Thin Red Line because it was written and directed by Terence Malik and we liked his last movie. +Such are whims which journalists bounce around in, it was fun for while, but then it started to depress me. Day in and day out we got letters from pissed off readers and occasionally even ones saying how right we were, but the point was that we got letters and that depressed me. We did nothing and yet we did something, we thought for other people and that’s a responsiblity no one should have, it weighs on you like a heavy sedative until you start to really believe that what you’re saying is right and matters when really it is only a matter of taste all the way around that board. +The editor was a nice enough guy, he never said much, he saw our gig for what it was and didn’t care. He took the respectable position, so long as we had edited copy in his hands at the appointed moment everything beyond that was none of his affair. It could have gone on forever I suppose, the money allowed me to save and help Dean with rent, but one day I woke up and felt like going to breakfast instead of work. By the time I got to work it was after eleven and the editor was pissed with my review of the latest boy band concert, it was actually canceled so he ran a review of a show that didn’t happen. He was yelling up and down pacing his office. I felt bad for him. I had been smart enough to use a fake name in the byline; the editors had no such escape route. He stormed on and on and then he turned and stared out the window. I got up quietly and tip toed out of the office. Dean decided to catch a cold and he went home with me. It was going to be a three-day weekend for Dean and a perpetual one for me. With a couple of days off we decide to head up the Ed’s place in LA. +Ed is perhaps the gentlest of all the maniacs that I associate with, he had an almost feminine kind of glow about him that comes across like light through a stained glass window —in odd chaotic fragments of color. There are for instance the little things like the way he is sure to have fresh towels and clean blankets for us when we arrive. He cooks little pizzas and sometimes pastas, the mornings after he is libel to be up brewing coffee and frying eggs, Ed had always been the perfect host. +Other shimmies of light come through in his art, his paintings (the best of which he insists on hanging sideways), his photographs and mostly his endless curiosity. He stalks through the conversations like a man eager to learn something eager to be shown something new. Ed craves novelty and doesn’t yet know how to find it; he finds it in Dean and I. He cultivates our company like one takes care of pets with the utmost love and concern asking only to be entertained in return. Ed knows that his lot in life is not to burn cities with ideas, scorch the earth with paint and revolutionize the modern aesthetic or whatever painters are up to these days. Ed is destined to paint quietly with the patience and understanding of a true saint. Ed of Ark I call him in letters. +I tend to drink far to much when I am at Ed’s, drinks role down my throat like wild horses rampaging through my hands with a life and will of their own, and so it came to be that I broke Ed’s cutting board, door, chair and took to lighting his floor on fire one night. It was round Christmas that much is certain because I woke up under a toppled Christmas Tree; I blame the whole affair on Ed. He should have known better than to give me a whole bottle of scotch all to myself. +It started Thursday. I got up early, around six, and went to serve my time for being a citizen of the United States —jury duty. It was my first time in a courthouse and I was certainly not to used to that hour of the morning; much like I assumed it was horrid —a half day of exposure to the radiation dangers of white middle class suburban values. I was bored. My inner child was beginning to putrefy in the stale smokeless air of the waiting rooms, I felt like sheets of burnt skin must be slowly slipping off my face I felt grotesque and obvious, like I stuck out as the most-likely-to-be-back —on the other side of the room. +I had hoped perhaps to have a fellow juror to slide off with into a broom closet, but there were no attractive jurors, nor did I catch any broom closets. The nuts and bolts of democracy were frigidly asexual. The halls of justice sported the sophisticated airs of wood veneer and fake marble floors whose undistinguished patterns inhabited a no-man’s-land between linoleum and whatever is just a bit nicer than linoleum. The architecture was studiously formal in a painful way that only psychiatrists, number theorists, and judges find appealing. Courts are strange places; they have a sense of doom about them. You’re accused from the moment you walk in the door regardless of why you might be there; the tribunals of architecture condemn your very presence. Walking in those doors I got the sense of dread that the great cathedrals of medieval Europe must have inspired in the serf peasants. The state is the new dominant religion and the court is a place of worship; you don’t just go to jury duty, you serve jury duty; you serve the state and the state has some things they want you to know. +They bring juries into the court room to remind even the law abiding citizens of what will happen should they decide to stray out of the neat little square boxes that hold the officially accepted rules about what is permitted and what is not. It reeks of textbook Freudian repression. They even put you in a “jury box” either with a straight-faced synchronicity that tapers over into irony or to make sure that the burden of life sinks into your wee little cellular glob. I’m still unsure if everyone there really believed the crap they feed you in those jury notices about your civic duty or if they were like me, offended at the very concept, but intimidated by the bottom sentence which used the words… failure to comply will result in criminal penalties…. The government talks like an abusive spouse —it needs you so that it will have someone around to walk all over and beat the crap out of. You wouldn’t want the government to get its feelings hurt when no one turns up for the public spankings now would you? Without you whom the hell would they spank? The whole show was ludicrous; no one wanted to be there, it was only under the threat of jail that we showed up at all. Mostly people talked amongst themselves waited irritably, hoping to avoid an OJ trial, bitching about time lost at work or conversely reading and enjoying a break from work. A few of us, smokers all, congregated outside and swapped stories about our lives, a couple of them looked like me —guilty, as if this was only an observational walk through. +I could have been doing a thousand things all of them infinitely more interesting than sitting on the patio of a jury call room smoking and listening to stories from a trucker about life on the road. I kept hoping for that one sexy young juror to come strolling outside but she didn’t. I’m from LA true, but I just can’t surrender my optimism…. It was a morning steeped in boredom. I read a book and listened here and there to catch snippets of someone’s life randomly dropping out of the sky like seagull shit in the desert. +Make the courtroom fun? That had seemingly never occurred to anyone. Why not turn it into a burlesque show with a little skin, some singers, and few dirty jokes between trials? It would be huge. You could even charge a few bucks at the door and the average citizen would finally have reason to participate in government. Instead of jails a dominatrix judge could administer spankings and trade her gavel for a paddle. And of course the stenographer would have to turn into a photographer, which would open up the whole print aspect of the courts —the monthly newsletter for patrons. From there, as word spread, it would become a full-fledged magazine with centerfolds, feature interviews and reviews of crimes…. But the stunted pedophilic minds in power will hear of no such thing…entirely unacceptable….why it makes a mockery of the justice system… I will not hear of it!!! +Libel to give one a coronary the way it is now. The whole morning left me feeling strangely violated; some faceless uncontrollable monster had sequestered four hours of my life away from me. I wanted to sue the judge for making me get up at six in the morning, a trauma which doubtless took years off my life in stress and mental anguish, but I let it go… no paddles, no burlesque, no photographer, no show… what’s the point? +They released me at noon. I spent the remainder of the day wandering around the beach looking a tide pools and picking up little snails and trying to organize them into juries and try a starfish for sloth, but nothing cooperated the way humans do so I gave up and read a book on the steps to the beach. I stayed almost until sunset when I caught the last bus into Laguna Beach and had dinner a restaurant where my friend Matt works. +When I got home I was full and content, wanting only to stretch myself with a short walk and then go to bed, but Dean was at manic pace, it is imperative that we go to Ed’s tonight he must wake up in the city tomorrow he can not take the suburbs anymore…. +“If I see one more rich cunt in a BMW sitting at a green light talking on her cell phone to Erik the Viking workout coach that she is meeting to fuck before going home to her idiotic husband who has spent the day licking his boss’s ass for pocket change, I am going to kill. This entire fucking town ought to be a toxic waste dump; I was thinking Sil, about that plan I had to take over the world and make Kansas a prison colony… I am relocating the colony here just like that terrible movie that was out a few years ago what was it called?” +Dean is in a frenzy of blind hatred, the kind of frenzy which all the dead must surrender to occasionally and what’s more he is beginning to get me in a frenzy as well, he feeds off that… “The worst thing is that there is no fucking reason whatsoever for me to be here I hate my job, I hate the people, rent is too damn expensive and there’s never anything to do but get drunk or stoned. The monotony of it is numbing, it tears away my flesh….” He looked around exasperated as if something were going to somehow come to his aide but then he just started pacing in silence for bit. All the sudden he said he was going to Ed’s house right then if I cared to join him. I went for it and so we drove up there and on the way Dean told a curious story about a Muslim. +“I was sitting on a bench smoking and reading as usual, and this guy sat next to me. He works in the mailroom, always says hello, real happy chap, friendly as fuck, in a genuine way. I suspected he was Muslim, but I had never talked to him. So he sits down and asks me what I’m reading...I hate that question. Last week someone stopped me in the hall and asked what Naked Lunch was about...’um.... a guy living in tangier’.... week before that I was reading Junky....not sure if anyone is paying attention or doing any math over there could be only a matter of time… Anyway... I try to get across that Western Lands is Burroughs going through death and meditating on the afterlife myths et cetera while he was nearing the Great Divide himself. This guy starts laying down some thick rap about Islam, and I was mesmerized. Their stories are fucking INTENSE. He laid down this Angel of Death gig that was a definite keeper. I closed my book and was genuinely enthralled. Not by what he was saying but by him. He’s one of those people who, regardless of what they are spouting, give off this haze of education, and inner peace, and wisdom.” +The freeway roared in the vacuum of silence that Dean left hanging there, as if it were a painting and he was stepping back to admire it for bit, check to make sure it hung straight and true. +“I had a fucked dream the other night. Sis and mom and I were living in Texas again, where I grew up and I was walking barefoot outside. I walked through a stagnant pool of water to avoid a vicious barking dog. When I got to the house, I lit a cigarette and tied up for a shot. I saw my skin move. REALLY move. I thought I was hallucinating, and it started moving all over. The stagnant water had some sort of microscopic parasite in it—like a tapeworm with a leech body. It had seeped through my pours and reproduced and grown. I ran around the house freaking out, my skin moving in little bumpy wave-like black ripples. I could feel them crawling under the epidermis. I stopped suddenly and had an epiphany. I began kneading my flesh, corralling the parasites to my extremities and forcing them out through the skin. My skin was shredding like latex paper mache`, and blood burst from the ribbons of flesh, covering my arms and face. When I had finally gotten the last one out, and crushed it in my hand, I lay back knowing I was in agonizing pain, but only feeling the smooth balance of shock soothing my nervous system, fooling it into feeling okay. I felt tired, and realized I was bleeding to death. I didn’t fight, I just slipped away.” + + +Ed had apparently been expecting us as the door is unlocked and there’s a note explained that he is at the store getting beer. On top of the fridge we find a bottle of scotch bearing my name and bottle of Gin bearing Dean’s, we are well on our way through them before Ed gets back. By the time he shows up with the beer it’s nearly midnight and things are getting fuzzy. +I can hear Ed and Dean talking about the implications of time travel. I keep slipping into near coma in which I start to turn their dialogue into the inner workings of my own mind. I am living in a terrible Dostoevskyian land of cross-examination and self-doubt. Although I know they are not talking about me or even too me I can hear the across the room and I keep thinking that they are. The world feels heavy and I sit down in front of the sideways painting and contemplate the endless thick erotic paint that loops and curls its way about the canvas propelling the eye with it inertia, allowing itself to be converted by the viewer into latent energy. You walk away from it feeling refreshed rejuvenated except that I can’t walk away from it anymore I am too drunk with scotch and the very intoxication of the paint itself; I lie down complete staring up at it floating about in the oily oceans of pigment, vermilion waves crest with whitecaps on a sea of lavender. The waves grow larger as I move, rippling away from me and then I start to sink as if in quicksand. I begin to shuffle my arms and feet but that only sank me deeper and I remember that in quicksand one must remain perfectly still. I lie perfectly still and feel myself slowly slip down into the oil depths, out to the tattered edges of consciousness the ragged glories of existence and individuality bow before the divine circumstances of the universe and all is lost amid a swirling see of alcohol, pigment, dream, hallucination and reality muddled in the roaring deep baritones of Beethoven, Ed’s painting, Van Gogh’s ear, Burroughs' pinky all gathering up in the comic dust to form a cherubic symphony wailing incessantly across the crepuscule of darkness. + When I wake up I am wearing pants and had somehow or other spent the night in a Christmas tree. My head hurts before I move, not good sign. As I sit up I am gradually aware that I don’t have a hangover. In fact I am still drunk which cheers me slightly and give me the courage to look around. Ed is already brewing coffee, he is standing if front of the sink absently scratching his ass, staring into space and looking for all the world like roman gladiator after the battle. It’s then that he notices me and shakes his head. +It turns out that I did not passed out, I blacked out, a first for me. It was unsettling to realize that someone other than the me that is usually me had been me. Who was this other me? Where did he come from and what did he want? Why did he break things and set them on fire? Was it even a he? Perhaps it was a she? The true disappointment is that I didn’t get to meet him. From what Dean and Ed piece together for me I probably wouldn’t have liked the guy, but it would nevertheless have been nice to meet him since he was hijacking my body. +It took me two days to fully regain myself, in the interim the weirdness grew; I lounged about all day watching television with Betty. She is Dean’s sister, she moved in last week. We could both hear it the rumbling of a distant and future overture. Friday rolled around, Dean and Betty headed up to Ed’s again, but I stayed behind. I was still feeling sheepish about my behavior and I thought it would be good to do a little recording, to take some time off of life. +I started writing. I had decide that I would not change a word of what I wrote, I would record the life as it unfolded with entirely too much honesty —record things exactly as they were. I was trying to write what all my mentors had left out of their books; I was going to fill in the gaps in the cannon of literature. It is all going to be laid bare for the world, the ideas will become real through seeing and doing, not through the telling… the word would be flesh as was recommended by another writer. I sat down Friday night after they had left for LA and I wrote furiously through the night and all the next day, I was Jack Kerouac on a bender, drunk with words they flowed out in rhythm with the river that is life, they cascaded over the boulders of my fingers and tumble underground into keyboard and finally flooding the deltas of white space that the computer had decreed would now serve as my ocean. I had been writing for almost twenty-four hours solid when the phone rang and the whole perilous structure collapsed in on itself and I looked at the clock. +It was quarter of twelve and I was pretty sure that nothing good would come from answering the phone at that hour. I stared at it until the machine picked it up. +“Hello? Sil are you there?” There was a silence on the other end for a moment and then came a more thoughtful, lonely drawn-out sounding voice, “well if you get this message call me tonight, my roommates are gone and I feel king of unsafe…(there was a pause) I was wondering if you would come over and stay with me… if not at least call. Okay? Goodbye.” +I sat for moment staring at the pattern of plaster on the wall wondering what my will would do with me. The voice was Amy, my ex-wife whom I had waked out on six months prior. I stared at the wall and tried to figure out how she could possibly have known that I was here, I smelled the evil artistry of Dean who in moments weakness might have squealed my whereabouts to Hillarie (his own little nightmare) who would have been sent by Amy to find me. Women are insidious little creatures and I could see Dean sitting on the edge of his bed with Hillarie on her knees, his cock in her hand… "Dean, tell me where he is or I’m leaving." Oh well I’d have done the same. +Besides all that was irrelevant. Why not give the ex a good poke? One last poke and then I’m gone, through with whole sordid affair. And what a clever little girl, wanting protection, so Amy… she would never have had the courage to admit that she wanted a good fuck and nothing more, with Amy there was always something more, more more more. Not that she was outright lying; the apartment above her had been burglarized the last I was there. The poor woman had ended up in the barrio after I split. I would be little more than psychological comfort, both she and I knew that I would be out the window before anyone could get through the front door. I was at a bit of a loss, but not entirely surprised. I was feeling free and floating in the effervescent vapors of my new freedom and now here was the old, the familiar, like sliding a foot into the comfort of a well worn boot…. I called her back and in her voice I caught it the indeterminable mystery that had always gotten me and always could from the beginning to the end. The alpha and the omega—the only thing that ever drew me to anyone —the mystical enigma of the unknown. The familiarity of anything makes it pedestrian and undesirable to me whether it is a place, a person or an emotion. It was on this point that I realized that Dean too bore the mark, bore a mark; I never told him how profound his words were to me when I read them but it was he who put it best: familiarity breeds contempt. +It was the contempt for the familiar that had driven me from Amy; it was never anything to do with her, but try as I might I could never sell her on that point. Whatever it is I can change… those words of desperation that we use when we are in danger of losing our tenuous grasp on the world are the very ones that seal our fate and guarantee that we lose hold. When things are mysterious they remain perpetual wellsprings from which to draw all hope, dream and fantasy, but the closer in to actual thing I get, the longer I stay in one place, the more familiar I am with a friend the more intimate I am with a lover the less mysterious they become. Without the mystery I have nothing from which to draw, my existence is not unlike that of the vampire, but unlike the vampire my victims do not die. I shatter their worlds and they come crawling right back again for more. I felt sickened by myself, by the fact that I could recognize such a thing, but feel powerless to stop it; worse still was the dawning realization that I didn’t care to stop it, I had no reason to stop it. My brain squirmed looking for a way out constantly and when Amy gave me one the wheels were already turning. +You’re a bedtime story Amy, the kind that wet nurses read to princes and princesses in fairy tales, a story within a story. It was all there on the surface. Amy you’re standing on the edge of moonlit road wearing a nightgown of embroidered lacy, thin strands of moonlight twitch in your hair. You are the night, I hope you’re waiting for me. +I ended up at Amy’s house twenty minutes later; I tried briefly to resist to see how serious she was and when she offered to come over and pick me so I wouldn’t have to walk I knew there was only one way to go about this. I walked over so as to not be stuck there and also to give myself time to get right down into the sands and dig a little hole, take a closer look at the fragments of my passing even as they were going by. What propelled me was something other than what I think of as me, something I no longer considered myself; I was merely along for the ride. I began to see this temporal me with increasing clarity it seemed to have crawled up from inside and it hung on to edges of reality leaving me to wander in dream and observe form a distance all the beauty that surrounds the dreamer. + Amy was in a shiny satin dress that clung to her lithe frame; it was green and made her eyes glow the deep luster of emerald stones. Her hair was a little bit longer and she had it pulled up behind her head to give unrequited views of the curve of her shoulder as it snaked its way up to her neck. Her nipples poked out of the thin green material and her lips curled playfully as I walked in the door. +I accepted a glass of wine and took a seat on the couch. It was a Chilean wine, a pinot, light and sweet. We talked for a while, she told me of a few dates she had been on, how worthless men were in general, asked how I was how was I enjoying myself, did I have any plans? + Amy thought I was cold and callous for being able to break her heart, but she didn’t understand that I did suffer, I suffered far more, I had nowhere to place the blame, I broke my own heart as well. I had done it before and I was destined to do it again. She had moved through all the stages of depression that you find in the first chapters of grief psychology. +First there was anger; my nose took the brunt of that off her closed fist. Then silence, my favorite stage —denial. And her we were in surrender, where the inevitable is accepted but not yet acted out, and of course there was one yet to come —acceptance. In surrender you give up on the ghost and live on autopilot, from the rear window of the plane you can see the tragedy and the comedy, the tragedy in the comedy and occasionally even the comedy in the tragedy. The rear door opens and from that artificial altitude you can see the surface of convoluted emotion smoothed flat with distance. We were, for that night, up there together standing on the back of the plane just looking down and admiring the view. How we got there and where we were going was irrelevant, it was all about the view. I knew she would call again tomorrow and that would not be good, but for now… +What a view! She stopped talking and leaned into gently kiss my lips; she started to pull away, but could not, the tantalizing attraction of the unknown came over us both, would it be the same? That was the mystery which created the inclination, keep our lips pressed together, softly at first until the craving appetite parted them with hunger and our tongues met. She straddled me on the couch and my hands explored her sphinx-like body as though it were a newfound treasure. My fingers tugged gently at her nipples and pulled the back of her head, pushing my tongue farther around her mouth. The tugging became pinching and her hands fumbled at my belt in a frenzy until she had firm hold of my cock and she stroked it gently at first and then just held it in a vise grip as my own trailed down her legs and hiked up her dress. Her legs parted and I twisted my arm to get a finger in her cunt. She was gushing; I stroked her cunt and probed my fingers gently in until they were up to the knuckles; it wrapped them up like a closing sea anemone. +I pulled the dress off over her head and pushed her up onto the couch. I slid onto the floor. She squatted and moaned as I went to work on her cunt. The taste was familiar and called up memories as only taste and smell can. Infinite desires that spanned far beyond this lifetime into some timeless place where the expression of desire is infinite and perfectly tied to everybody all at once in an ecclesiastic orgasm. Her cum was dripping of my chin and she pulled me up under her again by tugging my hair. She licked her cum from my chin as I fingered her some more, she began to gasp into me ear and I felt her cunt contract on my fingers. She had never come just from my hand before; it empowered me and made my cock rigid as a cement light post. I guided her down on it, she pushed me back against the couch and began to fuck me. I lay there with a sense of relaxed enjoyment born out of the certainty that I would not cum until I was ready. +I wanted to feel every thrust, to feel those warm stretching walls of cunt gripping like a vise, I knew I never would again and I savored it. I kissed her breasts as they bounced delectably in front of my lips. I trailed her juices down to her asshole and reached my hand around her to her ass and slid into her puckered hole. She lifted herself slightly and leaned her head down dragging her lips breathily across my cheek until she bit at my lips and her tongue snaked into my mouth. I held my hand still and kissed her letting her grind as she raised and lowered herself up and down slowly building momentum. +She rode me through two orgasms after which I lifted her up and threw her over the arm of the couch. I slipped it into her with ease and began to fuck her with that intensity where you momentarily forget whether you are trying to stimulate or destroy. Her cunt milked at my cock until in was near bursting. I watched the swing of her ample breasts as her body thrust back to meet me. +“Don't cum...!…I want to feel it in my ass” +This was a new idea, not one I was all that keen on, but she looked back at me with a expression of lust so primeval and inhuman that I knew what she wanted and that she was going to get it however she pleased. I pulled out and tongued her asshole teasing her to moans and making her beg. She got up and ran to the bathroom, returning with jar of Vaseline. She lay down on her stomach and smeared Vaseline on her ass, working it in with her fingers. +“Ughuuuuuhhuhuhhhhh… you know you want my ass…. I was masturbating the other day and I started fucking myself in the ass with that dildo you gave me [I couldn’t just leave her you understand] and I’ve been wanting to feel your cock ever since.” She smiled slyly at me. +The veins in my cock were bulging like I had never seen them before. I climbed on top of her and slowly, gently as I could ease myself into her ass while she spread her cheeks. I watched her face wince at first and then relax. Soon I had a good rhythm going and Amy came again twitching violently and screaming. I exploded in her ass and collapsed onto her back. After a while I propped myself up and pushed at her asshole; I was fascinated by the squishing sounds of my cum oozing and dribbling out of her ass and the way it refused to mix with Vaseline. +I collapsed into a chair panting, but my mind was reeled about the room. I was exhausted but had never felt so alive, my only thought was to escape her and get out into the streets into the pulse of life, to go and go and go and never look back, but Amy rolled over and begged me to make her come again. I rolled her over and dove into her cunt trying to morph my tongue into an electric eel. + Later we lay for a while in silence and smoked a cigarette. I was fucked out, but I couldn’t help commenting on the candles. The place was lit up like a Catholic Church, a voodoo ceremony; candles on the coffee table, the end table, the wall, even some hanging from the ceiling suspended in gnarled balls of wire that Amy had bent and twisted for the purpose. +“Why is it that whenever we have sex candles appear and everything gets soft lighting and feels like a hallmark greeting card?” +She laughed. “Was I trying to hard?” +“Absolutely.” +“Well thanks for humoring me….” She got up and more cum slipped out her ass and landed on the floor. “Oh my god! Elsa will kill me if we stain this carpet,” and she ran off to get a towel and clean herself up. I heard running water and her yelling form the bathroom, “Jesus you haven’t gotten laid in a while…. There's a ton of cum up my ass.” +After a minute I walked in, “let me know what it feels like next time you take a shit.” She was sitting on the toilet wiping the Vaseline off, cum was dribbling slowing into the toilet. I went into the kitchen to clean myself. I had the water running and I was studying my cock intently noticing that it was darker in tone after sex than before sex, but it didn’t wash off so I knew it wasn’t shit. I chalked it up to blood circulation. As I was turning it around and twisting it in knots Elsa, Amy’s roommate walked in the kitchen behind me. Apparently she had been here the whole time in her room. I naturally assumed that she had been gone otherwise Amy wouldn’t have fucked me in the living room, but as I turned off the sink and went to grab the dishtowel I saw her. Her face had a wide-eyed look of wonder and I froze like a deer. We stood there staring at each other in absolute silence for a full minute and then Amy came charging around the corner with a wineglass in each hand and sent Elsa sprawling on the floor. They both yelped and screamed and then Amy started laughing uncontrollably rolling on the floor still holding the glasses up off the ground. It was so ridiculous that I had to laugh in spite of myself. The last time I had been over, Amy had tried to get me to seduce Elsa with her. I forget why we never went through with it that night, but I do know that this was not exactly how we had planned it. The absurdity of it made me burst out laughing; Amy and I were rolling on the floor and Elsa just stood there in shock for a while. And then non-plused as a kitten she strode over grabbed the wine and a glass and poured it and walked off to her bedroom. Amy and I looked at each other thinking perhaps she was genuinely offended. +“Great, now you freaked her out…” Amy knocked on her bedroom door softly and then slipped inside. I hunted through their refrigerator looking for something to eat. I found an apple and hunk of Gouda cheese, which I took out to the patio, along with the bottle of wine and a glass. The patio was small and choked full of plants. Most of them were mine or had been mine before I split for San Francisco; it seemed like ages ago that Amy and I had split up and we weren’t even divorced yet. The ivy was wilting; she had it in direct sunlight. I fondled the brittle leaves. The flowering plants were doing much better, the snapdragons were getting so tall they could be seen from the other side of the fence. They were slender explosions of red and purple jutting out of the moss lined baskets I had built. I sat on the couch and lit a cigarette. I had to admit that this patio was better than our other one and for some reason that irked me. There were more plants more candles; it was more…. I gave up. I thought I heard the sound of running water and I figured that someone was in the shower. It seemed fairly obvious to me that we were all going to have sex at some point; it hung in the air like stale smoke. It was inevitable. I propped my feet up on the table and sat back to enjoy. I left the details of the scenario to Amy; it was after all her house. I was a guest, little more than a friendly cock at this point. I heard a murmuring sound and looked up, there was Amy dripping wet standing in the frame of the sliding door, “would you like to join us in the shower?” +“Sure.” This is where the trouble starts I thought to myself, but I went anyway and there was Elsa standing under the warm water. She was shorter than Amy and thinner, her breasts were bigger though and she had shiny black hair that clung to her neck in strands. I got in and Amy followed, Amy and I kissed for a while and then she pulled away and pushed me toward Elsa who kissed me hesitantly at first and then as if giving in to something unseen she reached both arms around my neck and tried to chew my lips off. Then the girls kissed and fondled each other softly while I stood under the water. +“Stop hogging the water come here…” Amy pulled me over to them and the three of us kissed at the same time as best we could, but by then the water was running cold and we got out to dry off. I wrapped a towel around my waist and went back to the kitchen to see about more food. Once I start eating late at night its hard to stop, this time I set about to make a fruit shake out of frozen packaged peaches and blueberries. Elsa came in to see what I was up to, she was wearing only a silk bathrobe and looked at my coyly. +“Would you like to dance?” She walked over casually and took the towel off my waist. I was already half hard and she just stood there for a moment fondling my prick. +Elsa turned up the stereo and went outside onto the patio dragging me by the cock. The fenced enclosure was small but we didn’t really dance we just kind of turned to the soft tones of a mysterious violin. It warped out the screen and wrapped our arms lazily about as we explored each other’s bodies. She pulled me into her smashing her breasts against my chest, grinding her pubic hair into mine and nibbling at my neck. I circled around sliding a finger down the crack of her ass and stroking her cunt from behind. Amy came outside and sat on the couch and lit a cigarette. She exhaled and smiled at me. She twisted her mouth up into a sly grin and spread her legs and began stroking her cunt and watching us. Every time my back was to her Elsa would fondle my ass, then she went to my cock. She seemed to be testing Amy to see how far she could go. My cock was ridged again by now and stabbing her in the stomach. She reached down and pointed it under her, rubbing it along her cunt and rolling it over her clit. Without a word she dropped on her knees and popped it in her mouth. I was standing sideways to Amy and I saw that she was fucking her pussy with two fingers and gently patting her clit with her other hand while staring intently at Elsa’s head bobbing up and down on my cock. I reached down and stroked Elsa’s head, gently pushing my cock further into her mouth. +“Ya, fuck her in the mouth,” Amy purred and Elsa’s murmured tickled at the hair on my balls. I was feeling a bit too good and eased out of her mouth. +“Why don’t you two dance for a minute? I need a cigarette.” I sat down on the couch and lit one. They never even danced. Amy walked up and Elsa fairly seized her head and started tearing at her lips. Amy pulled herself away. +“You want me bad don’t you?” +“Yessss….” +She pushed her down to her knees and lifted one leg over her shoulder bearing her cunt down on her face. I had sat on that same couch a million times when we were married and never had a cigarette tasted so good. An incongruous thought came to me as I leaned forward for the ashtray, why hadn’t we done this more often? In fact why didn’t everyone do this more often? I leaned back and glanced around; the place was a jungle. Plants in pots on the walls on the table, and even in metal stands on either side of the couch. I stared laughing because it was just like the candles. Amy came over leading Elsa by the hand. When I laughed she bent over and reached between her legs spreading her swollen red cunt lips and wiggling her ass at me. I pulled her down on me and entered her as she wiggled about on my cock. +Elsa stood next to us on the couch and I stroked her fur with one hand while fondling Amy’s breast with the other. Elsa was moaning low and she started to move around until she was in front of us half straddling the coffee table. I leaned Amy to the side and pressed my tongue into Elsa’s cunt. Pulled back savoring the taste of her cunt. It was bittersweet, more like wine to Amy’s nectarine fruit flavor. Amy’s was better, but Elsa’s was foreign. There was something about Amy’s cunt and the way it tasted that made the back of my throat salivate. She was wiggling on my fingers and now I felt Amy’s hand furrowing through her bush. I moved my hand away to allow her to continue and I began to slowly lift Amy up and down on my cock. Amy leaned back onto of me so that I was pressed up against the couch. Everywhere I put my hand there were tits and nipples and hungry mouths laughing and biting playfully at my finger. Then Amy began to rub at her clit and occasionally my balls kissing Elsa frantically and then she came. She went off like a bomb tensing and jerking as if invisible forces kicked her. She used to scare me when she came jerking and thrashing about like that. She hung on the Elsa’s lip and never stopped fingering her. +“I need to be fucked,” she moaned to Amy. Amy nodded and stood up. +Elsa straddled me facing me and Amy fed my cock into her cunt, coated her fingers in juice and then stepped back and licked them clean. Elsa wasted no time and fucked me like a hellion, digging her nails in and snarling at me. I pounded upwards to meet her frantic rhythm. He cunt was long and hotter than Amy’s; I could feel my balls slapping up and down out of control. +“You like that don’t you? You like getting fucked hard don’t you.” Amy pulled Elsa’s hair and snarled at her ear. Elsa grabbed widely at Amy and came with little muffled cries; I could feel her cunt tightening in silken spasms. By now Amy was worked up and again and I still hadn’t cum so we moved back into the living room and they spread out a bedspread and some pillows. +“Let’s do something together,” I suggested and they went about arranging themselves in a sixty-nine position. After some debate with myself I decided I wanted to cum in Elsa. I maneuvered myself behind her on my knees straddling Amy’s head. Amy licked at Elsa’s clit and my balls and I rammed her in deep slow strokes while she leaned over and ate Amy out. After a minute Elsa announced that she was cumming and I actually felt the juice pouring out of her cunt down my balls and onto Amy’s face. Amy must have seen my balls tighten because she grabbed me buy the base of the cock and pushed Elsa forward off of me. She sat up and urged me to lean back. I did and the two of them went to work on me. Amy kissed me for while; her face was covered in Elsa’s cream and was more of a cunt than a mouth. Elsa was licking my balls, which by now were on the verge of pain, if I didn’t cum soon I was worried that I might never be able to cum again. Amy leaned into my ear and whispered, “I want you to cum on her face, on both our face’s.” And she went down with Elsa and began sucking on me. The licked and sucked and nibbled and kissed each other with my cock between there lips. Finally I came. I came so hard I got tunnel vision and arched my back off the ground. I stayed like that forever it seemed. It felt natural, I wasn’t even aware I had arched off the ground until my leg threatened to cramp and I collapsed down. I lifted my head in time to see them licking my cum off each other’s face’s giggling like schoolgirls. +We all lay around completely fucked out. We had some more wine, and some cigarettes. I laid them both out on the couch and inspected the differences between their cunts. Amy’s cunt had thick lips that sealed it up like a sea anemone while Elsa’s was wider with little lips that stuck out like flaps. They were same little flaps of skin that stuck apart with her cum and gave a slutty well-fucked honest look to her cunt. I told her it was beautiful. Amy leaned over to look at her with me and it wasn’t long before we were both eating her out and she came again and then she watched exhausted, as Amy bounced up and down on my cock until she came. +Around four we all climbed into Amy’s bed and I lay between them feigning sleep. Jut after I heard the familiar breathing of Amy in deep sleep, Elsa grabbed at my cock and whispered that she wanted me to fuck her again nice and slowly from behind. I tried to protest. I was tired, but my cock was hard in no time and she feed it into her cunt. It was still wet from earlier. We swayed gently fucking for a long time and then I heard her gasping she came again and rolled her head around to face me. +“Oh cum in me, please cum in me I wanna feel it squirting…” +I pulled out of her cunt and nudged at her ass. +“Oh yes fuck my ass… oh my god…ouch…uuugh....yes… god…” And somewhere in the middle I came. +We lay in silence for a while and then out of nowhere Else blurted out in whispers and gasps, “oh god that was amazing! I saw stars and right then you came and I felt stars shooting into my ass…I want you to fuck me again sometime… just you… “ She stopped and stroked my face, “you will won’t you? How about tomorrow? Amy will be gone… god I must fuck you again…” +“Yes yes, okay we will fuck again.” I started giggling. She was so adamant about it. She rolled over and I lay on my back staring at the ceiling. Elsa kissed me and fell asleep with her head on my chest. The clock read 6:23 and I still wasn’t asleep. They were both purring softly and had been for some time. I was bursting with energy and honesty; I felt expansive, like I was floating, orbiting the moon. I had been lying there for a while just staring at the rough plaster ceiling, it’s texture seemed to resemble the surface of the moon. I lay there a minute more orbiting the lunar surface and then gently without waking her, I eased myself out from under Elsa and climbed over Amy. I went in the living room and got dressed. The house smelled warm and organic. The windows were fogged over and condensation was forming on them. The sun was not yet up but the sky was already glowing a soft pale blue color. I went in and kissed both of them. I slipped out and locked the door behind me +I smoked a cigarette walking towards Dean’s house, but a donut shop seduced me and I sat in the silent morning air outside eating a blueberry filled donut covered in powdered sugar and dripping filling. I was living in a kaleidoscope of realities that swirled with all the vibrancy and color of my youth, but it was alive now, here, in this moment, fairly bursting out of my chest. I collapsed on the couch that doubled as my bed and fell into a deep coma like sleep. +I dreamed a radio broadcast of unknown origins pulling down the multiverse’s own information superhighway at a genetic tilt, coming across the galaxy without static, pure unadulterated reception of signal and through it all the fragment of ash kept falling, fragments of history written on burnt paper and cast about in a hurricane of now. Fragments of falling ash. Fragments of ash falling. White washed ceilings hanging so ominous.... Hallucination of bubble-headed figures crawling like the Michelin Man across an indescribable mountain of tires. Motels Motels Motels Whiskey Bourbon. Tow truck non-ordinary state of reality precludes a state of reality —that something is real. Point at the autistic manwomanchild. Autistic man pointing at you, laughing, unable to fathom how your brain functions and quite self-righteously you cling to its definitions. Must delineate between abnormality and those of us who UNDERSTAND.... The Human Virus breeding like rats unconsciously conscious and aware of our disorganization. Gas Station Cold Fusion dreams of the Anarchist are breeding in the minds of the oilmen who don’t want to loose their stranglehold of reality. Fragments of Ash falling, the continual settling of dust weighing down humanity and the French Maid masturbates discreetly in the next room. You need her to keep the dust off your mortal coil spring. Rebirth mythology. Mythology of reality. We must distinguish between what will be defined as sane and what shall be referred to as insanity. Kevlar definitions constructed to make a better shampoo seem like a logical item on which to squander your paperbacked slavery bills. After all these years Tide still gets your socks whiter. Its a wonder …that they aren’t transparent by now ...that your brain retarded in its development …that evolution had not anticipated the advent of the opposable thumb …the unopposable domination of the thumb leading to and insect superiority of mating rituals stolen from a textbook on damselflies …darning needles, sewing shut your lips, mind atrophy. Weber's White Race Enriched for Superiority Scorched earth campaigns raining Ash. Shit from the sky. Tax man came for your baby in exchange for unpaid balance. You understand. Nothing Personal just doing our job. Same as the next guy. From Auzwich on down the line. Didn’t make the rules. Perfected them. There are no innocents in a world of free will. You don’t have to survive at the expense of others. You could die with puncture wounds in your hands and others would create a new mythology strange irony would find another with holes in his hands unwilling to accept cockroach mentalities. You want to beLIEve Hitler was a madman but he lives on in quiet cafes centralsouthamerica not so free, not all the communists have been shot yet. You mistook misunderstood missed the lesson in the situation that unfolded Dr. of dialectic excuses you want to beLIEve Hitler was a madman, Hitler killed everybody's body the poetess said… only taking orders you understand, just doing my job from Independence on down the line. It was a sad money grubbing hunter gather up his children and thank his gods they are his and he their god behold I have come to tell you that everything you know is wrong stop doing your job it is not yours see Hitler in your mind you want him dead but he's not he lives on buried under restraint in everyone's mind. Only taking orders you understand. Didn’t have a CHOICE. Got a family to feed. Radio crackle. Pop. Hiss. Silence. End transmission. + + + + + +4 + + +Deconstruct, reassemble and manufacture…. Information superhighway economy crashed the other day I paid it nevermind. If you are going to loose your mind do it with grand style, do it with eloquence, do it over the most grandiose of phenomenon —the path of a water droplet down rain slick window panes, the curvature at the bottom of the female breast, the eccentricities of the LSD spider web experiments. Go west young man! So advised Horatio and a thousand other ephemeral goblins of the human spirit who had not the courage to add, because everything here is all fucked up. I was born west. As far west as you can get without going east, which only serves to illuminate the point —that there is no west, no east. Go shoot yourself young man, because you are fucked! Straight up and down fucked. The whore snuck out the bathroom window with your wad of cash fucked. What say you to the youth? Do you give them promise and dreams? No you give them battlefields on which their fathers’ bodies lie, kitchens in which there mothers’ souls bake in the heat of hell’s ovens, and offices in which their own souls may one day putrefy. Hard work! you preach. Hard work! There is nothing hard about your work, only theirs. Anyone can destroy a planet, a race, a species; you proved that with ease, you passed the test with flying colors. You stand back on the edge of charred plains surveying, why yes Jim, it worked…. Supposing it hadn’t? You would have found another way, you are very serious and studious about your havoc. Dean is writing you a letter, whomever you may be, be you governments, be you lawmakers, be you law enforcers, be you corporate heads, be you the almighty goddevil himself, Dean is writing you a letter. He arrived home this evening bursting with laughter because he saw you naked in the shower. The water was hot and your skin was flush with words, he read them at a mighty distance, unscrambled all the riddles and mysteries that you think you have sealed so safely behind boardroom doors. You did not catch him, you will not, you can not, he does not exist to you any more. He exists in what is to come, what architecture has yet to embody, where paint has not yet been put, where chains are made of human limbs, where words can not follow, he is walking there tonight. He is bursting with energy; it flows inward so that he glows like a backlit screen at a silhouette puppet show. Imagination has cut itself loose from him and he is free to dream what can not be dreamed. His syntax is broken and useless in such a world; he can not yet bring it back for us. I have gone with him to provide moral support. I have been here before, I have been everywhere before and every time I return everything is different. The cat is an orange tabby in this one, the sidewalk below is cracked and the sliding door behind us is closed. The porch is cool in the January air of Costa Mesa, California. We were born west in the toxic waste of modern dreams. We are not going to go east, nor north, nor south, we are going up. We are sky bound. Ed is painting in the middle of the room behind us. On the table between us there are two drinks. One, gin and tonic, is Dean’s and the other, scotch and soda, is mine. +And I too am in a kind of place tonight, having recently stumbled out of the air conditioned nightmare of Decartes mechanical swiss watch house of ideas and fallen into the warm fertile earth that is alive, has intelligence and is trying to say something articulate over the droning insanity of the human voice, the human machine, the adding machine, the washing machine, the bleach that stole the pigment from your soul…. The unhealthy texture of pale skin crawls about on the floor, you see it there beside your own will to live in the mechanical relativistic house of chaotic dreams. I didn’t wake up until five in the evening. I was just sitting up and lighting a cigarette when Dean burst through the door laughing. +I tried in vain to explain what had happened to me while Dean was gone, but once I got beyond saying I had sex with Amy and Elsa, it all seemed pointless. Dean poured the drinks and Ed set up his easel and canvas right there in front of the television. He took white paint and wrote on the screen: DEAD. Dean dragged me outside and we sat together on the porch, “I want to take the universe apart tonight Sil,” He started. “I managed it last night for while with Ed, we were soaring, but there are no words, that was the overwhelming thing that pulled me around and around as I wrestled with it; there is of course a story, the physical account you might say, but there is no way to wrap up the emotional/mental account, the underlying thing that I was trying to reach out to, it remains mysteriously buried under the heavy noise of silence. Somewhere near the edges of what is here and now and what is always and forever there comes, in the grips of eternity, a feeling so exhilarating and blinding that it transcends all language all communication. I felt as if life itself… whatever it might be god… dog… you name it… was pouring right through me… like Shaterack Meshak and Abandego…. I stood in the fire and was untouched and yet there was nothing that could be said to describe it. See, the supremely frustrating thing is that I feel like I saw a cure for all that ails us… all the world’s problems were solved from where I was… beyond good and evil, but not philosophically… really, vitally… damn I’m at a loss for words even now…. what is going through my head is taking over my life, it is the supreme and indeed the only important thing that has ever happened to me. It keeps saying move move move; sitting still is going to drive me mad. Even writing it out on paper, writing a book is futile… this is something entirely separate… this is art that has to be lived to understand it….” Dean is swirling the clouds of inception circling with Hesse’s eagle and the swooping brown pelicans of literature, pouches heavy with something new, something fresh which must be shat from on high to land with a dull splatter that covers the earth with a new freshness, a new fecundity from which new life will spring, new wells will be drawn upon, new myths created, new words invented, new dreams, new ideas, new art forms and they will blend seamlessly with old, taking its place in the long infinite line of creation. “What we ought to do my friend is to light out for the territories. We ought to do those things that living people —I mean people that are alive and eager to go about the business of living — do. They sure as fuck don’t hang around here I spent all weekend watching the scurrying rats running from hole to hole and I just about can’t take it anymore. I am bursting I am alive, I am that one little thistle that turns green after the rain on an abandoned lot. And you, look at you, what the fuck is wrong with you? You know better than to go showing up at some job every day —like it matters in the grand scheme of things! We are monkeys and yet all we do is mimic the rat on the wheel or the ceaseless activity of the worker ant… to serve a queen? What we ought to be; what we ought to be concerned with is something real… something of value that extends beyond this barren womb… this business capital of humanity. Even the landscape is mostly boring and drab —except by the coast. What is the rest of this place? Mediocre rolling hills that are brown from lack of rain three quarters of the year…. The whole place is so sterile there aren’t even any animals running amuck….” +Yes Dean, this place —these people—all of them— are beyond hope and even if they weren’t you and I are hardly the savior type…. we look out for ourselves and those that are near us, but we don’t go looking for help, it comes to us —don’t you see? Its coming to us right now, it came to you last night, it came to me one night almost a year ago, it’s drawing us away from here away away away! We will embark on something so beautiful… and no matter if we should end up destitute selling children in the back alleys of Rumanian because no matter what might possible happen it will at least not be this. This is nothing this is a static oasis on the edge of desolate gasoline holocaust. It will start here though in torn desolate, used up fabric of reality. It will start in ugliness and squalor it will dredge up every avarice and horror man had ever know, it will start right here…. +Inside I was exuding enough enthusiasm to power a small city and the scotch was the only thing keeping me in line. We talked of Europe and South America with such enthusiasm that listeners would have been shocked to hear that neither of us had ever been there. We walked the dusty camel choked streets of Morocco and took the Marrakech express across the desert and then ported ourselves to the coast and caught freighters back to Brazil to sail up the Amazon. We had splendid adventures and our table was bursting with a bubbling exuberance that lit up the porch like a rocket ship. +You have the flavor. The taste, the smell, the texture of… what is happening here can not be found in the simplistic quadradimensional world of ordinary being. It is not here. You can stop hunting it. There is nothing to understand, there is nothing to know, it is all the arbitrary inventions of scientists and artists constructed for your amusement. You know your philosophers, you know your painters, you know your ancient and heretical texts, but you do not know what it is to feel the living breathing pulse of the universe beaming through your chest. You do not want to know. Dean did not want to know. I did not want to know, but we do, and we are no longer afraid. Fear is felt and manufactured by a complicated chemical response system that deals with new information. Just turn it off —like you turn off all your machines, turn it off like the flick of switch— you built the damn thing you figure out how to get out of it. See your shrink, see your counselor, see your favorite dead author, see you favorite dead philosophers, check the newspaper, ask a politician, ask the pope, ask the scientist who manipulated anthrax for the purpose of subduing the population. Have a drink and smoke joint, sit on your porch and don’t worry about it. Its there whether you see it or not, that’s why were not sending anymore telegrams. Here to go! It was reference to the space age, to the collective desire of the human being to travel where no others have gone, into the vast empty reach of space, as the nova voiceover always puts it. This night I hold up before you as a kind of proof dementia. The twentieth century disillusioned, paranoid space cadets called children are two Americas now, it is no longer, as William Burroughs said… the space age. The space age is over. The second coming came and left without you dear reader… well no of course not you, but everyone else…. + + + +The next day I woke up and Dean was packing up his room. He had the entire thing down to a box of books, a suitcase of clothes and trash bag of miscellania. +“So what’s the story again? We’re going to Vegas I take it?” +“Ya,” Dean set his things by the door and lit a cigarette. “You still up for it?” +“The question is more ‘is your mom up for me?’” +“You know Rachel; she loves rounding up the strays and setting them on the path to righteousness…” We laughed. And I figured what the hell. +“You already packed up? That couldn’t have taken more than five minutes what the hell’d you do if for at eleven in the morning on your day off?” +“I have less than twenty four hours to seduce Kim, finally give into Kala, and then fuck the shit out of Monique and finish it off with Corey because she doesn’t care if I’m fucked out… she’d fuck my lifeless corpse I think.” +“Yes she probably would.” I felt bad for Corey though because while she wasn’t in love with him she did care about him in that strange concerned abstract way that only women can care. It may not bother her that he fucked everything he could get his hands on, but I think it did bother her that to think that he thought of her more as a fuck than a friend. “They got any friends you can set me up with?” +“There is this one girl… Jen… friend of Monique's… she’s been wanting to get in with me…maybe Monique too… anyway she’d go for you. You can have her…she’s got great tits, but I can’t talk to her long enough to get her naked.” +“Give her a call…” +Dean went off to try and seduce Kim over lunch, but he called and told Monique that he and I were coming over and that Jen should join us all. With a few hours to myself I figured to go see a movie and get some breakfast. I wandered down to the coffeehouse where all the hipster art kids hang out. The place was a refurbished storage cellar with yellow-gray walls and a scattering of benches and tables. It was windowless and stale like most of the people it held captive. I tried to get a plant to grow down here a few years ago before but it didn't work; I forgot about heliotropism-nothing grows in darkness. A botany student who watched me try in vain to keep the poor ivy plant alive explained it to me in graphic detail; he was condescending like a scientists. Everything needs sunlight in one way or another. The kids that hung out in the cellar were bleached souls, burned by magic. Burned by money, by law, by a culture designed to seductively lull them into a sleep state of pacified stupidity where they could be exploited as a labor source of the robber barons of Washington. I don't think most of them were aware of that though which gave me comfort because knowledge is paralyzing and without it maybe a few of them would stumble blindly out of the cave and into the sunlight. + I got a cup and sat in the corner for while smoking a cigarette and watching a genetic reproduction of Ginsberg scrutinize the art on the walls. I wished I had on three-piece suit or a football jersey so we could have played beat generation dress-up, but I didn’t and he would never have seen the humor in it anyway. I contented myself to a cup of rich dark coffee and apiece oil saturated and extra gooey coffeecake. It was wonderful but I needed more. I approached the Ginsberg guy cold and laid it on him about selling my art to support myself hoping to his a sympathetic nerve that led to mommy and daddy’s money. He made we tell him all about what it was that I did and I thrust some tattered napkins under his nose and pulled them away before he could get too much into the meaning of the scribbles I talked circles around him once I realized that all it would take would be for him to feel inferior. Charity is always an inferiority complex —here you take this you need it more than I do… if I thought he had earned the money I might have felt bad, but i still would have taken it, and I did. Leaving with his five spot I went to get a sandwich at the donut shop on Newport Boulevard. It was an enormous sandwich coated in sweet vinegar and oil, dripping mayonnaise the constancy of slightly thinned-paint off the long strands of lettuce and delicately coated wafer-thin turkey breast that curled up and seemed to leap down my throat. I washed the whole operation down with a glass of ice water. When you're hungry the whole world is edible. And the minute I had the stomach taken care of I lapsed back into reverie trying to piece together why it was that I was going to Vegas. The main thing seemed to be that Dean was going. I thought I ought to pay a visit to the folks since they still thought I was married and just working in San Fran for a while. They were suitably alarmed when I laid it out honestly but I did with the firm conviction of one who knows he is right, but not why. For now I said I was winging it and nothing more. They gave me a hundred when left said to eat with it. They were always worried that I lived by not eating, but the reality was closer to my grandfather who was fond of saying after a meal so we eat… we eat again… we may not do much, but boy can we eat…. + Dean was pacing by the time I walked up the steps. "Come on Sil I’m trying to do you a favor here pass one you’re way and you have the gall to be late?” I told him I didn’t give a shit one way or the other, that he should have gone without me, but he wouldn’t hear of it, he was one some Herculean mission and had to have a guide for this little part of the test. He wasn’t just fucking these girls he was lining out some Greek sized life for a day. He had succeeded with both of the ones that morning; Kim had been to drunk for much but when he finally gave it Kala she was wildcat. We got to Monique’s house in time for dinner, but there was no talk of food; in fact there was really no talk at all. We walked in on them sitting watching television and then snap off went the TV Monique jumped up and grabbed Dean by the hand dragging him to the bedroom. The door slammed behind them and was left still standing in the entryway front door open behind me, staring at Jen. Jen was medium height with dark hair and huge tits. She smiled at me and I closed the door. After a few line of talk she reached calmly into my pants and pulled out my cock. She sucked and licked and bit at it until I was hard and then she stood up tore off her shirt and pants and sat on my lap. I mauled at her nipples for while squeezing her breasts in my hand. They were giant and weighty, things that demanded proper handling they sloshed in my hands. + She pulled my shirt over my head and then pushed me back and pulled off my pants. I was expecting her to crawl up on top of me, most women go straight to the top when there’s no emotion around, but Jen didn’t she climbed on the couch doggie style and said, “hurry and fuck me… I have to go soon.” + It was an odd way to put it. I felt like I was mounting a dead horse in bad western porno, it was a job at that point, a duty that I had been asked to serve. But of course once I had it in I forgot all about her and she forgot about me and the situation was no longer there. We were just fucking. We went at it like animals and suddenly I understood why she wanted it that way. I could feel the heat of her cunt but I couldn’t see her face, it was less like we were fucking than we were masturbating together. My hands were on her hips pumping her back and forth; I could feel the leaden texture of her skin. My hips moved like pistons, cold mechanical. My own body was strange foreign as if it were, a shell containing something much messier, more out of control; she rolled around on my cock so that she was tits up with her legs over my shoulders and I rammed her like that for a good while before she exhibited unusual hand gestures and undulations that I took to be an orgasm. And then the automaton turned off and my prick came alive again. Her tits were rolling in great ellipses as I pounded into her with abandon, I reached down and teased her clit with my finger until she came again and pulled out and shot a load on her chest. She lay there for a bit and I got up to clean myself off. When I came back she was gone which relieved me somewhat. I went outside and lit a cigarette. It was a warm night. One of the rare humid times when LA feels tropical, the kind of night when I enjoyed going down to the ocean and walking along the shore trying to see Hawaii. The glow of the sun had not yet disappeared entirely, but already the eastern sky was twinkling with stars. When I took a drag I could smell Jen on my fingers. I licked them to see what she tasted like. Electric. It mixed well with cigarette smoke. + + + + + + +4 + + + + + +“You are my angel/come from way above/to bring me love….” +I didn’t wake up until we were past Barstow. I awoke outside of LA, outside of Barstow, outside of civilization, outside of intention, outside of desire, outside of myself. I awoke in a sinister little car on a ride through the wild forlorn California Desert; the only reason I woke up at all was the heat. It turned the pleasantness of my dream into a nightmare that I had to escape by waking up. I dreamed I was an emperor in a foreign land, a mystical Tibetan type of land where I sat in a palace of unrivalled spender and riches; I dreamed you were there, Orisis. Luxurious tapestries covered the walls and gold trimmed divans were arranged about the room so that you might receive visitors. I was trying to raise an army of thinkers to combat the problems of mankind; I had sent out messengers and courtesans to attract like-minded rulers to the palace. Word came back by means of an old telegraph machine, which sat on a cherry wood table in the corner. Next to it was an old high back throne such as one would find in Versailles, you sat in it searching, just like you Orisis, always scouring the world to put me back together. I wanted to wander about the palace and explore but every time I walked out of the room I would hear the telegraph machine and rush back to it, only to find that it was more negative response. I knew that you would never bother with the machine, if news was to be received it would be through me, you had given up entirely. Inexplicably, as it often happens in dreams, I found myself sailing in a glider over the tree dotted hills of northern Mexico. I was admiring the peaceful silence of gliding to and fro on thermals when I suddenly became aware of the unbearable heat of the cockpit, better drop down a bit I thought to myself, but as I eased the stick forward I lost control of the plane entirely and dropped like a rock toward the waiting rocky hills. In my descent I saw and felt what John Denver must have seen and felt when he plunged to his death off the coast of Santa Cruz. Within the dream I was musing over his actual death in an abstract way and then bang!, I hit the ground. I don’t know if I died, I couldn’t remember but I might as well have; waking up in the cramped confines of a glib Japanese car is a small relief from death itself. I sat sweating profusely with my forehead bumping gently against the windowpane, trying to reconstruct the details of my imaginary palace and quixotic dream quest. In reality as it is called I was going somewhere else, Las Vegas to be precise. +Air conditioning is no match for the desert phoebus, it only brings the nightmare into sharper focus, a palpable tease to remind you that somewhere it is not hot at all; even now as I sat there some Llama herdsman in Andes was warming his frostbitten toes by a roaring fire. Oh to be cold… The scorching sun made it too hot to go back to sleep. Dean was driving and Betty was still passed out in the back seat. It must have been around ten in the morning; I didn’t move to look at the clock on the dashboard, it didn’t really matter, one thing about travel —time has no meaning. There is only in the car and out of the car a sort of two-dimensional life. I’m not accustomed to functioning at the ungodly hours referred to by most as ‘morning’ and I wasn’t about to start now, here in the middle of nowhere. I hadn’t gone to bed until about six this same morning; I rested my eyes for a while longer and recounted the events in blackness. +There was a dim recollection of breakfast at Tiffany’s (or was it Denny’s?), pancakes and eggs with a side of bacon all tasteless and uneventful; a goodbye to some lingering friends, Carey, Dean and Betty’s father Mr. Dean; then conk! I was gone off in a Tibetan dream palace. I escaped the boredom of driving east out of LA, thank god. The drive out through the ‘inland empire’ as it’s called is a grand tour of hell (actually I would take the straight up inferno of hell served in a flaming glass before I would go of my own free will to the Inland empire). I missed the wrenching smell of the stockyards in Upland and the bucktoothed gas station attendants of Barstow, a crying shame to be sure. The stockyards especially amaze me; that the smell of a cow’s ass can somehow penetrated the near perfect Freudian-sterile seal of the modern automobile seems likely to remain, along with the Kennedy assassination and the pyramids, one of the true mysteries of the earth. +Just east of Barstow there is a sign that boldly states “Greensboro NC 1297 m;” I opened my eyes again in the shadow of that unpleasant knowledge, cracked my view of the world just in time to learn that the reconstructive dentistry capital of the world was a mere 1297 miles away. I wanted to let out a Homer Simpson “Woohoo!” but it was too hot for any unnecessary activity. I sat up, opened my eyes, stretched as best I could and wiped the drool off my cheek. I looked over and saw the pain on Dean’s face that only a drive through the California desert in the middle of August with a hangover can give you. God it was hot. And I was right it was not even eleven, which meant that the temperature was bound to climb at least another ten degrees before we got to Vegas. +Dean had volunteered to drive the whole way to Vegas (he always was charitable when he was drunk) and naturally Betty and I had thought that a lovely idea. He looked like he was in the throws of deep regret and cursing his own self-cast fortune, which for Dean is standard operating procedure. There isn’t a whole lot to look at out here in the desert, at least not a whole lot that you can see from the window of a Toyota Corolla. Of course that doesn’t mean there is nothing to see, its just that racing along in as enlarged soda can at ninety miles an hour limits your view of the world. The cramping stylings of a cheap Japanese car was hindering our view, or maybe not so much the car but the speed of it. We humans can move what! I mean real speed, airplanes, space rockets, trains; we can run like no other animal and with no personal effort whatsoever. Speed doesn’t allow for minutiae, even a mere gloss of the passing scenery is too much for the human eye at ninety miles an hour. The creosote and hohoba plants that dot its hills and serpentine sand dunes are the only relief the eye gets from the endless endless nothing. You don’t get details with speed, but its still the best way to travel —like comet we could crash into Vegas in a couple of hours, burn down the town and then go rocketing off again. +The car contained only the barest of essentials; Dean and I had thrown a few pants and shirts in a suitcase each and then I had a small courier bag with notepads, pens and a handful of books. A garment bag held two suits each because a stranger in a strange land ought to look his best we reasoned. Betty, being a woman, had the largest suitcase that occupied the majority of the trunk, but otherwise the interior of the car was uncluttered with the trappings of humanity. Music had been carefully selected for its road worth qualities, a healthy mix of raucous punk rock to keep us awake and soothing melodic pieces designed to lull the mind and drown the endless droning of the wheels. I insisted on bring Beethoven’s Ninth for nighttime drives. The upshot of our circumstances was the we traveled light, secretly though we kept it to ourselves, Dean and I mutually figured on having to lug most of it by foot at some point when the already suspect nature of the Toyota gave out entirely and finally surrendered its fate to the junkyard. We had all left behind an enormous pile of furnishings and creature comforts which for my part I hoped to never lay eyes on again, but our friends had assured us they would see that it all got into storage should any of us return someday and want it. Bastards. The idea was to go and keep going, but it didn’t quite work out that way. + Happenstance carried me again I surrendered my own fate to that of the car, of the road, of the random complexities of life pure life with no entrapments, encumbrances, or dovetailed catches to hang me up. We have thrown ourselves to the wind to let the scattering process begin; the first day out and I was feeling as expansively free as the landscape, floating on the thermals of fortuitous caesura. Sheer chance drew me here and left me staring out the car window into nothingness, the pedigreed nothingness of freedom. The desert was a void from my window; it had the deceptive appearance of emptiness not unlike the silent inky surface of the ocean, which is not empty but teeming with life. The desert was once a sea floor, but the life wouldn't have it, the water rolled back to greener pastures. The desert is the void left by water and filled up with castoff bric-a-brac from the mountain regions. To the north glittery jewel peaks, the southern most tip of the White Mountains —snow. Its making my mouth water, I point it out to Dean which seems to snap him out of some trance state and he agreed to pull over so we can stand on top of his car and look at them through the binoculars. I imagined the cool streams, the whole painted backdrop from the set of Bambi coated in snow. Our enthusiasm lasted about thirty seconds and then we started to realize that in fact the air conditioning is helping and that without it we are forced to suck hot dry air like clamping your lips to an exhaust pipe. + Besides I knew the White Mountains didn’t look like a snow covered Bambi set; I’ve been there and they’re just as hot as the desert this time of year. I jumped down and we headed back out on the road. I lit a cigarette. Life was going bang! The epi-endo-genetic bang that finally turns on the radio, like when the old crystal quarts set gets cranked next to the digital signal, cold and clear you can taste it, metallic vibrations of noise it slam into your gut. Sock you like a plutonium fuzz blast. +The sun burned through the open window and the dry hot air sucked itself greedily down into my lungs so that the heat had the peculiar effect of feeling like it radiated out from within rather than coming from that detached burning globe that was nearing it’s apex. I felt like I might spontaneously combust just like those “rare” cases you hear about on That’s Incredible. I thought of saying I had heard —give a man a match and he can build a fire to warm himself through the night, but set a man on fire and he will be warm for the rest of his life. True what! +I stirred finally and Dean looked over at me. “How ya doin’?” he asked. +“Wonderful, except for the heat or course.” +“Ya that’s why I was willing to drive… so I didn’t have to sit in the sun…” he smiled mischievously. I knew there had to be some hidden insidiousness behind his offer… +“Ah, so you knew?” +He glanced at me with superiority, “come on now, I’m a professional.” +With the air conditioner on high and the fortuitous curve of the freeway I found myself becoming more comfortable. Heat radiates out from within. I found that if you keep that in mind you can cope with it, you just have to fan it out —blow the vents so to speak—burn it off at the right pace— with the right amount of water, cigarettes, ice-cold beer, and snack food. Eventually I came to find my mind relaxed and floating on the surface of a glassy pond. Gentle ripples between drags of the cigarette tuned my ears to the desert frequency. +Like the teeming depths of the ocean that once covered it there is an infinite web of natural and supernatural life out there. My father is a desert rat, so I am no stranger to the bristling spike infested country of California. When I was younger we used to make trips out here in the blistering heat and roaring silence to go hiking and camping; the sort of thing that most fathers didn’t do I found out later, but I had a good time on those trips. My father dragged me from one end of the desert to the other, up the 395 to Hisperia and down the 316 all the way across the Mexican border at Tecate. I learned a million tiny nuggets of knowledge to tidy my mind over through life’s boring stretches like riding about in a car. I can assure you that there is an unknown universe of life thriving out there in the sand and heat, a harsh unforgiving universe as the cliché would have it, but it is also a delicately beautiful latticework teeming with life. Complex and fragile ecosystems evolved over millennia of cooperation and mutually assured survival instincts are woven through the barren rock and sand washes. In the afternoons during a summer thunderstorm if you sit in the shade of a Palo Verde tree and watch the edges of a dry riverbed you can catch a glimpse of that universe. Lizards and snakes frolic and birds seem to rejoice at the smell of rain. (Lest you actually do this it is worth stating that you ought not to dally too long as that peaceful scene can be turned into a fifty mile an hour river of mud and rock that will jump out of nowhere and kill you before you have time to realize that you are going to die— I personally hope one day to die with such peace, but in case you aren’t ready don’t say I didn’t warn you). There are enormous anthills that look not unlike flying over Manhattan at midday. The desert works on a smaller scale, it is only for those with infinite patience, if you live in the desert you don’t want to have a lot to do. That’s why there are ghost towns from here clear up to the base of the Sierra Nevada, towns where people didn’t have anything to do. There was no reason per se to go to such towns and without reason they died. I went out to the famous Calico ghost town once; a collection of blue-gray wood shacks, collapsing roofs, broken out windows and ceaseless wind blowing dust in every crevice. But there were loads of people milling about in the summer heat, trying to keep the dust out of their teeth and see what a ghost town is. There are no ghosts in the traditional sense at least not any that I could see, but there were ghosts of ideas, of lives, and hopes and dreams. What must the inhabitants of thought living here in the wind blown back alley of nowhere? Was this entire town little more than a broken wagon wheel that changed a life? Or did someone plan this one out; did some one think this was a good idea? My friend Mike and I drank icy Coca-Cola in the shade and debated those and other questions. We watched the pasty bloated souls called Tourist Americanus and tried to decide what they would be isolated here instead of thriving in their air-conditioned lysoled suburbs. +Dean’s stereo is just audible above the roar of our cracked windows and when I strain I can hear Morphine playing. She had black hair like ravens crawling down her neck… I quoted that line once as an example of the band’s genius and the man to whom I was speaking said ‘actually that’s basic literary imagery metaphor 101…’ I felt bad for him, but I didn’t reply. Its in the way it floats off the tongue, its in the way one simple image can carry you all the way to a seedy bar in Paris France, it’s the way it slides out of the lung and fits so smoothly in between the base and the drums. It can take you anywhere you want, but only if you want to go. If you want to hear cliches then I assure you, you will hear them everywhere you go. Have fun. Stay clear of me. +Take the subtlest of frequency modulations and dig until you find the pulsar of life; blasting straight through the chest and then stroking on soft cushions to sooth you down. In and out. Draws you from one world to the next, an electro- static charge, like a song played off an old Castagraf recorder. + You move the body electric in pulsation, with receptors that crawl — feeling warmth of the spine they head the back of the brain. The surge is ecstatic... drives me right on over into the next dimension -model -metaphor -you get the picture. You might have even hung it on your wall when you where younger, and hungrier —hunger drives the hierarchy and it’s there, even when your stomach is full... it hit raw exposed nerve endings with the high voltage throb of life that’s hard wired into our brains...in there like a virus you might say. Lust for what? It’s all gone from now. Ebb and flow, the surges come in waves. +I gotta run to make diving in smooth... feels in slow motion... you hang in the air for a timeless moment and then hit the water like a torpedo, the waves slip out from around the impact and form a circular blueprint... The pond turns in the throws of a tempest, frothing with uninterrupted motion. The animal body is an alternating current, suspended in perfect fluidity like the ecstatic dances of the trance-shamans carried slip-slow up into the magic of the beyond. Echoes abound like a caged sun gone supernova... atomizes and reforms as the cool wave hits the skin. Smooth blue skin. + I remember three —maybe four— days ago smoking filterless cigarettes listening to the voices trailing in from the mezzanine, a masterpiece composition of harmonized waves, sound —the trigger behind the motion. Dancing eyes so ravenous, spiral with giddiness, threw out the tired old man mind. Bring it back down... bring it back down cause I never quite got it the first time. +Lost in images, swirling words, sounds, smells miraculous warmth on the crawling embers of flesh.... The black on the starry night... Van Gogh and his goddamn ear always creeping in at the edges. Diggin' fast and furious: tunnelers. Roots and the little blooms—the moment—the purity—the wavelength transitions in simplicity—burned like hydrochloric acid onto the memory film. Scar tissue that languishes eternally. + + + + +We are staying with Rachel, here in Vegas; things are amuck amuck as the man said. First there is Rachel. Rachel is a cool-mom. In every collection of friends I have ever wandered into there is inevitably one whose mother is the cool-mom. Cool-moms are the ones that harbor the strays, know what clit piercing is and don’t mind the excesses of youth because they never forgot their own. Johnson through and through the cool-mom is and Rachel was the one in our circle. She was the one who didn’t mind wayward children crashing on the floor, junkies trying to kick locked in the bedroom and only god knew how many poor lost girls Dean had dragged home and put up in her house for a month or two, sometimes more. Through it all she was understanding and usually supportive of all human creatures. The cool-mom never judges or casts out someone because a simple disagreement or difference in beliefs. Rachel was every bit the part, she was a matronly woman heavy set and swaggering full of spice and fire spitting gusto, she could out drink Betty. Right now her life has taken a turn though, the cool-mom has had the bedrock foundation of the desert blown out from under her and for the first time in my life I feel old, old and weary the whole lot of us are slowly decaying in the heat, but the ambrosial smell of decay is good for us, like a hot brand on your ass, it might scar, but it’ll wake you up. +Then there is Rachel’s boyfriend Bob. Bob on the other hand is a redneck; the backwoods stripe ran through and through. Bob was the sort of all right guy that you realize isn’t alright after talking to him for twenty minutes. These types tended to hang around the Little Knight during the early hours of the evening where it seemed they were wrapping up a hard day of hard drinking. Mysteriously they always seemed to be loaded with cash. Most of the ones I had talked to were in some sort of construction related business and they were always trying to get “youngsters” like myself to give them or sell them or just get them pot. Bob had actually taken this cliché one step further and asked Dean and I to go up to Alaska, where he supposedly had a cabin, and grow Maui-wowi for him. Almost anybody else and I would have jumped at the chance, but the thought of getting into a small plane with that man at the controls made my blood turn to ice. I thought about it every time I see him. I see his false eyes glittering like pyrite in the Alaskan mountains and I see our carcasses lying half eaten by the fire and Bob just sitting there smiling that absurd smile…. +True to the cliche Bob worked in construction (although he never seemed to actually work), drank hard and probably beat the crap out of Rachel —if not physically then emotionally. I pretended to watch television while carefully watching the two of them. From what I had seen of the man his mind consisted solely of illegible notes, beer stains and racist jokes. He possessed the outdated practical knowledge of one that works with his hands and knew how to downshift the mind into neutral in order to get things accomplished. There is nothing wrong with that per se but Bob seemed to have left his mind in neutral a little too long, maybe flooded the engine or something; maybe he was just dumber than a bag of rocks right out of the womb. There was something intangible in the air about him and all the others I have met like him, something sinister and vague in its intent; he is a bad man my grandmother would have said and I have had my fill of bad men for this lifetime. +I avoid him like the plague, but its difficult to avoid someone when you live with them. Bob was a constant nuisance, he was always knocking on the door to Dean’s room where I was also staying for the time being and after a while he realized that we weren’t always asleep so he took it upon himself to barge in and offer us ‘a cold one.’ Now that doesn’t sound like such a bad man, but the problem lay in the fact that a cold one was rarely anything better than Pabst blue ribbon and he never just had one. He would perch there on the end of Dean’s bed with his bog construction boot on my pillow; it was his unsubtle way of reminding me that I was not welcome in his book. He would sit there and out of the blue launch into his troubles; work was working him to hard, alcohol was no longer solving all his problems (ya think? Dean and I would say), and worst of all was when he told a story. Bob had no sense of timing or point to his stories, they were uninteresting, delivered in a chaotic disjointed way that made no sense and they never had a point or an end they just kind of tapered off or led to a completely separate story with no relation to the one preceding it. My favorite were the ones that went… “I went down to the strip last night….” The middle parts changed according to the night but the end result was always the same, bob sitting somewhere too drunk to know where and trying to remember if a taxi was on its way or if he just thought it was on its way. Then there was the tapered ending in which he tried to remember where he lived and his voice would train off and he might say something like “did you ever meet my sister Bonnie?” Or what’s the score anybody know what the score to the game is?” Dean and I never even knew what game he was referring to let alone what the score was. The score was that Bob drove us out of the house to saner pastures where no one bothered us. +Dean had a nice little racket writing for the Vegas Gazette which was owned by one of his schoolmate’s father or something like that. He wrote inane little articles about the various society happenings of Las Vegas it was inane, but it came with perks such as the pretentious parties we had to attend; Dean as the writer and me as the photographer. We were the press. Or at least we were supposed to be, but we spent more time at the open bars than we did interviewing and photographing people. + + + +Lately I have been spending all my time in the Double Down with Dean. Day’s pass like strolls through airport lounges, arrival and departure times listed in gambling winnings and losses, the interim’s are spent waiting, waiting for the cards to come around waiting for a friendly drunk to throw a chip our way, waiting for the call girls to give in to the only thing money can’t buy… tenderness. Typically we roll out of bed as the sun is setting and duck out before Bob comes home from work or the bar or wherever he whiles his time away. The Double Down is all the way on the other side of town so we don’t get there until eight o’clock. The sun has just set when we walked through the door tonight. We weave through the human menagerie and get drinks at the bar. In the back is a separate room a quieter one where you can have drinks with a date or a whore and talk before heading down the street to the hotel that rent by the hour where you can knock back for a few rounds and still some back for a nightcap because its Las Vegas and you can pretty much do whatever the hell you want and know one seems to care. This is the apex of modern ideals, Las Vegas. It’s the glitter capital of the world, the sky, the buildings, and the streets all glitter, refracting light through the hollow core. +Las Vegas, is what happened when the fleshy ooze of humanity confronted the barbed souls of the barrel cactus, the spiny leaves of the Palo Verde tree, and all the otherworldly creatures of the desert. The first step in renovating what must have appeared as hell to early settlers was air-conditioned. Before air conditioning, not even the thrill of gambling would have made people come to Las Vegas in the summertime. But cool it down a bit and you can decorate hell up nice; some casinos, some brothels, curtains in the windows, now things are looking up. +Th puritan preachers of the four-headed beast abstinence are the only humans that don’t like Vegas, but they don’t like anything except God so that should come as no surprise. These are unfortunate and trying times that we live in, they have wrought the heavy hand of the Moral Minority and its cronies all the way across the nation to squelch any fun you thought you might be able to have. I only bring this up because another old casino was razed this afternoon, another shoddy rundown beautiful den of corruption and vice. What will replace it will no doubt sparkle and have a romper room for kids to play in while there conservative sort of middle class sort of middle of the road sort of white family fantasy parents gamble and “cut loose.” The very same people that vote republican and unconsciously model their morals after Alex P Keaton. They may not be religious but they are damn sure they no what is right and wrong —gambling and drink is right; whores and drugs is wrong. Therein they support the further degradation of the human animal that has been propagated by the Moral Minority for what seems like eternity. The American west was humanity’s final hope for salvation from the hideous forces of belief and repression, but its lost, all is lost… you know the story… odd isn’t it that the land of liberty has more citizens in prison than any other country on earth? Our country’s history reads like cartoon strip of a small innocent child running from an overbearing stepmother; first it was England then New England; the poor child is tired and sat down to rest here in Las Vegas. Las Vegas used to be the grand ball of the country, but then the overbearing bitch of ‘prurient interests” showed up. The old casinos are being torn down and whorehouses are driven out of business every passing day and the mob has been beaten back to the landfills and over safer money laundering operations. Now instead of quasi-burlesque shows there are silly men in tights parading wholesomely around with white tigers amid a pyrotechnics background of high wire acts. Who the fuck wants to see tigers, even if they are white? We came to buy some whores and drink until we can’t see straight. To live more or less the way god intended —happy. +This evening I am sitting on a bench in the mezzanine of the Double Down which is a casino/bar/night club/breeding ground for nefariousness; I am waiting for Dean who is chatting up a beautiful girl at the back of the bar who may or may not be a whore. It is Dean’s quest to find out and if the answer be yes then how much? In the meantime I am watching the cheapskate old ladies with blue hair clutch at their plastic cups slowly emptying them of quarters, which they drop mechanically into the slots. What goes through you mind when you do that all day long? Do you still have a mind, is anything happening in there? Perhaps this was there form of meditation, different but maybe the same idea as driving. They assume a purely mechanical nature in order to let their minds wander about, to frolic through lost memories of youth and life when it still meant something. More likely there was nothing going on upstairs I decide. It is nearly nine now and the sun is but a slice of iridescent orange peel slinking behind the glittery casinos of the strip skyline, but the heat is still hanging on even in the shadows. Off in the distance I can just see the tips of the high rise casinos where the rich gamble in private rooms waited on by topless cocktail girls and through the walls they listen to the thriving sounds of tourists dropping coins and laying down bills to line the velvet pockets which hold their Cuban cigars. The wheels are turning twenty four hours a day seven days a week for eternity. The velvet gets nicer every year and the girls prettier and the tourists dumber and fatter always wanting more! New! Bigger! By god!, screams the frustrated real estate Tycoon in horror. What the hell is going on here?! He stands up from the table in alarm, zombie eyes are peering vacantly through one way windows, what do they want? Well sir, says the nervous pimple employee who was sent in with a message, they want more... He speaks in a whisper unsure of whether to be more afraid of the Boss or the Mob. We gave them a pirate ship, recreated the pyramids, and the canals of Venice, what more do you people want from us?! I just can’t take it anymore, first it was the galls stones then kidney stones, two bi-pass surgeries (the second one a triple!) are you trying to kill me?! And off in the distance the throngs gather about and begin to chant as if spellbound by the ancient techniques trance revivals: We want more! We want new! The volume increases as the numbers grow from all over the world masses gather beneath the alter and chant…We want shiny! We want clean! The very enslaved that the bosses has so sneered at and exploited were now subtly fighting back with incessant dreams, the perfect slave became the uncontrollable master…We want to be fitter! We want to be happier! The Boss scratches his head and thinks for while, eyeing the faces in the mirror staring at him though they can not see him… alright kid, here’s what were going to do, you go out and tell them that I am currently drawing up plans to build a half size replica of the Eiffel tower, the hotel next to it is going to be immense, the restaurant will be in the middle with a clear view up ninety stories to sky. Tell them that I have plans for a tower to extend up five stories and I plan to fill it with wine bottles with will be delivered to their tables by a girl on a mechanical trapeze swing that can be raise and lowered as need to fetch their wine. Tell them the expensive stuff is going to be at the top, those cheap bastards’ll be order screw top crap that the waiters can get, but as long as somebody buys the good stuff they all get to see the show. The Boss is positively beaming now, inspiration has hit he is on to something. He shoos the kid outside and through the waitress’s out after him. He locks the door and starts sketching…. +Boredom. I wander over seeing that Dean is seated now and obviously not headed anywhere for a while; I join them in booth. Dean introduces me to Chloe who just as I had feared is gorgeous and a whore; I can see it in her eyes. The way she watches Dean while he talks, she is thinking that yes he will pay, but even if he didn’t she would enjoy it just the same, he has a tenderness in the dies of eyes, little flickers that light the whore imagination. She’s right, but it’s only half the story —her half. The room has the stale smell of too many smokers and not enough air filters built up over decades of excess and depravity. I imagine the are walls a sickly yellow color cauterized with smoke and splattered with sloshed beer, but its too dark to tell for sure. There is a sensual symphony gurgling and lurching through each minute with the ceaseless effort of the little engine that could. Cartoon character faces fill up chairs and resemble like the creatures that pop out of the walls at the Tiki room in Disneyland. Repulsive faces that seemed devoid of all humanity —zombies with coins. The frail frame of an elderly woman at a slot machine never so much as murmured as she dropped quarters in the machine; her arm moved from the handle to her plastic bucket full of change as if it were part of the machine rather than a warm body. Double Down became a swirl of lights, sex and drugs, the human effort to fulfill needs. +They want to eat. New needs, hierarchies, sex after food. Leaving there is whirlpool of words like white and dark chocolate swirled together atop a brownie of callous confusion. Words can not hurt me… but have you heard the words? Watch out for the bloody words, sharp words that hang in the air like knives and when uttered returned to slit the throat of their speaker and if every word you have spoken returned to act upon yourself would you survive the experience? Me no way I'm outta here. Situation getting sticky, humid like vaporous blood hanging on in the air. Still acrid smell of urine and small children playing in a asphalt playground ringed on all sides by immense brick walls with basketball hoops hung half way up each of the sides. Outside is America; a cop lights a whore’s cigarette near the corner. I laugh realizing that that which we are taught from childhood to distrust is in fact a pawn of something far more immense and much much more dangerous. The governments and nations of the world are incidental pawns of there own control systems and then beyond them there are even more and so on like looking two mirrors facing each other and going on to infinity. The monster of power is faceless there is no one person or group that controls everything they are all parts of a immense and multi-headed monster that is constantly biting itself and attacking it own heads until some day it will destroy itself. The end of time leaves space and word alone together. Information potential exists —it’s an unsettling thought, dependency —and what happens when things start to think? How do you draw the lines then? Where does the word go? In the beginning to be sure… but what about at the end…. In the beginning was the word and the word was made flesh by a cacophonous blast out of heaven's pearly cum-stained ass creating the father, the son, and the holy spigot which lies in a secluded garden on the cliffs overlooking the Sargasso sea. The spigot is buried in a volcano designed by Czech ostriches in the eleventh hour of creation to drain all human excrement off the continent of Europe and into the Sargasso sea all lumpy with turd so thick Jesus "conny" Christ in drag is walking along to the amazement of the gullible, floating gently from turd to turd. The piss blood of a million cunts and cocks line the shores giving the whole place a radioactive iridescent red glow not to mention an awful stench. Mr. Rogers and Captain Kangaroo are standing on the bluffs watching the spectacle and scanning with hawk eyes for sweet tight asses in which they can stab their hungry cocks. The father caught the son sitting in the middle of the garden sucking on an apple and he became enraged and hog tied the boy and penetrated every orifice in his body with a peeled and sculpted cucumber cock; the boy was left a whimpering, quivering lump of fleshy jello from which spawned humankind…? Outside is Las Vegas. Everywhere the neon glows; the giggling Hyenas tourists are dressed in black and high on somatic stasis —looking to turn you inside out. Tongue-tied whores scream obscenities at passersby "I'll suck your dick until your eyeballs pop out your ass..." + + +Chloe knows a diner, just a short drive… drunkenly Dean careens side streets and alleys while Chloe and I discuss the finer points of her profession. The oldest profession in the world fascinates me and I wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity to get the inside dope. +“For the most part I fuck who I want… I have my regulars… guys that come into town every month or two for recreation….” +She takes a drag off her cigarette and whips her nose; it’s a gesture of annoyance. I know that she doesn’t want to talk about work, but I press on because I have to, I have no shame, no bloody words reach me. +“Most of them are married, nice guys… I don’t work the streets… that’s where it’s dangerous… I used to work at a brothel but everyone treats you like a whore when you work in brothel. I got tired of it and when I left it turned out I was popular…” she laughed a hearty little chuckle. “So I just got a pager and now I go to them instead of them coming to me…. But why do you want to know all this stuff?” +Sharp words bloody words. “Uh I don’t know… isn’t that what you do when you talk to strangers.... Ask them about there work?” She laughs. +“I guess its just that when your job is sex most people tend to not ask… its impolite maybe I don’t know. I wasn’t trying to stop you I was just curious… so what do you guys do?” +“Umm… drink? Nothing I guess.” +“Hmm how do you afford it?” +“A carefully constructed world of lowered expectations….” Dean speaks. +“Hmm. But you have goals? You don’t seem like the types that would just hang around, you know barflies or are you on some kind Bukowski trip.” +Entirely inaccurate synopsis; I must defend us, but what is there to say? What is there to do? “Well I actually haven’t read any Bukowski, but yes I guess you could say that… I mean this is Vegas what the hell is there to do? ‘We’re writers’ sounds stupid because neither of us had actually published anything. I mean I guess it depends…” +“No I don’t think it does. You don’t have to published to be a writer, just like you don’t have to charge money to be a whore.” +And there the conversation reached a philosophical point that required further thought on all our parts, but the diner appeared and we parked and it was lost for the time being. Dean went in to get a table and Chloe and I finished out cigarettes in silence. I was marveling at the edifice of the place. I am a connoisseur of diners. Every diner has its own subtle quality which distinguishes it from all the nearly identical establishments of its kind; in order to qualify as a true diner the outside must be painted white and in a state of decay. This place fit the bill admirably; it looked like the last coat of paint probably still had lead in it, which would put it pre 1980 at least. Lead is what produces those strange patterned of flaking that leaves the look of weathered desert rock on stucco walls. Dean leaned out and yelled at us, “we can smoke inside you morons….” Inside it still lived up to the diner images; hard formica counters rose out of cold concrete floors scuffed from the worn heels of trucker boots treading season after season across the threshold and into the red glow just to rest wearied eyes. It calling up visions of lost highways long gone past; dredged out images blurred together; passing seasons traced out in the arks of headlights carved through concrete. We sat down in a booth by the side window. Dean went to go spin a few tracks on the jukebox; Chloe looked even more ravishing sitting in the red vinyl cushions her hair was auburn and looked best in the state of confused disarray she wore it. I fell in love with her the way every man falls in love with whores, a totally false way in the eyes of the cynical world and a totally real way in the eyes of the endlessly recreating universe. Music floated across the room burying the concrete +highway traces of noise, the freeway semi trailers flinging themselves through the night headlights dragging the past into the future and we sat, Chloe and I, here, now. +I was at piece by the time Dean came back; lazy houseflies crawled up the wall behind him and Chloe which set the diner off in league with other infamous places I have eaten such as Ben’s Broasted Chicken. I was headed up to the Tahoe area by way of the back road, 395, a rickety operation that shoots you straight up the length of california always keeping the eastern escarpment of the Sierra Nevada just to the left. About three quarters of the way to Tahoe you pass through the blink-and-you-miss-it town of Bishop where among other things there is a roadside dive called Ben’s which serves Broasted chicken and corn on the cob for two dollars a plate. There were no other options no menu no choices no confusion, no arguing with the cook just broasted chicken and corn. I remember going in primarily because I wanted to know just what one did to a chicken to make it broasted. After that all I remember is the enormous lazy flies that crawled up the column next to my table. I still can’t recollect exactly what the chicken tasted or even looked like, the corn sticks out as being over cooked and mushy and of course the flies were lazy and didn’t move when you swatted them which led me to believe that in fact they were never swatted at. Indeed Ben’s was probably a kind of legend in fly circles, one to another word passed down the line and traveled all through the Eastern Desert of california, if you were a fly Ben’s was the place to be. I asked to meet the infamous Ben proprietor and presumably the genius behind the broasting, but unfortunately he was out of town. Instead the cook gave us a tour of the kitchen and that only served to make my experience at Ben’s a singular one. I was passing through Bishop several years after that and I tried to locate Ben’s Broasted Chicken so that Amy could share the wonder of broasted chicken with me, but the place was gone, no building nothing, even some locals in town acted like they had no idea what I was talking about. One old woman gave us that peculiar look that small town people always give to city folk as if to say you have no business poking around here asking questions, but I kept at her until she confessed that Ben’s was something she had never heard of, and what's more she informed us that she had lived in Bishop her whole life. I started to wonder if maybe I had hallucinated the whole thing and Amy, who was in love with my eccentricities as much as my banality, I am certain though that here was the definitive proof she had always wanted to know for sure that I was totally nuts. We snacked on bread from Shatz’s Bakery and drove up to Mammoth with me recounting the same story of Ben’s Broasted chicken that I had laid on her before Bishop, doubtlessly boring her to sleep. + I recanted the story of Ben’s to Dean and Chloe over double cheeseburgers. I still don’t let little things like fat lazy flies bother me, who ever heard of a fly that ate anything more than crumbs? They were doing no harm and the burgers were dripping greasy and quite yummy, as Amy would have said if she had been there. Every time I get to thinking about or talking about Ben’s Broasted Chicken strange things begin to happen, first the place disappears and then to reach across a span of maybe five years Ben’s came crashing into the present and my mouth dropped open full of half chewed cheese burger when who should come strolling in the door of this diner, but Clay Napier the very man who had been with me on that virgin trip to the land of broasted chicken. Actually the weirdness factor way have been slightly over played on my part as I did know that Clay was in Flagstaff and often went to Vegas for the weekends, but it’s a big city and then even in Vegas how many diners? How many nights? What are the odds? All of this can in someway be accounted for by the initial mystery that set it all in motion… what is broasted chicken? I no longer care (I also have made it a point never to consult a cookbook) I prefer the mystery to which broasted chicken has attended, at least for me. + I watched Clay for moment without him seeing me. Clay Napier was an ancient friend, not in a chronological sense but in the sense that we would always be friends regardless of the time between meetings we never had more then twenty or so awkward moments of catching up and then things fell naturally into place as if we had been together everyday for years. I waited until the waitress had seated him and then casually sauntered up while he was reading the menu and sat down across the booth from him. I cleared my throat and as I did so and he put down the menu to see who was disturbing him. I watched in slow motion as his face went from blank irritation to recognition, and then surprise. We smiled at each other for a moment and then nonplussed, as if it were perfectly natural that we should come upon each other five years and two states away from our last meeting, Clay slid out of the booth and we embraced for moment before the volume of words began to flow forth. + “My god what are you doing here?” + “I was going to ask you the very same question —I thought you were up in the mountains or was it in flagstaff?” + “Ya I was in Flagstaff until I graduated, now I’m actually living in Wrightwood, but my girlfriend lives down here… she’s working right now so I was catching a late dinner… why are you in Vegas? Last thing I heard you had gone back to school or something to that effect…?!” + I racked my brain. Where would he have gotten such foolish ideas? Who was behind this? “Uh, no I haven’t gotten around to that yet, who told you that one?” + “I forget maybe Robert.” Robert K Statmore an upright human being if there ever was one, it had been years since I had even thought of Bob, except when I went camping and realized with a fresh new sense of shame that I still had the tent I borrowed one weekend almost four years ago. Which, it dawned on me now was one of the many things I had given away by leaving LA. + “How is Bob?” + “Dunno, haven’t talked to any of those guys in a couple of years, I been out here doing odd jobs, I was working for a mining firm doing archeological impact studies, you know making sure they weren’t trampling on our people.” Clay and I both laughed. +Our people was an old and very elaborate joke that had developed over the years, a sort of half joke actually as Clay and I were serious about some of it. Our people were the native American’s whose blood ran through both our bodies, in Clay it was the Cherokee, and in mine it was (I think) Ogalala, but either way it wasn’t much, not even enough to claim it for scholarship purposes. The both of us were middle European mutts, half breeds, the results of some horny individuals who had no qualms about fucking across international boundaries, but the point of “our people” was not so much about us, it was a continuous good natured way to needle the third point in our boyhood triangle of friendship. That third point was named Jim Stout and was proudly and definitely Irish. When we all got drunk conversation used to end up with Jim threatening to give us small pox blankets and us half-heartedly trying to scalp him while he slept. It’s funny now looking back how teenagers can turn genocide and torture into a source of humor and competition. We were a lot smarter back then. I smiled at Clay’s comment and was lost for moment in a nostalgic reflection over my boyhood. I saw Clay as I will always see him when he’s not around, he’s sitting in that diner smiling that old half crooked curve, and to this day his nasal voice echoes about in my ears whenever I think of him. He had slow manner of speech where you leaned in close so as not to miss a word. He often didn’t say much just shrugged or gave you a look, but the words that did fall out were carefully measured like a recipe and to miss one of them would ruin the flavor of what he was trying to say. And then there were The Looks, you have to know someone for a while before you can communicate with them on a subverbal level with just looks, but with Clay that time was double the norm. He had looks, which he held out in silence that could mean more than complex and overly verbose sentence. When he was feeling thoughtful and didn’t have an opinion he would stroke his chin with a bemused expression which only over time did I realize was not in fact an ironic mockery of Allen Ginsburg, but really the genuine article of inner reflection being measure out and stirred up. +Clay had left LA years ago living in Arizona going to school and continuing down the boisterous outdoor life that we had all lead during high school. Nearly every weekend we headed out to Joshua Tree the local rock climbing hang out and Clay had patiently taught Jim and I how to climb until one day we were both better than him. Or at least to be fair that’s how I remember it. Every summer we had made glorious excursions through the Sierra Nevada, backpacking over the palisades, Mineral King, Sequoia, Yosemite and other mountains with names that I have surrendered to inaccessible regions of memory. We all came from adventurous sort of families. +Jim was the first to go his separate way, he ended up at brown University for four years and then Clay went to NAU and I went, well I went here. And then there and now back here. Now we just crisscrossed paths occasionally with each of us making plans for trips we knew we would never go on. The last time I saw Jim, he had met me for a drink at the Little Knight and Tony had presided over our hour and a half meeting like a surgeon trying to revive the dead. I hadn’t seen Jim since and I didn’t know where he was and apparently neither did Clay. + “What are you doing tonight you want to come get a drink?” + “Ya I’m with some friends of mine,” I motioned to Dean and Chloe that they should come over. Dean didn’t know Clay and I hadn’t really said anything when he walked in I just dropped my story and walked over to a strangers table, for all Dean knew I was making arms deals with the CIA. I introduce them and Dean went back to our booth, retrieved our burgers and we all sat down to dinner. I introduced Chloe, but she had turned suddenly quiet and I wasn’t interested in her anymore. She and Dean fell into a conversation separate from Clay and I. I wasn’t sure but I thought that they were discussing sex and money in that nonplussed way that only a whore can do… so much for a handjob, so much of a blowjob, so much for what ever you want…. Clay was telling me about Anna, his girlfriend and asking what had become of my marriage. I was sober by the end of the burger and I had a sudden urge to run. Run away from everyone and everything that had ever been familiar to me and start over by reinventing my personality. It occurred to me that my initial nostalgia was misplaced, that Clay and I would not always be friends, that I was not who I used to be, that one day Dean would be a stranger as well. I was feeling quite lonely and wholesome when I came to. + “A rave? Hey Sil! Are you listening to me?” Dean was staring at me as if I was ill. + “What?” + “A rave. Chloe knows where a desert rave is… you up for it?” + I glanced at Clay and he nodded “just gotta go pick up my girlfriend.” Damn. I wanted them all to disappear; I wanted a director to yell cut, to take a break from this strange role I found myself cast into. “Uh ya sure… you drive and I’ll be there.” +The four of us took off to a club/bar where Clay’s girlfriend Anna was working, on the way I filled Clay in on five years as best a could (he had heard stories it seemed —good to know that people talk about you when you’re not around). I left out a few things that I wanted to tell him, but as I said Clay and I are ancient and until I knew where he was at now I had no reason, based on the old Clay to think the one now would care about. And Clay filled me in because I didn’t hear stories or if I did I never remembered them anyway. It turned out that Clay had done about half of the things we always suspected he would do, like college, the master degree, the outdoorsy life, the impending move to Colorado… but there were things that I never would have thought to hear that Clay was doing. +Back in the day, in fact how I met Clay was through the church youth group, and as I say we were both indoctrinated with the Presbyterian God, but to be honest I was mainly there because there were really cute girls (if I had know then what I know now I would have been down the street at the Mormon tabernacle). I grew out of religion around seventeen when I read a book on brainwashing and realized that even if all this malarkey they were feeding us was true, I knew nothing of it other than what I had been told. The same tactics are used by the US military, Indian gurus, Charlie Manson and nearly every other belief centered organization in the world. I got very angry with myself for being duped by these charlatan tricks that seemingly anyone could have employed by reading a textbook on conditioning psychology. I was smarter than that I realized, but unfortunately all my friends were not seeing my insights and what's more they seemed genuinely concerned about me for thinking such things. Subtle reminders were dropped here and there over a dinner or later after we graduated, a beer, things that had the subtle subtext that good religious people can convey through even the most mundane conversation. At least that’s what I thought at the time and I embarked on this quest to convert them all to my new religion, to undermine the system from within. I gave them books, got them to smoke pot (well Jim anyway) got them to have some sex, in fact Dean and I even dragged Jim to meet a porn star once at some strip club, but then end up backing out when we learned that their was no alcohol allowed. I was the propaganda of hedonism. I always thought that Clay would come round, would wake up as I naively referred to my reactionary religion, but I was wrong. In fact Clay working at the Christian summer camp that we went to in high school. + I got lost in myself again as he talked. As I said carried hedonism as far (actually a little further) as it would go and there waiting for me at the end was God and this time he wasn’t wearing the gilded robes of human flesh he was much more of a supernatural being than anything I had ever read has prepared me for and he was much subtler in its existence than I had assumed. He hated Presbyterians and hedonists with equal fervor. He looked like Hitler in Drag and had a nasty habit of sniffing opium tinctures at the most improbable of moments. He was related directly to the incident with the little gnomes on ether that were mentioned earlier and how do you relate that to anyone else? I hadn’t the foggiest and I realized that I was cut off, limited as much as freed by experience because I was so painfully aware of the limitations of being human I was limited. I was limited to trying to understand Clay when I should have been knowing. This thought ran like a subtle subtext through the conversation. Dean took over for me and started telling Clay about people, parties and things that I knew Clay wouldn’t relate to, but I let him because I could see Clay shifting in his seat and having to realize that the other half exists and that was exactly what I had been trying to do. I tried every trick in the book back in my more clever days and I had forgotten about the one thing that doesn’t get into psychology textbooks: people. The best evidence for god is man, always has been always will be, any two bit strand of sporific DNA floating through the universe could have made the rest, but man —now there is an odd one. Where did this thing come from and what the hell is wrong with it? Who would have made such a thing? I hold that what made us had a hell of a sense of humor and not much else going on upstairs. + When I snapped out of it they were talking about books. Dean was lamenting the recent demise of William S Burroughs and Clay was arguing that Burroughs was too obscure in his style to ever be the creative genius that people thought him to be. This I decide would be great time to go the bathroom and I excused myself; there is nothing Dean can talk about with the insane fever of dementia quite like William Burroughs. I had watched Dean discover and then devour William Burroughs the way some people get over imported chocolates. He savored each knew book with a delicacy that I reserved for other authors, I recognized immediately that whatever his merits or faults he had at least reached Dean and Dean was a tough nut to crack. I could never do it. He had lent me some books and then wham! in I went to the world of the totally bizarre. Burroughs tunneled himself into my brain like cancer and ate it all up, then I found another and moved on to devour that author consuming that men and women who wrote as intrinsically part of what they were saying. I have always read that way —being more interest in the whole scope of author’s life rather than moving from book to book the way some people do. Whether it was Robert Wilson or Tom Clancy it was always the same way, total consumption and digestion followed by a big healthy brown shit. + When I came back from the bathroom I could tell that things had gone awry which was just as well because I didn’t really want to talk philosophies I wanted to speed things up. I went up the bar and asked the bartender to point out Anna for me. He did and I knew that things between me and Clay would never be the same again. She was an absolute work of art with delicate pale skin like a Grecian urn and a face with high cheekbones that just kind hung amid a mass of perfect blond ringlets. She could have been a model, but she wasn’t, she was Clay’s girlfriend and I was smitten. I have notorious bad habit of sweeping my friends girlfriend out from their arms and into my own consequently my friends don’t usually call for while when they meet someone. I was awash in cynicism from my earlier musings and I figured if Clay and I were destined to part then I might as well do it with a bang. I went up and introduced myself. Anna “had a smile that swerved, a smile that curved, a smile that swerved all over the road.” If ever there was a girl that Mark Sandman described with those lines it was Anna. She had a body that hugged the road like BMW and she laughed with the honest mirth that comes only those who know. I struggled over that sentence for some time trying to put it without sounding like mystic, but the simple truth is if you don’t know what I mean by that then don’t worry you don’t know and if you don’t know you’ll never learn. + Anna talked like a little demurring French pastry at once shy and bold with the dancing musical quality that seems to emanate mainly in the voices of women I find attractive and no one else. When you’re in the presence of a magical voice such as that all you want to do is listen, any other distraction becomes an immediate irritation and all you want is to stop it and get back the sweet music. Thus by the time a came back to the table with Anna I was already in the mood to do whatever she wanted whenever and wherever she wanted to do it (of course, and therein lies the rub, ten minutes from now it was very possible I would be smitten to another water nymph). + Clay looked visibly disturbed that I had gotten to Anna before he introduced us and being aware of my past he was already uncomfortable with the idea. The song was right is you want to be happy for the rest of your life you got to get yourself an ugly wife or in this case girlfriend, because if you’re dating the most beautiful girl in the room you have to continually maintain your Alpha Male presence or the others will swoop in and feed on your weakness. Women who find that statement offensive have never been the most beautiful girl in the room and the rest of them are evil because they know what power they have and they use it. Anna was the center of attention at out little table and she knew it and she liked it from what I could tell because she announced before long that she was going to see if she could get off early and go with us to the rave. +But like I said whatever, whenever wherever and I could tell Dean was not going to put up a fight. She left and Clay wisely used this time to go to the restroom, as it was not a good idea to leave the girl with the other dogs. Dean and I talked it over and decided that we would each do our best to keep the other from sleeping with Anna, but in our quixotic logic we both agreed that the best way to do this was to each keep the other from the crime by committing it ourselves. Chloe said we were deranged. We could have subtitled our logic with the slogan keep others out of trouble by getting yourself into it first or as one other put it, “how I found the goddess and what I did to her then” to which I would only add “and how she loved it.” As they say good lovers are not born they’re made, like Mafioso bosses its all in the luck of the draw, but once you learn you will never look at life the same again. You will understand from experience. The question we were debating when Clay returned was whether or not good a Christian could possibly be capable of satisfying the goddess. We were in the neighborhood of a no when we had to seamlessly shift gears and make Clay believe that we were not talking about his girlfriend the minute he left the table, but of course he knew —wouldn’t you? + I managed to suck down one more gin and tonic before the forces of control let Anna loose upon us and we all headed off in her car to this rave. Chloe and Dean were already groping at each other in the car and Clay and Anna seemed to be having a bit of a spat in the front seat; I watched Anna’s face in the reflection of the side rearview mirror. She had a elegant sort of beauty that was all in the sharp line of her jaw and the way her chin met with the smooth luster of her neck; she felt to city born and refined to be with Clay. She wore a thin spaghetti strapped tank top shirt that made no effort to hide the silky black straps of her bra and a long flowing shiny skirt that danced across her ravishing legs when she walked. We were all walking and had been for some time the rave was in a campground outside of Vegas; to add to the irony of the evening the campground was a place called Red Rocks which during the day was a popular rock climbing spot, one that I had last visited with Clay. We talked about that as we walked toward the sound of pulsing techno beats and the smells of perfume and marijuana. Dean, Chloe and Anna walked in silence. + The rave was set up in a barren sandy expanse that served as a dance floor and was ringed with canvas tents serving alcohol and herbal ecstasy. It looked like a Bedouin settlement around an oasis in the desert. The largest tent was elaborately decorated to play up the North African vibe the walls were covered in Moroccan tapestries and the floor was scattered with pillows and people. The only light was from old oil lanterns that hung in the back corner. It cost ten bucks to get into the tent. Dean and I paid and the girls dragged Clay off to dance. Dean and I were more interested in getting drinks and whatever else might be lurking like cockroaches in the pillows. The tent was enormous and looked like it had been borrowed from the circus. In the rave culture of Las Vegas this was the grandest of all raves and one of the only that bothered to get permits and whatever else it takes to be able to dance legally in the desert. On the way in we passed limousines and Rolls Royce’s; this was not an underground affair. To the side of the tent, backlit by purple Christmas lights was the makeshift bar, actually a few tables pushed together and manned by a blond haired kid who never stopped bobbing his head to the beat. Dean and I secured drinks and found a space back in the darkened corner to relax and be anonymous. + We were half way through our drinks before I noticed Crowes. Not more than ten feet from us was a guy who we thought might be the lead singer of the Black Crowes and who might have just been another emaciated scraggly haired kid that looked like the lead singer of the Black Crowes. In either case he crawled over to us with what appeared to be a great amount of effort and sat cross-legged facing us without uttering a word. Dean greeted him coldly and then we chatted sporadically over the course of a half-hour or so before he offered us a joint. We graciously accepted and Dean got up thinking we were to follow him outside but Crowes lit it right there in the middle of the tent and with a minimum of discretion passed it to Dean who shrugged and smoked it. +“Be careful,” the dark locks leaned in closer as if to impart some clandestine knowledge, “this shits pretty hard core.” + I laughed in his face but managed to make it look like I was only coughing. Dean shook his hand and said thanks man don’t worry its cool or some other such dopehead lingo. But from the minute the smoke hit my lungs it was very obvious that something more powerful than what I was used to was at work here. My toes got tingly and my hands heavy. Maybe thirty seconds after I inhaled I was catapulted into another universe that bore absolutely no resemblance to the one before it. Dean’s face went ashen and I thought thank god because I was going to need company on this one. + “You guys are holding up okay, the last time I shared this shit this girl freaked out and thought it was laced with something and tried to beat me up.” + “I hate it when that happens.” Dean took the rather small remnants of a joint and inhaled deeply. “My ex-wife tried to beat me up the first time I did mushrooms. I was really out of it and she came home all pissed off about something and she had never done mushrooms so she had no idea where I was and he started yelling at me on the stairs. I just kind of stood there and looked at her totally unable to comprehend what she was saying then she pushed me down the stairs and kicked me. Then my sister through her out of the house.” +Both Crowes and I were laughing by the time Dean finished his little yarn. Crowes seemed impressed more that Dean had been married than anything else had or maybe that was the entire story that he actually heard seeing how most of the joint had disappeared without us participating. +“What was that like man, I mean being married.” +“Well I don’t really know we were only married two months when that happened I decided after that it was better if we went our separate ways.” + “Ya but what was it like to stand at the alter and look at that person and think ya I want to spend the rest of my life with this person. I mean what does that feel like?” He put a particular emphasis on fee as if this would someone affect Dean’s response. +Dean sat for moment in silence staring at his hands. “I don’t know, uh I never really had that go through my head. It was just a kind of little thing that got out of control. She asked me once after knowing her for like three weeks if I wanted to get married and I said sure because I thought she was joking and then next thing I knew she was dress shopping with my mom. It just happened so fast I didn’t have time to stop it.” + This seemed to have a profound impact on Crowes and he withdrew slightly in what I thought was a kind of meditative slouch. Dean and I exchanged a look after a few minutes and then with still no response we shook the kid. + Still nothing. Hmmmm. + “You want to get something from the bar?” + “Ya that would probably be good.” I got up and went to the bar tent. I got three drinks and set one in front of Crowes who appeared to have settled off into a comfortable coma + Eventually Clay and girls find us; they are tired from dancing and welcome Crowes’ offering except for Clay who didn’t smoke pot. I thought maybe we should warn them, but I was already lost seeing not a tent but an underground bar in France. I am underground. Anna’s face blurs into Nina’s, into Amy’s into a thousand different hybrids of herself like a shape-shifting shaman. I smile at her and she smiles back. Step aside and let the man go through. I feel like a featherweight-lead-train, muscles detached from their control centers, inoperable. My mind floats far out of the monkey body and glides in effortless circles, endlessly, a buzzard soaring on thermals and returning only to rest. And resting only with the throb of the music that drags us up and down over sand dunes and through thick stands of palms to water. Dean and Chloe go off to dance. Clay is gone too though I had not noticed it. I am lying on my back in a delicious see of cloth, sound and touch. +“How are you doing?” Anna attempts to drill through the ice. + “Just lovely how are you?” + (laughing) “Lovely I guess… So how long have you known Clay?” + “I dunno a decade or so, maybe more… it all runs together… how long have you two been dating?” + “Six months.” + Dead-end. Conversations that are substituting for sex are never any fun, nor are they easy to maintain— its best to get the sex out of the way before you start talking. Anna came to the rescue. + “Would you like to dance?” + “We could do that….” + “I’m a little stoned to go outside… why don’t we dance right here?” + I propped up on my elbows and stared right into her eyes searching for some hint of double entendre but she only stared back like a somnambulist. But she kept getting closer and closer and closer like a slow motion film of the casino collapsing and then we kissed. Her lips were warm and soft; they were full pouting lips and then they left. I opened my eyes slowly. Crowes walked by laughed and dropped a bag beside us. Inside was a gooey gray substance known to most as opium. Anna and I fumbled around through Chloe’s purse and found a pipe, which we filled with the roach and heaped on a healthy amount of opium. + The taste of opium is sweet like Nag Champa incense; it perfumes your lungs and wraps them it its warm hand, a delicious felling and then I exhaled it into her mouth. This is not Clay’s girlfriend nor do petty questions of loyalty or moral clouds of right and wrong concern me; this is simply life and it is beautiful. All the opium dreams I have ever had come back in desert windstorms, monsoons of the coast of Mandalay and this is no longer Nevada this is everywhere and the music is undulating in time with her body dancing lightly swaying on her knees hovering over my chest. It was a house beat the kind of palpitating serpentine rhythm that you can not help but move to; over in corner a young boy no more than eighteen is standing with his back to the wall watching, a non participant I am thinking and then I notice that he too is swaying almost imperceptible to the music, the virus of movement. His movement is both awkward and unconscious, but it has a naturalness to it that belies the sense that he is insecure, I am watching him, but in my own perhaps distracted way I too am awkward and in my distraction honesty has taken the reigns… my hands roam her body. I look up suddenly with what must be a face of horror as I realize that I am groping at Anna’s flesh, but her head is thrown back and she seems not to care so I continue my explorations. Her stomach is soft, tightly stretched skin like a drum, a jimbe with her breasts like two percussive bongos, her nipples are hard and feel like raisins sunk into the sink. And the music switches beats, this one exhaustive, tribal, jungle pulsation’s in juxtaposition to the Hindu décor it attacks like a jaguar tearing at me. I am exhausted. My head collapses back between and pillows and with the last bit of reason, last bit of will I pull her up and over my face. Her dress envelopes me in a sea of darkness and smell her musty and sweet like pungent orange blossoms sprinkled over seas of future dreams. The music sways in time with her body and all sense of place and time vanish. There are only temporal dreams lived out in paint in slick tempura of desiring swimming under her dress. I blow softly onto her cunt through the barrier of satin; as my eyes adjust to darkness a damp circle of humid desire becomes visible and tactile in its stickiness. Her juices flow freely and she moans softly over the music; she shifts slightly and her hand reaches down caressing my face and pulling her panties to the side. It leaves and she sinks down on me until her cunt covers my mouth and breathing through my nose I begin to worm my tongue up in her. Slowly probing and then when the flow of juices is too much I lift her ass in my hands forming a stool out of my hands and painting her clit with slow glazing strokes. I am lost for what seems eternity, not thinking about Anna, or the rave or any of it, but simply becoming cunt. Shape shifting as the shaman can I feel it from the inside coming out in waves pulsing waves so different than my own orgasms, waves that very in size and strength, waves that crest and break and other that I let roll by undisturbed. There is no tsunami, no end point, no differentiation no beginning no ending only fleeting twinkles of a glittering amaranthine orgasm. I am drawn back by her stillness and the sharp pain of her nails digging into arms. + She rolls off me and lies down beside me kissing and licking her come off my face. She is smiling, but does not speak. Minutes pass like hours. Clay returns and they go off to dance, as she leaves her hand moves behind her motioning at me to follow but I don’t yet. I lay there with out moving just feeling tangential mix of sex and opium. Sex. The feel of her nipple rubbing coarsely against mine the softness of mashed sweating breasts stuck to my skin, kissing, chasing her tongue around her mouth…. There is a reason writers are afraid of sex and hate trying to write it, they don't have words for it. They think its something that is happening, a thing that exists apart from us, but it is not. It is in us —we are sex. Sex is seeping from our pores and we hate it, we deny it. I want to celebrate it; I want to have a mad passionate orgy with the entire world. I want men I want Women I want plants I want animals, all life in one orgiastic embrace like Kali and Vishnu; mouths locked on mouths, on breasts, on cocks, on cunts, cocks in cunts, in asses, between breasts, tongues licking necks, licking nipples, licking asses, fingers probing flesh, FLESH FLEsh FLesh searing and popping with electrostatic sexual energy. No words for it. + Dean and Chloe return. They found the opium and pack themselves a bowl. Anna seemed slightly embarrassed and excused herself to look for Clay. Dean Chloe and I are lying like pictures out of the room of some Chinese Laundry joint; blank faceless bodies reveling in the glory of our own nervous systems and in the elastic beauty of each other. +Chloe roles on her side facing me and kisses me. She tastes it. I put my finger to her lips and she smiles. “Hey Dean… Sil saved you the trouble….” + Dean sits up “You fucked her?!” + “Not exactly” Chloe kisses me again this time plunging her tongue down my throat and then grabs Dean and kisses him. + “Oh I see. Wow that’s really odd… that right there I mean… you ate Anna… Chloe kisses you… and then me… so I taste Anna… I’m not sure how I feel about that… should that gross me out?” + Chloe laughs, “why would it gross you out, because it originated in Sil’s mouth? But it didn’t… what is with you men? You all want to be with two women and yet you can’t even stand to be hard around each other….” + It’s not that….” + “Yes it is, trust me if there is one thing I know it’s the sex habits of men. I can’t tell you how many guys freak out at the thought that I might have just had a cock other than theirs in me… it makes no sense at because that’s what I do, but even if I wasn’t it still wouldn’t make any sense. What is so revolting about men? What is so revolting about cocks? If you ask me I don’t think any of our hang up are from women…. Its men that can’t stand the sight of themselves. + “It’s not that….” Dean is at a loss for words. + “What do you mean its not that? What is it then? I mean if your so comfortable with you body why didn’t you want to fuck me in the middle of all those people? What is your hang up then?” + Dean is silent. I feel the need to defend him, but I can’t the girl is right. +“Down at the bottom of all the strange America hang ups about sex lies the sad truth that men are not comfortable in their own skins. Maybe a hand full here and there.... Freud would say its penis envy or a modified version of it that deals with size, but its more than that. Men have inherited genetic memory or past life memory or something handed across more than cultural boundaries that carries with it guilt. I have no idea why, but it’s there you can hear it in between that words when men talk about sex. There is a different language employed by men. Men always talk about sex in terms of women or a woman… like ‘we had sex’ or ‘she was sexy’ or whatever, but there is no talk of the self —everything sexual is transferred to the woman. She is the one that made him cum, she is the one that bent over, and she is bearer of all things wanton... Men dream of a wanton sexual woman, but they don’t want to be a wanton sexual person themselves. Everything that is desire is always ‘aroused’ that’s why they come to me because I am wanton or at least that’s how they see it. I don’t exist for them and that is the most wanton thing you seem to be able to imagine this abstract fantasy girl that is everything all rolled into one and doesn’t have to be dissected and pulled apart… just put the money on the dresser when you leave….” +“Does that bother you?” Dean lights a cigarette and props up on his elbows. He raises his eyebrows at me when he notices that I have been fondling Chloe while she talked. +“No it doesn’t bother me… but it doesn’t turn me on either…. I mean men like to think that whores don’t feel anything, like because money is involved we suddenly can’t experience pleasure of something, but that’s a load of shit…. If anything I have had better sex since I have been doing this… some of the guys I fuck are gorgeous, I would be intimidated to talk to them in a bar… but most of them still seem to think that being a whore is an odious task… that I must be faking because I couldn’t possible cum if money is involved…. Like this one guy who likes me to masturbate while he watches and then he’ll start masturbating too sitting in this chair. (her eyes close) at first it kind of crewed me out but then I started getting really turned on by it and he was telling me what to do and how fast and it was weird like I was masturbating, but he was in control… that turned me on big time, but he will not believe that. He still tells me that I can fake an orgasm better that anyone… but the thing is that usually I’m not faking it…. I mean I don’t want to get into it... its probably boring but….” +“No I’d be interested to know what strange things you have done… what’s the weirdest thing somebody has asked you to do?” I am intrigued. +“The weirdest? Wow um, probably the guy that wanted me to rape his wife, but refused to do that… the weirdest thing I have done….” Chloe’s face seemed refracted; split apart as if she were tapping some memory far removed from now, from this self. I wanted to attribute that to some reflex of her profession, some need to detach, but it seemed untrue in her case. Chloe had that relaxed ease of one who can change personality at will not simply out of necessity, but on whim, anything arbitrary that might have set her thinking. She was far too intelligent to do anything she didn’t want to do, at least to do it for money. “I guess the weirdest was this guy who liked me to take a shit in front of him. He had this warehouse/loft thing downtown and there was nothing in it except for a little bar on wheels that he kept against the wall by the door. The elevator opened right into the place which always reminds me of the forts my brother used to build in his room… he would stack pillows up so the when you opened the door and went inside you were automatically in the fort. But anyway this guy would send a limo for me and then I would go up to the loft in a French maid getup completely with the little feather duster and I would clean the place while he sat in the chair and watched. He would get furious if I acknowledged his presence… the place was clean to begin with so would just kind of wander around and bend over here and there and pretend that I was doing something. And then after about ten minutes of that I would get a silver platter from behind the bar and lay it in the middle of floor in front of his chair and take a shit on it. Then I left.” +Dean shook his head, “what did he do with it?” +“I have no idea; I don’t really want to know, but he paid me a thousand dollars to do it once a week for about six months and then he just disappeared. Probably found someone new… I dunno one day I was all dressed up waiting for the limo and it just never showed.” Throughout her story Chloe had her back to me and I was absently stoking her ass at first and then I moved in on her cunt, it was warm and soon wet and I was fingering her without reserve by the end of it. She still did nothing to acknowledge it. Dean told a story about his ex wife who had been stripper for some time. +“She did some er extra curricular stuff, but it used to bother me for some reason. There was this one guy though that liked her to come over… same kind of set up she showed up in a French maid outfit and made him a sandwich, it was even on a silver platter if I remember right… then she served it to him and she set in on his lap and straddled him and pissed on the sandwich. Then she left. What a weird fucking thing to want…. I mean most fantasies I have heard I could if not relate to at least understand, but that one is just lost on me….” +“It used to be lost on me too until I realized that it had nothing to do with me or with sex or anything, I think it was a way of touching some part of him that was sealed off in memory, something too painful to access everyday and he needed that intimacy to remind him….” +“But what’s intimate about watching someone take shit?” +“Well think about it Dean… I mean how many people have you seen taking a shit?” +“Not many.” +“Exactly, so if you saw me doing it it would likely remind you of someone you knew well, well enough to watch them going to the bathroom. At least that’s what I think… who knows though maybe there is some Freudian explanation… maybe they were hung up in the anal stage….” Silence drifts on reflection of the idea. +“Do you enjoy sex outside of work?” I had to know does making sex your job make sex into work?” +“Sil, what kind of question is that? Of course I enjoy sex even when I’m not getting paid… I mean its sex… just because you make money at it doesn’t mean you don’t have fun when you're not… am I making sense?” +“Sort of. I think the opium might be crossing a few wires.” I smiled at her and she lay back down. The three of us stared at the top of the tent. +Chloe started off talking again slowly at first. “The thing about me is that I have been exposed to some rather extreme forms of sex in my professional life and I keep trying to drag what I like out of them into my personal life, but it freaks men out. They can’t handle women who know what they want. I scared the living shit out of my last boyfriend. We had been dating about two months, having sort of vanilla sex, you know missionary, me on top, doggy, run of the mill stuff, so I thought maybe I should expose him to something more…. (laughing fits over took her and she paused for a minute) I’ll never forget the look on his face when I walked into the room wearing skin tight rubber boots that go all the way up my legs… I had on nipple clamps I was holding a dog collar and a chain. I told him ‘get on your knees and lick my asshole.’ He wouldn’t do it, he left me standing there... he just took off and I never talked to him again….” +“That’s a travesty….” Dean clearly would have stayed. So would I. +“Ya men are good at dishing out perversion and degrading you but most can't take it when it’s your perversion and you degrading them. That is why I prefer bisexual women, women who know that sex is everywhere inside you….” +“How long have you been bi?” Lesbian chic fascinates me, one day it just became perfectly acceptable for women to have sex with each other. Not that there is anything wrong with that, it just seemed to have happened one day. Odd. +“I’ve been sexual since I was born that’s that thing I don’t like about saying I’m bi, it like one day I woke up and liked women? No it doesn’t work like that… sex is this thing inside us that has to come out. Some people let more of it out than others that’s all…. I think sex with women is more exciting, and easier than sex with men. I know women's bodies; they are my own body. By the nature of things having sex with women is more like masturbating, there is no coming to terms with the other. There is no Other. And women are adventurous than with men.” +I was about to ask if she had a girlfriend when out of nowhere Chloe grabbed my arm and pulled my fingers out of her cunt with such ferocity that I thought I had offended her; she didn’t even look at me. Then I saw Anna and Clay approaching and I understood. +They were leaving; Anna looked disappointed, but I didn’t trust my instincts just then. It was around four and Clay had to drive back to Wrightwood. We all walked back to his car and headed for the diner. The ride was in an awkward silence. By the time we reached Dean’s car I was on the brink of madness from the silence from the unquenched longing and more than anything from the wan of opium. I hugged Clay and then Anna automatically like they were statues. And then they were gone. +I had a forlorn look on my face to which Dean made a point of saying, “poor Sil. That’ll teach you to let’em cum first.” +“Oh and you did any different?” Chloe raised an eyebrow at him. +Dean shrugged and replied, “I must have done something right you’re still here….” +“You are both morons of the highest degree… luckily for you I took the liberty of taking care of you… you seemed like you needed it…. Come on we need to go get a room at the kldjlkj hotel….” +“A room? What for?” +“Because that’s where Anna is meeting us after she gets rid of that Clay guy… what was with him anyway?” +“I dunno he’s an old friend… not his scene I don’t think….” +“Well come on I need to smoke some more of this opium.” + + +The room was small, two double beds crammed in between a closet and a window, the mattresses sagged and looked like they had been fucked to extinction. I called down to the lobby and ordered extra sheets which we laid over the bedspreads and only then did Dean feel comfortable enough to lie down on the bed. Chloe was on him in seconds and I was left to sit and wait. Waiting as I have said before is something I gave up on so I decided to go for a walk. We were on the outskirts of Las Vegas the budget travelers’ paradise where the rooms are cheaper than the cover charge at the clubs downtown. The area was artificial from the get go, no thought had been put into it, no planning councils, no zoning arguments, it wasn’t even within the city limits. Outside the familiar dry desert heat washed over me like a napalm bath. It was acrid air; it stunk with the worthlessness of lower middle class mediocrity, not rich, not poor, not anything at all —stale. The moon was just disappearing behind the White Mountains somewhere off near the horizon with its glow being the only thing visible from this side of the overpass. I walked up the embankment and watched cars on the freeway screaming past. The rush of the wind as the semis passed at ninety was strong enough to lean into. Lighting a cigarette proved impossible so I headed back. When I turned around I saw them. Or I saw it, which was a freight train at near crawl as it came around the bend and headed east out of Vegas. I was transfixed for moment and then a passing semi sent a blast of air and dust that sent me down the embankment and back to the hotel. +Anna bless her heart was not there when I got back. There was only Chloe sitting in bed smoking a cigarette. It seemed natural that she should be doing so and sat down next to her and smoked a cigarette too, neither of us spoke. About half way through mine, she crushed hers out and still without saying a word unzipped my pants and fished out my still flaccid prick. She pulled the covers over her head and I felt her warm mouth on my stomach. Her hands worked at my belt and she pulled down my pants and I kicked them off unto the floor, then she swallowed my cock whole. Or at least that’s what it felt like. I relaxed and smoked. + + + + + +5 + + + + + I tried to sneak out of the stockyards in Cedar Rapids, but a rent-a-cop caught me. I worked my way out of it eventually, but that says nothing about right now. I am right now. Right now night feels torn apart by the clutching, broken-china voice of the wheels grinding uphill wailing the ancient Indian woman’s song. Song of what I am not sure, she speaks, they speak a different language something more primal, more guttural and I can not understand what they mean, but I feel it rattling its way up through my dangling feet, feel it in the vibration of the boxcar floor as it rattles and lurches across the uneven tracks. My head lists involuntarily, pulled downward by the inescapable gravity of the desert. Utah is laid bare in moonlight, harsh and forlornly beautiful it lulls the mind, spreads out ones thoughts like the dotted Juniper trees, creosote bushes, and gnarled twisted trunks of the mosquite; vast open tracks of sand and rock inhabit the empty spaces like waves of light in space, they exist but only as a vacuum as a reminder of emptiness. The moon is full tonight reflecting its pale solar continace across the land in imitation daylight, the mosquite lowlands are beginning to be usurped by once more by grasslands and Junipers of the high desert. +This train is slow, a plodding freighter loaded with something that is apparently in no great rush to get anywhere, it’s a better ride than the first on I hopped… that one was fast, blinding fast and I suffered from velocity sickness which is my name for the strange restless queasy feeling I had the entire time I was in that car. This train is slow lazy and I managed to befriend the brakeman; I am not hiding anymore I am not slinking about in the shadows. I am stretched out on a flatbed; an open car that the brakeman says will be filled with logs at some point through the Rockies. I haven’t decided yet if I will go that far, in the mean time, because we have to stop a lot for faster trains to pass, the brakeman will wait for me to get coffee and food provided I bring him some which I do without hesitation, I even buy it for him despite his protests. His name is Joe and originally he was supposed to drive me from the railyard in Cedar Rapids down to the sheriff’s station where I was to be book on several counts of trespassing, vagrancy (a fancy name for existence, which sadly is illegal in most places), and several others I am not sure of, but I talked him out of it. We reached a more amicable solution, one of mutual aid; I wanted to ride the rails and Joe wanted someone to talk to on his lonely ride from here to Denver. So today I sat up with him in the engine room where the whirling lights and strange computer guidance systems dragged us out of the pine forests of Cedar Rapids and across the windswept high country where for more than five hours we did not see a tree or any shrub save the endless seas of grass dancing like senoritas at the town fiesta. +Joe +Joe hails from the lexicon of true Americanism —individuality. He is a rustic grisly type of man, the kind that inhabit the backwater towns of the west, ornery you might say, but he is not ornery he is simply inhuman like me. Which is to say that humanity or ‘syphilization,’ as one misanthropic author referred to it, has no hold on Joe, false modesty, false politeness and false pretense have been shed here like dry useless lizard skin. Joe hails from somewhere older, livelier and healthier his ancestors are the men who lived beside ponds and didn’t write books, who hold court with the mysteries of the universe and don’t attend church, who know what life has taught them and who have there own ideas about morality, reality and humanity. Joe represents a rare breed one that should have flourished on this continent, but as in the case with a seed that never gets water, their lot is small and dwindling. +Joe could well be me in thirty years, he looks about sixty maybe younger but the years he has walked through have taken their toll. He has a salt and pepper scruff beard and piercing blue eyes; he told me about the war by which I think he meant the second world war; he hates Steven Spielberg, says it wasn’t like that movie at all; he has a wife in Moab and two daughters both married and living back east. His stories are endless and my patience is too so we drifted, undulating with the sway of the train, his words came out in growling whispers just loud enough to here over the noise of the wheels and the engine, but without yelling or even appearing to raise his voice. He talked with the rhythm of the train, we went around a bend and Joe went in on the beach at Normandy, we started uphill and Joe moved out west after the war, we went through a tunnel and Joe fell silent mid sentence. That kind of creeped me out, but when we emerged back into the blinding midday sun he started into his courtship and marriage without missing a beat and I learned that for Joe, when you are underground it is best not to talk. +Lying on my back trying to piece his life together I get lost, lost in the stars. The moon is to my back but in front down near the horizon the stars are visible, scant few tonight but they are there; the invisible the inky blackness that is between them is the pure white void of space. It is the void, the spaces in between them, the vast open empty tracks of sky, the darkness that is the platinum setting into which little diamonds, rubies, amethysts, and emeralds are laid… it is there that life exists in between the arbitrary line of reality and phantasmal yawning mouth of imagination. Look at the stones, the setting, the band, but none of it is so beautiful as the empty space between her finger in which all life hides. The space that allows it to pass through your hair, to fit your fingers, to stroke your chest, kneed your back and for the space and the space alone you should be grateful. Grateful that there is emptiness for without there would be nothing. I am grateful for you, I am grateful to all the spaces in between so that you can ignore them so that you can continue to fill them with jealousy, with fear, without understanding, but do not be afraid everything is okay…. +The night sky was thrown into being by the great god badger who in an effort to steal it from the last world accidentally pulled to hard and it went soaring up over his head where it stuck to the ceiling of life. No Hopi mythology there, just my educated opinion, just how it looks from here... But I am not thinking about the sky right now I am just looking at it; I am thinking about the Indian town back on the reservation where I bought us dinner. I bought cornmeal cakes and beans from a wizened old Navaho woman who inhabited an abode hut that glowed orange in the setting sun. The store was closed but the woman approached me asked if I wanted to buy dinner, I did and she took me to her hut; in the middle there was a fire and a pot of food on it along with too smudge faced Indian girls maybe four or five years old. They watched me intently in silence with enormous liquid brown eyes that seemed irrigated with understanding far beyond the physical age of their bodies. As the old woman wrapped the corn cakes and beans in foil I got lost in a strange hobbit-like land where the true secrets of the universe were about to be revealed as beans and corn bread seen through the eyes of a child, it was a pregnant moment. Then she brought me to by insisting that I take one of her chocolate Jesus statues for desert. I thought about a Tom Waits’ song, about a minister I knew once who wouldn’t allow his parishioners to sell donuts at church and about the good Jesus himself; what must he think if he really was the son of god and really is watching, what must he think of being molded in wax, filled with chocolate and wrapped in colored foil? +I thought that Joe, being a Mormon by conversion might be offended, he struck me as a serious guy when it came to religion, but he just laughed and laughed said “what will they think of next?” or words to the effect and he devoured Christ’s chocolate body. Finally I thought as I watched Joe eat, someone is enjoying the body of Christ. And even now I think, in arrogantly retelling history, that if Christ was indeed the son of god he will come down here tonight in fire and brimstone and he will extend a hand out to the two men, the only two men who ever took of his body and ate with lust, with vigor with the true enjoyment of being alive, for if there is one thing undeniable out here it is that we are alive. We may not being doing anything, we may be talking or staring at the passing scenery through the dirty cockpit window or we may be climbing on the roof of a boxcar, but whatever we are doing we fundamentally alive. I say this because there is no reason for humans to exist out here at all. We lack the specialization of desert evolution, we are not covered with barbs and spikes, we do not have thick skin which can hold water seemingly indefinitely, we are pulpy fragile creatures we ought to be dead, but somehow we are not and we are more alive because of it, we are aware. We are here by an act of will —our own. It takes an act of will to realize that you are alive that is my revelation for tonight. +I light a cigarette and throw back the sleeping bag, it is September and the night is cool, I throw on my jacket and walk to edge of the car and let my feet dangle off the side. We are doing about forty I would guess, fast enough to do some serious damage if I fall, but slow enough to study individual plants as they pass by at about ten yards away. I have never been to Coney Island, but for me this is an amusement park the landscape itself is so alien as to remain forever fascinating. It illuminates a part of my personality that is as esoteric as this desert. We are picking up speed and heading downhill into the canyon country. I know this because Joe showed me the maps, pointed out scenic spots when I ought to sleep and when I ought to be awake and amazed, but I like it all. Sometimes the less scenic things are the more beautiful they become, that quite ineffable sense of beauty which require the careful turning of the eye to detect; such as a trash strew alley that you find yourself staring at after waking up in a gutter behind a bar in SoHo. Or the way the smog lifts slightly almost imperceptibly off the mountains surrounding Mexico City everyday around seven o’clock. +Or the way this juniper tree is sitting alone clinging to the side of the canyon wall able to exist in the slightest most overlooked fissure surrounded by a monolith of compressed sandstone which yields nothing, there is only the one tree here. That this tree could be able to survive is miraculous, but in end explainable, what is not explainable is me, that I should be here, that is should be right here on this train, at this moment, staring at this tree is truly miraculous. I was not scattered to the wind with thousands of my fellow seeds, I did not lodge in a crevasse, I was not carried by wind, I did not get just the right amount of sunlight and water. I was planned from the beginning, I nice addition to a nice couple who were themselves nice additions to an already nice town that was part of nice and highly advanced civilization almost at the end of its second thousand years of existence. All my life is orchestrated by something, pushed and pulled about by forces which can be explained with, goddesses, DNA, evolution, badgers, crows, old women, trickster poets, visionary superbeings of alpha centaur, but the end conclusion by all humanity it seems is that something is controlling things. There is no freedom for me, no wind to carry me, no water or soil to nourish and no light by which I can grow. There is no visible thing gravity that pulls on me, there is nothing tangible about DNA, I live in between all mythology sandwiched like a chucalwalla in a sandstone crevasse. I have learned infinite things, made them finite, knowable. I have built great castles, great monuments, great societies, great people and torn them all down again to start over. I have lived a thousand lonely huddled nights from bearskin to tapestries to the silk sheets of Manhattan nights; I have climbed every mountain peak slide down the scree and talus slopes of meeting with pharaohs, Voudans, with Moses and god; I have held a billion women lovingly in my arms and give birth to a trillion children through all history's wombs from Sarah to Satan all filled themselves with my nourishment. But I still do not know who I am or why I am here. I am Everyone and I am driving myself mad. + + + +Today at dawn this is the most beautiful place on earth. I get up not having slept much, not that that is out of the ordinary these days, balancing myself and reorienting to the sense of movement that has not left my head for almost 36 hours now, I stretch and yawn greedily like an insomniac does. The sky is green yet, not long till dawn by when I must be in the engine compartment because today the tracks run beside US highway 60 and I can not be seen. I am secret; I must be hard to find. My precarious journey over four boxcars to the engine is rewarded with the smell of frying bacon, eggs, coffee and biscuits. Joe smiles his craggy grin, in the electric lights his teeth are yellowed and stained with coffee and cigarettes, but rather than being grotesque the seem only to add character. +“I was just going to blow the whistle to let you know that breakfast is served.” He hands me a cup of coffee. “Beautiful night wasn’t it?” Joe seems to now sleep at all. +“Yes it was,” I mumble as I try to sip the coffee, but it is still too hot. +“Here….” He hands me a plate full of greasy bacon and eggs with two biscuits perched precariously on either side. “Let's eat on the roof, we’re not by the road yet.” The way he says road gets me, his voice has a hatred in it, a bitterness towards this thing the road. We go up on the roof and eat in silence. All around us the sky is a color show. The green begins to fade, replaced by the first crimson rays reflected on the bottoms of the wind carved clouds. The first direct rays of the sun find me chewing on the last piece of bacon, I close my eyes and we welcome each other across the ninety three million-mile void. +I open to a squint and turn around, behind us lies the akdjflkd, endless grass and somewhere in the middle the kdjlkadkj; to the north there is the escalanted wilderness, the green river and the largest uninhabited area in north America; to the south and east there is the maze, Canyonlands and Natural bridges National parks, the confluence of the green and Colorado rivers, and somewhere a tiny speck of a town called Moab where we will be putting in for two days to load rock and other assorted things. +“Quartz and sand mostly, which we’ll be dumping in Denver, but whatever the case I wanted to invite you to my house to have a home cooked meal with my wife and I. She’s a real looker and great cook too.” He laughs and nudges me in the ribs. “She was a beauty queen in high school, she was miss Hoboken and might have been Miss America if she hadn’t decided to give the whole thing up and go to college… course I’m glad she did ‘cause that’s where I got her….” +I hem and haw non commitally thanking him for the offer, but not agreeing to it just yet. I head back down to do the dishes and then I splash cold water on my face in the tiny bathroom and study my face in the cracked tarnished little mirror. Things look good; a little haggard here and there, weathered a bit by the years perhaps, but still young still enthusiastic. I spot a gray hair sprouting out of my closely cropped scalp, but the skin is still soft and smooth; I need a shave, but that is of no concern out here. Back on the roof I smoke a cigarette while Joe calls into the Moab station. After a while he yells up to tell me that the yard will be empty when we arrive, today is Sunday he informs me, and this is Mormon country —nothing happens on Sunday. +“You know a lot of my friends were pretty hard on me for converting and they was downright pissed when we got hitched in the Tabernacle, but I tell ya… Mormons may have some strange ideas and beliefs but on the whole they are some of the best people I’ve ever met. Sure it’s a little ridiculous there bible and all what with zebra’s running around here —imagine that! Zebras here!— and I don’t think the ol Mr. Young really carried those gold tablets under his arm, and why god called himself Moroni I have no idea…. But in spite of all that ridiculousness which really is no more ridiculous than the Catholic’s eating wafers of gods body or the Jew’s giving things up for no real reason at all once or twice a year… it all ridiculous when you think about it objectively. But what I have noticed having a Mormon wife and a lot of Mormon friends is that they build real communities… they are good people at a level that is very basic and seemingly below the more refined religions…. Your average Catholic will walk by the poor bum on the street and give him a nickel or a quarter, but your average Mormon will invite the man to their home for a meal and offer them a shower and of course a little counselling on the true church of God, but when a man’s belly is full and his hair clean he can listen to that sort of nonsense. I don’t believe a word of it, but I took the vow because it made my wife happy and I would do anything to see that woman smiling….” +Joe smiled at me and said that I could stay on the roof of the engine so long as he was down below, that way anyone watching would think that I was him. So I sat up there letting the wind hit me in the face, sunning myself across Utah, land of Mormons —for now. One day I suspect the Tabernacal will fall, the religion will dwindle and disappear like every other civilization, but for now they reign over god’s last piece of land. And what a land this is here. The tracks have climbed back out of the canyon country and we are on the mesa tops cruising at thirty five toward the Big Switch as Joe called it. The Big Switch is apparently the only non computerized part of the journey where Joe will have to stop the train and get out and actually throw the heavy iron handle to switch us over to the track that heads down to Moab. Once he drives the train past it he has to stop again and walk back and switch it again so that the next train can pass on by. It remains manual because most trains do not stop in Moab anymore, most of them pick up a few cars that have been driven up or just don’t even slow at all. + It was Dean who pointed out the curve in the tracks behind his mother apartment complex, which he really only did for one reason —so that I could catch a train. I had never ridden on a train be it hoping a boxcar or buying a ticket. I didn’t have enough for the ticket that much was certain and I knew that there were some lingering stiff vagrancy laws and such penalties as to keep people from riding for free, but I had never been on a train. The chief reason that I had never been on a train though was that I had never been near a train. Never lived near a station or had a track pass through the neighborhood. As child the best part about going to my grandmother’s house was that in the course of the hour long drive we crossed a train track and occasionally we would even get there just as a train was passing. Something about them always got to me, the way they roared along, not fast, but roaring a primal movement that harkens back to more primitive days. You could see the past in them when travel was something worth doing. Airplanes had power and thrill, but trains have something bigger something all together more massive about them, they do not roar they lumber and lurch they are more human than the smooth sterility of the car or the powerful speed of the plane +I stare off at the distant looming La Salle Mountians where first frosts are melting in the morning sun, Dean my old friend who set all this in motion, whose life existed as a catalyist for my own just as mine existed as a catalyst for his; so it is with brothers be they of blood or not. When I think of Dean I think of him as he was a year ago when we touched down in Paris, his hair jet black and greased back in a fashion that was at once greaser and not, he looked as if he were completely at ease in his own skin. We both had on suits, not expensive once like we wanted, but ones that we handed down or bought at thrist stores, we were highly incongruous with the international image of what an American ought to be. Or I think of a photograph I took at the Little Knight so many years ago or was that only months? Dean is in the a pinstriped suit, carefully greased hairline pure black and illuminating his face framing it in the luminesnce of empty space, the eyes are laughing, but the lips barely curl, womething intangible is lurking under the skin and bones. Another from the same night caught Dean unawares as he leaned against the wall and watched the crowd. His arm is blurred lifting the everpresent cigarette to his lips and all around his swirling women’s hair and exited arm waving men fade into a faceless blur, in the middle there is Dean, standing still like the hummingbird. +Dean is right now probably just getting off the internet where he was undoubtedly chatting with bilixa66 the girl whom he is in love with, but tries to deny it. Right now his weary bones are preparing for rest and I am gliding along through Elysian fields. So it goes. Everyone everywhere is doing something different than me right now, I know this because I am alone. I am playing mental solitare then infinite game which doesn’t pay anymind to rulles like time or space. Time is an inconsequential and inconvenian human invention which the traveler learns to disregard and ignore. There are two games going on one is the time game in which all society and interaction with humanity, ones culture, ones beliefs, once hopes and goals all thing bounded by time, in the other game there is the infinte self which has no time no dreams, no humanity, no space no thing. It is the seemless interaction of the two that create what we formally call the ego, the self, the thing that is perceivable, identifiable, and recognizable. One can see or be seen depending on which game you want to play. The train is slowing, the turn off to Moab is nearing, from the Big Switch it is only about half an hour down into the canyon carved long ago by the green river. I am wandering back to my flatbed to gather up my things and hide out in the cabin of the engine; I am thinking about how to ditch Joe without offending him, I need to get off the train andout into the desert, Everything is falling away like great sheets of burn skin sliding off the greasy shiny red flesh that lies beneath the surface. That was how it went this morning. + + + +It was four in the afternoon when I said goodbye to Joe and headed off down Moab’s main drag toward the mountaineering shop to see about a ride up into canyonlands. I left it open with Joe so that if the urge struck to go back to the train into denver I could, but I was intent only on getting to Canyonlands for now. One thing at a time, evverything one at a time, nothing in pieces everything all at once fell to pieces. I got a ride from two hippies rock climbers clad in the fashion of the earth first and other environemtnal activitists who share aside from a love of the wilderness apparently the same love of Kakhi’s, Tevas, Tofu and flat tasteless foodstuffs that originate in the same facotires that make oreos. Funny folks the country culture these days, like ldemocrats and republicans they are differential from there enemies primarily by custom and fashion. The radical tree camping, pottery making, hemp weaving, Dave Foreman worshipping, mushroom eating, toms of maine consuming hippie-enviromental-social consciousness raising-guitar playing radical of the outback is no different than the BMW driving, Starbucks drinking, software writing, technology worshipping, juice drinking, spa loving, health club hopping, slandes wearing dog walking, family rasing white picket fence building, church attending drug abstaining yuppie eviel consumer destroying the world capitalist pig set that the so-called radical crowd hates with such superior disdaim. One uses Tom’s of Maine and the other crest, beyond that they are the same. My hippie climber friends bought trail mix and candles at the super market while I opted for steak, beans and potatos with a bag of chemically enhanced brickets that would light from my cigarette butt. Its all a matter of taste. I requested paper bags and rolled them up so they wouldn’t abandon me for not being one of there own. I rode in the back of there bus which turned the hourlong drive from Moab to the Est entrance of Canyonlands into a three hour long crawl. As we switchbacked up the canyon walls to the top of the Mesa country Dave and Tom grilled me on my beliefs, they were both college student on a semester long vacation so I could forgive them for still being tangeled up in ideas but it wore on me after a while. They were astonished that I did not vote, that I never had, but was not disillusioned with the political system, I just don’t give shit one way or the other. +“Man if you don’t vote you give up your say in what goes on in the world man, come on how are we going to change things if everybody has that attitude? Why are you going to be giving up your power to change things man? Some people would die for a chance to vote…?” +Its better those people go right a head and die I am think but aloud I try to formulate something less offensive to their tender idealist hearts. “Perhaps Tom I don’t want to change anything… perhaps I coulld if a itried, but what if I don’t want too?” +I figured to let them do the talking and they did all the way across the grasslands right on into the campground, I learned the Toms of Maine was better because it was natural, Teva was better because it did not use child slave labor and that one acre of farmland can support a faimly of ten with vegetables of two hamburgers worth of cow if it is grazed. I don’t personally give a shit either way. Is fast as I could I said my thanks to the Dave and Tom and wandered down the road to an open campsite where I proceeded to build a fire in the light of the fading sun with its crimson glow licking across the thunderheads to my back. It was the still about eighty degrees and I was sweating in the heat of the fire, but I wanted a steak. I was staring at the sizzling fat dripping from the enormous side of beef I had bought thinking of a woman I had never seen staring at a well in the French countryside. I felt an effluence of enthusiasm; the taproot broke through dry soil and was swamped by underground water. The sizzled meat melted down to the flavor of sweet salt, the mixture of spices and blood. My plate was stained a greasy pink Moroccan-color with each carving slice of the knife and the potato swam about in the bloody grease tailing is own gooey mixture of butter and pulverized potato flesh like a tanker ship leaking crude oil in the pristine sanctity of the ocean. +I was fucking famished. With the tired wise-consumer guru advise I had endured all the way up the mountain made the dripping animal fat like a tonic elixer cleansing my artieries of stale plache of idealism realism. Nothing is ever seems so real as fiction. The world I exist in is finite, bounded and ruled by certain inescapable laws, here a house, there a job, and everywhere by the transient people and events that make up so called life. Existence takes place in the world of not I’s, the mysterious other, but that is not where I do my living. Nor does any one else. We live in the spaces in between the temporal world, the infinitude of the imagination, next to which our terrestrial existence looks flat and tasteless as a junkyard tire cracked and torn in the sun. In these moments where the internal merges flawlessly with the external I go roaring back through memories of childhood, of selves that I was truly, but am no longer today, through all the marauding personalities which have governed this thing called I. Pregnant moments are these, usually catching me unawares and throwing down a track of thought I had not expected; moments when the light of the sun breaks through the sullen clouds of an afternoon thunderstorm and hits the steeple of an old church just as you come up over a crest in the road. It smacks you in the face when you perceive something in a moment that you know is not tangibly present and yet it is real, the fluid transmission of emotion that can be tasted on the back of your tongue as well as felt beaming into your chest. The hurricane of the unconscious whirls up to the surface for moment, the imagination leaks into the real world. You catch it when she stirs at night and tosses her hair so that so that it falls across you face with the delicate odor of peach blossoms and perfume mixed with the earthiness of her organic body, fecund and warm. You hear it when the crescendo of thundering drums climbs up out of the ninth symphony and lodges in the back of your brain sending chills down your spine. Some interaction of the personal with the infinite, a stabbing at perfection transcends the ordinary moment. Every one of us has moments of transformation when we feel if only for a mere second, that something larger than the present is in the room, the sky or the music. The world gives birth before our eyes and takes us spinning down reveries and private waterslides of imagination through the twisting spiral corkscrew of imagination. How long must ancient man have wondered where do these thoughts come from? What am I to do with them? +Looking backwards with clever red sunglasses I could trace the history for you; the first thing the human species got out of these encounters was a loose clumsy word: spirituality. One day caveman Thak felt with authority that there was something beyond the simple organic, fertile, pussing matter of his body, there must be a realm august to this temporal one. Thak ruminated over this for time and finally invented language in order to describe how he felt to other prehensile monkeys. With language Thak separated us from the entire animal kingdom. Not by virtue of communication, for any one who has ever observed even the simplest of animals knows that they communicate, but rather what Thak gave us was a means of creating memories —severing us from time. Out of memory came dissention as other monkeys did not buy into Thak’s explanations and as time moved on and more voices from more and more places were heard and the general became divided and localized. Those that believed one explanation tended to associate with only those that agreed with them, they had their “gods” and they were the only gods, the contrarians on the other side of the proverbial river lacked THE TRUTH. Not much changed from then until now, there are more gods and even less comprehension of the godliness, but other than that we still behave in much the same manner as our ancient ancestors, some would same we have actually gotten worse not better. +And all of this reasoning has not in anyway helped us to understand that initial question —where are thoughts coming from? All the philosophizing rants of all the arrogant monkeys can not answer the simplest of questions: who am I ? Where is this vitality teeming from? What is emotion? What the hell is really going on down here? Why? Why can one person be moved to tears by a quartet and another put to sleep? +Much of the wonder and amazement that greeted our forebear’s is lost for us. We have explained it away, dissected, mapped, catalogued, and miniaturized it. Unable to comprehend the universe we carefully construct a replication that can be understood and ignore all the rest saying in essence that anything not comprehensible to the human mind does not exist. But it does and she knows what I am thinking before I say it and the light continues to pour through the clouds onto steeples, rocky pinnacles and the back porch of an antique house in the south where I am forced once more to stand face to face with the unknowable. Miniaturization is for small minds I say. Science is the culprit here they wrecked the whole show shrank it down and claimed to understand how it all worked. I hope they all choke on those miniaturized hors' dorve corns or get mauled by a tiny, shrunken Doberman pincer. It would give them back the humility they have tried to shed. +For a long time this miniature world was all I could see and it threw me into a depression every time it crossed my mind, but I studied it with great enthusiasm because I was looking for way out of it. The more I looked at all the evidence the farther I felt from the truth. The truth is that sometimes the light is magic and being able to explain why it has the tones and hues, how the electrons spin, says nothing about the experience of it. What good is knowing without feeling? Those moments when I am confronted with the essential mysteries of my life and perhaps even yours, all of ours, all life, are not something that can be taken apart. I can not break it down, understand the smaller bits individually and then hope they add up to the same thing I started with. +If we stop taking apart things for a minute and just breathe in slowly one breath at a time it will flood the hatches and bouyantly draw us up to the surface of things. It is time we stopped this nonsense of science and floated our way back up to the surface of the pond. Time to start over, to assimilate rather than dissect, to feel rather than know, to live rather than abstract…. +But back to our brief history of LOVE… +Unfortunately by the time you and I got on the scene it resembled uncooked spaghetti, thin strands of information imparted over the years, scattered clumsily about the kitchen, there is no pot, no water, nothing to cook it with just dry hard idea that crunches when you bite into it and sticks between your teeth long after. We externalized the internal, brought all out, the good with the bad, so that we could take it apart and understand it. We live amid the rubble of Decarte and the mechanized universe. We dissect, we want answers, but we ask questions that can’t be answered by the narrow methods of research that are considered valid. Joseph Kellar ought to be our patron saint, to preside over every convening moment to remind us that we are looking for our tail while it is in our mouths, right below our noses where we can’t see it… we can taste it though and it drives us with even greater fury, mouths watering and ravenous fangs dripping the saliva of untold desire. But we want to see it with these eyes, these imperfect eyes that we know are not even used for seeing. We want answers to appear, to be made real. We want Christ to appear, we want spacemen to appear, we want something to appear, but we are not by god going to accept anything that we haven’t had tested up and down with all the rigorous insanity of a mathematician trying to write out equations for her emotions. +What is science doing if not that? Making the world better? For whom? Scientsists? I don’t want to live in a Cartesian nightmare where history is mechanically plodding along with the cold calculated precision of a steam engine. No many people do, consciously speaking and so came religions, sects, and politics… but none of that comes close to pulling the sense of wonder that science threw out the window. None of it brings back the endless nature of grainy experience. Have become more enthralled with the human created side of life and in doing so sacrafized the intertwining of the individual with the universal. We have found a distraction which eases the anxiety that unanswered questions provoked in us —our selves. Don’t think the church/state/priest/politician/scientist/special action committee on the overexertion of gray matter will take care of it for you. We wrote a lullaby called god and put ourselves to sleep. Until today we find ourselves at a crossroads in human evolution. +As we come to understand the ineffable world around us in increasingly greater minutia, we are reaching the end of the external line. We can measure and measure search and search the world for new discoveries in a world that we once thought was infinite and impossible to wrap our minds around we are in danger of knowing the limits of knowing. + The scientific community has been the first to realize that such a day is coming and true to the morbid and yet curious nature of scientists the future is being drawn with great caution and precision. And yet if one were to delve into the that world with the skepticism of a mystic looking at a computer code one would eventually notice that the experience of science is really not much different in that of the eastern philosophers of millennia past. + It is very popular these days to write books about the connections between the physics of indeterminacy and the constant contradictions of the Tao Te Ching. (One of the best is actually called the Tao of Physics.) And what has this endless search given us? + Nothing. Nothing more than a system of belief, which in the end says that no system, can describe anything that is outside of the system. What that fancy phrase means to anyone who is not absolutely enthralled by making things a lot more complicated than they need to be, is that we don’t anything about anything and we never will. +But Lao-Tzu already said that: The farther you go the less you know. So what’s the big deal? What has the “cutting edge of science to report back? That it can’t describe anything that can’t be measured. You can’t measure the emotion that light hitting a church steeple evokes, you can’t measure they way you feel propped up in bed watching the sleeping form of the one you love. You can’t measure them because they are encoded in you, they are uniquely yours and there is no way to translate them to others. + Science’s end will be when it achieves what art has been doing for most of recorded history —trying to give the uniqueness of experience a form which allows it to transcend the individual and share it. Science is but a new language and nothing more. +Perhaps with virtual reality we will one day be able to exactly encode everything that another has experienced and feed it all into our own nervous system, but the response will still be different. In order for emotions to be communicated everyone would have to have the exact same history, exact same thoughts, and exact same experience felt be all at once. Even supposing the absurdity of this to be possible what would be gained? + Fuck science; fuck it along with religion, society and culture, fuck them all because they say nothing other than what any two year old could tell you is obvious. It is obvious because we have all felt it. All the records of how we felt pall in the face of the question of what? What is it that sends the chill down our spines, the warmth out of our heart or the goosebumped hair up on our arms? + No one knows and I think that it would be safe bet to assume that as long as we all have different brains we never will. The technology fanatics will burn themselves up the same way the drug gurus of the sixties did, they will fall prey to the one thing that makes them human —ego. It killed the belief in god, it killed the belief in the cultural reformers and it will always kill any attempt to transcend because it is the point at which belief originates. + Only an egocentric monkey would dream of being able to understand the orbit of the planets let alone they vastness of all existence. Only a very confused and disoriented creature would throw himself into a corner and examine every little microscopic piece of dirt without first discovering what a monkey was. +Herman Hess once said that the only job of man was to find the road that led back to himself. But we being the tragic creatures we are doomed forever to a life lived in melodrama and confusion, seldom do such things. Seldom do we celebrate love or transcendence. At our best we celebrate the by-products such as art of music. At our worst we record those who were farthest from themselves, the emperors kings and queens, generals, bishops, monks, people who led the most perverted and hideous of lives. + Very few lovers rattling around in the tomes of recorded history. Oh to be sure there were lots of them, but we haven’t paid too much attention to them, or to what they knew. We have created a cult of worship to our egos to the things that we think are so unique about ourselves at the inescapable expense of the things which we have in common. + Its built into our culture and if we Americans seem particularly arrogant to the rest of the world it is only because we house the temples in which the worship of the ego if held. We play host to humanity’s darkest hour, an experiment that has fallen off track and yet it is so ingrained in our minds that it forms an unbroken circle which steadily contracts into smaller and smaller rings the closer we come to the zero hour. + We will do anything to draw the attention away from ourselves and as Freud hinted and Reich out right said we do it by manifesting our fear into the real world. The only things that happen are ones that someone wants to happen. The problem is that none of us really know for sure what we want. The subconscious mind is in the act of creating… always and forever…. It is creating even the conscious mind. Everything that you think you are is dream that some other part of your brain is having; to explain this we had to invent something called chaos which says that you are, in mathmatical terms living in an endless noisy feedback loop called non-causality and non causality is merely causality that is too complicated to trace, but there is a cause nonetheless. + Their will always be a cause without it the world could not exist, without a beginning then there can be know end and we all know there is an end, an end to ourselves and from all appearances an end to the whole damn show. The end has in fact already happened because time like everything in the universe is something that someone wanted to exist. + Where does this terrible looping logic take us? Right back where we started. It’s a loop remember —really nothing to marvel at. You can travel the whole distance or just stay where you are and let it come back around. In the end even those are no different. So here we are again, perhaps there it is another person next to me in bed when I watch them sleep, perhaps it is a techno song that sends the chills down my spine, and perhaps the next time the sun breaks through the clouds it will be illuminating a mountain instead of a church. + At the end of the line the breakdown of the word I realized there was no hope for communication to take place I was too isolated in experience to hope to relate it to anyone other than myself. I was not close enough to anyone so close was I to god. It is not near the bottom in the sewers of cities that humanities hope lies but out here in the great heights, closer to god and only then to we seem so much alike. Only next to god are all the political games that divide men stripped away out here you arrive naked and proud. Only then do you see every man as your ally every woman your love, only scorched clean of the petty differences of race, creed, color of skin do we draw together huddled in fear of insanity which we ourselves have wrought upon each other. No hope for a cure is on earth, no hope save death. No cure but death and then Quien Sabe? +With the bleakness of snow and the blanketed certainty of disillusionment I cast off all doubts. I was ready. Ready for what I did not know —a thousand faces before the day is half over passing like the jerky photomontages of Man Ray. Each pair of eyes radiant unto itself delicately in the corners of a stray glance I caught the recognition of understanding though only tragedy brings them any closer. Forged and smelt in the dry heat of rock furnaces here the charnel ovens brew alchemal liquid souls and fuse combinations of liquor and lips, souls to the experiment of which we are all part. + The medieval alchemists searched in the stone, the modern physicist searches the heavens, and perhaps the future shaman will try to fuse man with machine. All have missed the most obvious of truths with the dedication to illusion that had carried the Catholic Church on its back for so long. We want ourselves to so make or form each other into the god that we were fashioned after that we forget that such is already true. The wisdoms of heaven are in the DNA strand yes, but what are we to do with them? Copper may be turned to steel, but what are we to do with it? Everything may be taken apart and put back together differently, but what will have changed? + She waited by a fountain in a park just outside of Paris where I have never been. I watched her sit silently for hours staring at nothing or so it looked to me her eyes were fixed on the pump handle of the well. She sat motionless and never without the quite smile of a woman in rapture, a woman in the private mysterious world of orgasm. I see it on the face of the ones I have loved in that indeterminable second after where everything is. + Which brings you right back to the steak, but now there was a woman or there was the sheading of a woman, an inescapable need to be at once masculine and feminine, cunt and cock, both sides of the coin as it were, but tonight the blood of the cow is burning away the feminine scorching it like so many glowing crimson embers that glow and warm, but which fade in the spectacular face of flame. Meat sizzling over a campfire gets rid of girlfriends and wives, gets rid of lots of entrapments, like a cure for the plague. It’s a proven fact. +With the final rays of sun went the final heat; as the gentle coolness of night settled in the humidity of the rain began to evaporate and the desert returned to it’s dry self again. Eating the salty and sweet steak with a baked potato and a pot of baked beans I wandered off on a walk. At first it was just my mind bouncing lightly among the juniper trees that were behind my campsite, but then when the food was gone, my body grabbed me a beer and a pack of cigarettes and carried me down to the edge of the canyon. I sat with my legs dangling off a rock that was perched on the rim and extended out into space. All around me there was nothing but air and under me only a brief moment of rock and then more timelessness we called air. + We call it air. But it used to be called ether, before that it was liquid, now it’s mostly dirt in some places. Here it is air. +I thought about Dante, about God, about steak and about women. It was beautiful just to be alive and to able to think. I thought about that for along time. There came an utter silence in which I watched myself think in the way that you might listen to another talk. It detached but remained aware that it must return back and live with those thoughts that it could only then recognize. It was a spiraling double helix of a logic that corkscrewed all about my mind drilling little holes hear and there opening wine thoughts and pouring glasses for the self that continues to stream in the door. It was to watch a feast of thoughts or personalities come together for one sort time and dine like old friends. A reunion to catch-up on where each had been what had happened and what they had done. It turned to a smorgasbord of philosophy and love and there was endless debate, dissention and rising voices. A circus dine roared around the room slap happy train car attendants moved about taking ticket and slapping the men in the faces for not having the right change. +And then the wave crested at cacophony and confusion and broke leaving only silence in the room. Silence that carried on its back a poignant nostalgia for the past and a calm understanding of the future. I touched for a moment the void that Buddha preached, the nothingness into which you must cast yourself if you wish to understand. Riddles that seemed ridiculous to me before where solved with simplest of maneuvers truth gleamed with the caustic light of florescent light posts on an asphalt road. In the blinking blank look of the deer just before impact is the look of understanding the look of recognition that it is all nothing. No thing. What do I want out of this life? Nothing. Nothing at all. +I understood with sharp focus the difference between understanding how something works and understand what it is. I came to see that even the void of understanding was not the end but only a means to something else which would also be yet another means until the final thought was had and the conversation between self and the other ceases forever and weds them together. +And the two shall be joined as one. I have acted that out with others; I have joined souls with several men and women in my life but I had never had the sensation of meeting myself on that plane until that moment. A net was cast over the side of the ship and the wheel turned starboard to trawl a giant net through the waters of the past which played out in slide show fashion, a game show in which I had to meet myself + Endless images of my own arrogance played themselves onto the back of my closed eyelids like a cinema of embarrassment and I went to myself, as stranger might go, out of pity, to reach down a hand and help myself up. All love flowed through me and made everything hyperreal and tactile as if thoughts were the rock and the trees and the silence was the minds way of answering the endless question of the universe. The transitory nature of my own existence was illuminated and I was washed with feeling of warm and celebration of the embarrassment and I felt the sheer hilarious joy of my own folly fall along side the folly of all those I have ever know and ever will know, a giant heaping ball of laughter. Coiled up tight like yarn and batted about by the kitten of the universe the ball dances nightly behind the moon, all our selves playing as children endlessly. A cat. A cat in the hat. The trick top hat. + As the moon rose up from the east I watched in silence as my life unfolded behind my eyes I watched memories I had no conscious knowledge of the way a father watches his sun playing in the yard. They started off recent memories of Amy, of Dean, of Ed, of moments shared with each and then it kept racing backward to college classes, high school girlfriends, playground friends…. Until I went back in utero to a point of no consciousness at all and then other stories unfolded as if out of some kind of genetic memory. I saw the light of the fifteen-century break through the night hitting church spires and scorching the brass coffers of foreign temples. Wild and uncharted regions played out scenes from Arabian Nights with silken tapestries women’s arms entwined with gold bands; and then sagas of Templars, all the wisdom seekers of the fertile crescent and the girl in France by the well came up near the end like a phantom as if to introduce herself but only disappeared again into a background of Egyptian palaces and the fragrance of silk and spices from the orient. There was a warm glow of light in the room that slowly as the eyes adjusted revealed itself as a temple of splendors. The walls were adorned with rugs and woven tapestries in designs that acted out the living myths of the sun gods. The floor was blanketed in pillows and a sweet incense smoke floated in wafts of Jasmine and myrrh; in the center of the room slightly elevated on steps was an alter upon which a beautiful and naked goddess lay, a statue, an answer, a testament to any question that you might ask. She was a goddess and in her silence I swam the thalassic of sorrow and joy in placid caressing waters that even now three years later come back with absolute lucidity as if I were returning to the vision at will just by writing it again. + And then the moment itself swelled beyond its proportions and burst leaving me only in awe of it, but dancing on to new lines, new tap roots burrowing intensity turned up by the alchemal union of soul and steak, god and potato, desert and breast, me and my self. The minute I became conscious of the fact that I was having a thought all sense of it was lost. I saw in this the futility of my own quest to know. I saw the source of my unhappiness that I could not live here now but only came looking and in being so overwhelmed with consciousness of myself I lost myself. Everything was laid unequivocally bare to the opulent austerity of the truth the contradiction when contradiction finally fades and all things are true and not true all at the same moment. A place indescribable, incommunicable precisely because it exists below the refinement of words. It is too raw to be said or explained it must be devoured with the intensity of an animal ripping at its prey + I felt it for what seemed like an eternity. I remember coming back to fire in dazed kind of trance like state that held me like a loved one returned from a long voyage at see. My spine trembled and doubt slowly crept in. What if this stops? I want to feel this always to live in this mindscape whole world be damned and with these thoughts so went the vision. + I awoke feeling an eternal peace settled into my chest and the words of Terence McKenna came to my mind. “If you have seen the end you take your place in the drama and you live without anxiety.” I don’t know what he meant by those words what space he went to what he felt, but they mean something to me. They mean something as if I myself had said them. I did not see an end or anything so literal as that at best I can saw that I felt everything as it really was beautiful and unbounded and I felt the release of anxiety that he attempts to approximate with words. + I made breakfast in the morning heat. The desert was waking up and it wouldn’t be long before I could have cooked the eggs right on the rocks. I drank the last beer to wash down the eggs and I asked around the campground for a ride back into Moab finally at the last sight right by the entrance I found a young couple who let me ride in the camper shell of their truck crouched between my gear and theirs, it was a long bumpy ride into Moab, but I didn’t have to suffer lectures on political duties. Instead I thought about Joe, he was expecting me at the yard around five which gave me a hour to kill in Moab. The bulk of the hour I spent trying to figure out why some people meet someone and they share there live and other meet people they share there ideas. I like to think that my life is an idea and every idea a life, but then again I have a fondness for wordplay, deceit, double entandre. delibrete acting and outright lying when it comes to talking to strangers. I just try to stay one step ahead of my brain as if I were writing myself into existence all the time. + + + +At the end of the street there was a group of surly looking Indians who were probably surly +about the fact that this is Utah and beer is 3.2 which makes it awfully hard to get drunk. I could probably have got a ride with them, it’s a common custom among the people of third world nations to help each other and the Hopi are certainly a third world nation. I toyed with the idea of trying to stay with them, but the winds blew the other way and they left before I could finish my cigarette. I decided to go back to the train. In the middle of my reverie when the reflections of my life played out I was quite moved by the portrait of Mark Pledger I decided to visit him in New Orleans. There is naturally no reason for hurry so I might as well take the slowest mode of travel. If there had been a river I would’ve strapped together some sticks and headed off. +But there was no river running that direction so I called the number Joe had given me when we parted and crossed my fingers. Sure enough I heard Joe yelling “who is it?” Before his wife even said hello. I explained myself hoping that perhaps a story had preceded me and then she handed the phone to Joe who just said “where you at?” +That how it goes with some people they take care of the important stuff first. Joe was there in ten minutes and in another ten we were at “the homestead” as Joe referred to it. It was About five miles outside of Moab near the entrance to a box canyon, a nice house that had an added onto appears such that it sprawled about with rooms attached to the sides of what had once been a simple miners shack. The bulk of it was adobe —use what’s on hand. Joe told me it was built by a prospector during the Uranium rush of the fifties the man, so went Joe’s story had come out west trying to strike it rich and was then double crossed by his partner and lost his wife, his son and eventually his own life to the greedy partner. +“You can imagine the times… everybody was hungry for uranium and cash, but the truth of the matter was that the government had all the good claims and the majority of what was left never got anymore rich. The best way to get rich in Moab back then was to swindle the newcomers. The guy that built this place was from Michigan —easy pickin’s…. Anyway some other guy meets him in the bar… the west is full of these stories, but this one ended up with everybody dead except the cheating wife and she wanted to clear out of town afterwards… it just so happened that we arrived at the right time… I bought this place for three hundred bucks and as it turns out I have claim to that whole canyon you see up there….” +He gestured to the rock walls that towered over our heads and then kicked at the gravel in the driveway. Cottonwood trees dropped behind the house and I guessed that there must have been a tributary stream running behind the place. It was beautiful spread, we stood by the truck in silence for a minute or two just staring at the tops of the cliffs watching the setting sun climb up them. Finally Joe suggested I “meet the little woman” and have some dinner. Jean was every bit the Mormon matriarch, she greeted me with a smile and hug and made me feel like one of the family, but there was an element of mischief about her something mysterious and wise that danced in the corner of her eyes. After introductions and such we sat down to big home cooked spread of ham, mashed sweet potatoes, collared greens, fresh rolls, and corn on the cob; throughout the meal the smell of cherry pie drifting in from the kitchen. The meal was spent in near silence all of us eating it should have been awkward but it wasn’t. With the food in ruins Joe pushed back his chair and lit a cigarette which I am pretty sure is against Mormon policy, but his wife said nothing. Then the stories started rolling out and Joe turned our two day trip across Arizona into an odyssey of Olympic proportions we were all laughing and then Joe shocked me by getting up and going over by the stereo where after rummaging for a while he returned with a joint and lit it up and passed it to his wife. The image of this fifty-year-old Mormon woman toking a joint as if it were ancient habit threw me out of myself and before I knew it we were all rolling in our chairs clutching out stomachs in fits of laughter. She had a high pitched rippling laughter a free honest curl to it that seemed impossible for the Mormons to have allowed. When we settled down and silence overtook us I ventured to ask what the Mormon religion thought of dope smoking. +God it seems does not care about what Mormons do with the plants he has bequeathed upon the earth, “besides,” she said, “once you understand what it is telling you, you realize that it is the right thing to do.” +I agreed with her and I am quite familiar with Marijuana and what it has to say, but as I pointed out the argument against it makes sense if your goal is to maintain the status quo. It undermines any desire for consumption or working hard to get somewhere all of which are infinitely necessary in our little American nightmare… marijuana says ‘enjoy yourself and don’t worry…. This little stoned thought struck a nerve in Jean and she launched into a political diatribe. +“That’s the trouble with all these laws they were written by people who don’t know what marijuana is saying because they have never smoked it. And I don’t mean smoked it every now and then I mean smoked it every moment of everyday to see what the world would be like if it were part of our diet….” She dragged off a cigarette and eyed me suspiciously for moment before continuing. “I’m a Mormon, this is hardly the first thing that I have believed that has been contrary to the government and I’ll tell you when I lost the church was when they said god had changed his mind on the issue of polygamy. I still believe in god and I still believe in love, but I don’t believe in governments or churches. I am listening I am aware I am in control of my life and I can make decisions for myself. Government is obsolete we no longer need someone to tell us what to do in order to assure the survival of the species, as individuals we know this, but at the collective level we are still acting out old games. Some people think its that not enough people know how to take care of themselves and that is the myth that gets perpetuated by the machinery of government. But stop for a minute and think. What does the government do for you on a daily basis that is beneficial to your quality of life? How is it helping you? Stoplights come to mind and then after that a big blank space where you try and search for something else and you think to yourself what does the government do again? Exactly. +“I’m sorry I rant when I get high, I didn’t mean to bring up taxes and the government and stupid things that don’t matter… you must think I’m a lunatic Ted Kazinyski follower or something out here in the middle of nowhere and lecturing you on the evils of government….” +“Not at all.” I assured her that I couldn’t care less about the government for the very reason she had stated. No one does when you really get down to it. The chief function of the government is to give you a topic of conversation with stranger whether in bars or subways or in a house in the middle of Utah. It’s a linguistic litmus test for the compatibility of the future. It’s a dead dog on a long car drive, it gives you something to say that does not reveal anything about you a way of rotating the air by venting words and spinning to the sound of each others voice, a verbal ballet that circled us about the room waltzing entourne. +Joe and his wife talked like giant friendly clowns billowing stories and cackling at nothing the way people do when they have been married for twenty years and are still in love. It was bit odd to watch; I couldn’t shake visions of symphonies and the jerky movement of violin bows jerking about mixed with the slower warble of cellos. There laughter sang and I was dragged into living room for a family tour… children in goofy clothes, grandchildren in baby baskets, great hordes standing in front of Niagara Falls, the Washington Monument, Delicate Arch, lakes, rivers, mountains, Joe holding up a trout, Jean at the rim of the grand canyon it all swirled and danced before my eyes. Then came the cherry pie made more delicious by chemically induced longing, sweeter, redder, and flakier… Marijuana could be an advertisers greatest tool if only we let ourselves go. And then Vavaldi, the four seasons suite tearing the walls apart, then the Ninth, then Rockmonanoff and on and on until Jean dropped off to bed and Joe and I fell into silence moved in waves by the churning hip thrusting glory of Elvis’s 1972 karate kicking, orchestra backed concert in Madison Square Gardens +“So you want to go on to Denver I take it?” +“Yes I do… from there I think I’m going to take the bus down to new Orleans and look up a friend I haven’t seen in a few years….” +“New Orleans… I’ve never been there.” +“It’s a different world… a foreign country right here in America….” +I told him a bit about it tried to cast the spell of the place in the room. There were railings around the windows and gas lamps in the corner and we both had accents by the end of it, but later when I was alone in my room staring about the ceiling with its little glow in the dark constellations, I couldn’t help but think the I really didn’t know New Orleans at all, I was only there a week, I had the merest gloss. I wanted to know the city to crawl under its insidious belly and render it swallowed, digested and crapped out my ass in great putrid heap of shit…. +I slept fitfully under the moonless starscape ceiling dreaming of a stale, smoky bar's liquor-stained floors and a headless horseman riding like Icarius out of the fiery sun-gilded gates of hell. The headless horseman swerved and bore down on the I that is you with menacing intent, jolting the dream element awake and into a sleepnonsleep trance on the isthmus of reality. The horseman dismounted and walks in to the bar. He caught us all unawares, I was bewildered and in my heavy-lidded gaze saw a man with no head standing just inside the mosquito netting that covers the tropical doorway. The bar is on the corner of dusty street in a barrio of Lima, the patrons are frozen in time nothing moves save the horseman reaching behind the counter and filling his glass with whiskey; he sat on the stool next to me and turned so he was facing me. I turned my stool toward him somewhat surprised that I could move, in light of my freedom I turned full circle surveying the statues arranged at the tables, not a breath stirs, no wind, we are in a vacuum. Turning my attention back to the headless man I stared at the empty space where his head ought to have been but wasn’t; I searched for something on him which I could address myself to ought since there is no face by which I can gain his attention… closer inspection revealed a pair of blinking eyes peering at me from where the necktie should have been. A hand slipped out from the waist and motioned for me to rise. I climbed clumsily off of my barstool and followed him out into the middle of the jungle night. The headless horseman motioned for me to sit on a fallen tree and pulled out a long stick of cinnamon, he lit it and inhaled through a buttonhole in his chest. I sat down on the log opposite him and staring eye-level at the cinnamonette and I began to appreciate the sheer size of the horseman and realized that even without his head he was beautiful. + Time passes by in jerky motions not unlike the first motion pictures uneven and without regard for continuity. Maybe moments maybe hours maybe at the same time, an old man with a sickly gray beard and a ridiculous suit is sitting where the horseman had been. One hand is out of sight down his pants and the other wags a long finger at you and he begins to jerk his cock screaming i want you i want YOU i WANT YOU! +There were opulent scenes passing by as if played on blue screens real but not. I saw great Persian empires laid out, expanding and retracting, moving across time in slow molasses-like motions. Cities where the sun stood still in the sky and monstrous creations of the mind, horrifying and seductive at the same time. Like ancient Tibetan art there was no distinction between the province of the mind and the province of the body. Women swam in south china seas of ambient warmth moving in playful erotic motions, cresting like dolphins. Creatures of all forms walked streets of near ancient origin, cobblestones and whitewashed buildings with European wrought iron balconies. Tapestries hung out from the window beckon the passersby to climb up into untold pleasures of body and mind. The scene was overwhelming and indescribable; beautiful and horrifying in a way that held horror and beauty to be ultimately different reactions to the same observed phenomena. +I woke up with unshakable thought that the only thing better than solitude is society. The other game was looking like a hot roulette wheel from the steel illusions of self-certainty. I mean of course the society of friends or even a friend…. By breakfast I was in a chatty mood and wanted to stay and talk to Jean for a while, but Joe insisted that we had to moving before noon. I thanked Jean and said goodbye to her at the railyard. I went for a quick swim in the Green River while Joe signed out for the train and went through his checklist of the computer guidance systems. The water was cool and yes green, so green I couldn’t see past my dick; I started wondering about leeches and quickly got out. Sunning myself on a rock I noticed that my belly button was itching and burning slightly, I sat up and discovered a tick burrowed into my skin, swollen fat with my blood. The parasitic little bastard was stealing my lifeblood. Try as I might I could not get him loose, I held a cigarette as close as I could stand for as long as I could stand but he refused to let go. Finally I just tore him out ripping a chunk of flesh off with him. I dug around for a while with a knife making sure that I had got the head. Damn little bastard better not have given me Lyme Disease I thought as I popped his fat blood laden belly between my fingers. The purpose of the tick is like government entirely unclear to me, but the tick did serve as a healthy reminder that I too am organic, subject to disease and vermin, something you forget when you have lived the vast majority of your life in the confines of the Lysoled suburban dreamland. +I heard the groan of the engine moving and Joe’s voice yelling over it, I threw my shirt back on and ran over to the nearest flat car and we were off. I hung back on the car alone munching some cheese and fruit that I bought at the store in Moab and consuming the better part of bottle of wine. Wine is the only alcohol legal in Utah that can actually get you drunk. +It was five in the evening by the time we got back to the big switch where we once again headed east and by then I was good and drunk. Drunk enough that walking on a moving train seemed like thoroughly stupid idea so I just lay on my back all even and stared at the sky. Somewhere in the midst of my looping jagged butterfly thoughts I hit upon a memory of having read that a thousand years ago Venus was visible with naked eye in the day time. It got me to thinking why it wasn’t now… which got me to thinking about selective attention. There is a myrid of information assaulting our sense ever moment ninety nine percent of which we do not see, that is it is not seable being that it is beyond the visual spectrum everything from radio to ultraviolet or nuclear radiation is dombarding us and we ignore it because we have never need to know about it to survive, but what I was thinking about was beyond mere survival. The human brain is the most powerful information processor in the known universe and yet it is unable to see venus and at one point it could. Indeed people in some cultures still can. It has nothing whatsoever to do with a decline in visual skills but ratherit has to do with need. Two thousand years ago your brain needed to be able to see venus and there it was clearly visible in the middle of the day. Chances are that anyone able to see Venus would not however be able to drive a car on the freeway. Such a skill requires intense amounts of complex organization of brain signals and body responses and yet we do it automatically without having to think at all. But we do no see venus in the day time. It got me to thinking about cultural brainwashing. Cultural brainwashing is theprocess by which the indivdual is integrated into his or her society and world that surounds them; it is the fancy way of explaining why you do not see venus and with the self reflexive glory of its inescapablity it is a product of my brainwashing. Only in westernized nations with notions like science and psychiatry do you find people talking about cultural brainwashing. Those people who noticed it like to think they have escaped it, that they have transcended it, but they haven’t they are indeed the most brainwashed among us. Just as you only find Zombi’s in Haiti and you only find death at end of a pointed bone Aborigonal Australia so you only find cultural brainwashing among westerners. You can not escape brainwashing without losing all context of who you as an individual are; worldwide the most common method of transcending oneself is psychoactive compounds whether it be peyote, ayahuasca, hashish, or aminita Muscarathe common element is brain alteration. Only when we are in this or other brain changing states can one escape one’s self and through that ones culture. These brain alterations are also possible with LSD. +The thing that wanted to say to Jean when she was talking about the govenent was that they know what she knows even better than most of us who feel oppresed by them. They know how useless and futile there positions are because thy have to defend them on a daily basis. Increasingly the politician and reformer is shown to be in the game only for personal gain and the common cry of the people is that everyone is corrupt, but this is not true. More and more “leaders” are greedily enhancing their own lot at the expensive of others for a very good reason… they know the end is near we no longer need them and they no it, like squirrils cacheing nuts or polar bears retaining extra fat for the winter they are storing up for the lean times ahead. They also sensed that if the general public was to get ahold of LSD or anything like it their time would come to an end a whole lot sooner so they have kept it away for now, but it will never really go away. It was not the acid dropping hippies that worried them they were never going to get far they smelled which make a bad impression on anyone in almost any culture; no what they feared were the men in suits the men from their own ranks who were touting the benefits of LSD. Men that the public at large looked up to artists, actors, psychiatists, chemists, anthropolgists, celebrites, even politicians, men like Tim Leary, Cary Grant, John Lilly, Harvey Milk; men with influence. +In every culture there is a shaman figure sometimes it’s a weird guy in the hut down the roade who talks to himself as walks about and sometimes it’s the weird guy in thirtyith floor office of a Manhattan highrise who walks around talking to himself. When the psychologists and psychiatrists got a hold of LSD the threat to the then reigning shamans, the politicians, was real and they got rid of it. There was no conspiracy that put Tim Leary in prison for a twenty five year term for possession of marijuana, it was a calculated move to shut him up and certainly he knew it. He did what any reasonable man would do, he shut up. He stopped talking about LSD and chemical methods of emacipation from the self and started talking about the one other thing that seems to work… meditation and yogaic excersizes. +It’s 1999 right now and try as I might I can’t do Yoga on a moving train. Nor do I have any LSD which means that I am fucked, trapped here in this culturally brainwashed condition and unable to see Venus. Venus —godess of Love. Makes you wonder. +The air is nipping at my arms like darning needles and faint traces of our breath is visible in the glow of the gas lantern. Jow and I ware roasting marshmellows on a coleman latern in the back of a box car. It almost works. Right now though as night finds us creeping through the mountains a warm marshmellow is exactly what we need to plug the worm holes. The worms are eating us alive, Joe and I. They’re eating you too whereever you are whenever you are. They tell you that worms invade your body afterdeath and they go to great lengths to keep them out of the coffin with formaldahyde and by draining the blood out of your body, but the worms are there already, they have been eating us up all along. They pierce like invisible bullets fired at birth across aphrodites enteral dancing forever and piercing Apollo’s languishing nowflesh rotten to the core eat up and leaking like sieves we stuff ourselves with air injected sugar balls to stop the vaporous bleeding. The marshmellows do the trick tonigh hold it all intact no leaking of vaporous lifeblood al is well. I stretch out the sleeping bag on the floor of the box car and joe heads toward the engine compartment with the lantern. I am alone in the dark, with the holes, the leaking, the LSD, the cultural brainwashing, Zombis, shamans, Tim Leary and a small spider that I named steve after a fish I had along time ago. Everything is okay. We are moving east, slowly. + + + + +6 + + + Denver is a clicking noise, a perfect symphany of flying fingers, words and shoes. The collision of bodies results in equal and opposite repultion into free form voids of their own peruvian designs, fre form abstracts of temples and vines, jungle book black cats. The mayan caper recast north of the equator. But as is started to say it was a clicking noise… It came in with wheels slowing west of the main station and it continued in the cab ride to mikes house as I sat mexmerized by the meter, and it finally collided when I opened the door to his house and I saw Dean typing on a laptop on the couch. I said Mike, I should have said Mike and Halley which is whole different sort of beast. +Mike and Halley had come about because of me, at least that was how it looked when you poked around the edges of their relationship. The official story was that Halley’s job had led them Denver, but I wasn’t buying. Mike and I went back a long time ago to a galaxy far far away. Actually it was closer to Spaceballs that Star Wars… right down to the trailer. Mike and I had both dropped out of college and being broke as hell working coffeeshops we could only afford a one-room trailer. There was never any money or food other than noodles. The one thing we had tons of though were friends, friends from high school, friends from college, friends from work, friends friends friends and they were there every fucking night like band of chimpanzees throwing there own feces about and giggling and whooping with laughter. We were all just finding drugs. We were late bloomers. I got out of that trailer atrocity by sheer force of will; well that and the luck that my parents hadn’t done anything with my own room. Mike’s parents already had a home office and they weren’t keen on getting him back. They had vaccinated themselves with furniture, a cruel reality that I only point out because it helps explain Mike. Mike was forced by circumstance to escape via Halley, love was only one side of the coin, the side that Halley saw, but in Denver I saw something colder, something more reptile-olike creeping behind his eyes —necessity. Love and necessity colliding with all the fanfare of a plane wreck. + Denver was a crash landing, a bust in grandest old western sense of the word. I remember three things rising up out of the rollicking sautéed cacophony; they float in my recollection like enormous turds. There was the windowless tomb of stone blocks that constituted a house inhabited by five people in two bedrooms in which Dean developed a Heroin habit, Betty drowned in despair and Mike and Halley fought great crusades for the dominance of their sexes. The cinderblock walls sustained all their momentum for seven months. Mike and Halley fell out of love, Dean fell in, Betty climbed over love, and I watched totally unable to act; I was paralyzed and could do nothing for myself or them. It was bliss while it lasted. I watched Dean until he faded into love and heroin becoming too thin to see, then I watched Mike and Halley dissolve into Mike, and Halley, and then finally out of self-pity Dean inadvertently propelled Betty and I out with him on an arcing trajectory that landed me in New Orleans, Betty back in Las Vegas, and Dean in Washington D.C. Throughout it all the television reigned. Betty and I were stationed like zombis before the master god of all creation and its blue aura. Dean was one with the place; he existed by the skin of his teeth, I have little or no recognition of him while we were there, he was either shooting up or talking to Amanda on the internet or both. Otherwise he did not really exist. Dean did that from time to time, became invisible and disappeared only to resurface again at the oddest moment possible. Most of all what sticks out was the sound of it all. The mad clicking that brought me into Denver was always in background like the sound of time itself walking about in the rooms, banging pots, cooking rice in the kitchen, arguing with itself in the bathroom, throwing shoes at Mike as he runs out of the bedroom. +Dean is typing, it’s a furious noise, he is pounding the keys nodding his head to the sounds from his headphones. He has drowned out his own fingers, doesn’t realize the force with which he is pounding the keys, mad telegraphs spitting out like lizard tongues firing themselves out into electrostatic love notes wired and flung off to Maryland where another pair of fingers responds…. the thing itself it flying back and forth maddening! + And the outside world is no better, what filters in on the TV is reflected back all around us, cold insensitive innocuous suburban delight… detachment. We lived in a decidedly residential area of Denver, a cityvoid that occurs in every big American city where an arbitrary line is drawn around some houses, a couple of suburban strip-mall shopping-centers, and gas stations and it is given a purposefully pedestrian name like Irvine or Turtle Rock… the streets of Douglas Copeland's nightmares. The perpetual warm blue glow of television sets emanated from the windows of vinyl sided endura-homes —guaranteed to last a lifetime or your money back! The television a great luminous third eye watching the affair with the indifference of god. Walking around in the evenings I felt the pride of it’s inventor. Every house was glowing quiet blue light the streets bathed in its iridescence, cobalt streets, sapphire lawns, purple skies, everything lit from within blue, blue noise humming softly… in the background blue people wandered, silhouettes dancing in front of kitchen windows and shadows lurking in open garages. The blue is grating irritating, gets under your skin like the flesh eating virus boils spring up and burst revealing slick blue oil and puss. They slide under the arm; you can see them moving just below the skin. But in background faint at first but growing in decibels is the maddening chant of the newsman and the Maytag man and all the talking heads disembodied and floating in the sky singing choruses. It’s all in timing! The process must be subtle and slow, but steady until the critical mass is reached then summon them like zombies to their own deaths in the gamma ovens… the mad scientist paces about suburban streets in a kind of furious strut. Every thing is planned; everything reflects precision. + Around the cave we lived in even the trees were well manicured as if the force the random act of god even into simplistic conformity, but not with menacing intent… only so that it will match the lawn and the wife’s nails all neatly polished like jewels. I used to work in a town like this, for a couple of days anyway, just long enough to collect such gems as the story of the woman who abandoned her dog on the beach one day because its spots clashed with her new interior design ideas. Or the man who smothered his baby because his wife was paying more attention to the child then his dick. Precious people we all aspire to be and yet you and I somehow we will be different isn’t that right? Somehow it will not get to us, all these trapping we can see through it now and we will see through it then; it never occurred to the monsters either that you don’t have eyes in the back if your head. +You and I though, we can’t afford to do that we must work real hard and get where the rich people are. Funny logic. Fuzzy math. Keep it I’m outta here me the old man said sitting on his rocker, a Kansas porch, hot summer day, cats, an orgone box, a southerner, and glass of clear liquid refilled constantly. Keep it, I’m outta here me. So long. And there is a witch stirring her cauldron; stir in a few European brains, some Irish brawns, a twinkle of pigs’ feet to sniff out the hidden truffles and simmer for two hundred years until the whole cesspool turns into a soufflé. +Outside is America. The sound is deafening. It comes in waves of music, horns, engines, electricity, spinning warbles of neon light echoing asphalt dreams of sanity. Vibrations given off by the turn of espresso handles, the pull of yogurt machines, the spinning of laundry mats, the chopping of the Chinese cook’s knife atop the trash can, chunks of chicken fat and bone accumulating on the floor; all of it whirls in a hurricane melee reverberating about through the dry air of the plains. Crisp air that offers no resistance to the pealing clamor, it just carries it about silent as a tomb offering no comment on the meaning of it all. Standing air listens like a woman in orgasm to the totality of nothingness like wood hewn by sandpaper until smooth contrasted against the sanding sound of ocean waves, rivers feed by rain, driftwood and manicured wood lying side by side. And running your hand over each to notice the artificial feel of the polished hard wood and the prickling organic sensuality of the rough hewn driftwood tossed like a cork, a bottle, a note, all of them riding over seas of imagination and somehow in the landlocked spirit of place Denver sounds like cancer. The insidious beat of death. Tribal drums still heralding the rising moon, wood blocks clanging about in alleys, homeless people rattling shopping carts up one street and down another the mad mad mad sound of science. +Sound I am told by Dean is nothing more than pressure waves being interpreted by my ears. “Horseshit” I mutter and then there is Mike ducking and the sound of Halley yelling, her voice wailing in anguish over something he had done, but we don’t know what it is we don’t know if it is that bad or if she is insane. Betty and I serve the madness in silence, in the background Chandler is broken up over Joey moving out and that mousy guy that’s always ‘the other guy’ in movies is moving in, homoerotic jokes are sticking to vellum walls like flies. + The shoe hits the wall above the couch and tumbles down between Betty and I, she looks at it, I look at it, we look at each other, we look at Mike (he is crying), and we look at the television it is moving on trying to sell me deodorant. On the table is a bong. Betty rouses herself and packs a bowl. Halley is crying and Mike is holding her, but she is pulling away from him. I can’t help finding her sexy, her legs are vulnerable, succulent, but I think of last night when I accidentally walked in on them having sex. The only bathroom has a doorway through the closet that opens into their bedroom, and as I was digging around for a condom I looked in the mirror and saw Mike’s bare ass bouncing enthusiastically off the bed, presumably pounding his cock into her. It made me laugh. Laughter followed by waves of nausea born on seas of alcohol and girl named Jen and then Mike’s ass bouncing furiously… wham!, right into the toilet, into the floor, into walls, the roof the place reeked of laughter, mine, Deans, Betty’s, the studio audience, the children of war celebrating peace. And now I can’t laugh anymore, but Halley is still looking good, her ass is stretched tight in the mirror behind her, it murmurs sex in spite of the shrill of her voice and the sobs that wrack her body; they feel like they are sucking all the air right out of the room. I look at Betty to make sure she has not imploded, but it is too late she is hacking and coughing smoke, a bit of spit flies out of her mouth and she tries to stop it, to regain some composure it all makes me laugh which earns me the finger. I take a big lazy hit. + Halley’s sobs quiet to weeping; she is one with the floor now, her head grazing stupidly against Mike’s knees, he is standing indifferently, they look like the cover of European vacation, a horrible twisted picture of Chevy Chase as a superhero with his family at his feet and Mike looks every bit as ridiculous as Chevy Chase. He has a defiance to his posture that looks wholly artificial and it occurs to me that he ought to be the one on the ground, he ought to be begging, not to Halley, but begging god to give him his humility back. +Peace talks continued in Kosovo today with both parties saying that progress was made, but meanwhile fighting continues in the country side where sporadic violence and sharp shooting snipers continue to take there toll on the moral and hope of the people who live here…. +And then there is silence, an editing fuck up at the news station, the television is silent, and Halley is not weeping and I hear the air rushing out of my lungs with a asthmatic hiss as I exhale the bonghit. Mike is breathing hard, Betty is holding her breath and suddenly from the other room the tapping stops and a drunken, stoned Dean comes walking through the kitchen. He stops in the frame of the doorway slightly hunched, holding a beer and squinting his eyes…. “What?” +Little phantoms of the house, strange shadows that lurk in the corners without regard for the science of light… they moved in dreary circles, little red blocks all stacked in the living room and the angels sing… how many would die for you?/I’m not talkin’ ‘bout those that get high with you… Over and over scenes of confusion, jumbled words, jumbled phrases, Deans finger flying and the little green men in the shadows that have no regard for the science of light and they sing…. Did you lock into a pattern you couldn't see through? You can no longer trust the metaphor because you saw it coming in focus and you realized it's something from your childhood —endless tapes loping across eons. And you see the game for what it was —something cold-blooded, reptile, slinking across the room. You know the menu is not the meal and you have your metaphors and language bounded in all its unique epochal glory and you see through the epochs, but you can't shake the fear. You know that change is inevitable; you know what you want, you say what you want, and you build the metaphor until it casts its shadow into time. You think you know the end of it and still your sitting on the curb, hungry, apathetic, waiting for the sewer water to splash and wake from the nightmare of history. You're thinking this isn't me, this can't be me. +There is peace in between the news of Kosovo and Halley’s mournful sobs and Betty sucking down another hit of pot and Dean returning from the bathroom pausing again like a half cocked gun squinting, observing and leaving again. The sound of finger tapping reaches us before he is seated, but now the cartoon man wants me to buy his paper towels and you are wondering… what is it that we are wondering? +Everyone walks with unshakable self confidence, but not slow enough to remember that they are walking and when they laugh they pretend to be unafraid. This isn't you. This isn’t me. + + + Its two nights later, the war is over, peace reigns, rich people’s financial interests are secured, Friends’ reruns have come and gone with dinner and Halley is cuddled up on Mike’s lap. She is serene and beautiful tonight because she fucked Dean in bathroom at her work this afternoon. For once there is no typing, the television is on still… commercials. The sound of typing is still hanging in the air translated by the TV as if the noise itself was a force that could pick and choose its manifestation. Mike is happy because he thinks that he is the one making Halley happy and he goes right back for more like one of those rats pulling the lever to get its dosage of nicotine in the studies that Philip Morris wakes up sweating to in the middle of the night. And Halley is making out with Mike now; Mike is not wearing any pants. Halley seems intent on fucking Mike right there in the chair in front of us. I think what would happen if I lobbed the hand grenade into the silence… so Halley how was Dean this afternoon? I hear you fucked him on the sink counter of women’s restroom… that didn’t even work for Tom Cruise in Top Gun at that club… what did Dean do to get you to do that…? I just ask so I can get some pointers you know…? + But I don’t. Obviously. If I had a gun I might have. Dean would have forgiven me in a few weeks, Halley I could do without and Mike already lived with the fantasized notion that Halley fucked everyone when his back was turned. Hell he probably thought I was fucking her, and I probably would have if I thought Halley would have if any of it. If we had any sense at all we would have probably all just fucked each other like blow up toys, like the lecherous little weasels we were, but we didn’t Dean, Betty and I just watched while they dry fucked in the chair, but when Mikes little half-chubbed alcohol-soaked wiener rose up like a miniaturized Cobra from under Halley's mini skirt I had had enough. Dean and I started laughing and Mike reached down and tried to tuck it back under but the thing had a mind of its own and before I knew what I was doing I turned the video camera one and aimed it at them. Dean, Betty and I sneaked out while they went out of it. I left the camera running. + In the bar the talking head from CNN is telling us how the people are safe and the world is somehow better and nothing has changed here because the fingers are the thing that hold it all together and they keep at it every night. And I think of the governors and tyrants of the world celebrating just like they did when the war started I imagine and the man behind the counter wants to know what I want and the girl in the booth wants to know why I haven’t noticed her yet and everything is just wonderful. Being around Mike has us all spinning loops and watching our backs until we find ourselves at the end of night all twisted up and tangled in the ephemeral confusion of nothingness trying to stand on the legs of somethingness. It all swirls together with the past, with Mexico City with San Francisco and Ed’s loft and the bathroom floor, the cabby squealing about fried chicken, the woman on the arch is mixing with Voodoo, gringos and the Quantum Uncertainty principle. Oh you mean this can really happen? Or am I just thinking that it’s happening? Or is it happening because I think its happening? Or am I thinking that it is really happening and I'm just dreaming? Am I going to wake up one day and not remember this dream? Fuzzy logic dogs chasing each other around on a 1987 street in a Mexico City neighborhood. And the Spanish soldier selling chiclettes say no good no bueno, pictures worth not even half a thousand words. Wouldn't give you ten words, worthless gringo words don’t mean shit. no good no bueno, not worth the blood their written in. The blood of all peoples not yours, not your shoes, by god keep your slave labor camps a closed-mouthed secret. Gotta keep that in house must remain forever sealed in baby pissshitguts. No that's not true. No comment. No need for comment, the preceding has been since proved to be untrue, cut to shots of smart bombs. Couldn’t get fifty words for those now gringo -over exposure- nobody buying. Same old stinking shit. No Good. No Bueno. Gringo go home in thousand languages in a million words, why don’t you crawl back in your cave get your tail so far between your legs it goes half way up your ass? Lead me to the holy spigot and we’ll show you the bidet of death, constructed by gringos, for gringos, to flush out gringos, to show them all what you do behind closed doors. Can’t close them all —we have our technicians as well and they’re getting to be better than yours. We got the money rolling in —even offered you the picture words but you don’t want them. No Good. Can’t use those, too strong. No fair, crying boy heads home for cave to lick his dirty balls clean. + The girl in booth has her arm over my shoulder she is stroking my hair but the little street urchin with the chiclettes is at the table; he can’t be shut up, hawking wares for death, little powders potions and peppers hanging from his arms, but the CNNhead says all is well, justice is served. The television is close curcuit captioned for the hearing impaired, the little boy is adament no captions only pictures for the blind. Rustling of paper behind boardroom walls sends him into fits…. I gotta picture for you I on vacation in your country go to hear senator’s speak but all door are closed, all sealed. So i gotta fiber optic and feed it in from the roof show all senators mad with sexual lust and blood thirsty, clamoring for war and stealing souls and bodies and driving them off wherever they see fit…. The CNNhead is protesting this outburst… get off of my lllaaaawwwwnnnnn!!! But the boy will not be silenced there are thousands of them now a chorus of little brown boys singing, chanting like Benetine Monks…All that you consider to be a accident was carefully orchestrated for your benefit by a benevolent cocksucking god from the twenty-third dimension to just plain old irritate the fuck out of you like a bad rectal itch. Stupid gringo got no cure for the ass itch i show you some pictures, yes very dirty, little girls you like? But the girl in the booth has a name, a face we will not hurt her, she will be the last innocent and my tongue slides in her mouth, hand up her skirt she is wet the last innocent. Her breath is short it comes in rasps I hear it against my ear. The boys are chanting to the beat of drums… I got pictures for you gringo… pictures you hear? Her breath. The commander in chief of the NATO forces in Europe is fucking small refugee boy in the ass, the boy cries for his mother the general is laughing, your mother’s down the hall boy, she’s busy with the president of France right now. But maybe later you’d like to lick his come off her dead face… Ban those words tear them right out snip snip. Can’t say that, its disgusting. War is a snuff film for the rich. The CNNhead is confering, the girl is breathing the boys are chanting. “We gotta step up the bombing chief the public’s losing innarest in us” screams the chief of staff running in circles jerking off and slapping his ass until it turns a bright purple and with all seriousness General Jesse Helms pauses to reflect: I remember a time when life was good no one got in our way, why in Europe under Patton i musta raped twenty thirty little boys and a handful of nuns too. He smiles lost in memory...but God hath given us these trying times.... Yes it is bit hard to get cunt these days isn’t it, mumbles the chief of state as he strokes his wife’s cock....Yes dear start a war, get me some cute refugee boys, i so love snapping their necks when I'm coming, she growls affectionately. That's it gentlemen were going to war! The president stands and ejaculates on a map of the world KOSOVO it is he says as his thick oatmeal consistency sperm all but covers the former republic of Yugoslavia. + You like? You like, no? Too bad. You can’t have those words, too strong. I get power, you give me power, I steal power from you, to expensive to buy it. I get power and you get pictures and maybe I tell you how to cure rectal itch? Eh? Eh? Eh? She comes and lights a cigarette. The man behind the counter turns off the TV and we leave. Her name was Maya. + +By the time we got back the camera was on its side, the tripod was broken and they were screaming at each other + “Fucking slut….” + “You’re an asshole…!” + “Fuck you! I love you!” + “You don’t know what love is! You’re a little child!” + “You’re cold bitch! Don’t you have any feeling in that dried hard little cuntheart of yours!?” + “Do not call me a cunt! + “I didn’t call you a cunt! I said you have a fucking hard little fucking CUNTHEART!!!! + “Fuck you! You wouldn’t know what to do with cunt anyway!” +At that point a little air shot out of my chest involuntarily, I knew what was coming. There was the sound of skin, a sickly slapping, stinging horribly thin kind of sound, the unmistakable sound of hatred and self doubt bring itself into realtime like an airborne virus. Then silence. Dean and I sit passing joint on Betty’s bed, listening through the wall. + “I’m sorry……… I didn’t mean to hit you!” + “Then how the fuck did you HIT ME! How can you not mean to hit someone? There is no such thing as ACCIDENTALLY hitting someone, that doesn’t happen… nooneaccidentally hits anyone…youmeant to hitme…(sobs)… you FUCKING PRICK! (Sounds of crashing, light bulbs pop and the light streaming under the door disappears)” + “Oh that’s FUCKING great! You stupid bitch!” (Now there is a dull thud followed by a low moan and Dean and I look at each other. We are too fucked up for this….) + By the time we turn on the kitchen light they are wrestling at the door and before we can get across the room Mike throws Halley out the front door wearing only a thin nightgown. Its February in Denver, Colorado and they are in hysterics. Tears are streaming down Mike’s face and whether they are from the marijuana, the alcohol, the pain and anguish of heartbreak or the red welt atop his forehead it is still February in Denver and he is still in hysterics and he stands there trying to manage a thin strained smile as he collapses against the door. Dean and I are frozen. + “She fuck some guy.” + I try not to move or show any signs. + “The BITCH FUCKED SOME OTHER GUY!” he yells at the door but there is no answer. “You hear me you dumb bitch! I hope you fucking freeze to death. I hope his cock keeps you warm out there! I hope you know where he lives! I hope you get there before you lose any fingers or toes… you FUCKING CUNT! Jesus Christ….” He is weeping on the floor with his hands over his face I try to move him and he punches wildly but accurately hitting me in the jaw. Out of anger I kick him and he makes no protest. I shove him aside and go out to look for Halley. She didn’t go far. She is sitting on the neighbor’s couch the neighbors are up wearing bathrobes, rubbing her back and rocking her on the couch. She is shaking like a leaf. + “What’s wrong with him Sil? Why is he doing this? I am good to him aren’t I? I shouldn’t be putting up with this, this is bullshit, I can’t keep doing this…. (head in her hands) What the fuck is wrong with him? What wrong with you, with all of you? (Tears are running down her face) There is this thing in you that can’t let go, can’t admit that you’re wrong… all of you, your so damn sure that your little feelings and your little emotions have to be so goddamn right that you think you can just pull them down like shades over the whole fucking world! (yelling up at me, wild eyes) Every emotion, every thought, every fucking little thing can be broken down and analyzed and dismissed with some cynical diatribe that you think is so witty and fucking funny… goddamn all of you. (lunging towards me and hitting my chest, near screaming hysterics) You make me sick… I make me sick for letting myself be involved with him…. (collapsing onto me) I outta fucking be able to do better than this if this is love… this… this… fucking little hyper universe that you guys live in.... (pulling her self up and off of me) This is not love… I don’t always know what I am doing… I don’t always know what I am feeling OKAY! FUCK! (arms raised in exasperation) Don’t you ever, doesn’t he ever, just have moment of absolute confusion where he wants to do something completely irrational not out of love even just because its there and it can be done and.... and fuck… I don’t know why I fucked him…….(staring at the ground, pacing) It had just been so long since there was any passion you know, Mike and I are an old couple this shit happens, it doesn’t mean anything, right? …and I know Mike has fucked around, I know he fucked around in Europe, but he won’t admit it that’s the thing that makes me so fucking mad is he won’t admit it… and why? Why? Because if he admitted that then he’d have to face up to the fact that I am as weak as he is… whereas now he can call me a slut and make himself out to be better, that’s all I am to him this thing against which he can measure himself, this thing… this superwoman which I am supposed to be to him… this …fuck! (arms up exasperated) Do you know what this is doing to me? I am losing my mind… I’m not going to go nuts over him… I knew I should have run away right after we made love for the first time… I should have just run, because now I’m here and he’s throwing me out the door in my fucking night gown… in my FUCKING NIGHTGOWN!!!” +And then she collapsed or rather doubled over in sobs. I turned around and went back to see if Mike had calmed down. He and Dean were smoking a cigarette on the couch. Betty was in the chair dispensing wisdom that sounded like it would have solved all his problems, but Mike is a man and men can’t hear a word that women are saying, just like women can’t hear a word that men are saying and whole so-called battle of the sexes could be stopped just like Capt. Cook didn’t have to die on that island if only we had a goddamn interpreter that could translate the two languages and solve the riddle. Translate the emotion and feeling into the logic and predictable precision and then back out into the chaotic no-man’s-land of feeling again. Some guru, some pygmy, some monk, some alien that can add it all up and give us some kind of answer, that’s all we really want. +And the newscaster is talking about chemical warfare and he says that chemicals are weapons of mass destruction, but they are not, they are very selective and Mike turns the channel and there is a leopard or an ocelot tearing away the flesh of wildebeest and then the image changes to an ad for a moisturizing soap that will make us all look ten years younger and there is girl who looks ten years younger and her head is moving her lips are moving, but her voice is hollow and detached she comes out the side of the television and echoes falsely about the room and then I turn off the TV. And Mike starts in. + “Fuck man what am doing? (tugs at his hair with one hand and rolls the phone absently in the other hand, the whole movement seems false.) What did you do? Did you do this? I mean with Leah, she was you first love… and now look at you… you’re fine, you haven’t talked to her in years… what did you do? How did you fill this hole that I feel growing in me…. (looking at me pleading for some answer) Do you just harden yourself?… she thinks I’m hardened because I pushed her out the door, but that wasn’t the hard part of me that was the raw nerve endings of pain that was me trying to find love….or fight love… (looking for the answer as if it might be on the ceiling) that was my love that pushed her out the door… the cold hard part of me is the part that will go over there in a couple of hours and talk to her… (reflective self-analyzed pose of mock security) the hard part of me is the part that will make love to her while the love in me fades, gets up and leaves the room…. The horrible thing about losing love isn’t that it makes you hard it’s that you realize or you start to realize that love can be lost…. (serene face of philosopher dispensing wisdom) That’s what is tearing me up right now, the reality I am beginning to see is that there is no sacredness to love like they want you to believe… whoever they are…. (momentarily side tracked by a novel thought) But that’s not the point… the point is that once you realize that love can be lost, once you know that this can happen… its doomed to happen again…. You will never again be able to look at someone and to see a relationship that doesn’t end… I know now that for every beginning there is an ending already written…. (with disgust) Like that goddamn book you think you’re writing… the end’s already there isn’t it? I bet that was the first thing that you thought of… (sobbing, despair again) Oh god! How the fuck do you get out of this… how do you find hope again… and even if you do what do you do when it is dashed? How many times can you do this? Is there a limitation to the number of times you can have your heart broken…? (serene face of philosopher dispensing wisdom) Is it like one of those Lithium batteries where it never recharges all the way again and its starts looping back until there is nothing and then right when you think you have it… oh I underst…WHAM! And then it’s gone, you’re gone, the thing is gone… (silence in which feeling flashes across his face like a forgotten memory) Jesus what is she doing over there does she really hate me? She really hates me now doesn’t she? Fuck and the horrible thing is that somewhere deep down I wanted her to fuck that guy whoever he is… it doesn’t matter… god I want a whole gang of giant cocked black guys to gang fuck her through eternity if that’s what it takes, but I want to feel something… I’m not feeling anything anymore, the only time I feel anything is when I hurt her… then I feel hate. I mean I feel her hating me, but when she’s not hating me I don’t feel anything… I don’t feel loved…” +And he broke down into pure honest crying. Dean and I looked at each other and then at the VCR clock, it was ten till two and we both had the same thought. Run. + + + + + +Months rolled by and I have dim images of fall colors and an unsettling chill to the air. The mountains colored like firestorms and then the snow, lots of it, too cold to go outside. I took a job at a paper writing the horoscopes and occasionally I broke down and delivered pizza with Dean. Halley and Mike were at each other all the time. The television no longer mentioned Kosovo and there was a new game show sweeping the nation where you answered a series of stupid questions and got a million bucks. It was in the same vein as the Idiots Guide series… the steady decline of intelligence perfectly laid out like military campaign. Can’t figure out how to tie your shoes? Get the Idiot’s Guide to tying you shoes. I was waiting for the only useful title… the Idiots Guide to suicide… I wrote a letter to the publisher, but got no reply. And there was Regis Philman presiding over the burning hills and the freezing snow gleefully like a weatherman issuing a hurricane warning he smiled over it all. Great floating teeth that hung in the nightmares of f. Scott Fitzgerald’s. Signs of the apocalypse. This is hardly the first collective suicide. It's all part of history, the endless tumults, hills and glades and all the while we look at the crimson leaves and think that fall is in the air. But the spacemen never showed and the Nikes and the black suits with spaghetti ties were all in vain because the CD is skipping and we’re all stuck on endless repeat. +The fingers kept flying and the months fell away with them. I hear them from a distance now like the sound of an approaching marching band or a clock that hasn’t chimed yet. Sometimes I would wake up at dawn and hear the fingers. Marching marching marching. Dean as a tireless soldier of seduction…. Mike on the other hand remained a tireless soldier of reductionist emotional rationalism, which is what we named his peculiar nit-picked version of life. His idea of a worldview was crumbs, the confetti after the parade has passed. Christ all the way. Quick get us a tree, somebody make two boards… hurry before he loses the courage and does it himself. Christ was on a suicide trip, that much we know now he’d have gone with or without the Romans… how else do you end a story like that? +By March it was getting so bad that Dean and I used to just sit and smoke and listen to them for entertainment —familiarity breeds contempt.... We tuned them in and out of our own conversation the way television comes and goes. Betty would pass out on the bed and we would sit with out backs to the wall and just listen for hours. We had running bets on who would go insane first Mike or Halley? As time when on we both switched our bets to lie on ourselves. One morning we had to leave at nine because they were throwing things and we just wanted to sleep, but it’s hard to sleep in the midst of reckless friendly fire. I remember that morning because I was awoken from a nap by a lamp hitting my head. The couch was no longer safe. I kicked Dean and we darted out. We tried sleeping in his car but it was a no go so we wound up getting coffee and after that we went for a drive to get a feel for Denver. We wound up downtown since we just kind of aimed for tallest buildings or at least that’s how it seemed but Dean might have know what he was doing… I wouldn’t put it past him to have been buying down there for sometime, but I ignored his heroin use. If you ignore something long enough eventually it just goes away. +It is finally warm enough to take off the jackets. We sit on the steps of an old warehouse loading bay and listen to drone of afternoon. Listen for the returning Spring, which creeps in like a virgin newlywed glimpsing her first erect penis. And the thing is jerking with anticipation and the virgin is meek, but something is stirring some hunger that can never be satisfied starts to gnaw at the hidden parts of her mind, of her stomach, of her cunt. Spring is coming amid the fantastical ruins of downtown Denver, anywhere. It’s a disquieting sight, a testament to the durability if not of buildings than the certainty of mankind that he out always to have more of them. The macabre feeling of mobile decay struck me as we drove out of the sparkling sterile business hub of the new downtown where cars run with silent hums, exhausts hits the air clean without additives, fat free business men and women scurry, rat feet scrapping the ceiling at night and the cars are bigger, they sound like squirrels scampering up trees. Push cart coffee salesmen in sharp uniforms chat with professional desk sitters over bagels and reduced fat cream cheese and the heart attack penthouse office fat men in suits collect like windblown lead trash in front of the roach coach. We can see them, hear them, smell them from down here, two blocks south where all is not well. Brick steps pad silent under our feet and crumbled bits of mortar from the buildings settles with the rustling of the air, little whirlpools, miniature tornadoes that circle the vast open parking lot that once was a truck loading zone. Everything is in various states of disarray, here and there a tree sprouting out a window. A chiming laughter of the gods whose frail leaves still quake like the virgin. You may build with your precious creations of pressed gravel, but we, we are here always perpetuating a grand cycle of which you are only an upstart movement an attempt to catalogue, and what did you get for it? You get fantastic ruins, testaments to your own malleability, silly creatures struggling to leave a mark in competition against the eons of geology and botany. Water stained brick has a romance that the Nouevvo downtown can not match it has a weathered face to it that is gained only with the infinite passing of time like an old man with wrinkled wizened face sitting in a rocking chair on the porch of roadside store in Louisiana. Even material so simple as brick will outlast you and I, our own permanence is in the stories we create, whether living them out, dreaming them aloud, or writing them down, we beat nature on one account, we can record the past and bring it into the future even if it never actually happened. Sheet metal roofing that collapsed inward to the lofts that it sheltered is now stick out at awkward angles through broken industrial windows and a giant piece hangs precariously over a second story doorway, threatening to give up and fall clanging down the stairs to the ground where Dean and I are sitting. We walked about in the industrial ruin taking a few pictures and sipping on now cold coffee. I was wandering about in the ruins the way tourists of room head out to Pompeii with a sense that here is a monument to times past. Times I never knew, times that remain locked in my own phantasmal imagination where errand boys skipped about street delivering messages from the factory to the office uptown. Merchants pushing carts sold pomegranates, oranges, and onions to welfare mothers in the great depression. The launch pad for a thousand tragedies —it could be Denver or anywhere. + Ed lives in a part of LA that looks remarkably similar to this, an unholy contract between artist renovated lofts and slowly dying industrial shipping companies, metal recycling facilities, and giant distribution warehouses. All things move in circles and so after the first settlements leave in come the companies bulldozing blocks of shabby tenement buildings to put up cement factories, iron workings, and canning plants. The residents retreat in the face of endless employment the deep consciousness of the working man knows to keep ahead of drudgery, but then the factories run out and the economy shifts to some new fresh means of creation. The buildings are abandoned in favor of new warehouses outside of town; the industrial complex collapses and leaves a twenty-year void with its passing. Twenty years give or take of rotting fermenting nature slowly eking its way back onto the scene until the streets relinquish themselves to the ceaseless torrents of rain and snow in the winter and the broiling summer heat until they are broken like spirited horses that once walked over them, they begin to crack and then patches of grass come up out of the soil beneath, followed by weeds and shrubs. Nature is heliotropic, always moving up toward the sun, whereas man is constantly being knocked back to the substrata of his origins the crumbling of the old to give rise to the new. The new screams, the new anguish the new drama the newborn slapped on the ass by the god of it all. + + “What do you want from me? I fucking try so hard to love you… even when you throw me out the door, and you throw me out the door, but then you want me back and then you tell me to go again.... WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT? + “I want you… I want… I don’t fucking know what I want why are you always harping on what I want why can’t we just live and exist and be… like Sil and Dean and Betty and every other fucking person on this planet… why can’t we just be happy? Why do we have to have these issues… why do we have to have these things to work on? What are these things what the fuck is going on around here? When did this start?” + “What do you mean? What are you talk” + WHAT DO MEAN ‘WHAT DO I MEAN? You know what I mean, this all of this… look at us…” + “Why are you bringing Dean and Sill into this? Why do you have to live up to some manly ideal that you think they embody? (Dean cracked an eyebrow at me) I got new for you they don’t embody shit! The two of them would be living in goddamn dumpster if we weren’t putting them up!” + “Why does this have to be about my friends? Why is it a problem I asked you if it was alright for them to crash here and now you say its not?” + “It has nothing to do with them…. Its you that I’m talking about. You say we used to be happy we used to not be like this… we used to ‘just live’ as you put it. Well do the fucking math Michael when did this start? When they showed up! And I’m not blaming anything on them, I like them both and Betty too, fuck I like them more than I like you sometimes, but its you. Its what showed up in you that wasn’t here before, this fucking over analyzation shit that you didn’t use to have…” + Police said the suspect was dressed in business suit and may be armed do you have time to cook a meal every night in the midst of balancing… So this guy comes up to me… guaranteed to last a lifetime… + “What the fuck are you talking about?” + “This indecision this fucking shit” + “My indecision? (Derisive laughter) My fucking indecision? And who pray tell FUCKED SOMEBODY else! Who is indecisive? It’s not me I know exactly what I want… I want to be with you, but you won’t let me just be… you question my every fucking move, want to know my every thought, every feeling, don’t you ever not have a feeling? Isn’t it ever just a blank page of white with little blue lines… little fucking blue lines and not word not a fucking thought in sight… do you ever get that… or is it just constant fucking emotional fucking input from the far reaches of the earth and heavens all pouring though your precision little hear that occasionally seems to feel that it need some other guys DICK!” +“Yes Michael we all fucking go a bit nuts every now and then I am as clueless as you are and someone in the midst of this insanity I think that I see and feel and what I see and feel is you, but you won’t let me in you won’t let yourself be hurt and I can’t figure out if its because your scared or because you just don’t fucking care about me like I’m just some sort of ornamental drama that you have been pursuing over the last two fucking years because it happened to interest you and now, now that some bigger fucking part of the drama that you think you are… now that its here I just get shoved to the side cast off like so much luggage…. Fuck me! Fuck you! I don’t know if I was some whim, some thing you wanted to try on in the dressing room and then when you thought it was out of style you can just hang it back up on the rack. No id don’t know anything about anything and neither do you but that doesn’t mean anything, none of it means anything….” + “No that not what you mean, everything means something, it may not make any difference, but goddamn it all means something, who you fuck who you eat dinner with what time you get up, what kind of fucking bombs they drop on everyone, the jails, the murders, it all fucking means something, all of this, everything that is happening it all means something. Maybe none of it matters but it all means something goddamn it! (There is silence in which we here Mike heaving for air and then) “I just don’t know what it is, I just need some time to figure out what the hell I am what I am doing, what this life is, were all fucking try to figure it out… I don’t fucking know what I want okay, I can’t give you some fucking pat little answer that’s going to explain exactly how I feel. Some days I want to be with you and some days you drive me up the fucking walls….” + Researchers have concluded that including a glass of wine with your regular meal may actually increase your life span… but Jim we can’t just leave them here… We’re tiny were toony we’re all a little loony… the initial results indicate HIV… we will be appealing your case… Mr. president the girl from Arkansas is on line to… did you or did you not engage...?… the white house denies… tide gets your colors looking bright… guaranteed to last a life time… I like to buy a vowel… what is the Serengeti?… that is my final answer… +“Oh great! Fucking great now I drive you up the walls!” + “Why the fuck do focus in on the negative, see that’s what I’m talking about I say that some days I want to be with you and some days I don’t and what do we have to get into the days I don’t this must be explained, there is a reason for this, this is what needs to be fixed…. Has it ever occurred to you that I must just want to be alone some days, has it ever occurred to you that I can love you without liking you every now and then? + “You are sick fucking man Michael, I am going to Ally’s to spent the night. I can’t sleep next to you, ugh I can’t be near you…” + And the door slammed. +Betty sleeps, Social Distortion plays in the background and Mike is a flood of meaningless gibberish goes internal and bounces endlessly about in the echo chamber…. Michael was cold calculated psychology distilled out of textbooks through all the vital organs of his body until it fills up his soul with formaldehyde and preserves him eternally, preventing any growth; everything is preserved like jams for the future. He collapsed on to the couch with shrug and I see him standing in on the bridge from now to forever and trying to figure out why he can’t get to tomorrow. He needs to have the bridge blown out from under him, otherwise there will be no growth, just canned life, evaporated stale milk. He is a root bound tree in desperate need of transplanting. He is a leech, it seems so unreal to me that I might have once lived with him, liked him even as a friend. Michael’s insidiousness extends far deeper now than it did back then or at least back then it was never played out in front of me so I didn’t notice it as much, but now I see it overflowing like a boiling kettle. He has lost all traces of humor and runs about madly chasing after this invisible spirit that he thinks will somehow enlighten him, give his life the meaning, the purpose, the joy that it lacks. I remember once years ago an incident that now seems more revealing then it did at the time. I got up and went to take a leak around noon. There was a woman I didn’t know sitting on the toilet chewing on her fingernails, her head bent down and emitting peculiar sniffling sounds; I couldn’t tell if she was laughing or crying. I should have turned around and gone right back to bed but I didn’t because instead of jealousy I am afflicted with pity —incurable. I do it not for them but for me because I can’t bring myself not to, I have no intention of helping I just don’t have reason to do otherwise. So I asked her if she was all right. Yes fine, she said between what I now took to be sobs. “Fine, is there anything I can get you?” A coat hanger…. She smiled weakly and I just started laughing. Laughter that swallowed her up and digested her image sitting there on the toilet hunched over her twat, sniffling like a wounded cornered animal —the perfect specimen of humanity. “You must be a friend of Michael’s?” Yes she was what did Michael do with the creature? He keeps her around because she has constant drama that she dumps on his fragile little middle class heartstrings and it gives him something to do. Something that can be solved that’s all he wants from life, a problem that can be solved something to which he can point and say see it is all better now…. He has no use for whole people, just the ragged torn edges of the pages… preferably dripping fresh blood, new wounds to cauterize and in the process open old ones… poke at the soft scar tissue… induce hemorrhages… leech the life out…. +Michael is an only child like myself, but he is of a different breed rather than independent of self-serving like most (myself included), Michael is like frail wounded animal huddled into corner cowering before the world. What he is cowering from or about I can only assume to be his own personal, self-created demons and to get relief from them, to stand up straight, facing the world and lock arms with it to struggle out life… or some other Hemingwayesque metaphor… he assumes the burdens of others. In great leaders who have already faced up their own demons such a facility would be revered, but in one who can only act on the behalf of others and never for himself it is repulsive, even comical in its stupidity. +He wants to go out and have a drink, but really he doesn’t he wants to keep fighting he should keep fighting, but he should fight with himself beat his own face to a pulp. This is America we beat each other; like the Marquis he stands bleeding and asking if wasn’t good for us…? +(clutching a glass) “She’s fucking nuts you know that only reason I can’t leave her is her body, sex is this thing… this… force that swarms over me and I’m hating her but its pulling at me and no matter how much we scream and even when I hit her that night I am still seeing her tits heave and the way her ass looks when she’s crouched over and the other night she was crying leaning against the door jam and I was standing over her blind with hate… I looked down and she wasn’t wearing any underwear and there is the cunt staring at me, this furry little thing that is the source of all the problems in my life and just stared at it, it enveloped me swallowed me up. What is that warm stick squishy thing that I want? Or maybe (trying to enlist support of dementia through body language, leans in conspiratorially) may be the trouble is everything around the cunt… that’s the real mystery what I need is lust, just pure cunt with no feeling warm and sticky.” +“Yes Michael I think you would be better off with a blow up doll.” Dean is rakish tonight, he is already gone, his body remains to propel the dream further. Mike is menacing tonight too. I can here the masticating of hatred being chewed… mulled over… teeth grinding in his sleep… +“You think so? Ya fuck you! You guys don’t understand with Halley its all about the sex, beyond the sex we don’t get along at all. I can stand over and kick her teeth in if I thought that her cunt would stay warm. Damn that hairy fucking little cunt. She’s too sexy. I get swallowed up.” +Mike was running on and on and I was getting swallowed up and I saw Halley's cunt between her legs I see an aborted fetus hanging out of it bloody and covered in afterbirth with umbilical cord still attached, and cord is there just dangling out of the cunt and I see Mike with scissors trying to cut it and Halley is screaming trying to stop him. The doctor takes the fetus and throws it in the incinerator; the furnace flares and is silent as a slaughterhouse. Halley lies on the table spread eagle, naked and Mike circles her holding blunt object tubular and made out of the words that describe it. It is black and plugged into the wall. Dean and Mike are yelling through me, words pass like water though a screen and there is mike in room with the cattle prod standing over Halley and a symphony strikes up. Marching bands.. fingers tapping… tapping… violins… rhythm of kettle drums… and his arm rises. . He is floating, watching as choked up gasoline-napalm sores sear off his tongue and lick up his body in flames. The air is hot and thick like the worst humidity and the scorching of the flesh sizzles in my nostrils and I just watch. Hell is for voyeurs, the control addicts that like to watch. You just have to ride it out and hope that the cynicism doesn't burn you up right up with them or you find yourself in the liquid fire ripping out your own eyes and sawing off your tongue to run away. Withdrawal in disgust is not the same as apathy.... A little red light comes on signaling that the cattle prod is fully charged. In front of him is Halley, beautiful with short black hair like ravens. She is lying naked with her legs were splayed wide and restrained with leather straps and buckles, her arms are restrained above her head. He smiles weakly at her. Hand the symphony reaches fever pitch, the clash of horns and strings and drums and Mike is looking into her eyes watching the pupils dilate. And it fell, his arm fell, the cattle prod fell; and her body went rigid and she shot up off the table as if suddenly turned into a stiff board. He keeps his eyes locked on her as she collapse back onto the table. He sees something flash through them and he feels a tremor in his guts, his muscles spasm involuntarily. Big uncontrollable sobs wracked his whole body and he falls on his knees and proceeds to curl up in little ball on the floor. He lies like that for a while until the sobs work themselves out the violence fall silent and only a lone lunatic flute floats over the scene. Halley gets up and begins to undress him, starting by unbuttoning his shirt. When she undoes his belt she reaches down and rather gently holds his rigid cock as she eases the pants down over it. She stands embracing him strongly with her arms around his neck pulling herself up until her cunt lips part and she slides down on his cock. Mike is fucking her but she can’t feel it. She can’t feel anything and then the strings return crescendo builds…. She spreads his legs and restrains them along with his arms. She strokes his cock hard again and teases him by biting his nipples. All at once her eyes go black and she thrusts the cattle prod into his balls… Mike is blown up off the table by some kind of wind. He doesn't even feel his come splash of his face as the electricity causes an involuntary muscle spasm that makes it arc out of his cock in unnaturally thick spurts. He lands back on the table his voice is a violin, an inhuman screeching kind of wail. + “What the fuck you know…. What the fuck do you have that lets you glide through this existence like some strange cloud a vapor that is there and you can see it but it doesn’t hurt you? How do you have to turn things over and around and rearrange them so that you can see it in a bright light? Don’t you ver get tired of laughing that smug glib little smirk?” Things are not well at this table, the glasses have accumulated and the pent aggressions are knocking them over. +“Hey watch it Michael, you can insult Sil all you want but don’t bring me into your quaint little semantic psychoanalyzed universe where you little puny mind thinks it understands me….” Dean leans in toward me and around at Mike. I turn my back and while trying not to laugh I harangue the little fucker in hopes that maybe he will listen, but the trouble with me is that I didn’t care, I wanted to make a point, but I knew it was already lost, I could just as easily have stood by while Dean beat him to a pulp. I talked to shut out the symphony the close off the images of torture playing on an endless film loop flickering through the eons. I talked to put an end to Denver, to bury the ugly future in the overflowing sewer of the past, not to thwart violence. So when Dean forced the issue I didn’t do anything to stop it…. +“You know what you stupid little fuck, I don’t need your hospitality I don’t need your food, and certainly don’t need your advise seeing that while financially I may be fucked I am at least fucked and can fuck while you are nothing but a confused mediocre little spoiled piece of shit that can’t do much beyond leave his girlfriend in a half fucked state of longing. That why she called me one day and invited me to lunch one day.” +And then there was an absolute motionless silence for a full five or six seconds. And Mike leaped over me and things went the way things go. +Dean beat the crap out of him. We went home gathered up our bags and hit the road in Dean’s car. In Kansas Dean turned right on my assurances that Mark Pledger would welcome us with open arms. + + + +7 + + + + +You need the random violence, you need the super bowl, you need the microwave dinners, you need a drug that makes you dream, you need the cast iron kettle, you need the coupons from the Sunday paper. You need the salt water, you need the mountain air, you need a bicycle, you need sturdy shoes, you need a washing machine, you need freedom, but car insurance will do. You need air fresheners in you car, you need a faster computer, you need a genetically engineered future food from the twenty third cosmic outrage of viral man. You need a tampon, you need to shave your legs, you need to work out more, you need a new house, you need pickled pigs feet, you need zinc, you need to be saved from yourself, you need to stop smoking, life is precious. You need dinner company, you need a conversation, you need a street address, you need new friends, you need a good scotch, you need a tailored suit, you need sex. +You’ve been living underground eating from a can running away from what you don't understand —love. It moves you out of bed in the morning, it moves you out the door, it gives you courage in moments of weakness and it attacks you in shop windows, in quiet evening picnics you walk under Alder trees in the warm of autumn... it scratches at the door like a lost cat, it begs at the table like forlorn hound, it pulls your shirt tails like a child…. + Tonight the air is a harem dancer bejeweled in sequins and dripping opium honey from her succulent breasts. She slides slippery wet through eternal gardens of night orchids, between baskets of pomegranates, and under heavy limbs of peach trees; she hands out mosquitoes at a roadside elixir show, the queen bee, the minstrel’s daughter, she is dancing in ancient barns of rotten timber spinning us slowly, seductively down Louisiana. +Dean is asleep; I am at the wheel. + The wheel turns memory… some years ago… I passed through this area once before… chasing the Mississippi from St Louis down into New Orleans. I stopped for gas just over the Louisiana border, the station ended up being some distance from the interstate and I never made it back —not ‘til Baton Rouge. I have always had a healthy disdain for thoroughfares and the rest of time I was in the south I avoided them whenever possible. I wandered down the back roads of Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama and Georgia where it is possible to loose ones’ grasp of reality as quickly and severely as with anything the good doctor might have given you in prison. Time has stood still in the south, absolutely motionless since nineteen ten in some places. I ran across areas where everything seemed just as I would have imagined it in the quiet calm of America before the first world war. The paved two lane roads that weave through Louisiana were laid under order of the Works Project in the thirties and from the looks of it they have never been tended to since. Red clay gapes open mouthed from the embankments like a carp. A soft muddy red-brown, the color of shit after a steady diet of freeze dried astronaut food, it never dries even in the summer heat. And the air itself is palpable. It comes through the window at forty five miles an hour but even when it moves past you there is something motionless about it. You move through it, it never stirs. Everything in the south is permeated with that motionless veneer that makes it glow like the soft red light of a whorehouse Algiers LS, 1934. It was hell of a land from a hell of time; I never could put my finger on it. It was a menagerie of the hundred years previous and it lodged in me like the pond did for Thoreau or the Utah desert for Abbey. The south bounded about resonating for months hopping around like a Mexican jumping bean and lingering like the eternal fart that got the whole showing going. +Somewhere along the way in the time since I left I had forgotten about it this mind expanding drug that goes in my memory by the unassuming and FDA approved name of The South —like The Edge or The Metropolitan Opera, but infinitely less tangible. And now is Dean asleep in the passenger seat and the warm summer night air is hitting me in the face and I am remembering quite vividly that that first trip, it is folding into the present so that I am driving through all Louisiana, all time and all space. Again I have ditched the interstate and am picking my way through the backroads heading down the ones that feel like they lead to New Orleans, sometime Dean will wake up and be rather upset at our lack of progress; I will laugh. I do that a lot in the south, laughing. I hang my arm lazily out the window and let the wind blow it where it wants. Something about it is cathartic, post orgasmic. It leads my mind back through tumbling libraries of monolith memories, the spanish moss dripping from swamp cypress, sagging porches, the sticky oil of the skin drawn out into the something that is not sweat and not grease— something new, something unknown is coming to the surface here. +The first day out of Denver I remember nothing save a speeding ticket in some flat desolate farm country which might have been Kansas, Oklahoma, Texas, Ontario, Siberia, the Gobi desert or anywhere. I slept mostly, leaving Dean and Betty to drive the wastelands. I do remember something about an airport and three hours ago I noticed Betty was gone, I believe the two are connected, but its fuzzy. Fuzzy. The world was fuzzy all the way through the plains; the world looked like it does in the censored television images —fuzzing out nipples, buttocks, and the faces of the guilty. But now at three thirty in the morning it has become crystalline; I am aware. +Everywhere there is foliage, enormous live oaks, magnolias still white in bloom, cypress trees, bamboo, dense thickets of woody vines so tangled that the light of the moon can no longer see through them. The road seems overly artificial snaking its way through the groves of trees, around old houses, and it’s elevated unnaturally as it tears across swamps, always swamps. The edges are lined with the cypress and then clinging to the dryer land are the live oak and then the canopy envelopes and we glide along; I leaned my head out the window like a dog to feel the gentle heavy rush of humid air and to watch the gentle sway of the dripping Spanish moss. There is no way to capture it but from below, it is the dancing bush on fire hanging from the branches of the oaks and cypress —the peach fuzz of the great mothercunt. +Here and there I pass an ancient downtown of false storefronts. It is impossible to tell if their inhabitants are asleep or if it was deserted long ago in favor of the strip mall development over by the freeway. People go where the food is; it’s a universal migration. Got get ourselves to water, to where the food is. Fifty thousand years, eight hundred generations —six hundred and fifty thousand of them in caves, wombs, incubators, hydroponicly fed emotion and beauty from underground wellsprings. +It is nearly fall, September 14th if I am not mistaken. +And we’re rollin we’re rollin we’re rollin we’re rollin we’re rollin we’re rollin we’re rollin we’re rollin. Rubber dust holds the impending tragedy of fall in the air behind me, I can feel it look in over my shoulder, offering backseat driving tips whispered softly in my ear like a barroom parrot hissing the mimic of the voice-box smoker ordering another scotch on the rockssssss. Fall is the most tragic of seasons —midnight blue and bruised purple shadows crawling across the scarlet chill of orange leaves in the evening. A piano lines bounces trance melodies of bittersweet celebration and the normally abject world of man seems dressed in medieval splendor a —I am sharpened to a heightened awareness. The skin has started shedding off the bottoms of my feet again. It happens every year just prior to fall; I molt. Some people perk up from their slouched lives and look around at the coming of spring, for me it happens in fall. The change of the leaves, the reprieve from summer heat… the melancholy air of fall always pulls me out of the flow of the rest of the year and causes me to shed the old skin. Literally it seems. And underneath are the older hardened callused pads that tread antediluvian paths. +The warm night air is electric, it wraps you up in a blanket of itself and the only thing to do is enjoy. I leer jealously at the empty porches passing me by. My porch is moving and not as relaxing perhaps, but it is a porch nevertheless. It is right here in the middle of the street, not tucked away in back of some cubic structure called a house, but out here in front of god and distance thunderheads collecting off in the gulf coast —far on the horizon. +I remember flashes of faces, without names, without places; they could be friends, could be a book or magazine, a movie, an image produced by words, they all spread out across the night, flocks of swans, gaggles of geese, an endless thundering of wings and thought bobbing on the turbulent surfaces of sanity. Bobbing aimlessly to place, to name, to arrange, to rearrange, and the cicada songs catch my ear. They are beautiful, echoing about in rich azure tones, beep baritone guttural vices punctuated by chirping crickets —sirens tempting from the rocks. Even at fifty miles an hour the roar of cicadas melting with other insects is symphonic, but its true melody lingers just beyond the audible horizon. The sound washes over the car, cleansing it and leaving only lighthearted little echoes. The songs are before to Christ, before Pan, before Demeter, before to all the words, the ideas, before the virus. They are a reminder that no matter how you define it life is fun, all that is really required of you is that you become aware of that, that you know joy and sorrow and love and pain as all one indivisible and unspeakably thin reality. You do not need technology or science or religion or drugs or pompous ceremony; you need nothing save awareness. +Down the road the labeling clinic is undergoing massive overhauls to the system, the server is down, no further information can be handled right now… we will get to this later…this can wait! And the men white lab coats are singing glory glory hallelujah around a glowing metallurgic alter. The hospital sirens are wailing as they round the corner… all the men’s’ faces fade into the road, beaten, bruised and lacking any humor. Their daughter watch from distant buttes as they are spattered in blood, endless endless blood, rivers of blood running down the chopping block as the butcher frantically dices ever smaller… roasts, into filets, into steaks, into shish-a-bobs, into hors d’oeuvres, into mashed paste, pate, and finally only watery blood, running off the block and out into the street gathering speed as it moves over hills, lifted up, pooling in the great valleys and lapping at the butte shores as the women dance naked around bonfires…. Geysers of blood sprout from a ground that can no longer contain itself; blood banks employees hang hoses into the street and collect a year’s worth before they drown in it. Towns and cities are swallowed whole, the bloods oozes down from the north, from the land of the bleached-skin cave dwellers, trickling over the Mediterranean drowning the Elysian dream and then the Nile runs red. Africa is laid waste and the oceans swell and wash down over Canada and American. A tidal waves of blood a thousand feet high and moving 200 miles an hour fueled by the energy of the comet called now that lands in the midst of riparian blood world and blows it all back out into space, powders all life into a fine dust that settles over everything, over the mountains and valleys and oceans, and the remaining rivers of blood until what is left is absorbed into the heart core of history leaving behind fresh cool water that pools and settles into the Mississippi delta. It surges down into Lake Pontchartain where it slows to gentle meander out into the sea and all life is saturated with pure spring waters and bears itself up as an offering —the fresh unmade world. Chaotically stagnant and fecund with life, teeming with shiny brown bodies glistening from the humidity from the endless sweat that pours off their body’s and so they go about. Time is a record of blood moving over the earth +But what are we to make of this travesty this spectacle of human lives plundered and destroyed by robber barons, by men called kings, by vampires called Popes? It is soaked into the ground; it permeates the air of Europe and the United States with spectral genetic memories of atrocity and death. We have records elaborate and detailed records of the dead and many of our brightest minds are obsessed with this problem this thing called oppression they run hugging the nearest Buddha marching down the road embracing foreign cultures in blinded headlong attempt to avoid their own heritage. I remember early in my own guilty childhood running across the Rev Steven T Murray a man for whom the western guilt complex loomed large and figured across his face. He had a wild face, the sort of face that could get itself thrown out of seminary school for heresy and he paraded it around with a constant beatific smile set in ruddy skin and balanced by spectacles. Above all the guilt and baggage that lurked in his Anglo Saxon DNA was something shining, something not transcendent but enlarged as if the wrinkles of gray matter had extended their folds a bit farther out. Steve was hunting through the east when I knew him, looking to Buddhism, Hinduism, meditation, yoga... anything that might extend that circle farther. I am indebted to him for expanding my own circle for my knowledge of east, but none of that helped either of us. The stink remains in our genes; the blood of our ancestors leads not to temples, but slaughterhouses, gallows and charnel ovens. Walk through it with grace and dignity Steve, see it all just as it was and keep going, do not ignore but do not dwell either because farther back before the cattle before the crops there is something else. Something wilder even than what is dreamed by those that seek to repress these memories of drunken orgies and cloven hoofed Gods who sought only to give pleasure. +You don’t even need the ceremonies to hear the distant memory of laughter peeling across the savanna, memories drawn on cave walls before the cave was home, when it was a museum. You don’t even need to go to Africa to hear it. I heard it once in California high in the Sierra Nevada. Steve was there perhaps he heard it too, but if he did he kept quiet like me, never mentioned it to anyone else on the trip, nor to anyone when I returned. I heard it clearly enough to not need validation. It’s a distinct memory, that first time I ever spent a night outside the sheltered walls of civilization, miles from the nearest road, not a trapping of man in sight, only a painted purple sky the glow of the long gone sun bouncing off unseen plateaus reflected back as broad lavender brush strokes on the clouds. The alpen glow was just fading off the peaks on the other side of the lake from where I was sitting. +My friends and fellow travelers are just down this small rise behind me they are eating quesadillas and drinking icy water from the stream the runs through camp. I remember the sense of utter calm I felt relaxing against that rock and just watching the world unfold. I was famished but I couldn’t stop watching the light. It faded through the whole spectrum turning green and then the dark cold purple of night. I was absolutely silent and did not move for a long time. I remember quiet clearly the thoughts that passed through my head at the time. I was sitting there reflecting on a moment two weeks earlier when I had Steve what we were going to do about water. I knew that we were going to be camping next to a lake, but what I wanted to know was whether or not water filters were being provided or if I should buy one of my own. He looked at me with that trickster grin and said "don’t worry about it, we’re going to bring freeze dried water." Well now all I heard was don’t worry about it and so I stopped listening there and when he looked at me and I only nodded and said okay, he was forced to crack a smile and ask me if I had heard him. I said that I had and that was fine. He burst out laughing and then it clicked that there could be no such thing as freeze dried water. I remember it was like a lightning bolt that blasted me right out of my body and I heard the whole conversation over again from a third person point of view and then I understood suddenly that I hadn’t actually listened to anything more than what I wanted to hear. It was a sort of Joycian epiphany for me. I think that Steve laughed not so much at his stupid joke but because he saw me wake up for a minute, and sitting there against the rock watching the sky and filled with a sense of sharpened peace I wondered if I had in fact not been listening to anyone or even anything except myself for my entire life. The sky was screaming, crying like a lonely woman, but rising in volume above that was a different sound, a cerulean sound. It was the sound of the beating drum, of the dancing men, women and children naked and baffled but living through it with divine grace and respect borne out of wonder and lacking fear — a primordial grassland celebration in the pre-fear epoch of man. A calm settled over me and I floated down to enjoy my own fried quesadilla and drink a belly full of clear icy mountain water. +I caught that same sense of heightened calm driving through Louisiana the first time and I was feeling it again now; every time it was the unmistakable feeling that I had been subtly roused from a long and indistinct but alarming dream. Waking up in the sudden and yet not jarring way as one does after a long sound well earned sleep and then there is the fresh new day to be greeted and danced through. Why the South triggers that feeling for me remains a mystery, maybe something about the profound sense of otherness that it retains in this increasingly homogeneous world of ours. Maybe is the humidity, maybe it’s the magnetic pull of the earth, maybe it’s the ghosts floating out from the swamps and forests in the relative cool of the evening, perhaps it the electric charges brought in by the afternoon thunder showers, maybe it’s the food, maybe it’s the people. Maybe it’s all of those things thrown in a gumbo and slow roasted over a wood fire to perfection. Whatever it is it remains buried at the level Korzybski so unpoetically called the non-elementalistic level. It is my world and if I could put it precisely into words you would, by reading them, actually become me. Perhaps such powerful sweeps of magic are possible —perhaps you are me. Still some things are better left unsaid, there are those things which lie too far beyond the bounds of collective experience to ever firmly plant your finger on, things too tangled up in intimacy and individual experience to capture on the broad scale, it is enough simply to be aware of them, they are themselves the tangible expressions of something we do not fully understand. To feel them running through you is to know them, if only for that fleeting moment and never at such times does it occur to me to speak, to speak would burst the moment, instead I smile involuntarily. It is only later after the feeling has passed through that I am even aware that I have been smiling. +I stop for gas at the only all night station I have seen thus far. The attendant is woken from his nap by the clang of the station bell; he shifts slightly to take my money and promptly falls back asleep. I start the pump and go for a walk. In the window of the Ace Appliance store with it’s faded worn paint falling off the brick innards in giant sheets like lizard skin shedding, like the bottoms of my feet; in the window I saw myself for the first time in days. I stepped back and admired the structure as I lit a cigarette. Old advertisements hang at crazy maddening angles, sheets of torn paper long since illegible, but adverts no doubt, black eyed peas, crawfish, Cajun spicing, habanero sauce, faded and whitewashed by years in the sun, but the windows are shiny clear. I see televisions, radios, automobiles, washing machines, drying machines, refrigerators, freezers, ovens, microwave ovens, convection ovens, alarm clocks, computers, headphones, home furnishings, bicycles, video games, tennis shoes, laser disc players, DVD players, record players, compact disc players, cordless telephones, wireless phones, digital phones, cellular phones, two way radios, short wave radios, car stereos, home stereos, and every accessory you can conceive of and millions more you couldn't. Gadgets for the mutilation of genitals, clamps, douches, toilets, condoms, meat grinders, books, pornography, nakeed girls you like no? In the aisle there is little boy selling Chiclets on the streets of Mexico City. Advise from his father given like a department head to the agent in the field, bide your time, wait and when you strike make sure to blow the whole bridge bring it all crashing down on your head. +It crashed when my eyes screwed completely out of their sockets and I focused back on my own reflection. There was the thing called me, called Sil, called human, called living, called now. I lost myself in the reflection until I could not longer distinguish what side of the reflection I was really on. It suddenly seemed not at all real, more like a virtual apparition I could have been any face, any century; a peasant in rags, Hassan at Almont, a soldier in a trench, a mother in birth, a genetic telegram ape man reflected across ten million eons of the birthing contracting universe. I felt less myself than ever. I felt myself dissolving into the very fabric of existence, I was dancing through a long night of endless coursing energy that was not here and not now at all but everywhere always and I no more a man no more anything, but everything. + + + + + +I am upstairs constructing a vaudoux doll when Scratch yells that dinner is ready. When most of my friends announce dinner it is because they need money to pay for the pizza, I do not seem to fall into circles of those who love food as much as I do, but Scratch is the exception. In fact Scratch one-ups me, for he is professional chef at Arnaud's, a swanky coat required joint downtown. I haven’t stopped eating since we got here two days ago. Tonight it is a French meal something that Scratch is thinking of doing at the restaurant to celebrate the French heritage of New Orleans which according to the John who shared a swig of whiskey with me on the steps of a coffeeshop in the French Quarter this morning is actually more Spanish influence…. For the sake of the tourists that flock to Arnaud's Scratch is sticking to the standard French Vibes. Tonight it is Magret de Canard baies de Cassis, which Scratch informs me is long for duck in currant sauce, but its not alone, ducks never travel alone they move in flocks across the table bringing pommes de Terre Mousseline and artichauts braises farcis a la barigoule. Potatoes and artichokes roughly, with a French Merlot, chocolate truffles for desert and then coffee and large hand-rolled blunts. Scratch augments his chef income by growing and selling cannabis that he generously hands out every night after dinner. We don’t share them either, Scratch rolls everyone there own blunt and we sit down on the wrap around couch in the living room and puff away on them as if they were after dinner cigars. I made this observation one night and Scratch just kind of laughed to himself and then two days later he started drinking cognac with them. Perfect… perfect. + This alone made Dean stick around and ought to explain why I am in New Orleans as opposed to anywhere else in the damnedable ugliness of America. Scratch is well read, he spent a year in traction for a skydiving accident; we have endless pointless discussions about books, conversations that exist primarily as testing grounds for our own theories, conversations that drift aimlessly through the heavens, all of us knowing full well the sheer and utter hopelessness of ever changing anything. +I met Scratch through Mike originally, way back when he and I were sharing the one room trailer of infamy. They worked together at the YMCA. Mike was a swimming instructor/lifeguard (although mainly he sat in the office and smoked cigarettes with me) and Scratch was a personal trainer/fitness guru. The first time Scratch told me he was a fitness coach I burst out laughing because the deadpan sincerity of his voice was the give away that he was kidding, but he wasn’t. Despite the fact that he had been crippled in a skydiving accident and hadn’t really worked out in the last five or six years (excepting physical therapy) he had a degree in sports medicine and he was in fact guiding many people to healthier lives. He was almost twice our age, but he and mike were the only obtuse elements at the Y so they gravitated to each other as naturally has hydrogen and oxygen make water. +It was of course Mike who had set in motion the reunion of Scratch and I, he mentioned once over some beers in Denver that Scratch was in New Orleans. He apparently had dumped the fitness gig and gone back to his pre-thump occupation —five star chef. The story stands out over the din of Denver as a kind of eject button that Mike had provided by which I could escape the nightmare world of his personal paranoid idiosyncratic reality. +“Free the dogs! Chain the humans!” Eject! Scratch’s battle cry rang through the muddy thought waters of the heavy afternoon heat like a tricycle crashing on a preschool playground. He was teetering on the edge of the couch knees pointed in either direction and holding up his arms. His wizened eyes balance in his hand and are surround by a face, but it is not a face that can be clearly seen at first glance it retreats over the next ridge every time you approach like a heat mirage leading you out on the scorching desert sand. Scratch wipes his face repeatedly and then sighs or words to that affect. Yes I remember meeting Scratch. +Scratch was a self inflicted nickname, but sometimes you have to do that to avoid something much worse coming your way, dodge it with a preemptive strike. Harm reduction the Pentagon calls it. So it was Scratch; I figured it was for the way he would often itch at his head when he was trying to find the words… or the way his hands would wipe over his face when he sat back on couch, it was like he was making sure he still had skin. Scratch was fortyish though I couldn’t say high or low, or side to side for that matter; he was a relic from the now infamous trailer residence in sunny Costa Mesa. Scratch sat on the orange couch, a brutal abomination of furniture that boldly languished in the corner waiting for victims. It sucked old scratch in like a tractor beam; mike and I were wise to it by then, but new ones got sucked in. And so it happened that I came to know all the extraordinary people I do know —too many nights unable to escape it clutches. +“Free the dogs! Chain the humans!” Those were the first words he ever said; he just laid them out like tomatoes or hush puppies on an ottoman. It wasn’t until he sighed heavily shrugging his shoulders and palming his hand across his face that I understood. Everything you need is right there, but I am fresh out of calculators so let me lay it all out for you. Scratch did have a real name; he just never bothered to use it. After that day on the couch when Scratch sat for five maybe six hours and talked and drank beer and smoked cigarettes. He came back. And he kept coming back. One day when he didn’t come back Mike and I were forced to go find him and ended up never leaving his place. While I only lived with Scratch for a month he has always welcomed me when I needed a place to crash. + Tonight Scratch is telling what I call the ‘thump story’ which is his account of the time his parachute didn’t function properly. I’m to full to talk its all I can do to sit up straight. Sitting up straight is something you have to do around Scratch otherwise you have to endure a lecture on the benefits of correct posture. But Scratch is rolling the thump story out of the hanger for Dean’s benefit. They know each other from LA but Dean knows him mainly as the guy you get pot from and with Scratch that’s just the beginning. + “It opened fine actually just like it was supposed to at first… everything was great. I was supposed to land in this guy’s backyard. They were giving me a party because Debra Winger had just hired me as her personal chef… and so I’m supposed to come down into the backyard for the big whoopla right? Well about a hundred feet off the landing I start to drift and I try to correct it but something in the way I moved and the way the wind was blowing… one in a million kind of thing… one of those variables that you don’t get to control…. Anyway ya… basically the ‘chute twisted and the gust caught me about twenty feet off the ground and threw me into the roof extension…. It was one of those metal roofs, like a barn kind of thing where it hangs over a bit and the tops of my feet hit it square on at about forty miles an hour. It cut almost all the way through to the Achilles tendon, smashed the joint and the whole bit; understand of course that I don’t actually have any memory of this…. It’s just what people have told me, people who were there…. They’re not sure if that’s what did the knee too or if the knee was from the truck I landed on, because after I got dragged free of the roof I blew over the house and fell two stories through the front windshield of a pick up truck. +“And that is why I don’t walk quite right. And I’ll tell you, I don’t remember it happening but to hear Dave tell it, it sends chills down my spine, he saw the whole thing, he was the one that got me out of the truck and rode to the hospital with me… it just sounds so funny to me you know? There’s times when it think I might have made the whole thing up… like I never did cater films, never lived in Hollywood, never went sky diving, never knew Debra, never did any of it… I’ve just been here the whole time and I just made this stuff up to impress you guys…. I mean there’s really no way for you to know… for all you know I could have had polio or something as a child… of course there is the scar so I guess I’d have to get more creative than polio… plus I think polio was cured by the time I was born… or is polio cured? I don’t really know… you don’t hear about it much anymore…” + Dean and Scratch drift into a conversation about all the horrible diseases that are known to man, but I am thinking about Scratch. Scratch has always been in the shadows of my life popping in sparingly like a seasoning, but still during those times I often felt myself in the presence of a true saint, a Buddhist that never knew Buddhism, a sharp contrast to most Buddhists… occasionally I used to think Scratch might be the Buddha himself. He had this tranquil quality about him, maybe it was the coma he had been in for a couple of months after the accident, maybe it was twists and turns of his life, of which I knew only a handful, maybe it was the way his shaved balding head bobbed a bit while he limped about the house, maybe it was me, but I always came away from his presence wanting to be a better person, wanting less and less, in fact at the end —nothing at all. Scratch lived a kind of Zen in which there was life and it was led, but there was this other thing, this separate energy that was dedicated to expressing itself, it came through in his food, it was like a work of art; it came through in his endless ranting about the sorry state of American Health; it came through in the way he moved, slowly deliberately and without ever wasting an ounce of energy that didn’t need to be expended. Everything in him seemed to be in harmony, in proportion with itself as if the crookedness of his physical stature had corrected that of his soul…. +Sometimes I wonder though what the difference is between one disease and another,” Scratch is turning philosophical. “You know what I mean? Were all terminally ill from birth… we’re going to die at some point, does it really matter when or how? I just don’t really care anymore…how can you care about a thing like death? What are you going to do about it? Nothing. You are waiting here to die, that’s why I like to serve fatty meals because I look out in the dining room and I see these people that look dead. They’re so fat and clean and yet they stink, the smell of molds and internal decay comes off them like a dead possum rotting on the street. It makes me sick to my stomach watching them eat, they don’t even eat they shovel it like little pigs lining up at a trough… I like to think of myself as a kind Kevorkian mercy killer… I am just speeding up the process… you can see it in there eyes kill me please!… empty shells… waiting… waiting… dessert...? Ya I thought so…. They want it all….” +We lapse into silence, I am think about the old idiom that conversation moves in measurable waves, about seven seconds of silence on the average. Those numbers were for sober people whose minds function mainly as a self imposed veil which keeps the silence of eternity at bay so that they can hold down a job to afford rent and the mortgage and the BMW and the kid in private school and the housekeeper and the gardener and the cell phone and the ground phone and the and the and the…. Seven seconds is not enough for those in the cannabis universe there is and endless supply of novel thoughts from which to choose sometimes it’s hard to get them out because you want to get out everything all at once. Language doesn’t work like that though, unless you’re speaking in tongues… but we’re not so the silence hangs while we contemplate the nature of… still empty silence in which to mind walk. +A girl knocks at the door. The girl is Dean’s doing. The girls are almost always Dean’s doing. The curious thing about Dean, which I have observed over the years, is that when he falls for a girl he doesn’t just fall for her, he falls for every girl. Dean is in love Woman; he just shifts his focus from one to another. Shifts it a little quicker than they tend to be ready for…. Right now he’s in love with Sara who is knocking on the kitchen door, but tomorrow he will likely be back in love with Amanda and let us not forget the stripper downtown who calls herself Serendipity. Sara looks like she’s trying to look like Betty Page, but doesn’t actually know who Betty Page was. The pale skin, the dark bangs, they’re all there but something is missing, there is nothing driving it. She’s an inflatable doll —almost real, life-like. Dean just sort of dragged her back to the house one night and she decided to keep coming around. She is nice, thoroughly infatuated with Dean, indifferent to Scratch and a little bitchy to me. But the salient thing about Dean and I, perhaps the reason we remain friends is that our love interests have never overlapped. Women that like him hate me and women that like me hate him and both of us love and hate all of them in end. +However Sara was a burden to the beat. That is to say that Scratch’s house had a sort of rhythm to it that she didn’t hear had no response to or chose to ignore. It was one of those shotgun houses for which New Orleans and the south in general is sometimes noted, but Scratch’s was a modified shotgun, in a true shotgun there is no hallway. To get from one end of the house to the other one must pass through every room. No hallways or antechambers or any sort of division whatsoever —communal living. Whoever had owned this place before Scratch must have walked in on his masturbating daughter one to many times, or perhaps the kids walked in on the parents puffing away a big fatty, whatever the case someone added a hall passage as an extension of the left hand side of the house. Didn’t put much effort into it either, the skeleton of two by four ribs had never been covered with dry wall and the cracks between the outside panels let in a healthy amount of spiders. We treated it like outside and consequently the bedroom doors were always locked. The architect behind the tunnel as Scratch called it had also added a rickety second story in the back overlooking the alley and the courtyard of the mansion behind it. It was accessed from the outside up stairs. Scratch had set me up in the second story so that I would have some peace and quiet to write. That a lot of spiders, liberal helpings of cockroaches and black and white cat that acted as if it came with the place. +Dean was happy on the couch, but in truth he spent most of his time on Scratch’s computer humming out the love letters, sex stories or whatever it is that he and April talked about until six in the morning central standard time. Dean remains secretive about that affair; it was only today that I heard him use her name, which of course doesn’t mean he hadn’t said it a thousand times before…. +The front door opens into the living room which is the biggest room, half of it is occupied by a wrap-a-round six seater couch with pop-up lazy-boy style footrests on either end, and across from it in the dark corner opposite the picture window is the computer desk where Dean lives. The door to the left of the couch leads to the kitchen through which I pass on my way outside to the stairs and on the right is the door that leads to Scratch’s room and then in the far back bolted and accessible only to Scratch is the grow room. Scratch went so far as to bolt a K mart pressboard bookshelf to it. A tattered copy of Journey to the end of Night guards the doorknob. In actuality Scratch can’t open it by himself, he turns the knob and pulls while someone else pushes up on the bookshelf enabling it to clear the floor. The growroom is temperature controlled and subdivided so that plants can pass through various growing stages requiring less and less light as they approach maturity —all in one closed area. Most everyone knows its there, but out of respect no one ever mentions it in conversation. +As I was saying the house has a kind of rhythm to it. There is never moment when someone is not home, which is only partly coincidence. Should there be a fire or related disaster the last thing Scratch wants is someone breaking down the door with an ax. At least not unit the growroom is disposed of. But it just so happens that Scratch is the early riser up and cooking eggs and bacon at eight in the morning to the delight of Dean who is generally still awake from the night before. He has breakfast, shoots the shit with Scratch and goes to bed for the day. I generally try to make lunch and turn in around four when all the alcohol has generally been consumed and there is nowhere to replenish the supply. Dean gets up for dinner and Scratch sends us out to buy that night’s supply of scotch, sherry, beer and wine all coordinated with whatever he is cooking. Scratch turns in as soon as he get home from the restaurant usually around midnight. It has a rhythm a life to it. Sara is a monkey wrench; she upsets the balance, sleeps on the couch at night when Dean and I are trying to talk. When she does stay up she is usually too drunk or high or some combination thereof to add anything other than misery to the air. And there was plenty of that before she arrived. Her sole chance of staying in my good graces and Scratch’s as well depends on her friends. So far she has not produced. Scratch told me this afternoon that he had a talk with Dean that morning… get me laid or the girl goes were his words. I assure him that Dean would take care of it, but now watching them hustle off to my room for a little roll in the hay (or spider webs as the case may be) I am not so sure about it. + + + +We have only been here two weeks but already it feels like years. Scratch’s growroom means we never want for relaxation tools. This morning the repo men came and took away Dean’s car for lack of interest on his part. We are stranded in New Orleans now, but worse things have happened. Now Dean doesn’t have to wonder when they will come for him. Nor does he have to make car payments anymore —not that he ever did. If we were good citizens merrily building credit we would be horrified by our situation, but luckily we aren’t. We made the best of it; Dean even gave the repo men a couple of beers and they knocked off work for a while to drink them with us. I didn’t care because it wasn’t my car; Dean didn’t care because caring would do nothing for the absent Corolla, because there is nothing that he can do except let go and sail right on down the river. I don’t care because I never have cared, the apathy is its own reason, it's own alpha and omega. So we are Huck Finning it this afternoon in my room stretched out on the recently laid carpet and staring at the ceiling fan as it tries and fails to cool the room. +“How long do you think Scratch is going to put up with us?” +“Dunno I know he’s not keen on that Sara girl… but outside of that I think we can stay another week or two before we smell like dead fish….” +“Friends and fish….” +“Yup. How many days is it until they smell?” +“It depends on your friends and your fish I suppose.” +“Hey, what are you going to do without the car?” +“Well see that’s why I was asking because Amanda has offered to send me some money to get a plane ticket and I should probably take her up on it if I want to get out of here, but part of me isn’t ready to do that yet. I mean not that New Orleans holds anything great for me, but I know I’m not ready to be tied down in DC yet,” Dean cracked a smile. “Well I’m ready to be tied down physically but not figuratively speaking.” +“How do you know she’ll do that to you…?” +“Which part? No… I don’t. Its just a hunch, I mean its not my first trip around the block you know… I have started to notice and become aware of certain patterns in my life that are not necessarily healthy, but even though I can see them I can’t stop them yet. I’m working on that; that’s why I need to stay here a little while longer… so I can figure this thing out. I’m getting closer.” +“Well I don’t think Scratch will mind… just stay out of his way you know… do him a few favors… dishes, shit like that, he’ll be cool with it. If worst comes to worst I don’t think he’d mind us staying up here for a couple of hundred a month.” +“You know… I was thinking about it this morning… I haven’t worked… I mean worked a real job… forget the pizza place… in about six months. And I’m happier than I’ve ever been. I mean true, I spend most of my waking hours in pursuit of food and alcohol, but it has led me places that I would have never gotten had a actually done the standard work-for-a-living thing….” +“Ya I know I’ve managed it for a year and half now… okay I cheated a little in Denver and cash advanced a credit card, but other than that… It makes you wonder why you ever worked in the first place… I mean what did I get from working that I am missing now? I look around and I expect to see things that I miss… things that I want… but there aren’t any. The only drawback is that you have to keep moving even when you’re somewhere you might want to stay….” +“Not really though, I mean if you wanted to stay in New Orleans you could always get a job and hang around….” +“Ya I think I’m going to half to get a job to get out of New Orleans… in which case I may be here a while.” +“Well ya know if Amanda changes her mind and you need a roommate up here let me know….” +“Ya if we got rid of the bed and just used hammocks or something of that nature there would probably be enough room for the both or us….” +“I dunno about hammocks man that’d be a little too Gilligan's Island for me… I can’t be Skipper to your Gilligan and I don’t even want to picture your Gilligan to my Skipper…” +“Riiiiiiiiiggggggghhhhhhhhht…..?” Dean gets these ideas sometimes when he’s stoned and there is just no accounting for where he’ll go with them. It makes him fun to talk to, but sometimes you find yourself stuck on a deserted tropical island when all you wanted was a three-hour cruise. His ends cross over into his means or his means cross his ends or the ends are the means are the ends if there were any means, but it doesn’t mean a thing. Right? No thing. +“Well I think I’m gonna head down to the French Quarter… Sara and some of her friends invited me to go watch this Blues band that’s playing at Checkpoint Charlie’s off Esplanade… supposed to be really good… you innarested?” +“Ya I might meet you there later… I wanna get some dinner before Scratch goes to work, but I don’t even know if he’s working for sure so maybe if he doesn’t I’ll drag him down there.” +Dean leaves. I keep staring at the fan wishing it would do its job, but know how nice it feels not to have a job to do. Knowing that in the end the only job any of us ought to have is ourselves. To drive the little bodies around in pursuit of awareness and ecstasy, and it can be a tough job this one, tough on the body and soul to sail this ocean of sewer through the air-conditioned claustrophobic American night. So cold when it should be heating. So vast when it is all right in front of us all along. So nonexistent when seen from a distance… Only cognac and French wine, Irish beer dark as night, gin crystal clear twinkling like stars… so infinite in existence so huge… yet in the midst of it one star… one planet… on content… one country… one city… just like another…. One soul… just like another… one… nothing just like all the others, but with no more Corolla to worry over. Simple. + +When I went down to the main part of the house to get some food Scratch’s informed me that we need to talk but we were interrupted by his friend Jason who dropped by the house for a little meal. I was relieved because I thought maybe Scratch was going to kick us out, but whatever it was he dropped it the minute Jason walked in the door. Scratch’s friends were always dropping in around dinner hoping that he was tinkering about in the kitchen and maybe had some new morsel for which they would guinea pig themselves. Jason was a nice, somewhat quiet, graduate student at Tulane University. I would have said thirties maybe forties but it’s hard to tell with Scratch’s friends. Jason was young in spirit but terribly old in his mind, he was stooped mentally buried under the weight of all that knowledge he had to keep in his brain for grad school, not to mention all the stuff he still remembered from his undergraduate degree. He was a philosophy nut too, which made for a heavy load. +Tonight Jason’s only contribution is a bottle of chartreuse for which he was richly rewarded with the truffle cake Scratch had whipped up for desert. We hit the sherry though because cake and chartreuse seemed wrong to them and as for me I wouldn’t know chartreuse from indigo. Scratch and I had already put away shrimp scampi; we had our feet up on the table and soon the bullshit was shooting around the room from the squirt gun mouths of the comfortably stuffed. Jason was hungry. In between voracious bites of truffle cake he started firing off about the nature of God and universe (a frequent topic among Scratch’s friends). Jason was rattling on about what he called pop philosophy, which from what I gathered is any philosophy of life that uneducated folks like you and I come up with, philosophies that lack the anal language fixation common among the professionals. Scratch had an analogy about rock, rocks and poprocks to neatly explain the differences between say you and Plato, but the distinguishing thing about pop philosophy is that no one believes themselves capable of deciphering the nature of man as well as Plato so by adding the word pop they have a failsafe, a way to avoid embarrassment if proved wrong. Jason seemed to believe that we are relying on our own beliefs more and more or at least we are willing to “mainstream” “borderline” beliefs. My head was in a tizzy by the time he came around to what I then gathered was his original intention, a movie he had seen that set his own head in a tizzy. +Jason was quite enamored with the worldwide conspiracy of power idea wherein certain high up, enlightened (read wealthy) individuals are living lives of extraordinary decadence at the expense of and always scheming against shmucks like you and I. He delivered his rap via the Matrix, which he had seen earlier in the day. I hadn’t seen the movie, but it sounded like a cheap effects- driven rip off of Buddhism to me, but Jason assured me I would love it, “there is one line that I know you’ll dig,” he said. One character, a machine apparently, says to a human that we, presumably the human race, are the anomalies in the natural world and the only thing that behaves quite like mankind is a virus. Or words to that effect. +Why would I love that one I wondered? Perhaps it was the cover of my notebook stenciled with William Burroughs epithet “language is a virus,” but it hardly follows that I would enjoy being compared to a virus. Besides that is only the top of the notebook at the bottom is the Firesign Theatre quote everything you know is wrong which eliminates any confusion about anything else, all of which what seemed lost on Jason. +Jason was an earnest man, a scholar even, but he lacked what all scholars’ lack —diversity. Every thing had to relate to philosophy even the packaging on dinner mints. He knew so much about so little that he was cut off and isolated from everyone but his colleagues; he saw Scratch and I as kindred spirits I guess, but what he failed to realize is that neither Scratch nor I were concerned with world views philosophies or any other fancy term for such a thing. Scratch didn’t care because he was Buddha and he didn’t need to care and I didn’t care because abstract philosophies are just that abstract and detached from anything that might be real. I have a deep interest in the subject of life but I require that my models of the universe be true to both what I know and what I don’t know. Jason seemed hell-bent on getting me to agree with this idea that we humans are despicable creatures and ought to be put out of our misery, but I wasn’t buying. +“What about love?” +“What about it? What is it? +“Well I don’t know for sure myself, but I can do a little logical reductionism for you, Goethe said ‘Existence is God,’ and Jesus of Nazareth said ‘God is Love,’ so I figure existence itself is love. But I don’t believe that because a German and a Jew happened to have said it, I believe it because when I lie in bed at night with beautiful woman asleep on my chest I feel existence and it feels like love. I believe it because when I walk the streets around here I can smell it blowing through the air; out west in the desert I found that I could taste love in the sizzle of a steak….” +“Oh come what are you man some kind of romantic poet?” +“Yes.” +“But that’s a bunch of crap you’re way too intelligent to be buying into that tired old ‘stop and smell the roses,’ always a smile on your face, life is wonderful, I’m singing in the rain kind of sappy kind of…” +“Too intelligent? What does that mean? How do you know I’m intelligent Jason?” +“Because I’ve read what you wrote in that little book over there and I’ve listened to you talk a few times and I can just tell. The intelligent can always distinguish one another across a crowded room….” +“Ah is that it?” +“Is what it?” +“The crowded room… love... distinguishes us to each other…” +“Whoa hey wait a second….” +“No you wait!” Now I was pissed at him. “Let me tell you Mr. overeducated-sneering-at-the-world- intellectual-waste of human existence what you ought to do is go and fall madly in love with woman surrender everything in your life to her, have children with her and then lose her and then you can come back and tell me how intelligent I am, but until you actually have something other than parrot-speak memories of dead men who wrote of love but didn’t clarify it enough to break through your bitterness….” And I sputtered out. He was taken aback. Shocked even. I tried to apologize and Scratch poured more Sherry, but the damage was done; I had struck a nerve. Perry was right in a strange way, sex is violence. Or more properly as Reich said in so many more words, lack of sex leads to violence. +Not that I harbored any feelings of violence toward Jason on the contrary I felt immense pity for him because his life seemed so cold and unforgiving I was trying, I guess, to wake him up but I didn’t; I only pushed his buttons and got him angry. Jason would wake up someday and I think I am right… it will be woman who does the job… it usually is. It certainly won’t be that Holy Grail of the indestructible philosophy that he’s chasing after right now. It will be a girl with dark hair and fire in her eyes and first she will chew him up, then she will swallow and then she will regurgitate him back to the world as innocent as a newborn. He had not lived, he was not even alive, he needed to get out of school and cast himself on the siren shores, maybe travel would be his thing. Maybe a sunrise on the island of Crete with the dark haired girl… maybe a tour through the slums of Calcutta… maybe a ride on the outside of bullet riddled bus through the violent streets of Moscow… there’s something out there for every one, one thing that can not be ignored. Something will wake him from his dreamy slumber, and then he will be able to use all the vast amounts of knowledge that he has crammed into his gray matter. But it won’t be me to do the job, I’m no good at the savior biz and neither was Jason any good at the life biz. In the mean time he will forgive me and come back next week to have another talk about a book of some sort or a movie or where ever he can find an intricate conspiracy to extrapolating into a giant skyscraper of bitterness pushed around by man forever complaining about the size of his task. Conspiracies….. Or were they philosophies? +The tragedy of the current and endlessly desperate world situation is that for the most of the wildly skeptical cynical Americans the difference between a philosophy and a conspiracy is nil. Modernism in all its forms reeks of two things —apathy and suspicion— but as I listened to Jason launching himself off into that neverland of the graduate student where everything is abstract and intangible I knew there was no talking him out of it. Maybe it was the professors he looked up to so much, maybe it was the sixties and all the disillusionment that followed them…. The sixties when mankind stood on the precipice of something unfathomable, something radical, and then pulled back much to the relief and/or disappointment of those who watched it happened. We didn’t jump, we didn’t go that’s the only thing I can say about the sixties; the most concrete and to me depressing thing about the era I missed by half a decade is Jason. Not Jason, but the paranoid untrusting nature of these new beliefs. Where’s the fun in that? +To bring him back round the rational ground where he was much more comfortable and agreeable I through him a bone, perhaps to cheer him up, perhaps to cheer myself up, it was my point that humans may be like a virus but they are not viruses. It’s that sort of “semantic nitpicking” as Amy once called it that I have found irritates the hell out of people. Why? I have not the slightest idea. I happen to believe that it is very important that if you and I are to communicate that we all first understand what that means. So much of the world’s problems stem from the inability to communicate effectively. I had just watched it in microscopic detail at Mike and Halley’s place in Denver and now here was Jason again reminding me that most of use have no idea what we are saying. Not that we are dumb or even confused, but rather that language and how it functions is not taught to most of us. We attempt to put into words things that are not at the same level as words… its all in the relationships of the words the good count would say… parallel words, diagonal words, tangential words, Euclidean words, Einsteinian words, all just words, but when you start to put them together images form, emotions well up, anger and passion are aroused all by what? Letters arranged in sequence? It made my head spin and in that moment Jason became no longer words no longer even human he was reduced to irritating static, white noise, his face was television snow and the voice crackled like an old crystal radio between channels. That sent me to think about Burroughs again, thinking about the stories I have heard that he used to write with three radios on all tuned to static so that the waves of each overlapped, converged and actually created words that were not there. If language is a virus Burroughs was its greatest junky… I wandered off. Jason and Scratch talked in the background of my thoughts. Scratch was bored of Jason that I could tell without thinking about it. +A virus! How monumentally depressing to think of oneself in such a light! How do you get out of bed in the morning when you think you’re a virus, a plague… better yet why? Why not end it all right now? It reminded me that this is an insecure world in constant state of indecision and confusion. I decided to go for walk, stretch the legs and chew the cud as they used to say in more agrarian times when people knew what cuds are. I lipped the name of the blues club to Scratch as I was leaving, trying to hint that Jason wasn’t welcome, but that Scratch should come if he wanted. +The night was a wildfire, a cracker eaten in bed. A virus! The notion is seemed funny the minute I hit the street. I doubt very seriously if any virus conceives of itself as such. To Ebola the human body is raw material inspiring the greatest creativity, that in its re-sculpting it destroys the individual is of as little concern to Ebola as the empty canvas’s blank nature is to the human artist. I started to see little Ebola’s decked out in turtlenecks and berets debating each other on whether or not it was wrong to restructure the body… restructure! It’s not restructuring! Its murder! Why not a symbiotic relationship with the creatures? Why not improve them?! Why not build to create instead of destroying to create!? You! You weepy eyed communist! You BACTERIA! All right that’s it!!! +They scuffled in my head all the way down into the French quarter. It was a quiet night on Bourbon, a few swarms of homeless or nearly homeless teenagers drifting here and there in the shadows trying to make a touch for some sort of alcohol. The punk rock syndicate Dean calls them. They have a separate reality in every city. I’m a romantic sap about that sort of thing. I always wanted to be homeless and sit on the steps with a woman I love and humbly ask the world for some spare change. I just haven’t met the right girl yet. I bought a bottle for a couple that happened to be sitting on the steps of the liquor store when I decided I needed cigarettes. I didn’t have any intention of doing that when I went in, but as I waited in line I noticed incongruously located next to an extensive collection of pornos (Butt Fucking Whores? I wonder what that’s about?), a bookrack full of New Orleans local heroes, Faulkner, Williams, Anne Rice and some others I hadn’t heard of, local poets mostly. When I got to the counter I was still flipping through As I Lay Dying and I thought what they hell… a bottle of good whiskey, a copy of As I Lay Dying and some cigarettes… that about does a twenty and I had a few of those I didn’t need. I wrapped the bottle in a paper bag and went outside and sat down next to them. +“Hey buddy you got any change?” +“Nope. But I got a bottle of whiskey and book for ya.” I cracked it and took a swig of fire. I passed the bottle to him and opened As I lay Dying to the first page. I tore out the introduction and handed the book to the doe eyed girl. “Have a good night.” I walked off in the direction of Esplanade. I heard a startled voice saying thanks mister behind me. Get drunk I silently encouraged, get drunk on words, on spirits and on you and I walked away leaving them with a few hours entertainment. +I found Checkpoint Charlie’s easily enough. If Dean was in one of those moods where you need to have some drinks, smoke too many cigarettes and shoot pool he had gone to the right place. I swung in the door at quarter past ten and there he was all in the thick of it with Sara and two of her friends, I went back outside and called Scratch from a payphone. Come down he got you a girl…. I felt like a pimp. +The women were talking Dean in circles while he shot a game of pool. I went to the bar and got a Guinness. I sat down for moment at the bar and was promptly set upon by a man who spoke something so mumbling and thick with Cajun ancestry fueled by hard liquor that all I heard was “therinsomefouatin benhavehrd goddamn suckafishafool scratum hars?” +I nodded, smiled and tried to suck down my beer in one cool gulp that coated my still burning throat. The place was New Orleans no doubt about it, that strange mixture of music, Cajun architecture, and an overly polite bartendress that called me sugar. The crowd was mostly locals complete with some redneck swamp people that would be punching each other out later on in the night. I finished the beer ordered another and headed to the back to see what sort of trouble Dean was stirring up. When I was about half way across the room the band returned from their set break and began to kick out the blues or maybe stomp would be stronger, but no, once the gravel voice hit the microphone behind me the blues were getting tore up from here to Pluto and I had no choice but to turn around and watch. The band was the most phenomenal group of musicians I had ever stumbled across, every note was bent against the grain of the next so that they all trembled and wailed up on top of each other and the piano chased the whole sweeping melody back into the pocket and then they shot off again. Dean threw his arm around me and leaned in close to my ear. +“Un-fucking-believeable aren’t they?” +I nodded and the drums launched into a solo that crawled all around the room beating its fists on the walls and leaving child footprints on the ceiling. It’s all upside down, banging out rhythm and melody together, as inseparable parts of a whole that only the creator can hear. It was mind-boggling; it went swoosh splatter rat-a-tat tat boom blam a ram…. I would have gotten lost in the music for good if I hadn’t seen the girl that came up and handed Dean the pool stick. I turned around with him and followed them over to the table. Over the gargle of the saxophone I caught her name—Gia. There was also Sara and Delilah, but I paid them nevermind. Gia was the thing. She looked like a sultry Italian pastry. Her brow was heavy and Ceselian, it made me think of Frida Kahlo; her hips swung wide and she played them like backbeat rollicking around the table dancing, laughing, and shooting pool. When she leaned in to take a shot her shirt hung down and revealed milky breasts like rolling Tuscany hills, she caught my glance, looked down her shirt and then back up at me smiling defiantly. +“See anything you like?” Her voice was melodious and sarcastic. +“Everywhere.” I retorted. She scratched on the eightball with a grimace. +“Well then why don’t you rack a game and we’ll see what you can do?” +I laughed. I dropped a couple of quarters in the slot. She broke and went on a run that didn’t end until she had only one ball left. I took the stick from her outstretched hand and missed my first shot. +“Well you suck at pool…” She laughed. “But you’re cute so you can play another.” +“Uh huh.” I racked them again and this time she didn’t drop anything and she scowled. “That rack was terrible” +“So was the last one… you did all right with that.” +Dean came over to watch. “Now Gia you have to watch out of this one, he’ll shark you when you’re not paying attention.” +“Ha! I already beat… what’s your name?” +“Sil” +“Right . So Sil,” She slithered in front of me, “why don’t we make a wager on this one? Say maybe twenty bucks?” +“I don’t have twenty bucks…” +Dean frowned at me. “Whatya mean you just…” +“Spent it.” I cut him off +“On what?” +“Underage drinking education…” +“Huh?” +“I bought a book for these kids, something to go with their whiskey….” +“Jackass.” +Gia listened with a bored expression on her face. “Okay Robin Hood, why don’t we wager something non-monetary?” +“Sexual favors?” I had to try. +“Uh no. How about just favors… How about if I win you have to do whatever I say for twenty minutes?” +“And if I win?” +She smiled mischievously, “I’ll give you my underwear.” +“You mean panties?” Dean said it with touch of sarcastic dandy in his voice. +“Ya panties…underwear whatever…” +“No Gia, see there’s a big difference… underwear is what guys and ugly girls wear… lovely young ladies such as yourself where panties,” Dean smiled at her. +“Okay I’ll give you my panties (roll of the eye, flitter of the lash) …right here in the middle of the bar…” +“Alright it’s a bet.” I wasn’t sure exactly what use I would have for women’s underwear, panties, pasties, drawers, knickers, or snatch covers by any other name, but it did make a good healthy fuck that much closer and I needed one of those. “My shot eh?” +“Yep” (leering, challenging grin) +I just smiled and took a shot. It dropped and so did the next five I aimed at. The eightball however refused to cooperate. Gia was a little disgruntled and flustered, she missed her shot and I dropped the eightball in the corner. I smiled at her and held out my hand. +She rolled her body around so that her back was pressed tight against my stomach and pulled my neck down and whispered in my ear. “I’m not wearing any…” And she walked away. +I let her go without protest and Dean racked a new game. We played doubles him and Delilah against Sara and me. Sara didn’t like me one bit and we lost badly, but we all got drunk with Guinness, with the blues, the pool game, with laughter, and innocence. Clarence, the singer, tore off on rant, extolling everyone to loooooove and kicked into an old Lightnin’ Hopkins song about a black Cadillac; Gia came back and sat on the other side of the table and stared at me smiling. Just then Scratch came strolling in and then the wildfire really got going. The clink of shot glasses raised in celebration of nothing, the clatter of them slammed down on the table, the burning beauty of good whiskey hitting the back of my throat; it all skips merry metallic through the night. The pinging of the pool balls and the thump and clatter as they bounce off felt walls and find their way into the pockets… it mixes with voices, laughter, lewdness strung out on a line with six fish to single hook. The fisher king rose from the back of the room and Gia said, “Its last call!” +“Damn!” Dean ran for the bar. +Scratch curled his lip and screwed up his face. “Jesus,” he called after him, “It not like there isn’t a ton more back at the house.” He paused a beat and then added, “You are coming over aren’t you girls?” +Naturally. Everyone is going everywhere and we are all running rampant and expansive by the time we hit the street. The lights cover the streets in prismatic splendor. Scratch drove down so all six of us pile in a 1972 Mercedes —shit brown and dancing upside down around the chandelier. +Gia leaned out the window and flashed her tits at a group of high school hoodlums smoking cigarettes on the corner. They whistled and yelled come back here baby.” +“Sorry… She yelled, “you wouldn’t know what to do with me if you had me.” Scratch laid it on the gas and we torn around the corner. I was rubbing on Gia’s nipple and she leaned her head back drunkenly mumbling “you’re gonna know what to do with me right?” +“Don’t worry about a thing.” I noticed as we pulled off that one of the kids was sitting on a fire hydrant away from the others reading a book. + + +It was well after two when we got back to the house and Scratch produced the bottle of chartreuse. By the time Morphine hit the stereo we were in full swing again. Delilah danced with Scratch or tried since his dancing is a bit limited by his injuries. Gia pulled me into her waist and swayed her hips grinding gently into me with the undulations of the bass and saxophone dancing through the air. Everything was colored in gaslamp light and arranged like cobblestone streets I got lost in Gia’s emerald eyes, lost in wonder, sheer wonder at the idea that this might be the very reason all four of us ever came into existence, that this one moment of abandonment to wine, music and the mysterious permeating rhythm of the universe. It’s everywhere… in her eyes, in the way the books are arranged on the shelf behind the sofa, in Scratch’s hobbled dance, in Delilah’s bouncing auburn curls, in the sway of Gia’s waving raven hair, in the beat of the drum in the pulse of energy that carried us from one end of the living room to the other. Dean is tapping it out with his feet sitting on the couch but leaning forward and lifting up Sara’s skirt like he was checking the ripeness of produce. +Eventually I passed Gia off to Scratch, flopped on the couch and poured myself a glass of red wine. As I was doing so I glanced out the window and somewhere on the blurry edge of the reflected inside and what I could see by the light outside, reality merged and I saw a man standing on the edge of small lakeside dock such as one sees in New England. He was looking up at the sky or out across the lake I could not tell but I could see his suit was tattered and his back hunched as if he were rather old. He took a deep breath, sighed and then the image was gone as suddenly as it had appeared. I thought of children’s rhyme just yesterday there was man on the stair who wasn’t there/ he was there again today…. Gia lay down across me and turned her head in so that he breath was warm on my stomach, she looked up at me with he liquid glass eyes and smiled a tilted drunken smile. I returned with one of my own, but I was looking at her breasts, they were rising out of her dress. +“Just so you know, I don’t go to bed with everyone I meet….” +“Never would have thought that….” +“Ya sure… all men think that a woman who lets herself get picked up in a bar is a slut.” +“That’s not true…” Dean piped up from the other end of the couch. “Women are no different than men, we all need sex….” +“Ya no shit.” Sara spoke up for the first time. “I hate it that I’m supposed to act all coy and demure when in reality sometimes you just need some dick and you really don’t care where it comes from so long as its not there when you wake up. I mean I want to fall in love and be swept off my feet too, but not tonight….” +Dean got up and pulled Sara off the couch with him, they danced slowly for a minute, kissing and then his hands groped at her ass and they veered off into the a dark corner away from the couch where they fell into a chair and all over each other. Scratch was less subtle he flung himself on the cushion next to me and Delilah pounced on him snaking her hand down his pants. Gia rolled over and began to blow through my pants; warm air flowed around my cock and it grew hard. Gia bit and nibbled at it while I tried to dodge her by flexing my muscles and making it jump. She laughed and broke the silence that had settled over the room. +“I have heard that Sil is hard to have sex with because he spends most of the time laughing,” Scratch snickered at me. +“Ya? I like to laugh… but I think I can make him stop if I want to…” +“Oh you think that now…” Dean called from across the room. +There is something hilarious about the grunting animal reality of sex, but I wasn’t in the mood for Scratch and Dean’s silly reindeer games so I scooped Gia up and carried her into Scratch’s bedroom and locked the door. I laid her on the bed as best I could but the last foot or so was more gravity’s work than mine. She yelped and I dove on her. In the crook of her neck I caught the smell of Jasmine or Frankincense or Myrrh, a pungent odor of beauty that wafts about through this world all the time —you catch it in the fall air, intangible but just barely, it hangs on the edge of recognition, the edge of the known and unknowable. She made up for that. She was all there and then some. And then she kissed me. There was the taste of hot cigarette smoke on her tongue; I caught it greedily the way plants grow to the sun, drawn by the familiar. She tasted like orange blossoms or smelled like them or felt like them, powdered sprinkled orange blossoms. They were in her eyes the smell came out of her eyes and then she opened them stared at me for a while hanging on the edge of my lips. There was no word, no sound; no connection at all just lips resting together, sticky, warm honey kiss. There was a riot of color that streaked by my eye, with all the fanfare of the flags at the opening ceremonies of the Olympics. She rose up in black leather pants out of a sea Jasmine, Sunflowers, Scarlet Sage, Rocket Larkspur, Lupines, Butterfly Weed; there were riots of color, indigo and vermilion, violet, lavender and softer tones too, pastels and baby's breathe. I felt delirious and rolled over onto my back. Gia climbed a stride me. The black leather of her pants ground against my cock. We kissed ferociously and tore at each others clothes and then she grabbed a handful of my hair and held my head while half biting on my ear and half whispering the words you are not going to fuck me… the world stood still and roared for a millisecond and then fell as her lips bit at my neck and she clenched her thighs around my leg and ground her cunt against me. I could feel the heat on my leg and the pant of her breathe in my ear. I grabbed her hair and pulled her neck back so that she gasped and I started to fuck her with words. This was no Amy and this was no cheesy attempt to put zing back in an otherwise dull sex life; these were raw, skinned, de-boned words of lust not fiction at all but happening in. I told her what I felt. I felt the warmth of her cunt I felt how badly it need to be fucked; I became cunt and talked her right up to the edge and then stopped and tried to pulled away whispering what made you think I wanted to fuck you? But as I tried to pull away her legs tightened again and she fucked my leg until she came. + She relented and I sat up on the edge of the bed with my cock straining against my pants. She reached behind her, grabbed a pack of cigarettes, pulled one out and lit it. She smoked between gasps; her hands were shaking a little. She looked at me and started laughing, giggling mirth that eased any lingering tension out through the glass and left us in the warm fecund waters of silence. She took another drag and I just watched her, too exhaust to move. She was beautiful to a fault, but she had an earthy ethereal mixture to her skin that made her seem at once detached and warm. He lips pursed teasingly around the filter of her cigarette and she regarded me with raised eyebrow. Her eyebrows arced off brown eyes and her black hair was tussled atop her head, she looked disheveled and out of order the way everyone looks after coming. Raw and beautiful. And then she looked me straight in the eye and said, “I am going to give you the best blowjob you have ever had…. Right after I finish this cigarette.” + Not with your clothes on I thought to myself. I undid her belt and she wiggled herself out of her pants and underwear. I pulled her down so she was lying prone and spread her legs. I got down and inspected her cunt. It wasn’t dolled up or trimmed, it was an honest slit. I poked in a finger and wiggled it a bit to hear her moan. I smiled at her. She rolled her eyes faking boredom and took another drag. I started in eating at that honest slit; the hair around her cunt was soft not like most I have felt, like it had been conditioned. She smelled husky but with something light on the end of it —lilacs maybe. She tasted thick like heavy rich syrup. It wasn’t long before she was bucking her hips and fucking at my face. She was hoarsely growling out commands and then she came again. +It was my turn to light a smoke. I sat on the end of the bed digging through my pockets for a lighter. Gia came over and took a drag. Everything was happening in slow motion… her legs half arced out behind her and she leaned over at me looking at me from under her forehead, eyes clouded with something I could not yet feel, something trance like, drugged passion. She swayed there for a few seconds teasingly and the she started rubbing my already stiff cock through my pants and murmuring to herself. She picked at my belt like a bird peeling the husk from a coconut and then in one gruff movement she fished out my cock and squeezed it gently with the tips of her fingers. Her lips pressed together and she leaned her head against it with eyes closed. It was then that I heard the bass fading in and the sharp tap of a snare drum, my head collapsed back like a nod from heroin and I felt her tongue circling the swollen head of my cock. I rolled around to look down at her. She looked up at my movement and smiled with her mouth open and her tongue teasing the underside of my cock. Still looking at me she engulfed me in her mouth and tussled her head slightly sending tremors down the base of my spine and uncomfortably settling them in my ass. She seemed to sense this and used her hand to massage my balls and slowly, wetly started slurping up and down. Her free hand she wrapped lightly in front of her mouth and alternated between her hand and her mouth and just when I felt it start to build deep in the base of my cock, all the way back down inside my body she stopped, stood up and climbed up on me so that her cunt was in my face and her head returned to its work below. I stared absently at the cum that clung to short-cropped hair they glistened with moisture. I worked my tongue up her and for a moment lost track of what she was doing and then like blinding flash my cock came back to me full force with waves of pleasure that pealed up my body and work themselves out through my tongue and back into her body. A strange loop of energy circled through us out of the humidity, out of the heat, out of the jungle, out of her cunt into my mouth and out my cock into her mouth... endlessly. A loop of something that tightened and squeezed at us constricting itself slowly into concentric circles until the loop became a dot and we came at the same time flowing cum in each others mouths. It is one thing to cum together with a woman when you are fucking, that happens with some frequency. But I had never cum at the same time during oral sex. As I lapped at her flooding cunt I became aware of the need to breath and her leg's gentle collapsed onto my shoulder and she slowly rose up with her arms on my knees and swishing her wet cunt against my bare chest. She turned around and we kissed, I could taste my cum and her mouth and she licked across my lips to taste her own. She curled up in my lap and we lay motionless and silent for sometime. + “I need water… you want some.” +“Ya I might sleep for second…” Her eyelids looked heavy, she smiled at me sleepily. “Will you fuck me later? I mean with your cock? I need to feel your cock.” +“Of course. Sleep a second, I’m going to get some water.” I headed out to the kitchen and found Dean and Scratch sitting on the couch talking softly in candlelight. They smiled at me. +“Doing alright?” I realized I was naked, but I didn’t care. I grabbed a pack of cigs off the table and sat down to light one. +“So Sil… I was just telling Dean here that I have job opportunity for the two of you… or just Dean if you don’t want to….” +“Lay it on me.” +“Well okay now this guy I sell to sometimes at the restaurant, one of the dishwashers, he has a cousin up in Brooklyn who wants to buy my entire harvest in one fall swoop which makes me quite a bit of money and saves a lot of hassle. That’s where you come in… you drive it up there and I will cut you guys in on a thousand each, plus gas money….” +“What about a car?” +“This is the best part…” whispered Dean, laughing softly. +Scratch chuckled to and then said with exaggerated severity, “There will be 1959 Cadillac at your disposal. Of course there is going to be ten pounds of marijuana in it so you might want to drive it like a Yugo, but anyway you drive it up there, call me and I will confirm that I have received the money and then you tell me where it’s parked and you’re done. I’ll wire you the money.” +I was already feeling the rush of the air and floating ride of a caddy. I saw it convertible and black. I didn’t say anything for a moment. I looked at Dean and I could see that he was going to do it with or without me, he was probably secretly hoping I wouldn’t. We could kiss our lives goodbye if we got caught…. Ten pounds would land us in prison and it didn’t really matter how long we got…we’d be dead the first day. But that thought only lasted a second and it was quickly replaced by an image of Gia’s naked body spread sleepily across the bed. I said yes and stumbled on to the kitchen. I grabbed a glass and turned on the water, but I set the glass on the counter and leaned against the sink just staring at the water running down the drain. I must have stared at it for quite sometime because Dean came in and poured himself a glass and then turned it off. +“You okay man?” +I started laughing, great peels of laughter that were uncontrollable, his words had burst some sort of dam that had been holding it back; I slumped against the cabinet and kept laughing and laughing, deep rolls of laughter that started somewhere below the gut and wouldn’t stop. Dean shook his head at me and walked back to the living room. I heard the flick of his lighter and I stopped laughing. I collected myself, got another glass and filled it to the top. I went back and crawled in bed with Gia. + + + + + + + + + + +The bus takes a left and heads up North Rampart Street. This is by far the worst neighborhood in New Orleans. The buildings themselves look violent, the shattered windows the abandoned factories are black eyes on the face of beaten man slinking home unnoticed through the shadows. There is only on place that most drivers will stop down here, in front of the superdome and even then it is only if someone rings that bell. For the most part the bus roars right through as if the driver were trying to keep something from getting in it, although what that something is no one can tell me. This place, area, ghetto, is reputed to be the worst in America. + Today the streets are empty. Its Sunday afternoon, September, the perfect time to be in New Orleans, not too crowded, not too hot, just about broasted to perfection. The streets are modeled I guess after France, but I wouldn’t know as I have never been to France except on grand mental sojourns. Still this is how I picture Parisian streets, the trademark metal railings woven with hyacinth and framing narrow balconies. The ride from Scratch’s house, which is just north of the garden district, not in the midst of Anne Rice’s finery, but more toward the French Quarter, the edge of the acceptable part of town, takes about twenty minutes by bus. From here I head up through the French Quarter for an afternoon walk, but it is the trolley ride that really sets my mind in motion, it passes through as I said the worst of the worst, but it is a lesson in American history, not the usual textbook fare either, no here is real history where you can see the casualties of human folly first hand. +The south actually has history in the common sense of the word, that is they have been invaded, and usually when people talk about history it is in reference to war or more so the ravages of war. Most Americans not living in the south tend to view the Civil War much like the revolutionary war, so much ancient history, when in reality it is only four maybe five generations removed. I try to bear that in mind on the trolley. These people and these neighborhoods have seen if not with their own eyes than through the eyes of their relatives, the horrors of war, slavery, riot, crime, violence and all the other jewels of history. +The architecture is old, ancient for America, but not preserved or taken care of as in the nicer neighborhoods. I take the bus because the people are savages so I am told. From the paper, and the gossip of the town this here is only one step above Beirut, but it doesn’t look it. The Cuban man selling roses out of a bucket for a dollar a longstem does not strike me as a cut throat murderer or drug running thug, he strikes me as non white, which as I have said earlier is unacceptable in this country. To be sure we have no slaves anymore in the physical sense, but equality is lacking, separation not equality was the route chosen by our forefathers. Or perhaps they did not choose it at all, perhaps no one is to blame, perhaps we are all guilty of the same thing, whites, blacks, Jews, Muslims, Europeans, Cubans Arabs, the whole rabble lot of humanity guilty as Mussolini. +The architecture is European; everything in fact is closer to Europe than the rest of America, and by Europe I mean the southern parts. There is of course the French influence in houses of the French Quarter, but there is also the Italian, the Portuguese, and the hybrids, the Cuban, the Haitian, the Mexican. New Orleans is the least American of all American cities I have lived in and yet it still has that stale death stink of America about it. Perhaps it is actually in the soil and leeches itself into DNA over time; this explains why New Englanders are the worst of the lot, but fails to account for the Native American tribes that seem unaffected. Perhaps they had a genetic immunity that the Europeans lacked. +But today is as I said a beautiful day and I am not in a hurry to get through the French quarter, usually until I have crossed over into the very north side the gay district in walk with my head down at tope speed weaving in and out of the throngs of tourists and head straight for the Elysian Fields. I always walk down to Elysian Fields, my favorite street by the simple virtue of name and at the end of it on the Lake Pontchartain there is a little bench of rock and wood which overlooks and the lake. I stop here and make notes about what I see walking, little furious scribbles while watching the afternoon thunderstorms roll across the water. Its about five miles there and back so I have the entire afternoon occupied. +Today Lakeshore drive is devoid of traffic, it feel a bit like I would imagine it if one survived a nuclear holocaust —serene, welcoming, dancing, empty. + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + diff --git a/veryold/very old writings/gone book/river iam.txt b/veryold/very old writings/gone book/river iam.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2300fc1 --- /dev/null +++ b/veryold/very old writings/gone book/river iam.txt @@ -0,0 +1,73 @@ + Night feels torn apart by the clutching, broken-china voice of the wheels grinding uphill wailing the ancient Indian woman’s song. Song of what I am not sure, she speaks, they speak a different language something more primal, more guttural and I can not understand what they mean, but I feel it rattling its way up through my dangling feet, feel it in the vibration of the boxcar floor as it rattles and lurches across the uneven tracks. My head lists involuntarily, pulled downward by the inescapable gravity of the desert. Utah is laid bare in moonlight, harsh and forlornly beautiful it lulls the mind, spreads out ones thoughts like the dotted Juniper trees, creosote bushes, and gnarled twisted trunks of the mosquite; vast open tracks of sand and rock inhabit the empty spaces like waves of light in space, they exist but only as a vacuum as a reminder of emptiness. The moon is full tonight reflecting its pale solar continace across the land in imitation daylight, the mosquite lowlands are beginning to be usurped by once more by grasslands and Junipers of the high desert. +This train is slow, a plodding freighter loaded with something that is apparently in no great rush to get anywhere, it’s a better ride than the first on I hopped… that one was fast, blinding fast and I suffered from velocity sickness which is my name for the strange restless queasy feeling I had the entire time I was in that car. This train is slow lazy and I managed to befriend the brakeman; I am not hiding anymore I am not slinking about in the shadows. I am stretched out on a flatbed; an open car that the brakeman says will be filled with logs at some point through the Rockies. I haven’t decided yet if I will go that far, in the mean time, because we have to stop a lot for faster trains to pass, the brakeman will wait for me to get coffee and food provided I bring him some which I do without hesitation, I even buy it for him despite his protests. His name is Joe and originally he was supposed to drive me from the railyard in Flagstaff down to the sheriff’s station where I was to be book on several counts of trespassing, vagrancy (a fancy name for existence, which sadly is illegal in most places), and several others I am not sure of, but I talked him out of it. We reached a more amicable solution, one of mutual aid; I wanted to ride the rails and Joe wanted someone to talk to on his lonely ride from here to Denver. So today I sat up with him in the engine room where the whirling lights and strange computer guidance systems dragged us out of the pine forests of Flagstaff and across the windswept high country where for more than five hours we did not see a tree or any shrub save the endless seas of grass dancing like senoritas at the town fiesta. +Joe hails from the lexicon of true Americanism —individuality. He is a rustic grisly type of man, the kind that inhabit the backwater towns of the west, ornery you might say, but he is not ornery he is simply inhuman like me. Which is to say that humanity or ‘syphilization,’ as one misanthropic author referred to it, has no hold on Joe, false modesty, false politeness and false pretense have been shed here like dry useless lizard skin. Joe hails from somewhere older, livelier and healthier his ancestors are the men who lived beside ponds and didn’t write books, who hold court with the mysteries of the universe and don’t attend church, who know what life has taught them and who have there own ideas about morality, reality and humanity. Joe represents a rare breed one that should have flourished on this continent, but as in the case with a seed that never gets water, their lot is small and dwindling. +Joe could well be me in thirty years, he looks about sixty maybe younger but the years he has walked through have taken their toll. He has a salt and pepper scruff beard and piercing blue eyes; he told me about the war by which I think he meant the second world war; he hates Steven Spielberg, says it wasn’t like that movie at all; he has a wife in Moab and two daughters both married and living back east. His stories are endless and my patience is too so we drifted, undulating with the sway of the train, his words came out in growling whispers just loud enough to here over the noise of the wheels and the engine, but without yelling or even appearing to raise his voice. He talked with rhythm of the train, we went around a bend and Joe went in on the beach at Normandy, we started uphill and Joe moved out west after the war, we went through a tunnel and Joe fell silent mid sentence. That kind of creeped me out, but when we emerged back into the blinding midday sun he started into his courtship and marriage without missing a beat and I learned that for Joe, when you are underground it is best not to talk. +Lying on my back trying to piece his life together I get lost, lost in the stars. The moon is to my back but in front down near the horizen the stars are visible, scant few tonight but they are there; the invisble the inky blackness that is between them is the pure white void of space. It is the void, the spaces in between them, the vast open empty tracks of sky, the darkness that is the platinum setting into which little diamonds, rubies, amethysts, and emeralds are laid… it is there that life exists in between the arbitrary line of reality and phantsmal yawning mouth of imagination. Look at the stones, the setting, the band, but none of it is so beautiful as the empty space between her finger in which all life hides. The space that allows it to pass through your hair, to fit your fingers, to stroke your chest, kneed your back and for the space and the space alone you should be grateful. Grateful that there is emptiness for without there would be nothing. I am grateful for you, I am grateful to all the spaces in between so that you can ignore them so that you can continue to fill them with jealousy, with fear, without understanding, but do not be afraid everything is okay…. +The night sky was thrown into being by the great god badger who in an effort to steal it from the last world accidentally pulled to hard and it went soaring up over his head where it stuck to the ceiling of life. No Hopi mythology there, just my educated opinion, just how it looks from here... But I am not thinking about the sky right now I am just looking at it; I am thinking about the Indian town back on the reservation where I bought us dinner. I bought cornmeal cakes and beans from a wizened old Navaho woman who inhabited an abode hut that glowed orange in the setting sun. The store was closed but the woman approached me asked if I wanted to buy dinner, I did and she took me to her hut; in the middle there was a fire and a pot of food on it along with too smudge faced Indian girls maybe four or five years old. They watched me intently in silence with enormous liquid brown eyes that seemed irrigated with understanding far beyond the physical age of their bodies. As the old woman wrapped the corn cakes and beans in foil I got lost in a strange hobbit-like land where the true secrets of the universe were about to be revealed as beans and corn bread seen through the eyes of a child, it was a pregnant moment. Then she brought me to by insisting that I take one of her chocolate Jesus statues for desert. I thought about a Tom Waits’ song, about a minister I knew once who wouldn’t allow his parishioners to sell donuts at church and about the good Jesus himself; what must he think if he really was the son of god and really is watching, what must he think of being molded in wax, filled with chocolate and wrapped in colored foil? +I thought that Joe, being a Mormon by conversion might be offended, he struck me as a serious guy when it came to religion, but he just laughed and laughed said “what will they think of next?” or words to the effect and he devoured Christ’s chocolate body. Finally I thought as I watched Joe eat, someone is enjoying the body of Christ. And even now I think, in arrogantly retelling history, that if Christ was indeed the son of god he will come down here tonight in fire and brimstone and he will extend a hand out to the two men, the only two men who ever took of his body and ate with lust, with vigor with the true enjoyment of being alive, for if there is one thing undeniable out here it is that we are alive. We may not being doing anything, we may be talking or staring at the passing scenery through the dirty cockpit window or we may be climbing on the roof of a boxcar, but whatever we are doing we fundamentally alive. I say this because there is no reason for humans to exist out here at all. We lack the specialization of desert evolution, we are not covered with barbs and spikes, we do not have thick skin which can hold water seemingly indefinitely, we are pulpy fragile creatures we ought to be dead, but somehow we are not and we are more alive because of it, we are aware. We are here by an act of will —our own. It takes an act of will to realize that you are alive that is my revelation for tonight. +I light a cigarette and throw back the sleeping bag, it is September and the night is cool, I throw on my jacket and walk to edge of the car and let my feet dangle off the side. We are doing about forty I would guess, fast enough to do some serious damage if I fall, but slow enough to study individual plants as they pass by at about ten yards away. I have never been to Coney island, but for me this is an amusement park the landscape itself is so alien as to remain forever fascinating. It illuminates a part of my personality that is as esoteric as this desert. We are picking up speed and heading downhill into the canyon country. I know this because Joe showed me the maps, pointed out scenic spots when I ought to sleep and when I ought to be awake and amazed, but I like it all. Sometimes the less scenic things are the more beautiful they become, that quite ineffable sense of beauty which require the careful turning of the eye to detect; such as a trash strew alley that you find yourself staring at after waking up in a gutter behind a bar in SoHo. Or the way the smog lifts slightly almost imperceptibly off the mountains surrounding Mexico City everyday around seven o’clock. +Or the way this juniper tree is sitting alone clinging to the side of the canyon wall able to exist in the slightest most overlooked fissure surrounded by a monolith of compressed sandstone which yields nothing, there is only the one tree here. That this tree could be able to survive is miraculous, but in end explainable, what is not explainable is me, that I should be here, that is should be right here on this train, at this moment, staring at this tree is truly miraculous. I was not scattered to the wind with thousands of my fellow seeds, I did not lodge in a crevasse, I was not carried by wind, I did not get just the right amount of sunlight and water. I was planned from the beginning, I nice addition to a nice couple who were themselves nice additions to an already nice town that was part of nice and highly advanced civilization almost at the end of its second thousand years of existence. All my life is orchestrated by something, pushed and pulled about by forces which can be explained with, goddesses, DNA, evolution, badgers, crows, old women, trister poets, visionary superbeings of alpha centary, but the end conclusion by all humanity it seems is that something is controlling things. There is no freedom for me, no wind to carry me, no water or soil to nourish and no light by which I can grow. There is no visible thing gravity that pulls on me, there is nothing tangible about DNA, I live in betseen all mythology sandwiched like a chucalwalla in a sandstone crevasse. I have learned infinite things, made them finite, knowable. I have built great castles, great monuments, great societies, great people and torn them all down again to start over. I have lived a thousand lonely huddled nights from bearskin to tapateries to the silk sheets of Manhattan nights; I have climbed every mountain peak slide down the cree and talus slopes of meeting with pharoahs, Voudans, with moses and god; I have held a billion women lovingly in my arms and give birth to a trillion children through all historyies wombs from Sarah to Satan all filled themselves with my nurishments. but I still do not know who I am or why I am here. I am Everyone and I am driving myself mad. + + + +Today at dawn this is the most beautiful place on earth. I get up not having slept much, not that that is out of the ordinary these days, balancing myself and reorienting to the sense of movement that has not left my head for almost 36 hours now, I stretch and yawn greedily like an insomniac does. The sky is green yet, not long till dawn by when I must be in the engine compartment because today the tracks run beside US highway 60 and I can not be seen. I am secret, I must be hard to find. My precarious journey over four boxcars to the engine is rewarded with the smell of frying bacon, eggs, coffee and biscuits. Joe smiles his craggy grin, in the electric lights his teeth are yellowed and stained with coffee and cigarettes, but rather than being grotesque the seem only to add character. +“I was just going to blow the whistle to let you know that breakfast is served.” He hands me a cup of coffee. “Beautiful night wasn’t it?” Joe seems to now sleep at all. +“Yes it was,” I mumble as I try to sip the coffee, but it is still too hot. +“Here….” He hands me a plate full of greasy bacon and eggs with two biscuits perched precariously on either side. “Let's eat on the roof, we’re not by the road yet.” The way he says road gets me, his voice has a hatred in it, a bitterness towards this thing the road. We go up on the roof and eat in silence. All around us the sky is a color show. The green begins to fade, replaced by the first crimson rays reflected on the bottoms of the wind carved clouds. The first direct rays of the sun find me chewing on the last piece of bacon, I close my eyes and we welcome each other across the ninety three million-mile void. +I open to a squint and turn around, behind us lies the akdjflkd, endless grass and somewhere in the middle the kdjlkadkj; to the north there is the escalanted wilderness, the green river and the largest uninhabited area in north America; to the south and east there is the maze, Canyonlands and Natural bridges National parks, the confluence of the green and Colorado rivers, and somewhere a tiny speck of a town called Moab where we will be putting in for two days to load rock and other assorted things. +“Quartz and sand mostly, which we’ll be dumping in Denver, but whatever the case I wanted to invite you to my house to have a home cooked meal with my wife and I. She’s a real looker and great cook too.” He laughs and nudges me in the ribs. “She was a beauty queen in high school, she was miss Hoboken and might have been Miss America if she hadn’t decided to give the whole thing up and go to college… course I’m glad she did ‘cause that’s where I got her….” +I hem and haw non commitally thanking him for the offer, but not agreeing to it just yet. I head back down to do the dishes and then I splash cold water on my face in the tiny bathroom and study my face in the cracked tarnished little mirror. Things look good; a little haggard here and there, weathered a bit by the years perhaps, but still young still enthusiastic. I spot a gray hair sprouting out of my closely cropped scalp, but the skin is still soft and smooth; I need a shave, but that is of no concern out here. Back on the roof I smoke a cigarette while Joe calls into the Moab station. After a while he yells up to tell me that the yard will be empty when we arrive, today is Sunday he informs me, and this is Mormon country —nothing happens on Sunday. +“You know a lot of my friends were pretty hard on me for converting and they was downright pissed when we got hitched in the Tabernacle, but I tell ya… Mormons may have some strange ideas and beliefs but on the whole they are some of the best people I’ve ever met. Sure it’s a little ridiculous there bible and all what with zebra’s running around here —imagine that! Zebras here!— and I don’t think the ol Mr. Young really carried those gold tablets under his arm, and why god called himself Moroni I have no idea…. But in spite of all that ridiculousness which really is no more ridiculous than the Catholic’s eating wafers of gods body or the Jew’s giving things up for no real reason at all once or twice a year… it all ridiculous when you think about it objectively. But what I have noticed having a Mormon wife and a lot of Mormon friends is that they build real communities… they are good people at a level that is very basic and seemingly below the more refined religions…. Your average Catholic will walk by the poor bum on the street and give him a nickel or a quarter, but your average Mormon will invite the man to their home for a meal and offer them a shower and of course a little counselling on the true church of God, but when a man’s belly is full and his hair clean he can listen to that sort of nonsense. I don’t believe a word of it, but I took the vow because it made my wife happy and I would do anything to see that woman smiling….” +Joe smiled at me and said that I could stay on the roof of the engine so long as he was down below, that way anyone watching would think that I was him. So I sat up there letting the wind hit me in the face, sunning myself across Utah, land of Mormons —for now. One day I suspect the Tabernacal will fall, the religion will dwindle and disappear like every other civilization, but for now they reign over god’s last piece of land. And what a land this is here. The tracks have climbed back out of the canyon country and we are on the mesa tops cruising at thirty five toward the Big Switch as Joe called it. The Big Switch is apparently the only non computerized part of the journey where Joe will have to stop the train and get out and actually throw the heavy iron handle to switch us over to the track that heads down to Moab. Once he drives the train past it he has to stop again and walk back and switch it again so that the next train can pass on by. It remains manual because most trains do not stop in Moab anymore, most of them pick up a few cars that have been driven up or just don’t even slow at all. + It was Dean who pointed out the curve in the tracks behind his mother apartment complex, which he really only did for one reason —so that I could catch a train. I had never ridden on a train be it hoping a boxcar or buying a ticket. I didn’t have enough for the ticket that much was certain and I knew that there were some lingering stiff vagrancy laws and such penalties as to keep people from riding for free, but I had never been on a train. The chief reason that I had never been on a train though was that I had never been near a train. Never lived near a station or had a track pass through the neighborhood. As child the best part about going to my grandmother’s house was that in the course of the hour long drive we crossed a train track and occasionally we would even get there just as a train was passing. Something about them always got to me, the way they roared along, not fast, but roaring a primal movement that harkens back to more primitive days. You could see the past in them when travel was something worth doing. Airplanes had power and thrill, but trains have something bigger something all together more massive about them, they do not roar they lumber and lurch they are more human than the smooth sterility of the car or the powerful speed of the plane +I stare off at the distant looming La Salle Mountians where first frosts are melting in the morning sun, Dean my old friend who set all this in motion, whose life existed as a catalyist for my own just as mine existed as a catalyst for his; so it is with brothers be they of blood or not. When I think of Dean I think of him as he was a year ago when we touched down in Paris, his hair jet black and greased back in a fashion that was at once greaser and not, he looked as if he were completely at ease in his own skin. We both had on suits, not expensive once like we wanted, but ones that we handed down or bought at thrist stores, we were highly incongruous with the international image of what an American ought to be. Or I think of a photograph I took at the Little Knight so many years ago or was that only months? Dean is in the a pinstriped suit, carefully greased hairline pure black and illuminating his face framing it in the luminesnce of empty space, the eyes are laughing, but the lips barely curl, womething intangible is lurking under the skin and bones. Another from the same night caught Dean unawares as he leaned against the wall and watched the crowd. His arm is blurred lifting the everpresent cigarette to his lips and all around his swirling women’s hair and exited arm waving men fade into a faceless blur, in the middle there is Dean, standing still like the hummingbird. +Dean is right now probably just getting off the internet where he was undoubtedly chatting with bilixa66 the girl whom he is in love with, but tries to deny it. Right now his weary bones are preparing for rest and I am gliding along through Elysian fields. So it goes. Everyone everywhere is doing something different than me right now, I know this because I am alone. I am playing mental solitare then infinite game which doesn’t pay anymind to rulles like time or space. Time is an inconsequential and inconvenian human invention which the traveler learns to disregard and ignore. There are two games going on one is the time game in which all society and interaction with humanity, ones culture, ones beliefs, once hopes and goals all thing bounded by time, in the other game there is the infinte self which has no time no dreams, no humanity, no space no thing. It is the seemless interaction of the two that create what we formally call the ego, the self, the thing that is perceivable, identifiable, and recognizable. One can see or be seen depending on which game you want to play. The train is slowing, the turn off to Moab is nearing, from the Big Switch it is only about half an hour down into the canyon carved long ago by the green river. I am wandering back to my flatbed to gather up my things and hide out in the cabin of the engine; I am thinking about how to ditch Joe without offending him, I need to get off the train andout into the desert, Everything is falling away like great sheets of burn skin sliding off the greasy shiny red flesh that lies beneath the surface. That was how it went this morning. + + + +It was four in the afternoon when I said goodbye to Joe and headed off down Moab’s main drag toward the mountaineering shop to see about a ride up into canyonlands. I left it open with Joe so that if the urge struck to go back to the train into denver I could, but I was intent only on getting to Canyonlands for now. One thing at a time, evverything one at a time, nothing in pieces everything all at once fell to pieces. I got a ride from two hippies rock climbers clad in the fashion of the earth first and other environemtnal activitists who share aside from a love of the wilderness apparently the same love of Kakhi’s, Tevas, Tofu and flat tasteless foodstuffs that originate in the same facotires that make oreos. Funny folks the country culture these days, like ldemocrats and republicans they are differential from there enemies primarily by custom and fashion. The radical tree camping, pottery making, hemp weaving, Dave Foreman worshipping, mushroom eating, toms of maine consuming hippie-enviromental-social consciousness raising-guitar playing radical of the outback is no different than the BMW driving, Starbucks drinking, software writing, technology worshipping, juice drinking, spa loving, health club hopping, slandes wearing dog walking, family rasing white picket fence building, church attending drug abstaining yuppie eviel consumer destroying the world capitalist pig set that the so-called radical crowd hates with such superior disdaim. One uses Tom’s of Maine and the other crest, beyond that they are the same. My hippie climber friends bought trail mix and candles at the super market while I opted for steak, beans and potatos with a bag of chemically enhanced brickets that would light from my cigarette butt. Its all a matter of taste. I requested paper bags and rolled them up so they wouldn’t abandon me for not being one of there own. I rode in the back of there bus which turned the hourlong drive from Moab to the Est entrance of Canyonlands into a three hour long crawl. As we switchbacked up the canyon walls to the top of the Mesa country Dave and Tom grilled me on my beliefs, they were both college student on a semester long vacation so I could forgive them for still being tangeled up in ideas but it wore on me after a while. They were astonished that I did not vote, that I never had, but was not disillusioned with the political system, I just don’t give shit one way or the other. +“Man if you don’t vote you give up your say in what goes on in the world man, come on how are we going to change things if everybody has that attitude? Why are you going to be giving up your power to change things man? Some people would die for a chance to vote…?” +Its better those people go right a head and die I am think but aloud I try to formulate something less offensive to their tender idealist hearts. “Perhaps Tom I don’t want to change anything… perhaps I coulld if a itried, but what if I don’t want too?” +I figured to let them do the talking and they did all the way across the grasslands right on into the campground, I learned the Toms of Maine was better because it was natural, Teva was better because it did not use child slave labor and that one acre of farmland can support a faimly of ten with vegetables of two hamburgers worth of cow if it is grazed. I don’t personally give a shit either way. Is fast as I could I said my thanks to the Dave and Tom and wandered down the road to an open campsite where I proceeded to build a fire in the light of the fading sun with its crimson glow licking across the thunderheads to my back. It was the still about eighty degrees and I was sweating in the heat of the fire, but I wanted a steak. I was staring at the sizzling fat dripping from the enormous side of beef I had bought thinking of a woman I had never seen staring at a well in the French countryside. I felt an effluence of enthusiasm; the taproot broke through dry soil and was swamped by underground water. The sizzled meat melted down to the flavor of sweet salt, the mixture of spices and blood. My plate was stained a greasy pink Moroccan-color with each carving slice of the knife and the potato swam about in the bloody grease tailing is own gooey mixture of butter and pulverized potato flesh like a tanker ship leaking crude oil in the pristine sanctity of the ocean. +I was fucking famished. With the tired wise-consumer guru advise I had endured all the way up the mountain made the dripping animal fat like a tonic elixer cleansing my artieries of stale plache of idealism realism. Nothing is ever seems so real as fiction. The world I exist in is finite, bounded and ruled by certain inescapable laws, here a house, there a job, and everywhere by the transient people and events that make up so called life. Existence takes place in the world of not I’s, the mysterious other, but that is not where I do my living. Nor does any one else. We live in the spaces in between the temporal world, the infinitude of the imagination, next to which our terrestrial existence looks flat and tasteless as a junkyard tire cracked and torn in the sun. In these moments where the internal merges flawlessly with the external I go roaring back through memories of childhood, of selves that I was truly, but am no longer today, through all the marauding personalities which have governed this thing called I. Pregnant moments are these, usually catching me unawares and throwing down a track of thought I had not expected; moments when the light of the sun breaks through the sullen clouds of an afternoon thunderstorm and hits the steeple of an old church just as you come up over a crest in the road. It smacks you in the face when you perceive something in a moment that you know is not tangibly present and yet it is real, the fluid transmission of emotion that can be tasted on the back of your tongue as well as felt beaming into your chest. The hurricane of the unconscious whirls up to the surface for moment, the imagination leaks into the real world. You catch it when she stirs at night and tosses her hair so that so that it falls across you face with the delicate odor of peach blossoms and perfume mixed with the earthiness of her organic body, fecund and warm. You hear it when the crescendo of thundering drums climbs up out of the ninth symphony and lodges in the back of your brain sending chills down your spine. Some interaction of the personal with the infinite, a stabbing at perfection transcends the ordinary moment. Every one of us has moments of transformation when we feel if only for a mere second, that something larger than the present is in the room, the sky or the music. The world gives birth before our eyes and takes us spinning down reveries and private waterslides of imagination through the twisting spiral corkscrew of imagination. How long must ancient man have wondered where do these thoughts come from? What am I to do with them? +Looking backwards with clever red sunglasses I could trace the history for you; the first thing the human species got out of these encounters was a loose clumsy word: spirituality. One day caveman Thak felt with authority that there was something beyond the simple organic, fertile, pussing matter of his body, there must be a realm august to this temporal one. Thak ruminated over this for time and finally invented language in order to describe how he felt to other prehensile monkeys. With language Thak separated us from the entire animal kingdom. Not by virtue of communication, for any one who has ever observed even the simplest of animals knows that they communicate, but rather what Thak gave us was a means of creating memories —severing us from time. Out of memory came dissention as other monkeys did not buy into Thak’s explanations and as time moved on and more voices from more and more places were heard and the general became divided and localized. Those that believed one explanation tended to associate with only those that agreed with them, they had their “gods” and they were the only gods, the contrarians on the other side of the proverbial river lacked THE TRUTH. Not much changed from then until now, there are more gods and even less comprehension of the godliness, but other than that we still behave in much the same manner as our ancient ancestors, some would same we have actually gotten worse not better. +And all of this reasoning has not in anyway helped us to understand that initial question —where are thoughts coming from? All the philosophizing rants of all the arrogant monkeys can not answer the simplest of questions: who am I ? Where is this vitality teeming from? What is emotion? What the hell is really going on down here? Why? Why can one person be moved to tears by a quartet and another put to sleep? +Much of the wonder and amazement that greeted our forebear’s is lost for us. We have explained it away, dissected, mapped, catalogued, and miniaturized it. Unable to comprehend the universe we carefully construct a replication that can be understood and ignore all the rest saying in essence that anything not comprehensible to the human mind does not exist. But it does and she knows what I am thinking before I say it and the light continues to pour through the clouds onto steeples, rocky pinnacles and the back porch of an antique house in the south where I am forced once more to stand face to face with the unknowable. Miniaturization is for small minds I say. Science is the culprit here they wrecked the whole show shrank it down and claimed to understand how it all worked. I hope they all choke on those miniaturized hors' dorve corns or get mauled by a tiny, shrunken Doberman pincer. It would give them back the humility they have tried to shed. +For a long time this miniature world was all I could see and it threw me into a depression every time it crossed my mind, but I studied it with great enthusiasm because I was looking for way out of it. The more I looked at all the evidence the farther I felt from the truth. The truth is that sometimes the light is magic and being able to explain why it has the tones and hues, how the electrons spin, says nothing about the experience of it. What good is knowing without feeling? Those moments when I am confronted with the essential mysteries of my life and perhaps even yours, all of ours, all life, are not something that can be taken apart. I can not break it down, understand the smaller bits individually and then hope they add up to the same thing I started with. +If we stop taking apart things for a minute and just breathe in slowly one breath at a time it will flood the hatches and bouyantly draw us up to the surface of things. It is time we stopped this nonsense of science and floated our way back up to the surface of the pond. Time to start over, to assimilate rather than dissect, to feel rather than know, to live rather than abstract…. +But back to our brief history of LOVE… +Unfortunately by the time you and I got on the scene it resembled uncooked spaghetti, thin strands of information imparted over the years, scattered clumsily about the kitchen, there is no pot, no water, nothing to cook it with just dry hard idea that crunches when you bite into it and sticks between your teeth long after. We externalized the internal, brought all out, the good with the bad, so that we could take it apart and understand it. We live amid the rubble of Decarte and the mechanized universe. We dissect, we want answers, but we ask questions that can’t be answered by the narrow methods of research that are considered valid. Joseph Kellar ought to be our patron saint, to preside over every convening moment to remind us that we are looking for our tail while it is in our mouths, right below our noses where we can’t see it… we can taste it though and it drives us with even greater fury, mouths watering and ravenous fangs dripping the saliva of untold desire. But we want to see it with these eyes, these imperfect eyes that we know are not even used for seeing. We want answers to appear, to be made real. We want Christ to appear, we want spacemen to appear, we want something to appear, but we are not by god going to accept anything that we haven’t had tested up and down with all the rigorous insanity of a mathematician trying to write out equations for her emotions. +What is science doing if not that? Making the world better? For whom? Scientsists? I don’t want to live in a Cartesian nightmare where history is mechanically plodding along with the cold calculated precision of a steam engine. No many people do, consciously speaking and so came religions, sects, and politics… but none of that comes close to pulling the sense of wonder that science threw out the window. None of it brings back the endless nature of grainy experience. Have become more enthralled with the human created side of life and in doing so sacrafized the intertwining of the individual with the universal. We have found a distraction which eases the anxiety that unanswered questions provoked in us —our selves. Don’t think the church/state/priest/politician/scientist/special action committee on the overexertion of gray matter will take care of it for you. We wrote a lullaby called god and put ourselves to sleep. Until today we find ourselves at a crossroads in human evolution. +As we come to understand the ineffable world around us in increasingly greater minutia, we are reaching the end of the external line. We can measure and measure search and search the world for new discoveries in a world that we once thought was infinite and impossible to wrap our minds around we are in danger of knowing the limits of knowing. + The scientific community has been the first to realize that such a day is coming and true to the morbid and yet curious nature of scientists the future is being drawn with great caution and precision. And yet if one were to delve into the that world with the skepticism of a mystic looking at a computer code one would eventually notice that the experience of science is really not much different in that of the eastern philosophers of millennia past. + It is very popular these days to write books about the connections between the physics of indeterminacy and the constant contradictions of the Tao Te Ching. (One of the best is actually called the Tao of Physics.) And what has this endless search given us? + Nothing. Nothing more than a system of belief, which in the end says that no system, can describe anything that is outside of the system. What that fancy phrase means to anyone who is not absolutely enthralled by making things a lot more complicated than they need to be, is that we don’t anything about anything and we never will. +But Lao-Tzu already said that: The farther you go the less you know. So what’s the big deal? What has the “cutting edge of science to report back? That it can’t describe anything that can’t be measured. You can’t measure the emotion that light hitting a church steeple evokes, you can’t measure they way you feel propped up in bed watching the sleeping form of the one you love. You can’t measure them because they are encoded in you, they are uniquely yours and there is no way to translate them to others. + Science’s end will be when it achieves what art has been doing for most of recorded history —trying to give the uniqueness of experience a form which allows it to transcend the individual and share it. Science is but a new language and nothing more. +Perhaps with virtual reality we will one day be able to exactly encode everything that another has experienced and feed it all into our own nervous system, but the response will still be different. In order for emotions to be communicated everyone would have to have the exact same history, exact same thoughts, and exact same experience felt be all at once. Even supposing the absurdity of this to be possible what would be gained? + Fuck science; fuck it along with religion, society and culture, fuck them all because they say nothing other than what any two year old could tell you is obvious. It is obvious because we have all felt it. All the records of how we felt pall in the face of the question of what? What is it that sends the chill down our spines, the warmth out of our heart or the goosebumped hair up on our arms? + No one knows and I think that it would be safe bet to assume that as long as we all have different brains we never will. The technology fanatics will burn themselves up the same way the drug gurus of the sixties did, they will fall prey to the one thing that makes them human —ego. It killed the belief in god, it killed the belief in the cultural reformers and it will always kill any attempt to transcend because it is the point at which belief originates. + Only an egocentric monkey would dream of being able to understand the orbit of the planets let alone they vastness of all existence. Only a very confused and disoriented creature would throw himself into a corner and examine every little microscopic piece of dirt without first discovering what a monkey was. +Herman Hess once said that the only job of man was to find the road that led back to himself. But we being the tragic creatures we are doomed forever to a life lived in melodrama and confusion, seldom do such things. Seldom do we celebrate love or transcendence. At our best we celebrate the by-products such as art of music. At our worst we record those who were farthest from themselves, the emperors kings and queens, generals, bishops, monks, people who led the most perverted and hideous of lives. + Very few lovers rattling around in the tomes of recorded history. Oh to be sure there were lots of them, but we haven’t paid too much attention to them, or to what they knew. We have created a cult of worship to our egos to the things that we think are so unique about ourselves at the inescapable expense of the things which we have in common. + Its built into our culture and if we Americans seem particularly arrogant to the rest of the world it is only because we house the temples in which the worship of the ego if held. We play host to humanity’s darkest hour, an experiment that has fallen off track and yet it is so ingrained in our minds that it forms an unbroken circle which steadily contracts into smaller and smaller rings the closer we come to the zero hour. + We will do anything to draw the attention away from ourselves and as Freud hinted and Reich out right said we do it by manifesting our fear into the real world. The only things that happen are ones that someone wants to happen. The problem is that none of us really know for sure what we want. The subconscious mind is in the act of creating… always and forever…. It is creating even the conscious mind. Everything that you think you are is dream that some other part of your brain is having; to explain this we had to invent something called chaos which says that you are, in mathmatical terms living in an endless noisy feedback loop called non-causality and non causality is merely causality that is too complicated to trace, but there is a cause nonetheless. + Their will always be a cause without it the world could not exist, without a beginning then there can be know end and we all know there is an end, an end to ourselves and from all appearances an end to the whole damn show. The end has in fact already happened because time like everything in the universe is something that someone wanted to exist. + Where does this terrible looping logic take us? Right back where we started. It’s a loop remember —really nothing to marvel at. You can travel the whole distance or just stay where you are and let it come back around. In the end even those are no different. So here we are again, perhaps there it is another person next to me in bed when I watch them sleep, perhaps it is a techno song that sends the chills down my spine, and perhaps the next time the sun breaks through the clouds it will be illuminating a mountain instead of a church. + At the end of the line the breakdown of the word I realized there was no hope for communication to take place I was too isolated in experience to hope to relate it to anyone other than myself. I was not close enough to anyone so close was I to god. It is not near the bottom in the sewers of cities that humanities hope lies but out here in the great heights, closer to god and only then to we seem so much alike. Only next to god are all the political games that divide men stripped away out here you arrive naked and proud. Only then do you see every man as your ally every woman your love, only scorched clean of the petty differences of race, creed, color of skin do we draw together huddled in fear of insanity which we ourselves have wrought upon each other. No hope for a cure is on earth, no hope save death. No cure but death and then Quien Sabe? +With the bleakness of snow and the blanketed certainty of disillusionment I cast off all doubts. I was ready. Ready for what I did not know —a thousand faces before the day is half over passing like the jerky photomontages of Man Ray. Each pair of eyes radiant unto itself delicately in the corners of a stray glance I caught the recognition of understanding though only tragedy brings them any closer. Forged and smelt in the dry heat of rock furnaces here the charnel ovens brew alchemal liquid souls and fuse combinations of liquor and lips, souls to the experiment of which we are all part. + The medieval alchemists searched in the stone, the modern physicist searches the heavens, and perhaps the future shaman will try to fuse man with machine. All have missed the most obvious of truths with the dedication to illusion that had carried the Catholic Church on its back for so long. We want ourselves to so make or form each other into the god that we were fashioned after that we forget that such is already true. The wisdoms of heaven are in the DNA strand yes, but what are we to do with them? Copper may be turned to steel, but what are we to do with it? Everything may be taken apart and put back together differently, but what will have changed? + She waited by a fountain in a park just outside of Paris where I have never been. I watched her sit silently for hours staring at nothing or so it looked to me her eyes were fixed on the pump handle of the well. She sat motionless and never without the quite smile of a woman in rapture, a woman in the private mysterious world of orgasm. I see it on the face of the ones I have loved in that indeterminable second after where everything is. + Which brings you right back to the steak, but now there was a woman or there was the sheading of a woman, an inescapable need to be at once masculine and feminine, cunt and cock, both sides of the coin as it were, but tonight the blood of the cow is burning away the feminine scorching it like so many glowing crimson embers that glow and warm, but which fade in the spectacular face of flame. Meat sizzling over a campfire gets rid of girlfriends and wives, gets rid of lots of entrapments, like a cure for the plague. It’s a proven fact. +With the final rays of sun went the final heat; as the gentle coolness of night settled in the humidity of the rain began to evaporate and the desert returned to it’s dry self again. Eating the salty and sweet steak with a baked potato and a pot of baked beans I wandered off on a walk. At first it was just my mind bouncing lightly among the juniper trees that were behind my campsite, but then when the food was gone, my body grabbed me a beer and a pack of cigarettes and carried me down to the edge of the canyon. I sat with my legs dangling off a rock that was perched on the rim and extended out into space. All around me there was nothing but air and under me only a brief moment of rock and then more timelessness we called air. + We call it air. But it used to be called ether, before that it was liquid, now it’s mostly dirt in some places. Here it is air. +I thought about Dante, about God, about steak and about women. It was beautiful just to be alive and to able to think. I thought about that for along time. There came an utter silence in which I watched myself think in the way that you might listen to another talk. It detached but remained aware that it must return back and live with those thoughts that it could only then recognize. It was a spiraling double helix of a logic that corkscrewed all about my mind drilling little holes hear and there opening wine thoughts and pouring glasses for the self that continues to stream in the door. It was to watch a feast of thoughts or personalities come together for one sort time and dine like old friends. A reunion to catch-up on where each had been what had happened and what they had done. It turned to a smorgasbord of philosophy and love and there was endless debate, dissention and rising voices. A circus dine roared around the room slap happy train car attendants moved about taking ticket and slapping the men in the faces for not having the right change. +And then the wave crested at cacophony and confusion and broke leaving only silence in the room. Silence that carried on its back a poignant nostalgia for the past and a calm understanding of the future. I touched for a moment the void that Buddha preached, the nothingness into which you must cast yourself if you wish to understand. Riddles that seemed ridiculous to me before where solved with simplest of maneuvers truth gleamed with the caustic light of florescent light posts on an asphalt road. In the blinking blank look of the deer just before impact is the look of understanding the look of recognition that it is all nothing. No thing. What do I want out of this life? Nothing. Nothing at all. +I understood with sharp focus the difference between understanding how something works and understand what it is. I came to see that even the void of understanding was not the end but only a means to something else which would also be yet another means until the final thought was had and the conversation between self and the other ceases forever and weds them together. +And the two shall be joined as one. I have acted that out with others; I have joined souls with several men and women in my life but I had never had the sensation of meeting myself on that plane until that moment. A net was cast over the side of the ship and the wheel turned starboard to trawl a giant net through the waters of the past which played out in slide show fashion, a game show in which I had to meet myself + Endless images of my own arrogance played themselves onto the back of my closed eyelids like a cinema of embarrassment and I went to myself, as stranger might go, out of pity, to reach down a hand and help myself up. All love flowed through me and made everything hyperreal and tactile as if thoughts were the rock and the trees and the silence was the minds way of answering the endless question of the universe. The transitory nature of my own existence was illuminated and I was washed with feeling of warm and celebration of the embarrassment and I felt the sheer hilarious joy of my own folly fall along side the folly of all those I have ever know and ever will know, a giant heaping ball of laughter. Coiled up tight like yarn and batted about by the kitten of the universe the ball dances nightly behind the moon, all our selves playing as children endlessly. A cat. A cat in the hat. The trick top hat. + As the moon rose up from the east I watched in silence as my life unfolded behind my eyes I watched memories I had no conscious knowledge of the way a father watches his sun playing in the yard. They started off recent memories of Amy, of Dean, of Ed, of moments shared with each and then it kept racing backward to college classes, high school girlfriends, playground friends…. Until I went back in utero to a point of no consciousness at all and then other stories unfolded as if out of some kind of genetic memory. I saw the light of the fifteen-century break through the night hitting church spires and scorching the brass coffers of foreign temples. Wild and uncharted regions played out scenes from Arabian Nights with silken tapestries women’s arms entwined with gold bands; and then sagas of Templars, all the wisdom seekers of the fertile crescent and the girl in France by the well came up near the end like a phantom as if to introduce herself but only disappeared again into a background of Egyptian palaces and the fragrance of silk and spices from the orient. There was a warm glow of light in the room that slowly as the eyes adjusted revealed itself as a temple of splendors. The walls were adorned with rugs and woven tapestries in designs that acted out the living myths of the sun gods. The floor was blanketed in pillows and a sweet incense smoke floated in wafts of Jasmine and myrrh; in the center of the room slightly elevated on steps was an alter upon which a beautiful and naked goddess lay, a statue, an answer, a testament to any question that you might ask. She was a goddess and in her silence I swam the thalassic of sorrow and joy in placid caressing waters that even now three years later come back with absolute lucidity as if I were returning to the vision at will just by writing it again. + And then the moment itself swelled beyond its proportions and burst leaving me only in awe of it, but dancing on to new lines, new tap roots burrowing intensity turned up by the alchemal union of soul and steak, god and potato, desert and breast, me and my self. The minute I became conscious of the fact that I was having a thought all sense of it was lost. I saw in this the futility of my own quest to know. I saw the source of my unhappiness that I could not live here now but only came looking and in being so overwhelmed with consciousness of myself I lost myself. Everything was laid unequivocally bare to the opulent austerity of the truth the contradiction when contradiction finally fades and all things are true and not true all at the same moment. A place indescribable, incommunicable precisely because it exists below the refinement of words. It is too raw to be said or explained it must be devoured with the intensity of an animal ripping at its prey + I felt it for what seemed like an eternity. I remember coming back to fire in dazed kind of trance like state that held me like a loved one returned from a long voyage at see. My spine trembled and doubt slowly crept in. What if this stops? I want to feel this always to live in this mindscape whole world be damned and with these thoughts so went the vision. + I awoke feeling an eternal peace settled into my chest and the words of Terence McKenna came to my mind. “If you have seen the end you take your place in the drama and you live without anxiety.” I don’t know what he meant by those words what space he went to what he felt, but they mean something to me. They mean something as if I myself had said them. I did not see an end or anything so literal as that at best I can saw that I felt everything as it really was beautiful and unbounded and I felt the release of anxiety that he attempts to approximate with words. + I made breakfast in the morning heat. The desert was waking up and it wouldn’t be long before I could have cooked the eggs right on the rocks. I drank the last beer to wash down the eggs and I asked around the campground for a ride back into Moab finally at the last sight right by the entrance I found a young couple who let me ride in the camper shell of their truck crouched between my gear and theirs, it was a long bumpy ride into Moab, but I didn’t have to suffer lectures on political duties. Instead I thought about Joe, he was expecting me at the yard around five which gave me a hour to kill in Moab. The bulk of the hour I spent trying to figure out why some people meet someone and they share there live and other meet people they share there ideas. I like to think that my life is an idea and every idea a life, but then again I have a fondness for wordplay, deceit, double entandre. delibrete acting and outright lying when it comes to talking to strangers. I just try to stay one step ahead of my brain as if I were writing myself into existence all the time. My life changes as fluidly as the writer traces his pen. diff --git a/veryold/very old writings/notes from a lounge trial.txt b/veryold/very old writings/notes from a lounge trial.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..82d6865 --- /dev/null +++ b/veryold/very old writings/notes from a lounge trial.txt @@ -0,0 +1,77 @@ + The characters in the following are real; they are not paid actors. They have agreed to waive their legal rights to settle their case here in the Reader’s Court. + +The Lounge is a poorly lit affair with black upholstery trimmed in dark mohangy, thick wooden double doors seal out the light of day and only to wall lamps behind the bar illuminate the scene. Two women stand in the entryway adjusting their eyes to darkness. Eventually they head over to the bar and pull out two stools. April is in her late forties, red hair and thick skin that has weathered more than it’s share of troubles. She is attractive but pales next to the girl with her who is likely still a teenager and possibly an aspiring model or actress, either way she looks the part. In her mind words like ‘why’ keep running over and over on a loop. The defense attorney is tending bar and the judge is an old woman with a voicebox sitting in the corner both croaking for more gin and tonic. Around the corner in the back room there are four enormous cockroaches playing pool in the dark and talking in unintelligible chirps and squeaks. +They have been over this same ground several times, it is beginning to irritate her, no she checks herself, not beginning to, it is irritating her. She tries to force him out of her mind. +The defense objects but is overruled. + “Gimlet martini please, and could you use fresh limes? Thank you.” She sets her bag on the stool next to her, takes out her phone lays it on the bar and turns to look at April. The girl is not the type to have a drink at eleven in the morning on your average day, but today is not your average day. No today is trial day, it didn’t start out that way but then he called an announced he was leaving. She had hung up the phone in tears and said aloud that she needed a drink. April said she knew a place. +April orders a scotch. + In the grand jury hearing of late night sorrow the charges brought against the defense included emotional abandonment, weakness, lack of love and acting crazy. The girls contention is that the defendant, after two years of long distance relationship suddenly picked up and moved a thousand miles to be with her and then promptly got depressed and has decided to leave. The charge of crazy has been amended to inconsistent behavior. Earlier the girl’s lover had introduced a motion for dismissal on the grounds of temporary insanity, but much to the surprise of this reporter, the motion was denied. + “It’s a bad sign when you have to have a drink before you can deal with the person you’re supposed to love, isn’t it?” + “Uhm, yes dear, actually it’s a sign you already ignored some bad signs.” April takes a belt of scotch and sighs heavily. + “But I love him… at least I love who I thought he was, but ever since he moved to the city and got depressed it like I don’t even know him… now I feel like every time I think of him there is this burden on my shoulders… he’s become something I have to deal with…” The girls voice alternates between confusion and bitterness. + “You say he’s having a nervous breakdown?” April swirls the scotch in her highball glass watching the syrup trickle back down the sides. + “He says he’s having a nervous breakdown, I don’t know… I try to sympathize with him because I’ve been there; I had a nervous breakdown several years ago and couldn’t get out of bed for a month, but I got over it. I dealt with it and I moved on. I don’t know if I can stand by and watch him go through that, it hurts too much and it’s not where I am in life right now. Is that cruel? Am I being insensitive?” + “Darling you have to watch out for yourself, you have to do what you have to do. I can’t tell you what that is and neither can he.” + The defense objects to this inane abstraction on the grounds that always living solely for yourself leaves you bitter and alone. While being your own person is necessary and healthy so is being emotionally supportive to those around you. + Motion is overruled. Let’s hear this out. + “He doesn’t try to tell me what to do. At least not in any authoritarian kind of way, but he can be terribly passive aggressive at times, like the other night when you and I were out late and I didn’t have chance to call? I got home around midnight and he came down to let me in because we don’t have a buzzer… is there a hug at the door? A kiss? An 'I missed you'? No, but there’s a whole lot of pissed off and where the hell were you? + “Oh honey that’s nothing you need to come home to after a twelve hour day…” April shakes her head with a superiority that the defense objects to. + Sustained. April will limit herself to the story without resorting to unwarrented haughtiness. + “But wait it gets worse. When we get upstairs he tells me ‘he can see,’ he says, ‘that I don’t have time for him’ and he is ‘obviously not a priority’ in my life. And then its right back to the same old shit… he’s sorry, he’s depressed, its not me, he doesn’t know why he just is, he doesn’t know what to do, the city is getting to him, he thinks he should be going…” + “Sounds like you need to spend some time apart.” + “Well I guess we are if he’s going back down to his place in North Carolina tomorrow.” + The Judge asks if the prosecution has considered going with him. + “I have a life here, I like it here I’m not going to just pick up and leave for him. I enjoy my life, stressful and hectic though it may be, I believe in what I’m doing and I want to get this company off the ground.” + “Good I’m glad you’re happy here.” April smiles at her. + “Hold on a minute, I didn’t say I was happy” +“Okay well I’m glad you like what we’re doing because its only going to get better. And easier. Once we get a space and get settled in things will be much easier. One would like to hope that a year from now we could be working about half as much and have things running smoothly enough that the income would be the same.” +“My father always said the first year of business is the hardest. Speaking of which I’d like you to meet him, I think the two of you would hit it off.” +The Judge reminds the prosecution that there is a trial in progress. +The girls cell phone vibrates and skates across the bar bumping against her martini glass and careening toward the floor. She grabs it at the last second. +“Its him. He’s going to want to know how to get here, hold on a second… Yes? Hi hon, okay take the F to 14th street come out on the northwest corner and walk to 11th… okay well whatever corner you come out on head downtown, against traffic on 6th and the lounge is between 11th and 10th. Okay we’ll see you in a bit. Yes she’s here. Honey don’t start. Okay I’ll see you in a bit.” She hangs up shaking her head. “He doesn’t even know his way around the city yet and he already hates it.” She is silent for a while and then says, “I want him to be here with me more than anything, but not if he’s miserable, not if he doesn’t want to.” +The defense would like to introduce exhibit A which is a diagram of my clients previous affairs showing the reasoning behind his decision to leave them and the differences between that and the current situation under review. As you can see in the past my client has no longer had feeling for his partner and done the right thing in terminating the relationship. We further submit that while the defendant loves the prosecution very much he is not emotionally prepared for life in the city. Having recently been living in a small rural town the culture shock combined dissatisfaction with his employment and being unaccustomed to the dark, cold depression of winter my client feels it best if he leave and return at a later date. The defense would like to further point out that as the prosecution has already testified there had been no attempt on her part to meet my client half way. He picked up and left his entire life for her and now that he is asking for a little time to get himself in order the prosecution shows no understanding of his needs. +Exhibit accepted please proceed. +“I want him to do whatever he needs to do just like I need to do what I need to do, but I can’t go back to this long distance thing. I can’t keep living for the times we’re together and putting my life on hold the rest of the time. It makes me miserable. I don’t want to be miserable anymore than he does.” The girl takes a gentle sip of her gimlet. +“Isn’t it supposed to be for better or for worse…” April for once has something intelligent to say. +“Ya well we’re not married. Neither one of us believes in that sort of thing. I want him to be happy and I want to do what makes me happy and when he leaves of course I’ll cry, it will hurt more than anything in the world and I’ll have to seal off my heart if I’m going to carry on, but if this is what he needs to do then so be it. I just want him to be happy and he is clearly not happy here right now.” +“So what are you two going to do?” April asks and then in the next breath orders another scotch. +“What do you mean? I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’m going to go on with my life.” +“Well if he leaves are you going to see other people? I know this guy, I can give you the number, if you just want some sex—I mean good sex—let me know he’s very nice and… +‘April this isn’t about sex.” The girl looks askance with indignation. +“Everything is about sex.” +“Maybe for you.” +Judge holds April in contempt of court fining her two years off her life. Please light the cigarette… +“That’s not an issue for me, if I met someone I found interesting I would tell him and he would understand, but that’s not where I’m at right now. The issue is him getting himself together and figuring out what makes him happy because it’s obviously going to take more than just being with me.” +“I take it he’s not going to work for us anymore?” +"No it's not his cup of tea. He said to tell you he’s sorry.” +“He’s sorry? To hell with that I took him on because you recommended him and he’s just going to walk out on that now? He’s sorry. You’re damn right he’s sorry and he’s going to be a lot sorrier when I get done with him.” +“April please…” +“No this is none of your affair…” +The defense would like to at this time submit a list of names of people that April has screwed over in business deals in the past detailing the obligations she has walked out on and people who considered her a friend, but she screwed over for personal gain. The two semis containing the documents are parked out back. The defense would like to further ask why, if April’s name is so tainted that she has to use a different one now, is she suddenly indignant toward my client for doing the very thing that she herself has made a career out of doing? +“This is outrageous, I will not sit here and be lecture by some backwoods hick half my age. I am a grown woman, I am good at what I do; I have had the misfortune of working with a number of psychopaths in my life and have had to do what the situation necessitated… this is outrageous.” +The defense rests against April. You may step down. +“Hold on now if your client wants to continue to have a relationship with the girl and I work with her there will be interaction between your client and myself. Anything he does or says to me will only push her farther away from him.” +The defense recognizes this situation and thus humbly proffers his greatest apologies and returns all monies received as a good faith measure of his intentions. The ball is in your court April. +The girl looks at her exasperated, “all right April I can’t deal with this right now, lets just drop it. You and I get along, we’re the ones that have to and for now we’ll leave it at that.” +Objection your honor the prosecution is trying to stack the deck against my client. +Overruled. The prosecution has already expressed her desire to ‘do what she needs to do’ and in this situation I see her point. The defense will bring nothing further against April. +Damn bitch. +Excuse me? +Nothing your honor. +“I feel bad for giving him the job. I didn’t really want to, but he insisted, he told me he would come up if I could get him work and when I mentioned the design job he said he wanted to do it. He was really excited about it at first, but then he didn’t feel comfortable with it, he felt like he wasn’t any good at it. That’s fine but I wish he wasn’t just picking up and walking out on it. He’s just going to get in his car and drive away…” +“Maybe you did too much. Didn’t you say that no one could make anyone else happy? Maybe you shouldn’t have done anything?” April has already plowed through her second scotch and spins her glass on the bar waiting for a refill. +“But then he wouldn’t have come up at all. He asked me to… he begged me to and I asked him over and over, ‘are you sure this is what you want?’ He said yes he said he just wanted to be with me, he said that was all that mattered. Now he’s leaving… I guess I’m not all that mattered—so how am I supposed to feel?’ +The girl pushes her drink away and puts her head in her hands crying. +The prosecution rests. +The Judge retires to her chamber and returns as the girl dries her eyes and orders another drink. The enormous cockroaches slip out unnoticed. +On the charge of emotional abandonment I find the defendant guilty. On the charge of inconsistent behavior and emotional weakness in the face of adversity I find the defendant guilty. On the charge of lack of love I find the defendant not guilty. +The defense appeals the decision. +Motion is denied. Please advise your client to move on with his life and put this behind him. +Case dismissed. + +Outside in the harsh glare of January sun your faithful reporter will attempt to get a statement from both sides. Miss? Excuse me, Miss? Now the Judge found in your favor on two counts how do you feel about that. +“I can’t talk about it, I can’t deal with it right now I’m in too much pain. I think I’m going to have to send my heart on vacation. Excuse me.’ +And there you have it folks. Now here comes the defense attorney. Sir your client was not present for the proceedings why is that? +My client is an emotional wreck and needs to get his life together. +And the charges he was found guilt on? +My client takes full responsibility for his actions and harbors no bitterness toward the prosecution. He would like a second chance but as you heard our motion was denied so my client will move on with his life. Just like you or I, but know this, he looks straight into the camera, nothing in life is easy, people make mistakes and my client deserves the same forgiveness that all of us deserve. diff --git a/veryold/very old writings/orbit submitted to prism 1_28.txt b/veryold/very old writings/orbit submitted to prism 1_28.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c8d4bf0 --- /dev/null +++ b/veryold/very old writings/orbit submitted to prism 1_28.txt @@ -0,0 +1,37 @@ +I am lying back supported by pillows on a small couch in the back corner of an underground bar. It is near dawn, in Paris, 1999, I am listening to the radio and staring at walls not yet written by Celine, Miller, and all the dead poets. There is peace back here in corner where I watch all time pass tranquily by with a freedom indigenous to those who are familiar with the ancient art of noncompliance. Static chirps of French corporate radio interrupt my musings on art’s finer abstracts. +Step aside and let the man go through. I feel like a featherweight-lead-train, heavy from hash, muscles detached from their control centers, inoperable, trying to struggle out the words for another espresso to wake the gray cells that hang like storm clouds on the edge of my brain. But my mind floats far out of the monkey body and glides in effortless circles, endlessly, a buzzard soaring on thermals and returning only to rest. +I am watching Nina who in her lovable French fashion is totally ignoring me. Such a sweet girl Nina, my cherub cheeked waitress —she puts up with me long after closing time. I dream she loves me but I know she merely wants to go home; she certainly doesn't need me here. I tried to sleep with her once, but her heart wasn't in it. As a kind off consolation prize she lets me stay late until she is done closing up. + Every night I used to slouch my way here for my fix of caffeine and hash, it's a full time job, shoveling coal in the engine —a tired Cartesian metaphor for a duality that is a not duality at all. Every comparison of two is wrong which is why metaphors and poetry are much closer to the truth of immediate experience than psychology and economics. The mindbody always knows more than either one on it's own. In a roundabout way I came to know my body by spending too much time in my mind, so much time that the body became automatic and atrophied, and my mind tumbled down off the great vistas. I learned that there is no body and no mind only mindbody, where one goes so must the other. +Outside is Paris, in the rain it can be dark and ugly, a city of dreams gone wrong, but it can also be place to hole up take refuge and walk the mindbody through strange and wonderful loops. Parisians, like New Yorkers, reflect the kind of omniscience of those cities —the experience of them gets lost in words. It has to be felt, it has to be lived; in that way I start to get the taste of it, that sweet aromatic quality that radiates from a beautiful woman when she catches the eye is here in Paris every bit as real flesh. Concrete flesh. + Strange French lounge music tumbles in from the French corporate station; it descends from speakers hanging behind the bar, rolling across the room. French music is an ancient reminder of an inadequacy that has been building up since the last ice age. Music ripped the fur from the ape body and made up man/woman, gave the creature a sense of wonder and beauty that demanded self-inspection. Why? Art thou not a self-reflexive monkey? Back in America we have much dead static signal to occupy the mind, here in Europe, at least for me, the questions of ancient origin retain the primal importance that has been buried so well by the trappings and excrement of Politics, Economy, and Morality. Europe has outgrown such infantile human obsessions; Parisians seem to care only for the herenow. In a roundabout logic this is why they have better coffee—they have time, as I do, to care about coffee. +Lest anyone have a different experience bear in mind that this is but a subjective opinion, a slanted impression like saying a puddle of water reflecting red light has the same appeal as a Picasso. In America too one can find such places where the primacy of existence has sidestepped the concerns of individual ego and learned to live in the gutters, in the alleys, and in mud puddles of western desert roads. It can be found anywhere by anyone who is looking for it. This is why junkies understand better the nature of economy than stock market analysts in sickly air-conditioned rooms, because they need to. So it is with philosophy, reason, and morality, if you need them they are there if you don’t then they fade into the eyes of beautiful women, the swirl of espresso, the thick rings of hash smoke, or the cubist reflections on an oily puddle of rainwater. +This is my nightmare at the end of the century and like some forgotten, wayward evolutionary glitch lying in languid rooms of far off dream cities —Paris, Prague, Peking, Peoria, or St Petersburg— if I stop for instant I might miss something. That something haunts the empty spaces of my sleep keeps me balanced on thin wires. I prefer to live herenow and if I must die then I will do it later. There at the final moment you will start to get the real digs. I could worry about a thousand inventions of the primate mind, about the politics of Alpha Primates, about the logic and reason of the rational scientists, about the moral rights and wrongs of thousand man-made gods, but why? +Beliefs ebb and flow through history and there has been enough chattering insanity of theory upon theory and religion upon religion to explain it all down to the minutest detail. I wanted to learn it all to make sense of it but somehow for some reason I woke up one day trying to eat the menu, forgetting altogether that it is not really the meal. I am weary of the acrid taste of paper corroding my mouth, these days I prefer to notice the delicate wisp of hair that hangs off Nina’s ear as she wipes clean the finely polished mahogany tables. Or to watch the curious flickers of shadows from the candle that is the only light in my back corner; to marvel at the designs of the silken pillows supporting my head; to admire the wonderfully chaotic patterns of cigarette smoke that mysteriously dissolve into thin air. I don’t want to know how or why I just want to watch. For me Paris brings home the guttural realities that are right herenow, whether they are inventions of my mind or another’s has no consequence on their existence. + Nowadays, reclined on Persian pillows and swimming in sweet perfumed hash dreams, I do not come here often. I am due to leave tonight in fact and I am spending this last night with Nina to say goodbye and thank her for her kindness. Nina with her drooping doe eyes lies down next to me and rests her cheek against mine, tearing me from the wandering peace of inner reflections. She smiles and whispers, “all done,” her French accent tickling my ear. We lie like that for a few moments and then with some effort draw ourselves off the couch and up the stairs. Outside on the street I am blinded by the morning sun finally breaking it’s way through the sullen clouds; I light a cigarette and do the same for Nina, we both draw deeply and say our final good-byes. She heads up rue de Seine; and I strike out for a wandering sort of day, the hash makes me energized and in the mood for a last day of sauntering. +The streets of Paris, for those that have never had the good fortune to walk them, seem to have been built by someone with a sense of humor; someone who sat back and asked themselves: what would travel be like if we made it deliberately difficult instead of deliberately easy? The answer is here somewhere in the meandering alleys, bridges, tunnels, and streets that seem designed to get one lost, confused, and disoriented. Only in such a state do you begin to discover the real Paris. Or to keep the Quantum Psychologists happy, only in such a state will you begin to discover my Paris. But of course not even then will you find the Paris I see, it is too colored by my own private experiences and intrinsically locked in the patterns of memories that links rivers and buildings from other human outposts. You have your own filtered lenses through which you color your own worlds beautiful or ugly in their own right. +My own memories may have filters on them that were shaded and toned by what I brought to them when they happened mixed like oil and water with what I bring to them now. Take for instance Mexico City: I remember Mexico City in hazy brown discolored way, but it’s not the smog, it’s the nature of memory —the nature of my memory. The images overlay each other like a photomontage. I see it in moving pictures: cut to a shot of the subway, sad brown faces and I want to know why they aren't on vacation like me… lay on top of it an image of pyramid excavation digging up and trying to solve the Mayan Caper. Years ago you would. Understand she was standing right next to me and then...Warm sweet smelling cab and my father says “hey, look a Kentucky fried Chicken” and sure enough I see one. Americana right in the middle of foreign chaos it threw me into a different world, a sudden realization that life is not ordered like the clockwork metaphors I learned in grade school. It became in that instant a chaotic kaleidoscope of astonishment and splendor tied forever to an obscure memory of fried chicken. +I've had quite a time ever since then trying to pick up the pieces of a world that exists in only my subjective phantasmal experience. I focused up into the sun, and it burned in fantastical visions that existed only for me, leaving me alone and for a long time afraid. Not fear in the sense that you feel threatened, it is much worse, not conscious, it just lingers in the back of the mind occasionally eliciting a paralysis that would haunt me for a while and then fade again in the face of day to day activities. +It’s a fear that leaves you like a woman I saw once stone still and shell shocked, stuck right in the middle of this enormous arch in Canyonlands National Park, Utah. She just stood there unable to move, feeling the digging hooks of unbridled terror burning into her brain and creating an endless and spellbinding feedback loop that forbids you to move. It anchors your mind right back in the primate body because you feel it and yet rips you right out of the very fabric of collective reality and propels you into strange land where there is no you. I watched her sit there unable to help herself, doubtless staring at the two thousand-foot drop off on both sides of her and the meager four foot wide sandstone arch that was holding her there. She was suspended in mid air, seeing herself for the first time the way we are: naked cold and deathly afraid. + But the cab driver just laughed and said, “here in Mexico City there is no Kentucky Fried Chicken, maybe Kentucky Fried Cat, Kentucky Fried Dog, But definitely no Kentucky Fried Chicken.” He smiled this crooked smile revealing gold caps and over moist gum structure that was so large it seemed to be slowly crawling right down over his teeth. He then sternly advised in all seriousness against eating there, of course I wouldn't have anyway; he merely gave me a rational reason for that. And all this was years before I would ever get to India to learn that, first there is a mountain, then there is no mountain, then there is. + But alas I did not have my Mexico City cabby advise to help that woman frozen there on the Arch, in fact I went all the way to the end of the trail (funny I don't remember were it went) and came back and she was still there, frozen for time. Occasionally I wonder if maybe it would have help to walk by here real quietly and whisper...don't worry there is no Kentucky Fried Chicken, maybe Kentucky Fried Cat or Kentucky Fried Dog, but certainly no Kentucky Fried Chicken. +I realize my legs are moving as fast as the random associations of the mind and I am at the Seine without even realizing that that was where I was headed. I slow a bit and notice the cold again, a glance at the sky reveals the story —gray again—afternoon clouds—another storm. The winters seem to be getting worse every year, this last storm tore apart Versailles made a mockery of French architecture from what I saw on the headlines. In fact it seems that weather everywhere is getting more severe, mudslides, floods, droughts, tornadoes. It’s as if something really big were building up to vent on us. The Ancients placed great stock in weather and saw storms as harbingers that something was wrong within the tribe. Many of them associated the outside as intimately connected to the inside of the tribe. Educated people (historically that reads white) first scoffed at such notions, but now two thousand years of theories later we have elaborate sciences which are beginning to prove the Gaian Mind hypothesis. In the end it seems that while the causality may not be as direct as the Shaman once thought; nevertheless all systems of life are interconnected and indeed weather getting worse might be a sign that something else is out of whack. The question for the philosophers and thinkers is, what? +I pause in the middle of a bridge overlooking the Seine. The bark of the trees which line the streets on either side of the quay are wet from the snow last night —it has already melted in the comparative warmth of the day. I smoke a cigarette to consider this idea of interconnectedness. +Smoking is very bad for you I am told, but I enjoy it nonetheless, I have decided that I smoke because there is something wrong with me. It’s just that I consider smoking the symptom not the disease itself —in my mind that causes me to enjoy smoking and is equally bad for my mental health. Until I solve the mind riddle it is no good to try and force the body to do something it doesn’t want to do. The weather might well be our cigarette the question is what is it on our collective mind that needs fixing? I get up shivering from inactivity and pace the banks watching the river pull at the ice that is slowly beginning to take it over. I wonder if it ever does; I’ve never spent the whole winter in Paris I have no idea if it can freeze solid or not. +Staring at the Seine brings back tapeloops of Boston -Harvard square- fall; the Charles River slips by without a sound, the streets corral throngs of people— onlookers drunk beyond comprehension of what they were there to look at— they stumble out of bars and lurch through doorways like grenades rolled out on the street. Inside the Radcliffe boathouse a reserve of surplus energy is released in muscular spasms that pulse in orgasm. Her breasts pool salt onto my tongue. And in walks Truman Copote, he looks it over for a minute and then, having taken stock of the affair, proceeds to hand me the rosette stone of Knowledge. He lit a cigarette, took the stone back, and walked out the boathouse doors. I taste salt in my mouth every time I call up the memory —endless tape, looping across eons. +Icy waters remind me of what the man said —you see the game for what it was —something cold-blooded, reptile, slinking across the room. You think you know the end of it and still you’re sitting on the curb hungry, apathetic, waiting for the gutter water to splash and wake you from the nightmare of history. You're thinking this isn't me, this can't be me…. + Everyone walks with unshakable self-confidence, but not slow enough to remember that they are walking and when they laugh they pretend to be unafraid. Usually I only realize that I am walking when I trip and stumble and am suddenly reminded that I am walking. +I find myself in front a café and remember that I am hungry, cold and tired of walking. I go in and make my way to the back; it’s an older café the kind Doisneau was always taking pictures of, the kind that belongs to an older Paris, a Paris I don’t know. The walls look as if they were once whitewashed, but over the years the yellow stain of nicotine has rendered them the color of sun-faded newspapers. This is a busy café off Rue F Sauton near Notre Dame and it has the hustle and bustle of nothingness that is Paris —millions of people making noise and scurrying about doing, from what I can tell, absolutely nothing. I order coffee and pastries for a late lunch and sit back smoking with my eyes closed bathed in the swirling sounds of French conversation. I don’t speak much French, enough to order what I want and get directions that I don’t understand. I rely on broken English and the kindness of Parisians most of the time. +Like all Americans I am too lazy or arrogant or something to learn much of the language, which is part of the reason they hate us so much. Of course I understand, after all I am an American and I generally see Americans as primitive beasts, so I can imagine how hideously grotesque we must be to the rest of the world. I would likely see us as junkyard dogs hoarding the freshest land on the planet and snarling insolently at the global neighborhood behind the façade is only confusion and misunderstanding. When I engage strangers in cafés or on the street I learned to fake a decent Australian accent and pass off the lapses as a result of ‘ beean too long from the riff, mate!” +One thing I deeply wish the French would reconsider is their pastries, if I had the money I would fly to new York now get a jelly-filled donut and come back for the coffee, but I don’t so I munch on the crusty hard bread and try to pretend the jelly is filling. Lighting a cigarette I wonder if I'm lost again. I wonder if I made some horrible mistake? I wonder if I should have been baptized? As if being born was a sin? What kind of pessimist life is that? Welcome to hell, I guess. If you want to live in hell be my guest, but no baptism here, I want you to be naked always; I want you to be wild like a gnarled bristlecone pine tree high in the White Mountains. They have been up there for centuries —living near immortality. +I watch a beautiful French girl sitting in front by the door with a motorcycle helmet on her table. She is wearing a black leather jacket and smoking hand-rolled cigarettes in long measured drags which she exhales in thick rings of smoke that hint at the presence of hash in the tobacco. She taps her thumb idly on the table as if waiting for someone. Her hair has the matted look of helmet-head, but the free windblown ends drape over her shoulders and dissolve into the black of her jacket like ravens hopping on the inky black ice of city streets. She has the mannerisms of a bird, flitting between her cigarette and the espresso, constantly looking out the window behind her. +I try to follow her eyes and in trying I am reminded that seeing is far more involved than the lens of the eye. What we see is as dependent on our state of mind as the scene that is before us. Walking in I was hungry and wanted to eat in peace; I never saw this girl, but now that I am full and relaxed I “see” her —subject becomes subjective. It makes you wonder what is real and what is not real. If you study that subject for any length of time you realize that nothing is real, at least in the sense that what you perceive as real is wholly limited to you as an individual. There is no collective reality; there is no mountain. But there is. +It makes me laugh to notice that a man off to the side near the bar is also staring at the girl by the door, in fact he is going a step further in his observation, he is taking her picture with an enormous cumbersome looking camera. It’s a large format camera; one of the ones that takes sheets of film which must be changed after each picture; it’s a camera for those with patience. He must have just taken a picture because he is removing the film and just as he is loading another he catches me staring at him; he smiles and I smile back. He says something in French that I can’t catch and then, seeing my puzzled look, makes smoking gestures with his hands and points to his camera. I guess he wants my picture so I nod and look away trying not to pose and trying not to look like I am trying not to pose. I never quite know what to do when cameras a pointed at me, so I act natural (as if that meant something) and smoke a touch more dramatically. After a while I glance back and he smiles and waves I think I hear a “merci” float over the other voices and I call back “s’il vous plait” +Other afternoon cafes all distant and cloudy hang on a recall-line to dry like that black and white photograph —maybe Stieglitz, maybe Wesson, maybe Man Ray. I remember a New York photograph. Same Dark bruised clouds hanging low on bloody red brick world and yet even in the middle of Manhattan ivy is growing two stories up the wall and blows in the wind making the buildings appear fluid and serpentine. I recollect sitting outside the café Dante one nearly identical day, although slightly warmer it was still too cold to be outside, but there I am sitting watching the college kids of the East Village smile absently at each other still snug in surrogate wombs. I was watching one couple in particular they sat a table down from me and I listened to their conversation for a while. It was the last thing I remember about the United States. +They were both attractive he was probably six three or four with a water polo player’s body, all chest and no legs but no one looks at men’s legs so he could pass for attractive. I never saw his face but you can imagine it framed by lightly gelled hair that was combed straight back and one of those overly square jaws that probably comes from excessive inbreeding way back in patriarchal old England. She was beautiful with shiny perfectly straight hair —could have been a Pantene model. Her eyes were flawless blue diamonds, so clear I avoided them and her skin was ivory smooth and fit her features with a smug certitude that made me wonder if DNA has an ego and occasionally likes to strut its successes. +That was what I saw at first glance but as they spoke their personalities came into view and their appearance changed until they took on the sickly blanched look of East Coast money, infused with age, death and decay. Now money is a heavy hand; heavy when you got it, heavier when you don't and these two seemed to have a lot judging by the designer leather jackets and the well groom hair and I could tell from their hands that they hand never held jobs. Naturally I envied them because I was starving and had only the money for a coffee. Then I hated them because it's as easy to hate as it is to do anything else. They ignored me and I hated them even more for it, feeling myself pass through their brains as irrelevant, another domesticated primate sitting at a table, then in New York and now in Paris. It is also easy to ignore them and hide behind intellectual superiority, experiential superiority, but just as easy for them to hide behind religion, morals, laws, customs, ceremonies, prejudices, and most fatally —truth. Ignore is the root of ignorance and that afternoon I was ready to partake of the great waters of I-don’t-give-a-shit. +And I did indeed ignore them for the better part of an hour until I over heard her bemoaning the boredom that comes from being rich and having nothing to do. It was then that I started to want to kill them, but even as the rage built I was struck by another less hostile feeling —pity. In the end I forgave them, not because their lives were hard in ways different from yours and mine; no I forgave them because they were stupid. I knew then as I still know now that stupidity is self imposed and I feel sorry for all the strange creatures that spend their youth building mental prisons and then after a set period of learning (sixteen years generally) climb inside their own prisons and throw away the key. The only thing that makes anyone stupid is the refusal to be free. Intelligence is not the accumulation of useless trivia in stale universities nor is it the constant theorizing of the abstract intellectuals who know a thousand problems and no solutions. Intelligence is the ability to adapt the ability to know when to move and when to sit still. Freedom is a matter of will. Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law. I read that as weighted on the wilt, not the do. Of course it’s a matter of opinion. +I wanted to write a letter to these two, to the whole world that created them, to all the stale beliefs of a thousand man-made gods who have poisoned and imprisoned human life with the banal constructs of right/wrong, true/false, black/white, to destroy people —monogamy, monotony, and pagemeny. A letter they would hear it in their dreamscapes; one that would seep into them like a virus and start to duplicate itself cell by cell until it broke them down, pulled out their stubborn beliefs and washed them in the veritable light of hope. And they would be able to see their pain and suffering for what it was —a prison built by themselves. Perhaps they will see it in the white light of nova ovens. Hassan Sabbah the old man of the mountain is at the metaphoric doorstep to take back your ugliness and show it to all the universe until it is gone in the nothingness, the void of no thought… +But I learned from that cabby in Mexico City you can’t force your reality on people, you can give them the tools —tell them a thousand stories— but if they want to be unhappy they will always find a way. That is my working definition of stupidity. Intelligence is the will to live; to live is to love. In this café I don’t see the French equivalent of that college couple; I don’t know why, I don’t care why so long as they are not here. I came here because the world was speeding up and I needed time to think about that, to figure out how to fit myself into it. I feel that there are others out their like me I have read books and talked to people around the world who are done with the human game, done with restrictions, self imposed limitations, and death. We don’t need these things anymore. I also have read enough to know that people have said these sorts of ideas before in the 1960’s and all the sad dinosaurs of human thought believe that failure will be my end as well. But perhaps the sixties were for a reason; perhaps we learned something. Perhaps there is something still going on underground —outside of Time and Newsweek and the rest of the sad primate report sheets. + Perhaps we are working in secret; we no longer advertise and compete, we are biding our time, waiting. Waiting in cafes, underground bars, rave clubs, movie houses, punk bands, and small gatherings; waiting in New York, Paris, Mexico City, Peking, Tokyo, Moscow and a thousand other cities you will never know. Perhaps we have new metaphors and new tools; perhaps we have a whole new language. Perhaps those walls of belief you are pounding your head against aren’t really there. + +I finished my smoke and headed out the door to catch a taxi. I have a meeting with a friend in Prague —we’re starting a revolution. From the cab I watched Notre Dame through the rear window until it disappeared around a corner and I turned and stared ahead momentarily blinded by the headlights of oncoming cars. First there is Paris, then there is no Paris. Then there is. diff --git a/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/3.txt b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/3.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..daee7f7 --- /dev/null +++ b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/3.txt @@ -0,0 +1,47 @@ + + Just out of St. George the rain starts. Desert thunderstorms rolling eastward in flight of the waning sun. I came up over a rise in the highway and saw the golden enchanted light of that photographers describe so technically as: magical light. The hand of god was streaming down from the heavens just as it did two thousand years ago for anyone traveling on donkey to see. I was drifting from heaven to hell pulled insidiously by a thousand details of life and the one true simplicity that they could not longer cloud over. It was a timeless moment in which I was not the one moving at seventy five miles an hour through the Utah desert, yet I was watching it unfold before me. Time rolled out in front of the clouds and I floated in the swirling paint of sand, rock sky and air, dragged, pulled forward by thirst and held back by history. +Henry turned off the main highway not long after that and drove thirty or so miles into the small town of Moab Utah. Moab is a speck of dust of the forehead of the desert and little more than a hiccup in the road, but it suited my needs. I bought a steak, some charcoal, potatoes, eggs and beans, along with beer and cigarettes. I met some hippies headed into the campgrounds and I bummed a ride off them. I threw my stuff in the back of their beat up truck and jumped in after it, sharing the space with an overly friendly black lab. We headed back the same way I had come in with Henry, but this time turned off onto a dirt road and after a few minutes I saw a small sign that read now leaving Canyonlands National Park North. +From there the road began a thirty-mile climb up the side of the canyon wall east of Moab. The road was so windy as to limit the size of vehicle that can get up, it clung to the canyon until the top when it crested over and tore right across the desert floor to the edge of another canyon. From here it was a short drive back up to the campground which was perched like an eagles nest about five hundred yards from the edge of the first drop off. + The Utah Canyon country is like a layered cake it gently slopes off then drops five hundred feet suddenly and then tapers off again for half a mile and then drops again and so on all the way down to the invisible bottom. Somewhere far below and ahead of where I stood was the confluence of the green and Colorado rivers, the hands that gave the canyons this signature over the geological eons. Eons which saw the passage of many different types of men with many different beliefs. Silence has reigned king for far longer than the transitory mind of man could even wrap itself around. + I came here because I knew it was here. No other reason than that, I knew it was here and I needed to see it again + I walked in on a party in progress and had to once again face the harsh realities that happen when you have to go in public. There were conversations and the swirling sound of introductions around me but I didn’t catch any names there was Dean and There was Betty of that much I was certain and for the time being that was the only problem I was occupied with, but then I noticed that they were all staring at me. How long had I been sitting there silently? Was their suspisian arroused? What sort of madness was really at work here? Was this the twitching of a depraved mind torn up by pills that felt like horse tranquilizer dosages or was this simply where I say my name? I took a quick scan of their faces and gambled. + “Oh, um I’m Sil….” Back to the comforts of silence. But no I had gauged it right with the paranoia there was Dean looking at me like a shrink bearing down on a stubborn patient intent on finding the source of his madness. + I started laughing. I just couldn’t hold up any longer I looked at the unknown eyes blinking in confusion and then say Betty’s face starting to light up with understanding. + “So what did you find?” They were on to me. Damn. + “What oh it’s just been a long day never hitchhiked before you know…” + “Uh huh. So what did you bring us?” Damn. Damn! Bearing down like hawk eyeing its prey, this wasn’t fair they didn’t understand where I was, what sort of strange hell I was in, the air felt like pressure bearing down into me crushing me with gravity. Ought to unload on them get them out here and see what to make of them. I gave three pills each to Dean and Betty and two each for the other two girls whose names I finally caught as Sabrina and Natalie. But I was not terribly interested in them for the time being. Dean and Betty told me about the drive; the ticket Dean had almost gotten just before the mountains and the crazy old woman in the trailer at the gas station that stopped at in some mountain town whose name no one knows anyway. I listen half-heartedly; I knew there was no hope for retaining anything of substance, but I caught enough so that I would be able to piece it together later in a more comprehensive state of mind. I watched the pills sweep up on them and the stories slowed and drifted off into silence without ever being resumed. The other two girls were silent the whole time, looking for all appearances like they were bored out of their thick dizzy skulls, doubtless they had already had to sit through these escapades earlier. +Dean and betty registered themselves in the hotel of silence and the room took on the uneasy air that rooms get when strangers must share silence. About forty five minutes into the experience the girls looked on the verge of cracking up, silence is not something that many people can endure for too long, there isn’t a lot of time for rehearsal in this world. Something is always taking place some commotion from the street, the television, the radio, families, neighbors, noise always noise with which to occupy the mind, but it this room there was nothing, only the occasional gutteral creaks of leather when someone shifted in their seat emmiting a sound a bit like a fart. Betty broke the leaden air with an “excuse you,” after one of those noises and this gave Sabrina the opportunity to speak, a go ahead signal from us… yes? She had decided she had to get home. I knew that was not a good idea; I thought about mentioning the true force of what the pills were about to do. I thought of mentioning that from my rudimentary medical knowledge I had discerned from the bottle (and a couple of others which I recognized as used in the treatment of epilepsy), was that the woman had seizures and that this pill was designed to shut down the brain when she felt one coming on. (I knew it would payoff to read Grey's Anatomy). I thought of all this and I wanted to explain it all but I couldn’t get it out right away and then she was gone. Natalie leaned back in the door and sneered some comment to Betty about her having some interesting friends and then disappeared like a cockroach scurrying from the light. + “Who is that woman?” I asked to the now silent room. + Betty started laughing and rolled forward holding her face in her hands, “I don’t know, I just don’t know….” + Dean filled in the blanks in her story by explaining that they were other friends of Mark’s and that he was at work for the rest of the night. I looked at them and thought of trying to tell them about what I had done, but I knew that they would pass out on me before I got to the good stuff and likely would never believe it anyway. Its good to have skeptical friends; it keeps you honest there is an understanding that before belief must come scrutiny with out scrutiny you tend to forget what it was you were doing in the first place. Did anything really happen at all? With the right combination of skeptics and hallucinogens you could probably solve all the worlds problem in about half a day, but we tend to believe that such people are raving paranoid lunatics that Ronald Reagan let out of the loony bins when he cut public funding for the mentally ill. It’s a fine line a very fine line. + They dove into coma-like state like the champion drug abusers that they were. Some people do drugs and then attempt to maintain their cool and act as if they were sober. These people are deeply confused and must wrestle their way through the most horrid of nightmares when they sleep at night. When I take drugs and I will say the same for Dean and Betty I like float out of my body and am not really too much concerned anymore with what anyone might think of me for it. This is the bridge that the politics of drugs can never hope to bridge. Yes the drug user tends to be apathetic and not a good little godling of Consumption because he is too fucked up to care about such things. But from the drug users point of view the same is equally true about the lawmaker or drug war soldier; they are so fucked up on a drug called power that they must step into the life of everyone and ram their beliefs down my throat with plunger like a redcoat loading a cannon a few hundred years ago. It creates a catch twenty two for both parties and the end result will always be one side saying good and the other saying bad and the thing in question could be as important as freedom of choice or as sing-song as potato and potaato. Good potato bad potato still you have a potato. Have a potato backed/have one sliced and fried/have a potato for breakfast/have one for lunch/ eat your goddamn potato or blow your fucking head off and send your corpse to a necrophiliac convention at the hotel Dumont in downtown Chicago…. + I was sore from lying in the truck all day and couldn’t sit still. After they passed out I went and took a shower and changed clothes. I tried stretching my joints for a while in the living room but it didn’t help and I headed out for a walk with the vague hope that I might find something to do I got back to the house after about two hours of wandering, it was just getting a real good pine pitch black somewhere, but in this neighborhood there was only a caustic glow of flood lamps through on asphalt. Dean and Betty were just getting up and getting handle on things when I got back. The original plan had been to go out with mark and the two girls when he got off but that evaporated in the face of pills. I ended up sleeping in a walk-in closet off the bedroom where Dean had been staying. It was a peaceful sleep, a quiet prelude to chaos. + + The silence of sleep was stolen from me at about ten the next morning by a raging warthog of a woman that I had paid not attention to the night before. It was Natalie making the racket as I discovered descending the stairs. Dean was up sitting at the kitchen table with a haggard look on his face that made me glad I had taken the pills earlier and was now free of their effects. I felt bright and triumphant, I was in a celebratory mood. I scavenged about for the makings of coffee and finding some I set about brewing up a pot. + “Those pills were like a sledgehammer…” + “Ya I know, but I had to ride all the way over the Rockies in the back of a pickup with three people’s camping gear and it was driving me nuts so I went a head and took em. Next thing I knew I was in boulder; I stole the pills and ran off to trade some hippies that’s how I got here.” + Dean listened with a cocked head as if to suggest that he was not actually going to buy any such story, but it was the only one I had to sell at the moment, so he accepted it. We were fierce creatures to behold, Dean and I, if yus happened to run across us before noon it was very likely that you were not going to get in on our good side. For one thing I see no need to exist before noon, nothing of any significance ever happens in the morning and generally speaking I don’t go to bed until after the sun has risen anyway. I like my eggs scrambles with loads of bacon on the side and some sort of bread-like substance slathered in butter, but most of all I like it served right when I get up —around one or two. + “So whats mark like?” Dean shrugged and that was all the answer I needed it said he was an alright guy, he had his head in the right place but rarely had to use it, it said he was a johnson and wouldn’t interfere in your life unless you asked him too Johnsons are a rare breed and one of the best things about them is that you don’t have to know them personally to know them above and beyond the personal, they are folks who can communicate more in silence than most can with a half hour deluge of verbose discriptions and life-long histories. + He’s Betty’s friend you know? I’m just a spectator… I mean he’s a nice guy, but I figure its very likely I will never see him again so why bother getting to know him? He seems to feel the same way. Besides he worked all day yesterday and I passed out before he even got home last night so… ya well there you go.” + “Yes there you go…” We both drifted off into private universes of thought, staring blankly at the coffeemakers monotonous and pathetically slow drip. I was thinking about Johnson’s, wandering if my definitions were the same as William Burroughs from whom Dean and I has stole the term. It was a colloquialism and if you recycle language from the past those in the present have no idea what you are talking about, which is a good thing is you constantly find yourself surrounded by strangers with only one or two people who really know you. It was a silent mysterious language that Dean and I shared; we had spent enough idle evenings doing nothing and mixd them with enough ferrocious adventures to know each others thought as well as our own. Not that we tended to have the same thoughts which a lot of people who came int contact with us assumed. Actually Dean and I disagreed on just about everything, but we were both able to see things from the others point of view without having to constantly prove ourselves right. He believed what he believed and I had my beliefs and we may have shared and compared, contrasted and built upon each others thoughts, but in no way were we the same. + I was turning this around in the feeble gray cells trying to wakethem up when I heard Dean groan. + “Fuck she’s back…” + “Who?” + “Natalie.” + “Who’s Natalie?” + “The beast.” + It was then that the beastial creature ricketed into thekitchen like a teetering wounded warthog. Of course I only see it that way in hindsight at the time there was merely a deep sense of spiritual torture rising up in me, I immediately took her to be the source of the foul locus plague character that fell upon the kitchen with her precense. Looking back I see only a warthog, there is no other word for her; she was one of those unique people that is ugly inside out and through and through. +Just as there are those people that upon meeting I am immediately sure I will be friends with forever, so to are there those people whose immpression of death is so strong that I know I will go to my grave living in fear of there existance. Not a fear of them per se, but a fear of there personality, that some twist of fate might turn me into a Natalie. She was one of those people whom nature itself must have been ashamed of, to have created such a vacumm of life and to allow it to continue to spread like a pestulence over the land, it makes the argument against a centient god stronger with every passing day. + Natalie was about thirty pounds over weight making her inhabit that no mans land between big boned and good old fashioned fat; it was a land in which wayward creatures that should have been beautiful find them selves, dragged by an unpleasant personality to the doldrums of food. Nobody really like Natalie as I was to learn from Mark, he detested her but was so amused by her that he never protested anything she did. The woman was like a bulldozer mooing down everything in its path. + The first words out of her mouth were “who the fuck are you?” + There is no space for kindness in the heart of the grotesque they can not afford it; so great is their silent grudge against the world they must constantly reassure themselves that they are on absolute edge, guarded on all sides against a possible attack, an attack which would devastated whatever is left of there chopped liver looking egos. It is a defense mechanism of a wounded animal to start every interaction with a hostile tone, the milk of human kindness flows only from the udders of self love without that it ferments into hatred and manifests itself through out the body in ugliness and hostility. + “I am Sil.” Simplicity is always the best bet in the face of inbred opposition. + “You must be the third one, I think we met last night but you look kind of forgettable, I must have overlooked you” + “Yes you must have.” I’ve always been curious what it is that makes one like Natalie, perhaps it was her parents, perhaps cruel classmates, perhaps its hardwired genetically, but whatever the sourse may be it is never the ones they take it out on. We the innocent always bear the brunt of the assault against the guilty. + “Well how about some coffee?” It was the demanding tone that got to me, as if I were too assumed that I would have no chance of understanding the clever insults that she dropped like smelly little turds leaking out her loose and defective sphincter, if nothing else you could probably follow their trail through the forest and find her if she ever got lost. Except that I doubt very much anyone would look for herif she did get lost. + “The coffee is not ready yet.” + “Well what good are you?” + “None to you” + It was early in the morning I hadn’t had anything to drink yet and I was not about to match wits with something that I hoped would just go away. I love a cutting sarcastic argument because I usually win them, but I didn’t have the energy for it this morning and I figured that it was not worth one iota of stress to put this woman in her place. Besides it was not my house, not my coffee, not my friend, and not my responsibility to make everyone into a nice person. I had a responsibility to myself; I looked at Dean for a minute as if to say what is this thing?, I looked at hr as she tunneled about in the refridgerator seeking refuge. + “I tell you what, you make me kind of queasy and I think coffee on top of that would be a bad idea so why don’t you help yourself to the whole damn pot and I will leave you in peace to enjoy your heartfelt superiorty over the world and wonder why it is that I don’t like you even though I don’t know you… try thinking about…. No, actually I think you should just keep it simple this morning… just trying thinking or better yet try feeling.” + I was out the door before I even finished and Dean was right behind me. We hopped in the trusty toyota and headed off in search of a more serene cup of coffee. We found what we were looking for at circle K on the corner where the clerk did not feel it necessary to ridicule us while we filled our cups which was really all you can ask for in this world.. diff --git a/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/4.txt b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/4.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..187a861 --- /dev/null +++ b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/4.txt @@ -0,0 +1,39 @@ + It was well past noon by the time we made to back to mark’s house and Betty was sitting on the porch waiting for us. Most of the houses in the are were your standard eighties tract housing fare, but the street Mark lived on was older probably from the fifties when things were looking rosy and we still got along with each other. Or at least that’s the impression the architecture of the period gives off, there were no fences on the street and all but a few of the houses had porches. I could almost picture the old Buick wagons or huge tail-finned Oldsmobile’s lumbering into the one-lane driveways —the kind that were really no more than two narrow stripes of concrete separated by grass— as the husbands came home for a lunch break. The way Betty was roosting in the shadows gave one the impression that she was the neighborhood gossip sitting on the porch all day observing the comings and goings of the neighborhood. Perhaps scandalous ministers stopping by a widows house to deliver the good news or a nice boy turned urchin riding home on his bike kicking over trash cans to the disgust of the hardworking fathers that have to clean them up. Those porch-sitting women would have been remarkable writers if anyone had given them a pen and paper or even a typewriter. Dean and I used to debate endlessly the fact that it was very likely that many of the best books ever written were read only by their authors, which is what happens when the world of art is forced to subsist within the world of commerce. + Apparently in our absence the world of Betty had collided with the world of Natalie and according to Mark who came outside at the sound of Dean’s car, the results were spectacular. Betty is a big girl and I would not personally want to go needlessly provoking her wrath, but Natalie couldn’t do anything else, it was the nature of her personality and Betty dealt with her swiftly and effectively —She threw her out a screen door. Betty picked her up and gave her the bum’s rush sending Natalie right through the screen door and down the steps into the driveway. I deeply wished I could have seen such a spectacular episode of justice, but we had done what Dean and I do best —avoided confrontation. +The subtle art of non-interference, as the I Ching calls it, is a process by which you train yourself not to partake in the foolish social bickering of tribal monkeys. That is to say that yes, there is a part of me that would have loved to throw Natalie out a plate-glass window and then jump up and down on her lacerated body until it resembled the gooey mess of pulp that congeals at the bottom of juicer, but to do so (or to do the less violent equivalent with words) would have had every bit as much reciprocal effect on me. The stress which the human body must endure to work itself up into such a fit of rage is too much effort (in my humble opinion) for a result that is inevitably doomed to failure. No one ever really learned anything by being bum rushed through a screen door, fun though it might be to serve up a little probity every now and then. + This account was my first impression of Mark and it only served to illustrate Dean’s descriptions and highlight the fact that he was effeminately gay which I already knew, but it was nonetheless always a treat to witness when one is usually surrounded by all forms of blatant heterosexual dominance. Its nice to hear a lisp after spending time in Utah where the only people with lisps usually have a host of other physical handicaps to go along with them. Gay communities are just that —communities— and they primarily exist within the liberal confines of big cites where they can enjoy, if not a political tour de force, than at least better treatment without the open hostility of hicks. Of course that isn’t to say that there is no open hostility, just that it is less and more infrequent. + I flopped myself into an old rocking chair with soft pillows and a gentle, natural rhythm to it and Dean went inside to take a shower. Betty was in an exuberant mood from having done something about the Natalie situation and she wanted to go out. Mark also was talking about a club he wanted to go to; I was all for it, its good to be hit on by gay men every now and then, nice to be the hunted rather than the hunter for a night. It would massage my ego to be hit on by gay man for the simple reason that any living brute can get a girl, but you have to be above average attractive before a gay man with waste his time on something as potentially volatile as a straight man in a gay bar surrounded by fag hags. At least that’s what my friend Zach used to tell me and he was the closest I ever came to wanting to be gay myself, I never had sex, never even kissed him, but there was an unspoken tension in the relationship that we both had a healthy respect for. Amy was horribly threatened by him which amuse the fuck out of me because she was herself bisexual and there is nothing funnier than the irony of hypocrisy. + I was lost in my own reflections glaring on the windshield like car headlights streaking through the night when I heard my name. + “Hello, anybody home…Sil I was asking you a question?” + “Right. What was the question?” + “Right.” Betty laughed at me; “I was wanting to know if you and Dean wanted to go to Tangz with us?” + “Us?” + “Ya well at least Mark and I, maybe Sabrina…” + I curled my lip at the mention of Sabrina, “is it absolutely necessary that she be included?” + Now Mark was laughing at me, “she’s really nice when she’s not around Natalie, in fact that’s the only reason I tolerate Natalie is so I can hang out with Sabrina.” + “Alright whatever… what’s Tangz? Isn’t that that stuff astronauts drink?” + “No that would be tang.” + “Right.” + Mark obviously didn’t find this routine funny so I dropped it and he launched into a description of the Tangz, which I ignored for the most part, but when he mentioned dollar beers before eight I suggested we leave immediately so I could get good and liquored for five bucks and then spend the rest of the time trying to maintain myself. +We weren’t hardly inside the door when the first lavascious gay boy was all over Dean and I; we smiled played his games and let him buy us drinks; when we had what we wanted we turned our backs and ignored him. I learned all this from having female friends and no I don’t think it’s heartless and mercenary. The man wanted to buy us drinks insisted on it with all the fervor of one who believes that something is going to be exchanged; far be it for me to rain on his little parade. (Contrary to what some men assume this is not a business venture, you do not get anything in return for buying someone a drink. If that’s your strategy stick to catholic bars where the guilt quotient runs high, because in any other establishment your making a gamble and if you happen to encounter me or may friends it’s a gamble that you will loose). + Not that the buck fifty he spent would have broken us; no things were still riding along well with all three of us flushed out with money, but like everything else we all knew that was bound to change so we tried as best we could to live it up while we could. Its tricky business the whole money thing, sometimes its there and sometimes its not, unfortunately I have yet to master what it takes to track when its around, where it comes from, how long it’ll be here and when its going to leave… to do that you’d have to care. And I don’t care. + What I was caring about at that particular moment was a blond at the far end of the bar, as a girl in a gay man’s club she stood out like a sore thumb, but she had yet to turn around and look in our direction. I watched her laughing with her friends who seemed consist of three guys one of whom was in uniform; I was tying to decide if all three were gay or if one was her boyfriend. It was an act of desperation or maybe of boredom. Betty and Mark were dancing on the big ballroom floor that occupied the majority of the joint while Dean and I sulked away free drinks in the corner booth of the mezzanine area that constituted the only seating outside of the bar, There isn’t a whole lot for a straight man to do in a gay bar, but change I reasoned is always good. Now and then a lisping stranger would approach sometimes trying to be casual, sometimes outright soliciting sex, and try to entice us somewhere or other that we had never heard of. Needless to say it was not long before the blond turned around and reveled the inconsistency of the gods which bestow some with bodies and others with faces reflecting all their glory, but seldom both in the same lustrous package. She had the body part down and I was in love with her until she turned around. Be careful what you wish for they say…. + Dean and I were ready for a change of scene, but Betty would hear nothing of the sort. In fact she merely mocked us for not being able to have good time. She detailed our own enthusiasms back to us which we had so eloquently arranged several night before and then with that cutting edge that women always have at the ready she sliced and diced us until I started to have believe her that I was indeed the biggest hypocrite on the planet. At least, I reasoned, I’m good at something. Undaunted Dean gave Mark the keys to his car and suggested that her and I set out on foot together; Mark told us about another bar up the street which was a singles hang out and apparently the most notorious place in Denver to pick up a good case of the happies —er—herpes, but we wrote that off as a gay mythmaking in the same way the some hetros are won’t pee in a gay bar of fear of contracting “the AIDS” as my friend Jeff used to refer to the Human Imunodeficency Virus, which contrary to popular belief does not always lead to the AIDS. Dean and I were out the door in a flesh with a rough sketch of where we were headed, but it wasn’t more than a block before we got sidetracked completely off course and found ourselves in a diner booth waiting on hamburgers and swilling cheap beer. + + + + +Drifting lightly over fields of heather through Picasso conversations and dipping over the ridge in full regalia we sailed on to New Orleans. It was only a blanket sky that stole us through and across Kansas where the soft velvet covers of night is the only way the see. Kansas was built and designed for darkness, one look at it in the daytime and you know that. I had my looks a ten when I was dragged at gunpoint by my mother to family reunion in Kansas, it’s flat, it’s hot and it two tone brown and green. It’s a Cliff note of cyberspace where God just threw down a pile of two by fours called it a house and moved on. The people are etch-a-sketch nightmares crafted by drunken cartoonist in the back lot of Hollywood cartoon porn set. +We did it at night on our backs staring out Dean’s moon roof, the road was straight flat and didn’t require much driver input beyond the sympathetic nervous system. At night Kansas is a prose poem embryonic sleeping like the grass and birds and whatever else inhabits the blank Formica-like ground. +I loved it drifted through endless hazes of abstraction drawn out across continents of thought where I where I wandered through Parisian streets looking for a bit of bread and coffee. Whorehouses and cafes drifted across the night sky and the passing glare of headlights bounced from the road to the roof of the car and for moment we saw our reflection and then the great looping butterfly conversations began. +“Did you ever read that piece I sent to you on the vitropy thing you read?” +“The one with Einstein as con artist ‘buying time for the universe’?” +“Ya do you remember the other theory that was in it? The one where I was arguing that in light of Steven Hawking theory nothing can ever be true for more than the time in which you can observe it be true…” +“How do you know then if you are observing it at the instant it happens unless you are being observed as well? +“Huh. Well I don’t know if that would really be answerable, it like saying if a tree falls in the woods…” +Ya so the answer is no. +“How do you mean?” +“I mean it’s in the language. ‘If a tree falls in the forest and no one is there does it make noise?’, well yes and no I guess because it depends on how you define noise…is noise only what is audible to humans or is noise the movement of air regardless of whether it hits a human ear drum? In the first case the answer is no the second case the answer is yes and in neither case does it have any bearing whatsoever on anything that we might ever hope to find interesting enough to write down and try to communicate to other people.” +“You guys talk about the oddest things.” Betty didn’t say much in Kansas, she was having a kind of culture shock experience coming out of a stable happy marriage into a seething pit of relentlessly narcissistic and self obsessed vipers. Dean and I could talk about anything we could find arguments and discussions in the simplest and most mundane of points. We would pick them up like mice and role them around in the dirt until they were ten times our size and the whole thing collapsed under its own weight and we ended up laughing ourselves quiet until we found another one. We would have been happy to lie on our back and watch the clouds all day so long as we had all the comfort issues of food and the like taken care of and a healthy supply of heroin was running on drip IV and never ran out for all eternity. But the circumstances of the planet at this stage did not allow for such and idyllic life so we stop up ideas, words, schemes, plans, the unteathered nothingness of thought, and occasionally heroin. +Dean was my skeptic. He tended to not believe anything while I believed everything. We could both shift our polarities around in a dizzying fashion that left observers disoriented and unsure of who exactly we were. We tended to lapse into that person universe whenever we were bored and Kansas at night provided as much bored as you need to drop down into the fertile crescent of you brain the unconsciousness and drag up Paris where you walked about looking for a girl named Nina and tragic river to watch it all from afar. Dean tended to anchor things some what for Betty because she was his sister and he felt some need to keep her in touch with reality, his stories had an urgency to them and subtle homer Simpson take on life more bemusement than amusement. Where as I talked the way Terence Malik made films, in riddles and allegories only we understand. Some people found it interesting and other arrogant. The one who thought it arrogant usual slept with me, wanted to be around me constantly and ended up ruining my life; the rest became my friends. Dean and I never held our arrogance against each other but secretly we both knew we were right and wrong all the time, which was a horribly efficient way of seeing everything from as many angles as possible at all times. Verbal and emotional esotericness tends to lead to physical chaos. +But it tends to accelerate things as well. diff --git a/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/Sil Waiben Kell Tucker.txt b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/Sil Waiben Kell Tucker.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b400674 --- /dev/null +++ b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/Sil Waiben Kell Tucker.txt @@ -0,0 +1,144 @@ +in the beginning +was the word + Sil Hawkard always wanted to be rich, filthy fucking rich, because rich people lie around in opium filled rooms and snap there fingers for food and sex and drugs and what else is there in life really? Fortunately for Sil he was filthy fucking rich and lying around in his own little palace in Mandalay exploring the outer perimeters of sanity by the ingestion of galvanized petroleum vapors. He was an oil man, though he didn’t start that way. + He sucks on the thin plastic tube, lighting the huca with a bic lighter bearing the insignia of a crucified christ with crown of thorns. Sil looks at the christ's crown and thinks to himself -this was not an oil man. + Petroleum it was generally believed was made into smokable drug by the arab's who looking for some potential use for the waste products given off in the refinement process, but this was not strictly true. In fact petroleum was a rather inaccurate name for what Sil and a good percentage of the world was smoking these days. It was rather a carbon based opiate smoke made by trapping the opiates in a petroleum vapor and then condencing the vapor into a liquid which was inturn boiled through alcohol and left behind a sticky oil candy goo (hense the name) which would burn for hours slowly releasing it densly packed opiates. It turned ugly grey dirt heroin into the finest high imaginable. + Sil hits the huca again and feels his face going numb his head slumps down until his chin is nearly on his chest, he snaps his fingers twice. Two Arab boys appear and began to dance crooked, spinning patterns devised over centuries of hypnotic oppression which the cockroaches of skid row motels had only recently begun to learn. Oppression is a drug, it acts equally, though differently, on the oppressed and the oppressor alike. + All things must remain at equilibrium or fall into decay, this is a law of physics, and it is true of all systems mathematical --however if one considers spiritual and emotional systems one must take into account negative entropy. + The crooked dance is hypnotic to watch and all consuming to perform. In India they teach it to snakes, and in the sewers of America cockroaches feasting on the +radioactive waste have begun to learn it on their own. Like terrible creatures from a Kafkian nightmare they sit quitely underground, as we go about our lives, learning the dance passing it on to their children and teaching them how to use it as an evolutionary tool --for all systems are also trying to succeed one another. One day a properly evolved cockroach will crawl out of a sewer drain just as the head of state is stepping to the podium to address the nation. He will devour the president raw as the live camera crews feed man's downfall to a nation of viewers even as it happens. The blood soaked cameramen will never stop filming and the cockroach will scurry to the podium, strain himself to an upright position and address the nation...Behold I am. He will dance and spin and all will be entranced. Women will castrate men and men will bludgeon themselves to death with pickaxes until they are suitable for cockroach consumption and life will continue on much as it always has. + The system is independent of its elements, humans are not necessary, cockroaches would uphold the system just as well. Sil Hawkard’s mind is racing, horrible conspiracies are leaping at him from the walls like ostriches gone mad, heads palpating and seeking some soft cerebellum to penetrate. The initial paranoia of the petroleum smoke is fading away and Sil falls into a profound haze of self absorption. The boys continued to dance trance-like as the numbers explode at the edges of his vision. + +And the word was with god + Sil's story is a rather long and convoluted one and subject to enhancement on his own part, but this much is true: At the age of twenty one Sil Hawkard discovered that while he vaguely enjoyed torturing the professors at Columbia university, most people in the United State are squares, and Sil, already an avowed anarchist was weary of the materialists whom he felt lacked the imagination and understand to really get it --so to speak. So he dropped out for a semester and bummed his way around the united states. In the middle of the Utah desert one night in July he ingested a rather large quantity of +psilosilum in the form of mushrooms. His fascination with with mind manipulation did not began with drugs though, it began much earlier in a high school biology class where he realized the simple truth that the brain is a continuously changing chemical reaction. Thus if one wanted to escape the pattern of chemical reactions typical of human thought, one ought to change the chemistry of the brain itself. Sil's mushroom experience was typical of innerspace voyages except for one thing, he became convince that ostriches held the secret to the universe and it was this discovery that led him to Africa. + Sil arrived in africa in nineteen ninety three to find a talking ostrich; instead he found cryptotechnology --or it found him if you work from a Jungian perspective. He arrived in Angola aboard The Decator a british cargo ship bringing in weapons to fund a counter insurgancy movement to a government disinformation lope which the west was hoping would topple the rather lax dis informationg disinformation system in power --a government that welcomed technological refugees with open arms. Angola had become a haven for code writers who were not willing to dumb themselves down to the technology standards of the united States and its allies. Sil was a code breaker so to speak. He wasn't interested in simple bianary code breaking and writing he was interested in finding the rest of the characters which would form the semantic code to language, but the technology for undertaking such an endevor was in Angola . He asked around for all of two days when he wsa approached to take a package back to the United States in exchange for ten thousand dollars and a plane ticket anywhere in the world. Naturally at the end of his funds and having no chance at a grant, he accepted. Two months later, after deliverying a package to a man named William in Rhode Island, he he made his way Tunisia where an ostrich ahd told him to find a man named Cary Downs. downs was an excintric billionary obcessed with the occult and interstellar transmission of pure energy. In this spacetime point most people thought he owned an oil empire, but really it was the floating cities of geodasic domes attached to he oil derricks that people talked about. But Sil didn't know anything about the oil he just wanted a job at Downs' bar in the floating citystate, and the rent free +fully adjustable two bedroom geodasic dome that had been offer to him over a casual phone call from New York. + Sil, like the rest of you, desperately wanted to understand what the hell was going on and one meeting Downs in person and looking into his eyes he saw for in instant that he (right or wrong) believed that he knew what the hell was going on. Downs wa of medium hieght and had a rather slight build with a slinky way of walking across a room that most people were immediately put at ease by, Sil on the otherhand stiffened at the sight of him realized that if knowledge is power than this man is far more powerful than most peopl realize. After a short introduction a hashish pipe was produce and the two relaxed and spoke at length. + There are some thing you should understand before you decide you want to stay here, he began. "This structure is a living labritory and there is no hiearchical structure that dictates what you should do. You are free. You may do or not do anything you wish, but you may not tell others what they can and can't do no matter how much you find them annoying backward or incomprehensible. You will find that even the most "ignorant" mindsets become quite enlightening in this environment. There is a rather large library at your disposal and a full functioning gourmet restuarant. You do not need currancy to get anything you want here, but you do need excellant signal reception and frequency adaptors in order to keep from losing your your semantic grasp on spacetime while you're capapulted into spacetimemind." Downs lit the huca and passed the tube back to Sil, "in order to expand the potential of the human brain I built this city and I have tried the gather all the possible maps of the human brain together into one place and see what they had to gain from each other. To se what happens, " Downs paused and smiled at Sil, and I like you which is not trrue of everyone here." + Sil moved in to a dome apartment furnish in luxurious tapastries and artifacts that ranged from cuniform texts to what appeared to be scrools of tibetian text. There was a couch of warm dark orange velvet and piles of pillows with scene from the tibet book of +the dead and the Kama Sutra. The mixture of oriental and occidental gave the room a circular feeling which was reinforced by the spereical walls and roof. Sils head felt heavy and he laid down in the pile pillows and felt the room spin drunkenly. Don't worry the spinning will fade, your brain is conditioned to judgeperspective on three dimension planes. Taking away the planer walls it is used to causes distress and disorientation, but it will eventually go away as your brain maps out the new system and eventually you will forget that you live in a circle. + Cary Downs floatilla as he liked to call it consisted of seventy two people ranging from ethnobotists to a fundamentalist Babtist preacher. All the floatillas food was grown in to large green houses or caught in the waters around it meat was flown in every week by helicopter although only a few people ate it as meat was generally considered by the scientists as an inefficiant means of nurishing the human body, but one of them named Waiben had successfully argued that the body was but one part of the human existance and the appetite and random whims of taste should not be ignored in some asetic quest. There was also a bar and smoking lounge which was Sil's contribution to the system --as the residents refered to it. It was a closed system (save the imported meat and alcohol). Three additional green houses grew THC enhanced marajuana of a strain called alamant which was processed into hash and given out in bulk to the inhabitants also grown was peyote plants, close to twenty varienies of hallucinogenic mushrooms, poppies, coco plants, tabacco plants and several other mind altering herbs and medicines that Sil had never heard of. + The walls gave Sil the impression that the room was colapsing back in on itself, the disorientation and the intensity of hash rendered Sil immobile three days which Cary assured him was normal he suggested that Sil not restrain himself on the drugs, but of course to realize their potential incapatabilities after all he said everything you ever wanted is here no one is judging you and no one is threatening you so you'd be fool not to let go +for once in your life then we'll initiate you into our program . So Sil spent close to three months playing with the nuero circuitry of his brain. + + + Sil found himself in a spacetime point called Tucker. Discipline is an agent's greatest virtue, thinks Agent Tucker to himself as he draws a long and satisfying hit off the oxygen tube. Behind him Doris Day and her Waxing Loquacious Lesbians play a sultry 60's motown number on a dimly lit stage, and the general atmosphere of the bar takes on a surreal quality. A good bar is one where the possibilities remain endless regardless of the irrefutable realities. Agent Tucker is well aware of the realities, but his mind is only now beginning to sense the infinite set of possibilities that comes with every new reality. For instance when considering the overall picture of life and its universal quotient of suffering it is hard to feel pity for one’s own self. There is not nearly enough pity in Tucker to cover even his immediate family. He has no self pity, he considers self pity to be a symptom mental illness because it requires the ego to be divided into pitier and pitied. He likes his ego together as one in harmony he is quite proud of this justification and it helps to ease his innate sense of self pity and focus his mind on work. His work is the great work as a the masters would have called it. He is a Agent of the State. The State is not to be confused with the government as many of you would assume. On the contrary the government is but an instrument of the State, the State is a separate entity whose ultimate identity is unknown even to Tucker; he is but an agent of it charged with ceasing the drug trade. He has for months now been stalking the elusive Sil Hawkard, a man whose identity is also unknown to him, he realizes that Hawkard could well be in this very room right now planning Tucker's demise, the thought sends a cold shiver of fear down his spine and he cringes thinking again like a manta: discipline is an agent’s greatest virtue. Agent Tucker takes another hit of the oxygen and notices the numbers exploding at the edges of his vision. Exploding numbers are the smoker's worst fear. Suddenly seized by the idea that +Hawkard may be present, Agent Tucker nervously fingers his pistol and glances furtively around the bar. He notes, but passes over one Sil Hawkard quietly sitting at the other end of the bar with a soda water in front of him. Sil is also caressing his own gun and contemplating the effectiveness of the copeater he has tied in a van outside. He watches as Agent Tucker gets up and moves toward the door Sil can see the fear in his eyes he knows that weakness has set into Tucker’s mind. Sil reaches into his pocket and pushes the intercom button on a two way radio, he is thinking about a Keat's poem he hasn't seen since high school. + So old the place was, I remember none + The like upon the earth: what I had seen + Of grey cathedrals, buttressed walls, rent towers, + The superannuations of sunk realms, + Or nature's rocks toiled hard in waves and winds, + Seemed but the faulture of decrepit things + To that eternal doomed monument. + Outside in the back of the van, one of the Arab boys unchains the copeater and lets it out the back door. Agent Tucker is opening the door to his own car with a sense of relief when he feels hot breath on his neck and a dull ache at the base of his spine, but this is fleeting and an instant later the copeater is sucking the remnants of flesh from a spinal chord, being careful not to damage the raw nerves as his masters taught him. + Hawkard is still inside the bar sipping quitely on his soda water, his phone rings, he pulls it out of his jacket and puts it to his ear... + "The Agent Tucker problem has been solved and the shipment will go through as planned." + "Thank you William, your services are invaluable to me, and I will wire the money first thing in the morning." Sil is smiling to himself visualizing the final horror as death met Agent Tucker. Sil replaces the phone on its receiver and lights a cigarette. + At another point in the fabric of reality Sil felt a primordial yearning to devour raw flesh and roll in a room of naked women.You are at a club wearing skin tight black vinyl pants and a black tank top with no bra, your nipples are hard and everyone can see them through your shirt. Your dancing with a black haired girl also wearing tight black clothing, sitting at the back watching from a distance. Your pussy clenches and sends tremors through your body every time the girl brushes against your skin, she teases you dragging her finger along your arm, and as the music stops she grabs you by the hand and leads you two a booth where two of her friends are waiting. + Sil hates cops....I fucking hate 'em. I hate 'em. I hate 'em. I hate 'em. I want to kill them all in a violent sea of time-released explosive donuts that when eaten mix with the stomach acids and explode in violent blueberrystrawberrylemon filled death. Die pig die. Imagine it, a million sworn upholders of THE LAW dead in an instant. Think of the society we could have. Think of the freedom, think of the beauty. The sweet satisfaction of tearing down all the rotting pig gut filled doughnut shops in the nation. No more sweaty palms. "License and registration please." Fuck you, never again. Never again. kill every cop you see --a populist revolt. We don't need all these damn laws, the people are okay --we know how to look after ourselves. The laws are the ones that fucked everything up the first place. And who hurts the most people in this here little world? The State. A cattle car streaming over the tracks of life, slick with the blood of the people. The train can't go up the hill because the tracks are too slippery with my guts your guts our guts. Cut off by THE LAW, our heads impaled on the ends of the its tentacle-like arms as they strangling the last hold outs of resistance into pacified stupidity. + The anger subsides as his mind rationalizes that at least one more is dead. Sil found himself dialling a number he didn't know picks up the phone --the other end never rings instead a voice says: "hello?" + "May I speak to Captain Clark please?" + "I'm sorry he's not in. May I take a message?" + "No. No message." Sil hangs up the phone. He walks to the back of the bar and flops his body onto the luxurious red velvet couch and is swept by an overwhelming sensation of peace; his mind begin to expand, and he feels the desire for more consciousness --the death of us all, Sil thinks idly to himself as he lights a pipe under the table and discreetly sucks in a deep inhalation of opium hash mixture. The sticky sweet smoke that fills his lungs brings forth tape loops and strange loops of staitc future memories. Teisting and turning there way through the circuitry until Anarchy is the only answer to all questions which begin with why? whY? wHY? WHY? Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law --future memories of books he hasn't read. In distant memory filtering strands of DNA locked deep in Sil's cerebral cortex a vibration begins, infinitely small at first but building slowly into his medulla and finally spring forth into the part of the brain referred to as consciousness. The cameras rolled even as the lights were dimming. +"BRING THE PRISONER FORWARD" + Unrolling a weighty and sterile looking scroll of antiseptically white paper a voice whose origin is masked by the size of the paper itself reads: + After making reviews of the past actions, thoughts, and attributed sentiments, it is the judgement of this committee, and therefore the judgment of the government it represents, that due to a general lack of ability to perceive the options open to the work potential of the drone in question in simple terms of an x or not-x negativism which would be most helpful in these situations and would consequently decrease expenditures and lower taxes for other individuals living in said dualism and therefore we hereby decree that all metaprogramming undertaken by the individual without the consent and simultaneous approval of this committee and the government it represents to be criminal in intent, hostile in action, and punishable by prison and/or death upon conception. Thank you. You may go. + Sil Hawkard finds himself dragged from the tribunal, hands tied in front of him and legs trailing uselessly behind. His guards use his head to open the heavy wooden door and +then they dump him unceremoniously onto the filthy street where a group of children are playing. A monkey runs by, tugging its penis with one hand and slapping its bright red ass with the other . + Eventually the transmission deemed irrelevant given overwhelming incoming signal that sweeps across all frequencies, visual, audio, chemical, and physical. There are five senses, sight, sound, taste, touch, and smell, and only four signal sources; both smell and taste are chemical reactions with tissue that are then turned into different chemical reactions in the brain. Sil tried at first to kill the reception entirely, but this proved a bit to radical of a step so he worked in phases first chemical manipulations of brainwaves --what the simians referred to as drugs Downs used to say. + Teletype for corsica the agent sent in for returns, Home office denied request for reinforcements, all communication to be ceased henceforth. Piss in the riddle thought the old man wheeling his chair back out to the porch, he picked up a mason jar of corn whiskey and laid the shotgun across his lap. + The languid afternoon floated in and up the beach from the Atlantic bringing photomontages of Mandalay and the Dutch East Indies spice trade boats, far off places he had heard of only as words and imagined smells. Up the beach from the house were the beginnings of the rocky South Carolina shoreline teeming with crabs, sponges, sea anemones, and circle swooping gulls feeding on sand crabs exposed in the fluctuating waves. It was low tide, in fact it was always low tide or at least it seemed that way to the old man. He was partly right, the tide was lower than it had been a year before when a man by the name of Dr. Waiben began overseeing construction of a nuclear power plant buried two miles under ground to hide its heat signature for pesky government satellites. The plant whose only entrance was from the sea, was Cary Downs research facility but right now that is but future memory fighting for space at a coordinate that won't have it. + Sil is in New orleans renting an attic in the french quarter following a strict regiment to kick the opium habit he developed at FREEDOM Inc. The best cure downs had said is +to get a job in INDOCTRINATION Inc., where you will be forced to confront the ugly stupity of life. + + The old man stood up on the porch and paced back and forth waiting...you understand the seriousness of the matter... obviously we would not expect an ordinary agent to do such a thing...your expertise in these fields...well frankly it's unparalleled..there is no other...These orders are coming straight from the top...your cooperation is non-negotiable... + + +...to be an abstraction does not +mean that an entity is nothing. +--A. N. Whitehead + + Two years earlier: Dr. Waiben, pathologist for IND Inc., surveys a long horrifically clean hallway whose smoothness is interrupted only occasionally by the presence of polished sliver knobs indicating doorways. There are no observation windows or any other windows within the rooms. This is the housing quarter for the derelicts of society: prostitutes, schizophrenics, lobotomy patients, drug pushers, anarchists, communists, AIDS victims, the aberrations that society never needed nor found a use for, end up here, under the care of Dr. Waiben, pathologist for IND Inc. The good doctor has, for twenty odd years, been the caretaker of the derelicts, charged with restoring to them a level of functionality deemed necessary by society. He is the man who puts the cogs back into the wheel. + Waiben is an expert in mind manipulation through the use of psychoactive chemicals like Ayahuasca which he has recently fed to one whore whom the state had deemed a "revolutionary" for her accidental participation in an protest against the seizure of private property. Her constant screaming had disturbed the other doctors, but Waiben +found them soothing in the same erotic kind of way that a soft candle lit room made him desperately want to masturbate. Regardless, he hated departmental friction so he was treating her with his standard dosage of twenty dried kuri-coo caps blended into a protein shake. The girl was a fighter and she knew she didn't want the shake; he had been forced to strap her down on a table and put a low voltage cattle prod in her cunt, and even then she had held out for eighteen seconds -it was a record for the floor. + He watched her on a TV monitor from the station at the end of the hall. She alternated between foaming a bloody spit out of her mouth while her eyes bulged menacingly, to sitting apparently quite peacefully on the edge of the toilet seat. Her vital stats were typical for the dosage he had given her. He watched with the detached apathy of those who have seen the degradation of life for twenty odd years and never thought to bat an eye toward suffering. He panned the room camera around and noted blood and little clumps of flesh lying on the floor near the bed, he zoomed in and momentary renewed his interests as he realized that she had been picking the burnt flesh out of her cunt. His stomach turned, not at the idea of her suffering, but at the idea that she would leave it lying about on the floor like a common animal wallowing in its own shit. He sighed and picked up a bic lighter with a picture of Uncle Sam on it, the typical picture was warped due to the surface curvature of the lighter giving Old Sam a peculiar evil bent that Waiben admired; he lit it and held it at the base of the opium pipe, taking a deep and satisfying drag. + Opium was a recent habit for Waiben, he typically avoided addictive substances out of the repulsion he felt toward people who were dependant on anything. But with opiates he found a peaceful state of mind that he felt might make a person more susceptible to mind control. However, in experimenting with the drug he had accidentally developed a habit. Doctor Waiben's habit did not go unnoticed by others in his department however, and as he was already unpopular for his rather unconventional methods and ideas, it wasn't long before a doctor by the name of Kellinger reported him to the state. In the tumultuous time that was the present the good doctor was asked to resign, but did not instead he called +a press conference which was sadly rather ill attended, he proceeded to get up in front of the local new cameras and launch into an anti-government rant. he was promptly arrested for "divulging state secrets and brought to trial before a hastily put together tribunal of senators and judges. + One person who did happen to catch the broadcast was Sil Hawkard who was in a New Orleans attic when he heard a voice from on the television drift up to his room...the united states government is by its own legal definitions, insane and therefor incapable of being held accountable for its decisions.... + Sil bolted upright in his bed and ran down stares in time to catch the name Waiben before the camera cut out. Two days later Sil was arrested and thrown in prison in the cell next to Waiben. Because Sil was not a United States citizen he was merely given a lecture and thrown bodily out of the building bringing future memories to head. He made a deal with Waiben before he left, come to New Orleans and meet with me to discuss nuero research and I will get you out.... + Doctor Waiben was something of an anomaly among scientists, he enjoyed being proved wrong because it saved him the trouble of having to prove anything right. Waiben was one of the unique individuals of this century that understood that when you open one door its real value is not what is behind it but whether or not there are any more doors that revel themselves to the researcher. He did not suffer from what Robert Wilson calls the New Inquisition. This term is a catch phrase for those that try to make a belief system stand up with scientific legs, when in fact science is a tool or method of research, it is amoral. Science does not believe anything because it is not a thing, it is a language. I quote from Wilhelm Reich in Hell: There is also argument by Logic. This can sometimes be combined with scientific experiments and if the two mesh we have a "fit" of theory with fact and scientists are delighted. Pure Argument by Logic, however does not require this experimental back up and only demands that the conclusions by reached by the game-rules +of an abstract symbol system. In our hypothetical case, some witness might inform congress: +All mome raths need to be distimmed; +All frammisgoshes are mome raths; therefore; +all frammisgoshes need to be distimmed + + This so-called transitive property has led scientists into the same dead end alley of faith that religion finds itself in, I have faith in science the mad man rants on silver screens... + transcribed from tapes: the terminal disease clerk took orders by the turnstile, finding the story in the story and logging in the disease workers all night long. At five in the morning he got off and headed to a tavern as the sun was coming up. Direct confrontation with the terminal virus word is a bit confusing to those who are not properly prepared. poor fuckers never had a chance, the technical sergeant takes off his helmet and slams it on the table the near moronic mumblings of discontent. Waging war is semantically impossible without overtones of homosexuality. Heavy handed, the second wave fell in line with the technical sergeant at the lead. The thing you have to watch out for are the warblers --the distractions coming in at the sides, sound is their most effective weapon, primordial hangover he called it drunkenly raising the glass. And some of you may think this suspect but take my advise sounds where it all started. In the beginning was the word and the word spoke. The sergeant stoops and cups his hands to light a cigarette. Then there is sex or not enough of it, both are equally dangerous --biology is not something to scoff at. sexuality is the best cover an agent can ever use. Rockets come searing in overhead ripping flesh and scoffing at the notion of eternity, out here you don't have time to talk, the thoughts are things, they are no longer words...keep your radios tuned boys its getting ugly. Another rocket sears in severed limbs fly out the explosion and olive drab body parts litter the scene. Watch out for the bloody words, sharp words that +hang in the air like knives and when uttered returned to slit the throat of their speaker and if every word you have spoken returned to act upon yourself would you survive the experience? Me no way i’m outta here. Situation getting sticky, humid like vaporous blood hanging on in the air. Still acrid smell of urine and small children playing in a asphalt playground ringed on all sides by immense brick walls with basket ball hoops hung half way up each of the sides. Realize that that which we are taught from childhood to distrust is in fact a pawn of something far more immense and much much more dangerous. The governments and nations of the world are incidental pawns the real powers control them and then beyond them there are even more and so on like looking two mirrors facing each other and going on to infinity. The monster of power is faceless there is no one person or group that controls everything they are all parts of a immense and multi-headed monster that is constantly biting itself and attacking it own heads until some day it will destroy itself. The end of time leaves space and word alone together + we're taking heavy fire! The sergeant calls for back up, the captain says love one another and cryptically hangs up the phone. The Spanish soldier selling chicletts say no good no bueno, pictures worth not even half a thousand words. Wouldn’ give you ten words, worthless gringo words don’t mean shit. no good no bueno, not worth the blood their written in. The blood of all peoples not yours, not your shoes, by god keep your slave labor camps a closed-mouthed secret. Gotta keep that in house, dis-credit all new agencies by routinely feeding them false information. News doesn’t happen events happen, and the department of television information broadcasting inc. a subdivision of indoctrination inc. decides what gets out and what remains forever sealed in baby pissshitguts. No that's not true. No comment. No need for comment, the preceding has been since proved to be untrue, cut to shots of smart bombs. Couldn’t get fifty words for those now gringo -over exposure- nobody buying. Same old stinking shit. No Good. No Bueno. + Gringo go home in thousand languages in a million words, why don’t you crawl back in your cave get your tail so far between your legs it goes half way up your ass? Lead +me to the holy spigot and we’ll show you the bidet of death, constructed by gringos, for gringos, to flush out gringos, to show them all what you do behind closed doors. Can’t close them all --we have our technicians as well and they’re getting to be better than yours. We got the money rolling in --even offered you the picture words but you don’t want them. No Good. Can’t use those, too strong. No fair, crying boy heads home for cave to lick his dirty balls clean. + I gotta picture for you I on vacation in your country go to hear senator’s speak but all door are closed, all sealed. So i gotta fiber optic and feed it in from the roof show all senators mad with sexual lust and blood thirsty, clamoring for war and stealing souls and bodies and driving them off wherever they see fit. + The technician is retro actively of course --the papers said the man was mentally ill. ‘my cod!’ screamed a church lady in the front row, ‘satan has garbled the lords message, this isn’t what he meant for you to hear, no it was not all like that, there was to be understanding.’ she is parading her old cunt bones whining at the justices --tissue conducts signals, animals communicate through the use of visual, acoustic , chemical, tactile and electrical signals. Our laboratory is an abundant and well preserved feed back loop to understand and interpret Eusocial behavior. negative feedback inhibition to make you shiver Gringo. Make you shiver good. + Repetition unsuccessful. The radiologist was called in to examine the patient --blisters and burns indicate high probability of skin mutation, what would you say Dr. Waiben? Crested and on the nod? Diminutively yes definitely. + Information potential exists --its an unsettling thought, dependency --and what happens when things start to think? How do you draw the lines then. + HOW THE PLAGUE BEGAN: + The wish to preserve -not worth saving what already is- in this scenario. The word, the loss of body situated at the origins of recorded sound -the temporal metaphysical and esthetic possibilities. + <insert sounds of truck on dirt road> + Old man yelling. Get off of my laaawwwnnn! Sits down to oil his gun some more and then half turns in his chair to face the camera and says "i haven't left the porch since i got this CDRom PEOPLE version 3.0. Updated and expanded human potential at your fingertips. Its the only thing i need --got no use for the stinking gringos anymore-- camera pans out and down revealing a yard strewn with shotgunblasted bodies of young children. We see wife, face half torn off, crawling towards a pistol <shotgun blast stage left> her head disappears entirely. Old man: "human potential, the new CDrom makes wives unnecessary." cue logo: on sale now at a sanatorium near you.... + I'm going to finally send you the orgy papers this time -been fixing to get 'round to that for some time" <heavy southern drawl> don't think he's the type to do it though but i been wrong once or twice a'fore. Don't want people showing up on my lawn though that's never good. get off of my lllaaaawwwwnnnnn! <shotgun blast again, distant screaming sounds of deaths final agonies eeking out blood gurgling windpipes> Fucking Gringos! Go home in a thousand languages! + Experience as much of the human potential as possible retain the container and forward the frog to the fun sun freaks of eastern Tibet all is well with alkaline, and acidity is on the skids with death rooted out leaving only chicken shit shovelled scrapped and scraped like lemon lime gatorade poured from a fuck buck of love. Stop talking to yourself --listen to the virus talk to you. All that you consider to be a accident was carefully orchestrated for your benefit by a benevolent cocksucking god from the twenty-third dimension to just plain old irritate the fuck out of you like a bad rectal itch. Stupid gringo got no cure for the ass itch i show you some pictures, yes very dirty, little girls you like?????? + <<<<<commander in chief of the NATO forces in Europe is fucking small refugee boy in the ass, the boy cries for his mother the general is laughing, your mother’s down the hall boy ,she’s busy with the president of France right now. But maybe later you’d like to +lick his come off her dead face. Ban those words tear them right out snip snip. Can’t say that, its disgusting. War is a snuff film for the rich. <<<<We gotta step up the bombing chief the public’s losing innarest in us screams the chief of staff running in circles jerking off and slapping his ass until it turns a bright purple and with all seriousness General Jesse Helms pauses to reflect: I remember a time when life was good no one got in our way, why in Europe under Patton i musta raped twenty thirty little boys and a handful of nuns too. He smiles lost in memory... + But God hath given us these trying times.... + Yes it is bit hard to get cunt these days isn’t it, mumbles the chief of state as he strokes his wife’s cock....Yes dear start a war, get me some cute refugee boys, i so love snapping their necks when i’m coming, she growls affectionately. + That's it gentlemen were going to war! The president stands and ejaculates on a map of the world KOSOVO it is he says as his thick oatmeal consistency sperm all but covers the former republic of Yugoslavia. + You like? You like, no? Too bad. You can’t have those words, too strong. I get power, you give me power, I steal power from you, to expensive to buy it. I get power and you get pictures and maybe I tell you how to cure rectal itch? Eh? Eh? Eh? + + + Experiements with the death ray tape and image guns began with William Burroughs in the nineteen fifties, but was sidetracked by the advent of digital technology. The newer is not necessarily the better though folks smoetimes they just have different uses --like the image gun that shot...In the beginning was the word and the word was made flesh by a cacophonous blast out of heaven's pearly cum-stained ass creating the father, the son, and the holy spigot which lies in a secluded garden on the cliffs overlooking the Sargasso sea. The spigot is buried in a volcano designed by Czech ostriches in the eleventh hour of creation to drain all human excrement off the continent of Europe and into +the Sargasso sea all lumpy with turd so thick Jesus "conny" Christ in drag is walking along to the amazement of the gullible, floating gently from turd to turd. The piss blood of a million cunts and cocks line the shores giving the whole place a radioactive iridescent red glow not to mention a awful stench. Mr. Rogers and Captain Kangaroo are standing on the bluffs watching the spectacle and scanning with hawk eyes for sweet tight asses in which they can stab their hungry cocks. The father caught the son sitting in the middle of the garden sucking on an apple and he became enraged and hog tied the boy and penetrated every orifice in his body with a peeled and sculpted cucumber cock; the boy was left a whimpering quivering lump of fleshy jello from which spawned humankind. + The piss gut rotting flesh smell, air taunt necked and jerking at the nose, the captain's eyes role back into his head as is guts are blasted out his ass by a giggling man headed tape worm of extraordinary wit who was prone to quoting Joyce and Bugs Bunny in the same sentence in a way that reminded listeners of Buster Keaton in some strange drugstore hurricane kind of a way. The skatolic odor was rich and the worm refused to bath. Owing to the peculiar nature of its origin the soldiers did not disturb the worm preferring instead to watch the captain writhe in agony pulling his legs back behind his ear to attempt to lick the matted blood soaked pubic hair over the the torn orangish flesh that hung in ribbons over a large hole that had once been a simple anus. The upshot of it all was that the worm ate less rations than the captain so the men were basically satisfied with the arrangement and they followed the worm wiggling through the jungle as it did impersonations of Fred Astaire... + Blasted rot gut con-artist with ten huge molars running across the front of his mouth in a clump owing to his mother's industrial accident with the cunt acid from the chink's hyperdrill. Drilled right on through back to china, the asshole couldn't even close the damn thing and the lower mandible just kind of hung there like a tire swing. Maya spits in his face in disgust and revulsion you don't have enough money for me to kiss you there isn't enough money on the planet... + The giggling Hyenas are dressed in black and high on amphetamines looking to turn you inside out. + Tongue-tied porn queens scream obscenities at passersby "I'll suck your dick until your eyeballs pop out your ass..." + Steady...wait til you see the whites of their eyes...Blown newspapers and advert scrapes cover the bottom three feet of a brick wall like sardines neatly packed in a kipper snack tin from a 1983 supermarket shelf....Horatio Alger's sodomizing menage-a-toi with the Maytag Man and Uncle Sam has led us to train station on the SpaceTime line where freedom is an irrelevant inconvenience of language that is slowly being fazed out of history. Language is a virus. The i that is You speaks, I speak and the vibrations of air we create controls our every move. Science gives rise to Magic in the form of powerful papers that tell who what why and how you are to be. You can't march down to city hall to protest without a permit filed ahead of time with the city clerk. You can't drive an automobile without the Proper Papers. You can't leave the country without PAPERS, you can't perform honest labor without PAPERS. You can't buy or grow certain pharmaceuticals at all, nor can you pursue the happiness of your choice unless it falls into one category. Consumption. We are all free to consume, which when you think about it, is the only freedom we really need in a CONSUMER SOCIETY. Televisions, radios, automobiles, washing machines, drying machines, refrigerators, freezers, ovens, microwave ovens, convection ovens, alarm clocks, computers, headphones, home furnishings, bicycles, video games, tennis shoes, laser disc players, DVD players, record players, compact disc players, cordless telephones, wireless phones, digital phones, cellular phones, two way radios, short wave radios, car stereos, home stereos, and every accessory you can conceive of and millions more you couldn't. We have all the entertainment and modern conveniences in the world in our home each assessable at our fingertips when ever you chose. Which is a good thing because the minute you step out of your house some OFFICAL OF THE STATE is going to want to see some goddamn- +papers-on-the-double-what-the-hell-are-you-doing-here-cough-up-the-fee-place-your-hands-behind-your-head-you-have-the-right-to-remain-silent-lie-down-and-spread-your-legs-and-shut-the-fuck-up-right-fucking-now sir! + Uncle Sam came on the ground and left without a trace. Horatio and Maytag were emotionally tormented for years until there eventual deaths through ritualistic dismemberment. + And I don't have any papers standing on a cement sidewalk slab starring at the FREEDOM OF AMERICA locked inside a now closed appliance store. The Ace Appliance Store to be precise. I feel suddenly nervous like they know what I am thinking. They know that I am thinking. + -He's not smiling. Oh no, not yet, we're working on it though.- + We the people we govern you the other people have decided for reasons which are beyond the scope of this broadcast and may well be beyond the scope of your comprehension entirely that all freedoms which you previously thought you had but never in reality did possess are summarily denied from this point forward. Please report to the nearest biomedical programing center by the fourth of May where a new human program biounity 3.6 will be installed into your seratonin and allow for future dopemine programing without the need for physical intervention please go about your lives as you always have all those not present for the reprogramming procedures by the fourth of May will be consider fugitives of the state and will be dealt with in the harshest manner allowed by law and endorsed by the entertainment loving public... + + + Naturally Waiben wanted out of jail and was perfectly willing to meet with his former cellmate who had struck up most unusual conversations with him and who had a habit of mumbling incoherently when asked what it was that he did. + + + +. + +There is no governor +anywhere -R.A.W. + + Sil stood at the window watching the sea leavel water lapping at the top third of it he toyed seeming mindlessly with the leavel that raised and lowered the dome and thought about Euchrists oral sex and the confusion of living a multi-ordinal quantum reality on a planet of third wave nuerocirciut apes. It wasn't that he looked down on people as a mass like most assumed nor that he felt some condescending sense of pity which motivates the religious savior type apes rather that simply that it would be easier for him if everyone understood a few things about quantum reality and non local universes. Pluratity. Unfortunately scientists and its worth noting that only a scant few of that sub population spoke the language of mathematics. It was equally troubling to Sil that no one spoke sanskrit or any of the languages that are really beautiful to the ear. He took a deep hit of the black alamant hash cigerette and headed to his typewriter wondering what it would be like to live in reality tunnel where everything is not fiction. where things actually happen far off like spice trade boats chinese junkets pulling into Siapan out of south sea storms. Opulent opium pictographs of women spread delicate violent flesh orgies across the room, scenes from Arabian Knights He wrote a letter to the governments of the world: + +Boards Sydicates and Cartels of the earth: +A general Theory of Anarchy, welcome to MINDFUCK: + You will undoubtable, upon hearing the term anarchy associate it with the popular mythology of a chaos-like state where murderers run naked through the street fucking helpless women inhaling blizards of cock and raving acid heads doing unspeakable things to your grandmother. Images conjured I suspect out of Frued's catalogue of chaos images +This apocalyptic vision is inherently politically based, but i understand that your imprints are such because you are politicians. however political anarchy is an oxymoron Anarchy of the Senses is what I speak of. In this vision your grandmother is you cellular memories no more static movie flicking black and white you are not you --semantic breakdown is inevitable why wait for death? + Anarchy, like life itself is infinitly more complicated than simple political gaming, left wing right wing, the whole concept of a bianary system is meanigless. The problem with the west in general is that it makes dicotomies out of what is really just a grey cloudy lump of shit which is wrong What i mean by that statement is that nothing is reducible to being either/or, belief itself is multidemensional and it is right. You feel the joke creeping in youself --at the edge of sleep different voices start to think for themselves maintainng an iron grip on reality creates tension and energy loss semantic breakdown at death. That is to say that to hold a beleif is to filter information through an infinitely complex system and into the brain where the information is organized further and through electro-chemical response conditioning, an opinion or patterned is formed. When the brain is again confronted with a similiar question the response path of the original is duplicated. + Doesn't ever strike you that this is not life. This is robotics. In light of something that is infinitely complex many philosophers, politicians and other freaks of nature have chosen to assume a starting point from which it can be safely assumed that everyone is at least in agreement of basic "facts." But as mathmatics show, these facts are subjective at best and non-existant for all practical purposes. The Image is not the thing it is a representation of the thing by the individual. There is no objective stance. Everything is in our heads, everthing that occurs around us occurs in our grey matter which is to say that everything is an internal experience of the individual rather than an external event happening to the individual. Thus the anarchists starting point is similtaniously everywhere and nowhere much like the timespace experience itself. At this point you can decide what is real and what is not. The punchline ducks and dodges. + This does not mean that fairies exist and men can walk through walls and everything coming into the bus is real at all rather that it can be real, because what is real is only a generalized hallucination. See what you want to see be who you want to be. If it doesn't matter why not be what makes you happy healthy and mindful of your self rather than butting into the business of everyone else? Laws are the result of psychosis. Only the mentally unbalanced would impose a limitation upon itself. You enjoy this metaphor when it matches up the moral code generally accepted as in the case of athletics and developement of the body, the decay worchippers, but when it is applied to everything it suddenly creates distress and psychosis. Psychosis is characterized by delusions and disorientation which you again like as a definition when it is appied to those whose lives are incomperhensible to you, the "insane,." You deem it to be appropriate then--for instance people holding non-bianary processing patterns (loonies, bums, the elderly)-- in this you are comforatble, but if the definition is expanded to include everything this causes the delusional to see that everything is delutional. this in turn leads to semantic confusion --if nothing is real then what matters? What is matter? A forth dimensional manifestation of energy? What are we? A forth deminsional manifestation of energy. + You hope that we are with you, you believe that we are with you, but you feel the incomprehension creeping in at the sides, you really can't believe it, but you feel it. You know we are not with you and you think that we are against you because this is the Alpha Male imprint, you're getting paranoid trying so hard to make us paranoid when it really isn't that easy; and you're frightened that one day you will look up trying to see a spaceship, but its something from your childhood and you're thinking you want see forever but you don't know what it means. You think you'll find it in the DNA strands, all the built in mechanisms --the punchline isn't what it seems, I'm sounding like an idiot and I no longer care. + Anarchy is not a threat to political institutions, life is a threat to political institutions. Why punish behavior that is differential from your own? You're trying it you're finding +that you like it. If you want to stop people from buying cars, stop building roads. If you want people to stop commiting crime stop building prisons. If you want people to stop starving to death stop making them work. If you want people to stop working tell them that their are vast sources of energy capable of sustaining them and tell them that these sources can be tapped in space. Tell them the coca-cola thing burroughs was always nagging you about. Tell them what you did. Tell them the game, because it is nearly up the semantic game has been played out and they can see it smell it touch it and taste it. They fanacize about it in Utopian novels and movies; they fret over it too because they don't know if you've been there first, they don't know if its safe. But eventually they're going to come over anyway. And you know as well as i do that control is as pointless as the rest of it in the end because oddly --the poets were always right. We are only human, meaning that when we are beyond that in thought the game playing falls apart --some see demoneds some see little green men, and you know what those signs mean. the end is near. The bucket is coming down the well. And once you are in it none of the concerns of the water have meaning. + I, as some many before me only wish to thank you without you i never would have been forced to think beyond spacetime, and into spacetimemind. I, also like many before do hearby, with a bow, resign. + +Sincerely, +SpaceTimeMind coordinate: Sil Hawkard + + + + Most, including the president, who recieved the letter thought it the suicide note of a man whom records showed had always led a quiet and unobtrusive life in south Hampton +Massuchusets. One of the few would might have understood it was Dr.Waiben, but he never got a copy. diff --git a/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/THE BOOK.odt b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/THE BOOK.odt Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..6f1262d --- /dev/null +++ b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/THE BOOK.odt diff --git a/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/THE BOOK.txt b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/THE BOOK.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..60a73c4 --- /dev/null +++ b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/THE BOOK.txt @@ -0,0 +1,781 @@ + Happenstance carried you here sitting out on a red rock mesa top forgetting each sunset as quickly as it passed. Staring out into nothingness the purest complete nothingness outside of ocean, in fact this was once a sea floor, even the fish wouldn't have it. But sitting on the porch of run down wood shack that passed as a house and rented for the paltry price of twenty five dollars a month. Actually that's what there paying me, twenty five a month to sit here and write reports; let go of all contact and take notes for somebody else's script, I never would have written myself into a role this melodramatic for a million bucks recks like Hollywood cheese. I keep think that one day I'm going to wake up and find out that I really am just a collection of ideas that if fact at the bottom of the search for everything we're going to find nothing... The Tao Te Ching says that the smallest thing is in the biggest and vice verse, it seems to me then that since we already know that "everything" is actually made up of indescribably tiny "nothings" called electrons that it is only a matter of time before the big stuff, God, god, philosophy, science all the big stuff is going to turn out to be founded on nothing. + I first had this realization years ago and I decided to take on the big job myself I set out to find the unknown and find some way, however thin, to make it known. I wrote a book on what I found and met the interesting folks at the AIC and then I was here, like you just sitting on the porch of a shitstye in the unbearable afternoon heat —southeastern Utah in August. All I do is wait for the mercy of the thunder clouds which manage to bring the temperature down to the high nineties, of course the trade off is in the humidity. I write reports, though not many anymore, for the AIC. Actually the bulk of this book will likely be filed away somewhere back in D.C. which is really just as well I guess, should it ever be needed at least someone can find what they're looking for. I'm just not looking for it anymore. But its a long way from here to there and I have to give some background. + In the beginning was the word and the word was with God. Like most Sunday school children, I have no actual memory of hearing those words or at least I paid no attention to the idea of them. Not until years later, but lately I've been thinking that it might have been there the whole time from the beginning. Anyway at one point that little sentence was threatening to take control of my life and I met Sil and the rest of the people at AIC and found out rather to my embarrassment that I was not the novelty I thought I was, rather I was endanger of becoming left behind with the women in children so to speak. And somehow the whole time I think I was trying to solve a riddle that had been subtly implanted near birth and which wormed its way out to consciousness just before the turn of the millennium. + + + + + +In the beginning +there was the word + + + +<<<<<<<<<begin transmission ghf8672y ﾵ ﾤﾤ ﾤxZDFß∂ƒ©˙¥®´∑¨^øøπππ“π“∫∫~∫∫Ω≈ç√∫~µ≤≥÷1243ﾵ ﾧ + œ∑´®†¥¨^øπ“´®†¨¨¥ø^¨^ø¨^¡¡¡£™¢∞§¶¶•ªºº––åß∂ƒ©©©©©©˙∆©˙∆∆˚¬˚¬…æ¬ +æΩ≈ç≈√∫~µ≤≥÷‑«« ` ¡™£¢∞§¶•ªº–≠123235ﾵﾧ +tyiyiu +ƒ¥†∆†^˙˚∆^¥¥†∆˙ƒ˙©©∆˙˙˙˙ƒƒƒ©©©©©©©©∞§§¶•ª•ªª§∞§∞¢£¢£∞¶§¶∞¶§∞¶§∞¶§§¥†ƒ©∆˙©ƒ∆¥ƒ∂˙©√µ∆~√©ƒ≈߃∂≈Ω˙©∆˙熃∂ߥ®ƒ√˚∆©¨¥†ƒ∂ + +, + +/,68487654321>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> +Fragments of Ash falling. +White washed ceilings hanging so ominous +Hallucination of bubble-headed figures +crawling like the Michelin Man +across an indescribable mountain of tires +Motels Motels Motels +Whiskey Bourbon. +Tow truck +non-ordinary state of reality +precludes a state of reality +that something is real Point at +the autistic manwomanchild +Autistic man pointing at you +laughing unable to fathom how your brain +functions and quite self righteously +you you cling to its definitions. +Must delineate between abnormality +and those of us who Understand +The Human Virus breeding +like rats unconsciously conscious and aware +of our disorganization. +Gas Station Cold Fusion dreams +of the Anarchist are breeding +in the minds of the oil men +who don’t want to +loose their stranglehold of reality. +Fragments of Ash falling +the continual settling of dust +weighing down humanity and the +French Maid masturbates discreetly in +the next room. You need her +to keep the dust off your mortal +coil spring. +Rebirth mythology. +Mythology of reality. We must +distinguish between what will be defined as +sane and what shall be referred to +as insanity. Kevlar definitions +constructed to make a better shampoo +seem like a logical item on which +to squander your paperbacked slavery bills. +After all these years Tide still +gets your socks whiter +Its a wonder +that they aren’t transparent by now. +that your brain retarded +in its development +that evolution had not +anticipated the advent +of the opposable thumb the unopposable +domination of the thumb leading +to and insect superiority of mating +rituals stolen from a textbook +on damselflies darning needles +sewing shut your lips, mind atrophy. +Weber's White Race Enriched for Superiority +Scorched earth campaigns raining Ash. +Shit from the sky. Tax man came +for your baby in exchange for unpaid balance. +You understand. Nothing Personal +Just doing our job. Same as the +next guy. From Auzwich on down the +line. Didn’t make the rules. Sorry. +We perfected them. +There are no innocents in a world of +free will. You don’t have to survive +at the expense of others. You could +die with puncture wounds in your hands +and others would create a new mythology +strange irony would find another with holes +in his hands unwilling to accept +cockroach mentalities. +You want to beLIEve Hitler +was a madman but he lives on in quiet +cafes centralsouthamerica not so free +not all the communists have been shot yet +Your mistook misunderstood missed +the lesson in the situation that unfolded +Dr. of dialectic excuses you want +to beLIEve Hitler was a madman +Hitler killed everybody's body +only taking orders you understand +just doing my job from Independence +on down the line. +It was a sad money grubbing hunter +gather up his children and thank +his gods they are his and he their god +behold I have come to tell you that +everything you know is wrong +stop doing you job its not yours +see Hitler in your mind you want him dead +but he's not he liveson +buried under restraint in everyones mind. +Only taking orders you understand. Didn’t have +a CHOICE. Got a family to feed. +radio crackle. pop. hiss. +silence. +<<<<<<<<<<<END TRANSMISSION>>>>>>>>> + + The first thing you notice on entering the quarter is the radioactive stench of rotting death. It hangs in the air like rotten pasteries in a Parisian Bistro thrown out in the alley and neglected by even the hungriest of terrified bums lurking in dark corners. The smell hits you like a sledge hammer, but it has something blood curdling familiar about it, it is the smell of death. the smell of your death. You can get in without dying, but you smell it lurking around the corner and you feel it closing in on you. Death is a thick smell, a reminder that the body is temporal and hangs by a thred, a thread lible to snap without a moment's notice. + The tibetians said that demons prey on those near the gates of the after world, those who don't know where they are, the ones that came in on a bus wreck or an earthquake, the ones that never had a chance to realize what was going on, but that's not strickly true, at least the demons part. Demons is a bit overboard, they're the true flesh pioneers, the ones who refuse to let go of the uniquely human games, the politics, the barter system, the Madison Avenue rewrite department, the beggardly filth flesh markets. It's not that they aren't deadly —they certainly are if you're not careful— but they are highly predictable because just about everyone coming across the bay has played the demon games before and unless death was a total shocker you recognize the game and push on; down deeper into the regions where the tenament settlements are and then into The Village. + The tenament settlements are a lot like one would imagine the early American colonial settlements. sickly white creatures constantly scared of everything. the slightest rustle in the evening breeze and they're running for the gun cupboard. hair trigger finger they got too so its best to mind your own business and head straight through so as not to raise any suspicions. And for god's sake don't let them draw you into conversation or you'll start seeing things and end up stone paranoid or worse: a rational materialist. + The Village is a little hill in the center of town where the biologic requirements are meaningless and things can get dicey if you're not paying close attention. This is a second rate guidebook built off personal and anticdotal stories, there is a map in the back, like the tibetian map i suggest you bear it in mind, it might come in handy that day when the whole world comes down in a storm of atomic virus heat and the skin finally gets scorched right off. Welcome the end of history. + + +Book one: set and setting + + + + Sil Hawkard always wanted to be. Which differentiated him from the bulk of the people alive on the third planet who wanted to be something. This semantic anomaly was epidemic in Usinc, but Sil had managed to never catch 'the virus" as they said in the circles of the cured. he himself enjoyed freedom and if your trying to be something you can never be free. you're locked into the constraints of the role you wanted to play. In Sil's estimation it was more fun to switch roles at the drop of a hat. He enjoyed such musings when he was lying around in his floating home off the coast of Mandalay. Mandalay is in the South Pacific Seas three hundred miles Northeast of Australia and over two thousand miles from the farthest outpost of the Usinc empire. Originally settled by rich expatriot Usincer's whose money came from dubious endevors, Mandalay evolved over the years into a Freeport city-state with no government and swift and highly effective way of dealing with the only crime —murder. Mandalay was warm in September and every afternoon the storms would roll in the thunderheads and rain wouldn't fall so much as materialize right out of the air. Life went on in the rain with the exception of clothes as few people wore them around Mandalay; that was one of side effects of the Freeport's origins in sensual based anarchy which -like the word istelf- began with a letter... + Sil is sitting much like he does every afternoon, on a bambo chair smoking petroleum. Petroleum was in fact ultimately one of the things that had led Sil here, but actually petroleum was an inaccurate street name for what Sil was smoking. It was rather a carbon based opiate smoke made by trapping the opiates in a petroleum vapor and then condensing the vapor into a liquid which was in turn mixed with pure hash oil and boiled through alcohol leaving behind a sticky, oily, candy-goo hence the name. The black substance was roughly the consistancy of petroleum jelly and it would burn (with flames like tiki torch) for hours slowly releasing together the THC and the densely packed opiates. The flames would die down over time as the jelly itself turned into a glowing coal, the heat from which release more of the psychoactive chemicals than any other method of ingestion. The process was remarkable in that it didn't matter how good of a starting point drug you had because you could always cook in more —it turned ugly grey heroin and dirty mexican pot into the finest high imaginable. Needless to say the product was um profitable so long as one avoided the normal channels of distribution, it was this rather shaky profession that had led Sil to escape the Usinc empire. + Sil hits the huca again and feels his face going numb his head slumps down until his chin is nearly on his chest, he snaps his fingers twice. Two Arab dancers appear and began to dance crooked, spinning patterns mastered over centuries of hypnotic oppression (the cockroaches of skid row motels are only now beginning to learn) which gave it power in its freedom, more power than things born free. Oppression is a drug; it acts equally, though differently, on the oppressed and the oppressor alike —the oppressed gain a more acute vision of the things in life that can not be controlled. What makes the oppressor stronger in the common fabric of reality only pushes the oppressed into areas outside of the common fabric of reality until eventually the oppressed simply leave. + The crooked dance is hypnotic to watch and all consuming to perform. In India they teach it to snakes, and in the sewers of Usinc cockroaches feasting on the radioactive waste have begun to learn it on their own. Like terrible creatures from a Kafkian nightmare they sit quietly underground, as we go about our lives, learning the dance passing it on to their children and teaching them how to use it as an evolutionary tool. One day a properly evolved cockroach will crawl out of a sewer drain just as the head of state is stepping to the podium to address the nation... He will devour the president raw as the live camera crews feed man's downfall to a nation of viewers even as it happens. The blood soaked cameramen will never stop filming and the cockroach will scurry to the podium, strain himself to an upright position and address the nation...Behold I am. He will dance and spin and all will be entranced. Women will castrate men and men will bludgeon themselves to death with pickaxes until they are suitable for cockroach consumption and life will continue on much as it always has. The system is independent of its elements, humans are not necessary, cockroaches would uphold the system just as well. Unless of course the atomicnovavirus gets loose. Sil falls into a profound haze of self-absorption. The boys continued to dance trance-like as the numbers explode at the edges of his vision. + Sil's story is a rather long and convoluted one and subject to enhancement on his own part, because that was one of Mandalay's charms, no one cared about who you used to be, but who you are. Sil had not made the mistake of trying to hold power over others, rather he used it to make himself more powerful. + At the age of twenty one Sil Hawkard discovered that while he vaguely enjoyed torturing the professors at Columbia university, most people in the Usinc are squares, and Sil, already an avowed anarchist was weary of the materialists whom he felt lacked the imagination and understand to really get the it —so to speak. So he dropped out for a semester and bummed his way around what was then called the United States. In the middle of the Utah desert one night in July he ingested a rather large quantity of psylicilim in the form of mushrooms. He met someone, but that is not important just yet. The quantum reality convergence that Sil felt during the experience was rather hard to forget and it prompted him to extend his drop out faze for a few more years. One other rather peculiar thing happened to Sil on the mushrooms. A bouncing humanoid of early homo erectus origins told him that the rosette stone of the word was in safe hands with the ostriches. + + + It like your going bang! the epi-endo-genetic bang that finally turns on the radio, like when the old crystal quarts set gets cranked next to the digital signal, cold and clear you can taste it metallic, vibrations of noise it slam your gut. Sock you like a plutonium fuzz blast, but there's something to be said for bringing it down slow too. frequency modulation is the pulsar of life, blasting straight through the chest and then stroking on soft cushions to sooth you down. In and out. draws you from one world to the next. electro- static charge, like the pulsation of an old castagraf recorder. + You move the body electric in pulsations with receptors that crawl — warmth of the spine and into the back of the brain where it hit so hard. The surge is ecstatic... drive you right on over into the next dimension -model -metaphor -you get the picture. You might have even hung it on your wall when you where younger, and hungrier —hunger drives the hierarchy and its there, even when your stomach is full... hits you raw like the electric pulse of life got hard wired into your brain... its all gone from now. ebb and flow, Surges come in waves. I gotta run to make diving in smooth... feels in slow motion... you hit the water like a torpedo and the waves slip out in a circular ark... eyes smart from the unbroken motion. Body electric but suspended in perfect fluidity like the ecstatic dances of the trance shamans carried slip-slow up into the magic of the beyond. Echos abound like a caged sun gone supernova... atomizes and reforms as the cool wave hits the skin. smooth blue skin. + smoking filterless cigarettes listening to the voices trailing in from the mezzanine, a masterpiece composition of harmonized waves, sound —the trigger behind the motion. dancing eyes so hungry spiral with giddiness, threw out the tired old man mind. Bring it back down... bring it back down cause you never quite got it the first time. + Lost in a blur of images, swirling words, sounds, smells, miraculous warmth on the crawling embers of flesh; digging keep digging. we're all such great tunnelers mining out the beautiful and now i see the ugly creeping in around the edges.... the black on the starry night... Van Gogh and his goddamn ear always creeping in at the edges. Diggin' fast and furious: tunnelers. roots and the little blooms... the moment -the purity -the wavelength transitions in simplicity, burned like hydrochloric acid onto the memory film. scar tissue that don't go away. + I lose you, no? Maybe you like the chiclettes real cheap mister i get deal from the factory, they rewind the tape and sell it to me cheap. I just passin along the savings to you you know eh? Me like you lots. hug you if i could. you want chiclettes mister? One dollar buys whole box...eh?...no? + +And the word was with god + + Sil arrived in Africa in nineteen ninety-three to find a talking ostrich; instead he found cryptotechnology —or it found him if you work from a Jungian perspective. He arrived in Angola aboard The Decatur a British cargo ship bringing in weapons to fund a counter insurgency movement to a government disinformation loop which the west was hoping would topple the rather lax disinformation system in power —a government that welcomed technological refugees with open arms. Angola had become a haven for code writers who were not willing to dumb themselves down to the technology standards of the United States and its allies. Sil was a code breaker so to speak. He wasn't interested in simple binary code breaking and writing as in computer languages he was interested in finding the rest of the characters which would form the semantic code to language, but the technology for undertaking such an endeavor was in Angola. In fact many things that don't fly with the governments of the west were readily available in Angola. Sil asked around for all of two days when he found someone who need a package delivered to the United States in exchange for ten thousand dollars and a plane ticket anywhere in the world. + Naturally at the end of his funds and having no chance at a research grant, he accepted. Two months later he made his way to Tunisia where he finally found the ostrich who in turn told him to seek a man named Cary Downs. Downs was an eccentric billionaire obsessed with the occult and interstellar transmission of pure information; Sil was told that he had been looking for someone in Sil's area of expertise In this spacetime point most people thought Cary Downs owned an oil empire, but really it was a floating anarchist city made up of Bucky Fuller's geodesic domes which had been attached just under water to the pilings of the oil derricks. But Sil didn't know anything about the oil he just wanted a job at Downs' floating city-state, and the rent-free fully adjustable two-bedroom geodesic dome that had been offer to him over a casual phone call from New York. + Sil, like the rest of you, desperately wanted to understand what the hell was going on , and as most people realize in some vague sense —no one knows what the hell is really going on. There are nevertheless those who believe that they do know and are willing to destroy anyone who dares to invade their sacred planes of understanding. Most of them at this time were concentrated in the United States where they made good and sure to track what everyone was doing and saying and thinking and feeling. They have devised extremely elaborate game-playing circuits with uniquely complex languages like legalese and mathematics and only those who speak them can acquire power and get stuff, and they have created strange loop disinformation systems to keep the knowledge from spreading. They say that such information is classified and can only be know by them; they say you don't understand the big picture, the interests of the nation, for our collective safety, to protect those still living —so that they can hide from their crimes against human souls the scorched atomic earth it's getting used up like a gutter whore and they are going to leave you here and head into space and you are going to try to stop them which is exactly what they need you to do. + Fortunately within the disinformation loops the power mongers themselves are bound up and must work inside the verbal fences of currency and truth and the "American Way." They had even created an elaborate mythology to support the system wherein the truth is always shown as lying in the hands of the few, and the many are stuck to live out normal lives while they themselves are extraordinary and important. The History fiction principle is not widely understood outside of the control elite loops —those who named themselves famous. The trap is that if knowledge is not widespread then its power slides into atrophy, ie. No entropy means atrophy. + It wasn't that Sil wanted to illuminate the world or anything he knew that was a fiction as well; he merely wanted to left in peace and he would accord others the same respect. On meeting Downs in person and looking into his eyes he saw the recognition of these ideas, he saw someone who had decoded the gaming and was ready to move on. He saw a man to whom power and wealth were as irrelevant as Nobel Peace prizes. Downs was of medium height and had a rather slight build; most people thought he was in his forties but he was much older. He had away of walking across a room with an effortless grace which most people were immediately put at ease by. Sil thought it was rather too deliberate, but he merely noted it and kept suspicion at bay. He kept telling himself this is a man who gan get what you need and will let you do what you want, don't fuck this up. After a short introduction a hashish pipe was produce and the two relaxed and spoke at length. + "There is some thing you should understand before you decide you want to stay here," Downs had a formality and thoughtfulness to his speech that gave off the impression that every word was vitally important. "This structure is a living laboratory and there is no hierarchical structure that dictates what you should do. You are free. You may do or not do anything you wish, but you may not tell others what they can and can't do, no matter how much you find them annoying, backward or incomprehensible. You will find that even the most ignorant," his tone condescended the word, "mindsets become quite enlightening in this environment. There is a rather large library at your disposal and gourmet chefs will prepare most anything you want. You do not need currency to get anything you want here, but you do need excellent signal reception and frequency adapters in order to keep from losing your semantic grasp on spacetime while you're catapulted into spacetimemind." Downs lit the hash cigarette, smiled and passed it to Sil, "in order to expand the potential of the human brain I built this city and I have tried the gather all the possible maps of the human experience together into one place and see what they had to gain from each other. just because it might prove interesting, " Downs paused and stared his unobtrusive but penetrating gaze at Sil, "and I like you, which is not true of everyone here." + + Sil moved in to a dome apartment furnish in luxurious tapestries and artifacts that ranged from cuneiform texts to what appeared to be scrolls of Tibetan text. There was a couch of warm dark orange velvet and piles of pillows with scenes from the Tibet Book of the Dead and the Kama Sutra. The mixture of oriental and occidental gave the room a circular feeling, which was reinforced by the spherical walls and roof. Sil's head felt heavy and he laid down in the pile pillows and felt the room spin drunkenly. Don't worry the spinning will fade, your brain is conditioned to judge perspective on three dimension planes. Taking away the planer walls it is used too causes distress and disorientation, but it will eventually go away as your brain maps out the new system and eventually you will forget that you live in a circle. + Cary Downs' flotilla as he liked to call it consisted of seventy-two people, ranging from ethnobotanists to a fundamentalist Baptist preacher. All the flotilla's food was grown in to large greenhouses or caught in the waters around it; meat was flown in every week by helicopter although only a few people ate it as meat was generally considered by the scientists as an inefficient means of nourishing the human body. It had been proposed by one of them named William that the body was but one part of the human existence and the appetite and random whims of taste should not be ignored in some ascetic quest that blinded us in sterile Orwellian future-nightmares as he had put it. There was also a bar and smoking lounge, which was Sil's contribution to the system —as the residents referred to it. It was a closed system (save the imported meat and alcohol). Three additional greenhouses grew THC enhanced marijuana of a strain called alamont which was processed into hash and given out in bulk to the inhabitants. Also grown were peyote plants, poppies, coca plants, tobacco plants, close to twenty varieties of hallucinogenic mushrooms including the Kuri-coo, and several other mind altering herbs and medicines that Sil had never heard of. + The inward curvature of the walls gave Sil the impression that his room was collapsing back in on itself, the disorientation of circular walls and the intensity of hash rendered Sil immobile for three days —which Cary assured him was perfectly normal. He further suggested that Sil not restrain himself on the drugs, but realize their potential incompatibilities after all he said everything you ever wanted is here no one is judging you and no one is threatening you so you'd be fool not to let go for once in your life then we'll initiate you into our program . So Sil spent close to three months, usually alone (although he sometimes experimented with the exotically beautiful tantric sex guides), playing with the nuero chemical circuitry of his brain. He learned to focus himself out of his body and down to a single point within or without the the spacetime boundaries. This gave him a fantastic amount of power, and it made him an agent in a polydimensional universe instead of limiting him to only one at a time. It was here that he found The Quarter. + +EVERYTHING YOU KNOW IS WRONG +EVERYTHING YOU KNOW IS RIGHT +EVERYTHING YOU KNOW IS A MAYBE +EVERTHING YOU KNOW IS MEANINGLESS +-from A Game-Circuit Guidebook by Maya Stevens + + One quiet afternoon Sil found himself in a spacetime point that called itself Tucker. Discipline is an agent's greatest virtue, it was thinking when Sil dropped in. It was in a bar and behind it Doris Day and her Waxing Loquacious Lesbians were playing a sultry 60's motown number on a dimly lit stage, and the general atmosphere of the bar had a surreal quality. The walls seemed to breath as if threatening to go ahead and speak. bars are excellent places for observing the least attractive maps of humanity the best you can hope for is one where the possibilities remain endless regardless of the irrefutable realities. Tucker seemed well aware of the realities, but it's mind was only now beginning to sense the infinite set of possibilities that comes with every new reality. Occasionally it became aware that other voices seemed to be talking in his head, other people getting in his head through warped words, written words, sometimes they told him things he believed as evil and other times they made him mindlessly hum product jingles from the seventies. This self knowledge was the only reason Sil hung around quietly listening to this man's mind. But Tucker did not seem to have self-pity, he considered self-pity to be a symptom mental illness because it requires the ego to be divided into pitier and pitied. He liked his ego together as one in harmony he seemed quite proud of this justification and it helped to ease his innate sense of anxiety at the idea that thoughts not originating from his own mind could work their way in regardless. + Tucker is an Agent of the State. Sil almost fell backward in his chair. The State is not to be confused with the government as many of you would assume. On the contrary the government is but an instrument of the State, the State is a separate entity whose ultimate identity seemed unknown even to Tucker. Sil was no longer being passive, he grilled in on Tucker's storage banks looking for a name, and moves around in his skin he hears the word Waiben. The chill and the cringe are not his own they were Sil's and he learned the first rule of any closed system: Just because you aren't paranoid doesn't mean they aren't watching you. + The TuckerSil coordinate thinks of butting in on a conversation to give two men a piece of his mind, but Sil steered him toward the attractive blond to his right who Sil figured would be more interesting and could lead to sex, but after a few failed attempts he overhears the cruel whisper that guy is bugging me, you want to go over to a booth? Half shocked half hurt the Tucker gets up to leave; standing at the urinal on his way out he is shocked to find a poem scrawled on the wall + So old the place was, I remember none + The like upon the earth: what I had seen + Of grey cathedrals, buttressed walls, rent towers, + The superannuations of sunk realms, + Or nature's rocks toiled hard in waves and winds, + Seemed but the faulture of decrepit things + To that eternal doomed monument. +What a very curious bar he thinks to himself getting into his car. Sil jumped put leaving tucker to his thoughts; those people must be intellectuals he thinks morosely I never understand what everyone is talking about. I am stupid he is thinking as he drives away, at least the voices are gone. + + Sil is smiling to himself and lighting a cigarette. At another point in the fabric of reality Sil is feeling a primordial yearning to devour raw flesh and roll in a room of naked women. You are at a club wearing skintight black vinyl pants and a black tank top with no bra, your nipples are hard and everyone can see them through your shirt. You're dancing with a black haired girl also wearing tight black clothing, sitting at the back watching from a distance. Your pussy clenches and sends tremors through your body every time the girl brushes against your skin, she teases you dragging her finger along your arm, and as the music stops she grabs you by the hand and leads you two a corner booth where two more women are locked in delicious animal fire; locked naked and sitting upright they grind pussies together, shuddering mouth to mouth, breast to breast legs entwined.... + + Sil along with the rest of the residents in the police state he used to call home, hates cops....I fucking hate 'em. I hate 'em. I hate 'em. I hate 'em. I want to kill them all in a violent sea of time-released explosive donuts that when eaten mix with the stomach acids and explode in violent blueberrystrawberrylemon filled death he fanaticizes. Die pig die. Imagine it, a million sworn upholders of THE LAW dead in an instant. Think of the society we could have. Think of the freedom, think of the beauty. The sweet satisfaction of tearing down all the rotting pig gut filled doughnut shops in the nation. No more sweaty palms. "License and registration please." Fuck you, never again. Never again. kill every cop you see —a populist revolt. We don't need all these damn laws, the people are okay —we know how to look after ourselves. The laws are the ones that fucked everything up the first place. And who hurts the most people in this here little world? The State. A cattle car streaming over the tracks of life, slick with the blood of the people. The train can't go up the hill because the tracks are too slippery with my guts your guts our guts. Cut off by THE LAW, our heads impaled on the ends of the its tentacle-like arms as they strangling the last hold outs of resistance into pacified stupidity. + The anger subsided and Sil found himself dialing a number he didn't know he picks up the phone —the other end never rings, instead a voice says: "hello?" + "May I speak to Captain Clark please?" + "I'm sorry he's not in. May I take a message?" + "No. No message." Sil hangs up the phone. He walks to the back of the room and flops his body onto the luxurious pillows and is swept by an overwhelming sensation of peace; his mind begin to expand, and he feels the desire for more consciousness —the death of us all, Sil thinks idly to himself as he lights a pipe and sucks in a deep inhalation of opium and hash. The sticky sweet smoke that fills his lungs brings forth tape loops and strange loops of static memories. Twisting and turning their way through the circuitry until: Anarchy is the only answer to all questions which begin with why? whY? wHY? WHY? Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law —future memories of books he hasn't read yet. In distant memory filtering strands of DNA locked deep in Sil's cerebral cortex a vibration begins, infinitely small at first but building slowly into his medulla and finally spring forth into the part of the brain referred to as consciousness. The cameras rolled even as the lights were dimming. +"BRING THE PRISONER FORWARD" + Unrolling a weighty and sterile looking scroll of antiseptically white paper a voice whose origin is masked by the size of the paper itself reads: + After making reviews of the past actions, thoughts, and attributed sentiments, it is the judgement of this committee, and therefore the judgment of the government it represents, that due to a general lack of ability to perceive the options open to the work potential of the drone in question in simple terms of an x or not-x negativism which would be most helpful in these situations and would consequently decrease expenditures and lower taxes for other individuals living in said dualism and therefore we hereby decree that all metaprogramming undertaken by the individual without the consent and simultaneous approval of this committee and the government it represents to be criminal in intent, hostile in action, and punishable by prison and/or death upon conception. Thank you. You may go. + Sil Hawkard finds himself dragged from the tribunal; hands tied in front of him and legs trailing uselessly behind. His guards use his head to open the heavy wooden door and then they dump him unceremoniously onto the filthy street where a group of children are playing. A monkey runs by, tugging its penis with one hand and slapping its bright red ass with the other. + + + Teletype for Corsica the agent sent in for returns, Home office denied request for reinforcements, all communication to be ceased henceforth. Piss in the riddle thought the old man wheeling his chair back out to the porch, he picked up a Mason jar of corn whiskey and laid the shotgun across his lap. + The languid afternoon floated in and up the beach from the Atlantic bringing photomontages of Mandalay and the Dutch East Indies spice trade boats, far off places he had heard of only as words and imagined smells. Up the beach from the house were the beginnings of the rocky South Carolina shoreline teeming with crabs, sponges, sea anemones, and circle swooping gulls feeding on sand crabs exposed in the fluctuating waves. It was low tide, in fact it was always low tide or at least it seemed that way to the old man. + He was partly right, the tide was lower than it had been a year before when a man by the name of Dr. Waiben began overseeing construction of a nuclear power plant buried two miles under ground to hide its heat signature for pesky government satellites. The plant, whose only entrance was from the sea, was Waiben's new research facility but right now that is but future memory fighting for space at a coordinate that won't have it. + + Sil is in New Orleans renting an attic in the French quarter following a strict regiment to kick the opium habit he developed at FREEDOM Inc. The best cure Downs had said is to get a job in INDOCTRINATION Inc., where you will be forced to confront the ugly stupidity of life. + + The old man stood up on the porch and paced back and forth waiting...you understand the seriousness of the matter... obviously we would not expect an ordinary agent to do such a thing...your expertise in these fields...well frankly it's unparalleled..there is no other...These orders are coming straight from the top...your cooperation is non-negotiable... + + +...to be an abstraction does not +mean that an entity is nothing. +—A. N. Whitehead + + Two years earlier: Dr. Waiben, pathologist for Usinc., surveys a long horrifically clean hallway whose smoothness is interrupted only occasionally by the presence of polished sliver knobs indicating doorways. There are no observation windows or any other windows within the rooms. This is the housing quarter for the derelicts of society: prostitutes, schizophrenics, lobotomy patients, drug pushers, anarchists, communists, AIDS victims, the aberrations that society never needed nor found a use for, end up here, under the care of Dr. Waiben, pathologist for IND Inc. The good doctor has, for twenty odd years, been the caretaker of the derelicts, charged with restoring to them a level of functionality deemed necessary by society. He is the man who puts the cogs back into the wheel. + He was also one of three doctors in Usinc that had been approved by the government to do LSD and Ibogaine research of human subjects. this was the public record of what he was doing and indeed it was his little pet project having cured himself of an alcoholic tendency with Ibogaine he genuinely wanted to help others with what he considered a miracle drug. But like most people he did not have just one personality + Waiben was not an ordinary doctor as in white coat sort of psychologist, he came from a different school of thought that said in order to treat someone's mind you must be willing to live through it. As a consequence of this belief system Dr. Waiben found himself frequently passed over and ignored for promotion because his unorthodox approach to the human mind was extreme. Waiben was not afraid to induce seizures with light triggers, or to spend two weeks straight on LSD trying to see what the world might look like to a schizophrenic, and perhaps most potentially embarrassing to Usinc politicos was his recent foray into fetishism and sadomasochistic sex. It just doesn't sound good for sheep to find out that congress is funding someone who ties people and whips them because both parties genuinely enjoy it. The mass of the populace did not have sex like this because they we're afraid of it, afraid that the could be twisted and they certain;y weren't keen on their hard earned money being spent of such projects. The irony of it was that Ibogaine would have been perfectly acceptable if anyone knew about his other project. His forays into fetishism, quietly published in circles of like minded individuals had raised a few control junky eyebrows and perked up a handful of ears at the top level of government in Usinc where it was generally accepted that what people didn't want to know about themselves might be handy thing to know if you were trying to dominate them. The studies these people had Waiben doing took place elsewhere, in a facility that did not even have a name. Waiben was engaged in a further extension of the old MK ULTRA project of the CIA, only by now even the CIA didn't know if they were really doing it or not. People from the private sector like Cary were the only ones aware of what was going on. + Certain "expendable persons" as the jargon of government labeled them were donated to Waiben for research purposes. Minds that be reasoned that if some people got off on pain others might get further if you combined fear and pain. + Waiben had agreed to such a monstrous thing because he desperately wanted to know that the hell was really going on and he realized that torture and the old traditions of ritual slaughter was one of the only areas of the human experience that no one was willing to study. No one was willing to give up their humanity in order to try to figure out what it means to have humanity, like addiction the costs seemed to high. Waiben coped with this by creating a cold calculated side of himself that was able to abstract itself and reason and do things to other people that were unpleasant to say the least. This new and colder side of the doctor was a materialist sort of personality that reasoned there is little moral difference between experimenting on a rat and experimenting on a human. The rat had its rights violated on the premise that there were millions more where that came from, well quite frankly the same is true of humans. Its not a pretty line of logic and most people prefer not to think about it. Waiben admired the irony of it, PETA would have approved, and more importantly there was little difference between what he did during the day —he tortured people who did not want to be tortured, and at night he tortured people who want to be tortured. The overlap made him appear alternately as a sadistic monster and a normal well adjusted psychiatrist with a hobby —depending on who you were and what time it was. + However as time went on it became clear to him that mixing fear and sex did not have much of a result. Fear overwhelmed and subjugated arousal. In fact fear seemed to do that to everything. But he kept on because he wasn't sure if he would be allowed to stop, after all if they were letting him do this to people what would stop them from doing it to him someday? He was having the inner stirring of fear himself. For instance this fine sunny afternoon in May they wanted him to administer electro-shock treatment to a "prostitute" whom the state had deemed an expendable —personsona non grata. Waiben figured that she was probably not prostitute and was probably merely someone with out any one to miss them if they disappeared. He was well aware that the government was actively engaged in experimenting on its citizens, but he tried not to care. + He was sitting in his office watching her on a closed circuit television system thinking that she was the most attractive prostitute he had ever seen. Most of the subjects he got were just plain ugly and led ugly lives like the man he had tortured to death yesterday was a convicted child molester, Waiben didn't have problem torturing someone like that, or the skin head girl from last week who finally realized the error of beliefs, but sadly passed on without a chance to mend her ways. Looking at the prostitute now he sudden felt something scientists are trained not to feel —emotions. The materialist was beaten and bruised by the Mystic who argued suddenly with a force he did not usually have. Dead end, his mystic kept yelling, DEAD fucking END. He thought about the things he would really prefer to do to her after he got off work, in an environment where where she was free to enjoy transcendence. The mystic was a clever little fellow and argued that since the research had seemed to show that sex energy does not mix well with fear energy it made since to pursue the opposite logic. Sex with love energy. + It hit him with all the enlightening force of genuine discovery. Sex is as far as science has ever bothered to go, after sex it all gets very muddled complicated and confusion. Its here that emotions exist and from there it gets even worse leading to world where nothing seems to behave as it should. That was of course the thing that now made Waiben want to go. He sat in absolute silence for a while trying to wrap his brain around a theory that the mystic was fast spinning like a mental tornado sweeping across his cerebrum. The wind started with the thought that there might possibly be some corollary between the way quantum mechanics breaks down close to the beginning to the universe and the way that personality behavior breaks down around genuine human emotions. Why are they trying to measure subjective experiences with tools and language designed to be objective. What we need here is a new approach a new model and a new language to describe it.... + And suddenly it died. One of the disagreeable aspects of having a mind that never sits still is that it loses track of one thought rather easily and jumps to next without warning, i think i lost my choo-choo some might say.... For instance in his reverie Waiben had forgotten about the task at hand and suddenly realized that with the new tunnel of reality creeping in around him he could no longer carry out the torture with the abstract detachment we once had. i cant do this anymore without feeling it the mystic declared categorically, but at the same time the materialist new the consequences of not doing it might be fatal. The words buzzed through his head and started a little audio feedback loop a bit like putting a guitar too close to and amplifier. The result was a mild pressure in the right side of his head that he thought was actually producing muscle twitches, he tried to feel it with his hand to verify the experience, but the movement broke the spell. + He stood suddenly steeling himself for the task at hand and marched with ominous dread down the horrifically long and sterile hallway toward the unmarked door at the other end. He stood outside, leaning against the door and waited as the cattle prod charged to the standard dosage of ten thousand low amplitude volts. he saw the thing lying there like a virus so innocently waiting for something to turn it evil. In that moment he felt the screams of all the lost burned up souls at the edge of the bay. he felt himself floating by and only watching as they choked up gasoline-napalm sores that seared off their tongues and licked up the bodies in flames. this is played out to show you that you can not do everything, suffering is built into the system and no religious excuses are going to justify it for you, you have to feel it. The air is hot and thick like the worst humidity and the scorching of the flesh sizzles in your nostrils and you just watch. Hell is for voyeurs, the control addicts that like to watch. You just have to ride it out and hope that the cynicism doesn't burn you up right up with them or you find yourself in the liquid fire ripping out your own eyes and sawing off your tongue to run away. Withdrawal in disgust is not the same as apathy.... + A little red light came on signalling that the cattle prod was fully charged. Waiben bent down a picked it up, he held it there for a minute to feel the cold metal length. the phallic irony of it was not lost on him. He pushed a button and the door to swung open with a faint hiss. he stepped into an antiseptically clean room that was maintained at 96˚ which replicated the natural body temperature for the average human. In front of him was the girl. She was indeed very beautiful with short black hair which looked like it had been in tight micro-curls at one point. Now it was a dishevelled mess. She was lying naked with her legs were splayed wide and restrained with leather straps and buckles, her arms were restrained above her head. He smiles weakly at her, and said you know I wish we could have met under different circumstances.... + He looks into her eyes watching the pupils dilate and touches the cattle prod to the delicate smoothness of her leg, he ran it up until it was nestled against her shaven mound and pressed the switch. Her body went rigid and she shot up off the table as if suddenly turned into a stiff board. He kept his eyes locked on her as she collapse back onto the table. he saw something flash through them and he felt a tremor in his guts, his muscles spasmed involuntarily. You don't have to do this...please don't do this... He stopped and put the cattle prod down there was something missing in this situation, whe doesn't have fear. He could tell it in her eyes their was an absence of the primal desire to live. He was overwhelmed and as gently as he could he pulled the duct tape off of her mouth. + She was crying, but she smiled at him "that really really fucking hurts," she whispered. + Waiben could not help laughing though he felt monstrous under the circumstances. he abruptly stopped and started crying. Big uncontrollable sobs that wracked his whole body and he fell on his knees and proceeded to curl up in little ball on the floor. he lay like that for a while until the sobs worked themselves out and then he was motionless on the floor. After a few minutes he heard her horse voice asking him if he was done. He collected himself and stood, but he could not bring himself to look her in the eyes. Could you possibly undo these restraints then? + Waiben was disoriented, but he was pretty sure the girls mouth had not moved. "Of course," he undid them, but he picked up the cattle prod as he did and moved away from her. She sat up on the table and stared at him without speaking. The gaze was piercing and he shifted uncomfortably as her eyes continued to bore down on him. + Finally she spoke, "I'm going to get you out of here, but before i do you're going to have to learn what you are." + The absurdity of the statement did not bother him he simply said okay. + She stepped up to him and began to undress him, starting by unbuttoning his shirt. When she undid his belt she reached down and rather gently held his rigid cock as she eased the pants down over it. She stood embracing him strongly with her arms around his neck and pulled herself up until her pussy parted and she slid down on his cock. Waiben remained rigid like a board, but he closed his eyes and she kissed his lips. "do you want to fuck me ?" + The shear absurdity of the situation came rushing up in Waiben's face and he realized that he did not want to fuck her. + "You don't do you," she whispered into his ear. "you want to get on the table don't you...you want to feel it, don't you." + Waiben found himself nodding and she led him over and laid him down. She spread his legs and restrained them along with his arms. She stroked his cock hard again and teased him by biting his nipples. All at once her eyes went black and she thrust the cattle prod into his balls and flipped the switch. + Waiben's body felt to him as if it had been blow up off the table by some kind of wind. he didn't even feel his come splash of his face as the electricity caused an involuntary muscle spasm that made it arc out of his cock in unnaturally thick spurts. He landed back on the table and heard his voice make an inhuman screeching kind of wail. He felt the pain coming in like standing in front of subway tunnel and watching the headlight drawing toward you with the full horror of knowing that you can not move out of the way. It hit him like a train and knocked him unconscious. + He awoke with a cramp in his neck. He opened his eyes and saw that he was in a cinder block room with two windows up near the ceiling. He was not accustomed to waking in strange spaces he felt a sense of panic and leaped up off the cold concrete floor and threw his hands on the doorknob with all the desperation of already knowing that it wasn't going to turn. He began to cry again, cursing himself for letting go of control. He felt something hot at his toes and he awoke again to the confusion of being on a wooden ship that was in flames. In fact he noticed that his foot was on fire and he jumped up and beat it against his leg and then with his hand until it went out. the deck was rocking violently now and he was thrown bodily across it into a doorway that opened with the force of his impact and sent him tumbling down three or four stairs. his hair was on fire and he beat is hands in frenzy feeling the smell of panic mixed up in the smoke, a primordial fear of fire seized him and as the ship rocked back the other direction he and went flying back out the door. He skidded across the deck feeling splinters stab into his chest, stomach, and balls. + Dr Waiben awoke again in the room with the girl. By now he was so confused as to not know if he was dreaming or dead or alive and everything was really happening. The girl was standing over him whispering, "it really doesn't matter, treat it all as if it were real and treat all of it as if it were a dream and most importantly treat all of it as if it were meaningless in the end. + She unstrapped the restraints and Dr. Waiben felt her lifting him like a sack of potatoes which she slung over her shoulder and threw open the door. He watched the ground for a while occasionally lifting his head to see if anyone was following them. They emerged into sunshine and he suddenly became aware that they were both naked. It occurred to him that they were anything but sly right now but even as he tried to lift his head she lowered his feet down and laid him against the side of a car. He saw stars as the blood rushed out of his head and a door opened and she gently pushed him inside the car and jumped in after him. + + + About a year before he had been approached by the unnamed man to work on the MK-ULTRA project Dr. Waiben had considered himself a rational materialist quite sure that he knew better than the mass of people what the hell was going on. Some people found him arrogant, but most agreed that he was one the fast track to a successful career in government psychiatry. One day on vacation in New York city Waiben was sitting on a subway watching a very attractive woman read the paper when an older gentleman in a three piece pin striped suit sat down next to him. They were the only ones in the car and Waiben didn't understand why he had to sit right next to him. He was about to move away when the man said rather loudly and seemingly to no one in particular, "She's a real beauty isn't she?" + Waiben had heard stories of weirdness being common among New York's subways, but he had yet to see it. "Excuse me?" + "That woman right their," he gestured at her and she appeared to not have heard him, "she's a real beauty, isn't she?" + Waiben looked at her and blushed, but she ignored him, "yes she is." he agreed. + "She's not really there," the man said matter-of-factly. + Waiben looked at him for a moment and watched him smile. He turned back and the woman was indeed not there. He was startled and jumped up out of his seat trying to see where she was. The train was still moving and the doors to either car at opposite sides remained shut. He was seized by panic and turned back to the man, "that the fuck?" + "Yes what the fuck?" the man kept smiling. Waiben felt dizzy and had to balance himself against a pole. "Would you like a pancake?" The man reached into his bag and pulled out a pancake. + "No, no what the hell is going on here? Who are you?" + Take a pancake otherwise you won't believe me, take two, eat one now and save it for later." Waiben was beyond himself and accepted the two pancakes one of which he slid in his pocket and one of which he ate. He felt himself become very tired and it alarmed him, but by the time he realized he had been drugged it was to late. who are you?" he managed to ask before he lost consciousness. He was out before he could hear the man say "you." + He awoke to the familiar surrounding of his hotel room, but without being able to remember getting there. He sat up realizing it had all been a dream, but he reached in his pocket and there was that damn pancake. Waiben felt everything caving in. He stood up to take a shower and stepped on a book or something that was book-like, inhabiting that nether region of publishing between a fat pamphlet and a skinny book. Picking it up he saw the title was Pissing on Gravities Rainbow, it was written by someone named Sil Hawkard, there was no publisher and it appeared to have been hand bound. The first page said if you're reading this you you have just experienced psychic dissidence and you are confused because your personal model of reality no longer fits everything you have experienced. You have questions.... + + Dr Waiben read the book seven times that night and was not at all what most people would have called enlightened. The book challenged every basic belief that a rational existence is based on and Waiben found himself suddenly unsure if anything existed and more importantly he realized that he could really not tell if he was alive at all. This created a level of uncertainty that paved the way for enlightenment and over the months leading up to the cattle prod incident he found himself reading names like Reich, Kinsey, Leary, Korbinsky and others. He was seized by the enthusiasm that comes with genuine discoveries and Waiben thought he might be able to bring the whole world along with him. The Tim Leary Syndrome they call it in the trade. So he started trying to get his colleagues interested; dropping names like Wilhelm Reich, Timothy Leary, Albert Kinsey, Alfred Korzynski. Science has the same form of black balling that Hollywood mustered up and showed to the world, and all three of these names were on the list of STUFF NO ONE TALKS ABOUT ANYMORE. + These men and many others working with them and apart from them had found a part of human nature that the rest of human nature was not willing to deal with. they challenged the basic assumptions about life that all of cooperative society is based on. Between them they were opening the three cardinal "no no's" of western civilization: sex, death and reality. they were an disliked group of people to say the least. to make matters worst Waiben kept trying to push toward the mathematical theory of quantum inseparability arguing that nobody want to talk about these three seemingly unrelated issues because at some level we are all aware that they are linked. Such thoughts do not keep the mass of people up late at night, and things that the masses don't know they don't have may as well not exist. Waiben coined the phrase "genetic repression" to describe the phenomena and he attempted to have it published in the New England Journal of Medicine as an argument linking the cultural response to Wilhelm reich (his imprisonment and burning of his research) with Dr Waiben's own experiences in fetich clubs. + it was bold and beautiful theory that argued that everyone is insane. But it is not the sixties anymore and people are sick and fucking tired of trying to learn the universe; Waiben's paper was not printed and was returned to him with a handwritten note citing "ridiculous references, no scientific validation, and a total lack cohesiveness" as reasons for it rejection. Waiben was deeply hurt for a while until he realized that sick people do not see themselves as sick, until the illness effects their lives in some way that can not be ignored. Scientists are sick. they suffer from what Reich loosely termed "the emotional plague," by which he seems to have meant that empirical evidence is not the only way to answer a question. Science is so certain that it has the answer that it refuses to allow itself to be doubted. It has to rig the game, limit the questions and spend years making sure the evidence at hand will fit the accepted model of the universe. Its a lot like the Catholic Church during the Spanish Inquisition, so much so in fact that Robert Anton Wilson calls this disease The New Inquisition. From Wilhelm Reich in Hell: There is also argument by Logic. This can sometimes be combined with scientific experiments and if the two mesh we have a "fit" of theory with fact and scientists are delighted. Pure Argument by Logic however does not require this experimental back up and only demands that the conclusions by reached by the game-rules of an abstract symbol system. In our hypothetical case, some witness might inform congress: +All mome raths need to be distimmed; +All frammisgoshes are mome raths; therefore; +all frammisgoshes need to be distimmed + The new inquisition thinks that Science is has that damnedable old thing that the Catholic Church once thought only it had: THE TRUTH. With THE TRUTH on your side you don't need to fear; anything challenging you is inherently wrong because you are quite certain that you have THE ONLY TRUTH. Multi-model reality is not an option granted by the Inquisitors. And the Inquisitors get mighty damn pissed when one of their priests goes astray and they will do some mighty bad things to them if they catch them. + Waiben new that by getting in the car he was trusting his life to someone other than himself and he knew that someone could very well be an agent of the Inquisitors. fortunately for his rampant paranoia he didn't have time to argue about the situation. + + Transcribed from tapes: the terminal disease clerk took orders by the turnstile, finding the story in the story and logging in the disease workers all night long. At five in the morning he got off and headed to a tavern as the sun was coming up. Direct confrontation with the terminal virus word is a bit confusing to those who are not properly prepared. poor fuckers never had a chance; the technical sergeant takes off his helmet and slams it on the table the near moronic mumbling of discontent. Waging war is semantically impossible without overtones of homosexuality. Heavy handed, the second wave fell in line with the technical sergeant at the lead. The thing you have to watch out for are the warblers —the distractions coming in at the sides, sound is their most effective weapon, primordial hangover he called it drunkenly raising a glass. And some of you may think this suspect, but take my advice sound's where it all started. In the beginning was the word and the word spoke. The sergeant stoops and cups his hands to light a cigarette. Then there is sex or not enough of it, both is equally dangerous —biology is not something to scoff at. sexuality is the best cover an agent can ever use. Rockets come searing in overhead ripping flesh and scoffing at the notion of eternity, out here you don't have time to talk, the thoughts are things, they are no longer words...keep your radios tuned boys its getting ugly. Another rocket sears in severed limbs fly out the explosion and olive drab body parts litter the scene. + Watch out for the bloody words, sharp words that hang in the air like knives and when uttered returned to slit the throat of their speaker and if every word you have spoken returned to act upon yourself would you survive the experience? Me no way I'm outta here. Situation getting sticky, humid like vaporous blood hanging on in the air. Still acrid smell of urine and small children playing in a asphalt playground ringed on all sides by immense brick walls with basketball hoops hung half way up each of the sides. Realize that that which we are taught from childhood to distrust is in fact a pawn of something far more immense and much much more dangerous. The governments and nations of the world are incidental pawns of there own control systems and then beyond them there are even more and so on like looking two mirrors facing each other and going on to infinity. The monster of power is faceless there is no one person or group that controls everything they are all parts of a immense and multi-headed monster that is constantly biting itself and attacking it own heads until some day it will destroy itself. The end of time leaves space and word alone together + we're taking heavy fire! The sergeant calls for back up, the captain says love one another and cryptically hangs up the phone. The Spanish soldier selling chiclettes say no good no bueno, pictures worth not even half a thousand words. Wouldn't give you ten words, worthless gringo words don’t mean shit. no good no bueno, not worth the blood their written in. The blood of all peoples not yours, not your shoes, by god keep your slave labor camps a closed-mouthed secret. Gotta keep that in house, dis-credit all news agencies by routinely feeding them false information. News doesn’t happen events happen, and the department of television information broadcasting inc. a subdivision of indoctrination inc. decides what gets out and what remains forever sealed in baby pissshitguts. No that's not true. No comment. No need for comment, the preceding has been since proved to be untrue, cut to shots of smart bombs. Couldn’t get fifty words for those now gringo -over exposure- nobody buying. Same old stinking shit. No Good. No Bueno. + Gringo go home in thousand languages in a million words, why don’t you crawl back in your cave get your tail so far between your legs it goes half way up your ass? Lead me to the holy spigot and we’ll show you the bidet of death, constructed by gringos, for gringos, to flush out gringos, to show them all what you do behind closed doors. Can’t close them all —we have our technicians as well and they’re getting to be better than yours. We got the money rolling in —even offered you the picture words but you don’t want them. No Good. Can’t use those, too strong. No fair, crying boy heads home for cave to lick his dirty balls clean. + I gotta picture for you I on vacation in your country go to hear senator’s speak but all door are closed, all sealed. So i gotta fiber optic and feed it in from the roof show all senators mad with sexual lust and blood thirsty, clamoring for war and stealing souls and bodies and driving them off wherever they see fit. + The technician is retro actively of course —the papers said the man was mentally ill. ‘my cod!’ screamed a church lady in the front row, ‘satan has garbled the lords message, this isn’t what he meant for you to hear, no it was not all like that, there was to be understanding.’ she is parading her old cunt bones whining at the justices —tissue conducts signals, animals communicate through the use of visual, acoustic , chemical, tactile and electrical signals. Our laboratory is an abundant and well preserved feed back loop to understand and interpret Eusocial behavior. negative feedback inhibition to make you shiver Gringo. Make you shiver good. + Repetition unsuccessful. The radiologist was called in to examine the patient —blisters and burns indicate high probability of skin mutation, what would you say Dr. Waiben? Crested and on the nod? Diminutively, yes definitely. + Information potential exists —its an unsettling thought, dependency —and what happens when things start to think? How do you draw the lines then? + HOW THE PLAGUE BEGAN: + The wish to preserve -not worth saving what already is- in this scenario. The word, the loss of body situated at the origins of recorded sound -the temporal metaphysical and esthetic possibilities. + <insert sounds of truck on dirt road> + Old man yelling. Get off of my laaawwwnnn! Sits down to oil his gun some more and then half turns in his chair to face the camera and says "i haven't left the porch since i got this CDRom PEOPLE version 3.0. Updated and expanded human potential at your fingertips. Its the only thing i need —got no use for the stinking gringos anymore— camera pans out and down revealing a yard strewn with shotgun-blasted bodies of young children. We see wife, face half torn off, crawling towards a pistol <shotgun blast stage left> her head disappears entirely. Old man: "human potential, the new CDRom makes wives unnecessary." cue logo: on sale now at a sanatorium near you.... + I'm going to finally send you the orgy papers this time -been fixing to get 'round to that for some time" <heavy southern drawl> don't think he's the type to do it though but i been wrong once or twice a'fore. Don't want people showing up on my lawn though that's never good. get off of my lllaaaawwwwnnnnn! <shotgun blast again, distant screaming sounds of deaths final agonies eeking out blood gurgling windpipes> Fucking Gringos! Go home in a thousand languages! + Experience as much of the human potential as possible, retain the container and forward the frog to the fun sun freaks of eastern Tibet —all is well with alkaline, and acidity is on the skids with death rooted out leaving only chicken shit shoveled scrapped and scraped like lemon lime Gatorade poured from a fuck buck of love. Stop talking to yourself —listen to the virus talk to you. All that you consider to be a accident was carefully orchestrated for your benefit by a benevolent cocksucking god from the twenty-third dimension to just plain old irritate the fuck out of you like a bad rectal itch. Stupid gringo got no cure for the ass itch i show you some pictures, yes very dirty, little girls you like?????? + <<<<<commander in chief of the NATO forces in Europe is fucking small refugee boy in the ass, the boy cries for his mother the general is laughing, your mother’s down the hall boy ,she’s busy with the president of France right now. But maybe later you’d like to lick his come off her dead face. Ban those words tear them right out snip snip. Can’t say that, its disgusting. War is a snuff film for the rich. <<<<We gotta step up the bombing chief the public’s losing innarest in us screams the chief of staff running in circles jerking off and slapping his ass until it turns a bright purple and with all seriousness General Jesse Helms pauses to reflect: I remember a time when life was good no one got in our way, why in Europe under Patton i musta raped twenty thirty little boys and a handful of nuns too. He smiles lost in memory... + But God hath given us these trying times.... + Yes it is bit hard to get cunt these days isn’t it, mumbles the chief of state as he strokes his wife’s cock....Yes dear start a war, get me some cute refugee boys, i so love snapping their necks when I'm coming, she growls affectionately. + That's it gentlemen were going to war! The president stands and ejaculates on a map of the world KOSOVO it is he says as his thick oatmeal consistency sperm all but covers the former republic of Yugoslavia. + You like? You like, no? Too bad. You can’t have those words, too strong. I get power, you give me power, I steal power from you, to expensive to buy it. I get power and you get pictures and maybe I tell you how to cure rectal itch? Eh? Eh? Eh? + +Perfection is attained not +when there is no longer anything to add, +but when there is no +longer anything to take away +-Antoine de Saint Exupery + Experiments with the death ray tape and image guns began with William Burroughs in the nineteen fifties, but was sidetracked by the advent of digital technology. The newer is not necessarily the better though folks sometimes they just have different uses —like the image gun that shot...In the beginning was the word and the word was made flesh by a cacophonous blast out of heaven's pearly cum-stained ass creating the father, the son, and the holy spigot which lies in a secluded garden on the cliffs overlooking the Sargasso sea. The spigot is buried in a volcano designed by Czech ostriches in the eleventh hour of creation to drain all human excrement off the continent of Europe and into the Sargasso sea all lumpy with turd so thick Jesus "conny" Christ in drag is walking along to the amazement of the gullible, floating gently from turd to turd. The piss blood of a million cunts and cocks line the shores giving the whole place a radioactive iridescent red glow not to mention a awful stench. Mr. Rogers and Captain Kangaroo are standing on the bluffs watching the spectacle and scanning with hawk eyes for sweet tight asses in which they can stab their hungry cocks. The father caught the son sitting in the middle of the garden sucking on an apple and he became enraged and hog tied the boy and penetrated every orifice in his body with a peeled and sculpted cucumber cock; the boy was left a whimpering, quivering lump of fleshy jello from which spawned humankind. + The piss gut rotting flesh smell, air taunt necked and jerking at the nose, the captain's eyes role back into his head as is guts are blasted out his ass by a giggling man headed tape worm of extraordinary wit who was prone to quoting Joyce and Bugs Bunny in the same sentence in a way that reminded listeners of Buster Keaton in some strange drugstore hurricane kind of a way. The skatolic odor was rich and the worm refused to bath. Owing to the peculiar nature of its origin the soldiers did not disturb the worm preferring instead to watch the captain writhe in agony pulling his legs back behind his ear to attempt to lick the matted blood soaked pubic hair over the torn orangish flesh that hung in ribbons over a large hole that had once been a simple anus. The upshot of it all was that the worm ate less rations than the captain so the men were basically satisfied with the arrangement and they followed the worm wiggling through the jungle as it did impersonations of Fred Astaire... + Blasted rot gut con-artist with ten huge molars running across the front of his mouth in a clump owing to his mother's industrial accident with the cunt acid from the hyperdrill, drilled right on through back to china. The asshole couldn't even close the damn thing and the lower mandible just kind of hung there like a tire swing. + The giggling Hyenas are dressed in black and high on amphetamines looking to turn you inside out. + Tongue-tied porn queens scream obscenities at passersby "I'll suck your dick until your eyeballs pop out your ass..." + Steady...wait til you see the whites of their eyes...Blown newspapers and advert scrapes cover the bottom three feet of a brick wall like sardines neatly packed in a kipper snack tin from a 1983 supermarket shelf....Horatio Alger's sodomizing menage-a-toi with the Maytag Man and Uncle Sam has led us to train station on the SpaceTime line where freedom is an irrelevant inconvenience of language that is slowly being fazed out of history. The i that is You speaks, I speak and the vibrations of air we create controls our every move. Science gives rise to Magic in the form of powerful papers that tell who what why and how you are to be. There are things which you can describe and things which you are not allowed to describe. And thought trickles like blood, out and on to the page bring things that can be done and things that can not be done. The word controls the game, those who write it are irrelevant the minute they put it on paper, it controls them you me the things we see the things we think, if the word isn't there first there is no reference if there is no reference there is no thing. How do you know a unicorn exists? simple it does. You can find them in stores, in books, in words on papers that tell you what it is, therefore it exists. + Uncle Sam came on the ground and left without a trace. Horatio and Maytag were emotionally tormented for years until their eventual deaths through ritualistic dismemberment. +We the people we govern you the other people have decided for reasons which are beyond the scope of this broadcast and may well be beyond the scope of your comprehension entirely that all freedoms which you previously thought you had but never in reality did possess are summarily denied from this point forward. Please report to the nearest biomedical programming center by the fourth of May where a new human program bio-unity 3.6 will be installed into your seratonin and allow for future dopemine programming without the need for physical intervention please go about your lives as you always have all those not present for the reprogramming procedures by the fourth of May will be consider fugitives of the state and will be dealt with in the harshest manner allowed by law and endorsed by the entertainment loving public... + + + Jail is bad and naturally Waiben wanted out, so he was perfectly willing to meet with his former cellmate, if that was all it would take. Besides Sil had drawn him in to interesting and most unusual conversations about the edges of science and how close they were to the fringes of magic and shamanistic traditions and methods. Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magick ...he kept saying. He seemed intent on getting some sort of confirmation and reassurance from Waiben, but Sil struck Waiben as extremely well read and without the usual pretensions of one who is in as deep as he appeared to be. Beside the ideas they discussed, Waiben senses some mystery in Sil's nonchalant attitude toward jail, you only have that attitude if you know you aren't going to be in for long. He mentioned that his employer had some friends who could get Waiben out, but refused further probing. + Waiben's hope for some sort of mystery surrounding Sil were further heightened in New Orleans by Sil's refusal to name his employer, he would just lapse back on a well developed habit of mumbling incoherently and abruptly changing the subject usually to something about the merits of anarchy. Waiben wanted to hear the words i am rich and i will pay you large sums of money to work for me to do pure research untainted by political agenda and what not. Waiben realized he was beginning to sound like some scientific utopianist and mentally slapped himself in the face. + Waiben studied Sil's face in the last rays of New Orleans sun noticing the wild sparkle that seemed the jump out of his eyes when his mind began to race and Waiben could barely keep up with the blast of ideas. But they were not incoherent rants he watched the wheels turning, half wondering whether he had actually thought this up ahead of time or if he really just talked as fast as the words formed in his head and assembled the ideas as he went. Sil appeared to be around twenty five perhaps a bit older, but his head was a jungle of hair the crawled all over his glasses and eyes obscuring them entirely at time such that he reminded the doctor of the hairy talking thingy from the Adams family. + Still Waiben was happy to be talking to someone who was as least way beyond the game circuit and seemed to possess at least a spotty grasp of particles, superstring theory and quantum inseparably. He seemed especially obsessed with frequencies and radio transmission which intrigued Waiben as his own experiments with orgone energy had seemed to be pointing in that direction. Sil was a ferocious smoker Waiben noticed —such a ridiculous drug habit he thought somewhat indifferently. + "What? I'm sorry my mind was wandering." Waiben felt momentarily awkward, but Sil seemed not to care. + "No. I'm sorry. I've never done this before." Actually such was not strictly true. Sil had carried on Cary's tradition of recruitment before he even had something to recruit them for. For a time when sill had tested the opiate waters, he had accidentally stumbled upon a certain state of mind which taught the individual certain neurologically self evident truths, but it came with a heavy dependence. The thing about heroin that never came across in the translation between junkie and non-junky was that heroin as a trip has some very interesting things to say about the nature of reality. Most people tended to miss that when contemplating the price of addiction. But addiction can be overcome Sil realized and for a time he had travelled in heroin circles preaching the gospel of Ibogaine, a drug that's specific neurological interaction made it seem as perhaps a way out. Sil reached this conclusion by becoming a heroin addict first and then seeing if he could get out. Or perhaps he just liked to leap into the darkness and hope that there would prove to be a way out. Addiction is a powerful motivator for naturally lazy people. But in time he came to realize why the government would want a sedated dependant class of citizens, in fact junkies were the ideal model citizen from governments perspective —they don't care about anything except when they can get more junk. It was a Burroughsian nightmare, and it freaked Sil out to watch it happening. Most people thought he was paranoid and dismissed him without looking closely enough to see if there was anything worth being paranoid about. Are you paranoid about your soul? No too happy to assume the party line of Materialist Consumer? When you increase the stakes of the game the game isn't a game anymore, this is why people loved conspiracies and CIA tales of intrigue, it kept the stakes limited to what could happen before death. Nobody liked to entertain the possibility that these "games might carry on over the edge and into the valley of the shadow of death. Wasn't that what the Sunday school book with the silly pictures said. What do you think were doing here? Get off of my lawn.... + "Done what?" Waiben's words were measured carefully against the swirling tornado sweeping across his cerebrum. + "Recruited anyone." + "Recruited for what?" asked Waiben feeling the squeeze of reality tunnel uncertainty. + "Perhaps invited is a better word. There is somewhere I'd like you to go with me." Sil smiled vaguely at him. He thought about a night he had spent standing in the rain trying to decide if he had died in an auto wreck two months before and everything he had been living was his minds projection into the future. He thought about his naked horror when he realized that ultimately there was no way of really being sure about anything. Any wild whim of imagination that blew into his mind might very well be true or at least it had just as good a chance of being real. He remembered the nakedness and the rain more than anything. + + Several hours later as the heat dissipates slowly back inland to the swamps and the ocean breeze brings in the gulf night, Waiben is thinking about Voodoo, Gringos and the Quantum Uncertainty principle. Waiben was beginning to fell the squeeze of uncertainty that comes with a true anarchy of senses. Oh you mean this can really happen? Or am I just thinking that its happening? Or is it happening because i think its happening? Or am I thinking that it is really happening and I'm just dreaming? Am I going to wake up one day and not remember this dream? Fuzzy logic dogs chasing each other around on a 1965 street in a East Chicago neighborhood. + Sil could be some fundamentalist nutcase trying to lead him out of the country and to his death. Religious nuts hated science more than science nuts hated religion and learning the languages of each in order to pass one's self off as a scientist or a baptist wasn't that difficult. + He sat up in bed reread the letter Sil had given him...With practice you can teach yourself to receive peoples signals or thoughts; what we want you to figure out is how to create a sub-audio broadcast that can actually be controlled and directed like an ordinary radio signal. Is telepathy an interpersonal form of radio? If it is how could it be controlled focussed and sent and received? What is true for one system (radio) should be relatively the same in another (telepathy) if only the signal amplitude is being changed. The problem I see is that even subtle changes in input can cause radical oscillations in output, we need you to chase those butterflies for us, we do not have the time to do the nuts and bolts things are moving to quickly these days and we've been forced to contract some of out programs. I will give you the details and a project summary tomorrow when I pick you up at nine please be ready to travel. Waiben thought about it for a while and fell asleep to a tunnel where television was the ultimate telepathic control signal broadcast onto an unwitting population and designed to create subtle and undetectable mind control. It was a fitful sleep. + + Sixty years earlier in a different coordinate point Dr. Waiben is inventing Color Television. It was the basis of his realization that mind control was possible, it was merely a question of finding the right tools and methods of applying the tools. He had stumbled on to the idea of television as a form of mind control about the time the first color sets were being worked around in the not yet official jet propulsion lab in California. He was just by coincidence (if you believe in such nonsensical notions) studying the orgone theories of Doctor Wilhelm Reich at the time. + Even in the nineteen thirties Reich’s theories were revolutionary to Waiben and he felt he had found someone besides himself and Korzybsky who truly understood the implications of Einstein's relativity —years before the Firesign Theater would say it, Waiben realized that everything he knew was wrong. It liberated him from the confines of Aristotelian thought which seems to imply that everything true is a continually unfolding and building upon that which came before it. The world had been turned on its ear and very few people seemed to notice. + The sentence that leaped out of Reich’s notes as Waiben stared hypnotically at the bluish glow of the first color television set was one that warned prolonged exposure to the bluish radiation of bion energy has had negative physical ramifications such as headaches, red swollen eyes, and the feeling that one had been staring at the sun for too long.... The synapse fired and Waiben began experimenting with blue light emissions to find out if they had any connection to orgone energy + In the end he found that blue wavelength radiation with prolonged exposure irritates the eyes and actually appeared to drain orgone energy out of the individual presumably by neutralizing the signal and allowing it to pass through the individual with out interacting. On an oriental map one might say that television depleted an individuals chi. This, reasoned Waiben, would make people tired from watching television. At the same time television would give a preset image map (moving pictures they called them) with stories that engaged the mind making it difficult to break away from the energy depleter. It was more addictive then heroin and because it was legally sanctioned and actively encouraged by every positive reinforcement society had to offer no one ever considered that it was a "drug." The mass of people were taught that drugs were old herbs and mischief from humanities checkered past. The idea of new drugs was not an idea that got a lot of publicity in the forties. + A sedated and apathetic culture with a very high threshold for persecution thus raised its ugly head. Waiben never mentioned his findings to anyone and merely offered to help in the perfecting of the television signal —always quietly insisting that blue light was the easiest method of signal transmission + In a dreamstate Waiben drove though the suburbs around nine o'clock and watched the eerie blue glow coming from the hundreds of thousands of houses he had addicted. + He saw television as a virus...like a virus it was benign until the right switch from the host triggered the release of the disease. Like a virus it was passed from one generation to the next, and like a virus its spread was exponentially related to the human population growth ie. more people = more infected people. The greatest side effect of television though was quite unintended by Waiben, it had radically reoriented the global mindset from isolated consumption into total slavery to consumption and fashion. Thus Waiben learned that the fastest and most effect way of controlling a large population was to make it genuinely believe that it own enslavers were in fact its heros, its gods, thus eliminating or at the very least co-opting naysayers by making them part and parcel of the disease. + As TV became more widespread even its detractors had to use the very channels of oppression as their only outlet for resistance. Much like controlling any signal path, insurrectionists and radicals were diverted by capacitors (“the media”) and squelched by resistors (“the police”). Thus the people remained happy and content with their oppression and no one was able to convince them to give up the convenience of slavery for the hardships of freedom. Would you? + It wasn't enough though; true mind control would leave the victim unable to disobey the signal or ideally, unaware that he or she were even being controlled —like Christ reborn, Waiben thinks of the old con artist sitting laughing from con artist heaven. + sub-audio messages are below the threshold of human hearing, but not that of comprehension. It is the noise of someone thinking. Listening in is just a matter of having the right receptors, psychics and clairvoyants had been doing it as circus tricks for centuries. “Think of it as inter-cellular radio” he told his colleagues who mostly ignored his fanatical rantings. universal breakdown short circuited the word and left you here naked and cold. + +familiarity breeds contempt +-William Brandon +from the Origin of Consciousness + + + The next morning, true to his word Sil picked Waiben up in a limousine and they seemed by Waiben's limited knowledge of geography, to be heading toward the airport. Sil smoked as they drove and his sunglasses combined with the black leather interior of the limousine made him appear like a typical millionaire, which only served to put Waiben that more at ease with an idea he was unsure about at least he seems to have the money.... Sil though seemed determined to make him nervous and, throwing his cigarette out the window, reached into his jacket and pulled out something that looked like a handrolled cigarette. He spoke rapidly, but with some eerie form of ordained authority...Normally i would never do this to someone, but time is speeding up and I can't bring you in properly. It is important that you know a few things...one is that what you perceive as reality is a horribly sheltered view of what is really going on in this here universe, and two, these little aliens (he handed Waiben a rolled cigarette) are going to show you the rest of it. If we had the time i would prove these points to you by showing you authoritative studies and what not, but that's really just a Bavarian Fire Drill anyway so rather than take the time to show you that for yourself I'm just telling you. Now smoke the DMT and close your eyes, everything you know is wrong anyway.... +* * * * * * +Everything after that was different. +* * * * * * + Two hours later on an airplane that Waiben only dimly remembered boarding, Sil could tell that Waiben was suffering Space Time Mind confusion. Sil left Waiben in the main compartment of the jet and disappeared with a wavering walk into the back of the plane, Waiben could hear him talking to what he assumed was the cockpit crew giving flight instructions. The plane was not unlike most government planes it had couches instead of seats and revealed to one how much room there really is on the inside on an airplane. This particular plane had a few things that Waiben doubted were government planes —an assortment of medical tools that were stored in glass cabinet near the front of the cabin and beside each of the black leather couches were a permanently attached hucas which, Waiben noticed by bumping one, were flexible at the base so as not to spill their contents during flight. The cabin also contained an impressive collection of computer hardware and curiously near the door marked COCKPIT, on a small desk was an antique typewriter with the word Underwood inscribed on the face. The walls of the jet were covered with tapestries and pillows with scenes from the Tibetan Book of The Dead and the Kama Sutra lay haphazardly in the corner the mixture of oriental and occidental gave the room a circular feeling, which was reinforced by the cylindrical walls and roof. + Actually Sil had been talking to Cary and suddenly the door to Waiben's back flung open and Sil and another man came struggling through it, laughing and carrying a giant mirror full of cocaine. “So you found our coordinate eh?” said the man in the three piece suit (Cary always dressed the occasion) laughing and pointed at Waiben. + “Yes I did.” said Waiben staring at the coke. + “Oh, pardon me how rude, would you like some cocaine, I fear this is all we have left, but help yourself.” Cary thrust a silver trade into Waiben's lap. There was an almost grapefruit sized pile of cocaine in the middle of it. It was more cocaine than Waiben had ever seen. He had so lost his bearings with reality that no further stimulation of his brain seemed necessary, “no thanks," he said handing the rather heavy platter back to Cary. + “No thanks you don’t want any or no thanks you want it but you aren’t about to do on a jet with two people you don’t know?” + Waiben suddenly felt threatening hairs on the back of his neck rise, “Second” he said staring defiantly in Cary's eyes. + “Lay off him Cary he's already trying to live at least six tunnels at once, you know how disorienting it is at first” Sil flopped down on a couch and began to load a huca with hashish, he looked at Waiben and said rather abstractly, "just remember, if it doesn't make you laugh it probably isn't real...." His voice trailed off into mumblings Waiben did not catch. + + “Just so you know Doctor, if we were going to hurt you, we would have pushed you out of the plane as soon as we were over water, so relax and do some drugs, we’ll tell you what we need you for later, right now you need us, you got the need we got the drugs so lighten up eh?” Downs had decided that since the doctor was already in a tunnel of weirdness and confusion that he might be reoriented by Cary's cankerous old southern man routine. Cary imagined his performances to be somewhat akin to hanging out with William S. Burroughs as he appears in Naked Lunch. + Waiben just sat somewhat reluctantly on the couch next to Sil who without looking handed him the end of the surgical tubing and when Waiben put it to his lips Sil lit the huca. Waiben noticed just before the hash hit him that the lighter had a picture of christ with a crown of thorns on it. This realization man him chuckle and wonder if Sil had seen his or perhaps it was his or perhaps every gas station in America has them. + "Uh oh he's gonna get the giggles," Downs said laughing himself, "here do some coke to speed up the signal processing, it frees the word." + "The word?" Waiben lowered his nose to the powdered sugar-like line. He smiled to himself and snorted a heroic amount of cocaine into his nose. Unfortunately he failed to take into account the fact that he was pressurized to an altitude of fourteen thousand feet and his only previous experience of it had been at sea level. Sil reached over and stuck a tube in front of his open mouth and he sucked almost involuntarily. The smoke was not hash, it was more DMT. The last thought Waiben remembered having was: "oh wow, this is going to be very interesting...." + broadband signal strength test market for better higher climbable mountains:”:”:”::”:”:”:”:”:”:”>>>>>>>>>wicked evil sentiments have been exercised and all words and virus contained>>>>>>government works like this more or less:>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> transmission broadcast’s proposals for your demise. incomplete and ill planned. the joint chiefs of staff would be happy to coordinate efforts for a small fee. Step into the circular electric room walls dance with pulsating warbled beams of light. The general is a continually shifting and transforming creature that alternates between waving a pointer, panging a podium and crooning a Frank Sinatra voice "it was a very good year/ for small town girls...."Do pictures have a language? static. message garbled. transmission lost. + + Waiben surveys his hotel room with its view overlooking the Buenos Aries airport he stares at their plane off to the right of the terminal just barely visible from where he is. Well so this is South America. Huh. The room is mid-grade not nice, but so far free of roaches which when flying over the city on their approach seemed quite an unlikely possibility. Waiben lies down on the bed, lights a cigarette, and turns on the television. Spanish broadcast MTV. He rolls on his side reaching into his bag and extracting a vial of DMT, do whatever you want tonight they had said just be sober by six in the morning. He pours the white powder into a glass pipe feeling a bit like a crack whore the taste is reminiscent of cock, that soothing human injecting quality...the world game stopped the truth game stopped and finally in less than thirty seconds the Waiben game stopped what happened after that is a matter of some speculation, but he was pretty sure that he hadn't really talked to an ostrich that explained to him the future and his role in something called Freeport. Sil and Cary were in the next room listening to Waiben on a short wave system they had set up prior to giving Waiben a key. + "He's going to see them I know it," Sil found himself saying. + "I don't understand why you think this doctor is so useful, I already have scientists that are further along in his field that he is." Downs didn't like Waiben he sensed something familiar about him as if everything he was capable of he had already done once before with disastrous results and Downs had spent enough time messing with the fabric of reality to know that his brain knew a lot more than it would let him see all at once. A sufi story came back to him...a man walks into a store and says to the shop keeper have you seen me before? The shopkeeper says no and the man says then how do you know it is me? + Sil is insistent on Waiben's necessity and even when Cary raises the control game issues Sil does not back down, "that's why I gave him the hallucinogens because it rids you of the ego, he doesn't know who he is right now, he thinks he invented color television. Relax." Sil smoked a little DMT himself and tuned his shortwave radio to static. This helped to establish in his mind a kind of rhythm and seemed to link the drug to the static, if only in his mind. Pictures are a language he is thinking. + + + +I do not believe that the world +is made of quarks or electromagnetic waves, +or stars, or planets, or any of these things. +I believe the world is made of language. +-Terence McKenna + + Madison Avenue is a faceless row of buildings filled with thousands of advertising agents, it is an entity in Abstraction. Abstraction is the legal basis for the sanctity of the state, and it is a wholly binary system. Its language is binary coding form the conceptual level down to vast systems of information stored in computer cuneiform. It was to put it mildly the last place one would look for spiritual insight. But Sil Hawkard was not bounded by the archetypal mythologies of his culture. In any age and any culture the shaman is the the oddball who is separate from the cultural images of the human experience. The non-shaman citizen is in constant conflict between expectation of habit and the nagging guilt of novelty or rather the lack of novelty. The shaman is merely one who has allowed the self to take over the citizen in such a way that behavior and even brainwave patterns are altered. And it is for this reason that the shaman is exiled to the edge of the village, because tampering with the fabric of consensus reality is dangerous to its continued existence never call anything up that you can not put back down. + The most common method of achieving such a feat over the years has been chemical mind manipulation. Sil's fascination with mind manipulation did not began with drugs though, it began much earlier in a high school biology class where he realized the simple truth that the brain is a continuously changing chemical reaction. The nuero circuitry of the brain is like the inner workings of a computer, of course it is infinitely more complex, but the computer is still a useful metaphor. Eventually through his use of drugs he came to realize that even chemical maps are in fact a rather poor guide to what the hell is really going on. If you see something you have never seen before, you want to tell about it you want to talk about it you want to describe it. You are tempted to say it resembled a woman but was nothing like a woman. The first thing you need to move on from the temporal reality that most people cling to is a new language. + It was this reason that had led Sil to Madison avenue because even if their goals were slightly less benign than Sil's own they nevertheless possessed a wealth of data on manipulations of language. They had managed to create a universe in which people were convinced they needed everything they didn't have. This was a powerful tool of magic and while Sil wasn't entirely sure if they were even aware of what they were doing they were undeniably doing it. Manipulating language is one of the shaman's starting tools, kind of a chip flint arrow in the bigger picture, but technology builds on itself —if you can't chip an arrow head you can't split an atom. So he arranged to have one hundred televisions brought to Buenos Aries and tuned to different stations in all kinds of languages and he began the immense task of taping, editing, and splicing Madison Avenue's commercial language. + It was for this reason Sil wanted to bring Waiben to Buenos Aries and now as Waiben sat in the chair staring around the room at the overwhelming sensory input potential of one hundred televisions in one room he felt overwhelmed and not up to the task. He had at his disposal a team of over two hundred electronics experts, but he had the annoy task of looking for something without knowing what it was. Downs and Hawkard had left him a copious amount of DMT, mushrooms, peyote, cocaine, and hashish to help him along. Sil recommended hash and cocaine together as the best decoding agent for the Madison magicians as he had taken to calling them. His proposal came after a week of drugs and sex which Waiben had enjoyed and felt for the first time really truly free and alive. Sex is as good as the body gets Downs had said, but now he had years worth of work staring him in the face. I know you want to find the face behind the mask behind the face behind the mask behind the face behind the mask... Sil had chanted as he left. The most curious event of the week was the time when Sil had been teaching Waiben how to use mantras and hash as tools in meditation. Waiben realized after selecting a mantra from an astrology book in Downs' apartment, that Sil was chanting I can't believe its not butter, I can't believe its not butter I can't believe its not butter.... + Sil and Downs returned to the oil derrick city while the good doctor spent the better part of the day in an oxygen pure environment subjecting himself the recuperative acupuncture therapy on his muscles which were stimulated one by one with needle pricks while an orgone generator hummed steadily in the corner. The pre-programmed alpha waves stimulated his body's brain functions that were healing in nature and as the experiment went on, electrographs of brain activity mapped the centers stimulated and was compared with the frequency emitted until each frequency had its effects defined and clearly mapped. In another room one of his researchers was having similar electro- stimulation through flicker television screens recorded and the alpha waves would be compared to Waiben's and others. + Chemical stimulation of the brain acts at different frequencies than orgone so Waiben entered into a tunnel of reality where the healer believed that orgone would rejuvenate the body and help it recover from the destructive side effects of the drugs. Simultaneously doing research and healing appealed to the self centered side of Waiben. Waiben was not a regular user of drugs and thus prone to over-enthusiasm from the get go —Downs had cautioned him about the difference between want and need and how thin and blurry the line could get. No one said the doors to the chapel perilous wouldn't be guarded. Addiction is the first to rear its ugly head the word is obliterated by the need. need is driven by re -action rather than action. The first rule of anarchy is to never react. Re-action is a non event, it doesn't exist in reality and its futility is readily apparent to anyone who ceases to do it. The human brain is taught to feel a certain sensation and because evolution was soooo effective the brain learns to adjust to fit the new reality —making it real. Thus it reacts to the stimuli by negating its effects and like the man in the floppy hat said it never got weird enough for me. + avoiding addiction is no easy task —you're up against over ten thousand years of terrestrial survival instincts; shedding them is the damnedest thing like the Kimono dragons continually picking at the dead flesh that refuses to leave the beast that it was once a part of. Waiben felt up to the task on many levels, but he had made a mental note to not have any opiates around because after all a man has to know his limitations. + + + + +reality is a narrow +definition of existence +-Sil Hawkard from The Rubber Octopus + + + +one year and six thousand miles northeast Sil sits in his room of Tunisia smoking hash and reading a letter from the doctor that said: + +observations on the Madison Avenue language/image institution: + The rigid censorship guidelines for language that may or may not be used by broadcast media is the first thing that one notices when evaluating the Madison language manipulation. What you don't hear is more obvious than what you do hear. This arbitrary crystalline definition between what is accepted as language and what is peripheral gives added power to the absent words given there selective nature. The power is largely meaningless but the precision of its delineation tends to suggest that those making the choices do indeed have power. At this point there power is largely exercised in the form of fines although who continue to push usually fade out of the picture. The restriction of language, even of a few simple words like sexually oriented words, gives the controller power over the sender who is dependant on the controllers approval prior to broadcast. The censorship itself is not so strong as to limit image rather disrupt the free flow of ideas without raising the suspicions of the majority who, it is important to remember can ultimately disrupt the delicate balance. + image control of broadcast media is much more sexually oriented than language. they don't let them them see sex in realtime, they let them see violence in realtime, but never ever the actual sex act. It is endlessly mentioned and alluded to but never shown. This seems to create a message of sex being more powerful than death, which in the ordinary magical arts is not necessarily true. The lack of sex images is complicated. By depriving them of biotic need creates a tension and stress and without equilibrium, power can never be achieved. But it also creates a subculture, those who enjoy the nudity so much that they are willing to go out and buy it on the free market. This can never be stopped, therefore it is best to marginalize this subculture through city zoning laws and force them into the “bad parts” of town. By moving them to the side they become ineffectual during rebellion because the dominate culture knows that no matter how bad the current situation may be they sure as hell don’t want some “porn watching trash monger” in charge. + The human consciousness is latent with sexuality. Not hetero or homo, but simply sexuality, however in wordimage track television it is almost exclusively heterosexual mythology —conditioning the brain into a binary system of either/or hetero/homo, one disrupts the normal circuitry of the brain creating mono memes (see footnote).1 Mono memes lead to repression and non-symmetrical personality types. Signal processing in these brain patterns is much more open to autosuggestion —research continues in this field. + 3.Language manipulation: When attempting autosuggestion it is worth bearing in mind the KISS principle of which I believe Madison Avenue is acutely aware. The so-called “sound bite” is simple and enables you to plant marginalizing catch phrases in the mind of general public It also leaves room to constantly create and update the marginalization. In addition, by providing easy to recall words and phrases that simplify and therefore make meaningless complicated patterns and repetitions you create a tendency to narrow brainwave activities. Examples: Nigger, Nazi, Lesbo bitch, rock’n’roll, just a junky, anything with monger at the end of it, etc. It is also worth noting that Madison employs what shamans and priests have known for centuries the rhythm of the words is as important as the meaning which is why jingles were so popular for so long. Repeated exposure, however, creates an irritability so I think there would have to be ceremonial in quality; as in a concert, but thus far the government news broadcasts have not employed such a technique (perhaps it is too obvious) + I could not (through the nature of the medium) tell if any sort of orgone generator type of energy was being used, but such a device requires a symbol transfer system which in my opinion has not been toyed with yet although I believe that it might be with further research. I also plan to look more into the blue light synchronicity between Orgone and the neutral background of television. One of the technicians here has a tunnel in which the connection is real and the destruction of Reich's research a typical sloppy government cover-up to conceal what they were doing...you get the idea. It is a tunnel that I have yet to explore. + +personal notes: television (and here i mean all television because all television is advertising) seems to be primarily a means of defining language and image. It presents polarities so often and with such a remarkable sense of irony (unintended?) that it seems to be telling us what the limits are. "The news" often plays the most violent stories back to back with the most heartwarming ones, obstinately to not depress the viewer but it has rather the opposite effect of creating a constant tension in the viewer causing one have an inevitable sense of doom in every situation of pleasure. This helps to instill a sense of control over behavior, however this is not something that can be clinically evaluated it is just instinct. Ordinarily I would disregard the rather direct nature of the causality, but because especially America in some very real sense allows its fabric of reality to be held together by television I think that some sort of synchronic behavior patterns could be instilled through the airwaves. The Question of intelligent origins I still have no opinion on —I think that the fastest way to determine such a direct causality would be to deliberately try it and judge the results. Thank you for your continued support and be advised that I am returning to the united states under the name Chase Hollister. + + New Orleans: the bus is gone leaving a surly crowd of Mexicans behind coming to work in restaurants they can’t afford to eat in. Down the street tourists buy overpriced and ugly looking wood carvings because the sign on the shop says Voodoo and they want funky stuff so their relatives back home will find them more authentic —as if reality were not a fabric tearing down the middle. Sil Hawkard is sitting at his favorite stateside tavern waiting for the arrival of Dr. Waiben whom he is beginning to suspect may in fact be turning out as Downs had said —be careful what you wish for. Waiben was making Sil wait and Sil new it, Waiben was letting him know that one can not escape the control circuit if one is going to attempt to live in the fabric. Of course Sil knew he would have a well thought out and logical excuse, not to would have been Sil's style; he knew the game circuit and he knew the games and he never bothered to play. Sil was excited by the prospect of what he might be getting in terms of research from Waiben, but he was also logically paranoid and knew human behavior so he developed the possibility that Waiben might be giving him a strange loop of disinformation. As a precaution Downs had insisted he take entourage who were now spread around New Orleans waiting for his signal and amusing themselves at the same time. + Sil saw Waiben outside as he rounded the corner and Sil ducked into the restroom—two paranoids meeting is always a contest of wills and never simple. First the feelers—Waiben headed straight into the bathroom and started to pee in the urinal, Sil stepped noiselessly out of the stall next to him and gently eased a gun behind his ear, “Doctor Livingston I presume?” + Waiben was visibly shaken, but tried his best to hide it, he smiled “Sil your paranoia is unfounded, occasionally troubling, but always amusing. Sil paused for a moment unsure if Waiben’s lips had even moved. + "Don’t pull telepathy games with me Waiben, it's irritating. Half the time all i get is gibberish, just save it until you know what your doing, okay?” His tone was deliberately condescending and he said it with out moving his lips and looking straight into Waiben's eyes + “That wasn’t telepathy is was sub vocal speech, but okay we’ll just talk, can i get you a drink?” Waiben looked a touch surprised, but Sil couldn't tell if it was genuine. + + Dr Waiben had arrived in New Orleans after a short lecture stop in Los Angeles, California where he had experimented with speaking in tongues. The central nervous system is much like a radio antenna and Waiben was obsessed with finding a powerful enough signal to reach everyone at once. The tongues method appeared, from the LA experiment anyway, to be strong enough only if you knew how to pick it up. Much like his experiments with television, it required the listener to make a conscious effort to tune it in, which meant that it could be tuned out just as easily. + SpaceTime events collide. Words bounce out uncontrollably and with no respect whatsoever for the recognized conventions of English grammar and proper method of coherent speech. Pick up your marshmallows and walk -Christ is drunk and babbling in the streets of Bethlehem, Mohammed heaves him over his shoulder and carries him to a remote cave in the Gobi desert where they make sweet love under the waning stars of eternity like Calvin Klein and Gorgio Armani before the great clothing wars of the late 1990's. + + Sil sits down with Waiben and starts to tell a story, but thinks better of it and simply studies Waiben's face for a minute. "Cary has a brain tumor and he is going to die within a month." he said suddenly. "Everything is being turned over to me on the condition that I withdraw all support and contact from you and your research facility, but I have not agreed to it yet. I came here to ask you if the rumors are true." + For the first time Waiben genuinely felt spacetimemind curving and he saw Sil Hawkard fade and crumble as if he had actually been made up of millions of tiny ants. + The assistant beside him watches horrified as the virus pushes in bubbling crispy blisters against the outer skin of the boy's cock. The cock begins to move as if independent of the boy, it twists and turns in ways that one would not expect a cock to be able to move. It seems propelled about by the force of the popping skin blisters. The skin is searing and the acrid smell of burnt flesh permeates the air, a faint trail of delicate whispy smoke emits from the top like effervescent semen. His cock continues to dance about as if possessed by a viral cobra, the skin is disfigured and slides off in sheets that look like red black strips of chicken skin. The blisters are popped like a burnt hot dog, the vein on the underside splits open and oozes out a hideous trail of ochre liquid that snags in the boys pubic hair and trickles down his ass. + The virus begins to organize itself into more complex structures as though it were leaping up the evolutionary ladder right before the good Doctor's eyes. The boy screams in pain and terror as the blisters begin to form on his chest. + "By God i think its going to his brain, its ten minutes old and its evolved from a virus to a sentient creature capable of locating the vital organs of its host and destroying it. Waiben is momentarily shocked, the assistant retreats to the observation room for fear its growth rate might be too exponential and drags Waiben by the arm. Behind the antiseptically clean glass they continue to observe the beast as it burrows through the boys body, and then suddenly it stops and the monitoring devise on the boy falls silent. It dies with the host, how tragically effective, thought Waiben. + "What we need to do is tamper with its genes so that it doesn't die with the host -a virus that evolves in to a completely independent creature in an evolutionary span of two or three minutes..." Waiben's assistant Dr Kellinger's mind is racing ten ton truck-like around the viscus fluids of his skull and two years away a phone is already ringing. + "Did you hear that?" Waiben asks suspiciously as his spacetime point begins to warp forward. + Kellinger stops mid sentence. "Hear what?" + "The phone, I thought I hear the phone?" + "Are you okay? + "Yes, why?" + "You're the one who had the phones down hear removed two weeks ago because you said they were distracting you from this project and now you're still hearing them ring? You might want to lay off the cocaine for a little while Doctor." + "It not habit forming." + "All elements of mind control are habit forming —you of all people ought to know that." + Fragments of ash are falling. Government radio broadcasts interrupt still air to create wavelengths...my god thinks Waiben its working on me He grabs a cattle prod and heads out of the room. + Somewhere a man shoot a monkey and blows off its balls. The monkey laughs obnoxiously as the cells reconstruct themselves and a new set of balls rapidly grows in place of the old ones, he advances menacingly on the man who now realizes his error and begins to flee. Always subjugate reality. + + Waiben burst out laughing and took an exaggerated sip of scotch, "you're the one who tried so hard to get me to believe that nothing is true...are you afraid to live your own reality?" + Sil stared at Waiben for a bit and got up silently and walked to the bathroom again he smoked DMT and sat on the toilet seat and braced himself. Fragments of Ash falling. White washed ceilings hanging so ominous Hallucination of bubble-headed figures crawling like the Mitchelin Man across an indescribable mountain of tires +Motels Motels Motels Whiskey Bourbon. Tow truck non-ordinary state of reality precludes a state of reality that something is real Point at the autistic manwomanchild Autistic man pointing at you laughing unable to fathom how your brain functions and quite self righteously you you cling to its definitions. Must delineate between abnormality and those of us who Understand The Human Virus breeding like rats unconsciously conscious and aware of our disorganization. Gas Station Cold Fusion dreams of the Anarchist are breeding in the minds of the oil men who don’t want to loose their stranglehold of reality.Fragments of Ash falling the continual settling of dust weighing down humanity and the French Maid masturbates discreetly in the next room. You need her to keep the dust off your mortal coil spring.Rebirth mythology.Mythology of reality. We must distinguish between what will be defined as sane and what shall be referred to as insanity. Kevlar definitions constructed to make a better shampoo seem like a logical item on which to squander your paperbacked slavery bills.After all these years Tide still +gets your socks whiter Its a wonder that they aren’t transparent by now.that your brain retarded in its development that evolution had not anticipated the advent of the opposable thumb the unopposable domination of the thumb leading to and insect superiority of mating rituals stolen from a textbook on damselflies darning needles sewing shut your lips, mind atrophy. Weber's White Race Enriched for Superiority Scorched earth campaigns raining Ash. Shit from the sky. Tax man came for your baby in exchange for unpaid balance. You understand. Nothing Personal Just doing our job. Same as the next guy. From Auzwich on down the line. Didn’t make the rules. Sorry. We perfected them.There are no innocents in a world of free will. You don’t have to survive at the expense of others. You could die with puncture wounds in your hands and others would create a new mythology strange irony would find another with holes in his hands unwilling to accept cockroach mentalities.You want to beLIEve Hitler was a madman but he lives on in quiet cafes centralsouthamerica not so free not all the communists have been shot yet Your mistook misunderstood missed the lesson in the situation that unfolded Dr. of dialectic excuses you want to beLIEve Hitler was a madman Hitler killed everybody's body only taking orders you understand just doing my job from Independence on down the line. It was a sad money grubbing hunter gather up his children and thank his gods they are his and he their god behold I have come to tell you that everything you know is wrong stop doing your job it is not yours see Hitler in your mind you want him dead but he's not he lives on buried under restraint in everyone's mind.Only taking orders you understand. Didn’t have a CHOICE. Got a family to feed. radio crackle. pop. hiss. silence. + + “Alright, so what are you going to do?” Waiben asked as he came back. + "I will not sell you out to the State like Cary wants me to do, but you will never see me again." Sil walked out of the bar and got in a waiting car. + + Anything everything like a hurricane blowing bits of ash in from mountainous eruptions. Sil is sitting at a table, coat turned collar up and looking like a grainy photograph, harsh contrasts under a sterile florescent bulbs, mad-smoking a half lit cigarette. Old Cary Downs is inside, diffidence hangs like a fern in the corner to liven the place up and remind freshly wed virgins that drinking the seed is a gift of God. God who rots like a gaslamp whore waiting to get back what life owed him. Sil lays down the napkin he was blowing his nose in and gets up to leave. + Sil remembers a peculiar buzzing sound rang near the edge of his ears, a sound not unlike what a bear must hear with its head stuck inside a hollow log with hornets nest buzzing at the other end and echoing up the length. The sound began to organize itself at first into random pulses and thumps until a pattern emerged and Sil saw the rhythmic pounding of African drummers crouched by the fire and Aztec dancers whirled like calavera dolls blowing in the wind swept rafters of a Mexican village and far off, back in the shadows a thousand villagers chanted a harsh wilderness voice that carried up into his consciousness and spoke: + Behold we are ants. Tonight we appear to you as a headless horseman suit driven by a midget who smokes cinnamon sticks and who before this is over will likely find sexually desirable in the same way those lechers looked at Snow White when she would bend over the stove. Only Kiki can save you, but that is irrelevant for now. As we said we are ants and our purpose is singular. Attachment is a pattern and in runs through you. Beware of the singularity of Time and consult often the wisdom of the last carrier pigeon. She waits like a pregnant woman ready to burst forth with impenetrable mysteries. Might well be the key to the universe handed by a pervertial passageway of dreams. + Cary died two days later and Sil flew to an island he had only recently found on the map. An island where sad tropic storms made one want to just sit on the porch in a bambo chair and stare at nothing for hours. Sil was sad about Cary, but primarily he suddenly felt the full weight of his own life on his shoulders —everyone in Tunisia was waiting to see what he would do. He had taken the manufacturing codes for the production of the hashish and marijuana using carbon as a carrier and sold it for seven million dollars which he then parlayed into the stocks of the companies using a false corporation and funnelled the money into an e-cash account in the Caribbean. Sil was financially poised to build an international empire and without word he left the derrick taking cary's jet and most of his information research code machinery. As far as anyone on the rig knew he just disappeared they heard odd stories like one that an old man had approached him on the beach and converted him to Christianity. One person did show up at the rig in Tunisia though: the doctor will see you now. + + The encroaching millennia had several side effects which most people in the state had not anticipated, every society has its periodic upheavals and tumult but every society is different in what the upheaval is about. No one expected the fucking in the streets routine to really happen, but it did or at least it had for a while —it was dying off now some of the old purist religious types where beginning to crawl out of their bomb shelters to realize that the world had indeed gone mad just not violently mad. Instead sex evolved. It made sense to Waiben, after all the continuation of the species was more or less assured by DNA, why not have some fun, Waiben had developed a perverse sense of humor in Buenos Aries. and had begun investigating ways of deliberately controlling the mind. scenes from the laboratory play on tape loops in the new Smithsonian. Do what ever you want just make sure he's in pain the whole time. I want his brain to remain in shock and agony for as long as it can before it turns itself off completely. Waiben was working on a theory of ego destruction —what happens to the mind if there is no ego? So far his experiment with television had been a disaster the only thing resembling a result was one freakish accident in which a Wichita cop, after 189 hours of uninterrupted signal, had blasted his own eyeballs out of his head and sent a strange grey ooze that had once been a brain flying across the room plastering on the wall like abstract art . Then the unexplainable part his assistants puzzled over: projectile vomit squirted unrecognizable organ goo onto the television screen, when they wiped the ooze off the screen the television had short circuited itself and was spitting out random numbers for ten minutes or so and then at the bottom it scrolled out slowly and deliberately drwaibenlovesyou. + As a half joke half experiment (founded one Sil's premise if it isn't funny it probably won't work) Waiben had begun buying up control of broadcasting stations around the world and in writing his own autosuggestion programs that everyone should get naked when the zeros came. It worked. Old friends who hadn't met in years would run down the street toward each other and instead of just hugging, they would fuck. At first it had been a bit odd, but as more of the herd joined in it became more acceptable. It did lead to many people who sort of slunk around in the shadows desperately trying to avoid running into a third grade teacher named Mrs. Fendleskin or other, who chased them nightly in their dreams. She was archetypical three hundred pounds overweight and yet somehow able to keep up with him chasing after him screaming you were such a bright boy. Think of all I did for you, come give Mrs. Fendleskin a little fuck! Invariably people woke up drenched in sweat and nervously double checking their underwear for dried cum. That's the problem with unlocking the unconscious, its libido often runs directly contrary to that of the conscious. Time and Space are illusions created to fill a void, the one crack religion didn't quite reach —the gap between us. + Broadcast directives: Dr. Livingston i presume with your melting walls and Anne Clarke, saturated drug-induced sixties peace movement. Have you any idea what silliness peace inspires? We don’t need peace on earth we need to get the fuck off of earth; the space ship planet home evolution mythology is tired and worn. The cunt earth mother mythology is weary-eyed and thoroughly sick of our presence. Where is it writ that homo sapiens ought to remain forever a terrestrial stupid creature fighting over gold and oil and dooming itself to species-cide? Have you no sense of the inevitable; conceiving only of that which you know is possible? Is your terrestrial stupidity a symptom of the oxygen saturated environment that spawned you? Get rid of addiction, get rid of heroin, get rid of oxygen. Evolve. Survival of the fittest —you hear these words and think only of brawn and strength and lions ripping zebras to shreds. Fools! all of you. Survival depends on thought and intelligence we step of the food chain dilemma thousands of year ago, now its time to step off the planet all together we no longer need it. + Bless your lucky soul that you were born in the day and age when cessation of planetary constraints is possible. Don’t give me your morals, your religions, your beliefs —you can’t even justify your existence without them. Something can not be the source and justification of the source even the cave man Thak standing next to the first wheel must have seen the stupidity in these circular arguments. <sound of a woman whining Thak! Thak! get in here and take out the garbage>>><<<hear Thak's internal wheels turning conceiving of gunpowder shotgun blasted cunts to high hell!>>>>> Have we passed the zero hour? Were we all sad eyed asleep at the wheel worried about our individual emotional experiences and missing the collective consciousness required to assemble a planetary brain collective capable of solving the hard realities of prevention. Prevention of leaving. Don’t go you may die. Don’t stay you will die. No we were not sad eyed asleep, you were sad eyed asleep and missed the boat but we know. + Assemble in the presence of god and know that i am peace. i am iam iam and i know why. Sorry can’t tell i am enjoying my intellectual, emotional and physical superiority because i have kicked the carbon death loop and caught the virus and decoded it for you, but I'm holding out on you waiting until you can grasp the fundamentals. Einstein died almost fifty years ago and you are still fifty years behind him. Let go of Newton let go of Aristotle and embrace a reality that is forever “plural and mutable,” realize that belief is a misconception, a temporary insanity which leads the human mind to mistakenly assume that it is capable of processing all signals. Like a radio you can only be tuned to one station at a time some of you might manage two or three at best —there are billions of signals incoming at all times. Some are visual, some are auditory, some are beyond normal comprehension, and some like neutrinos are so small they can pass through the molecular spaces in your body. So by default you can not receive all the information and without all information all belief is stupid foolish games of semantics and power. + + Boards and syndicates of the earth did not take kindly to Dr. Waiben's reprogramming of the human computer and an all out cultural war started in 2001 with Waiben attempting to superimpose his own indoctrination over that of the Ind. INC mind control game, or as he had renamed it: the U. S. A., Unconditioned & Systematic Autosuggestion state. The boards fought with conventional weapons and propaganda; Waiben used nonviolence (which endeared him to the people) and nanotechnology. This last piece of technology forced the boards and syndicates to move ahead with their time table and institute operation TOTAL CONTROL. + >>>>>>>>these are trying times my fellow countrymen with a heavy hand ahem heart it was that i signed into law the seizure of private property and confiscation of all land into the hands of state>>>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<<we caution you against overreaction as these measures are necessary and temporary so all resistance will be dealt with in the interest of time and efficiency,,,,,,,,,,>>>>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<<<Your will be receiving a vaccination pill sent out to all persons using the IRS databanks to select names you are instructed to take the pill and remain indoors until the virus alert sirens have blown for a second time. <<<<<<we appreciate your understanding and trust that you will realize that this is time where it is decided whether democracies will work in the post modern future>>>>we believe that we will send a message to the dictators of the world that democracy is inevitable and necessary to preserve the way of life we hold dear>>>>>>we will take your cooperation and compliance as a show of faith in the leaders you have elected to make decisions for you>>>>>>>> + Waiben knew that the so called vaccination pill contained a nanochip encoded with in a neutral virus which in humans found its way into the brain where it remained without harming the host, accept that this one had its own computer circuitry etched onto its molecular structure which would cause it to mutate and release a chemical agent that caused the chemical makeup of the host brain to switch and tune, so to speak, down to a longer alpha wavelength. At this wavelength the human brain processes at lower signal reception and in behavioral science experiments it had showed a tendency to be more open to auto-suggestion. No stumbling over lines, the computer chip in you brain has precision craftsmanship unequalled in its uncompromising quality. No expense has been spared in the programming of your life. And then there is me I am special screams your useless ego. + Crumple up the word and throw it into the sewer drain hope that someday a big bloated alligator will choke to death on words. + + + + +the legend of the toothless woman chased down the street with giant plastic candy cane saying you're gonna like it in your ass!!!!!! + + + + So the board goes apeshit right off the bat, they got this whole thing brewing in the Mediterranean —insurrection, that's why i work alone —trust nobody in the carbon death loop —burn you right up for sure. Work alone, should be the number one rule, never shoulda gone to Waiben in the first place. + Anyway the board’s got a problem down in the Med —sensitive area you know lost word truths hanging around <they think> You know —the Egyptians, Cleopatra and her goddamn cats (I hate ‘em I hate ‘em I hate ‘em), the Roman gods— so they say to Waiben write it all up make it realunreel it all back so we know how to play it. + You familiar with the fictionhistory principle right? Well, so Waiben writes the whole thing up and sticks it right at the beginning thinking they’ll miss it —they’re ugly and they’re scared, but they’re not blind. + So the best update I can give you is that Chicago got the Neutron bomb <just buildings and viruses now> Europe's in civil war and “ethnic strife” <always has been stupid fucking cave dwellers> New York’s a shit hole on account of the Antarctic ice shelf heating up and dropping off <swallowed the whole goddamn city mosta L.A. too> Geiger counter at ten thousand feet told me to stay away from China <goddamn mess it is, which really isn’t good on account of the battle plans coming outta Tibet, only decent maps you can find these days> so I hightailed it here to see you. + The Old Man smiled and lit a cigarette looking thing that smelled of hash and cow shit <powdered mushroom brew from the brujo con artist at a time like this?> + “There is no future and no past Sil, you know that” —the three dollar principle. + Cary hands the twiggy cigarette looking smoke to Sil who takes a hit and watches the old man pick his nose aggressively. Sil starts to laugh, but controls himself. The Old Man pulls an earwig the size of a human thumb out of his nose and puts it in his mouth. He grabs the cigarette and takes another drag, he leans forward and kisses Sil blowing smoke into his lungs and the earwig down his throat. Sil tries to gag, and recoils in horror. + “That’ll keep the flesh eaters offa ya,” The Old Man drawls, “Whatever Waiben wrote sure as hell did make them mad, and the smoke will take your mind of the time coordinates, you’re gonna need all your energy focusing on the other three circuits —I'm going to see the ostriches....” + + + + +like to live in reality tunnel where everything is not fiction. where things actually happen far off like spice trade boats Chinese junkets pulling into Siapan out of south sea storms. Opulent opium pictographs of women spread delicate violent flesh orgies across the room, scenes from Arabian Knights He wrote a letter to the governments of the world: + + +A general Theory of Anarchy or more simply MINDFUCK + Most people when they hear the term anarchy associate it with the popular mythology of a chaos-like state with no government where murderers run naked through the street fucking helpless women and doing blizzards of drugs. This apocalyptic vision is childish at best. I do not propose to herein give a true or accurate version of anarchy or how it would work in the current sociological setting. Indeed the central message I hope to convey is that political anarchy is the least of my concerns. I only know what is in my head. If yours is different then you are wrong. At least from my point of view. + Anarchy, like life itself is infinitely more complicated than simple political gaming, left wing right wing, the whole concept of a binary system is illogical. The problem with the west in general is that it makes dichotomies out of what is really just a grey cloudy lump of shit, so to speak. What i mean by that statement is that nothing is reducible to being either/or, belief itself is multidimensional. That is to say that to hold a belief is to filter information through an infinitely complex system and into the brain where the information is organized further and through electro-chemical response conditioning, an opinion or patterned is formed. When the brain is again confronted with a similar question the response path of the original is duplicated. + Doesn't ever strike you that this is not life. This is robotic. In light of something that is infinitely complex many philosophers, politicians and other freaks of nature have chosen to assume a starting point from which it can be safely assumed that everyone is at least in agreement of basic "facts." But as mathematics show, these facts are subjective at best and nonexistent for all practical purposes. Everything is in our heads, everything that occurs around us occurs in our grey matter which is to say that everything is an internal experience of the individual rather than an external event happening to the individual. Thus the anarchists starting point is simultaneously everywhere and nowhere much like the timespace experience itself. At this point you can decide what is real and what is not. + This does not mean that fairies exist and men can walk through walls and everything coming into the bus is real at all rather that it can be real, because what most call real is only a generalized hallucination. See what you want to see be who you want to be. If it doesn't matter why not be what makes you happy healthy and mindful of your self rather than butting into the business of everyone else. Laws are the result of psychosis. Only the mentally unbalanced would impose a limitation upon itself. You enjoy this metaphor when it matches up the moral code generally accepted, but when it is applied to everything it suddenly creates distress and psychosis. Psychosis is characterized by delusions and disorientation which you again like as a definition when it is applied to those areas of life in which you deem it to be appropriate —for instance people holding non-binary processing patterns (loonies, bums, the elderly)— in this you are comfortable, but if the definition is expanded to include everything this causes the delusional to see that everything is delusional. this in turn leads to semantic confusion —if nothing is real then what matters? What is matter? A forth dimensional manifestation of energy? What are we? A forth dimensional manifestation of energy. + Anarchy is not a threat to political institutions, life is a threat to political institutions. Why punish behavior that is differential from your own? try it you might like it. If you want to stop people from buying cars, stop building roads. if you want people to stop committing crime stop building prisons. If you want people to stop starving to death stop making them work. If you want people to stop working tell them that their are vast sources of energy capable of sustaining them and tell them that these sourses can be tapped in space. Tell them the coca cola thing Burroughs was always nagging you about. Tell them what you did. Tell them the game, because it is nearly up the semantic game has been played out and they can see it smell it touch it and taste it. They fantasize about it in Utopian novels and movies they fret over it too because they don't know if you've been there first, they don't know if its safe. But eventually they're going to come over anyway. And you know as well as i do that control is as pointless as the rest of it in the end because oddly the poets were always right. We are only human, meaning that when we are beyond that in thought the game playing falls apart —some see demons some see little green men, and you know what those signs mean. the end is near. The bucket is coming down the well. And once you are in it none of the concerns of the water have meaning. + I, as some many before me only wish to thank you for your trauma because without it i never would have been forced to think beyond spacetime, and into spacetimemind. I, also like many before, do hereby with a bow, resign. + +Sincerely, +SpaceTimeMind coordinate: Sil Hawkard + + + + Most, including the president, who received the letter thought it the suicide note of a man whom records showed had always led a quiet and unobtrusive life. One of the few would might have understood it was Dr.Waiben, but he never got a copy. + + + +A ford Econoline blasts headlight beams through a cold Tennessee mist. Clouded sky obscured like Man Ray. Inside Maya is sucking oxygen and sipping Ayahuasca tea, one hand steadies the wheel —this is it, back to the big sky's, the west ,the desert the last places to hide. Enough of this goddamn smooched together states claustrophobic monosyllabic citizenry. Ignore the people they're only a temporary inconvenience of sanity. Well Well Well cigarette time don't go no where kids and remember crack is good because...<chorus of children chanting> ...it raises money for the CIA to conduct covert operations against foreign nationals that would otherwise lead meaningless and happy lives...that's right now sit tight whilst Mr. Robertson gets a fix. + She wires herself into the payphone at the back of the station and quickly sends a message it William on the west coast.....all is well in high spirits. will see you two days hence. will be last transmission. in Jasper. +And i don’t mean freedom in the abstract American idealism sort of a way, i mean an Anarchy of the senses, the obliteration of logic and “common” sense, there’s enough of that garbage around that's why its common, what we need what i need is uncommon sense. Anarchy of sense. Most people when they hear the term anarchy associate it with the popular mythology of a chaos-like state with no government where murderers run naked through the street fucking helpless women and doing blizzards of drugs. This apocalyptic vision is childish at best. I do not propose to herein give a true or accurate version of anarchy or how it would work in the current sociological setting. Indeed the central message I hope to convey is that political anarchy is the least of my concerns. I only know what is in my head. If yours is different then you are wrong. At least from my point of view. + Anarchy, like life itself is infinitely more complicated than simple political gaming, left wing right wing, the whole concept of a binary system is illogical. The problem with the west in general is that it makes dichotomies out of what is really just a grey cloudy lump of shit, so to speak. What i mean by that statement is that nothing is reducible to being either/or, belief itself is multi-dimensional. That is to say that to hold a belief is to filter information through an infinitely complex system and into the brain where the information is organized further and through electro-chemical responses, an opinion is formed. In light of something that is infinitely complex many philosophers, politicians and other freaks of nature have chosen to assume a starting point from which it can be safely assumed that everyone is at least in agreement of basic "facts." But as cutting edge physics and chaos mathematics show, these facts are subjective at best and nonexistent for all practical purposes. Everything is in our heads, everything that occurs around us occurs in our grey matter which is to say that everything is an internal experience of the individual rather than an external event happening to the individual and as poet Bernard Wolfe put it. + + Maya’s journal became her life, her drug, the thing that took over. Everyone has a thing that takes over completely —Children, jobs, heroin, art, photographs, anything that feels like genius. + + Maya sat in silence for a moment contemplating a life of crime potentially running from people who would torture her or worse with no ultimate objective. She ran it over again and weight it against the thought of eventually returning to college and meeting some guy and getting married and pregnant, and fat. “Please Chloe, get me out of the boredom of my life, physical torture is no worse then psychological torture and I’ve got enough of that already.” + “Alright lets go home, I’ll call William and see if he needs anything.” + + +I used to go out after work to drink a beer. But i don't anymore. But i likely will again. I likely will do everything i have already done all over again in slowmotion three year cycles like a film loop. This makes me feel safe. Safety makes me want to vomit on fat ladies that take up a whole bench seat on the subways up in San Francisco. When i was twenty two I rolled on a new film when I am twenty five I rolled a new film when I am Twenty eight I will roll a new film. This makes me feel safe. Safety makes me think of national geographic pictures where brown skinned natives wrap worm heads on sticks and slowly twist the stick to pull the worm from under their skin with out ripping it in half and leaving its disease riddled body under their skin.71 + Nowhere anywhere as fast as they could run leaping timespace life elfin nightmarish flashes of light. I think I saw the end as a post script obituary for the living. Its not going to be any better I can tell you that much —Dr. Waiben removed his shoes and sat back on the chair smoking a petroleum cigarette. + menes memories and magnetism + " On the way to visit the ostriches I had the peculiar sensation of running down a long tunnel of green black liquid in which little hairy creatures were urging me to speak I could not speak and I felt a panic at the urgency with which they were prodding me to speak. I had the distinct feeling that If I did not speak I would cease to inhabit four dimensional spacetime, and I was struck by the overwhelming feeling that without words I would experience what those around me would have called death. I now simply regard it as a loss of language, we are in fact much like a computer monitor, the hard drive will continue to receive information even if those on the outside can not tell what is being done with the information received. language creates the pictures and graphics that we call i or you or her or whatever. + +Is anyone paying any attention here? You expect me in your little scene and if I don't pay up you'll eliminate me? Who made up these fucking rules? This sucks I want my money back or I'm outta here. The old man gets up off the porch and stumbles drunkenly back into the house getting his shot gun from off the kitchen table where he was cleaning it earlier in the day. He retrieves it and flops back in rocking chair. A yuppie couple jogging on a Saturday morning are the first to go... + + + +You want to go out Friday +and you want to go forever. + -Michael Stipe + + It never has mattered has it? You only invent what you want to know and so why does it always end in failure? Did you lock into a pattern you couldn't see through? You can no longer trust the metaphor because you saw it coming in focus and you realized it's something from your childhood —endless tapes loping across eons. And you see the game for what it was —something cold-blooded, reptile, slinking across the room. You know the menu is not the meal and you have your metaphors and language bounded in all its unique epochal glory and you see through the epoches, but you can't shake the fear. You know that change is inevitable; you know what you want, you say what you want, and you build the metaphor until it casts its shadow into time. You think you know the end of it and still your sitting on the curb, hungry, apathetic, waiting for the sewer water to splash and wake from the nightmare of history. You're thinking this isn't me, this can't be me. + Everyone walks with unshakable self confidence, but not slow enough to remember that they are walking and when they laugh they pretend to be unafraid. You only realize you're walking when you trip and are forced to remember that you are walking —going backwards to get a reference point. You know its a terrible to stumble about when the maps are all laid out on the table in their glory. You know the end but you really can't believe it and the shock of ending will throw your rhythm off its track. This isn't you. If you know it doesn't matter, then it doesn't matter. Remember not to be frightened because they can not take <the word> <the image> <the vibration> of your hyperspacial shadow cast across time —and a poor reflection i would judge. Be what you are. You are whatever you want to play. Too long in the game circuit, cut the wires pull the plug you will feel better. You will be. Always. + Maya Stevens was sitting at her desk in nineteen ninety nine quietly unaware of anyone named Waiben or Hawkard. She was making the fateful decision to turn her back on history, the nightmare was coming into focus. Cultural evolution took over after biological evolution had ceased and cultural evolution gave way to a multidimensional realization of ecstasy, though Maya didn't have that vocabulary to describe it that way. She merely felt that life was too short to spend it doing anything but exploring, she was unable to function as a member of society because she lived too much in amazement that any of life was actually happening. Her value system had been turned inside out by the wordimagevibration of ecstasy. She knew what she wanted —to be. This is her story. + + +Consciousness is the feelings of the contrast +of theory, as mere theory, with fact, as mere fact. +This contrast holds whether or not the theory be correct + -A. N. Whitehead + +Transcribed from intercellular radio: Half an hour later over Mexican food and she said my name is...beady eyed half faced men in a diner cut out eyes and fucking rotting corpses to overcome insecurities handed out at birth —afterbirth is death thrown in a biohazard container and trucked off to a point on a continuum I've never seen. + She glides and is not. Day 4: sounds of light and transmorphing Indian deities gives way to vampire children gnashing teeth and gnawing off the toes of the dead. Sound becomes rhythm and gives way to light and objects manifested out of try temporal vacuum air. Get out your accumulators— Egyptians, Tibetans. Kundalini guides prey on the new arrivals in death as in life, no different. "Best try to buck up boys" the sergeant bellows "since none of you paid a rats ass worth of attention in basic..." + funeral dirges still ringing in their ears the cast of corpse memories not yet faded. i went downtown to see the firelight fountains and all the pretty hippies in costumes from centuries ago. Pull me under pull me over take off my shoes. + She was feeling quite distressed and wanted to get undressed —naked not nude— she doesn't know the difference and i don't care enough to tell her. Some things you can't do —enlighten others—fuck yourself in the ass—. Jumping around too much these days? Perhaps a synaptic workout is in order; something to make the goo go? The Mexican boy selling—hey mister you wanna but some chiclettes? One doolaar buy one box, lotsa gum —eh? no? + Cambodian prostitute with HIV contorts to accommodate the small, mutilated and misshapen penis of wealthy Usinc busy ness man. Inc had all the magic sown up in paperback bills weighing down the servile. she opens her mouth and closes her eyes, come splashes across her face like elastic and gooey silly string. He slaps her face and punches her, mashing come and blood —the rampant spread of dis ease—he leaves without paying and she feels luck to be alive, but doesn't know why. And the poets cry li la la li lalali or some such nonsense, blowing winds rustling trees, photomantages of boredom turned to alcohol like the infinite mysteries —just starting to ferment. If you can bake a cake you can build a bomb, you could split an atom —won't you please keep that thing away from me? oh won't you please keep that thing away from me. Keep that frying pan away from me. + + Maya took the trip many years after Sil, but no ostrich appeared, little flighted birds hovered about her window sill and bardos of Tibetan death held out. Skinny cold fingers like withering men, like <horus sirus oriosis> and all the other dying gods who laid the framework for the christ con. + Little birds that said we shit and we piss and we masturbate and we don't give a good goddamn about much else. An emu drifted out of a bellowing purple sheet that hung on a clothesline two stories below Maya's window. He looked up at her and said 'beware the the creature, the parasite holding you down, call you it the eye that is looking for me?' + do what i am doing he said and promptly made a fibrous ball of light that twisted and turned and hovered in the air as if it were made of the very sound that had described it into being. God said "let there be light" or sounds to that effect. Maya saw great Persian empires laid out, expanding and retracting, moving across time in slow molasses-like motions. Cities where the sun stood still in the sky and monstrous creations of the mind, horrifying and seductive at the same time. Like ancient Tibetan art there was no distinction between the province of the mind and the province of the body. Women swam in south china seas of ambient warmth moving in playful erotic motions, cresting like dolphins. Creatures of all forms walked streets of near ancient origin, cobblestones and whitewashed buildings with European wrought iron balconies. Tapestries hung out from the window beckon the passersby to climb up into untold pleasures of body and mind. The scene was overwhelming and undescribable; beautiful and horrifying in a way that held horror and beauty to be ultimately different reactions to same observed phenomena. + Like most people who have experimented with consciousness expansion Maya's initial voyage into hyperspace left her feeling elated and reborn, with all of life's secrets tucked neatly in her mind behind her beautiful eyes. But like most people she lacked the vocabulary to make these places real in fourth dimensional planes. Large parts of what she confronted lay dominate in her mind because she was unable to face them. As a result her "enlightenment" was short lived and in the weeks that followed all the old patterns and programs of her life, both the conscious and the unconscious, reasserted themselves until two months later she felt her life was indeed just as shitty as it had been before she had drifted out into the bardos. This fact caused her much anxiety. Maya was (like all of us) trying to figure out what the hell is really going on down here. Innerspace had been her holy Grail if i can get inside deep deep deep inside it will all make sense, but the inside is far more tricky twisting and ever elusive than the outside. going into the quarter alone is a touchy proposition, you tend to end up with one foot here and one there and you come out stone paranoid and schizophrenic. Best to have somebody with you to help navigate this side of things while you're on the endside. Maya enjoyed the risk at first, mainly because she had no idea what she was dealing with, but she quickly came to realize that going it alone is doubly difficult and rewarding at the same time. But if you get there alone you inevitably want to bring everyone back with you. (See archives, records under Leary, Timothy) + One day Maya was looking for innerspace maps at the book store when she ran across the name of a man who had written many books on the subject of 'what the hell is going on down here?' Aleister Crowley claimed to have a map and method for getting to places in the innerspacial world that Maya had difficulty believing really existed. She had been there, but up until now she was able to run programs in her mind that said that everything could be a delusion, a creation of her own mind. Crowley described the same phenomena and experiences that Maya had feltseenknown, his imagery was different bounded in his own spacetime experience, but neverthless Maya could feel in the spaces between the words that Crowley had been somewhere like where she had been. Maya was hooked and began to study his methods of Magick focusing on departure techniques; she soon found herself capable of reaching the subway station under the quarter, although she didn't yet know about the quarter or even where she was. She merely had sensations and saw things that seemed to behave as if she were in some sort of intergalactic train station waiting on an outbound line. She didn't know how to get on the subway yet. + Crowley gave Maya that ability to simultaneously absorb these experiences with all her existence, and remain detached from them at the same time. He preached that nothing is true or untrue, but that one should be open at all times to be able to accept temporarily anything as true or untrue. If you are skeptical of the process you learn nothing, you must embrace the process and remain skeptical of the results. There are merely different MAPS OF THE UNIVERSE, some of them are more and less interesting than others, the point is to learn as many of possible before you start choosing between them. + In the present Maya existed as a member of the genus homo species sapien. She lived in Usinc. Usinc had its a wide variety of maps existing in it but one overwhelmed the rest and was often unconsciously dictated by the Alpha Mans of her tribe. The dominate map in USinc as far as Maya could determine was what one of the Sapiens, Noma Chomsky, called the Star System. This map (or tunnel reality, or set of beliefs) holds that most people are really stupid, or more eloquently in Chomsky's words: "...people would like to think that there's somebody up there who know's what he's doing. since we don't participate, we don't control and we don't even think about questions of vital importance, we hope somebody is paying attention who has some competence. Lets hope the ship has a captain, in other words since were not taking part in what's going on... It is an important feature of (this) ideological system to impose on people the feeling that they really are incompetent to deal with these complex and important issues: they'd better leave it to the captain. One devise (for programming people to feel incompetent) is the star system, an array of figures who are often media creations or creations of the academic propaganda establishment, whose deep insights we are supposed to admire and to whom we must happily and confidently assign the right to control our lives..." + This sort of map serves to divide people in two groups; those who are on the mapped described in detail and have nothing to worry about and those who are fucked and just get to listen and watch the map as one might listen and watch a talking bird. They tended to listen to what they called the TELALINGUS, a blunt box-like object with voices and images being projected outward into their consciousness. In older times people who heard voices coming out of the walls were called crazy, but in Usinc they were called consumers. The screen of the Telalingus created myths and metaphors by which they could make some sense of the world. Maya did not like these people they made her feel icky and she avoided them at any cost. + In Usinc most people believed this system is in fact THE WAY THINGS HAVE ALWAYS BEEN, but such is not the case. The dominate Usinc map was a rather new and untested prototype reality which increasingly did not measure up to even the most basic parts of consensus reality. There is another school of thought, a door that Crowley threw open, a metaphoric door to a metaphoric place called Gnosis. Gnosis holds that the only way to learn is to experience to confront the unknown directly to experience the sensations without having to make an apriori judgement about there validity. This map allows for a greater variety to life and makes it infinitely more fun and adventurous than listening to voices in a box. Maya went back to the innerspacial experience with a new sense of what the hell was really going on. She entered into belief tunnels and researched brain metabolism and learned what happened with tryptamines and how the beta-carbaloids bonded with her synapses and what harmines and harmalines were. Then she went to the mystical maps from the eastern parts of the world and compared and contrasted ecstasy with satori and other states of consciousness outlines in Tibetan and and other eastern MAPS OF THE UNIVERSE. Maya was learning that in the innerspacial world there is no consensus reality you created your own and learned how to manipulate it to your own satisfaction and desires. This put her at odds with the dominate Usinc belief system of the day which labeled this behavior delusional. and found it threatening, she began to get paranoid. One foot in one foot out. She lacked the proper equipment to get all the way in. + There are two things wrong with the label delusional: first in order to have something be delusional you must first have something that is non-delusional. There is nothing that exists apart from ourselves this was something that a particularly revered Usincer named Einstein had been trying to say for almost a hundred years. He asserted rather bluntly that without us there to observe it the world only exists in potential or delusionally. It was rumored that later in life he regretted saying this. The second problem is the people who label certain things delusional and others non-delusional. A long time ago when the ancestors of Usinc arrived on the land they brought with them this map; the natives who greeted called them they-who-have-stick-up-there-ass-and-are-no-fun which has a much nicer ring that scientist or doctor or priest which is what most USincer's called them. The natives used to chuckle about it and ridicule the size of their shrivelled white penises behind their backs which irritated the Usincer's so they gave them small pox and killed them all. Elimination was a standard threat defense system in Usinc and was still practised in modern times. + The sense of direct confrontation and followed by personal understanding (limited though it was) gave Maya the emotional fortitude and strength to travel further and further down mysterious roads in pursuit of the truth or whatever. It might also have driven her quite batty and killed her depending on what map you the reader are bringing along. + The Crowley doctrine of not having beliefs also provided Maya way to experience things without terror, for the conquest of fear is an absolute necessity when one approaches the fringes of what is known and not yet known. Out in the Quarter fear is rampant, but without fear one is free to have myriad of experiences that are not available to those with fear, objective subjectivity Maya called it. For instance just because one is presented with the sights of mass slaughter and carnage and every evil satanic thing ever recorded by man one is not bound to be afraid of these things because one is not bound to the system which labelled them evil in the first place. If that doesn't follow think of it this way: we have genetic memories encoded in or DNA (in twenty years science may well find the actual gene that has Dante's satanic visions stored in it), but in the mean time if you should accidentally dreg the hideous severed, bloody, snarling head of Lucifer up out of our genetic memory banks you can make him go away. You just internalize the event and label it endogenetic which doesn't sound nearly as frightening as a seven headed monster spitting fire, gnashing its teeth, slashing up your record collection and generally making a mess of the living room. Of course if their actually is a seven headed fire-breathing beast from hell in your living room then you really do have a problem and you might wonder if your losing your mind. But ultimately even that is no comfort because if you've lost your mind you have to wonder who has it and why are they putting multi-headed-fire-breathing-demons in your goddamn living room? + Maya had fun with gnosis and managed to avoid seven headed satanists in her living room for the time being, but she did quickly find that she could no longer keep up with the pace of her mind. The racing mind is a difficult thing to stop, you find thoughts at every corner and you can't seem to find room for new ones to modify the old ones and your mind tends to enter a static loop. You'd have better luck stopping a train then stopping a train of thoughts. The best thing to do is to take time to fully absorb and understand each journey before taking another, otherwise knowledge becomes static and starts to feedback. + Maya had discovered that knowledge has an exponential rate of accumulation and soon she found she knew so much about so much that she came to the inevitable conclusion that information has timebounded saturation points. She started to have to rely on artificial means of meditation and breathing exercises to get herself to sleep. + This may sound like a nightmare of some sort, but actually it is quite a skill to have, it like finding the on/off switch to the human brain. This gives one an extreme felling of detached vivaciousness, like you can walk through walls if you wanted to and eventually you decide you can actually walk through walls you just don't know how. Hassan i Sabbah will be driving the bus for the remainder of the tour you may direct any further questions to him... + "The British biologist, Richard Dawkins has coined the expression meme to designate a signal traveling in human space-time and carrying information (or mis-information). In Dawkins view, just as biological evolution depends on the circulation of genes, sociological evolution depends on the migratory habits of memes." —from Wilhelm Reich in Hell, by Robert Anton Wilson. Memes like genes can only be in one brain at any given time, the trick is to learn how to leave the individual sense of mind and find the point at which consciousness is pure essence with itself. Out there one is not bounded by the standard saturation points. Too many menes in "your brain" leads to a danger that it will all be static and meaningless chatter. If you want to decode the static that builds up in your brain you have to graph it on a time scale. Maya graphed the static in a journal. + + +life is far to grave of a +matter to be taken seriously +-Oscar Wilde + + William S. Burroughs once said that language is a virus, most Usincer's thought this was cute and humored the old man. But when you stop and think about it language does act very much like a virus. It is passed from old to young, it mutates according to the host, and it is fatal —when you stop talking you are dead. If we are to humor this cute notion further we might eventually want to cure ourselves of this worldwide epidemic. Memes may well be the genetic key. Why do we need information? Why do we need to be alive? If we are to suppose that the viral pattern of language is consistent with other virus patterns then it's transmission and ability to replicate itself must have a genetic code which it uses to trigger reproduction and the consequent mutation of the host cell structure. What is the DNA of language? + This theory rests on the supposition that ideas come before words ie the typical theory of language development: we speak because we have something to say. Suppose we speak to create the things we want to see.... Shit or get of the pot the old man screams. + +Static System Sampler: + + Sex and violence, she smiled that's what these people need —sex and violence. She feels the rage building. Writing is transmission it is the creation of alternative realities, the first step in creating a new world is to write it down. + The tired shopkeeper is out smoking her obscenely thin cigarettes leaning out the front door ducking the afternoon sun. She smokes constantly pausing only to give a tired answer to the same tourists she has to stare at day after day. An endless reminder that they, not her, are the ones enjoying life. Too many of them day after day year after year look look looking never buying. The Leather Connection doesn’t do a lot of business on warm spring days —who puts a leather shop on the beach front. Nor is it the kinky sort of fetish shop you might hope for. Not even any leather in the windows. She moves her lips mumbling incoherences intelligible only to herself. She lights another cigarette. A rabid dog paces back and forth across the doorway as if protecting it from unseen horror. + The sharp eyed Asian hawk sitting behind me at another table closes her purse, pen safely secured inside. She licks stamps and affixes them to postcards. Notes for those at home. “Jenny: LA is great -warm sunny. I’m having a great time. Remind me to tell you about this guy Bill I met the other day. Take care of yourself. Say hi to Tom for me. Love....” + Families wander down the hill looking for a nice place to eat. The neon signs offer Mexican Italian Greek food, “but we need a children's menu.” “Tommy’s only nine, he can’t eat a whole meal himself.” “Do you think they could split a dinner, I’m not very hungry myself?” “You brought the credit card right?” “No, but I’ve still got some cash left over from breakfast this morning. “Wasn’t that a charming little place?” “What was it called?” “Lets go there again before we leave.” + The locals, the non-travelers, the doomed-forever-to-live-in-one-placers stream by in shinny cars coming home from work in THE BIG CITY. Their flimsy soda can Japanese cars that look as if a good size bird could, with decent aim, crush the plastic colored roofs. The locals drive with windows up and frowns turned down. “Did I remember to e-mail that memo to Tony at the office in Chicago? I wonder what sort of crap Diane cooked for dinner tonight? She is the worst cook. What happened to that tri-tip on Friday? I wouldn’t have known what is was if I hadn’t bought it myself. Dave and Linda smiled and said it was delicious the lying bastards. don’t encourage her she might actually believe she can cook. Dave probably just wants to sleep with her. That whore. I wonder if she’s fooling around behind my back? She never wants to have sex anymore. Its always the same routine. Me still dripping from a shower her reading some book I crawl onto of her . ‘Not tonight honey I’m to tired.’ I wait till she’s fast a sleep and sneak down to the kitchen reach behind the fridge and pull out the nudie magazines and —off quietly to the bathroom. I wonder what Diane would look like in tight leather, probably fat. She still hasn’t lost all the wait from the pregnancy. God its been what like eighteen months Justin’s starting to walk for christsakes. The light is green, fucking traffic.” + The static of ordinary life is horrendous and boring this brief sample was brought to you to remind you that not everyone, perhaps not even you, leads an interesting life. Was that you i heard saying that someone else said that the newscaster said that the stockbrokers think that the CEO's are going to rig the oil market and drive us into recession? ...hope the captain knows, cause us tech sergeant are just barely able to gather enough memes to pull ya through the day and get into the missionary position with a half limp cock and let the lov'in let the lov'in come back to me. Swing your hips and let it all get lose. No really. put the book down and swing 'em. Uncle Sabbah likes to see the little girls and boys shakin' de hips. + + Fog is settling in from the hills meeting up with banks rolling in from the sea, threatening the star’s view, tiny windows of the gods peeping in watching our silly games in continued amusement. They keep doing it every night Reminding me of San Francisco, the golden gate after sundown glowing like it were Apollos chariot itself. Proudly beckoning the traveler with tale of endless wanderlust -out here the final frontier come swim discover secrets hidden from mankind...Come the sharks are hungry. The mashing of teeth and bone, the tearing of flesh. + I would not fuck you in Thailand/ I would not fuck you in a plane over Japan. One of Dr. Suess’ lesser known couplets. + The sun is setting and several miles out at sea a trident nuclear submarine is preforming manoeuvres in preparation for a war that most people don't believe will really happen. I like to pretend the submarine doesn't exist, I like to think that no one has ever really refined and mutated the Anthrax virus to make it deadlier and that no one ever dared to split atoms, but they did and it leaves me feeling hungry and tired. + I find myself surrounded on all sides. Everyone these days is completely obsessed with Being Bizarre. So much so that nothing really is Bizarre anymore. Yuppies ride Harleys and frequent bondage parlors on the weekends while pulling in double incomes of 150K during the week scurrying from house to latte to work to the onceaweekmatrimonialassfucking. + You want Bizarre? Circus freaks castrating themselves on the street corners and pimps shooting heroin in their balls while screaming whores accost their long dead mothers in hotel rooms a cockroach won’t set foot in? Lawyers sitting on the roof, television antenna protruding from their limbs as policemen ritualistically torture themselves gouging out their own eyeballs to avoid the scene below? You think that is normal? You think it sounds better when you call it Urban Life? You're all nuts. + + +Star System Sampler: + + "Are you making this shit up? Or has it really been found by anthropologists?" + "As if that lends it some sort of credibility? Their PhD's mean they can't possibly be wrong or maybe deliberately lying ?" + "Are you that paranoid?" + "That's not paranoia, you always assume that wrong means bad. I am just saying it is really every bit as possible as the usual tunnel that says science is true." + Maya is lying on the couch rainy-day-ranting in the formica sunshine about the chemical similarities between DMT and human seratonin. DMT is in fact so recognizable to the human brain that it passes the through the blood/brain barrier in a matter of seconds. it is her theory that Seratonin was originally DMT and as the terrestrial ape moved out of the trees into caves and cities the chemical structure of the substance was altered, perhaps by diet perhaps by culture or perhaps deliberately by secret sect conspiring against humanity. She doesn't necessarily believe it, but she has fun tormenting her next door neighbor Pete with theories she knows are beyond what he has decided is real. People who refuse to admit for even one moment that "reality" and "fantasy" might at some point merge miss out on so many wonderful ideas. Maya loved to point out the ridiculous and far removed ideas that most people overlook as possibilties. She liked to remind everyone that we could be living in a great novel six billion pages long or our entire universe might be an intricate and complex dream some alien entity is having. Maya liked brain twists and loops that led directly into unsolvable paradoxes which, in her mind, always pointed out the stupidity of trying to use language to build things. + "unicorns don't exist right? + "right." + "Then how do you know what they look like?" + "They're the imagined creations of an artist." + "How do you know that? How do you know they didn't used to exist and they just don't now? How do you know that they aren't actually called dodo's?" + "Because somebody would have...i don't know... what are you getting at....?" + "The thing is, is that for any set of equations there is an infinite possibility of solutions; I'm not trying to say this is the right solution, I'm just trying to point out that it is one of the possibilities. And I can't understand why you dismiss it solely on the basis that it sounds ridiculous." She smiled at Pete's bewilderment, the way an adult likes to smile its superiority at a child, but Maya knew that superiority is fleeting and ever relative. + She kissed Pete on the cheek, chiefly because she liked to watch him turn red and he shifted in his chair trying to hide his hard on while she pretended to be oblivious and went into the bedroom to change clothes. + "I guess its time for me to go huh?" he called from the other room. + "I guess so," she called back thinking time is not an object, its inside you. + + +In the cosmic computer are all repetitions, +all tape loops necessary to keep the cosmos going; +the noise, sight, sounds, feelings, rhythms are obvious and full. +-John C Lilly, M.D. from The Center of the Cyclone + + Sleeping fitfully under a moonless sky dreaming of a stale, smoky bar's liquor-stained floors and a headless horsemen riding like Icarius out of the fiery sun-gilded gates of hell. The headless horseman swerves and bears down on the I that is you with menacing intent, jolting the dream element awake and into a sleepnonsleep trance on the isthmus of reality. The horseman dismounts and walks in to the bar. + I was bewildered and in my heavy-lidded gaze saw a man with no head standing just inside the mosquito netting that covers the tropical doorway. Closer inspection revealed a pair of blinking eyes peering at me from where the neck tie should have been. A hand slipped out from the waist and motioned for me to rise. I climbed clumsily off of my barstool and followed him out into the middle of the jungle night. The headless horseman motioned for me to sit on a fallen tree and pulled out a long stick of cinnamon, he lit it and inhaled through a button hole in his chest. I sat down on the log opposite him and staring eye-level at the cinnamonette and I began to appreciate the sheer size of the horseman and realized that even without his head, the horseman was taller than me... + Time passes by in jerky motions not unlike the first motion pictures; uneven and without regard for continuity. Maybe moments maybe hours maybe at the same time, an old man with a sickly grey beard and a ridiculous suit is sitting where the horseman had been. One hand is out of sight down his pants and the other wags a long finger at you and he begins to jerk his cock screaming i want you i want YOU i WANT YOU! Eventually you slouched over against a wall and sleep. + + Cary was looking at Maya through eyes that seemed galaxies away, "you didn't say whether or not you enjoyed it." + "It was horrifying and beautiful at the same time." + "Did you feel fear or joy?" + "At times i drifted into spaces that started me on a fear program and then a voice or some unspoken thought would say 'don't be afraid.' Fear is judging i kept thinking and i was trying to hold out on judgements until after the experience. But i did have an overwhelming feeling of sadness as i started coming down and i saw the whole tree of humanity... i was descending through it and i felt as if i could have chosen an infinite variety of bodies...experiences...and then i found the Maya one and instantly i was back and that was that..." + You went into what the Sufi's would call the cosmic control center only you just touched the edge of it...or you went in and you repressed the memories of the horror...that happens to sometimes..." + "So now what?" Maya felt genuinely lost. She wanted to go back up out into deep deep inner space, but she knew she didn't really even understand what had happened yet. She didn't tell Cary that she had repeated the train station imagery or that a headlight had been boring down on her and that the sound had overwhelmed her and blown her back down. I saw the train again she kept thinking, why do i keep seeing a train? + "Well i have to go back down to costa Rica and take care of some business at my research lab, but here is my email address," he handed her a slip of paper. "That code at the end makes sure to forward it to my cell phone so i will get it as soon as you send it." He stood as if to leave and Maya jumped up with him. + "Okay ya I'll write you...i have a lot more questions..." + "Well I'm not sure if i have any answers, but I'll do what i can for you." He kissed her hand and closed the door as she left. + And so it came that Maya found herself fully committed to the task of figuring out what the hell was going on down here. The Star Map of Materialism was discarded completely from Maya's life and she begin slowly but surely to slink into the corners and fringes of society, she entered onto the Usinc list of potential threats and though she was unaware of it she was marked for elimination. Cary met with her when his schedule allowed for it and they corresponded by email when he was out of town. Frustratingly he never gave her answers instead he asked questions she hadn't reached yet. Cary knew what it was like to be eliminated and he cautioned her against talking to anyone about these sorts of things. + The Taoists say those who know don't tell and those who tell don't know. Most Usincers familiar with this philosophy found it irritating and believed that things indescribable don't exist. And how they humored him when he said language is a virus. Maya began to see the emotional plague. The self limiting and self fulfilled negative programs that the majority of her fellow sapiens exhibited became horrifying and Maya alternately found herself swinging like a pendulum between the poles and love and hate. At times she felt a tremendous force radiating out from her chest trying to embrace the entire world and bath it in LOVE, At other times the repulsion for all things human drove her into isolation where she would sit meditating and using psychoactivating devises to leave her body to exit the game, role-playing circuit that is "reality." As the game circuit and its contractions became more and more painfully obvious Maya found herself drifting out of her body quiet involuntarily, right in the middle of conversations. The things that most Usincer's talked about rarely amounted to much more then meaningless chatter and Maya could feel and had to internalize the death imagery, the negative body images, the label obsessions that comes from lost dreams, lack of love, and leaves only hollow shells to bundle up confusion and static. Drifting out of the body without warning was quite disconcerting, but it forced her to feel people and use this to know them rather than words. It was a step into another dimension. At first it only happened when she was stoned, but gradually she learned that certain thoughts and breathe techniques could produce the effect while "sober." + Sober was an obsession for most Usincers, they believed that despite the fact that they ate mind altering chemicals all day long (usually caffeine in the form of coffee or methamphetamines in the form of diet pills) that they were actually in a state of mind that was sober or natural. Maya was constantly seized by desires to show people their biocomputers their souls whatever metaphor was necessary to give them back control over their lives. But Cary's advise held her in check and she avoided trying to show or teach anyone anything. You have to want to know something before you can learn it. She learned from the mistakes of Leary and the rest of the early western explorers. +Pointing out to people the sheer futility of trying to stop someone from exploring the unknown regions of the mind was ridiculous, and it also meant risking identifying oneself as a "drug user." This term was used to relegate mind exploration and its necessary tools into a peripheral segment of society that irritated and generally frightened most Usincers. Over the centuries people with ideas that are unpopular have noticed that people in the past with unusual ideas about life and its potentials tended to meet rather untimely and painful deaths. So the observant ones learned to shut the fuck up, or write in code like Da Vinci or Crowley. Great myths are spawned, the Knights of Templar, the Illuminati, the Masons, Taoists, the Assassins, the Sufis; history is riddled with mysteries. + Plans were underway at the upper levels of the Alpha Male dominators to get some more small pox blankets to these unwanted citizens. Plans had in fact been underway for some time, but since the serious students of innerspace had learned centuries before how to survive under adverse conditions it was difficult to figure out who need to be eliminated. Slowly and carefully Cary was admitting Maya into the ranks of those networks which exist in the peripherals of organized primate societies. He took her underground. + Most Usincers remained oblivious to the underground. It was something they heard of but assumed did not really exist. In fact Most Usincers had no idea that they were the most electronically advanced biocomputer in the known universe; consequently they wasted much time in imitating the behavior of other less electronically sophisticated animals. The Alpha Male orientation of the political system was little different than any primate group. A select group, after fighting amongst themselves for the approval of the rest of the tribe, set themselves up somewhere they called HEADQUARTERS and from here they ruled over the rest of the primate masses. This allowed the masses to relax from worry about decisions and beliefs and ideas. The Alpha Males supplied these things for them. They felt the Alpha Males did a good job of it most of the time. But this began to change and the Alpha Males began to feel threatened by the socio-cultural changes that were taking place so they reacted defensively like any cornered primate —they became paranoid. This paranoid psychosis manifested itself in the form of small pox blankets which by now had been improved. There were now Anthrax blankets, Leprosy-Anthrax blankets, atomic blankets, HIV blankets, and the Alpha males continued to invest more and more of the resources of Usinc, and indeed the whole world, into developing new lethal blankets. + It wasn't long before one of them suggested that they out to test the blankets just to make sure they work you see. The first subpopulace to be identified were the "drug users." Infected needles were distributed, secret police raided and seized property, and in time strip searches on public streets became common. This angered many Usincers even those who were not "drug-users" but they did not speak up because they would be labeled drug sympathizers which was only slightly less irritating to the Alpha Males than actual "drug-users." In short they knew they would be given blankets too. Usinc was fast becoming a rather shitty place to live. + It was about this time that the first glimpses of the boiling of the Usinc political caldron began to manifest themselves; riots broke out in Detroit, Chicago and Atlanta, and the entire infrastructure of communication was threatening to take away the Alpha Male domination. The Alpha Males silenced these protests with blankets, but then labor strikes broke out all over the country followed by advent of technology that deeply threatened the Star System. Communications technology was taking vast arrays of previously rare and complicated information and making it available to the masses of primates. The people banded together and decided that the Alpha Males had to go, but the Alpha Males were ahead of them again. They had already found that outright violence was unpopular within the tribe (although perfectly acceptable against those in other tribes). They began to study those things that irritated them and they learned that silence and secrecy are far more effective than noisy riot-type events. They used paper magic stolen from the great magicians of the past. + Cary had decoded the paper magic and learned to move through it without it touching him. He learned how to use it against the Alpha Males and this made him very very threatening to them. He quickly learned to be very very quiet and resourceful. Maya didn't have access to the resources that Cary did so he told her what he could without putting her life in danger. He told her about the Alpha Males and how to explore innerspace without raising there interests. He taught her how to walk without being noticed and how to use their paper magic against them. He told her that any hunting pack will inevitably develop a complex system of signals to communicate with during an attack. He told her the most important signal would be a riot in New York City which would cause the population to ask the Alpha Males to use the blankets on them. Usinc was full of deeply confused primates. He told her that when such an event occurred the best bet would be to head to somewhere on the planet that the Alpha Males did not care about. He gave her a list of such places and told her that when the time came he would help her get to one of them. He did not tell her that they were all places he controlled and that very very few people on the planet knew about them. He also did not tell her that some of these places did not actually exist in the consensus timespace coordinate. + Maya found the whole thing adventurous and exciting like a spy novel, she kept it in the back of her mind, where, like most of the citizens of Usinc it fought with another voice in the back of her head that kept saying its never going to get that bad, it never going to happen... + + + + In the meantime she stayed in Long Beach and kept up her research into inner space, occasionally using Ayahuasca, but primarily concentration on Psylosilum Cubensis which was the most commonly available a particularly psybocilum concentrated species of mushroom that was along with LSD 25, MDMA and a host of other hallucinatory drugs, officially declared a schedule one deadly drug by the government of Usinc way back in 1965. No government investigation or tests were ever performed on psylocilum it just got lumped with the rest of the psychedelic drugs of the nineteen sixties and deemed inappropriate for human consumption. + Chemically altering your own brain processing structure is hardly a new idea, people have been taking strange drugs and eating different plants throughout history. But it also important to notice that these people have also been persecuted by almost every Alpha Male government and syndicate since the beginning of time. It has its genesis in the Christian story which THE CHURCH has so cleverly glossed over for centuries. + Christ was a gnostic; he claimed a direct communication with god, and while Maya did not believe in the consensus definition of god, she understood that there was something out there and that Christ more than likely had seen it and what happened to him? He got nailed to a goddamn tree. That has got to fucking hurt. You go about minding your own business and one day you confront a world that is an entirely separate reality from your own, and you like it, it gives you a feeling of ecstasy, you want to share it with others. At first they think you are insane, weird or overly imaginative at best, but you keep trying and trying and trying to tell them that there is a better way, you do some amazing things with the knowledge you have and they realize you might not be kidding and this makes them nervous so they tell the Alpha Males. We fear. And the Alpha Males use their paper magic on you. They write things into LAW and they make you ILLEGAL. They claim that this then gives them the right to stop you. You are amused by their unwillingness to try what you speak of, but you keep telling them ...it can be better than this...and you know this. One day they get desperate and they nail you to a cross. Through the physical pain you finally gain what you were lacking the power to transcend the body, you find death before they did and you leave, but they never understand. And you are dead to them. + + + + There are worms in the soul of the materialist and they are eating from the inside out, logic and the belief that things which can be replicated through objective experimentation are the only things which can possible be true, is not wrong, but rather a very limited way of viewing life. Why is science so reluctant to investigate phenomena like UFOs, demon possession, chemical induced brain change, telekinesis, psychic communication, telepathy, witchcraft, Auras, Orgone energies, Gaian sentience, collective unconscious, and the rest of the fringes? Simply because its own self limiting philosophies have consciously chosen to ignore them. If it were proven true that telepathy is possible would it invalidate all of biology? No why then is science afraid of this possibility and fight so violently against it and those that are willing to investigate it are labeled frauds and charlatans? Because it would force science to admit its shortcomings and the Alpha Males would have to give up the powerful personality egos which are the only programs that their biocomputers are capable of running. + The irony of the star system is that those who go farthest out of the limbs get the greatest respect as humans (Gandi, Einstein, Galilieo, Bucky Fuller, Tim Leary et al) but their ideas are never taken seriously and when they are finally proved right it is only with the greatest of begrudgement that science and governments will admit what they secretly fear: that consensus reality is not a good map of what the hell is really going on down here. + The worms are eating from the inside out and the decay is not easy to see unless you look from the inside and crack the elaborate schematics of secret societies. Science is perhaps the most elaborate and widespread secret society to ever grace the face of the earth. It has gone so far as to develop an complex and untranslatable language unique to each of its subdivisions —any hunting pack will develop very sophisticated and complex signals with which to communicate during the hunt. The complexity of science is so great that even within the heads of the beast can not understand each other. Biologists pay no attention to physicists and physicist can't understand chaos theorists, chaos theorists sneer down their horned rimmed glasses at botanists and none of them take psychologists seriously. + The for instances: Sigmund Freud in his investigation of the human mind predicated that one day psychology would be but another field of biology, that is that most psychosis has some definite interaction with physical biology. In other words if you tend to suffer from delusions of grandeur it might well be because you chest muscles are in a constant state of hypertension or something to that effect. Enter Wilhelm Reich, at first Reich merely takes Freud one step further, outlining a better method of psychotherapy that focuses on how the patient behaves rather than what he says. Reich recognizes that most people give away more of the unconscious in behaviors and habits than in conscious thought-out speech and ideas. Slowly psychology accepts this and he publishes Character Armor, there are of course those who refuse to accept it but in twenty years they receded from majority to minority. Then Reich turns to the question of biological causes of mental psychosis and he is drowned out in a cry of protest, biology is unwilling to accept or even experiment with his Orgone energy. While biologists happily admit they have next to know idea how the brain works they are damn sure that this is not within the realm of possibilities. + Reich is arrested by order of the American Medical Association and imprisoned for the remainder of his life. His research is hauled out of his office and labs and burned in the New York City incinerator. Reich thought as a scientist that he was immune to such primitive charges as heresy or the like. He is wrong and pays an exacting toll for his mistake. In an ironic twist sixty years later Bell's Theorem seems to bare out that at least there is a chance his hypotheses could be correct and to ad another spoonful of irony, they major American Medical Association endorsed method of treating seriously mental illness is biologically based chemicals, which we call drugs. + Another for instance: Bells theorem (that familiar bell curve on which you were graded) seems to suggest that points on opposite side of the familiar curve could in fact be behaving in the exact same way. For instance if you were to take to molecule on opposite side of the universe and look at their behaviors they would in fact appear to be the very same thing. A whole branch of physics has sprung up to study this idea they call it non-local energy transfer. However despite the fact that any farmer in Iowa could easily see the implications of this theory that if two things can be doing the same thing at the same time then two people could reasonable be expected to be thinking the same things at the same time, the physicist will not investigate telepathy and the like. why? His own map of the universe says that it is at least possible why not look into it, it seems like an interesting and certainly revolutionary idea? Because he or she knows that this is not how life is. Self limiting prophesies are always fulfilled. If you know something is true or not true then it is true or not true for you. There is no objective reality. Sorry kids there just isn't. Einstein told everyone that eighty years ago, but unfortunately he wrote (like Crowley and da Vinci and the rest) in a very clever code called physics and the star system holds that you could not possibly understand physics. + Let me destroy that myth for a moment. Its simple, relativity says that the measurements made at any given point (you being a point in this case, belittling i know but work with me here). At any given point what is seen by the observer is only accurate at that point. In other words what you see and experience is uniquely your own perspective and is not true for any one else. We all know this as common sense, but sadly few understand it. This means that we are all uniquely alone and separate from each other —incapable of ever seeing the world through someone else's eyes —so long as we remain bounded to the spacetime point we call our "self." Transcending this point of observations suspends the laws of physics as we know them and throws us out of the time bounded Quantum Universe into the Multiversial Flow that mystics have been babbling incoherently about for centuries. The Tao Te Ching is not enigmatic it just doesn't operate on the same logic and rational that we do. Transcending the self is not hard you can do it on a daily basis; the human brain has known this unconsciously for thousands of years and developed something called empathy which allows us to try to see the world through another persons eyes. If you go further you forget that there are people and non-people there only is. + + The Star map consists of litanies of hierarchical structures at the tops of which reside experts who hand out information that travels down the ladder and is collectively agreed on by those in the lower rungs to be true. Thus only a select few of the people presumably know what the hell was actually going on. This leads to holding beliefs and is very detrimental to the mass of the population, tending to produce psychosis which tends to manifest in the Nabisco sponsored M&M&M Monotheism Monogamy Monotony. Polly gets a cracker. Peoget. Its been written up, described dis affected, looped and fed back so many times the signal is garbled into meaningless static. + Usinc primates were a curious group. Maya liked to watch them and felt at times like an alien anthropologist sent to study this unique, bizarre species. + + +We're all Fucked +-Sil Hawkard from Pissing on Gravities Rainbow + + + Of course there were some good things about Usinc primates, some of them were goddamn sexy. The males of the species tended to believe that if they put their cocks in you this then gave them control over you. Maya found this irritating and consequently spent most of her sexual energy on women who tended to be less controlling and more open to multiple partners. + For some time though Maya's inner space exploration had taken over her sex drive. She spent three months in near isolation save her contact with her neighbors. During this time she travelled into spaces very foreign and exciting. She learned how to gain control over what experts in the field called the biocomputer or the soft machine. The human brain is the most sophisticated thing in the known universe; it is capable of processing data at a rate that so far exceeds everything else as to make it seem unique. But it is not unique at all, computers operate on a very similar principle of electrical impulses to move and interpret data. Instead of synapses and ganglia they use resisters and capacitors. If we reverse the analogy and view the brain as a much advanced computer questions present themselves, questions like what programs are running? Who is the meta-programmer in charge of loading and running the programs that the people use? Can you seize conscious control away from the meta-programmer and program your brain yourself? Maya found that she was not in control of many of the programs that her brain ran, some being run on a daily basis. Her three months in isolation was an attempt to catalog the programs stored in her hard drive. She got quite good at leaving her body and she had the experience of communicating with entities that do not occupy physical realms. One afternoon one of these entities addressed her directly and questioned why she wanted to be alone. No one in here is alone. To be alone is to no longer exist in a relative universe. + Maya gradually came realize that you can not remain in static isolation without necessarily limiting the number of reality tunnels available for exploration. This is why people who never leave their hometowns tend to believe that their lives are the way THINGS HAVE ALWAYS BEEN. Stasis leads to static which leads to confusion and eventual psychosis like emotional attachments to things. This psychosis eventually leads one to become the memetic duplicate of the parent program. Primate Bio-Computers get anxious when they start to feel like they are becoming their parents they have a "mid-life crisis." This is because the nuero-circuitry on the soft machine is not designed to run pattern lopes, we are the only self programmable computers in the known universe and you're worrying what color curtains you should have in your window, what style of clothing is more popular among the rich and famous, how you can accumulate and store as many scraps of papermagicmoney as possible? + The more you travel the more you know is the ultimate extension of this logic. Mathematically: Stasis=static=boredom=fear=death. As the Sufis used to say before they got co-opted by the Hippies Uplifting Humans (HUH? for short) don't put anything over your head, it could fall and hurt you. Maybe they had to much ether in the temple or maybe you're just taking it all too seriously. + The more "other people's shoes" you can fit into the more perceptions you will have on what the hell is going on down here. The more perspectives you get, the less you care which one is right, and you stop taking any of it seriously. But that doesn't mean you aren't serious about it. Achieving states of ecstasy feels really fucking good otherwise why would you bother? It seemed curious to Maya that religion had chosen to portray enlightenment as this serene eternal peace on a mountain top kind of image. A good ad company selling ecstasy wouldn't get clients with an ad campaign like that. Its worse than some late night hack job: Do you feel bored? restless? Try the new godatic ecstasy pill! feel the energy of the entire universe pulsing through your body! order today, supplies limited, only three easy payments 19.95.... + Ecstasy is takes many forms, sex, chemicals, food, smells, tactile sensations of skin on skin. There are no limits in the province of the mind save what you put on it. You don't have to live in one place mentally or physically so why would you want to? She hit upon the idea of living in a reality tunnel without a home base without a steady income and surviving on a daily basis rather than a monthly one, or a yearly one making decisions on the basis of a lifetime's worth of time makes it very hard to act. Be here now the Buddhists say. One of the easiest ways to get into the now is to force the body to have to constantly adapt to new surroundings. Cats always land on their feet because they start running before they hit the ground. + Listening to Cary and reading the emails he sent her from the far corners of the earth tell made Maya realized constantly moving altered your consciousness. Cary came by one day with an eightball of cocaine and said I thought you might need this. She was in New York City forty-two hours later after a three our nap in Denver, Colorado. + Maya arrived already in an altered state of consciousness, she had run out of coke in Kentucky and kept herself awake by taking massive dosses of caffeine and occasionally slashing her arm. She found that eventually after thirty or so hours it is harder to fall asleep then it is to remain awake. Her eyeballs ached and her hands were callused from gripping the steering wheel of the trusty ford econoline van which despite having 238,654 miles on it was still the most reliable vehicle she had ever seen. Although as she took off all her clothes and drove through the stifling Kansas heat she wondered if maybe Cary would have given her a BMW or something if she had asked him. I need to be rich she thought. + She went to her friend April's house and called her from the front porch on a cell phone that Cary had loaned her. Halfway through the catching up she walked in the door. It made Maya smile and seemed to shock the shit appropriately out of April who was getting head from another girl while she talked and who nearly leaped up to the ceiling when Maya burst in the door. + +Snapshots: + +223 slipping in splish splash boom band boom and it was in Arizona when i noticed. Creosote bushes Juniper trees growing up through brown grass and dry red earth sky painted black and blue Culumous clouds held off in the distance and dirt splatters the windshield rolling rolling on rolling on what i need is. + disappointment click clack tree wheels tuffs of white cotton mixed in with the rumble of thunderheads and i had a line on and there was a sign jelly roll. Cigarette ash and the rain was holding off. Headed east headed east ping pong sing song. Desert air alone. Never had much time to talk about money, when i need a hammer i use it the rest of the time i leave it in the garage. Not much you can say about a hammer. It works. + I like your diction ohhh baby i loooove you diction. contemplate chemicals as a means of communication, if all you got is language all you got it four dimensions up-down, left-right, back-forward and what time is it. Bodeey is communication, sex is communication, chemicals are communication, images are communication, words too. My mind your mind ITS mind. i want to dream in eight sided polydimensional technicolor. + Corky voice over: New Mexico is dark few lights here and there, but they don't seem to have a sun. Ya its dark. theres some stars there's the dig dipper looking bigger and dippery then ever, looks more like a spatula to me but whom am i to say. + Southern man voice over: and there some rocks over thar by the Indian gaaaming facilities. and there's a big blinkin,' one a 'em radio towers i reckon + Homer: uuuuh look. truck. mmmm donuts. + Glow on the horizon could it be?! waiting for alien abduction mind fading. + You don't think we are Indians? Look at all these teepees we are....Indians. +` The first genuine signs of an altered sate of consciousness: inability to distinguish between movement and sitting still. Time becomes plural bendable mutable and simultaneously objective and subjective. Bending time affects space the ability to look into the distance behind the eyelids disappears and the world feels right on top of you, flattened out like a blanket over your head. then a feeling of dizziness and disorientation of visual field inability to judge distance. followed by flawed depth perception difficulty in walking and a feeling of separation of mind and body. The body will remain intact but the mind goes into something akin to active sleep. You are asleep without being asleep. The body seems to function on a light dark binary pattern regardless of whether or not the mind is there with it. + the final unanswered question of humanity: where do thoughts come from? The brain? how does a gooey cellular substance flush with electrical charges and billions of strung together molecules formulate complex abstract ideas about things that don't exist? I feel like a lucky strike, i think I'm toasted. + Once when i was five i had an imaginary friend named Steve. We got along great until one day he tried to steal my blanket and i kicked him out of a moving car. that was the end of Steve. + + Maya no intention of spending much time in New York City but she got slightly side-tracked by brown liquor, green marijuana and an eerie sense of syncronicity that seemed to scream out follow me. Her friend April had a friend who had a friend.... that had invited her to the annual naked party that the rebellious hippie type students threw every year at NYU to somehow prove that they were cooler than anyone else. Maya was amused by hippish college students and thought it was inane, but she also knew they tended to be in possession of chemicals that Maya was lacking. And they never even realize that drugs are not phase, they're a way of life that so threatens humanity that they have come to be the cardinal sin. + The naked party was a nationally known event held in an enormous old Victorian house three stories high wedged back off an alley in the East Village Mall. As you might imagine everyone at the party was naked, and as you might expect they were all severely inebriated. Maya danced around the rooms looking for some sort of powerful mind altering drug, she spied a wretchedly foul looking hippie boy who seemed like he was having a more innarestin' time than the rest of the people and cornered him to get an eighth of Psybilsilm Cubensis at the reason price of two minute of kissing and brief grope during which time Maya ate the mushrooms and escaped from further advances. The alcohol rumbled with the addition of stale fungus and suddenly she felt dizzy and a lot drunker then she had the moment before. Maya stumbled toward the bathroom to rid her body of the alcohol pollutants wondering if the mushrooms would act like peyote and be stronger after you through up. She opened the door too drunk to care if it was occupied and burst in to catch William, a slight man of about twenty five with a thin but muscular body, gently fucking a girl doggy style. Maya's world was beginning to become less and less vertical, but she caught the girls beautiful face in the mirror, perfectly framed by long angelic golden ringlets of hair that Maya’s eyes followed down to her sweat glistened nipples and heaving breasts. William was leaning toward the sink to do a line of cocaine, at that instant Maya was too drunk to be taken aback, she simply squeezed in and closed the door behind her and threw up in the toilet for a minute. After several gut wrenching heaves she tried to get up and sit down to pee, but the world was refusing to hold itself up and the toilet seat leapt up at her resulting in a fairly loud noise that made the girl turn her head and shimmy slightly looking back at her. + “you look like you could use a pick up, give her some coke William.” She smiled at Maya . William pulled his cock out of the girl but lost his balance turning around and accidentally slapped his cock against Maya's cheek + “Oh my god! I’m sorry! oh wow, did that just happen?” It was by far the most immediate and personal introduction to anyone she had ever had. The girl just laughed. + “Usually I date someone for a while before I let them slap my face with their dick.” Maya had found that sarcasm was funniest in the midst of insanity. + The girl laughed again, she bent down and licked Maya’s cheek, “Just getting my cum off your face,” she whispered in Maya’s ear. Maya did a line and felt much better and then another and then another and another until she felt downright spectacular. Then the girl grabbed her by the hand and led her out of the bathroom and down the hall into a room that was empty and smelled of the delightfully sweet aroma of Opium. + “You have Opium,” she murmured as the girl pulled her into bed. + “Yes I do." She pulled Maya down onto the bed. "My name is Chloe and that was William, and that's enough talk,” she lit and huca and passed the hose to Maya. + Picture: A blurry collage of images short circuited by imperfection and redeemed by the great opportunities of flesh and smokey tongues. Maya liked men and women, and was not, like most of the other bipedal apes of Usinc, afraid of having sex with her own image. Bisexuality exists potential for everyone, but only a handful realize the seductive pleasure of a body so close to the I. In fact Maya was far more selective of the men she slept with then women, but William, Chloe's boyfriend, was a sleek muscular yummy as one of Maya friends used to say, so she didn't complain when he climbed in bed too. Others at the party came and went but the three paid them no mind. Maya was lost in a world that for a moment offered the opportunity to let the music and the swirl of opium lights carry her into a sexual trance that welled up in her feet and travelled deliciously up her spine until it erupted in a whole body orgasm. + There was an odd moment after the orgasm when Maya had returned to the dance floor for a moment and then decided she wanted more and went back to the room only to catch William getting dressed and looking like he was going to leave. "Where are you going?" + "My friend needs some stuff." William eyed her suspiciously. + "At three in morning?" Maya furrowed her brow and held back from asking prying questions like who or why. "addict?" She asked. + "He pays me very well so that i won't have a problem catering to his whims." William pulled on his boots and got up to go, "Chloe's still in the bedroom you should let her take care of you..." He kissed Maya on the cheek and headed for the door. Maya watched him go and then walked back to the bedroom. + "Where the hell did William just run off to?" She asked closing the door behind her. + "Our friend Cary needed some things that William and I got for him." + "Cary?" + + + +Why aren't you gay? +-Sil Hawkard from Pissing on Gravities Rainbow + + The poetics of Allen carry long over and over into the the Quarter like Voodoo music and you know that they are with you and all will be solved when you are recognized. You hope that all you have come to believe is true and you want to know if we're all lost in the confusion and you want to think the smoke is clearing and surgeon will be stitching up the lacerations and you're licking up the blood. And every one seems to walk so confident and proud like they know so well what they are doing and you cutting into fear and they don't seem to notice. You're feeling like an idiot because it is so easy for them to walk proud and unafraid and you no longer care you want to see yourself smiling in a nineteen twenty's black and white photograph yellowed over the years and you want to know if you've been stuck in this station for to long you want to know if you've been down this line before. No one seems to understand why you're saying what you're saying and the lesbians don't understand men and the fags hate women and the heteros hate everyone and everyone is so dead dead dead afraid of sex. Why would you refuse an open mouth on your cock why would you deny the tongue snaking through the folds of your pussy simply because it came from a body that looked just like your own? Why deny half of all the sex you could ever have? Go back and confess your sins and catch the first train out of here you freaks. Its crowded and we haven't got the time or the resources to be having you around. Face up to the things you are not and could be, step aside and make room for those of us who are here to go. "I hope for you that you apply this happiness, this peacefulness" -JMS + + “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you” Chloe climbed on top of Maya and began sucking her nipples. Maya felt her body relax and could smell the familiar mingling of incense and opium smoke floating across the room she raised her head and saw Chloe’s hard nipples rub against her own sending tremors down her spine and an aching contraction gripped her pussy. The cream ran down her slit and trickled over her ass and onto the pillow. She drew up the Chloe’s leg until it was rubbing against her pussy, smearing herself on her thigh. Maya pulled Chloe’s mouth onto her own and kissed her hard, pushing her tongue into her warm sweet mouth, licking her lips and nibbling at her tongue. There mouths danced and the whole religious allegory of centuries seemed to swirl around from the Indonesian tapestries that hung on the walls and ceiling. Chloe rolled over and dragged Maya on top of her pushing Maya’s head down between her legs. Maya ran her hands across Chloe’s pussy and down her thighs, pulling her legs apart. She looked up at Chloe's ringlet hair and smiled her warmth through the cinnamon orange color she felt it flowing out through her chest nipples hard and sticking up like radio antenna. Drawing Chloe’s ass into her hands and lifting the pussy onto her tongue, Maya lapped at her creaming pussy, stabbing her tongue between Chloe’s glistening smooth and moist lips, dragging it up over her clit slowly to tease her at first, but Chloe grabbed Maya’s hair and forced her tongue between her lips and ground hard onto her tongue. Cum soaked Maya’s face and she began to lick as hard and fast as she could. + + + Exhausted and Satiated Maya and Chloe left the naked party together at seven the next day, carefully stepping over the delicate piles of sleeping flesh that litter the floor, admiring the groping hands clasped of breasts and clutching at limp cocks, crisscrossed and sleeping in splendor. Chloe took Maya to breakfast and the twenty four hour diner downtown and invited her to make the drive up to Boston and stay with her. + “So what is it you two do?” Maya said trying to make conversation with someone she realized suddenly —she had had sex with, done large quantities of opium, mushrooms, and cocaine, yet had never really talked to. Maya thought of the joke about the couple that was getting divorced just out of college. One of their friends says ‘what happened?’ ‘Well,’ says that man ‘we met and got married in college; I didn’t know we couldn’t get along when we were sober.’ + “So now you think because we fucked and shared some drugs that I'm going to bare my soul to you?” Chloe asked smiling. + “I was hoping,” said Maya meeting her smile. + “Well, okay, I can tell you the truth but you won't believe me." Chloe seemed to be measuring her up with words designed to lead Maya somewhere. + “'Belief is the death of intelligence,'” said Maya. + “Well Well well, you can read.” Chloe seemed to shift to a certain bitchy character that suddenly made her appear self righteous and altogether ugly in that smug ugliness that New Englanders seem to always have whether they mean it or not. She looked searchingly in Chloe's eyes and heard a voice, one she had never heard before telling her that smugliness is ugliness is fear/must cut through/ get them down from there/ stuck like a cat///. She quieted her voices and listened to the way Chloe's green eyes moved as she talked. She felt her breathe between sips of her coffee and watched to curl of her tongue as it formed words. She wondered absently if William was in love with her. + "The truth is that William and I work for a man named Cary, we make collages and sound loops which he needs when he goes um travelling." + "I knew a man named Cary," Maya was thinking aloud and instantly regretted it, but Chloe only smiled. At first it was warm and friendly but then a consumptive almost animal like fire began to burn behind her eyes or maybe it was Maya's own desires projected outward into Chloe's eyes. + "How would you like to come up to Boston and lick my pussy for a few days?" + She said it with such feline grace that it sounded as if she giving someone directions to a restaurant, Maya came back: "Are you going to lick mine?" + "I'm going to fuck you like you've never been fucked, so you'll stay fucked." + +We forget that sacred, +respectful sex may not look +like heterosexual monogamy, +and we forget that human +beings are sexual every +moment of their lives. +-Sallie Tisdale + + It reminds me of a place i used to live where in dark corners i watched a beautiful brunette and fell deeply in love with her, though we never spoke. I watched her like writer would smug certitude that i knew the real her better than she knew herself. I sat alone in that dark corner night after night waiting and watching. If you listen in silence the Buddhists say, you hear much more. Silence means no thought no word no picture, if you want to know what someone is saying stop listening to the syntax and watch how they say it. You only do that if you are internally quiet and listening, which involves the eyes as much as the ears. + i like to listen to Chloe watch her lips curl and retracted and form out words thoughts ideas smiles frowns all the expressions of human emotions which words are not needed for. Words are abstracted ideas intellectual masturbation, bodddiiiiyyy language is here-now happening, really occurring, Maya Maya Maya what are you doing you sound like you're in love with the girl... I am but I'm not; I'm not because being in love turns strange gears in my head and heart and soul and makes me change to better reflect upon the image i am so desperate to duplicate assimilate and make myself into. My love is possessive lays inroads across lives bringing separate things together i can never again tell someone i am in love with them because they always expect it to last forever. i hurt them when i leave and i never mean to i still love them i just have to leave. + Sex. the feel of her nipple rubbing coarsely against mine the softness of mashed breasts stuck together kissing chasing her tongue around her mouth. there is a reason writers are afraid of sex and hate trying to write it, they don't have words for it. They think its something that is happening, a thing that exists apart from ourselves, but it is not. It is in us —we are sex. Sex is seeping from our pores and we hate it, we deny it. I want to celebrate it, I want to have a mad passionate orgy with the entire world. I want men I want Women i want plants I want animals, all life in one orgiastic embrace like Kali and Vishnu; mouths locked on mouths, on breasts, on cocks, on cunts, cocks in cunts, in asses, between breasts, tongues licking necks, licking nipples, licking asses, fingers probing flesh, FLESH FLEsh FLesh searing and popping with electrostatic sexual energy. Is that so much to ask? Wouldn't you like it? Are you scared because you know you would and it might turn the world upside down? + How to suck seed: I like sucking on a man's cock —my mother would call me a whore. I like cock, the flesh there is much softer than anywhere else on a man's bodies, the cock is the closest a man gets to being a woman. It amazes me that women don't enjoy sucking cock more if only for that reason, of course that's not all i like about it. I like watching them squirm, making them twitch; i like looking in their eyes as my mouth slides down the shaft giving them that fuck me look that men spend most of there lives trying to coax out of women. Men are really quiet simple like that, look at them in the right way, beg for the right things (like pllleeeease ppllleeeease fuck me harder or yes cum all over my face...) and they will do anything you want. They will still try to front their character armor, try to treat you like an idiot try to prove themselves superior, but I never begrudge them that, if i were as dumb as a man and my ego were that defenseless I'd spend most of my waking hours trying to protect it too. + Maybe i should writing a guidebook for women called How To Suck Cock. I should definite reeducate them on the come part, many women think men like to come in your mouth, this is not true. Men want you to get messy, they want come in your mouth on your face on your breasts every where, its like they're marking their territory. You have to act like you like it too, and eventually you will...eventually you will find you are turned on by things much more perverted then you originally thought possible. You will find yourself not just wanting to suck cock but to rub your face all over it, devour his balls with you tongue making him twitch and begging for him to fuck your face. You will discover as I have that sex is not good until you are covered in sweat and cum and have violated all the taboos and laws of the country. You will also find that this will scare the living shit out of most men who run away when you walk in a room in stiletto skin tight rubber boots up to your cunt and nipple clamps with a chain, and say get on your knees and lick my asshole. They're good at dishing out perversion and degrading you but most can't take it when its your perversion and you degrading them. that is why i prefer bisexual women, women who know that sex is everywhere inside you and as the song says the last taboo was shattered by her tongue one night. + I think sex with women is more exciting, and easier than sex with men. I know women's bodies, they are my own body. By the nature of things having sex with women is more like masturbating, there is no coming to terms with the other. There is no Other. And usually women are adventurous than with men. This is vague and meaningless and horribly analytical,why am i writing this? No one will ever see it. Because i am horny and Chloe is at the store and William meeting some guy named Sil. William says he's cute. It would be really odd an unfathomable snychronistity if the Cary that they know is the same one i know...I'm tired of writing. i need coffee. + + +"To a person over 35 or 40 +the word "drug" means one +of two things: doctor-disease +or dope-fiend-crime. Nothing you +can say to a person who has this +neurological fix on the on the word +drug is going to change their mind." +-Dr Timothy Leary + + + Sitting at the twenty four hour diner and I wonder if I'm lost again. I wonder if i made some horrible mistake. I wonder if i should have been baptized? As if being born were a sin? What kind of fucked up belief is that? Welcome to hell, i guess. I want you to be naked always, i want you to be wild like a panther pacing the jungle. New York. timepiece. Dark bruises hanging low on bloody red brick world and the college kids smile absently at each other still snug in surrogate wombs. Eastern money all sick with age, death and decay do you even remember why you got rich or was it a hand out? I was brought here by money wanting for it that is. would you like to know what its like to not have it would you would you can you imagine. Money is a heavy hand; heavy when you got it heavier when you don't. And you dare to tell me what i ought to do what rules i ought to follow do you hear me labelling up your ugly world do you want to know what i think? Of course not you just hold your head up high hide behind your religions, your morals, your laws, your gods, your ceremonies, your traditions, your truth. You want to know what i think? Of course not. But you're going to one day I am going to be heard. I will write you a letter and you will hear it in your dreamsleep and it will seep into you like a virus and start to duplicate itself cell by cell until i break you down, pull out your stubborn beliefs and watch them in the pure light. And you will see your ugliness for what it is. And you will see that this is not the peacelove you can market and absorb and redirect like the 1960's. You will see it in the white light of nova ovens. It's William Burroughs at your doorstep with Hassan and me, and we will take back your ugliness and show it to all the galaxy and you will be afraid of yourself you will run from yourself and you will go nowhere. + Dear Boards, Syndicates and Cartels or the earth Jesse Helms and cold blooded mindless religious idiots of all history, Newt Gingrich and all corrupt power mongers selling the souls that are not yours and never will be yours, Banking families of the earth locking down lives that are not yours and never will be yours; hear me now. What have you that i do not have what have i that you need why are you vampiring off bodies that are not yours to use? Where do you base your authority from in what powerless jungles do you hide? What wet swamps do your bellies stink of knees are muddied with could you find no way into the Quarter but this in your atom splitters in your denial religions you just couldn't keep the lid down because your filth games do not pull in this here. We are here and we are here to stay and you will hear it you will feel it you will taste it but not until we tell you sill you know it because your books do not have the puzzle do not have the key do not know what you are looking for. And in those moments of confusion we will tear you to shreds gnawing like demons, preying on your flesh, throwing your ripped entrails on the subway tracks and watching you grind into nothing. Not a thing. i am not a thing. + Acrid caffeine burned stomach linings peeling off the damn thing girl in charge rages —i need supplies, nutrients the front line is taking heavy casualties. Stop into a french bistro with awnings covered like the french flag. Ham and cheese under a better name. Up the street there is William he's with another man can't make out if he's cute or not. Quicken pace. Man is getting into a BMW smiling very cute looks familiar. + A Window in the back of the BMW rolled down and out popped Cary's smiling face. "Maya I heard you were in the east....would you like to come to the western lands?" + "This is so odd," she smiled back at him. She shifted her hips and leaned down to the window giving Cary a kiss on the cheek. "I dunno, is Mr. Burroughs going to be there...?" + "Of course." + "Well i don't have any money so i don't think i can go..." + "If you don't think you can go then you can't go, but i have something for you anyway, actually its for all of you," he gestured at William and smiled at Chloe as she came running from up the street. He handed an envelope to Maya. sorry i can't talk we've got to be in Costa Rica by morning..." His voice was overwhelmed by the passing of a truck. Maya kissed him again and ran around to the drivers door and tapped on the window as Cary said hello/goodbye to Chloe. + "I didn't get your name?" She said as the window lowered enough to show a pair of muddy green eyes. + "Sil," he said rolling the window the rest of the way down. His lips didn't seem to move and there was no expression on his face, but behind the eyes Maya saw the intensity of something enormous burning. She was instantly obsessed. + "I'm Maya," she held out her hand which he clasped and kissed gently. + "Its nice to meet you Maya. Have a nice stay." the car started up and Sil smiled at her for a brief second before rolling up the black tinted window and heading down the street. Maya stood there for a minute watching the car disappear into Harvard Square. You to she thought blankly. Chloe and William were holding the door for her, she floated upstairs with them. + "What's in the envelope?" William seemed anxious to Maya as she flopped down on the couch." + "lets see..." It was a rather large envelope and she tore it apart like a birthday present. Three passports and three airline tickets spilled out onto the floor. They gathered them up and realized that they needed to be at the airport in two hours. + "Cary's sending us to the flotilla..." William seemed amazed. + "The what?" + Maya was not paying attention she was staring at the ten one thousand dollar bills taped to the inside of her passport. She noticed that it was her picture but not her name. She also noticed that Chloe and William did not have money in their passports. Exchange in Madrid. ...better rates read the note. + + +Why do today what you did yesterday +and can do tomorrow anyway? +-Maya Stevens from A Game-Circuit Guidebook + + Gliding down out of those Elysian fields you often feel tired lonely and a little bit afraid that if death is not the end then what the hell really is going on around here???? Sometimes looking into and through the eyes of someone you don't even know you get the tragic silence of empty timespace tugging at those mindstrings that hide until the lonely hour of the morning when the I sees itself in the mirror, and tries to reconcile the emotions of so many different state of mind —bring the contradictions of emotion into focus— only to reveal them to be more juxtaposed than you had originally imagined. What happens to the sad eyed boys you loved, but never spoke to, lusted after but never kissed warm lips, never felt, salty tequila necks never licked in tropical humid splendor. What becomes of the non-events those give lifes its tragic beauty? It lends poets' enthusiasm, hearing centuries of events that failed to undergo the formality of actually occurring. + Is this occurred, is this happening, are you reaching me or am i reaching you and what is the difference.? What is the difference between an observer created universe existing -only for the individual- and a set of1x1000000000000000000000000000000000 +000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000 multiverses all existing simultaneously? Why has everyone lost their wild-eyed enthusiasm for life? Why was i born in this strange cynical decade? What will you do when the whole thing goes up? Change tunnels involuntarily that's what you'll do; maybe you should start practicing? Do you ever feel hungry tireduglyhungry? Do you ever feel your fingers dancing on skin that isn't there? Slow motion glow of torpid rhythms, dancing like words —first there is skin, then there is no skin, then there is. Undulations felt time-ripple like, something Dali would approve of. From right up under torrid kisses a yearning gripping phantasmal emotion claws at you like rust. digging digging. Have you ever seen hungry eyes? gripped and held them for an instant that transcended TimeSpaceMind points and fell together in grace, like Dante's vision standing on its ear, staring you readydareugly in the face? Don't you want to go? don't you ever want to let go for a second? to see the approval oblivion lugs up behind it? Can you feel it? Its in foreign cities, lands you've only dreamed of. Have you ever wandered what it was exactly that makes the milk of paradise, what did Coolidge see? Have you ever wanted the elixir she carries in that elliptic second? Have you ever hungered? She's hungry yearning tie the tiger to a stick. That thing is going to eat your flesh in horrors you never thought could be true. Don't you want to go? We are here. Don't you want to go? + It was a couple of thousand desert miles and a few seasons ago and you were walking fast to catch a train you'd already missed. And a billboard ad that wasn't new two years ago, spent like a sperm poodle condom. You're just sitting in the red vinyl cushions at an all night diner spinning a few tracks on the jukebox, burying concrete +highway traces of noise, headlights dragging past. Calling up visions of lost highways, dredged out images blurred together; passing seasons traced out in the arks of headlights carved through concrete, and you pull to the side of the road recollecting missed side streets, passed exits and you haven't slept a moment since Taos years ago. Lying down in the back seat, A.M. only radio, and you're playing along on a dimestore guitar you got this past week for ten bucks in Las Crusas, New Mexico, traded it for dinner from a man who already heard music in the season's knew the uglysimpletruth and had no need to catch what you had missed. You drowned it out with desert miles spent walking on asphalt. Mescaline, Morphine and you tried to catch it, photographfreezeframed for an eternity's preservation, just as a moment slid by. Memory is seared to film. Another missed exit on desert highways, the dust turned to miles and passed you out on the two lane, rickety and prone to ruin in the seasons when you passed through; too tired not to stop at an all night diner for a Kerouac cherry pie on the plastic stools. Diner red, hard formica counters raised out of cold concrete floors —scuffed from the worn heels of trucker boots. Watch them treading season after season across the threshold and into the red glow just to rest wearied eyes and maybe spin a few tracks from days past. The waitress departs without a care for the miles missed and you're writing up a catalog of things to seedothink. Fresh customers arriving out of the chilled Kentucky mist. + Sad desert of two days driving slams you back down in the booth, speakers ease out the rhythm of headlights blearing past and the Las Crusas guitar reflects a Picasso shape on the concrete of the parking lot. Thee mist interrupting the even light just +to play proud chords of songs unwritten to mark the passing seasons. Missed out of haste, sown into concrete known only in diner light whose reflection is just fragmented enough with the past to see all the seasons. + Have you ever been hungry? + + Maya had never been to Europe or the Middle East nor had she been in a floating geodesic dome before. The plane touched down at midnight in Madrid. The three travellers were met at the airport by a limo; maya looked at the sleek black car and suddenly had a change of heart. She told them she would catch up in the next few days, reasoning that Cary would not have given her ten thousand dollars if he expected her to go straight to the flotilla. + From the airport Maya got a cab and attempted to lose herself in the night of Madrid. She walked in the crowded streets alone looking for a club or a bar in which she could pass the night. They buildings were white and the streets narrow she walked aimlessly for a while studying the shops and houses wondering what it was like to live somewhere that people had been living for nearly fifteen hundred years. The heavy fiction of history seemed to hang like vaporous lead fog on the streets. When Usincer's travel abroad they are forced to confront the fact that a two hundred year history is but a blip. Maya had never been on a street that was thousand years old in fact the one she was on now had been repaved in 1986, but this did not enter into her thoughts she was thinking that at least some street had been here for a thousand years. Eventually she came to a series of side-streets and alleys that overflowed with bars,cafe's and clubs; drunken Europeans spill out onto the streets and she felt drunken Spanish eyes leering at her. Spanish: Senorita! Come here, you need someone? I'll take care of you eh? We dance make love. Maya ducked in bar without acknowledging them she ordered scotch and sat at the bar for a while listening to the swirling sounds of Spanish and French. She could translate snippets here and there: fuck the government! chinga this and chinga that. Maya hadn't been around real Spanish before, but she recognized traces of bastardized Mexican cuss words and slang. The bar was packed and hot the walls were red and Maya felt the stench of centuries of people with poor bathing habits. Usincer's are a clean obsessed people Maya thought as she finished her scotch and headed toward the door.She went to akl;sdjf lkj, the adfdkjf, and then to a club with the promising name of 69. It was here that she ran into a boisterously drunk American who claimed he was a doctor. + Waiben was leaving when Maya arrived, but the presence of a beautiful white girl convinced him to stay. She noticed him primarily because he was the only white person in the club which reminded Maya that she too was white and that she too probably stuck out every bit as much in this sea of olive-brown faces. But, Maya paid him little mind and settled herself at the bar ordering another scotch. She got her drink and turned around to see Dr. Waiben standing. leaning against a pole and staring at her. She felt an ill vibe about his person and turned back around to the bar, but he came up and leaned in next to her ear. "Are you from Usinc?" + She did not turn to look at him and continued to roll her scotch back and forth on the bar shuffling it between her hands like an ice puck. + "Excuse me miss are you from Usinc?" + "Je Ne Sais Pas?" she smiled and shook her head. + Waiben was quite drunk and he started to ask again only louder like people do when the realize that someone doesn't understand them as if they will when you say it at twice the volume. He caught himself and simply smiled. He stared at her in a way she recognized: hungry. She could tell that deep down he would like to deposit some or preferably all of his sperm on her, Maya knew that was men's first thought when they saw her or any woman for that matter, and Maya was well aware of her biological power over men. She let her spaghetti strap slide down her shoulder so that he could see the top of her breast better. His eyes followed it and she wiggled in her stool and leaned forward to get a napkin, playing him like a fiddle. He just kept staring at her finally her turned and mumbled under his breath and into his drink "Sleep with me you stupid french cunt." But loud enough that Maya caught it. She turned looked him dead in the eyes and said: "If I went to bed with you you won't live through the experience...insecure pencil dicked Usinc businessmen have never turned me on anyway." + He stared at her trying to absorb the impact and looking like a Yugo that's been hit by a cement truck. Maya smiled and stared back, reading him. He was a curious man; medium build and of nondescript stature, the kind of person who passes without notice on a crowded Usinc street. Perfectly nondescript and it gave her the creeps, Maya knew that its the ones that you don't notice that you have to watch out for. + "Actually I'm a doctor," he said lamely. + "That's the best you can do?" she smiled again. "What was your name?" + "Dr. Waiben." + "Well Dr. Waiben it was nice to meet you," she held out her hand and he shook it. Maya sucked down the rest of her drink and set it on the bar. "Would you like another drink?" she could tell Waiben thought this was his big chance, men like to think that if they give you something it means you will give them something in return. They liked that logic so much they built an entire society based on it. Maya hated the barter system and never sold her conversation for drinks. She smiled an artificial ironic smile and said yes waited until he turned to get the bartenders attention and then ducked out the door and into the Spanish night. She hit he street running and laughing outloud much to the amusement of two men kissing in darkened doorway. she answered them with catcalls and a whoop chinga me el nino.... for the first time she felt free and continued running down the Madrid street paying no attention to where she was going. Eventually she found a hotel and got a room. + The next day Maya bought a laptop computer and after much haggling and showing of money got the man at the store to give her a number of another man that claimed he could get her modem that could dial off of payphones. she got a bus ticket to Marabella in the south of Spain which her pocketguide to Spain said was where all the rich and famous movie star types hang out. This, she reasoned, is usually where all the fun stuff goes on —in the houses of the rich and richer. The bus ticket was third class which Maya always travelled so that she could see the countryside and be able to stop frequented to smoke joints or get something to eat. She typed on the bus not worrying about the eyesore nature of a beautiful Usinc woman wearing jeans and a tank top listening to headphones and typing on a laptop on a nineteen seventies bus full of working class Spanish citizens lumber over the hills. From a payphone in aklsdjf kadjf she emailed Cary a message on how to go about getting a boat and shared a hash cigarette with a boy that looked about fifteen and spoke no Usinc. he approached her smoking form shyly and asked something in Spanish which Maya took to mean he wanted her cigarette, she handed it too him and he puffed on it and smiled at her after a thoughtful pause, "lkasdjf?" She took it to mean hash she smiled si. he rambled for sometime in Spanish gesturing occasionally toward the town. Maya caught some of it it seemed like he was offering her something food perhaps, but she declined No grasias and bid him farewell getting back on the bus. It took the better part of the day and into the night to get to Marabella. Maya was tired and went straight to the first hotel and crashed out for the night. + She woke up the next morning and wired herself up to the internet expecting directions to a boat of some sort. Instead there was a map of Marabella with a cafe highlighted and a note below it that read see you here at eleven. Maya looked at the clock it was already ten thirty she threw on her clothes and ran to catch a cab. the drive wound through the town and Maya saw the Mediterranean for the first time. The town reminded her of New Orleans must have looked a hundred years ago whitewash buildings and wrought iron railings. New Orleans if it had been on a hill. The cab dove down the hill and into waterfront plaza littered with Orange Trees and sidewalk vendors. Lovely, Maya murmured in an British accent, imagining some snotty old British bitch delighting in the mock authenticity of Marabella isn't it just lovely.... + Cary was sitting at table in front of cafe klajdklf eating eggs. he got up and gave Maya a hug, offering her a seat. + "I see you decided to take advantage of the opportunity to travel...you don't have guilt circuit cut yet though or you would have just said hey can you send a boat for me... + I didn't want to put you out...' + "No one ever puts me out if i want to do something that i am able to do i do it, if i don't i don't. I find this greatly simplifies what most people call domestic life and leaves me free to do more interesting things: the why's how's and whatfor's.... He smiled, "now for the funny part " and Maya got the lecture that Sil had gotten many years earlier. + + + +Within the province of the mind, What I believe +to be true is true or becomes true, within the limits +to be found experientially and experimentally. +These limits are further beliefs to be transcended. + —Dr John C Lilly from The Center of the Cyclone + +October 23,1999 Two weeks later and i feel a little better —less motion sickness. Went into something like a trance state last night with the sensory depravation chamber and the mushrooms. Cary kept asking me what i saw when i couldn't really make out anything that was describable he gave me a book how to build maps in hyperspace or something of that nature. Mostly i felt cold as if i were on a wind blown desert mesa or something to that effect. Sense of dread and anticipation like you feel when starting a trip that you know will not be easy, but i never went anywhere. Sat around in the bar last night with Chloe and Cary talking about the potential effects of being able to receive all the information in a ten dimensional lattice work universe such as ours. The question being: would computers be capable of translating dimensions the we don't normally have ocular reference points in? In other words Cary was arguing that if implanting new programs in the human mind is through chemical means does that mean that addition things could be seen if chemical were cross referenced (so to speak) with digitally enhanced ocular images? Light conversation around here. That's the thing i can't get over is that there are so much information stored here in computers in nanocreatures and human nervous systems its absolutely incredible. And Cary continues to baffle me in way that no one ever has before without me wanting to sleep with them. Not that i haven't had sex with him, he took me through a wide array of tantric and other sex magic traditions the other day and i came so hard i saw other universes the satori things eastern mystics are always raving about. But it wasn't erotic it was just sex. Really damn good sex. Sometimes i think Cary has cracked the code and knows things the rest of us aren't going to know until after we die and sometimes i think he's just as clueless as the rest of us he just happens to be the guy with the money. I asked him about that this morning and he looked at me for really long time like i was insane. He got that very thoughtful look on his face like i can tell when he finally hits at emotion; he said just because you're dead doesn't mean you stop programming your consciousness. You just don't do it with your body anymore. I take that to mean that he is a trickster like the rest of the religious people of the world, he just tricks me into thinking about things i find enjoyable where as David Koresh did not. + Still haven't met Sil Hawkard again and no one seems to know where he is or when of even if he is coming back. I just remember the piercing green eyes that sparkled and laughed while the face did nothing. Apparently i am not alone in obsessing over his eyes everyone here says that one of the things they notice about him is that her never looks directly into their eyes. When he talks he seems miles away that's what William said when i asked him about him on the plane. But everyone seems to like him or at least respect him even if they don't understand. I heard a story the second day i was here that he had vanished and that not even Cary knew where he was. Apparently he lived here for about four years leaving to conduct some experiments in south America but always going back here never said mush just watched. Some days he just sat in the bar and smoked hash and stared at the walls other days he would just read magazines or watch and laugh as people went about their jobs. they said they never felt that he was laughing at them rather that he laughed because he liked the way he felt when he was laughing. I asked Cary about it that and he just started laughing. He gave me a book that Hawkard wrote though, something called the rubber octopus I read most of it in a day. Very confusing jumbled sort of book that felt more like an interpersonal wrestling match between the author and the story then it did a novel. I couldn't tell what was real and what wasn't and characters would appear without explanation and disappear again and he kept reminding the reader that they are reading a book and that he is in there mind. I am writing a new program in your mind sentences would start and then he would go on to say thinks like UFO's are real i saw one in August 4 2954 on a dirt road in Oklahoma. It was still dark just an hour before sunrise i was driving a '69 Ford truck, the sky was black and the only thing i could see was the road in front of me and then there was a flash and two figures approached me and offered me pancakes and then got back into their spaceship and took off again. then the text would digress into language experiments with semantics and Linguistics. It gives you the feeling that the author is brilliant, but doesn't care if you follow him or not he just wants you to have a good time. And the sex scenes...if he can actually have sex as well as he writes it... he needs to come back here so I can test that theory. + + +November 19, 1999 I flew with Cary to Paris today to have some more tests done on his brain to see if he indeed has a tumor. He still hasn't mentioned anything to anyone yet, he doesn't seem to be bothered by it, but i cried all night last night. + +November 23, 1999 Cary is going to die. the doctors give him two months tops. I flew back alone to the Flotilla he said there were some things he needed to do, but that he would come to have a bon Voyage party. He seemed genuinely excited about death, maybe he is in denial. + +November 29. 1999 Cable received on the antique telegraph machine in Cary's office read: + A thousand apologies for not being able to return.stop.I leave all of you with sufficient funds to continue the facilities into the near future.stop.shutting down costa rica facility all persons there return to Flotilla if it strikes your fancy.stop.smile.stop.i died yesterday and Sil is dictating this to the woman at the telegraph office.stop.remember if death is not the end then what the hell is really going on around here.stop. + +STOP.STOP.STOP.STOP.STOP.STOP.STOP.STOP.STOP.STOP.STOP.STOP.STOP +47 words 127 pages + + + diff --git a/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/Y of R CHAPTER ONE.odt b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/Y of R CHAPTER ONE.odt Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..620db4d --- /dev/null +++ b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/Y of R CHAPTER ONE.odt diff --git a/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/Y of R CHAPTER ONE.txt b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/Y of R CHAPTER ONE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4348c7f --- /dev/null +++ b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/Y of R CHAPTER ONE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,134 @@ + … It is just, it is just about to, it is just about to rolywholyover. —James Joyce + +Eigenstate One (The Year of the Rocket) + It was the year they launched the first privatized rocket into orbit and it captured to imagination of the world much like I imagine Neil Armstrong did, although I wasn’t alive then. It set in motion a global shift from stale cynicism to optimism; it turned our dreamminds back on. At least from my point a view, in hindsight the rocket became incidental, as any revolution does after it is over, but at the time it was a monumental event. The generation I grew up with had no one thing to identify our dreams with, in end we were all on that rocket and for me that’s where it all started. +Of course it did set off a chain of events that forever change everyone who lived through it but I only know that with hindsight. At the time it was a symbol and I knew even then that the first step to making a dream reality is to have the right symbols, something needed to change in those days we just didn’t know what that it was. We stumbled about like sleep walkers toiling through empty existences. The rocket changed that; it brought the magic of space out of the hands of the government and gave the universe back to the imagination of the individual. + It was also the beginning of the end of government. Of course the decline of government power was nothing, new for years sociologists had been aware that the human mind was decentralizing itself. I remember in college a professor tracing the de-evolution of power from GOD to KING, to kings, to Congresses, and so on with control always being more diluted as time progressed. But the rocket gave us a locus, it drew us onto a common ground of wonder, it was applied theory —reality. +In Usinc the primitive tribal-monkey routine of government had been falling out of favor ever since the Internet replaced, first the Electoral College and then Congress itself. No one was interested in politics anymore, no one cared, we just knew there were problems and we wanted to solve them. It was a strange and unsettling time to be alive, even I had been a tad alarmed when it was decided that the United States would be privatized and its name changed to Usinc, but in the end it made no real difference in anyone’s daily life. Except maybe the bureaucrats in Washington who lost their jobs, but most of them moved into the private sector without to much trouble. +When the shuttle completed its two day orbit there were huge parties to celebrate and everyone was wondering how long before they could afford to go. Only Televangelists like Walter Finks decried the new space race as obscene and immoral, but he thought everything aside from god was immoral and obscene. Finks had his loyal followers that were opposed to just about everything fun and no one paid them much mind anymore; only the most backward people still watched television and they had been left (or stayed) behind long before the rocket. We were through with dire predictions from religious idiots and scientists alike. In the end I guess Cynicism came full circle back to Hope and even the pessimists lost their audience —we had cried wolf too many times we already knew nothing would come of it. Everyone talked about what an exciting time it was to be alive… people living in every age may well have said the same thing, but that’s only because being alive on the third planet is exciting. + +The rocket went off at 6:23 EST from the NASA pad in Cape Canaveral; I woke up exactly three hours later just before sunrise in Los Angeles. The room was still dark but I could see the translucent glow of morning beginning to bleed through the window. I sat up and looked at the clock, it read 6:23; I had only been asleep for five hours. I didn’t know about the rocket yet but I could sense that something had happened, the prevalence of EtherTwo, the Virtual Net, had given us all a boosted feeling of what they used to call ESP. It turned out that virtual reality activated previously unused portions of the brain that gave everyone a closer connection. I wasn’t much for scientific detail, but I had noticed the effects shortly after my first trip, everyone had. +I lay there for a while staring at the rough plaster ceiling imagining it to be the surface of the moon and trying to sense what it would be like if I were slowly orbiting its convoluted landscape at about five hundred feet just floating in the infinite emptiness of space. I believe it would feel something like I felt snorkeling last summer in the Cayman Islands. I thought of about it then too, floating there on the surface of the water looking down at the ocean floor trying to see craters and ridges instead of coral and sand. The water filled in around my head, plugged my ears and cut off the outside world; I could hear myself breathing in the silence. Space is pure silence. +I lit a cigarette and turned on my lamp; the warm murky-yellow glow of the rice paper shade gave a harsh glare and made me squint momentarily until my eyes adjusted. At the time I was living in modest sized studio on Huntington Harbor which is about half an hour south of Los Angeles proper. I was killing time or vacationing or some combination of the two. I had family in LA so I was in town for the holidays and I had sublet this place for a few months. I was anxious to get out of LA, but if I was going to be there I figured I might as well get a nice place. +The studio was essentially one large room with a door to the bathroom and half a wall partitioning off the kitchen. I slept on the couch to conserve space; the only other furniture was an oversized chair and a rinky-dink bookshelf I constructed out of cinderblocks and Walnut boards. My only improvement on the place has been to paint the walls white and decorate them with my black and white photographs. I didn’t receive many visitors in those days so the place was spartan, but it was better than jail. +I had been released from LA County about a month before. Like everyone I met on the inside I was innocent although, to be absolutely honest. I had been a thief, but to prove the irony of life, the crime I actually got caught for I never committed. However even I knew that I would get caught eventually for something, and since the crime they convicted me of was considerably less than what I could have been charged with, I considered myself lucky and served my six months as a model prisoner. Six months is a long time to spending a ten by twelve room, but it did have its upside —I read. I read constantly in between being bused down to various other jails where three other inmates and myself cleaned cells, changed linens and mopped floors. I read a lot about photography, which until jail had been just a hobby, but now it was a job. Sort of. And no I didn’t get raped; I was in county jail not prison. +The first privately funded rocket was just passing over Los Angeles when I woke up that morning although it was too early for anyone to care much. As bleary-eyed business people stood in line for coffee they slowly noticed the headlines and they went home to port into E2 and watch the video feed from space. I didn’t port in until after lunch, instead I popped into the Garden of Delights and took a short acid trip, after an hour or so I got in the shower, and went for my morning walk. I went as I usually did to Café du Monde, a kind of all night French diner if there is such a thing. It was quaint and peaceful around eleven in the morning when I sat down for coffee. +Café du Monde was on the boardwalk in Sunset Beach and Claire and I met for breakfast every Monday. It was January but the weather was typically LA —seventy-two and sunny. One thing I have learned over the years is that while everything will fail at some point, it will never get cold in LA. I called LA home for almost twenty-five years and I can safely say that not once in that time do I ever recollect being cold. +Los Angeles was as it always had been for as long as I’ve known it, the epicenter of the cultural/tech revolution. It was soulless and bright like the light at the end of the tunnel, but it was my home and had a connection to it whether I liked to admit it or not. In fact before I began my career as a thief I had written a book about LA, celebrating the uneasy paranoid inferiority one gets from growing up in a land of actors, of course no one ever published it. I worked here and there in cafés and wrote occasional stories to support myself, which is why I had so much free time. That’s another thing about LA it always seems like you are the only one that has to work for a living while everybody else just floats from party to party; naturally that is not literally true, but if you spend enough time there it certain feels that way. +Someone had left a newspaper on the table and that was when I first saw the news about the shuttle; the headline was in one-inch bold type that fairly splashed across the page ‘DeLiTech Launches First Private Shuttle.’ Three executives from DeLiTech were orbiting the earth even as I lit my cigarette. DeLiTech was the manufacturer of the first commercially available virtual reality system, which I had just used. DeLiTech was also rumored to be the largest and most profitable entity on the planet and many people clinging to old beliefs thought DeLiTech was running the whole planet by now. EtherTwo was littered with sites ‘proving’ such a worldwide conspiracy, but rational people like myself really didn’t care. Now they were going off the planet too. It made me laugh at first; I could picture the Ether jam that would hit by two o’clock as the conspiracy sites went into overdrive. +I sipped a cup of coffee and listened to my stomach growl as it snarled at the acidic liquid churning away in it’s emptiness. Behind me I heard a middle-aged couple talking about the launch. He said he wanted to go into space himself and wondered how long it would be before the common man could afford such a thing, and she wanted to know what sex in zero gravity would feel like. We all wanted to know what weightless sex would feel like; kind of awkward I imagined. +I was waiting for Claire, it was unusual for her to be late, and I was about to call her Donne when I saw her running up the boardwalk; she was smiling and looked excited. Claire was seven years younger than I was in age and several older than I was in lifetimes. She had that inborn wisdom that a lot of us never get even at the end of the timeline. I watched her smiling face framed by short blond curls; she was wearing tight black leather pants and a red shirt with a mid length coat; she had the smile of someone who has no worries. But I knew Claire well enough to guess that there was pain down a couple stories in the basement of her mind. Still she didn’t volunteer much of it and I was not in the excavating business. +“I’m sorry I’m late, my father called.” She flopped into the chair opposite me; “did you order yet?” +“No,” I smiled at her as she reached into her bag and pulled out a cigarette, “what did your dad say?” Claire’s father was a bit of a mystery to me, I knew he was rather wealthy and traveled a lot; he seemed to work very hard at whatever it was that he did. He talked a lot about gambling and investing stocks I gathered he did something with IPO’s, but I had only a crude idea of what that meant. +“Did you see the paper?” she talked as she lit a cigarette. I nodded and she told me that her father was good friends with ‘Arthur’ the head of DeLiTech, he had called her to say that he might be going into space in the next six months, but nothing was sure yet. He had called to ask her if she thought he should go. “What did you tell him?” “Are you kidding? I told him to save a spot for us.” +I smiled and thought for an instant that if this girl could get me into space I would marry her, but then I set that thought aside and pondered the reality of space. The waitress took our order and Claire told me about her night at a club, but I was still thinking about her father, Arthur, DeLiTech, and what it meant to have civilians in space. When I was younger the space program had sort of died; the public took little or no interest although I knew that the program itself continued to develop. But at the table that day it occurred to me that just as westward movement of Americans had been precipitated by westward movement of soldiers, so too it seemed that space exploration was going to look a hundred years from now. First we send the soldier to check things out and then if it looks okay we fall them twenty years later. +I read somewhere that the time between a scientific revolution and its seamless absorption into culture was usually about sixty years, which meant that the space thing, if you took the man on the moon to be the starting point, was just about three quarter of the way rooted into culture. +Claire’s story was that she had gotten kicked out of the club for being underage, but had managed somehow or other to get back in and then to her own genuine surprise she had been asked by some agent type to be in a video for EtherMusic. My ears perked up at the end when I heard EtherMusic. +“I told my dad and he said not to do it, but that guy Arthur from DeLiTech… he knows some people who could get me into the interactive stuff if I wanted to do that. I don’t know, it might be fun…” +“Is that how come you got VirtTECh for so cheap?” I had always wondered where she got the money for the hardware; retail stores sold it for over a thousand and I knew Claire didn’t have that much money to waste on toys —I of course had stolen mine. “Sort of, I think my dad won it somehow or other; he didn’t have time to use it so he gave it to me.” Claire didn’t seem interested in my question and seemed somewhat annoyed that I had asked it. She was always rather vague about her father. I had been to dinner with the two of them a couple of times, but they spoke in some sort of code that I always felt I was intruding on so I mostly kept my mouth shut and listened. +Claire was a dancer; she was a very good one, I met her two days before she was due to go and dance for New York City Ballet, but she hated it and came home two months later. We had been friends since she was in New York, but the sex was limited to those times when we happened to be in the same city at the same time. Once we were having a late night snack at this café by her house and the waitress, a friend of Claire’s, asked us how we do you do that?” I assumed she meant the separation, but I wasn’t really paying attention to her and all the sudden Claire started sobbing and moaning out “I don’t know how I do it its so hard…he just doesn’t love me enough to stay in one place…” she put on quite a show and it was all I could do not to laugh. How we “did that” was quite simple, we didn’t know any other way to do it. +Some people have a need to be around each other constantly in order to be happy; Claire and I would have lost our minds in such a relationship, we were far to independent for some kind of obsessive compulsive love. She was the first independent person I had ever been involved with and in the six months I had known her neither one of us had ever spoken about our relationship. We were to busy doing to stop and overanalyze what we were doing and for me it was the healthiest thing I had ever had in my life. I never asked Claire, but she seemed happy with the arrangement. There was little else we could have done, both of us traveled a lot, me for the hell of it and her for dance. In fact she had just been admitted to the prestigious Julliard Academy and was getting ready to move to New York. +As for myself I was all set up with an odd job in some backwater eddy of Georgia with a wealthy client who wanted me to make AO images of his art collection so that he could construct a gallery in the EtherMet. I didn’t know very much about AO’s I had helped a friend so something similar and I guess this guy asked him who did it and he passed it on to me, despite the fact that my friend had done most o the work. I was studying up on digital imaging and if all went well the paycheck from this guy would keep me for a year or more, depending on where I decided to travel to. +The last three months had actually been the most time that Claire and I had spent in the same eigenstate together since we met. For the first time I didn’t really want to leave her, but it was inevitable, we both had separate lives and if we didn’t respect that we would never last. We talked about her plans for a while and then mine; after a smoke or two she had to go and I was left sitting on the boardwalk alone once again. After a while I went home to do some packing for my trip and to port into E2 and check out the space adventure firsthand. + + + + + + + + + + + + +Eigenstate Two + + The collapse of the state vector was old news to physicists, but it meant nothing to the average citizen of the United States. Sil Hawkard changed that. He mixed metaphors and collapsed the state vector on everyone. Sil started out college like every other white middle class acid-dropping freshman majoring in philosophy. After that first acid trip though nothing was ever the same. He dropped “the liberal studies crap” as he was later heard to refer to it, and double majored in Quantum Physics and Aeronautical Engineering. When he had first brought this proposal to his professors they had laughed at him and when he refused to back down they got quite angry. You can’t do that they said, no one could handle it. They were wrong and Sil got undergraduate degrees in both. +He was something of a legend around the campus of Berkeley, wild rumors circulated about drugs, occult magic, orgies, the sort of things everyone wished they were doing were projected onto Sil. The truth was somewhat more mundane, he had no friends in town and nothing better to do so he studied and worked eighty to ninety hours a week to get the degrees. He then shocked an entire science department by getting a Masters degree in Philosophy. The same professors who said he couldn’t handle the former load couldn’t believe that he had turned his back on them after working so hard. He went on to write his doctoral thesis on the history of anarchy. +By this time he was taking some form of ethnogen on a monthly basis. Sil refused to use the word “drug” and distanced himself from those who did. He was primarily taking psilocilium-containing mushrooms, but he had taken acid and peyote as well. What he got out of them is hard to say, but a good guess would be insight into the nature of reality, because he got very good at altering everybody else’s. + Sil was quite amused when he finally left school at the age of thirty-two to find that very few employers would believe his resume. A woman he spoke to at the Berkeley office of transcripts told him that his was the most requested transcript in there entire database. Sil took a variety of old jobs working in research labs, lecturing as guest at colleges, consulting for the Rand Institute. Most people that Sil had contact with were academia and bored the shit out of him, so he took to hanging out with a different type of personality ones that were what most people call criminal. +Of course Sil did not consider them such except in the most close-minded legal kind of way, but a man who wrote his doctoral thesis on anarchy is not going to have a moral problem with crime. In fact Sil saw crime as the future of mankind. What is illegal and immoral three hundred years ago is the accepted reality of today. Less than half of the adult population believes in God, three hundred years ago to say things like that led one to a human barbecue. Hardly anyone thinks that sex is horrible and should be limited to twice or three times a year, and yet a hundred years go many in the medical profession considered it just that. The list goes on, but the point is that to Sil’s mind, what is going to change tomorrow are the things we can’t talk about or do today. So it made sense to him to hang out with them. +Unbeknownst to most he wrote a book. He published it himself and distributed it privately; he called it End Government Now. It was wildly optimistic and hinted at some rather strange, perhaps creative is a better word, solutions to complex problems like word hunger, human rights, space exploration, physical immortality and what he called “the only true law.” + The first page read: +Modern mathematical theory seems to validate the logic of anarchy by the simple recognition that events are seldom causal and are, curiously enough, totally acausal. In other words what appears to be a direct cause-effect scenario is in fact dependent on a myriad of other factors which we can no longer afford to ignore. A world based on acasual arguments is in essence the natural state of the known universe. To take such a model of reality and use it to test all the human systems such as government, social conventions, economics and interpersonal relationships is the focus of this book. Therefore to model the universe any other way and even to use this map without updating it on a minute to minute basis is to misinterpret the available incoming data. To pretend as we do that the systems thought up by the greatest minds of two hundred years ago are still an accurate model of reality is tragic. The evidence that nothing is working anymore is all around us and the pundits of all different beliefs are too busy laying blame to notice what is really the heart of the matter —our dreams are not reflected in our daily lives. +Anything based on such an inaccurate map is wrong not because the thing itself is a priori wrong but because the map it started from is wrong. Therefore all systems not operating on the laws of chaos are doomed to failure because they do not reflect what we know to be true. Government does not work because it was developed from a binary map that is regrettably outdated. +Government then is outdated and in my mind no longer necessary for humanity to function smoothly. Just as we had to shed the feudal system of kings and serfs so now must we shed the democracy which has become every bit as much of a prison (literally and figuratively) as the dominator system it replaced. Government has become a self-imposed limitation and in order to address the complex web of problems that faces the global community we must first address the system itself. Government has had the acausal effect on the governed of becoming a surrogate god. Instead of a savior from the skies we are waiting for one from the well springs of our own DNA and indeed our chances for success may well be less than our ancestors who prayed in vain to a god that we now know does not exist. +The first challenge to anyone wanting to faze out the dinosaur of government is bring people around to the idea that they need not look to the skies or their fellow man, but in stillness examine the “thing that thou art.” Education (for those without the background in teleology) is the battlefield on which we will stake our fight. It is my plan to do the very thing that all stale fundamentalists fear, to free the minds of their children. Modeling language as a virus William S. Burroughs showed that successful brainwashing (learning) is no more difficult than giving the idea you wish to infect a point of entry. I can say no more than that, but first more on anarchy itself and how we use the term. +Anarchy is the only system which allows the brain to accurately map ideas, events, emotions, subconscious thought, dreams, hopes, and synchronicities because it allows the free floating mind to build a map as each new situation arises rather than trying to fit it onto an existing map. The anarchist does not try to put a square peg in a round whole. That is to say that the human mind in a way similar to a computer creates a path of electrochemical reactions each time it receives new information, however when confronted with the same or a similar situation it sends the idea back down the first path. We call this process memory and it is indispensable for much of our reactions to stimuli. For instance we learn at a young age that green means go, a signal path is created that says go and when the brain runs across green signals for the rest of its life it tends to send a go signal. This is very useful, as we do not need to relearn it every time we are at a traffic light. But it is not useful when we are dealing with the infinitely more complex realm of ideas and beliefs. +Fortunately it is possible to retrain the brain and in fact we might well recognize that all of human history is a record of our efforts to retrain our brains into new worlds and new ideas. The term anarchy in the context that I am using requires you to re-train your brain. +Most people were taught (brainwashed) to fire the term anarchy down a signal path littered with associations of political chaos where murderers run naked through the street fucking helpless women and doing blizzards of drugs. This apocalyptic vision is very much necessary for the current state of affairs to be maintained. And a powerful minority of neophobes has a vested interest in maintaining the status quo. I do not mean to herein imply a conspiracy, on the contrary someone who is not open to new ideas could never manage a conspiracy. What I mean is that static brains gravitate toward static ideas. Thus the secret to changing the world is to change the way we live in it. + Anarchy, like life itself is infinitely more complicated than simple political gaming, left wing right wing; the whole concept of a binary system is not accurate. The problem with the west in general is that it makes dichotomies out of what is really just a gray cloudy lump of shit, so to speak. What I mean by that statement is that nothing is reducible to being either/or, belief itself is multidimensional. Any belief is necessarily wrong on two levels. First it is wrong because it is not taking in any new signals and therefore does not reflect our day to day existence; that is what we mean when we say “yes I agree in principle, but the reality is…” Secondly a belief is inherently wrong because it is the product of a unique historical period and reflects loosely what Korzibsky called time-binding. That is we are human and what we believe is true is a product of our internal personality not a reflection of the outside world. In order to reflect the outside world one must first transcend the limitations of personal, cultural and even species histories. + Everything is in our heads, everything that occurs around us occurs in our gray matter which is to say that everything is an internal experience of the individual rather than the external event that is happening to the individual. The promise of the anarchist who steps into this ontological mess is the promise of one who sees light at the end of the tunnel. The anarchist realizes that in order to accurately reflect the outside world he must spend enough time in transcendence of himself, his culture, and even his species. He is the modern day shaman and it was with good reason that the ancient tribes kept the shaman isolated on the edge of the community; he was not so much a part of the community as a tool of the community. Our misguided belief that an isolated individual from inside the community can represent the entire community makes no more sense that saying a spoke of a wheel is the wheel. +Anarchy is not a threat to political institutions; life is a threat to political institutions. We are only human, meaning that only when we are beyond our mere humanity can we begin to perceive what humanity is. We are finally beginning to perceive the ancient riddles were not riddles at all but clues not things to be understood but things to explore. +We are drawing out all that which you have feared in order that you may see it and no longer live in fear. + + Needless to say most people would not have the slightest idea what Sil was talking about, nor would they have been interested in learning, which is why he never attempted to publish it publicly. Sil reasoned that it was not important to have more people understand; what was needed was a greater understanding and appreciation by those who were interested. Sil was a rare breed; he was attempting to bring modern culture up to date in order that it should accurately reflect that which it ‘knew’ to be true and he knew that to do this he would have to start with a small group of missionaries, so to speak, and then move on to the world at large. He gave this book (it went on for another hundred or so pages giving techniques for experiential validations and further illuminations of his theories and how he came to have them) to people he felt might understand it and occasionally for variety to those he did not think would understand it. Out of this group of friends, acquaintances and strangers he formed a virtual reality think tank that he called DeLiTech. +DeLiTech began life as a consultant think tank, but quickly found that its ideas were way ahead of the people asking for its’ advise so Sil recruited a second group of “technicians” made up of like-minded (although in most cases not as eccentric) scientists, mystics, and computer programmers to design and build a new reality. DeLiTech was beginning to think in gestalts instead of action-reaction analysis; it was trying to become a collective brain for humanity. +What started out as a whimsical idea of one strange man ended up in massive group effort that would in three short years turn the world upside down and inside out. What went on in those three years is the stuff of legends; what first came out is more easily quantified; it was a virtual reality game/educational tool called ALTER, and it did just that. + + + + + + + +Eigenstate Three: Utah Desert (five years until the rocket) + + Maya Stevens was born in a jacuzzi out back of her parent three room shanty house. The Jacuzzi sat on a patio and overlooked the wind swept mesa country of southeastern Utah. ‘Abbey country’ her father called it in reference to Edward Abbey a twentieth century anarchist and writer of unpopular fiction about the red rock canyon country into which Maya was born. The day of her birth it was sunny and cold the air temperature was in the twenties and snow had dusted the distant La Salle Mountains the night before. The infant’s first sight was a naked, grizzled old Ute Indian man named Horseshoe; he was a doctor of sorts and was there to assisted Maya’s mother in the birthing process. +He remarked later that she was the first child he had seen born that was not crying. He left shortly after she was born and headed back down the canyon trail that led to his own depilated shack some three miles away from the Stevens’ place. On the average the land just north of Moab Utah was sparsely populated boasting only about one person per twenty square miles. It was a fine place to live if you could stand the desert and the isolation. The nearest paved road was ten miles from the Stevens family doorstep, and that was the way Mr. Stevens liked it. +Maya’s father was a white upper middle class intellectual who, under the influence of Edward Abbey and others, had become a radical anarchist. During the nineteen sixties, while hiding out in the desolate desert wilderness of Utah from charges of “drug” and weapons trafficking, he fell in love with a Ute Indian girl named Mary Waters. They were never married but spent the rest of their lives together with their one daughter Maya. +Maya grew up as a Ute and all of her friends were Utes, in fact the land where they lived was actually part of a Ute Indian reservation which allowed her father to relax slightly from the fear of arrest. Maya was raised in the Native American Church, which her father had joined in the late seventies when he found out that peyote was used as a sacrament for contacting god. At the age of sixteen Maya herself ingested peyote as part of a traditional coming of age ceremony. Of course only the peyote was traditional the rest was an elaborate contrivance on the part of her father who felt that one could mature better if there was a physical event to mark the passage between childhood and adulthood. Besides she couldn’t get a drivers license since she did not officially exist in the first place. +Maya did not know that the majority of the people in her country would classify her as mentally unstable and morally wrong for this little ceremony. She did not know that most of the world believed that mescaline, the active ingredient in peyote was a drug. In fact in the Ute culture the word drug does not have any contextual meaning; they do not see peyote as any different than corn. One is food for the body; the other is food for the soul. +Maya’s experience with peyote was convoluted and unique to her, she was not expected to talk about it, but her father noticed that shortly after her first time she started asking him about college. Up until then Maya had been home schooled by her parents and had schooled herself reading and using the internet that her father had given her for her twelfth birthday. She was not an isolated ignorant hick, on the contrary she was an intellectual of a very dangerous sort —she knew the words, but didn’t believe any of it. That is to say that with her father’s ideas and her mother’s cultural sense Maya believed what she believed and no intellectual argument was ever going to sway the fundamental truth in her mind. +Now if one had been able to give her a new understanding of something through direct experience, some sort of Gnostic conversion, that she remained opened to, but the silly mind games of western intellectuals meant to her what they meant to everyone except silly western intellectuals —nothing. When you feel it you understand it, you don’t need to talk about it, understanding transcends words which is why people’s sympathies mean nothing in a time of crisis. +When Maya was seventeen she went away to a public university on a scholarship. She went because she was young and wanted to see the world, the school part was largely because of paper magic. Maya had no real goals like most college students; she did not go to school for job training which is what most people living in Usinc at that time did. Her first year at the University of California at Long Beach was one of massive culture shock and if not for a chance meeting with a like-minded neighbor, Maya would likely have dropped out. +To come from the relatively isolated reservation, whose main contact with the outside world was the internet, to the hustling-bustling wheeling-dealing town of Long beach was bad enough, but to make matters worse she found herself ostracized for her beliefs and feared because she was different. Radically different and she brought with her the idiosyncrasies of her culture. Little things that put people off, for instance she had adopted her mothers habit of quietly singing Ute songs as she went about her day and no one told Maya that to do such things at the supermarket in metropolitan areas was “wrong.” +Her father, in the tradition of all anarchists wary of brainwashing, had raised Maya without commercial television and since his taste in movies ran toward the surrealist side of the video store, Maya was frighteningly ignorant of pop culture. She knew the Internet well, but had never cared enough to have it be a real part of her life. Her father had however made sure that she was well read and she was educated far beyond most of her peers, but that only served to make Maya feel even more like she was from another world. This is not to imply that pop culture was totally foreign to her, it just didn’t mean anything, it wasn’t real and she had no connection to it and consequently no basis from which to connect with other people. Thus to be cast into the epicenter of modern silliness—Los Angeles—was a shock to say the least. One pearl of wisdom that her father had ingrained deeply in Maya’s psyche was the phrase “always question everything.” In fact it was so deep in her brain it was sub-verbal, that is it wasn’t a continuous thought or conscious skepticism but an involuntary action of her existence and such anarchism does not fit well into the constraining venerated halls of higher learning. + But Maya didn’t drop out. She went to class and did her work and was a model student, but inside she was continually horrified by the behavior and culture of those that surrounded her. She made no friends and lived alone. She felt like an alien, and most of her classmates treated her like one. Perhaps the genes of her mother made her able to survive, that Ute DNA that has been ostracized and plagued for hundreds of years has a coping mechanism —internal emotional composure. + But the truth of the matter was that Maya had far too little free time to actually worry about being lonely. She also wasn’t entirely alone. Maya was living in a fourplex, which was basically a big old house that had been subdivided at some point and was now four separate apartments that shared a common entryway and staircase. Maya’s apartment was upstairs and to the left if one were facing the building. It was a twenties Spanish style villa with an arched entrance that lead into a courtyard with a little fountain, one of those pissing statues, and then on the far side underneath an arch supported terrace was the main entrance. The courtyard had large willow trees in three corners; the one that would have been adjacent to Maya’s patio had been destroyed the previous year in a storm. Maya’s upstairs place was small, but retained a quaint sort of charm that made her forget about the sordid neighborhood that lurked two blocks south on seventh street. +The ground floor consisted of a parking garage that opened into an alley and above the cars were the apartments themselves. Maya had the end unit that overlooked Seventh Street, and owing to the lost tree her window was visible to anyone walking by. She solved the privacy issue with a tapestry, but it depressed her that she had no view. Being from the wide open redrock mesas, Maya had learned to appreciate the landscapes’ effect on character and mental health. She found a solution just a week after she moved in. +As one came up the communal stairs and into the hallway their was another door before Maya’s. For a week no one came in or out of it and Maya was going to ask if it was available, but then one afternoon returning from class she met the occupant. His name was Cary. Maya introduced herself and Cary, learning that she was new to California, offered to show her around. He took her to Fluer De Lie a little French style café/coffeeshop and bought her lunch. +Maya liked Cary immediately, he reminded her of her father and she found herself finally able to sit and talk with someone who understood her if not totally at least better than most she had met. Cary was well-educated in eastern philosophy which wasn’t very far removed from Maya’s own Ute beliefs, he was also an avowed anarchist so the two of them had long discussions debating the practicality of anarchy. As time went on she found herself more and more spending the warm fall evening with Cary talking for hours on his patio. He introduced her to Marijuana, which seemed to her like a mild-mannered second cousin to peyote; he took her for drives up the coast to see Santa Cruz, Monterey, and San Francisco; he even took her shopping and bought her nice clothes. +They were even lovers for a while, somewhere between a joint, Monterey, and sexual thirst, she found herself taking his pants off one day. Cary made her come in ways she didn’t realize existed previously, but after a week or two he cut it off because he thought it unhealthy for her and because certain state and federal statutes strictly forbade such things. The looks people give a couple thirty years apart in age told Maya more about the emotional sickness of white culture than a thousand sociology textbooks ever could have. After all Maya’s father was nineteen years older than her mother, so to Maya age was not a factor love. +Cary was only the third person Maya ever had sex with, and the first that she had felt anything for that might be termed love. She did not know if she loved him or not, but she did sense that whatever it was it was more from her end than his so she let it go. Their friendship however, continued. A lot of people might have considered such a thing strange or even wrong, but when you don’t put fences around sexuality it can be a fluid thing that ebbs and flows through a relationship. Theirs ebbed and then flowed away again. Maya believed life was a rippling processes, not unlike a constantly churning pond, you can’t be static and remain alive so she accepted her relationship with Cary for what it was on a daily basis, setting no limitations or expectations. Cary privately marveled to himself that in his near fifty-year life he had never run across anyone quite as natural and Maya, and yet he wasn’t even sure what he meant by that. He just understood. + Cary was gone a lot traveling out of the country virtually once a week, and when he was away Maya spent most of her time alone studying for classes or out of her own curiosity. Cary got her into Taoist and Egyptian beliefs; he also introduced her to the scientific skepticism of Aleister Crowley who taught in a manner far different from her structured life at the university. Maya started to become more and more interested in exploring the great unknown —the human mind. Sensing that she wanted to be on the edges of human though Cary outfitted her apartment with the recently released and very expensive EtherTwo. EtherTwo was the third generation of the internet, but instead of requiring a machine like a computer E2 as it was called ran off your own mind. By the use of an infrared portal which fit over the face and recognized users by retinal scan; a small DNA based circuit board which you held in your hand; and a series of electrode patches which powered it up using the energy field that surrounds everyone’s body; one was able to explore a digital world that felt seemed every bit as real the “real” world. It was interdimensional insofar as the dimension it led to was human created rather than “discovered” as in science fiction stories. You walked out onto the street and took buses and cabs or subways to wherever you wanted to go be it a library, a hash den, or a business meeting. It was just about to change everything and Maya was one of the first thousand or so people to start using it. + Maya was absolutely enthralled by it and spent more time in E2 than in the real world, as everyone would later on. It was simply better, safer, and more fun than the “real” world. + But to be completely cut off from humanity, studying intensely, and living in different reality does not make for a well-balanced human being. For that Maya had to force herself out of the house into personal interaction with others. Thus once a week she would go to a bar or a coffeeshop or somewhere people congregate and observe and occasionally interact with strangers. She often found that she couldn’t maintain conversations with people because she didn’t share their belief that life was a mess. Most people she met ended up laying out their problems and at first Maya tried to help them but gradually she realized that it was the act of complaining that these people enjoyed so much. They didn’t want to solve their problems because they believed that life “would be boring without them.” + This crowd of neurotics tended, Maya noticed to congregate around establishments that plied the trades of caffeine and alcohol, and while she did not see either as the sole cause of their unhappy states of mind, they certainly weren’t helping the problem. At first and in general for as long as he could remember being around other people was something Maya only did out of a sense of necessity or obligation. It had never entered her head to want to spend her free time with others; she felt she needed to. It was a distinction that caused a certain air of indifference about her, and others sometimes picked up on it. Sometimes they seemed hurt or offended by comments that Maya never gave a second thought to, until Cary called her on it. +“You may not put any stock in the words, but you live in world that does, and if you don’t respect that you will find yourself surrounded by bitter sarcastic people whom you don’t like.” + “The words never seem to come out the way I want them to.” +To make matters even worse Maya was strikingly beautiful meaning that women hated her and men were afraid of her. She had her mothers slim defined figure along with her sharp features and jet black hair, but her eyes were the piercing ocean blue DNA of her father. In Freudian terminology she had taken an imprint at the oral stage which gave her the soft edges of femininity and inquisitiveness, and at the anal stage she had shifted slightly so as to be thin and strong, both emotionally and physically. She was every emotionally deficient man’s worst nightmare and could reveal deep personal emotions as easily as she could analyze and abstract the complex causation that had led to the emotions. Naturally she majored in psychology. + Most men that Maya met were frighteningly simple creatures and one could only deal with them on the most mammalian of levels. Every time she watched men and women trying to interact with each other her mind went back to a psych class on primate behavior patterns. The Alpha male of the pack would spy a desired female across the room (often herself) and move in to attempt to mate. Shortly after this the rest of the pack would come over to pick among the remaining presumable less desirable females or occasionally to challenge the Alpha Male’s authority. The latter usually took place by means of a game called pool. These poor men would have been completely lost without the pack structure, which Maya puzzled over for so long it became her thesis and senior project. Her professors thought it was hysterical and graduated her with honors. + Maya was accepted to graduate school for Psychology at Harvard University, but before she went east she went home. As part of her graduation she and her father performed a peyote ceremony. In her voyage Maya traveled backwards through the DNA loop and took the form of her father. Maya saw herself through his eyes and felt his pride for her and she looked upon her mother and felt his love for her, she turned to her mother and speaking with her father’s voice said: “It is all here, I will see you soon.” Her mother hugged her and kissed her and underneath the Utah sky Maya lost her last remaining piece of fear. She replaced it with understanding + Until then Maya had knowledge, immense amounts of knowledge, but no understanding. It was here through her “father’s” eyes that she learned that knowledge can be retold and formed into language, but understanding is unique to each individual. For a moment with the help of an ancient herb Maya transcended herself and felt another beings understanding. She saw the world from another alien point of view. + Maya gathered up her books and moved to Boston Massachusetts to attend graduate school in the Harvard Psychology department. The day she left DeLiTech introduced the first virtual reality game ALTER. As a going away present her father had one of the first models sent to her a few days later. + + + + +Eigenstate four (the doctor will seen you in a moment…) + + Dr Waiben read to many science fiction stories as a child and as a result he was no longer a doctor anymore. Officially anyway; that is he lost his license to practice in a fiasco that the CIA still referred to as “that Brazilian snafu.” Dr Waiben preferred to call it ‘the Brazilian Caper’ and didn’t think it was a fuck up at all other than the fact the his staff and several government officials were killed. Waiben had been crossing various strands of DNA namely termite, human and bovine; and had created something he called E.A.T.E.R. which was not actually an acronym, but he made it into one because he knew how congress loved them. Engineer Augmented Territory Enforcement cReature was a hideous thing to behold. It was like a termite of steroids with seven stomachs like a cow and the intelligence of an Arkansas hillbilly. It went berserk one day and ate most of Waiben’s lab, his entire staff, and two visiting house representatives from North Dakota. Naturally the CIA blamed the thing on Waiben and promptly promoted him back to the United States and made him in charge of “gathering information” from captured enemy operatives. Naturally Waiben loved torturing people, but unfortunately he got so involved in the process he sometimes forgot to ask them for information. + Waiben was a real artist and he spent his off time doing what any artist does —he looked for inspiration for his art. One day while he was driving through upstate New York Dr. Waiben stopped at an antique store that was actually a converted barn. In the very back corner of the barn there was something Waiben had never seen before, a rather phallic looking devise, which the proprietor told him, was a cattle prod. Being from the city Waiben had no idea what it was for, but upon hearing that it delivered what the woman called ‘a motivating shock’ to get a cow moving, Waiben bought it for twenty-two dollars. + + + Eigenstate one (Los Angeles) + Two days before I left for Atlanta (Claire was already gone for New York) I gave up on the ghost. I borrowed the phraseology from someone whose name is now long lost… part of giving up on the ghost. The ghost tried to give meaning to everything to order the chaos and make some sense out of it, but I always saw through it and turned every thought into paradox and crushed it under the heavy weight of theory. I wanted a model that would make shape out of the chaos, order it into some tangible thing that my mind could wrap itself around. But from the beginning there was nothing but chaos and when I gave up I sailed smoothly through. +Without the ghost everything proceeds with stark certitude, even in the midst of chaotic confusion. And from the beginning there was never anything but that chaotic confusion and it enveloped me like a warm water blanket, saturated my amniotic gills until I was ether, vaporously thin and ghost-like. I took the antidote from a Dr. of Letters, a fecund pact between the nefarious odor of my own ego and perfumed smooth heights of the chaos that falls like a curtain when you find yourself staring at the obsidian side of the moon. + I had a gift/curse which led me to always see the contradiction, the opposite, the paradox, the non-existent line between the real and the unreal irony. I saw the joke and it was on all of us. I was my own worst enemy; there was nothing I could do that I could just as well not do. I was a philosopher even when my mother was still wiping that shit from my toddling ass and I was doomed to forever think. Somewhere in the years that followed I contacted the outside world, the alien otherness of humanity. I found them all dried and stinking of the putrid death-rot smell that hearkened me to a deeper understanding of the true horrors of the death camps. + I had no interest in life, if life was what surrounded me. Most everyone I knew was a failure or if not, it was only because they were worse than failures they were great successes in a game called failure. I pitied them and they thought me kind and generous and a host of other things that I was not. I may have acted after those fashions but I was not any of them and in acting them I only did so because I pitied those that surrounded me. I never failed. I did something far worse and far more contemptible in their eyes, I never tried to live, I glided day to day doing the bare minimum of what was necessary to survive. +In their words I had no life and if what they called life; the money they carefully gathered up money in the bank and checked on it daily; the books they stacked neatly on stylish shelves; the gluttonous meals they sucked into ever larger stomachs; the hideously false and atrocious gods they prayed to; if these things are living then I was dead. The world of Usinc disgusted me; I was only at home in the disjointed chaos. That day I gave up on the ghost because I realized that all my life I had desired not to live —if what others do is called living—but to express myself. + I wanted to live at the speed of light and found that the only way to do such a thing is to express myself at the speed of light to think faster than anyone could possibly live. Whether I die tomorrow on a plane or four hundred years from now is of no consequence to me what I am running after is the specter, the holy grail of the infinite mind, the ineffable nothingness of my life. I gave up on the ghost. Not out of volition or moral superiority but because I could no longer not give up on myself. I climbed into the cell I made for myself with the gilded bars of intellect and logic I sealed it off and stopped living in order that first I would express myself + By all accounts and standards of those around me I was not a total failure, but well on my way. My friend John once called me a ‘junkie waiting to happen,’ which I take to mean that there was nothing important enough in my life to keep me from throwing it away on heroin and he ought to know he threw away four years himself to the endless game of trying to fill the needle. I had my addiction, for the signs of failure are hung on posts called addiction; caffeine, nicotine, cannabis; I kept myself from heroin by feeding in a steady diet of slightly less dangerous, less parasitic drugs which kept the ultimate parasite, my own mind, at bay. + For years I desperately wanted to succeed by their terms if only so I could then turn my back on them and show it all to be meaningless, but you can learn nothing by being the most successful failure, and then there was my own failure to attain such a standing. I could not master that thing that ineffable separation that people manage when they separate themselves off into carefully cordoned halls and passageways that lead from room to room and in each ephemeral room is a different personality. One room for work, one for friends, one for their loves, one for me, one for you, like great hotels these peoples’ minds confuse me I get lost; I could not subdivide my brain into carefully constructed track housing. I tried for a while in spite of myself, just to see what it was like. + I remain in gestalts, in patterns; I remain chaotic, I still see every contradiction between reality and the unreal irony of it, I puzzled over this in all the gutters of all the streets, of all the cities I have ever found myself in, and I have found the sweetest and most feminine caress of an answer, nothing could be more stark and aridly true —just like the ghost itself. + Now I have learned that if I speak in riddles and rhythmic rhyme people will listen to what I say with a suddenly detached air of force abstraction, they look at me as if I might give them some insight they have always wanted into the “true” nature of existence as if I know something they do not. The truth is that I know less than anyone does. Talking with a well developed vocabulary and taking interest in my own mind are not things that I would logically expect people to take an interest in, but they do. Everywhere I have been for any length of time inevitably someone says to me that I make them think about things that hadn’t considered before. As if I had somehow forced them to when it was after all their minds and their thoughts not mine. + People tell me I could make great sums of money selling my words, I have my doubts about this, but if it were true for what end? Would I be any more alive? Am I to finally succumb to the end-of-the-day philosophy that what ever else happens its money that makes us able to live? Perhaps that is all there is. I have some piece of paper somewhere that says I studied a lot of theories on the nature of life and that is true I have read many books and could name a couple dozen theories on the nature of life, but that all told me nothing about my own. It told me in vivid detail what it was that certain peoples’ lives are all about, but nothing in it grabbed me and took hold in such a way that I wanted to act it out in my own life. + I love the mystery of not knowing. Gave up on the ghost and flew to Atlanta. The plane ride went from being a banal way to spend a day to an electrifying adventure and an absolute act of faith in my fellow men and women with the simple realization that this moment this timeless intangible thought might be the last as the plane tumbled out of the sky. It didn’t but it was the most exhilarating flight I ever had. + + + + + +. diff --git a/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/book one sez i.txt b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/book one sez i.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e91b374 --- /dev/null +++ b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/book one sez i.txt @@ -0,0 +1,419 @@ +In the beginning +there was the word + + + +<<<<<<<<<begin transmission ghf8672y101003:35:10 PM03⌘ 03 031xZDFß∂ƒ©˙¥®´∑¨^øøπππ“π“∫∫~∫∫Ω≈ç√∫~µ≤≥÷⌘12430315 0315 + +\ + +03:35:10 PM101 + +03:35:10 PM03 + +åß∂ƒ©˙∆˚¬…æ + œ∑´®†¥¨^øπ“´®†¨¨¥ø^¨^ø¨^¡¡¡£™¢∞§¶¶•ªºº––åß∂ƒ©©©©©©˙∆©˙∆∆˚¬˚¬…æ¬ +æΩ≈ç≈√∫~µ≤≥÷-Oct 03, 2015«« ` ¡™£¢∞§¶•ªº–≠123235⌘031515 10 10 +1031tyiyiu + + +ƒ¥†∆†^˙˚∆^¥¥†∆˙ƒ˙©©∆˙˙˙˙ƒƒƒ©©©©©©©©∞§§¶•ª•ªª§∞§∞¢£¢£∞¶§¶∞¶§∞¶§∞¶§§¥†ƒ©∆˙©ƒ∆¥ƒ∂˙©√µ∆~√©ƒ≈߃∂≈Ω˙©∆˙熃∂ߥ®ƒ√˚∆©¨¥†ƒ∂ \03:35:10 PM +1515 +151515 ©ƒ†ƒ˙©¥¥©¨ƒ∆ÁËÂËÁÊÌÁÔÓÔÓÌÁËÁÁÊË„ÎÏ◊ıÙÇ ÓÔ‰ÊÏÁËÈض§•ª–º–≠§Ê¶Á•ÔÈØ +103 +, +1/,68487654321>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> +Fragments of Ash falling. +White washed ceilings hanging so ominous +Hallucination of bubble-headed figures +crawling like the Michelin Man +across an indescribable mountain of tires +Motels Motels Motels +Whiskey Bourbon. +Tow truck +non-ordinary state of reality +precludes a state of reality +that something is real Point at +the autistic manwomanchild +Autistic man pointing at you +laughing unable to fathom how your brain +functions and quite self righteously +you you cling to its definitions. +Must delineate between abnormality +and those of us who Understand +The Human Virus breeding +like rats unconsciously conscious and aware +of our disorganization. +Gas Station Cold Fusion dreams +of the Anarchist are breeding +in the minds of the oil men +who don’t want to +loose their stranglehold of reality. +Fragments of Ash falling +the continual settling of dust +weighing down humanity and the +French Maid masturbates discreetly in +the next room. You need her +to keep the dust off your mortal +coil spring. +Rebirth mythology. +Mythology of reality. We must +distinguish between what will be defined as +sane and what shall be referred to +as insanity. Kevlar definitions +constructed to make a better shampoo +seem like a logical item on which +to squander your paperbacked slavery bills. +After all these years Tide still +gets your socks whiter +Its a wonder +that they aren’t transparent by now. +that your brain retarded +in its development +that evolution had not +anticipated the advent +of the opposable thumb the unopposable +domination of the thumb leading +to and insect superiority of mating +rituals stolen from a textbook +on damselflies darning needles +sewing shut your lips, mind atrophy. +Weber's White Race Enriched for Superiority +Scorched earth campaigns raining Ash. +Shit from the sky. Tax man came +for your baby in exchange for unpaid balance. +You understand. Nothing Personal +Just doing our job. Same as the +next guy. From Auzwich on down the +line. Didn’t make the rules. Sorry. +We perfected them. +There are no innocents in a world of +free will. You don’t have to survive +at the expense of others. You could +die with puncture wounds in your hands +and others would create a new mythology +strange irony would find another with holes +in his hands unwilling to accept +cockroach mentalities. +You want to beLIEve Hitler +was a madman but he lives on in quiet +cafes centralsouthamerica not so free +not all the communists have been shot yet +Your mistook misunderstood missed +the lesson in the situation that unfolded +Dr. of dialectic excuses you want +to beLIEve Hitler was a madman +Hitler killed everybody's body +only taking orders you understand +just doing my job from Independence +on down the line. +It was a sad money grubbing hunter +gather up his children and thank +his gods they are his and he their god +behold I have come to tell you that +everything you know is wrong +stop doing you job its not yours +see Hitler in your mind you want him dead +but he's not he liveson +buried under restraint in everyones mind. +Only taking orders you understand. Didn’t have +a CHOICE. Got a family to feed. +radio crackle. pop. hiss. +silence. +<<<<<<<<<<<END TRANSMISSION>>>>>>>>> + + The preceeding was dictated and broadcast on intercellular radio frequencies by the ostriches. It came on the eleven hour of the terrestrial scale. It appears to be encoded in DNA as at threat check and broadcast as a record of what it was all about, intergalactic agencies monitoring in the area recieved it and passed it along to the CCCC wherein it was decided that the matter should be investigated. + + Sil Hawkard always wanted to be. Which differentiated him from the bulk of the people alive on the third planet who wanted to be something. This semantic anomaly was epidemic in nineteen ninety nine, but Sil was beyond it; lying around in his floating palace off the coast of the piracy haven of Mandalay. Mandalay is in the South Pacific Seas three hundred miles Northeast of Australia. Originally settled by rich expatriot Americans whose money came from dubious endevors Mandalay evolved over the years into a Freeport city-state with no government and swift and highly effective way of dealing with murder --the only crime. Mandalay was warm in September and every afternoon the storms would roll in the thunderheads and rain wouldn't fall so much as materialize right out of the air. The extreme humidity made one --not sticky like those in humid temperate zones are accustomed to-- downright wet. Life went on in the rain with the exception of clothes as few people wore them around Mandalay; that was one of side effects of the Freeport's origins in sensual based anarchy which -like the word istelf- began with a letter... + Sil is sitting much like he does every afternoon, on a bambo chair smoking petroleum. Petroleum was in fact ultimately one of the things that had led Sil here. +Actually to fair petroleum was a rather inaccurate name for what Sil was smoking. It was rather a carbon based opiate smoke made by trapping the opiates in a petroleum vapor and then condensing the vapor into a liquid which was in turn mixed with pure hash oil and boiled through alcohol leaving behind a sticky, oily, candy-goo hence the name. The black substance was roughly the consistancy of petroleum jelly and it would burn (with flames like tiki torch) for hours slowly releasing together the THC and the densely packed opiates. The flames would down over time the jelly itself turn into a glowing coal, the heat from which release more of the pyschoactive chemicals than any other method of injestion. The process was remarkable in that it didn't matter how good of a starting point drug you had because you could alway cookin more --itturned ugly grey heroin dirty mexican pot into the finest high imaginable. Needless to say the product was um profitable so long as one avoided the normal channels of distribution it was this rather shaky profession combined with a book recounting the adventures of an anarchist named Captain Mission that had led Sil to establish he own Freeport. + Sil hits the huca again and feels his face going numb his head slumps down until his chin is nearly on his chest, he snaps his fingers twice. Two Arab dancers appear and began to dance crooked, spinning patterns mastered over centuries of hypnotic oppression (which the cockroaches of skid row motels had only recently begun to learn) which gave it power in its freedom more power than things born free. Oppression is a drug; it acts equally, though differently, on the oppressed and the oppressor alike the oppressed gain a more acute vision of the things in life that can not be controlled. + All things must remain at equilibrium or fall into decay, this is a law of physics, and it is true of all systems mathematical --however if one considers spiritual and emotional systems one must take into account negative entropy. The negative entropy of opression is such that as the oppressor gains more control the opressed gains more as well and as chaos theory teaches the repition of varibles in different systems leds to massive oscilations in output. What makes the oppressor stronger in the common fabric of reality only pushes the +oppressed into areas outside of the common fabric of reality until eventually the oppressed simply leave. + The crooked dance is hypnotic to watch and all consuming to perform. In India they teach it to snakes, and in the sewers of America cockroaches feasting on the radioactive waste have begun to learn it on their own. Like terrible creatures from a Kafkian nightmare they sit quietly underground, as we go about our lives, learning the dance passing it on to their children and teaching them how to use it as an evolutionary tool --for all systems are also trying to succeed one another. One day a properly evolved cockroach will crawl out of a sewer drain just as the head of state is stepping to the podium to address the nation. He will devour the president raw as the live camera crews feed man's downfall to a nation of viewers even as it happens. The blood soaked cameramen will never stop filming and the cockroach will scurry to the podium, strain himself to an upright position and address the nation...Behold I am. He will dance and spin and all will be entranced. Women will castrate men and men will bludgeon themselves to death with pickaxes until they are suitable for cockroach consumption and life will continue on much as it always has. The system is independent of its elements, humans are not necessary, cockroaches would uphold the system just as well. Sil falls into a profound haze of self-absorption. The boys continued to dance trance-like as the numbers explode at the edges of his vision. + Sil's story is a rather long and convoluted one and subject to enhancement on his own part, because that was one of Mandalay's charms, no one cared who you used to be but who you are. Sil had not made the mistake of trying to hold power over others rather he used it to make himself more powerful + . At the age of twenty one Sil Hawkard discovered that while he vaguely enjoyed torturing the professors at Columbia university, most people in the United States are squares, and Sil, already an avowed anarchist was weary of the materialists whom he felt lacked the imagination and understand to really get the it --so to speak. So he dropped out +for a semester and bummed his way around the United States. In the middle of the Utah desert one night in July he ingested a rather large quantity of psylicilim in the form of mushrooms. He also met someone but that is not important just yet. The Quantum Reality convergance that Sil felt during the experience was rather hard to forget and it prompted him to extend his dropped out face for a few more years. One other rather peculiar thing happened to Sil on the mushrooms. A bouncing humanoid of eary homo ercuts origins told him that the rosetta stone of the word was in safe hands with the ostriches. + +And the word was with god + + Sil arrived in Africa in nineteen ninety-three to find a talking ostrich; instead he found cryptotechnology --or it found him if you work from a Jungian perspective. He arrived in Angola aboard The Decatur a British cargo ship bringing in weapons to fund a counter insurgency movement to a government disinformation lope which the west was hoping would topple the rather lax disinformation system in power --a government that welcomed technological refugees with open arms. Angola had become a haven for code writers who were not willing to dumb themselves down to the technology standards of the United States and its allies. Sil was a code breaker so to speak. He wasn't interested in simple binary code breaking and writing he was interested in finding the rest of the characters which would form the semantic code to language, but the technology for undertaking such an endeavor was in Angola. He asked around for all of two days when he was approached to take a package back to the United States in exchange for ten thousand dollars and a plane ticket anywhere in the world. Naturally at the end of his funds and having no chance at a grant, he accepted. Two months later, after delivering a package to a man named William in Rhode Island, he made his way Tunisia where an ostrich (Sil was already having regular transmissions with the ostrich intercellular radio) had told him to find a man named Cary Downs. Downs was an eccentric billionaire obsessed with the +occult and interstellar transmission of pure information; Sil was told that he had been looking for someone in Sil's area of expertise In this spacetime point most people thought Cary Downs owned an oil empire, but really it was the floating cities of geodesic domes attached to the oil derricks that people talked about. But Sil didn't know anything about the oil he just wanted a job at Downs' bar in the floating city-state, and the rent-free fully adjustable two-bedroom geodesic dome that had been offer to him over a casual phone call from New York. + Sil, like the rest of you, desperately wanted to understand what the hell was going on , and as most people realize in some vague sense that while no one knows what the hell is really going on there are nonetheless those who believe that they do and are willing to destroy anyone who dares to invade their sacred planes of understanding. Most of them at this time were concentrated in the united States where they made good and sure to track what everyone was doing and saying and thinking and feeling. They have devised extremely elaborate game-playing circuits with uniquely complex languages like legelese and mathmatics and only those who speak them can acquire power and get stuff, and they have created strange loop disinformation systems to keep the knowledge from spreading. They say that such information is classified and can only be know by them; they say you don't understand the big picture, the interests of the nation, for our collective safety, to protect those still living --so that they can hide from their crimes against human souls the scorched atomic earth it getting used up like gutter whore and they are going to leave you here and head into space and you are going to try to stop them which is exactly what they need you to do. oddy within the disinformation loops they are themselves bounded as well and must work inside the verbal fences of currency and truth and the American way. They have even created an elaborate mythology to support the system wherein the truth is always shown as lying in the hands of the few and the many are stuck to live out normal lives while they them selves are extrodinary and important. The History fiction principle is not widely understood outside of the contol elite loops. + It wasn't that Sil wanted to illuminate the world or anything he knew that was a fiction as well he merely wanted to left in peace and he would accord others the same respect. On meeting Downs in person and looking into his eyes he saw the recognicion of these ideas he saw someone who had decoded the gaming and was ready to move on. He saw a man to whom power and wealth were as irrelevant as Nobel Peace prizes. Downs was of medium height and had a rather slight build with a effortless way of walking across a room which most people were immediately put at ease by; after a short introduction a hashish pipe was produce and the two relaxed and spoke at length. + "There is some thing you should understand before you decide you want to stay here," Downs began. "This structure is a living laboratory and there is no hierarchical structure that dictates what you should do. You are free. You may do or not do anything you wish, but you may not tell others what they can and can't do, no matter how much you find them annoying backward or incomprehensible. You will find that even the most ignorant," his tone condescended the word, "mindsets become quite enlightening in this environment. There is a rather large library at your disposal and gourmet chefs will prepare most anything you want. You do not need currency to get anything you want here, but you do need excellent signal reception and frequency adapters in order to keep from losing your semantic grasp on spacetime while you're catapulted into spacetimemind." Downs lit the hash cigertte and passed back to Sil, "in order to expand the potential of the human brain I built this city and I have tried the gather all the possible maps of the human brain together into one place and see what they had to gain from each other. just because it might prove interesting, " Downs paused and smiled at Sil, "and I like you which is not true of everyone here." + Sil moved in to a dome apartment furnish in luxurious tapestries and artifacts that ranged from cuneiform texts to what appeared to be scrolls of Tibetan text. There was a couch of warm dark orange velvet and piles of pillows with scenes from the Tibet Book of the Dead and the Kama Sutra. The mixture of oriental and occidental gave the room a +circular feeling, which was reinforced by the spherical walls and roof. Sil's head felt heavy and he laid down in the pile pillows and felt the room spin drunkenly. Don't worry the spinning will fade, your brain is conditioned to judge perspective on three dimension planes. Taking away the planer walls it is used too causes distress and disorientation, but it will eventually go away as your brain maps out the new system and eventually you will forget that you live in a circle. + Cary Downs' flotilla as he liked to call it consisted of seventy-two people, ranging from ethnobotanists to a fundamentalist Baptist preacher. All the flotilla's food was grown in to large greenhouses or caught in the waters around it; meat was flown in every week by helicopter although only a few people ate it as meat was generally considered by the scientists as an inefficient means of nursing the human body. It had been proposed by one of them named William that the body was but one part of the human existence and the appetite and random whims of taste should not be ignored in some ascetic quest that blinded us in sterile orwellian futurenightmares as he had put it. There was also a bar and smoking lounge, which was Sil's contribution to the system --as the residents referred to it. It was a closed system (save the imported meat and alcohol). Three additional greenhouses grew THC enhanced marijuana of a strain called alamant which was processed into hash and given out in bulk to the inhabitants. Also grown were peyote plants, poppies, coca plants, tobacco plants, close to twenty varieties of hallucinogenic mushrooms including the Kuri-coo, and several other mind altering herbs and medicines that Sil had never heard of. +The inward curvature of the walls gave Sil the impression that the room was collapsing back in on itself, the disorientation and the intensity of hash rendered Sil immobile for three days which Cary assured him was normal. He furthur suggested that Sil not restrain himself on the drugs, but realize their potential incompatibilities after all he said everything you ever wanted is here no one is judging you and no one is threatening you so you'd be fool not to let go for once in your life then we'll initiate you into our program . So Sil spent close to three months usually alone (although he sometimes experiemented with the +exotically beautiful tantric sex guides) playing with the nuero chemical circuitry of his brain. + +EVERYTHING YOU KNOW IS WRONG +EVERYTHING YOU KNOW IS RIGHT +EVERYTHING YOU KNOW IS A MAYBE +EVERTHING YOU KNOW IS MEANINGLESS +-from A Game-Circuit Guidebook by Maya Stevens + + Sil found himself in a spacetime point called Tucker. Discipline is an agent's greatest virtue, thinks Agent Tucker to himself as he draws a long and satisfying hit off the oxygen tube. Behind him Doris Day and her Waxing Loquacious Lesbians play a sultry 60's motown number on a dimly lit stage, and the general atmosphere of the bar takes on a surreal quality. The walls seemed to breath as if threatening to go ahead and speak. bars are excellant places for observing the least attractive maps of humanity the best you can hope for is one where the possibilities remain endless regardless of the irrefutable realities. Agent Tucker is well aware of the realities, but his mind is only now beginning to sense the infinite set of possibilities that comes with every new reality. Occasionally he suffers from what he calls voices, other people getting in his head through warped words written words, sometimes they tell him things he believes as evil and other times they mindlessly hum product jingles from the seventies. But Tucker has no self-pity, he considers self-pity to be a symptom mental illness (more so then hearing voices nevertheless he is smart enough not to mention the voices to anyone) because it requires the ego to be divided into pitier and pitied. He likes his ego together as one in harmony he is quite proud of this justification and it helps to ease his innate sense of anxiety at the idea that thoughts not originating from his own mind can work their way in regardless. Tucker is an Agent of the State. The State is not to be confused with the government as many of you would assume. On the contrary the government is but an instrument of the State, the State is a separate entity whose ultimate identity is unknown even to Tucker; he is but an agent of it charged with ceasing +the drug trade. He has for months now been stalking the elusive Sil Hawkard, a man whose face is unknown to him, he realizes that Hawkard could well be in this very room right now planning Tucker's demise, the thought sends a cold shiver of fear down his spine and he cringes thinking again like a manta: discipline is an agent’s greatest virtue. + A man near Tucker but thankfully behind him is rather drunckenly slurring something akin to scientists have feelings too you know. Tucker thinks to himself that the scientists on television always seem rather cold at their little press gatherings where they sollomly talk about finding new galaxies and what not if it were me i'd be jumping up and down fuckin yelling and carrying on, they must are incredibly logical cold people. + The TuckerSil coordinate thinks of butting in to the conversation to give them a piece of his mind, but then he decides the attractive blond to his right would be more interesting and could lead to sex, but after a few failed attempts he overhears the cruel whisper that guy is bugging me ,you want to go over to a booth? Half shocked half hurt the Tucker gets up to leave; standing at the urinal on his way out he is shocked to find a poem scrawled on the wall + So old the place was, I remember none + The like upon the earth: what I had seen + Of grey cathedrals, buttressed walls, rent towers, + The superannuations of sunk realms, + Or nature's rocks toiled hard in waves and winds, + Seemed but the faulture of decrepit things + To that eternal doomed monument. +What a very curious bar he thinks to himself getting into his car. Those people must be intellectuals he thinks morosely I never understand what everyone is talking about. I am stupid he is thinking as he drives away, at least the voices are gone. + + Sil is smiling to himself and lighting a cigarette. At another point in the fabric of reality Sil is feeling a primordial yearning to devour raw flesh and roll in a room of naked women. You are at a club wearing skintight black vinyl pants and a black tank top with no bra, your nipples are hard and everyone can see them through your shirt. You're dancing with a black haired girl also wearing tight black clothing, sitting at the back watching from a distance. Your pussy clenches and sends tremors through your body every time the girl brushes against your skin, she teases you dragging her finger along your arm, and as the music stops she grabs you by the hand and leads you two a corner booth where two more women are locked in delisious animal fire; locked naked and sitting upright they grind pussies together, shuddering mouth to mouth, breast to breast legs entwined.... + + Sil along with the rest of the residents in the police state he used to call home, hates cops....I fucking hate 'em. I hate 'em. I hate 'em. I hate 'em. I want to kill them all in a violent sea of time-released explosive donuts that when eaten mix with the stomach acids and explode in violent blueberrystrawberrylemon filled death he fanicizes. Die pig die. Imagine it, a million sworn upholders of THE LAW dead in an instant. Think of the society we could have. Think of the freedom, think of the beauty. The sweet satisfaction of tearing down all the rotting pig gut filled doughnut shops in the nation. No more sweaty palms. "License and registration please." Fuck you, never again. Never again. kill every cop you see --a populist revolt. We don't need all these damn laws, the people are okay --we know how to look after ourselves. The laws are the ones that fucked everything up the first place. And who hurts the most people in this here little world? The State. A cattle car streaming over the tracks of life, slick with the blood of the people. The train can't go up the hill because the tracks are too slippery with my guts your guts our guts. Cut off by THE LAW, our heads impaled on the ends of the its tentacle-like arms as they strangling the last hold outs of resistance into pacified stupidity. + The anger subsided and Sil found himself dialing a number he didn't know he picks up the phone --the other end never rings, instead a voice says: "hello?" + "May I speak to Captain Clark please?" + "I'm sorry he's not in. May I take a message?" + "No. No message." Sil hangs up the phone. He walks to the back of the room and flops his body onto the luxurious pillows and is swept by an overwhelming sensation of peace; his mind begin to expand, and he feels the desire for more consciousness --the death of us all, Sil thinks idly to himself as he lights a pipe and sucks in a deep inhalation of opium and hash. The sticky sweet smoke that fills his lungs brings forth tape loops and strange loops of static memories. Twisting and turning their way through the circuitry until: Anarchy is the only answer to all questions which begin with why? whY? wHY? WHY? Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law --future memories of books he hasn't read yet. In distant memory filtering strands of DNA locked deep in Sil's cerebral cortex a vibration begins, infinitely small at first but building slowly into his medulla and finally spring forth into the part of the brain referred to as consciousness. The cameras rolled even as the lights were dimming. +"BRING THE PRISONER FORWARD" + Unrolling a weighty and sterile looking scroll of antiseptically white paper a voice whose origin is masked by the size of the paper itself reads: + After making reviews of the past actions, thoughts, and attributed sentiments, it is the judgement of this committee, and therefore the judgment of the government it represents, that due to a general lack of ability to perceive the options open to the work potential of the drone in question in simple terms of an x or not-x negativism which would be most helpful in these situations and would consequently decrease expenditures and lower taxes for other individuals living in said dualism and therefore we hereby decree that all metaprogramming undertaken by the individual without the consent and simultaneous approval of this committee and the government it represents to be criminal in intent, hostile +in action, and punishable by prison and/or death upon conception. Thank you. You may go. + Sil Hawkard finds himself dragged from the tribunal; hands tied in front of him and legs trailing uselessly behind. His guards use his head to open the heavy wooden door and then they dump him unceremoniously onto the filthy street where a group of children are playing. A monkey runs by, tugging its penis with one hand and slapping its bright red ass with the other. + Eventually broadcast is deemed irrelevant given overwhelming incoming signal that sweeps across all frequencies, visual, audio, chemical, and physical. There are five senses, sight, sound, taste, touch, and smell, and only four signal sources; both smell and taste are chemical reactions with tissue that are then turned into different chemical reactions in the brain. Sil tried at first to kill the reception entirely, but this proved a bit to radical of a step so he worked in phases first chemical manipulations of brainwaves --what the simians referred to as drugs Downs used to say. + + Teletype for Corsica the agent sent in for returns, Home office denied request for reinforcements, all communication to be ceased henceforth. Piss in the riddle thought the old man wheeling his chair back out to the porch, he picked up a Mason jar of corn whiskey and laid the shotgun across his lap. + The languid afternoon floated in and up the beach from the Atlantic bringing photomontages of Mandalay and the Dutch East Indies spice trade boats, far off places he had heard of only as words and imagined smells. Up the beach from the house were the beginnings of the rocky South Carolina shoreline teeming with crabs, sponges, sea anemones, and circle swooping gulls feeding on sand crabs exposed in the fluctuating waves. It was low tide, in fact it was always low tide or at least it seemed that way to the old man. He was partly right, the tide was lower than it had been a year before when a man by the name of Dr. Waiben began overseeing construction of a nuclear power plant +buried two miles under ground to hide its heat signature for pesky government satellites. The plant, whose only entrance was from the sea, was Waiben's new research facility but right now that is but future memory fighting from space at a coordinate that won't have it. + + Sil is in New Orleans renting an attic in the French quarter following a strict regiment to kick the opium habit he developed at FREEDOM Inc. The best cure downs had said is to get a job in INDOCTRINATION Inc., where you will be forced to confront the ugly stupidity of life. + + The old man stood up on the porch and paced back and forth waiting...you understand the seriousness of the matter... obviously we would not expect an ordinary agent to do such a thing...your expertise in these fields...well frankly it's unparalleled..there is no other...These orders are coming straight from the top...your cooperation is non-negotiable... + + +...to be an abstraction does not +mean that an entity is nothing. +--A. N. Whitehead + + Two years earlier: Dr. Waiben, pathologist for IND Inc., surveys a long horrifically clean hallway whose smoothness is interrupted only occasionally by the presence of polished sliver knobs indicating doorways. There are no observation windows or any other windows within the rooms. This is the housing quarter for the derelicts of society: prostitutes, schizophrenics, lobotomy patients, drug pushers, anarchists, communists, AIDS victims, the aberrations that society never needed nor found a use for, end up here, under the care of Dr. Waiben, pathologist for IND Inc. The good doctor has, for twenty odd years, been the caretaker of the derelicts, charged with restoring to them a level of +functionality deemed necessary by society. He is the man who puts the cogs back into the wheel. + Waiben is an expert in mind manipulation which by its nature made him the butt of most of the jokes at the facility, but Waiben really didn't care what other people thought of him because he had watched the semantic breakdown of the game curcuit from the perspective of orgone energy. he was required to give electro shock therapy to dissedent citizens in order to get them reconditioned by the government, but in reality he spends most of his time smoking petroleum and sitting next to an orgone generator In really time he knoes he must administer electro-shockto a whore whom the state had deemed a "revolutionary" for her accidental participation in a protest against the seizure of private property. Her constant screaming was disturbed the other doctors, but Waiben found them soothing in the same erotic kind of way that a soft candle lit room made him desperately want to masturbate. Regardless, he hated departmental friction so he was treating her with his standard dosage of ten thousand low amplitude watts delivered through acattle prod in her cunt, and even then she had held out for nearly an hour before confessing to her actions -it was a record for the floor. + He watched her on a TV monitor from the station at the end of the hall. She alternated between foaming a bloody spit out of her mouth while her eyes bulged menacingly, to sitting apparently quite peacefully on the edge of the toilet seat. Her vital stats were typical for the voltage he had given her. He watched with the detached apathy of those who have seen the degradation of life for twenty odd years and never thought to bat an eye toward suffering. He thought the whole process rather silly, why give them mental anquish which only makes them stronger (see A Theory of Surpression and its Counter Effectsby Doctor Waiben, New England Journal of medicine Aug. 1993 ) Afterall why torture people when you could just as easily manipulate them without them realizing what was going on. He considered himself an expert in mind control because he realized that the well places suggestion or auto association tricks were far more effective means of +controlling large popluations. However he kept this knowledge largely to himself and the occasional stranger in a bar. like that guy the other night that guy who said he heard voices of course you do everybody dows what did you think a television was for? + He panned the room camera around and noted blood and little clumps of flesh lying on the floor near the bed, he zoomed in and momentary renewed his distracted interest as he realized the whore had been picking the burnt flesh out of her cunt. His stomach turned, not at the idea of her suffering, but at the tradgedy of the ineffectiveness of the government to maintain the control that had so intricately laid. For a moment he considered the fragility of all control and the necessity of constantly defending it, he tried without success to remeber the I ching quote about ruling least and that being the best or something of that nature. He sighed and picked up a bic lighter with a picture of Uncle Sam on it, the typical picture was warped due to the surface curvature of the lighter giving Old Sam a peculiar evil bent that Waiben admired; he lit it and held it at the base of the hash, taking a deep and satisfying drag. + hash was part of a new foray for Waiben a sign of his growing discontent with the rigid structure of the scientific community. Doctor Waiben was something of an anomaly among scientists; he enjoyed being proved wrong, he loved arguing theory purely on the basis that if one is opposed and one for a theory to gether that might discover a new theory. Being proved wrong also saved him the trouble of having to prove anything right. Waiben was one of the unique individuals of this century that understood that when you open one door its real value is not what is behind it but whether or not there are any more doors that revel themselves to the researcher. He did not suffer from what Wilson calls the New Inquisition, a catch phrase for those that try to make a belief system stand up with scientific legs, when in fact science is a tool or method of research, it is amoral science dows not fit model realities it is merely one way of testing models of reality. Science does not believe anything because it is not a thing, it is a language. From Wilhelm Reich in Hell: There is also argument by Logic. This can sometimes be combined with scientific experiments and +if the two mesh we have a "fit" of theory with fact and scientists are delighted. Pure Argument by Logic however does not require this experimental back up and only demands that the conclusions by reached by the game-rules of an abstract symbol system. In our hypothetical case, some witness might inform congress: +All mome raths need to be distimmed; +All frammisgoshes are mome raths; therefore; +all frammisgoshes need to be distimmed + + This so-called transitive property has led scientists into the same dead end alley of faith that religion finds itself in, I have faith in science the mad man rants on silver screens... Waiben felt foolish when confronted with this logic bound personification of science so he took to smoking hash and playing with orgone generators, he was finding a freedom that was tickling the little grey cells back into the crooked dance. + + Unfortuanately for him Doctor Waiben's habits did not go unnoticed by others in his department however, and as he was already unpopular for his rather unconventional methods and ideas, it wasn't long before a doctor by the name of Kellinger reported him to the state. In the tumultuous time that was the present the good doctor was asked to resign, but did not instead he called a press conference which was sadly rather ill attended, he proceeded to get up in front of the local new cameras and launch into an anti-government rant. He was promptly arrested for "divulging state secrets" and brought to trial before a hastily put together tribunal of senators and judges; It was the beginning of the Inquistitors hearings on Science and Sanity. + One person who did happen to catch the broadcast was Sil Hawkard who was in a New Orleans attic when he heard a voice from on the television drift up to his room...the united states government is by its own legal definitions, insane and incapable of +distinquishing between reality and non-real realities. The cat is coming out of the bag <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<Fragments of ash are falling>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> + Sil bolted upright in his bed and ran downstairs in time to catch the name Waiben before the camera cut out. That's the man I heard at the Tucker point, he called Downs and mentioned it to him. Do what thou wilt was all he said. Two days later Sil was arrested and thrown in prison in the cell next to Waiben. Because Sil was not a United States citizen he was merely given a lecture and thrown bodily out of the building bringing future memories to a head. He made a deal with Waiben before he left, come to New Orleans and meet with me to discuss nuero-research and I will get you out.... + + Transcribed from tapes: the terminal disease clerk took orders by the turnstile, finding the story in the story and logging in the disease workers all night long. At five in the morning he got off and headed to a tavern as the sun was coming up. Direct confrontation with the terminal virus word is a bit confusing to those who are not properly prepared. poor fuckers never had a chance; the technical sergeant takes off his helmet and slams it on the table the near moronic mumblings of discontent. Waging war is semantically impossible without overtones of homosexuality. Heavy handed, the second wave fell in line with the technical sergeant at the lead. The thing you have to watch out for are the warblers --the distractions coming in at the sides, sound is their most effective weapon, primordial hangover he called it drunkenly raising the glass. And some of you may think this suspect but take my advice sounds where it all started. In the beginning was the word and the word spoke. The sergeant stoops and cups his hands to light a cigarette. Then there is sex or not enough of it, both is equally dangerous --biology is not something to scoff at. sexuality is the best cover an agent can ever use. Rockets come searing in overhead ripping flesh and scoffing at the notion of eternity, out here you don't have time to talk, the thoughts are things, they are no longer words...keep your radios tuned boys its getting ugly. Another rocket sears in severed limbs fly out the explosion and olive drab +body parts litter the scene. Watch out for the bloody words, sharp words that hang in the air like knives and when uttered returned to slit the throat of their speaker and if every word you have spoken returned to act upon yourself would you survive the experience? Me no way i’m outta here. Situation getting sticky, humid like vaporous blood hanging on in the air. Still acrid smell of urine and small children playing in a asphalt playground ringed on all sides by immense brick walls with basket ball hoops hung half way up each of the sides. Realize that that which we are taught from childhood to distrust is in fact a pawn of something far more immense and much much more dangerous. The governments and nations of the world are incidental pawns of there own control systemsand then beyond them there are even more and so on like looking two mirrors facing each other and going on to infinity. The monster of power is faceless there is no one person or group that controls everything they are all parts of a immense and multi-headed monster that is constantly biting itself and attacking it own heads until some day it will destroy itself. The end of time leaves space and word alone together + we're taking heavy fire! The sergeant calls for back up, the captain says love one another and cryptically hangs up the phone. The Spanish soldier selling chiclets say no good no bueno, pictures worth not even half a thousand words. Wouldn’ give you ten words, worthless gringo words don’t mean shit. no good no bueno, not worth the blood their written in. The blood of all peoples not yours, not your shoes, by god keep your slave labor camps a closed-mouthed secret. Gotta keep that in house, dis-credit all new agencies by routinely feeding them false information. News doesn’t happen events happen, and the department of television information broadcasting inc. a subdivision of indoctrination inc. decides what gets out and what remains forever sealed in baby pissshitguts. No that's not true. No comment. No need for comment, the preceding has been since proved to be untrue, cut to shots of smart bombs. Couldn’t get fifty words for those now gringo -over exposure- nobody buying. Same old stinking shit. No Good. No Bueno. + Gringo go home in thousand languages in a million words, why don’t you crawl back in your cave get your tail so far between your legs it goes half way up your ass? Lead me to the holy spigot and we’ll show you the bidet of death, constructed by gringos, for gringos, to flush out gringos, to show them all what you do behind closed doors. Can’t close them all --we have our technicians as well and they’re getting to be better than yours. We got the money rolling in --even offered you the picture words but you don’t want them. No Good. Can’t use those, too strong. No fair, crying boy heads home for cave to lick his dirty balls clean. + I gotta picture for you I on vacation in your country go to hear senator’s speak but all door are closed, all sealed. So i gotta fiber optic and feed it in from the roof show all senators mad with sexual lust and blood thirsty, clamoring for war and stealing souls and bodies and driving them off wherever they see fit. + The technician is retro actively of course --the papers said the man was mentally ill. ‘my cod!’ screamed a church lady in the front row, ‘satan has garbled the lords message, this isn’t what he meant for you to hear, no it was not all like that, there was to be understanding.’ she is parading her old cunt bones whining at the justices --tissue conducts signals, animals communicate through the use of visual, acoustic , chemical, tactile and electrical signals. Our laboratory is an abundant and well preserved feed back loop to understand and interpret Eusocial behavior. negative feedback inhibition to make you shiver Gringo. Make you shiver good. + Repetition unsuccessful. The radiologist was called in to examine the patient --blisters and burns indicate high probability of skin mutation, what would you say Dr. Waiben? Crested and on the nod? Diminutively yes definitely. + Information potential exists --its an unsettling thought, dependency --and what happens when things start to think? How do you draw the lines then. + HOW THE PLAGUE BEGAN: + The wish to preserve -not worth saving what already is- in this scenario. The word, the loss of body situated at the origins of recorded sound -the temporal metaphysical and esthetic possibilities. + <insert sounds of truck on dirt road> + Old man yelling. Get off of my laaawwwnnn! Sits down to oil his gun some more and then half turns in his chair to face the camera and says "i haven't left the porch since i got this CDRom PEOPLE version 3.0. Updated and expanded human potential at your fingertips. Its the only thing i need --got no use for the stinking gringos anymore-- camera pans out and down revealing a yard strewn with shotgunblasted bodies of young children. We see wife, face half torn off, crawling towards a pistol <shotgun blast stage left> her head disappears entirely. Old man: "human potential, the new CDrom makes wives unnecessary." cue logo: on sale now at a sanatorium near you.... + I'm going to finally send you the orgy papers this time -been fixing to get 'round to that for some time" <heavy southern drawl> don't think he's the type to do it though but i been wrong once or twice a'fore. Don't want people showing up on my lawn though that's never good. get off of my lllaaaawwwwnnnnn! <shotgun blast again, distant screaming sounds of deaths final agonies eeking out blood gurgling windpipes> Fucking Gringos! Go home in a thousand languages! + Experience as much of the human potential as possible retain the container and forward the frog to the fun sun freaks of eastern Tibet all is well with alkaline, and acidity is on the skids with death rooted out leaving only chicken shit shoveled scrapped and scraped like lemon lime Gatorade poured from a fuck buck of love. Stop talking to yourself --listen to the virus talk to you. All that you consider to be a accident was carefully orchestrated for your benefit by a benevolent cocksucking god from the twenty-third dimension to just plain old irritate the fuck out of you like a bad rectal itch. Stupid gringo got no cure for the ass itch i show you some pictures, yes very dirty, little girls you like?????? + <<<<<commander in chief of the NATO forces in Europe is fucking small refugee boy in the ass, the boy cries for his mother the general is laughing, your mother’s down the hall boy ,she’s busy with the president of France right now. But maybe later you’d like to lick his come off her dead face. Ban those words tear them right out snip snip. Can’t say that, its disgusting. War is a snuff film for the rich. <<<<We gotta step up the bombing chief the public’s losing innarest in us screams the chief of staff running in circles jerking off and slapping his ass until it turns a bright purple and with all seriousness General Jesse Helms pauses to reflect: I remember a time when life was good no one got in our way, why in Europe under Patton i musta raped twenty thirty little boys and a handful of nuns too. He smiles lost in memory... + But God hath given us these trying times.... + Yes it is bit hard to get cunt these days isn’t it, mumbles the chief of state as he strokes his wife’s cock....Yes dear start a war, get me some cute refugee boys, i so love snapping their necks when i’m coming, she growls affectionately. + That's it gentlemen were going to war! The president stands and ejaculates on a map of the world KOSOVO it is he says as his thick oatmeal consistency sperm all but covers the former republic of Yugoslavia. + You like? You like, no? Too bad. You can’t have those words, too strong. I get power, you give me power, I steal power from you, to expensive to buy it. I get power and you get pictures and maybe I tell you how to cure rectal itch? Eh? Eh? Eh? + +Perfection is attained not +when there is no longer anything to add, +but when there is no +longer anything to take away +-Antoine de Saint Exupery + Experiments with the death ray tape and image guns began with William Burroughs in the nineteen fifties, but was sidetracked by the advent of digital technology. The newer is not necessarily the better though folks sometimes they just have different uses +--like the image gun that shot...In the beginning was the word and the word was made flesh by a cacophonous blast out of heaven's pearly cum-stained ass creating the father, the son, and the holy spigot which lies in a secluded garden on the cliffs overlooking the Sargasso sea. The spigot is buried in a volcano designed by Czech ostriches in the eleventh hour of creation to drain all human excrement off the continent of Europe and into the Sargasso sea all lumpy with turd so thick Jesus "conny" Christ in drag is walking along to the amazement of the gullible, floating gently from turd to turd. The piss blood of a million cunts and cocks line the shores giving the whole place a radioactive iridescent red glow not to mention a awful stench. Mr. Rogers and Captain Kangaroo are standing on the bluffs watching the spectacle and scanning with hawk eyes for sweet tight asses in which they can stab their hungry cocks. The father caught the son sitting in the middle of the garden sucking on an apple and he became enraged and hog tied the boy and penetrated every orifice in his body with a peeled and sculpted cucumber cock; the boy was left a whimpering quivering lump of fleshy jello from which spawned humankind. + The piss gut rotting flesh smell, air taunt necked and jerking at the nose, the captain's eyes role back into his head as is guts are blasted out his ass by a giggling man headed tape worm of extraordinary wit who was prone to quoting Joyce and Bugs Bunny in the same sentence in a way that reminded listeners of Buster Keaton in some strange drugstore hurricane kind of a way. The skatolic odor was rich and the worm refused to bath. Owing to the peculiar nature of its origin the soldiers did not disturb the worm preferring instead to watch the captain writhe in agony pulling his legs back behind his ear to attempt to lick the matted blood soaked pubic hair over the torn orangish flesh that hung in ribbons over a large hole that had once been a simple anus. The upshot of it all was that the worm ate less rations than the captain so the men were basically satisfied with the arrangement and they followed the worm wiggling through the jungle as it did impersonations of Fred Astaire... + Blasted rot gut con-artist with ten huge molars running across the front of his mouth in a clump owing to his mother's industrial accident with the cunt acid from the chink's hyperdrill. Drilled right on through back to china, the asshole couldn't even close the damn thing and the lower mandible just kind of hung there like a tire swing. Maya spits in his face in disgust and revulsion you don't have enough money for me to kiss you there isn't enough money on the planet... + The giggling Hyenas are dressed in black and high on amphetamines looking to turn you inside out. + Tongue-tied porn queens scream obscenities at passersby "I'll suck your dick until your eyeballs pop out your ass..." + Steady...wait til you see the whites of their eyes...Blown newspapers and advert scrapes cover the bottom three feet of a brick wall like sardines neatly packed in a kipper snack tin from a 1983 supermarket shelf....Horatio Alger's sodomizing menage-a-toi with the Maytag Man and Uncle Sam has led us to train station on the SpaceTime line where freedom is an irrelevant inconvenience of language that is slowly being fazed out of history. Language is a virus. The i that is You speaks, I speak and the vibrations of air we create controls our every move. Science gives rise to Magic in the form of powerful papers that tell who what why and how you are to be. You can't march down to city hall to protest without a permit filed ahead of time with the city clerk. You can't drive an automobile without the Proper Papers. You can't leave the country without PAPERS, you can't perform honest labor without PAPERS. You can't buy or grow certain pharmaceuticals at all, nor can you pursue the happiness of your choice unless it falls into one category. Consumption. We are all free to consume which when you think about it, is the only freedom we really need in a CONSUMER SOCIETY. Televisions, radios, automobiles, washing machines, drying machines, refrigerators, freezers, ovens, microwave ovens, convection ovens, alarm clocks, computers, headphones, home furnishings, bicycles, video games, tennis shoes, laser disc players, DVD players, record +players, compact disc players, cordless telephones, wireless phones, digital phones, cellular phones, two way radios, short wave radios, car stereos, home stereos, and every accessory you can conceive of and millions more you couldn't. We have all the entertainment and modern conveniences in the world in our home each assessable at our fingertips whenever you chose. Which is a good thing because the minute you step out of your house some OFFICAL OF THE STATE is going to want to see some goddamn-papers-on-the-double-what-the-hell-are-you-doing-here-cough-up-the-fee-place-your-hands-behind-your-head-you-have-the-right-to-remain-silent-lie-down-and-spread-your-legs-and-shut-the-fuck-up-right-fucking-now sir! + Uncle Sam came on the ground and left without a trace. Horatio and Maytag were emotionally tormented for years until their eventual deaths through ritualistic dismemberment. + Sil Hawkard: And I don't have any papers standing on a cement sidewalk slab starring at the FREEDOM OF AMERICA locked inside a now closed appliance store. The Ace Appliance Store to be precise. I feel suddenly nervous like they know what I am thinking. They know that I am thinking. + -He's not smiling. Oh no, not yet, we're working on it though.- + We the people we govern you the other people have decided for reasons which are beyond the scope of this broadcast and may well be beyond the scope of your comprehension entirely that all freedoms which you previously thought you had but never in reality did possess are summarily denied from this point forward. Please report to the nearest biomedical programming center by the fourth of May where a new human program bio-unity 3.6 will be installed into your seratonin and allow for future dopemine programming without the need for physical intervention please go about your lives as you always have all those not present for the reprogramming procedures by the fourth of May will be consider fugitives of the state and will be dealt with in the harshest manner allowed by law and endorsed by the entertainment loving public... + + + Naturally Waiben wanted out of jail and was perfectly willing to meet with his former cellmate who had struck up most unusual conversations about the edges of science and how far did he think they were from the fringes of magic and shamanist traditions and methods? Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magick ...Sil struck Waiben as extremely well read and without the usual pretensions of one who is in as deep as he appeared to be, Waiben's hopes were somewhat dashed when he refused to answer the question who do you work for prefering to lapse back on a well developedhabit of mumbling incoherently and abruptly changing the subject usually to something about the merits of anarchy. Waiben wanted to hear the words i am rich and i will pay you large sums of money to work for me to do pure research untainted by political agenda and what not, Waiben realized he was beginning to sound like some science utopianist and mentally slapped himself in the face. + Waiben studied Sil's face in the last rays of New Orleans sun noticing the wild sparkle that seemed the jump out of his eyes when his mind began to race and Waiben could abrely keep up with the blast of ideas. But they were not incoherent rants he watched the wheels truning half wondering whether he had actually thought this up ahead of time or whether he really just talked as fast as the words formed in his head. Sil appeared to be around twenty five perhaps a bit older, but his head was a jungle of hair the crawled all over his glasses and eyes obscuring them entirely at time such that he reminded the doctor of the hairy talking thingy from the Adams family. + Still Waiben was happy to be talking to someone who was as least way beyond the game curcuit and seemed to pocess at least a spotty grasp of partical theory and probabilies. He seemed especially obcessed with frequencies and radio transmission which intriguid Waiben as his own experiements with orgaon had seemed to be pointing in that +direction. Sil was a furocious smoker Waiben noticed --such a rediculous drug habit he thought somewhat indifferently. + "What? I'm soory my mind was wandering." Waiben felt momentarily ackward, but Sil seemed not to care. + "No I'm sorry I've never done this before." + "Done what?" Waiben could only think horrified of unwelcome sexual advances and suddenly reality filpfloped for him. + "recruited anyone." was Sil's not so reassuring reply + "recruited for what," asked Waiben uneasily feeling the squeeze of reality tunnel uncertainty. + "Perhaps invited is a better word. There is somewhere I'd like you to go with me." + This was too much for Waiben and he had to blurt out, "are you trying to hit on me?" + Sil just laughed "Downs was right your still planer, but don't worry you don't have to have sex with anyone although I recomment you do have sex with someone perhaps even everyone. Now I'm going to do some coding, you have room waiting at the mondrain and I'll pick you up at about eight tomorrow morning we have a ten o'cock flight to Buenos Aries. I'm glad to have you along," he smiled. + Waiben absorbed the information and sudden thought aloud "you can't fly from New Orleans to Buenos Aires the airports not big enough..." + "We're not taking a commercial flight," Sil said as he walked away. + Several hours later as the heat dissipates slowly bvack inland to the swamps and the ocean breeze brings in the gulf night, Waiben is thinking about Voodoo, Gringos and the Quantum Uncertainty principle. It had occurred to him that in addition to the homosexual tunnel he had accidentally step into and the imagined tunnel he wished he could find there was another tunnel to consider:Sil couled be some fundamentalist nut case +trying to lead him out of the country and to his death. Religious nuts hated science more than science nuts hated religion and learning the languages of each in order to pass one's seflf off as a scientist or a baptist wasn't that difficult. + He sat up in bed reread the letter Sil had given him...With practice you can teach yourself to receive peoples signals or thoughts; what we want you to figure out is how to create a sub-audio broadcast that can actually be controlled and directed like an ordinary radio signal. Telepathy is an interpersonal form of radio, and my understanding of the general theories of chaos, what is true for one system should be relatively the same in another if only the signal amplitude is being changed. The problem I see is that even subtle changes in input can cause radical oscillations in output or more poetically: somewhere a butterfly is beating its wings and changing world history. Waiben thought about it for a while and fell asleep to a tunnel where television was the ultimate telepathic control signal broadcast onto an unwitting population and designed to create subtle and undetectable mind control. It was a fitful sleep. + Waiben slid into what shamans call the dream body, Jungians call the net of synchronicity and phycisist call the uncertainty principle where spacemind over whelms and breaks down the normal balance of spacetime and mind. Sixty years earlier in a different coordinate point Dr. Waiben is inventing Color Television. It was the basis of his realization that mind control was possible, it was merely a question of finding the right tools and methods of applying the tools. He had stumbled on to the idea of television as a form of mind control about the time the first color sets were coming onto the market. He was just by coincidence (if you believe in such nonsensical notions) studying the orgone theories of Doctor Wilheim Reich at the time. + Even in the nineteen forties Reich’s theories were revolutionary to Waiben and he felt he had found someone besides himself and Korzybsky who truly understood the implications of Einstein's relativity notions and revolutionary view of the world that he gave us. The sentence that leaped out of Reich’s notes as Waiben stared hypnotically at the +bluish glow of the first color television set was one that warned prolonged exposure to the bluish radiation of bion energy has had negative physical ramifications such as headaches, red swollen eyes, and the feeling that one had been staring at the sun for too long.... The synapse fired and Waiben hurried home to begin experimenting with blue light emissions to find out if they had any connection to orgone energy and in the end he found that blue wavelength radiation with prolonged exposure irritates the eyes and actually appeared to drain orgone energy out of the individual presumably by neutralizing the signal and allowing it to pass through the individual with out interacting. This reasoned Waiben would make people tired from watching television, but simultaneously unable to break the strong magnetic bond that the TV was creating. The potential for a sedated and apathetic culture with a very high threshold for persecution thus raised its ugly head. Waiben never mentioned his finding to anyone and merely offered to help in the perfecting of the television signal --always quietly insisting that blue light was the easiest method of signal transmission + Waiben used to drive the suburbs around nine o'clock just watching the eerie blue glow coming from the hundreds of thousands of houses he had infected. He like to think of television as a virus because in many respects it was; like virus it was benign until the right electrical connection from the host triggered the release of the disease. Like a virus it was passed from one generation to the next, and like a virus its spread was exponentially related to the human population growth ie. more people = infected people. The greatest side effect of television though was quite unintended by Waiben, it had radically reoriented the global mindset from isolated consumption into total slavery to consumption and fashion. Thus Waiben learned that the fastest and most effect way of controlling a large population was to make it genuinely believe that it own enslavers were in fact its heros, its gods, thus eliminating or at the very least co-opting naysayers by making them part and parcel of the disease. Additionally as TV became more widespread even its detractors had to use the very channels of oppression as their only outlet for resistance. Much like +controlling any signal path, insurrectionists and radicals were diverted by capacitors (“the media”) and squelched by resistors (“the police”). Thus the people remained happy and content with their oppression and no one was able to convince them to give up the convenience of slavery for the hardships of freedom. Would you? + It wasn't enough though; true mind control would leave the victim unable to disobey the signal or ideally, unaware that he or she were even being controlled --like Christ reborn, Waiben thinks of the old con artist sitting laughing from con artist heaven. + sub-audio messages are below the threshold of human hearing, but not that of comprehension. It is the noise of someone thinking. Listening in is just a matter of having the right receptors, psychics and clairvoyants had been doing it as circus tricks for centuries. The granddaddy of all his research would be that day when he could say definitively that he had a method for true and total mind control. It was this quest that had led him back to a state lab in Las Vegas where tonight he is planning to induce mind alteration and manipulation with the legendary Ayahuasca which contains a harmine that some believe bonds directly with human DNA. In the good doctor's mind that meant opening up a channel directly into the cellular level, allowing for deep meta-programming and possibly a key for using nanotechnology --but that’s too complicated right now. “Think of it as inter-cellular radio” he told his colleagues who mostly ignored his fanatical rantings. + Stupid fucking scientists he is thinking. I hate 'em I hate 'em I hate 'em I fucking hate 'em. They spend there whole goddamn lives studying the brilliant thoughts culled from centuries of genius's without ever stopping to think that maybe genius lurks in there own minds. Ingrates. Ought to have been stamped out with the rest of the conservative christian movements, they have no understanding of novelty. If it hasn't been done a hundred times before they won't even talk about it let alone attempt to experiment with it. + Paging Dr. Waiben. Dr. Waiben please come to Lab 203. Dr. Waiben Lab 203. + What the fuck have those morons done now? Probably killed one of themselves by mistake. Lab 203 was of course the antidote lab for the biological warfare experiments he had been conducting back east. Nowadays Waiben was finding even in his close colleagues’ a certain hang up, they felt they had found the key when in fact they merely had the next step to the door, the key itself was still along way off. Thus he decided that Kellinger and his other lab assistant, Dr. Frederick were becoming even more of a liability then a help. True to his ruthless and cold pursuit of power Waiben logically concluded that they were no longer necessary, but at the same time they knew to much to risk turning his back on them --Kellinger had, after all been as much a part of inventing the eaters as Waiben had. So Waiben arrived at his lab with his mind made up, he knew Kellinger was in Los Angeles for the Weekend with his lover Simon, and he also knew William was in Los Angeles with an eater doing some work for Sil, he called Sill and Sil called William and not thirty minutes later Dr. Kellinger’s tendril like arm snaked up and grabbed his own ringing phone...Doctor Kellinger? Speaking.... universal breakdown short curcuited the word and left you here naked and cold. + +familiarity breeds contempt +-William Brandon +from the Origin of Consciousness + + + The next morning, true to his word Sil picked Waiben up in a limosine and they caught downs' private jet to Buenos Aries. Sil could tell that Waiben was suffering Space Time Mind confusion and that the first signs of the breakdown of scientific rationality were already manifesting themselves. Sil left Waiben in the main compartment of the jet and disappeared with a wavering walk into the back of the plane, Waiben could hear another man talking to what he assumed was the cockpit crew giving flight instructions. The plane was not unlike most government planes it had couches instead of seats and revealled to one how much room there realy is on the inside on an airplane. This particular plane had a few +things that Waiben doubted were government planes --an assortment of medical tools that were stored in glass cabinet near the front of the cabin and beside each of the black leather couches were a permanently attached hucas which, Waiben noticed by bumping one, were flexible at the base so as not to spill their contents during flight. The cabin also contained an impressive collection of computer hardware and curiously near the door marked COCKPIT, on a small desk was an antique typewriter with the word Underwood inscribed on the face. The walls of the jet were covered with tapestries and pillows with scenes from the Tibetian Book of The Dead and the Kama Sutra lay haphazardly in the corner the mixture of oriental and occidental gave the room a circular feeling, which was reinforced by the cynderical walls and roof. + The door to Waiben's back flung open and Sil and another man came struggling through it, laughing and carrying a giant mirror full of cocaine. “So you found our coordinate eh?” said the man in the three piece suit, laughing and pointed at Waiben. + “Yes I did.” said Waiben staring at the coke. + “Oh, pardon me how rude, would you like some cocaine, I fear this is all we have left, but help yourself.” + “No thanks” + “No thanks you don’t want any or no thanks you want it but you aren’t about to do on a jet with two people you don’t know?” + “Second” + “Lay off him Cary he's already trying to live at least six tunnels at once, you know how disorienting it is at first” Sil flopped down on a couch and began to load a huca with hashish. "Just remember if it doesn't make you laugh it probably isn't real..." his voice trailed off into mumblings Waiben did not catch. + “Just so you know Doctor, if we were going to hurt you, we would have pushed you out of the plane as soon as we were over water, so relax and do some drugs, we’ll tell you what we need you for later, right now you need us, you got the need we got the drugs +so lighten up eh?” Downs had decided that since the doctor was already in a tunnel of anylitical scientific doctrine he would be best brought around by his cankerous old southern man routine that he imagined to be somewhat akin to hanging out with William S. Burroughs. + Waiben sat somewhat reluctantly on the couch next to Sil who handed him the end of the surgical tubing and when Waiben put it to his lips Sil lit the huca. Waiben noticed just before the hash hit him that the lighter had a picture of christ with a crown of thorns on it. This realization man him chuckle and wonder if Sil had seen his or perhaps it was his or perhaps every gas station in America has them. + "Uh oh he's gonna get the giggles," Downs said laughing himself, "here do some coke to speed up the signal processing, it frees the word." + Waiben felt a delicious chemical alkaloid taste on the back of his tongue as he sniffed a long line of cocaine --a brilliantly awakened peacefulness settled over him. Downs noticed the change in mindset and dropped the old man routine in favor of his smooth warm welcome-to-my-world voice... + broadband signal strength test market for better higher climbable mountains:”:”:”::”:”:”:”:”:”:”>>>>>>>>>wicked evil sentiments have been exercised and all words and virus contained>>>>>>government works like this more or less:>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>The waiting drove me mad...so stop waiting ya stupid fuck... transmission broadcast’s proposals for your demise. incomplete and ill planned. the joint chiefs of staff would be happy to coordinate efforts for a small fee. Do pictures have a language? static. message garbled. transmission lost. + + Waiben surveys his hotel room with its view overlooking the Buenos Aries airport he stares at their plane off to the right of the terminal just barely visible from where he is. Well so this is South America. Huh. The room is midgrade not nice, but so far free of roaches which when flying over the city on their approach seemed quite an unlikely +possibility. Waiben lies down on the bed, lights a cigarette, and turns on the television. Spanish broadcast MTV. He rolls on his side reaching into his bag and extracting a vial of DMT, do whatever you want tonight they had said just be sober by six in the morning. He pours the white powder into a glass pipe feeling a bit like a crack whore the taste is reminecint of cock that soothing artificial quality...the world game stopped the truth game stopped and finally in less than thirty seconds the Waiben game stopped what happened after that is a matter of some speculation, but he was pretty sure that he hadn't really talked to an ostrich that explained to him the future and his role in something called Freeport. Sil and Cary were in the next room listening to Waiben on a short wave system they had set up prior to giving Waiben a key. + "He's going to see them I know it," Sil found himself saying. + "I don't unerstand why you think this doctor is so useful, I already have scientists that are further along in his field that he is." Downs didn't like Waiben he sensed something familiar about him as if everything he was capable of he had already done once before with disaterous results and Downs had spent enough time messing with the fabric of reality to know that his brain knew a lot more than it would let him see all at once. A sufi story came back to him...a man walks into a store and says to the shop keeper have you seen me before? The shopkeeper says no and the man says then how do you know it is me? + Sil is insistant on Waiben's necesity and even when Cary raises the control game issues Sil does not back down, "thats why I gave him the hallucinogens because it rids you of the ego, he doesn't know who he is right now, he thinks he invented color television. Relax." Sil smoked a little DMT himself and tuned his shortwave radio to static. This helped to establish in his mind a kind of rhythm and seemed to link the drug to the static, if only in his mind. Pictures are a language he is thinking. + +I do not believe that the world +is made of quarks or electromagnetic waves, +or stars, or planets, or any of these things. +I believe the world is made of language. +-Terence McKenna + Madison Avenue is a faceless row of buildings filled with thousands of advertising agents, it is an entity in Abstraction. Abstraction is the legal basis for the sanctity of the state, and it is a wholly bianary system. Its language is bianary coding form the conceptual level down to vast systems of information stored in computer cuniform. It was to put it mildly the last place one would look for spiritual insight. But Sil Hawkard was not bounded by the archtypal mythologies of his culture. In any age and any culture the shaman is the the oddball who is seperate from the cultural images of the human experience. The non-shaman citizen is in constant conflict between expectation of habit and the nagging guilt of novelty or rather the lack of novelty. The shaman is merely one who has allowed the self to take over the citizen in such a way that bahavior and even brainwave patterns are altered. And it is for this reason that the shaman is exiled to the edge of the village, because tampering with the fabric of consensus reality is dangerous to its continued existance never call anything up that you can not put back down. + The most common method of acheiving such a feat over the years has been chemical mind manipulation. Sil's fascination with mind manipulation did not began with drugs though, it began much earlier in a high school biology class where he realized the simple truth that the brain is a continuously changing chemical reaction. The nuero circuitry of the brain is like the inner workings of a computer, of course it is infinitely more complex, but the computer is still a useful metaphor. Eventually through his use of drugs he came to realize that even chemical maps are in fact a rather poor guide to what the hell is really going on. If you see something you have never seen before, you want to tell about it you want to talk about it you want to describe it. You are tempted to say it resembled a woman but was nothing like a woman. The first thing you need to move on from the temporal reality that most people cling to is a new language. + It was this reason that had led Sil to Madison avenue because even if their goals were slightly less benign than Sil's own they nevertheless possessed a wealth of data on manipulations of language. They had managed to create a universe in which people were +convinced they needed everything they didn't have. This was a powerful tool of magic and while Sil wasn't entirely sure if they were even aware of what they were doing they were undeniably doing it. Manipulating language is one of the shaman's starting tools, kind of a chip flint arrow in the bigger picture, but technology builts on itself --if you can't chip an arrow head you can't split an atom. So he arranged to have one hundred televisions brought to Buenos Aries and tuned to different stations in all kinds of languages and he began the immense task of taping, editing, and splicing Madison Avenue's commercial language. + It was for this reason Sil wanted to bring Waiben to Buenos Aries and now as Waiben sat in the chair staring around the room at the overwhelmin sensory input potential of one hundred televisions in one room he felt overwhelmed and not up to the task. He had at his disposal a team of over two hundred electronics experts, but he had the annoy task of looking for something without knowing what it was. Downs and Hawkard had left him a copious amount of DMT, mushrooms, peyote, cocaine, and hashish to help him along. Sil recomended hash and cocaine together as the best decoding agent for the madison magicians as he had taken to calling them. His proposal came after a week of drugs and sex which Waiben had enjoyed and felt for the first time really truly free and alive. Sex is as good as the body gets Downs had said, but now he had years worth of work staring him in the face. I know you want to find the face behind the mask behind the face behind the mask behind the face behind the mask... Sil had chanted as he left. The most curious event of the week was the time when Sil had been teaching Waiben how to use mantras and hash as tools in meditation. Waiben realized after selecting a mantra from an astrology book in Downs' apartment, that Sil was chanting I can't believ its not butter, I can't believe its not butter I can't believe its not butter.... + Sil and Downs returned to the oil derrick city while the good doctor spent the better part of the day in an oxygen pure environment subjecting himself the recuperative acupuncture therapy on his muscles which were stimulated one by one with needle pricks +while an orgone generator hummed steadily in the corner. The preprogrammed alpha waves stimulated his body's brain functions that were healing in nature and as the experienment went on electro graphs of brain activity mapped the centers stimulated and was compared with the frequency emitted until each frequency had its effects defined and clearly mapped. In another room one of his researchers was having similiar electro stimulation through flicker television screens recorded and the alpha waves would be compared to Waiben's and others. + Chemical stimulation of the brain acts at different frequencies than orgone so Waiben entered into a tunnel of reality where the healer believed that orgone would rejuvinate the body and help it recover from the destructive side effects of the drugs. Similtaneously doing research and healing appealled to the self centered side of Waiben. Waiben was not a regular user of drugs and thus prone to over-enthusiasm from the get go --Downs had cautioned him about the difference between want and need and how thin and blurry the line could get. No one said the doors to the chapel perilous wouldn't be guarded. Addiction is the first to rear its ugly head the word is obliterated by the need. need is driven by re -action rather than action. The first rule of anarchy is to never react. Re-action is a non event, it doesn't exist in reality and it futility is readily apparent to anyone who ceases to do it. The human brain is taught to feel a certain sensation and because evolution was soooo effective the brain learns to adjust to fit the new reality --making ot real. Thus it reacts to the stimuli by negating its effects and like the man in the floppy hat said it never got weird enough for me. + avoiding addiction is no easy task --you're up against over ten thousand years of terrestrial survival instincts; shedding them is the damnedest thing like the Kimono dragons continually picking at the dead flesh that refuses to leave the beast that it was once a part of. Waiben felt up to the task on many levels, but he had made a mental note to not have any opiates around because after all a man has to know his limitations. + + + + +reality is a narrow +definition of existance +-Sil Hawkard from The Rubber Octupus + + + +one year and six thousand miles northeast Sil sits in his room of tunisia smoking hash and reading a letter from the doctor that said: + +observations on the Madison Avenue language/image institution: + The rigid censorship guidelines for language that may or may not be used by broadcast media is the first thing that one notices when evaluating the Madison language manipulation. What you don't hear is more obvious than what you do hear. This arbitrary crystaline definition between what is accepted as language and what is perifrial gives added power to the abscant words given there selective nature. The powe3r is largely meaningless but the pricision of its delineation tends to suggest that those making the choices do indeed have power. At this point there power is largely exercised in the form of fines although who continue to push usually fade out of the picture. The restriction of language, even of a few simple words like sexually oriented words, gives the controller power over the sender who is dependant on the controllers approval prior to broadcast. The censorship itself is not so strong as to limit image rather disrupt the free flow of ideas without raising the suspicions of the majority who, it is important to remember can ultimately disrupt the delicate balance. + image control of broadcast media is much more sexually oriented than language. they don't let them them see sex in realtime, they let them see violense in realtime, but never ever the actual sex act. It is endlessly mentioned and alluded to but never shown. This seems to create a message of sex being more powerful than death, which in the ordinary magical arts is not necessarily true. The lack of sex images is complicated. By depriving them of biotic need creates a tension and stress and without equilibrium, power can never be achieved. But it also creates a subculture, those who enjoy the nudity so much that they are willing to go out and buy it on the free market. This can never be stopped, therefore it is best to marginalize this subculture through city zoning laws and force them into the “bad parts” of town. This marginalization makes them ineffectual during rebellion because the dominate culture knows that no matter how bad the current situation may be they sure as hell don’t want some “porn watching trash monger” in charge. + The human consciousness is latent with sexuality. Not hetro or homo, but simply sexuality, however in wordimage track television it is almost exclusively hetrosexual mythology --conditioning the brain into a binary system of either/or hetero/homo, one disrupts the normal circuitry of the brain creating mono memes (see footnote).1 Monomemes lead to +repression and non-symetical personality types. Signal processing in these brain patterns is much more open to autosuggestion --research continues in this field. + 3.Language manipulation: When attempting autosuggestion it is worth bearing in mind the KISS principle of which I believe Madison Avenue is acutely aware. The so-called “sound bite” is simple and enables you to plant marginalizing catch phrases in the mind of general public It also leaves room to constantly create and update the marginalization. In addition, by providing easy to recall words and phrases that simplify and therefore make meaningless complicated patterns and repitions you create a tendancy to narrow brainwave activities. Examples: Nigger, Nazi, Lesbo bitch, rock’n’roll, just a junky, anything with monger at the end of it, etc. It is also worth noting that Madison employs what shamans and priests have known for centuries the --rythem of the words is as important as the meaning which is why jingles were so popular for so long. Repeated exposure, however, creates an irritablility so I think there would have to be ceremonial in quality; as in a concert, but thus far the government newsbroadcastshave not employed such a technique (perhaps it is too obvious) + I could not (through the nature of the medium) tell if any sort of orgone generator type of energy was being used, but such a device requires a symbol transfer system which in my opinion has not been toyed with yet although I believe that it might be with further reasearch. I also plan to look more into the blue light synchronicity between Orgone and the neutral background of television. One of the technitians here has a tunnel in which the connection is real and the distruction of Reich's research a typical sloppy government cover-up to conceal what they were doing...you get the idea. It is a tunnel that I have yet to explore. + +personal notes: television (and here i mean all television because all television is advertising) seems to be primarily a means of diffining language and image. It presents polarities so often and with such a remarkable sense of irony (unitended?) that it seems to be telling us what the limits are. "The news" often plays the most violent stories back to back with the most heartwarming ones, obstenitly to not depress the viewer but it has rather the opposite effect of creating a constant tension in the viewer causing one have an inevitable sense of doom in every situation of pleasure. This helps to instill a sense of control over behavior, however this is not something that can be clinically evaulated it is just instinct. Ordinarily I would disregard the rather direct nature of the causality, but because especially America in some very real sense allows its fabric of reality to be held together by television I think that some sort of syncronise behaviorial patterns could be instilled through the airwaves. The Question of intelligent origions I still have no opinion on --I think that the fastest way to determine such a direct causality would be to delibriately try it and judege the results. Thank you for your continued support and be advised that I am returning to the united states under the name Chase Hollister. + + New Orleans: the bus is gone leaving a surly crowd of Mexicans behind coming to work in restaurants they can’t afford to eat in. Down the street tourists buy overpriced and ugly looking wood carvings because the sign on the shop says Voodoo and they want funky stuff so their relatives back home will find them more authentic --as if reality were not a fabric tearing down the middle. Sil Hawkard is sitting at his favorite stateside tavern waiting for the arrival of Dr. Waiben whom he is beginning to suspect may in fact be turning out as Downs had said --be careful what you wish for. Waiben was making Sil wait and Sil new it, Waiben was letting him know that one can not escape the control circuit if one is going to attempt to live in the fabric. Of course Sil knew he would have a well thought out and logical excuse, not to would have been Sil's style; he knew the game curcuit and he knew the games and he never bothered to play. Sil was excited by the prospect of what he might be getting in terms of research from Waiben, but he was also logically paranoid and knew human behavior so he developed the possiblity that Waiben might be giving him a stranglelope of disinformation. As a precaution Downs had insisted he take entourage who were now spread around New Orleans waiting for his signal and amusing themselves at the same time. + Sil saw Waiben outside as he rounded the corner and Sil ducked into the restroom--two paranoids meeting is always a contest of wills and never simple. First the feelers--Waiben headed straight into the bathroom and started to pee in the urinal, Sil stepped noiselessly out of the stall next to him and gently eased a gun behind his ear, “Doctor Livingston I presume?” + Waiben was visibly shaken, but tried his best to hide it, he smiled “Sil your paranoia is unfounded, occasionally troubling, but always amusing. Sil paused for a moment unsure if Waiben’s lips had even moved. + "Don’t pull telepathy games with me Waiben, it's irritating. Half the time all i get is gibberish, just save it until you know what your doing, okay?” His tone was deliberately +condescending and he said it with out moving his lips and looking straight into Waiben's eyes + “That wasn’t telepathy is was sub vocal speech, but okay we’ll just talk, can i get you a drink?” Waiben looked a touch surprised, but Sil couldn't tell if it was genuine. + + Dr Waiben had arrived in New Orleans after a short lecture stop in Los Angeles, California where he had experimented with speaking in tongues. The central nervous system is much like a radio antenna and Waiben was obsessed with finding a powerful enough signal to reach everyone at once. The tongues method appeared, from the LA experiment anyway, to be strong enough only if you knew how to pick it up. Much like his experiments with television, it required the listener to make a conscious effort to tune it in, which meant that it could be tuned out just as easily. + SpaceTime events collide. Words bounce out uncontrollably and with no respect whatsoever for the recognized conventions of english grammar and proper method of coherent speech. Pick up your marshmallows and walk -Christ is drunk and babbling in the streets of Bethlehem, Mohammed heaves him over his shoulder and carries him to a remote cave in the Gobi desert where they make sweet love under the waning stars of eternity like Calvin Klein and Gorgio Armani before the great clothing wars of the late 1990's. + + Sil sits down with Waiben and starts to tell a story, but thinks better of it and simply studies Waiben's face for a minute. "Cary has a brain tumor and he is going to die within a month." he said suddenly. "Everything is being turned over to me on the condition that I withdrawl all support and contact from you and your research facility, but I have not agred to it yet. I came here to ask you if the rumors are true." + For the first time Waiben genuinely felt spacetimemind curving and he saw Sil Hawkard fade and crumble as if he had actually been made up of structuralized ants. + The assistant beside him watches horrified as the virus pushes in bubbling crispy blisters against the outer skin of the boy's cock. The cock begins to move as if independent of the boy, it twists and turns in ways that one would not expect a cock to be able to move. It seems propelled about by the force of the popping skin blisters. The skin is searing and the acrid smell of burnt flesh permeates the air, a faint trail of delicate whispy smoke emits from the top like effervescent semen. His cock continues to dance about as if possessed by a viral cobra, the skin is disfigured and slides off in sheets that look like red black strips of chicken skin. The blisters are popped like a burnt hot dog, the vein on the underside splits open and oozes out a hideous trail of ochre liquid that snags in the boys pubic hair and trickles down his ass. + The virus begins to organize itself into more complex structures as though it were leaping up the evolutionary ladder right before the good Doctor's eyes. The boy screams in pain and terror as the blisters begin to form on his chest. + "By God i think its going to his brain, its ten minutes old and its evolved from a virus to a sentient creature capable of locating the vital organs of its host and destroying it. Waiben is momentarily shocked, the assistant retreats to the observation room for fear its growth rate might be too exponential and drags Waiben by the arm. Behind the antiseptically clean glass they continue to observe the beast as it burrows through the boys body, and then suddenly it stops and the monitoring devise on the boy falls silent. It dies with the host, how tragically effective, thought Waiben. + "What we need to do is tamper with its genes so that it doesn't die with the host -a virus that evolves in to a completely independent creature in an evolutionary span of two or three minutes..." Waiben's assistant Dr Kellinger's mind is racing ten ton truck-like around the viscus fluids of his skull and two years away a phone is already ringing. + "Did you hear that?" Waiben asks suspiciously as his spacetime point begins to warp forward. + Kellinger stops mid sentence. "Hear what?" + "The phone, I thought I hear the phone?" + "Are you okay? + "Yes, why?" + "You're the one who had the phones down hear removed two weeks ago because you said they were distracting you from this project and now you're still hearing them ring? You might want to lay off the cocaine for a little while Doctor." + "It not habit forming." + "All elements of mind control are habit forming --you of all people ought to know that." + Fragments of ash are falling. Government radio broadcasts interrupt still air to create wavelengths...my god thinks Waiben its working on me He grabs a cattle prod and heads out of the room. + Somewhere a man shoot a monkey and blows off its balls. The monkey laughs obnoxiously as the cells reconstruct themselves and a new set of balls rapidly grows in place of the old ones, he advances menacingly on the man who now realizes his error and begins to flee. Always subjugate reality. + + Waiben burst out laughing and took an exaggerated sip of scotch, "you're the one who tried so hard to get me to believe that nothing is true...are you afraid to live your own reality?" + Sil stared at Waiben for a bit and got up silently and walked to the bathroom again he smoked DMT and sat on the toilet seat and braced himself. Fragments of Ash falling. White washed ceilings hanging so ominous Hallucination of bubble-headed figures crawling like the Michelin Man across an indescribable mountain of tires +Motels Motels Motels Whiskey Bourbon. Tow truck non-ordinary state of reality precludes a state of reality that something is real Point at the autistic manwomanchild Autistic man pointing at you laughing unable to fathom how your brain functions and quite +self righteously you you cling to its definitions. Must delineate between abnormality and those of us who Understand The Human Virus breeding like rats unconsciously conscious and awareof our disorganization. Gas Station Cold Fusion dreams of the Anarchist are breedingin the minds of the oil men who don’t want toloose their stranglehold of reality.Fragments of Ash falling the continual settling of dust weighing down humanity and the French Maid masturbates discreetly in the next room. You need her to keep the dust off your mortalcoil spring.Rebirth mythology.Mythology of reality. We must distinguish between what will be defined as sane and what shall be referred to as insanity. Kevlar definitionsconstructed to make a better shampoo seem like a logical item on whichto squander your paperbacked slavery bills.After all these years Tide still +gets your socks whiter Its a wonder that they aren’t transparent by now.that your brain retarded in its developmentthat evolution had not anticipated the advent of the opposable thumb the unopposable domination of the thumb leadingto and insect superiority of mating rituals stolen from a textbook on damselflies darning needles sewing shut your lips, mind atrophy. Weber's White Race Enriched for Superiority Scorched earth campaigns raining Ash. Shit from the sky. Tax man camefor your baby in exchange for unpaid balance. You understand. Nothing Personal Just doing our job. Same as the next guy. From Auzwich on down the line. Didn’t make the rules. Sorry. We perfected them.There are no innocents in a world of free will. You don’t have to survive at the expense of others. You could die with puncture wounds in your handsand others would create a new mythology strange irony would find another with holes in his hands unwilling to accept cockroach mentalities.You want to beLIEve Hitler was a madman but he lives on in quiet cafes centralsouthamerica not so free not all the communists have been shot yet Your mistook misunderstood missed the lesson in the situation that unfolded Dr. of dialectic excuses you want to beLIEve Hitler was a madman Hitler killed everybody's body only taking orders you understand just doing my job from Independence on down the line. It was a sad money grubbing hunter gather up his children and thank his gods they are his and he their +god behold I have come to tell you that everything you know is wrong stop doing your job it is not yours see Hitler in your mind you want him dead but he's not he livesonburied under restraint in everyones mind.Only taking orders you understand. Didn’t have a CHOICE. Got a family to feed. radio crackle. pop. hiss. silence. + + “Alright, so what are you going to do?” Waiben asked as he came back. + "I will not sell you out to the State like Cary wants me to do, but you will never see me again." Sil walked out of the bar and got in a waiting car. + + Anything everything like a hurricane blowing bits of ash in from mountainous eruptions. Sil is sitting at a table, coat turned collar up and looking like a grainy photograph, harsh contrasts under a sterile florescent bulbs, mad-smoking a half lit cigarette. Old Cary Downs is inside, diffidence hangs like a fern in the corner to liven the place up and remind freshly wed virgins that drinking the seed is a gift of God. God who rots like a gaslamp whore waiting to get back what life owed him. Sil lays down the napkin he was blowing his nose in and gets up to leave. + Sil remebers a peculiar buzzing sound rang near the edge of his ears, a sound not unlike what a bear must hear with its head stuck inside a hollow log with hornets nest buzzing at the other end and echoing up the length. The sound began to organize itself at first into random pulses and thumps until a pattern emerged and Sil saw the rhythmic pounding of African drummers crouched by the fire and Aztec dancers whirled like calavera dolls blowing in the wind swept rafters of a Mexican village and far off, back in the shadows a thousand villagers chanted a harsh wilderness voice that carried up into his consciousness and spoke: + Behold we are ants. Tonight we appear to you as a headless horseman suit driven by a midget who smokes cinnamon sticks and who before this is over will likely find sexually desirable in the same way those lechers looked at Snow White when she +would bend over the stove. Only KiKi can save you, but that is irrelevant for now. As we said we are ants and our purpose is singular. Attachment is a pattern and in runs through you. Beware of the singularity of Time and consult often the wisdom of the last carrier pigeon. She waits like a pregnant woman ready to burst forth with impenetrable mysteries. Might well be the key to the universe handed by a pervertial passageway of dreams. + Cary died two days later and Sil flew to an island he had only recently found on the map. An island where sad tropic storms made one want to just sit on the porch in a bambo chair and stare at nothing for hours. Sil was sad about Cary, but primarily he suddenly felt the full weight of his own life on his shoulders --everyone in tunisia was waiting to see what he would do. He had taken the manufacturing codes for the production of the synthesiation of hashish and marajuana using carbon as a carrier and sold it for seven million dollars which he then parlayed into the stocks of the companies using a false corporation and funnelled the money into an e-cash account in the carribean. Sil was finacially poised to build an international empire and without word he left the derrick taking cary's jet and most of his informationresearch code machinery. As far as anyone on the rig knew he just disappeared they heard odd stories like one that an old man had approached him on the beach and converted him to christianity. One person did show up at the rig in tunisia though: the doctor will see you now. + + The encroaching millennia had several side effects which most people in the state had not antisipated, every society has its periodic upheavals and tumult but every society is different in what the upheaval is about. No one expected the fucking in the streets routine to really happen, but it did or at least it had for a while --it was dying off now some of the old purist religious types where beginning to crawl out of their bomb shelters to realize that the world had indeed gone mad just not violently mad. Instead sex evolved. It made sense to Waiben, after all the continuation of the species was more or less assured by DNA, why not have some fun, Waiben had developed a perverse sense of +humor in Buenos Aries. and had begun investigating ways of dilberately controlling the mind. scenes from the labritory play on tape loops in the new smithsonian. Do what ever you want just make sure he's in pain the whole time. I want his brain to remain in shock and agony for as long as it can before it turns itself off completely. Waiben was working on a theory of ego destruction --what happens to the mind if there is no ego? So far his experiment with television had been a disaster the only thing resembling a result was one freakish accident in which a Wichita cop, after 189 hours of uninterrupted signal, had blasted his own eyeballs out of his head and sent a strange grey ooze that had once been a brain flying across the room plastering on the wall like abstract art . Then the unexplainable parth his assistants puzzled over: projectile vomit squirted unrecognizable organ goo onto the television screen, when they wiped the ooze off the screen the television had short circuited itself and was spitting out random numbers for ten minutes or so and then at the bottom it scrolled out slowly and deliberately drwaibenlovesyou. + As a half joke half experiment (founded one Sil's premise if it isn't funny it probably won't work) Waiben had begun buying up control of broadcasting stations around the world and inwritting his own autosuggestion programs that everyone should get naked when the zeros came. It worked. Old friends who hadn't met in years would run down the street toward each other and instead of just hugging, they would fuck. At first it had been a bit odd, but as more of the herd joined in it became more acceptable. It did lead to many people who sort of slunk around in the shadows desperately trying to avoid running into a third grade teacher named Mrs. Fendleskin or other, who chased them nightly in their dreams. She was archtypically three hundred pounds overweight and yet somehow able to keep up with him chasing after him screaming you were such a bright boy. Think of all I did for you, come give Mrs. Fendleskin a little fuck! Invariably people woke up drenched in sweat and nervously double checking their underwear for dried cum. That's the problem with unlocking the unconscious, its libido often runs directly contrary +to that of the conscious. Time and Space are illusions created to fill a void, the one crack religion didn't quite reach --the gap between us. + Broadcast directives: Dr. Livingston i presume with your melting walls and Anne Clarke, saturated drug-induced sixties peace movement. Have you any idea what silliness peace inspires? We don’t need peace on earth we need to get the fuck off of earth; the space ship planet home evolution mythology is tired and worn. The cunt earth mother mythology is weary-eyed and thoroughly sick of our presence. Where is it writ that homo sapians ought to remain forever a terrestrial stupid creature fighting over gold and oil and dooming itself to specicide? Have you no sense of the inevitable; conceiving only of that which you know is possible? Is your terrestrial stupidity a symptom of the oxygen saturated environment that spawned you? Get rid of addiction, get rid of heroin, get rid of oxygen. Evolve. Survival of the fittest --you hear these words and think only of brawn and strength and lions ripping zebras to shreds. Fools! all of you. Survival depends on thought and intelligence we step of the food chain dilemma thousands of year ago, now its time to step off the planet all together we no longer need it. + Bless your lucky soul that you were born in the day and age when cessation of planetary constraints is possible. Don’t give me your morals, your religions, your beliefs --you can’t even justify your existence without them. Something can not be the source and justification of the source even the cave man Thak standing next to the first wheel must have seen the stupidity in these circular arguments. <sound of a woman whining Thak! Thak! get in here and take out the garbage>>><<<hear Thak's internal wheels turning conceiving of gunpowder shotgun blasted cunt's to high hell!>>>>> Have we passed the zero hour? Were we all sad eyed asleep at the wheel worried about our individual emotional experiences and missing the collective consciousness required to assemble a planetary brain collective capable of solving the hard realities of prevention. Prevention of leaving. Don’t go you may die. Don’t stay you will die. No we were not sad eyed asleep, you were sad eyed asleep and missed the boat but we know. + Assemble in the presence of god and know that i am peace. i am iam iam and i know why. Sorry can’t tell i am enjoying my intellectual, emotional and physical superiority because i have kicked the carbon death loop and caught the virus and decoded it for you, but i’m holding out on you waiting until you can grasp the fundamentals. Einstein died almost fifty years ago and you are still fifty years behind him. Let go of Newton let go of Aristotle and embrace a reality that is forever “plural and mutable,” realize that belief is a misconception, a temporary insanity which leads the human mind to mistakenly assume that it is capable of processing all signals. Like a radio you can only be tuned to one station at a time some of you might manage two or three at best --there are billions of signals incoming at all times. Some are visual, some are auditory, some are beyond normal comprehension, and some like nuetrinos are so small they can pass through the molecular spaces in your body. So by default you can not receive all the information and without all information all belief is stupid foolish games of semantics and power. + + Boards and syndicates of the earth did not take kindly to Dr. Waiben's reprogramming of the human computer and an all out cultural war started in 2001 with Waiben attempting to superimpose his own indoctrination over that of the Ind. INC mind contol game, or as he had renamed it: the U. S. A., Unconditioned & Systematic Autosuggestion state. The boards fought with conventional weapons and propoganda; Waiben used nonviolence (which indeared him to the people) and nano-technology. This last piece of technology forced the boards and syndicates to move ahead with their time table and institute operation TOTAL CONTROL. + >>>>>>>>these are trying times my fellow countrymen with a heavy hand ahem heart it was that i signed into law the seizure of private property and confiscation of all land into the hands of state>>>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<<we caution you against overreaction as these measures are necessary and temporary so all resistance will be dealt with in the interest of time and efficiency,,,,,,,,,,>>>>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<<<Your will be receiving +a vaccination pill sent out to all persons using the IRS databanks to select names you are instructed to take the pill and remain indoors until the virus alert sirens have blown for a second time. <<<<<<we appreciate your understanding and trust that you will realize that this is time where it is decided whether democracies will work in the post modern future>>>>we believe that we will send a message to the dictators of the world that democracy is inevitable and necessary to preserve the way of life we hold dear>>>>>>we will take your cooperation and compliance as a show of faith in the leaders you have elected to make decisions for you>>>>>>>> + Waiben knew that the so called vaccination pill contained a nanochip encoded with in a neutral virus which in humans found its way into the brain where it remained without harming the host, accept that this one had its own computer circuitry etched onto its molecular structure which would cause it to mutate and release a chemical agent that caused the chemical makeup of the host brain to switch and tune, so to speak, down to a longer alpha wavelength. At this wavelength the human brain processes at lower signal reception and in behavioral science experiments it had showed a tendency to be more open to auto-suggestion. No stumbling over lines, the computer chip in you brain has precision craftsmanship unequalled in its uncompromising quality. No expense has been spared in the programming of your life. And then there is me I am special screams your useless ego. + Crumple up the word and throw it into the sewer drain hope that someday a big bloated alligator will choke to death on words. + + + + +the legend of the toothless woman chased down the street with giant plastic candy cane saying you're gonna like it in your ass!!!!!! + + + All was well --cooking up plans to leave and then Waiben goes spilling to whole thing off to the boards --gotta have more power-- he says. + “Goddamnit!!” Sil crushes another flesh eater. + So the board goes apeshit right off the bat, they got this whole thing brewing in the Mediterranean --insurrection, that's why i work alone --trust nobody in the carbon death loop --burn you right up for sure. Work alone, should be the number one rule, never shoulda gone to Waiben in the first place. + Anyway the board’s got a problem down in the Med --sensitive area you know lost word truths hanging around <they think> You know --the Egyptians, Cleopatra and her goddamn cats (I hate ‘em I hate ‘em I hate ‘em), the Roman gods-- so they say to Waiben write it all up make it realunreel it all back so we know how to play it. + You familiar with the fictionhistory principle right? Well, so Waiben writes the whole thing up and sticks it right at the beginning thinking they’ll miss it --they’re ugly and they’re scared, but they’re not blind. + So the best update I can give you is that Chicago got the Neutron bomb <just buildings and viruses now> Europe's in civil war and “ethnic strife” <always has been stupid fucking cave dwellers> New York’s a shit hole on account of the Antarctic ice shelf heating up and dropping off <swallowed the whole goddamn city mosta L.A. too> Geiger counter at ten thousand feet told me to stay away from China <goddamn mess it is, which really isn’t good on account of the battle plans coming outta Tibet, only decent maps you can find these days> so I hightailed it here to see you. + The Old Man smiled and lit a cigarette looking thing that smelled of hash and cow shit <powdered mushroom brew from the brujo con artist at a time like this?> + “There is no future and no past Sil, you know that” --the three dollar principle. + He hands the twiggy cigarette looking smoke to Sil who takes a hit and watches The Old Man pick his nose aggressively. Sil starts to laugh, but controls himself. The Old +Man pulls an earwig the size of a human thumb out of his nose and puts it in his mouth. He grabs the cigarette and takes another drag, he leans forward and kisses Sil blowing smoke into his lungs and the earwig down his throat. Sil tries to gag, and recoils in horror. + “That’ll keep the flesh eaters offa ya,” The Old Man drawls, “Whatever Waiben wrote sure as hell did make them mad, and the smoke will take your mind of the time coordinates, you’re gonna need all your energy focusing on the other three circuits --we’re going to see the ostriches....” diff --git a/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/book two sez i.txt b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/book two sez i.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ab51b0b --- /dev/null +++ b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/book two sez i.txt @@ -0,0 +1,351 @@ + + +Consciousness is the feelings of the contrast +of theory, as mere theory, with fact, as mere fact. +This contrast holds whether or not the theory be correct + -A. N. Whitehead + +Transcribed from intercellular radio: Half an hour later over Mexican food and she said my name is...beady eyed half faced men in a diner cut out eyes and fucking rotting corpses to overcome insecurities handed out at birth —afterbirth is death thrown in a biohazard container and trucked off to a point on a continuum I've never seen. + She glides and is not. Day 4: sounds of light and transmorphing Indian deities gives way to vampire children gnashing teeth and gnawing off the toes of the dead. Sound becomes rhythm and gives way to light and objects manifested out of try temporal vacuum air. Get out your accumulators— Egyptians, Tibetans. Kundalini guides prey on the new arrivals in death as in life, no different. "Best try to buck up boys" the sargent bellows "since none of you paid a rats ass worth of attention in basic..." + funeral dirges still ringing in their ears the cast of corpse memories not yet faded. i went downtown to see the firelight fountains and all the pretty hippies in costumes from centuries ago. Pull me under pull me over take off my shoes. + She was feeling quite distressed and wanted to get undressed —naked not nude— she doesn't know the difference and i don't care enough to tell her. Some things you can't do —enlighten others—fuck yourself in the ass—. Jumping around too much these days? Perhaps a synaptic workout is in order; something to make the goo go? The Mexican boy selling—hey mister you wanna but some chiclettes? One dolaar buy one box, lotsa gum —eh? no? + Cambodian prostitute with HIV contorts to accommodate the small, mutilated and misshapen penis of wealthy Usinc busy ness man. Inc had all the magic sown up in paperback bills weighing down the servile. she opens her mouth and closes her eyes, come splashes across her face like elastic and gooey silly string. He slaps her face and punches her, mashing come and blood —the rampant spread of dis ease—he leaves without paying and she feels luck to be alive, but doesn't know why. And the poets cry li la la li lalali or some such nonsense, blowing winds rustling trees, photomantages of bordem turned to alcohol like the infinite mysteries —just starting to ferment. If you can bake a cake you can build a bomb, you could split an atom —won't you please keep that thing away from me? oh won't you please keep that thing away from me. Keep that frying pan away from me. + + Maya took the trip many years after Sil, but no ostrich appeared, little flighted birds hovered about her window sill and bardos of tibetian death held out. Skinny cold fingers like withering men, like <horus sirus oriosis> and all the other dying gods who laid the framework for the christ con. + Little birds that said we shit and we piss and we masterbate and we don't give a good goddamn about much else. An emu drifted out of a bellowing purple sheet that hung on a clothesline two stories below Maya's window. He looked up at her and said 'beware the the creature, the parasite holding you down, call you it the eye that is looking for me?' + do what i am doing he said and promptly made a fiberous ball of light that twisted and turned and hovered in the air as if it were made of the very sound that had described it into being. God said "let there be light" or sounds to that effect. Maya saw great persian empires laid out, expanding and retracting, moving across time in slow molasses-like motions. Cities where the sun stood still in the sky and mosterous creations of the mind, horrifying and seductive at the same time. Like ancient Tibetian art there was no distinction between the provice of the mind and the province of the body. Women swam in south china seas of ambient warmth moving in playful erotic motions, cresting like dolphins. Creatures of all forms walked streets of near ancient origin, cobblestones and whitewashed buildings with European wrought iron balconies. Tapastries hung out from the window beckon the passersby to climb up into untold pleasures of body and mind. The scene was overwhelming and undescribably beautiful and horrifying in a way that held horror and beauty to be ultimately different reactions to same observed phenomena. + Like most people who have experimented with consciousness expansion Maya's initial voyage into hyperspace left her feeling elated and reborn, with all of life's secrets tucked neatly in her mind behind her beautiful eyes. But like most people she lacked the vocabulary to make these places real in fourth dimensional planes. Large parts of what she confronted lay dorminate in her mind because she was unable to face them. As a result her "enlightenment" was short lived and in the weeks that followed all the old patterns and programs of her life, both the conscious and the unconscious, reasserted themselves until two months later she felt her life was indeed just as shitty as it had been before she had drifted out into the bardos. This fact caused her much anxiety. Maya was (like all of us) trying to figure out what the hell is really going on down here. Innerspace had been her holy grail if i can get inside deep deep deep inside it will all make sense, but the inside is far more tricky twisting and ever elusive than the outside. going into the quarter alone is a touchy proposition, you tend to end up with one foot here and one there and you come out stone paranoid and schitzophrenic. Best to have somebaody with you to help navigate this side of things while you're on the endside. Maya enjoyed the risk at first, mainly because she had no idea what she was dealing with, but she quickly came to realize that going it alone is doubly difficult and rewarding at the same time. But if you get there alone you inevitably want to bring everyone back with you. (See archival records under Leary, Timothy) + One day Maya was looking for innerspace maps at the book store when she ran across the name of a man who had written many books on the subject of 'what the hell is going on down here?' Aleister Crowley claimed to have a map and method for getting to places in the innerspacial world that Maya had difficulty believing really existed. She had been there, but up until now she was able to run programs in her mind that said that everything could be a delusion, a creation of her own mind. Crowley described the same phenomena and experiences that Maya had feltseenknown, his imagery was different bounded in his own spacetime experience, but neverthless Maya could feel in the spaces between the words that Crowley had been somewhere like where she had been. Maya was hooked and began to study his methods of Magick focusing on departure techniques; she soon found herself capable of reaching the subway station under the quarter, although she didn't yet know about the quarter or even where she was. She merely had sensations and saw things that seemed to behave as if she were in some sort of intergalactic train station waiting on an outbound line. She didnt know how to get on the subway yet. + Crowley gave Maya that ability to similtaneously absorb these experiences whith all her existance, and remain detached from them at the same time. He preached that nothing is true or untrue, but that one should be open at all times to be able to accept temporarily anything as true or untrue. If you are skeptical of the process you learn nothing, you must embrace the process and remain skeptical of the results. There are merely different MAPS OF THE UNIVERSE, some of them are more and less interesting than others, the point is to learn as many of possible before you start choosing between them. + In the present Maya existed as a member of the genus homo species sapian. She lived in Usinc. Usinc had its a wide variety of maps existing in it but one overwhelmed the rest and was often unconsiously dictated by the Alpha Mans of her tribe. The dominate map in USinc as far as Maya could determine was what one of the Sapians, Noma Chomsky, called the Star System. This map (or tunnel reality, or set of beliefs) holds that most people are really stupid, or more eloquently in Chomsky's words: "...people would like to think that there's somebody up there who know's what he's doing. since we don't participate, we don't control and we don't even think about questions of vital importance, we hope somebody is paying attention who has some competance. Lets hope the ship has a captain, in other words since were not taking part in whats going on... It is an important feature of (this) ideological system to impose on people the feeling that they really are incompetent to deal with these complex and important issues: they'd better leave it to the captain. One devise (for programming people to feel incompetent) is the star system, an array of figures who are often media creations or creations of the academic propoganda establishment, whose deep insights we are supposed to admire and to whom we must happily and confidently assign the right to control our lives..." + This sort of map serves to divide people in two groups; those who are on the mapped described in detail and have nothing to worry about and those who are fucked and just get to listen and watch the map as one might listen and watch a talking bird. They tended to listen to what they called the TELALINGUS, a blunt box-like object with voices and images being projected outward into their consciousness. In older times people who heard voices coming out of the walls were called crazy, but in Usinc they were called consumers. The screen of the Telalingus created myths and metaphors by which they could make some sense of the world. Maya did not like these people they made her feel icky and she avoided them at any cost. + In Usinc most people believed this system is in fact THE WAY THINGS HAVE ALWAYS BEEN, but such is not the case. The dominate Usinc map was a rather new and untested prototype reality which increasingly did not measure up to even the most basic parts of concensus reality. There is another school of thought, a door that Crowley threw open, a metaphoric door to a metaphoric place called Gnosis. Gnosis holds that the only way to learn is to experience to confront the unknown directly to experience the sensations without having to make an apriori judgement about there validity. This map allows for a greater variety to life and makes it infinitly more fun and adventurous than listening to voices in a box. Maya went back to the innerspacial experience with a new sense of what the hell was really going on. She entered into belief tunnels and researched brain metabolism and learned what happened with typtamines and how the beta-carbaloids bonded with her synapses and what harmines and harmalines were. Then she went to the mystical maps from the eastern parts of the world and compared and contrasted ecstasy with satori and other states of consciousness outlines in Tibetian and and other eastern MAPS OF THE UNIVERSE. Maya was learning that in the innerspacial world there is no consensus reality you created your own and learned how to manipulate it to your own satisfaction and desires. This put her at odds with the dominate Usinc belief system of the day which labeled this behavior delusional. and found it threatening, she began to get paranoid. One foot in one foot out. She lacked the proper equipment to get all the way in. + There are two things wrong with the label delusional: first in order to have something be delusional you must first have something that is non-delusional. There is nothing that exists apart from ourselves this was something that a particularly revered Usincer named Einstien had been trying to say for almost a hundred years. He asserted rather bluntly that without us there to observe it the world only exists in potential or delusionally. It was rumored that later in life he regretted saying this. The second problem is the people who label certain things delusional and others non-delusional. A long time ago when the ansestors of Usinc arrived on the land they brought with them this map; the natives who greeted called them they-who-have-stick-up-there-ass-and-are-no-fun which has a much nicer ring that scientist or doctor or priest which is what most USincer's called them. The natives used to chuckle about it and ridicule the size of their shrivelled white penises behind their backs which irritated the Usincer's so they gave them small pox and killed them all. Elimination was a standard threat defense system in Usinc and was still practised in modern times. + The sense of direct confrontation and followed by personal understanding (limited though it was) gave Maya the emotional fortitude and strength to travel further and further down mysterious roads in pursuit of the truth or whatever. It might also have driven her quite batty and killed her depending on what map you the reader are bringing along. + The Crowley doctorine of not having beliefs also provided Maya way to experience things without terror, for the conquest of fear is an absolute necessity when one approaches the fringes of what is known and not yet known. Out in the Quarter fear is rampant, but without fear one is free to have myrid of experiences that are not availible to those with fear, objective subjectivity Maya called it. For instance just because one is presented with the sights of mass slaughter and carnage and every evil satanic thing ever recorded by man one is not bound to be afraid of these things because one is not bound to the system which labelled them evil in the first place. If that doesn't follow think of it this way: we have genetic memories encoded in or DNA (in twenty years science may well find the actual gene that has Dante's satanic visions stored in it), but in the mean time if you should accidentally dreg the hidious severed, bloody, snarling head of Lucifer up out of our genetic memory banks you can make him go away. You just internalize the event and lable it endogenetic which doesn't sound nearly as frightening as a seven headed monster spitting fire, gnashing its teeth, slashing up your record collection and generally making a mess of the living room. Of course if their actually is a seven headed fire-breathing beast from hell in your living room then you really do have a problem and you might wonder if your losing your mind. But ultimately even that is no comfort because if you've lost your mind you have to wonder who has it and why are they putting multi-headed-fire-breathing-demons in your goddamn living room? + Maya had fun with gnosis and managed to avoid seven headed satanists in her living room for the time being, but she did quickly find that she could no longer keep up with the pace of her mind. The racing mind is a difficult thing to stop, you find thoughts at every corner and you can't seem to find room for new ones to modify the old ones and your mind tends to enter a static loop. You'd have better luck stopping a train then stopping a train of thoughts. The best thing to do is to take time to fully absorb and understand each journey before taking another, otherwise knowledge becomes static and starts to feedback. + Maya had discovered that knowledge has an expontial rate of accululation and soon she found she knew so much about so much that she came to the inevitable conclusion that information has timebounded saturation points. She started to have to rely on artifcial means of meditation and breathing exercizes to get herself to sleep. + This may sound like a nightmare of some sort, but actually it is quite a skill to have, it like finding the on/off switch to the human brain. This gives one an extreme felling of detached vivaciousness, like you can walk through walls if you wanted to and eventually you decide you can actually walk through walls you just don't know how. Hassan i Sabbah will be driving the bus for the remainder of the tour you may direct any further questions to him... + "The British biologist, Richard Dawkins has coined the expression meme to designate a signal traveling in human space-time and carrying information (or mis-information). In Dawkins view, just as biological evolution depends on the circulation of genes, sociological evolution depends on the migratory habits of memes." —from Wilhelm Reich in Hell, by Robert Anton Wilson. Menes like genes can only be in one brain at any given time, the trick is to learn how to leave the individual sense of mind and find the point at which consciousness is pure essense with itself. Out there one is not bounded by the standard saturation points. Too many menes in "your brain" leads to a danger that it will all be static and meaningless chatter. If you want to decode the static that builds up in your brain you have to graph it on a time scale. Maya graphed the static in a journal. + + +life is far to grave of a +matter to be taken seriously +-Oscar Wilde + + William S. Burroughs once said that language is a virus, most Usincer's thought this was cute and humored the old man. But when you stop and think about it language does act very much like a virus. It is passed from old to young, it mutates according to the host, and it is fatal —when you stop talking you are dead. If we are to humor this cute notion further we might eventually want to cure ourselves of this worldwide epidemic. Memes may well be the genetic key. Why do we need information? Why do we need to be alive? If we are to suppose that the viral pattern of language is consistent with other virus patterns then it's transmission and ability to replicate itself must have a genetic code which it uses to trigger reprodution and the consequent mutation of the host cell structure. What is the DNA of language? + This theory rests on the supposition that ideas come before words ie the typical theory of language development: we speak because we have something to say. Suppose we speak to create the things we want to see.... Shit or get of the pot the old man screams. + +Static System Sampler: + + Sex and violence, she smiled that's what these people need —sex and violence. She feels the rage building. Writing is transmission it is the creation of alternative realities, the first step in creating a new world is to write it down. + The tired shopkeeper is out smoking her obscenely thin cigarettes leaning out the front door ducking the afternnon sun. She smokes constantly pausing only to give a tired answer to the same tourists she has to stare at day after day. An endless reminder that they, not her, are the ones enjoying life. Too many of them day after day year after year look look looking never buying. The Leather Connection doesn’t do a lot of business on warm spring days —who puts a leather shop on the beachfront. Nor is it the kinky sort of fetish shop you might hope for. Not even any leather in the windows. She moves her lips mumbling incoherences intelligible only to herself. She lights another cigarette. A rabid dog paces back and forth across the doorway as if protecting it from unseen horror. + The sharp eyed Asian hawk sitting behind me at another table closes her purse, pen safely secured inside. She licks stamps and affixes them to postcards. Notes for those at home. “Jenny: LA is great -warm sunny. I’m having a great time. Remind me to tell you about this guy Bill I met the other day. Take care of yourself. Say hi to Tom for me. Love....” + Families wander down the hill looking for a nice place to eat. The neon signs offer Mexican Italian Greek food, “but we need a children's menu.” “Tommy’s only nine, he can’t eat a whole meal himself.” “Do you think they could split a dinner, I’m not very hungry myself?” “You brought the credit card right?” “No, but I’ve still got some cash left over from breakfast this morning. “Wasn’t that a charming little place?” “What was it called?” “Lets go there again before we leave.” + The locals, the non-travelers, the doomed-forever-to-live-in-one-placers stream by in shinny cars coming home from work in THE BIG CITY. Their flimsy soda can Japanese cars that look as if a good size bird could, with decent aim, crush the plastic colored roofs. The locals drive with windows up and frowns turned down. “Did I remember to e-mail that memo to Tony at the office in Chicago? I wonder what sort of crap Diane cooked for dinner tonight? She is the worst cook. What happened to that tri-tip on Friday? I wouldn’t have known what is was if I hadn’t bought it myself. Dave and Linda smiled and said it was delicious the lying bastards. don’t encourage her she might actually believe she can cook. Dave probably just wants to sleep with her. That whore. I wonder if she’s fooling around behind my back? She never wants to have sex anymore. Its always the same routine. Me still dripping from a shower her reading some book I crawl onto of her . ‘Not tonight honey I’m to tired.’ I wait till she’s fast a sleep and sneak down to the kitchen reach behind the fridge and pull out the nudie magazines and —off quietly to the bathroom. I wonder what Diane would look like in tight leather, probably fat. She still hasn’t lost all the wait from the pregnancy. God its been what like eighteen months Justin’s starting to walk for christsakes. The light is green, fucking traffic.” + The static of ordinary life is horrendous and boring this brief sample was brought to you to remind you that not everyone, perhaps not even you, leads an interesting life. Was that you i heard saying that someone else said that the newscaster said that the stockbrokers think that the CEO's are going to rig the oil market and drive us into recession? ...hope the captain knows, cause us tech sargents are just barely able to gather enough memes to pull ya through the day and get into the missionary possition with a half limp cock and let the lov'in let the lov'in come back to me. Swing your hips and let it all get lose. No really. put the book down and swing 'em. Uncle Sabbah likes to see the little girls and boys shakin' de hips. + + Fog is settling in from the hills meeting up with banks rolling in from the sea, threatening the star’s view, tiny windows of the gods peeping in watching our silly games in continued amusement. They keep doing it every night Reminding me of San Francisco, the golden gate after sundown glowing like it were Apollos chariot itself. Proudly beckoning the traveler with tale of endless wanderlust -out here the final frontier come swim discover secrets hidden from mankind...Come the sharks are hungry. The mashing of teeth and bone, the tearing of flesh. + I would not fuck you in Thailand/ I would not fuck you in a plane over Japan. One of Dr. Suess’ lesser known couplets. + The sun is setting and several miles out at sea a trident nuclear submarine is preforming manoeuvres in preparation for a war that most people don't believe will really happen. I like to pretend the submarine doesn't exist, I like to think that no one has ever really refined and mutated the Anthrax virus to make it deadlier and that no one ever dared to split atoms, but they did and it leaves me feeling hungry and tired. + I find myself surrounded on all sides. Everyone these days is completely obsessed with Being Bizarre. So much so that nothing really is Bizarre anymore. Yuppies ride Harleys and frequent bondage parlors on the weekends while pulling in double incomes of 150K during the week scurrying from house to latte to work to the onceaweekmatrimonialassfucking. + You want Bizarre? Circus freaks castrating themselves on the street corners and pimps shooting heroin in their balls while screaming whores accost their long dead mothers in hotel rooms a cockroach won’t set foot in? Lawyers sitting on the roof, television antenna protruding from their limbs as policemen ritualistically torture themselves gouging out their own eyeballs to avoid the scene below? You think that is normal? You think it sounds better when you call it Urban Life? You're all nuts. + + +Star System Sampler: + + "Are you making this shit up? Or has it really been found by anthropologists?" + "As if that lends it some sort of credibility? Their PhD's mean they can't possibly be wrong or maybe deliberately lying ?" + "Are you that paranoid?" + "That's not paranoia, you always assume that wrong means bad. I am just saying it is really every bit as possible as the usual tunnel that says science is true." + Maya is lying on the couch rainy-day-ranting in the Fornical sunshine about the chemical similarities between DMT and human seratonin. DMT is in fact so recognizable to the human brain that it passes the through the blood/brain barrier in a matter of seconds. it is her theory that Seratonion was origionally DMT and as the terestrial ape moved out of the trees into caves and cities the chemical structure of the substance was altered, perhaps by diet perhaps by culture or perhaps deliberately by secret sect conspiring against humanity. She doesn't necessarily believe it, but she has fun tormenting her next door neighbor Pete with theories she knows are beyond what he has decided is real. People who refuse to admit for even one moment that "reality" and "fantasy" might at some point merge miss out on so many wonderful ideas. Maya loved to point out the ridiculus and far removed ideas that most people overlook as possibilties. She liked to remind everyone that we could be living in a great novel six billion pages long or our entire universe might be an intricate and complex dream some alien entity is having. Maya liked brain twists and loops that led directly into unsolvable paradoxes which, in her mind, always pointed out the stupidity of trying to use language to build things. + "unicorns don't exist right? + "right." + "Then how do you know what they look like?" + "They're the imagined creations of an artist." + "How do you know that? How do you know they didn't used to exist and they just don't now? How do you know that they aren't actually called dodo's?" + "Because somebody would have...i don't know... what are you getting at....?" + "The thing is, is that for any set of equations there is an infinite possibility of solutions; I'm not trying to say this is the right solution, I'm just trying to point out that it is one of the possibilities. And I can't understand why you dismiss it solely on the basis that it sounds rediculious." She smiled at Pete's bewilderment, the way an adult likes to smile its superiority at a child, but Maya knew that superiority is fleeting and ever relative. + She kissed Pete on the cheek, chiefly because she liked to watch him turn red and he shifted in his chair trying to hide his hard on while she pretented to be oblivious and went into the bedroom to change clothes. + "I guess its time for me to go huh?" he called from the other room. + "I guess so," she called back thinking time is not an object, its inside you. Maya was living on the western edge of Usinc (a state labeled Fornical) in a town by the name of Long Beach, which did not in Maya's opinion pocess a beach that would lead any rational person to call it Long. She lived in the upper left hand apartment of a fourplex building. The aforementioned Pete lived below her and next to him was a sweet quiet old woman whose life went on interminal pause between visits of her two grandchildren. The remaining apartment directly across from Maya's belonged to a man who called himself Cary, but Maya suspected that that was not his real name. He was rarely home, extremely wealth, extremely brilliant and seemed vaguely powerful in some way Maya couldn't quite place. Certain people when you meet them give off an air understanding that makes them appear powerful to others who don't have that sense of omnipotent confidence —like they are aware that their "self" is not the sum total of experience. Maya had met him a few times and said hi but she did not know him very well. She wanted to though and when she found out from the old woman down stars that Cary's daughter went to the university Maya enrolled in one of her classes. + Anna was a beautiful girl with black raven hair that swung across her shoulders and bounced when she laughed. Which she did a lot when talking to Maya. She was nothing like her father seemed. She was however always in a good mood and did not seem to have the psychosis of most people in Long Beach. But Maya was disappointed that she couldn't get Anna to divulge any scandelous details of her father's life. But Maya did use her as an impetus to talk to Cary more. This led to vague friendship consisting of a cursory discussion of his world travel habits, lack of official citizenship, and an invite to use his balcony whenever she liked. He did not lock his door and professed not to believe in property instead he had the entire place wired with cameras so that if indeed someone stole something from him he could find them and accertain whether or not they needed the item more than he did. All of this intrigued Maya and secretly she wanted to know more, but she was happy to just use his balcony which was the largest one in the building. It opened virtually right into a palm tree and gave one the feeling of being at some Mediterranean villa. It made Maya want to waltz around in a leopard trimmed chamise wearing platform shoes and sipping pina coladas. Maya's balcony was drenched in afternoon sun and not a pleasnt place to read so she would go to Cary's in the afternoon and read his books and drink pina coladas in her underwear and pace back and forth in her leopard trimmed chamise. She didn't know there was a camera in the tree as well and that it could be remotely moved and zoomed so as to allow Cary to see what she was reading. In fact Cary knew a rather lot more about Maya then Maya realized. That was only because Maya was looking on a different map scale, Cary's map was much much larger. But this is Maya's story and now a one act scene to show character development: + + Scene one: ONE DAY IN MAYA'S APARTMENT +MAYA +PETE +NARARATOR +(Stage is a smallish square room with deep red walls, two couches perpendicular to the audience and facing each other with a table between them. MAYA is a slinky sexual girl of twenty-four with fiery grey-green eyes, short black hair like ravens trying to get out of her head and slender arms and legs that slip around her body like ribbons. She is wearing tight black satin pants and a green spaghetti strap tank top which is also tight. She is sitting cross legged on the left hand couch smoking a cigarette. PETE sits across from her watching her with a puzzled look on his face. He is obviously younger than her and of a tall lanky build with an insecure awkwardness that is betrayed in his shifty mannerisms —as if he were not quite comfortable in his own skin.) + +Narrator (sitting on a stool stage left) ...Pete watched Maya with absolute fascination, he had never met a woman, no he had never met anyone, as intelligent or as goddamn sexy as her. He did not fully realize it but he was devastatingly in love with her and this we know meant that she would devour him and destroy his life. He did not know this yet, but the thought did pass through his mind occasionally when he masturbated —imagining her in all sorts of ridiculous situations where the end result was always her sweet innocent but wise voice begging him to Cum all over me...ya come on my face. (aside: wouldn't you?) Pete was smart enough to realize the unlikelihood of him having sex with Maya but dumb enough to pine after her nonetheless. +PETE:(existentially in his own mind) please pleeeeeeease have sex with me. +MAYA: Would you like to see me naked? +PETE: (too eagerly) Yes! +MAYA: huh... i guess that's better than not. (she makes no move to get naked) + +NARRARATOR: It especially disturbed Pete that she seemed to take so much delight in teasing him and frustrating him further. It also disturbed him when she went out with other men instead of him, especially when the other men was Jared Towers. Towers was in Pete's World Religion class and represented a peace of humanity deeply disturbing to Pete, he represented strength and masculinity. Pete was young and still believe that masculinity is limited to those specimens of the male population that look like they just walked off the cover of GQ or its ilk. Later, like the rest of us he would come to realize that these cro-magnon motherfuckers are in fact far to fragile to satisfy a woman in bed and spend the majority of their adult lives desperately trying to convince themselves that they are not gay. But, Pete had fixated on a rumor that Jared had a twelve inch cock, thick as a flashlight and had convinced himself that this was why Maya went out with him. It served the need for self torture that Pete's brain seemed to possess. + +MAYA: "Will you do something for me?" +PETE: (hesitantly) "Maybe" +MAYA: (with deadpan sincerity) "take off you clothes" +JARED: standing as if to strip and then thinking better of it sits back down) "NO" + + (A seven headed snarling beast of unknown but leaning towards demonic origin leaps out of the floor from stage rear he first bites at PETE; several heads lay into his flesh and rips off first his arms and then his legs, and then holding Pete upside down by the stumps of his legs it chews on his balls staring out at the audience. The beast leaps on the narrator and tears him to bits as a laugh tracks play offstage. MAYA is still watching sitting behind the beast on the couch oblivious to the goings on. The beast leaps down and starts to eat the audience; critics first the juicy fat ones in the front row and then the rich lesbians behind them all the way to back ripping up art fag kids who snuck in without a ticket cause there friend works at the door. The beast runs snarling into the streets of New York devouring east village types causing people to go into panic and leap from the tops of burning buildings. Carnage and Mayhem abound.) +Curtain falls. + +(The End) + + + Jared was not really Maya's type either she only went out with him because she liked nice dinners, but didn't like to pay for them. Jared was rich or rather his parents were rich and he would do pretty much whatever Maya told him to. She had never had sex with him and didn't want to. You can't have sex with a man who let you hypnotize him and then revealed under hypnosis that his father once chased him a around the house with a meat cleaver when he caught the boy masturbating to a picture of the Virgin Mary. Maya used to wonder over fine french food: what kind of sick fuck finds the mother of god sexually appealing? I mean if sacrilege is a turn on masturbate and think of fucking god in his own ass like he thinks of fucking you in yours...Maya had laughed for hours on that one, of course she didn't tell Jared anything about the revelation or how far into his mind she had gotten that afternoon. + + Pete had left and Maya had changed clothes and was heading out the door to meet Jared for dinner when she noticed light leaking under Cary's door. + "Cary? It's Maya are you home?" She knocked and hearing no reply she pushed gently on the door which floated open as if on its own accord. + A voice floated languidly in from the balcony and said, "Come in... I'm outside..." Maya went out onto the balcony and there was Cary sitting and smoking a cigar shaped object which smelled like hash. + "Hi." + "Hi." + "Sit down," he took another drag and exhaled. It definitely smelled like hash. He caught her staring at it as she sniffed at the smoke. Cary laughed, "would you like to smoke some hash? I brought it back from Morocco..." + "That would be lovely," Maya felt the awkwardness of a setting too intimate for the relationship that was being cast onto it. Cary did not appear anything but relaxed, but of course he was likely quite stoned. Maya accepted the blunt and smoked it for a while before handing it back. + "Have you been enjoying this balcony in my absence?" + "Oh ya, i sit out here in the afternoons and read," the hash hit fast and hard and Maya had to fight to keep her wits about her, she thought vaguely of Hassan i Sabbah and his brainwashing techniques and for a moment she understood why he was so effective. + "This stuff hits hard at first but it settles down and leaves you in a nice contemplative frame of mind, i only smoke it in the evenings. I prefer something more active for the daytime." + "I would never have guessed that you smoked pot..." + "That's the idea." he smiled, handed her the blunt and leaned back in his chair reaching for cigarettes. Maya took the blunt and reached in her bag for her own smokes, lighting one she asked, "What exactly is it that you do? Your daughter told me you own a casino or a mine or something?" + He laughed. "Doing research are we?" Maya blushed, but Cary just kept laughing. "What i do has nothing to do with either of those things. I just believe in diversifying my financial assets...so that if one particular area of the world economy goes snafu i don't lose everything...just good business you know........ but yes i do have both of those things, but they are just things and not even ones that I'm actively involved in..." his voice trailed off. "What i do is more complicated...some might say that i am trying to figure out what the hell is going on down here...others say that i already have figured that out and i have moved on to far more nefarious projects..." + He said the sentence like he knew that Maya would recognize it and the realization gave her an acute sense of paranoia which was accented by the canaboids floating in and out of her brain. Banish fear. Someone knowing you well without having spent any time with them is not necessarily a bad thing...people fall in love and they seem happy about it . Secretly i think they're deluded but this is different. Its a common phrase perhaps we've read similar books or maybe more people are into this sort of thing than you realize. + "So do you know what the hell is really going on down here?" Maya asked as coolly as she could in her stoned state. + He just smiled, "you're the one studying in college trying to figure it out... why don't you tell me?" He settled back in his chair as if waiting to listen to a lengthy discussion on the subject. + "It would take more than pot for me to tell you that..." + "I have more than pot if you would like it." + "What do you have?" + "Do you know anything about South America shamanism? They make a hallucinogenic brew —some people call Yage some call Ayahuasca, i call it the orange stuff that bubbles.... + "Ya I know what Yage is, William Burroughs went looking for it, i read that book...." + "Ah yes the Yage Letters...unfortunately mister Burroughs was an acute heroin addict at the time and heroin tends to not put one in a positive state of mind...the book is a careful and imaginative account of one man's failure to transcend himself." + "I like Burroughs," Maya said slowly, "but sometimes his whole nightmare apocalyptic routine gets a bit old, but he's good at seeing what could go wrong in any situation. If you want to know what could go right, you've got Leary or McKenna." + "You've read a lot of interesting books...i overheard you saying something about Aleister Crowley this afternoon... that's why i decided it was okay to let you know that i can get you anything you want...drug-wise and otherwise....you seem very intelligent." Maya blushed slightly and couldn't decide if Cary was hitting on her or if he was just a genuine intelligent man trying to be nice. "It would be easier to know if we had a script wouldn't it???" + "Excuse me?" Maya had been lost in her internal musings and the question seemed to come out of nowhere + "Nothing I was just listening...I'm going to give you some Yage that i had brewed up for me, its a healthy dose but i think you've the skepticism to handle it. Are you interested?" + "Yes I'd love to but um," Maya hesitated not wanting to be rude, "not to be rude but i don't particularly want to do it right now... in front of you...." + "Of course not, you should go back in your room and drink it on an empty stomach and lie there in the darkness and just watch the back of your eyelids...that's the way you get into this stuff." He was staring at her with his piercing, but unobtrusive green eyes, "but you have to promise me that you'll take it tonight and tell me about it tomorrow afternoon sometime because I have to early the next morning and I want to know what you get out of it" + "Ummm, okay ya," Maya thought for a second, "i can cancel my plans tonight," + "You should he's a waste of time." + Maya started, confused "you know Jared?" + Cary smiled and pulled a vial of Ayahuasca out of his pocket "know i didn't even know you were going out, but since i changed your plans with an exotic blend of South American hallucinogens, he can't meant much to you." + She blushed and took the vial, "thank you. I'll see you tomorrow." + + + +In the cosmic computer are all repitions, +all tape loops necessary to keep the cosmos going; +the noise, sight, sounds, feelings, rhythms are obvious and full. +-John C Lilly, M.D. from The Center of the Cyclone + + Sleeping fitfully under a moonless sky dreaming of a stale, smoky bar's liquor-stained floors and a headless horsemen riding like Icarius out of the fiery sun-gilded gates of hell. The headless horseman swerves and bears down on the I that is you with menacing intent, jolting the dream element awake and into a sleepnonsleep trance on the isthmus of reality. The horseman dismounts and walks in to the bar. + I was bewildered and in my heavy-lidded gaze saw a man with no head standing just inside the mosquito netting that covers the tropical doorway. Closer inspection revealed a pair of blinking eyes peering at me from where the neck tie should have been. A hand slipped out from the waist and motioned for me to rise. I climbed clumsily off of my barstool and followed him out into the middle of the jungle night. The headless horseman motioned for me to sit on a fallen tree and pulled out a long stick of cinnamon, he lit it and inhaled through a button hole in his chest. I sat down on the log opposite him and staring eye-level at the cinnamonette and I began to appreciate the sheer size of the horseman and realized that even without his head, the horseman was taller than me... + Time passes by in jerky motions not unlike the first motion pictures; uneven and without regard for continuity. Maybe moments maybe hours maybe at the same time, an old man with a sickly grey beard and a ridiculous suit is sitting where the horseman had been. One hand is out of sight down his pants and the other wags a long finger at you and he begins to jerk his cock screaming i want you i want YOU i WANT YOU! Eventually you slouched over against a wall and sleep. + + Cary was looking at Maya through eyes that seemed galaxies away, "you didn't say whether or not you enjoyed it." + "It was horrifying and beautiful at the same time." + "Did you feel fear or joy?" + "At times i drifted into spaces that started me on a fear program and then a voice or some unspoken thought would say 'don't be afraid.' Fear is judging i kept thinking and i was trying to hold out on judgements until after the experience. But i did have an overwhelming feeling of sadness as i started coming down and i saw the whole tree of humanity... i was decending through it and i felt as if i could have chosen an infinite variety of bodies...experiences...and then i found the Maya one and instantly i was back and that was that..." + You went into what the sufi's would call the cosmic control center only you just touched the edge of it...or you went in and you repressed the memories of the horror...that happens to sometimes..." + "So now what?" Maya felt genuinely lost. She wanted to go back up out into deep deep inner space, but she knew she didn't really even understand what had happened yet. She didn't tell Cary that she had repeated the trainstation imagery or that a headlight had been boring down on her and that the sound had overwhelmed her and blown her back down. I saw the train again she kept thinking, why do i keep seeing a train? + "Well i have to go back down to costa Rica and take care of some business at my research lab, but here is my email address," he handed her a slip of paper. "That code at the end makes sure to forward it to my cell phone so i will get it as soon as you send it." He stood as if to leave and Maya jumped up with him. + "Okay ya I'll write you...i have a lot more questions..." + "Well I'm not sure if i have any answers, but i'll do what i can for you." He kissed her hand and closed the door as she left. + And so it came that Maya found herself fully committed to the task of figuring out what the hell was going on down here. The Star Map of Materialism was discarded completely from Maya's life and she begin slowly but surely to slink into the corners and fringes of society, she entered onto the Usinc list of potential threats and though she was unaware of it she was marked for elimination. Cary met with her when his schedule allowed for it and they corresponded by email when he was out of town. Frustratingly he never gave her answers instead he asked questions she hadn't reached yet. Cary knew what it was like to be eliminated and he cautioned her against talking to anyone about these sorts of things. + The Taoists say those who know don't tell and those who tell don't know. Most Usincers familiar with this philosophy found it irritating and believed that things indescribable don't exist. And how they humored him when he said language is a virus. Maya began to see the emotional plague. The self limiting and self fulfilled negative programs that the majority of her fellow sapians exhibited became horrifying and Maya alternately found herself swinging like a pendulum between the poles and love and hate. At times she felt a tremendous force radiating out from her chest trying to embrace the entire world and bath it in LOVE, At other times the repulsion for all things human drove her into isolation where she would sit meditating and using psychoactivating devises to leave her body to exit the game, role-playing curcuit that is "reality." As the game circuit and its contractions became more and more painfully obvious Maya found herself drifting out of her body quiet involuntarily, right in the middle of conversations. The things that most Usincer's talked about rarely amounted to much more then meaningless chatter and Maya could feel and had to internalize the death imagry, the negative body images, the lable obsessions that comes from lost dreams, lack of love, and leaves only hollow shells to bundle up confusion and static. Drifting out of the body without warning was quite disconcerting, but it forced her to feel people and use this to know them rather than words. It was a step into another dimension. At first it only happened when she was stoned, but gradually she learned that certain thoughts and breathe techniques could produce the effect while "sober." + Sober was an obsession for most usincers, they believed that despite the fact that they ate mind alterning chemicals all day long (usually caffiene in the form of coffee or metamphetamines in the form of diet pills) that they were actually in a state of mind that was sober or natural. Maya was constantly siezed by desires to show people their biocomputers their souls whatever metaphor was necessary to give them back control over their lives. But Cary's advise held her in check and she avoided trying to show or teach anyone anything. You have to want to know something before you can learn it. She learned from the mistakes of Leary and the rest of the early western explorers. +Pointing out to people the sheer futilness of trying to stop someone from exploring the unknown regions of the mind was ridiculous, and it also meant risking identifing oneself as a "drug user." This term was used to religate mind exploration and its necessary tools into a periphrial segment of society that irritated and generally frightened most Usincers. Over the centuries people with ideas that are unpopular have noticed that people in the past with unusual ideas about life and its potentials tended to meet rather untimely and painful deaths. So the observant ones learned to shut the fuck up, or write in code like Da Vinci or Crowley. Great myths are spawned, the Knights of Templar, the Illuminati, the Masons, Taoists, the Assassins, the Sufis; history is riddled with mysteries. + Plans were underway at the upper levels of the Alpha Male dominators to get some more small pox blankets to these unwanted citizens. Plans had in fact been underway for some time, but since the serious students of innerspace had learned centuries before how to survive under adverse conditions it was difficult to figure out who need to be eliminated. Slowly and carefully Cary was admitting Maya into the ranks of those networks which exist in the periphrials of organized primate societies. He took her underground. + Most Usincers remained oblivious to the underground. It was something they heard of but assumed did not really exist. In fact Most Usincers had no idea that they were the most electronically advanced biocomputer in the known universe; consequently they wasted much time in imitating the behavior of other less electronically sophisticated animals. The Alpha Male orientation of the political system was little different than any primate group. A select group, after fighting amongst themselves for the approval of the rest of the tribe, set themselves up somewhere they called HEADQUARTERS and from here they ruled over the rest of the primate masses. This allowed the masses to relax from worry about decisions and beliefs and ideas. The Alpha Males supplied these things for them. They felt the Alpha Males did a good job of it most of the time. But this began to change and the Alpha Males began to feel threatened by the socio-cultural changes that were taking place so they reacted defensively like any cornered primate —they became paranoid. This paranoid psychosis manifested itself in the form of small pox blankets which by now had been improved. There were now Anthrax blankets, Leprosy-Anthrax blankets, atomic blankets, HIV blankets, and the Alpha males continued to invest more and more of the resourses of Usinc, and indeed the whole world, into developing new lethal blankets. + It wasn't long before one of them suggested that they out to test the blankets just to make sure they work you see. The first subpopulace to be identified were the "drug users." Infected needles were distributed, secret police raided and siezed property, and in time strip searches on public streets became common. This angered many Usincers even those who were not "drug-users" but they did not speak up because they would be labled drug sympathizers which was only slightly less irritating to the Alpha Males than actual "drug-users." In short they knew they would be given blankets too. Usinc was fast becoming a rather shitty place to live. + It was about this time that the first glimpses of the boiling of the Usinc political caldron began to manifest themselves; riots broke out in Detroit, Chicago and Atlanta, and the entire infastructure of communication was threatening to take away the Alpha Male domination. The Alpha Males silenced these protests with blankets, but then labor strikes broke out all over the country followed by advent of technology that deeply threatened the Star System. Communications technology was taking vast arrays of previously rare and complicated information and making it availible to the masses of primates. The people banded together and decided that the Alpha Males had to go, but the Alpha Males were ahead of them again. They had already found that outright violence was unpopular within the tribe (although perfectly acceptable against those in other tribes). They began to study those things that irritated them and they learned that silence and secracy are far more effective than noisy riot-type events. They used paper magic stolen from the great magicians of the past. + Cary had decoded the paper magic and learned to move through it without it touching him. He learned how to use it against the Alpha Males and this made him very very threatening to them. He quickly learned to be very very quiet and resourceful. Maya didn't have access to the resources that Cary did so he told her what he could without putting her life in danger. He told her about the Alpha Males and how to explore innerspace without raising there interests. He taught her how to walk without being noticed and how to use their paper magic against them. He told her that any hunting pack will inevitably develpoe a complex system of signals to communicate with during an attack. He told her the most important signal would be a riot in New York City which would cause the population to ask the Alpha Males to use the blankets on them. Unsinc was full of deeply confused primates. He told her that when such an event occurred the best bet would be to head to somewhere on the planet that the Alpha Males did not care about. He gave her a list of such places and told her that when the time came he would help her get to one of them. He did not tell her that they were all places he controlled and that very very few people on the planet knew about them. He also did not tell her that some of these places did not actually exist in the concensus timespace coordinate. + Maya found the whole thing adventurous and exciting like a spy novel, she kept it in the back of her mind, where, like most of the citizens of Usinc it fought with another voice in the back of her head that kept saying its never going to get that bad, it never going to happen... + + + + In the meantime she stayed in Long Beach and kept up her research into inner space, occasionally using Ayahuasca, but primarily concentration on Psylosilum Cubensis which was the most commonly available a particularly psybocilum concentrated species of mushroom that was along with LSD 25, MDMA and a host of other hallucinatory drugs, officially declared a schedule one deadly drug by the government of Usinc way back in 1965. No government investigation or tests were ever performed on psylocilum it just got lumped with the rest of the psychedelic drugs of the nineteen sixties and deemed inappropriate for human consumption. + Chemically altering your own brain processing structure is hardly a new idea, people have been taking strange drugs and eating different plants throughout history. But it also important to notice that these people have also been persecuted by almost every Alpha Male government and syndicate since the beginning of time. It has its genesis in the Christian story which THE CHURCH has so cleverly glossed over for centuries. + Christ was a gnostic; he claimed a direct communication with god, and while Maya did not believe in the consensus definition of god, she understood that there was something out there and that Christ more than likely had seen it and what happened to him? He got nailed to a goddamn tree. That has got to fucking hurt. You go about minding your own business and one day you confront a world that is an entirely separate reality from your own, and you like it, it gives you a feeling of ecstasy, you want to share it with others. At first they think you are insane, weird or overly imaginative at best, but you keep trying and trying and trying to tell them that there is a better way, you do some amazing things with the knowledge you have and they realize you might not be kidding and this makes them nervous so they tell the Alpha Males. We fear. And the Alpha Males use their paper magic on you. They write things into LAW and they make you ILLEGAL. They claim that this then gives them the right to stop you. You are amused by their unwillingness to try what you speak of, but you keep telling them ...it can be better than this...and you know this. One day they get desperate and they nail you to a cross. Through the physical pain you finally gain what you were lacking the power to transcend the body, you find death before they did and you leave, but they never understand. And you are dead to them. + + + + There are worms in the soul of the materialist and they are eating from the inside out, logic and the belief that things which can be replicated through objective experimentation are the only things which can possible be true, is not wrong, but rather a very limited way of viewing life. Why is science so reluctant to investigate phenomena like UFOs, demon possession, chemical induced brain change, telekinesis, psychic communication, telepathy, witchcraft, Auras, Orgone energies, Gaian sentience, collective unconscious, and the rest of the fringes? Simply because its own self limiting philosphies have consciously chosen to ignore them. If it were proven true that telepathy is possible would it invalidate all of biology? No why then is science afraid of this possibility and fight so violently against it and those that are willing to investigate it are labled frauds and charlatans? Because it would force science to admit its shortcomings and the Alpha Males would have to give up the powerful personality egos which are the only programs that their biocomputers are capable of running. + The irony of the star sytem is that those who go fathest out of the limbs get the greatest respect as humans (Gandi, Einstien, Galilieo, Bucky Fuller, Tim Leary et al) but their ideas are never taken seriously and when they are finally proved right it is only with the greatest of begrudgement that science and governments will admit what they secretly fear: that consensus reality is not a good map of what the hell is really going on down here. + The worms are eating from the inside out and the decay is not easy to see unless you look from the inside and crack the elaborate schematics of secret societies. Science is perhaps the most elaborate and widespread secret society to ever grace the face of the earth. It has gone so far as to develop an complex and untranslatable language unique to each of its subdivisions —any hunting pack will develope very sofisticated and complex signals with which to communicate during the hunt. The complexity of science is so great that even within the heads of the beast can not understand each other. Biologists pay no attention to physicists and physicist can't understand chaos theorists, chaos theorists sneer down their horned rimmed glasses at botanists and none of them take psychologists seriously. + The for instances: Sigmuend Freud in his investigation of the human mind predicated that one day psychology would be but another field of biology, that is that most psychosis has some definite interaction with physical biology. In other words if you tend to suffer from delusions of grandeur it might well be because you chest muscles are in a constant state of hypertension or something to that effect. Enter Wilhelm Reich, at first Reich merely takes Freud one step further, outlining a better method of psychotherapy that focuses on how the patient behaves rather than what he says. Reich recognizes that most people give away more of the unconscious in behaviors and habits than in conscious thought-out speech and ideas. Slowly psychology accepts this and he publishes Character Armor, there are of course those who refuse to accept it but in twenty years they receded from majority to minority. Then Reich turns to the question of biological causes of mental psychosis and he is drowned out in a cry of protest, biology is unwilling to accept or even experiment with his Orgone energy. While biologists happily admit they have next to know idea how the brain works they are damn sure that this is not within the realm of possibilities. + Reich is arrested by order of the American Medical Association and imprisoned for the remainder of his life. His research is hauled out of his office and labs and burned in the New York City incinerator. Reich thought as a scientist that he was immune to such primitive charges as heresy or the like. He is wrong and pays an exacting toll for his mistake. In an ironic twist sixty years later Bell's Theorem seems to bare out that at least there is a chance his hypotheses could be correct and to ad another spoonful of irony, they major American Medical Association endorsed method of treating seriously mental illness is biologically based chemicals, which we call drugs. + Another for instance: Bells theorem (that familiar bell curve on which you were graded) seems to suggest that points on opposite side of the familiar curve could in fact be behaving in the exact same way. For instance if you were to take to molecule on opposite side of the universe and look at their behaviors they would in fact appear to be the very same thing. A whole branch of physics has sprung up to study this idea they call it non-local energy transfer. However despite the fact that any farmer in Iowa could easily see the implications of this theory that if two things can be doing the same thing at the same time then two people could reasonable be expected to be thinking the same things at the same time, the physicist will not investigate telepathy and the like. why? His own map of the universe says that it is at least possible why not look into it, it seems like an interesting and certainly revolutionary idea? Because he or she knows that this is not how life is. Self limiting prophesies are always fulfilled. If you know something is true or not true then it is true or not true for you. There is no objective reality. Sorry kids there just isn't. Einstein told everyone that eighty years ago, but unfortunately he wrote (like Crowley and da Vinci and the rest) in a very clever code called physics and the star system holds that you could not possibly understand physics. + Let me destroy that myth for a moment. Its simple, relativity says that the measurements made at any given point (you being a point in this case, belittling i know but work with me here). At any given point what is seen by the observer is only accurate at that point. In other words what you see and experience is uniquely your own perspective and is not true for any one else. We all know this as common sense, but sadly few understand it. This means that we are all uniquely alone and separate from each other —incapable of ever seeing the world through someone else's eyes —so long as we remain bounded to the spacetime point we call our "self." Transcending this point of observations suspends the laws of physics as we know them and throws us out of the time bounded Quantum Universe into the Multiversial Flow that mystics have been babbling incoherently about for centuries. The Tao Te Ching is not enigmantic it just doesn't operate on the same logic and rational that we do. Transcending the self is not hard you can do it on a daily basis; the human brain has known this unconsciously for thousands of years and developed something called empathy which allows us to try to see the world through another persons eyes. If you go further you forget that there are people and non-people there only is. + + The Star map consists of litanies of hierarchical structures at the tops of which reside experts who hand out information that travels down the ladder and is collectively agreed on by those in the lower rungs to be true. Thus only a select few of the people presumably know what the hell was actually going on. This leads to holding beliefs and is very detrimental to the mass of the population, tending to produce psychosis which tends to manifest in the Nabisco sponsored M&M&M Monotheism Monogamy Monotony. Polly gets a cracker. Peoget. Its been written up, described dis affected, looped and fed back so many times the signal is garbled into meaningless static. + Usinc primates were a curious group. Maya liked to watch them and felt at times like an alien anthropolgist sent to study this unique, bizzare species. + + +We're all Fucked +-Sil Hawkard from Pissing on Gravities Rainbow + + + Of course there were some good things about Usinc primates, some of them were goddamn sexy. The males of the species tended to believe that if they put their cocks in you this then gave them control over you. Maya found this irritating and consequently spent most of her sexual energy on women who tended to be less controlling and more open to multiple partners. + For some time though Maya's inner space exploration had taken over her sex drive. She spent three months in near isolation save her contact with her neighbors. During this time she travelled into spaces very foreign and exciting. She learned how to gain control over what experts in the field called the biocomputer or the soft machine. The human brain is the most sophisticated thing in the known universe; it is capable of processing data at a rate that so far exceeds everything else as to make it seem unique. But it is not unique at all, computers operate on a very similar principle of electrical impulses to move and interpret data. Instead of synapses and ganglia they use resisters and capacitors. If we reverse the analogy and view the brain as a much advanced computer questions present themselves, questions like what programs are running? Who is the meta-programmer in charge of loading and running the programs that the people use? Can you seize conscious control away from the meta-programmer and program your brain yourself? Maya found that she was not in control of many of the programs that her brain ran, some being run on a daily basis. Her three months in isolation was an attempt to catalog the programs stored in her hard drive. She got quite good at leaving her body and she had the experience of communicating with entities that do not occupy physical realms. One afternoon one of these entities addressed her directly and questioned why she wanted to be alone. No one in here is alone. To be alone is to no longer exist in a relative universe. + Maya gradually came realize that you can not remain in static isolation without necessarily limiting the number of reality tunnels available for exploration. This is why people who never leave their hometowns tend to believe that their lives are the way THINGS HAVE ALWAYS BEEN. Stasis leads to static which leads to confusion and eventual psychosis like emotional attachments to things. This psychosis eventually leads one to become the memetic duplicate of the parent program. Primate Bio-Computers get anxious when they start to feel like they are becoming their parents they have a "mid-life crisis." This is because the nuero-circuitry on the soft machine is not designed to run pattern lopes, we are the only self programable computers in the known universe and you're worrying what color curtains you should have in your window, what style of clothing is more popular among the rich and famous, how you can accumulate and store as many scraps of papermagicmoney as possible? + The more you travel the more you know is the ultimate extention of this logic. Mathmatically: Stasis=static=boredom=fear=death. As the sufis used to say before they got co-opted by the Hippies Uplifting Humans (HUH? for short) don't put anything over your head, it could fall and hurt you. Maybe they had to much ether in the temple or maybe you're just taking it all too seriously. + The more "other people's shoes" you can fit into the more perceptions you will have on what the hell is going on down here. The more perspectives you get, the less you care which one is right, and you stop taking any of it seriously. But that doesn't mean you aren't serious about it. Achieving states of ecstasy feels really fucking good otherwise why would you bother? It seemed curious to Maya that religion had chosen to portray enlightenmnet as this serene eternal peace on a mountain top kind of image. A good ad company selling ecstasy wouldn't get clients with an ad campaign like that. Its worse than some late night hack job: Do you feel bored? restless? Try the new godatic ecstasty pill! feel the energy of the entire universe pulsing through your body! order today, supplies limited, only three easy payments 19.95.... + Ecstasy is takes many forms, sex, chemicals, food, smells, tactile sensations of skin on skin. There are no limits in the province of the mind save what you put on it. You don't have to live in one place mentally or physically so why would you want to? She hit upon the idea of living in a reality tunnel without a home base without a steady income and surviving on a daily basis rather than a monthly one, or a yearly one making decisions on the basis of a lifetime's worth of time makes it very hard to act. Be here now the Buddhists say. One of the easiest ways to get into the now is to force the body to have to constantly adapt to new surroundings. Cats always land on their feet because they start running before they hit the ground. + Listening to Cary and reading the emails he sent her from the far corners of the earth tell made Maya realized constantly moving altered your consciousness. Cary came by one day with an eightball of cocaine and said I thought you might need this. She was in New York City forty-two hours later after a three our nap in Denver, Colorado. + Maya arrived already in an altered state of consciousness, she had run out of coke in Kentucky and kept herself awake by taking massive dosses of caffeine and occasionally slashing her arm. She found that eventually after thirty or so hours it is harder to fall asleep then it is to remain awake. Her eyeballs ached and her hands were callused from gripping the steering wheel of the trusty ford ecnoline van which despite having 238,654 miles on it was still the most reliable vehicle she had ever seen. Although as she took off all her clothes and drove through the stifling Kansas heat she wondered if maybe Cary would have given her a BMW or something if she had asked him. I need to be rich she thought. + She went to her friend April's house and called her from the front porch on a cell phone that Cary had loaned her. Halfway through the catching up she walked in the door. It made Maya smile and seemed to shock the shit appropriately out of April who was getting head from another girl while she talked and who nearly leaped up to the ceiling when Maya burst in the door. + +Snapshots: + +223 slipping in splish splash boom band boom and it was in Arizona when i noticed. Creosote bushes Juniper trees growing up through brown grass and dry red earth sky painted black and blue Culumous clouds held off in the distance and dirt splatters the windshield rolling rolling on rolling on what i need is. + disappointment click clack tree wheels tuffs of white cotton mixed in with the rumble of thunderheads and i had a line on and there was a sign jelly roll. Cigarette ash and the rain was holding off. Headed east headed east ping pong sing song. Desert air alone. Never had much time to talk about money, when i need a hammer i use it the rest of the time i leave it in the garage. Not much you can say about a hammer. It works. + I like your diction ohhh baby i loooove you diction. contemplate chemicals as a means of communication, if all you got is language all you got it four dimensions up-down, left-right, back-forward and what time is it. Bodeey is communication, sex is communication, chemicals are communication, images are communication, words too. My mind your mind ITS mind. i want to dream in eight sided polydimensional technicolor. + Corky voice over: New Mexico is dark few lights here and there, but they don't seem to have a sun. Ya its dark. theres some stars there's the dig dipper looking bigger and dippery then ever, looks more like a spatula to me but whom am i to say. + Southern man voice over: and there some rocks over thar by tha Indian gaaaming facilities. and there's a big blinkin,' one a 'em radio towers i reckon + Homer: uuuuh look. truck. mmmm donuts. + Glow on the horizon could it be?! waiting for alien abduction mind fading. + You don't think we are Indians? Look at all these teepees we are....Indians. +` The first genuine signs of an altered sate of consciousness: inability to distinguish between movement and sitting still. Time becomes plural bendable mutable and simultaneously objective and subjective. Bending time affects space the ability to look into the distance behind the eyelids disappears and the world feels right on top of you, flattened out like a blanket over your head. then a feeling of dizziness and disorientation of visual field inability to judge distance. followed by flawed depth perception difficulty in walking and a feeling of separation of mind and body. The body will remain intact but the mind goes into something akin to active sleep. You are asleep without being asleep. The body seems to function on a light dark binary pattern regardless of whether or not the mind is there with it. + the final unanswered question of humanity: where do thoughts come from? The brain? how does a gooey cellular substance flush with electrical charges and billions of strung together molecules formulate complex abstract ideas about things that don't exist? I feel like a lucky strike, i think I'm toasted. + Once when i was five i had an imaginary friend named steve. We got along great until one day he tried to steal my blanket and i kicked him out of a moving car. that was the end of steve. + + Maya no intention of spending much time in New York City but she got slightly side-tracked by brown liquor, green marijuana and an eerie sense of syncronicity that seemed to scream out follow me. Her friend April had a friend who had a friend.... that had invited her to the annual naked party that the rebellious hippie type students threw every year at NYU to somehow prove that they were cooler than anyone else. Maya was amused by hippish college students and thought it was inane, but she also knew they tended to be in possession of chemicals that Maya was lacking. And they never even realize that drugs are not phase, they're a way of life that so threatens humanity that they have come to be the cardinal sin. + The naked party was a nationally known event held in an enormous old Victorian house three stories high wedged back off an alley in the East Village Mall. As you might imagine everyone at the party was naked, and as you might expect they were all severely inebriated. Maya danced around the rooms looking for some sort of powerful mind altering drug, she spied a wretchedly foul looking hippie boy who seemed like he was having a more innarestin' time than the rest of the people and cornered him to get an eighth of Psybilsilm Cubensis at the reason price of two minute of kissing and brief grope during which time Maya ate the mushrooms and escaped from further advances. The alcohol rumbled with the addition of stale fungus and suddenly she felt dizzy and alot drunker then she had the moment before. Maya stumbled toward the bathroom to rid her body of the alcohol pollutants wondering if the mushrooms would act like peyote and be stronger after you through up. She opened the door too drunk to care if it was occupied and burst in to catch William, a slight man of about twenty five with a thin but muscular body, gently fucking a girl doggy style. Maya's world was beginning to become less and less vertical, but she caught the girls beautiful face in the mirror, perfectly framed by long angelic golden ringlets of hair that Maya’s eyes followed down to her sweat glistened nipples and heaving breasts. William was leaning toward the sink to do a line of cocaine, at that instant Maya was too drunk to be taken aback, she simply squeezed in and closed the door behind her and threw up in the toilet for a minute. After several gut wrenching heaves she tried to get up and sit down to pee, but the world was refusing to hold itself up and the toilet seat leapt up at her resulting in a fairly loud noise that made the girl turn her head and shimmy slightly looking back at her. + “you look like you could use a pick up, give her some coke William.” She smiled at Maya . William pulled his cock out of the girl but lost his balance turning around and accidentally slapped his cock against Maya's cheek + “Oh my god! I’m sorry! oh wow, did that just happen?” It was by far the most immediate and personal introduction to anyone she had ever had. The girl just laughed. + “Usually I date someone for a while before I let them slap my face with their dick.” Maya had found that sarcasism was funniest in the midst of insanity. + The girl laughed again, she bent down and licked Maya’s cheek, “Just getting my cum off your face,” she whispered in Maya’s ear. Maya did a line and felt much better and then another and then another and another until she felt downright spectacular. Then the girl grabbed her by the hand and led her out of the bathroom and down the hall into a room that was empty and smelled of the delightfully sweet aroma of Opium. + “You have Opium,” she murmured as the girl pulled her into bed. + “Yes I do." She pulled Maya down onto the bed. "My name is Chloe and that was William, and that's enough talk,” she lit and huca and passed the hose to Maya. + Picture: A blurry collage of images short circuited by imperfection and redeemed by the great opportunities of flesh and smokey tongues. Maya liked men and women, and was not, like most of the other bipedal apes of Usinc, afraid of having sex with her own image. Bisexuality exists in potentia for everyone, but only a handful realize the seductive pleasure of a body so close to the I. In fact Maya was far more selective of the men she slept with then women, but William, Chloe's boyfriend, was a sleek muscular yummy as one of Maya friends used to say, so she didn't complain when he climbed in bed too. Others at the party came and went but the three paid them no mind. Maya was lost in a world that for a moment offered the opportunity to let the music and the swirl of opium lights carry her into a sexual trance that welled up in her feet and travelled deliciously up her spine until it erupted in a whole body orgasm. + There was an odd moment after the orgasm when Maya had returned to the dance floor for a moment and then decided she wanted more and wnt back to the rooom only to catch William getting dressed and looking like he was going to leave. "Where are you going?" + "My friend needs some stuff." William eyed her suspiciously. + "At three in morning?" Maya furrowed her brow and held back from asking prying questions like who or why. "addict?" She asked. + "He pays me very well so that i won't have a problem catering to his whims." William pulled on his boots and got up to go, "Chloe's still in the bedroom you should let her take care of you..." He kissed Maya on the cheek and headed for the door. Maya watched him go and then walked back to the bedroom. + "Where the hell did William just run off to?" She asked closing the door behind her. + "Our friend Cary needed some things that William and I got for him." + "Cary?" + + + +Why aren't you gay? +-Sil Hawkard from Pissing on Gravities Rainbow + + The poetics of Allen carry long over and over into the the Quarter like Voodoo music and you know that they are with you and all will be solved when you are recognized. You hope that all you have come to believe is true and you want to know if we're all lost in the confusion and you want to think the smoke is clearing and surgeon will be stitching up the lacerations and you're licking up the blood. And every one seems to walk so confident and proud like they know so well what they are doing and you cutting into fear and they don't seem to notice. You're feeling like an idiot because it is so easy for them to walk proud and unafraid and you no longer care you want to see yourself smiling in a nineteen twenty's black and white photograph yellowed over the years and you want to know if you've been stuck in this station for to long you want to know if you've been down this line before. No one seems to understand why you're saying what you're saying and the lesbians don't understand men and the fags hate women and the hetros hate everyone and everyone is so dead dead dead afraid of sex. Why would you refuse an open mouth on your cock why would you deny the tongue snaking through the folds of your pussy simply because it came from a body that looked just like your own? Why deny half of all the sex you could ever have? Go back and confess your sins and catch the first train out of here you freaks. Its crowded and we haven't got the time or the resources to be having you around. Face up to the things you are not and could be, step aside and make room for those of us who are here to go. "I hope for you that you apply this happiness, this peacefulness" -JMS + + “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you” Chloe climbed on top of Maya and began sucking her nipples. Maya felt her body relax and could smell the familiar mingling of incense and opium smoke floating across the room she raised her head and saw Chloe’s hard nipples rub against her own sending tremors down her spine and an aching contraction gripped her pussy. The cream ran down her slit and trickled over her ass and onto the pillow. She drew up the Chloe’s leg until it was rubbing against her pussy, smearing herself on her thigh. Maya pulled Chloe’s mouth onto her own and kissed her hard, pushing her tongue into her warm sweet mouth, licking her lips and nibbling at her tongue. There mouths danced and the whole religious allegory of centuries seemed to swirl around from the Indonesian tapestries that hung on the walls and ceiling. Chloe rolled over and dragged Maya on top of her pushing Maya’s head down between her legs. Maya ran her hands across Chloe’s pussy and down her thighs, pulling her legs apart. She looked up at Chloe's ringlet hair and smiled her warmth through the cinnamon orange color she felt it flowing out through her chest nipples hard and sticking up like radio antenna. Drawing Chloe’s ass into her hands and lifting the pussy onto her tongue, Maya lapped at her creaming pussy, stabbing her tongue between Chloe’s glistening smooth and moist lips, dragging it up over her clit slowly to tease her at first, but Chloe grabbed Maya’s hair and forced her tongue between her lips and ground hard onto her tongue. Cum soaked Maya’s face and she began to lick as hard and fast as she could. + + + Exhausted and Satiated Maya and Chloe left the naked party together at seven the next day, carefully stepping over the delicate piles of sleeping flesh that litter the floor, admiring the groping hands clasped of breasts and clutching at limp cocks, crisscrossed and sleeping in splendor. Chloe took Maya to breakfast and the twenty four hour diner downtown and invited her to make the drive up to Boston and stay with her. + “So what is it you two do?” Maya said trying to make conversation with someone she realized suddenly —she had had sex with, done large quantities of opium, mushrooms, and cocaine, yet had never really talked to. Maya thought of the joke about the couple that was getting divorced just out of college. One of their friends says ‘what happened?’ ‘Well,’ says that man ‘we met and got married in college; I didn’t know we couldn’t get along when we were sober.’ + “So now you think because we fucked and shared some drugs that I'm going to bare my soul to you?” Chloe asked smiling. + “I was hoping,” said Maya meeting her smile. + “Well, okay, I can tell you the truth but you won't believe me." Chloe seemed to be measuring her up with words designed to lead Maya somewhere. + “'Belief is the death of intelligence,'” said Maya. + “Well Well well, you can read.” Chloe seemed to shift to a certain bitchy character that suddenly made her appear self righteous and altogether ugly in that smug ugliness that New Englanders seem to always have whether they mean it or not. She looked searchingly in Chloe's eyes and heard a voice, one she had never heard before telling her that smugliness is ugliness is fear/must cut through/ get them down from there/ stuck like a cat///. She quieted her voices and listened to the way Chloe's green eyes moved as she talked. She felt her breathe between sips of her coffee and watched to curl of her tongue as it formed words. She wondered absently if William was in love with her. + "The truth is that William and I work for a man named Cary, we make collages and sound loops which he needs when he goes um travelling." + "I knew a man named Cary," Maya was thinking aloud and instantly regretted it, but Chloe only smiled. At first it was warm and friendly but then a consumptive almost animal like fire began to burn behind her eyes or maybe it was Maya's own desires projected outward into Chloe's eyes. + "How would you like to come up to Boston and lick my pussy for a few days?" + She said it with such feline grace that it sounded as if she giving someone directions to a restaurant, Maya came back: "Are you going to lick mine?" + "I'm going to fuck you like you've never been fucked, so you'll stay fucked." + +We forget that sacred, +respectful sex may not look +like heterosexual monogamy, +and we forget that human +beings are sexual every +moment of their lives. +-Sallie Tisdale + + It reminds me of a place i used to live where in dark corners i watched a beautiful brunette and fell deeply in love with her, though we never spoke. I watched her like writer would smug certitude that i knew the real her better than she knew herself. I sat alone in that dark corner night after night waiting and watching. If you listen in silence the Buddhists say, you hear much more. Silence means no thought no word no picture, if you want to know what someone is saying stop listening to the syntax and watch how they say it. You only do that if you are internally quiet and listening, which involves the eyes as much as the ears. + i like to listen to Chloe watch her lips curl and retracted and form out words thoughts ideas smiles frowns all the expressions of human emotions which words are not needed for. Words are abstracted ideas intellectual masturbation, bodddiiiiyyy language is here-now happening, really occurring, Maya Maya Maya what are you doing you sound like you're in love with the girl... I am but I'm not; I'm not because being in love turns strange gears in my head and heart and soul and makes me change to better reflect upon the image i am so desperate to duplicate assimilate and make myself into. My love is possessive lays inroads across lives bringing separate things together i can never again tell someone i am in love with them because they always expect it to last forever. i hurt them when i leave and i never mean to i still love them i just have to leave. + Sex. the feel of her nipple rubbing coarsely against mine the softness of mashed breasts stuck together kissing chasing her tongue around her mouth. there is a reason writers are afraid of sex and hate trying to write it, they don't have words for it. They think its something that is happening, a thing that exists apart from ourselves, but it is not. It is in us —we are sex. Sex is seeping from our pores and we hate it, we deny it. I want to celebrate it, I want to have a mad passionate orgy with the entire world. I want men I want Women i want plants I want animals, all life in one orgiastic embrace like Kali and Vishnu; mouths locked on mouths, on breasts, on cocks, on cunts, cocks in cunts, in asses, between breasts, tongues licking necks, licking nipples, licking asses, fingers probing flesh, FLESH FLEsh FLesh searing and popping with electrostatic sexual energy. Is that so much to ask? Wouldn't you like it? Are you scared because you know you would and it might turn the world upside down? + How to suck seed: I like sucking on a man's cock —my mother would call me a whore. I like cock, the flesh there is much softer than anywhere else on a man's bodies, the cock is the closest a man gets to being a woman. It amazes me that women don't enjoy sucking cock more if only for that reason, of course that's not all i like about it. I like watching them squirm, making them twitch; i like looking in their eyes as my mouth slides down the shaft giving them that fuck me look that men spend most of there lives trying to coax out of women. Men are really quiet simple like that, look at them in the right way, beg for the right things (like pllleeeease ppllleeeease fuck me harder or yes cum all over my face...) and they will do anything you want. They will still try to front their character armor, try to treat you like an idiot try to prove themselves superior, but I never begrudge them that, if i were as dumb as a man and my ego were that defenseless I'd spend most of my waking hours trying to protect it too. + Maybe i should writing a guidebook for women called How To Suck Cock. I should definite reeducate them on the come part, many women think men like to come in your mouth, this is not true. Men want you to get messy, they want come in your mouth on your face on your breasts every where, its like they're marking their territory. You have to act like you like it too, and eventually you will...eventually you will find you are turned on by things much more perverted then you originally thought possible. You will find yourself not just wanting to suck cock but to rub your face all over it, devour his balls with you tongue making him twitch and begging for him to fuck your face. You will discover as I have that sex is not good until you are covered in sweat and cum and have violated all the taboos and laws of the country. You will also find that this will scare the living shit out of most men who run away when you walk in a room in stiletto skin tight rubber boots up to your cunt and nipple clamps with a chain, and say get on your knees and lick my asshole. They're good at dishing out perversion and degrading you but most can't take it when its your perversion and you degrading them. that is why i prefer bisexual women, women who know that sex is everywhere inside you and as the song says the last taboo was shattered by her tongue one night. + I think sex with women is more exciting, and easier than sex with men. I know women's bodies, they are my own body. By the nature of things having sex with women is more like masturbating, there is no coming to terms with the other. There is no Other. And usually women are adventurous than with men. This is vague and meaningless and horribly analytical,why am i writing this? No one will ever see it. Because i am horny and Chloe is at the store and William meeting some guy named Sil. William says he's cute. It would be really odd an unfathomable snychronistity if the Cary that they know is the same one i know...i'm tired of writing. i need coffee. + + +"To a person over 35 or 40 +the word "drug" means one +of two things: doctor-disease +or dope-fiend-crime. Nothing you +can say to a person who has this +neurological fix on the on the word +drug is going to change their mind." +-Dr Timothy Leary + + + Sitting at the twenty four hour diner and I wonder if I'm lost again. I wonder if i made some horrible mistake. I wonder if i should have been baptized? As if being born were a sin? What kind of fucked up belief is that? Welcome to hell, i guess. I want you to be naked always, i want you to be wild like a panther pacing the jungle. New York. timepiece. Dark bruises hanging low on bloody red brick world and the college kids smile absently at each other still snug in surrogate wombs. Eastern money all sick with age, death and decay do you even remember why you got rich or was it a hand out? I was brought here by money wanting for it that is. would you like to know what its like to not have it would you would you can you imagine. Money is a heavy hand; heavy when you got it heavier when you don't. And you dare to tell me what i ought to do what rules i ought to follow do you hear me labelling up your ugly world do you want to know what i think? Of course not you just hold your head up high hide behind your religions, your morals, your laws, your gods, your ceremonies, your traditions, your truth. You want to know what i think? Of course not. But you're going to one day I am going to be heard. I will write you a letter and you will hear it in your dreamsleep and it will seep into you like a virus and start to duplicate itself cell by cell until i break you down, pull out your stubborn beliefs and watch them in the pure light. And you will see your ugliness for what it is. And you will see that this is not the peacelove you can market and absorb and redirect like the 1960's. You will see it in the white light of nova ovens. It's William Burroughs at your doorstep with Hassan and me, and we will take back your ugliness and show it to all the galaxy and you will be afraid of yourself you will run from yourself and you will go nowhere. + Dear Boards, Syndicates and Cartels or the earth Jesse Helms and cold blooded mindless religioso idiots of all history, Newt Gingrich and all corrupt power mongers selling the souls that are not yours and never will be yours, Banking families of the earth locking down lives that are not yours and never will be yours; hear me now. What have you that i do not have what have i that you need why are you vampiring off bodies that are not yours to use? Where do you base your authority from in what powerless jungles do you hide? What wet swamps do your bellies stink of knees are muddied with could you find no way into the Quarter but this in your atom splitters in your denial religions you just couldn't keep the lid down because your filth games do not pull in this here. We are here and we are here to stay and you will hear it you will feel it you will taste it but not until we tell you sill you know it because your books do not have the puzzle do not have the key do not know what you are looking for. And in those moments of confusion we will tear you to shreads gnawing like demons, preying on your flesh, throwing your ripped entrails on the subway tracks and watching you grind into nothing. Not a thing. i am not a thing. + Acrid caffeine burned stomach linings peeling off the damn thing girl in charge rages —i need supplies, nutrients the front line is taking heavy casualties. Stop into a french bistro with awnings covered like the french flag. Ham and cheese under a better name. Up the street there is William he's with another man can't make out if he's cute or not. Quicken pace. Man is getting into a BMW smiling very cute looks familiar. + A Window in the back of the BMW rolled down and out popped Cary's smiling face. "Maya I heard you were in the east....would you like to come to the western lands?" + "This is so odd," she smiled back at him. She shifted her hips and leaned down to the window giving Cary a kiss on the cheek. "I dunno, is Mr. Burroughs going to be there...?" + "Of course." + "Well i don't have any money so i don't think i can go..." + "If you don't think you can go then you can't go, but i have something for you anyway, actually its for all of you," he gestured at William and smiled at Chloe as she came running from up the street. He handed an envelope to Maya. sorry i can't talk we've got to be in Costa Rica by morning..." His voice was overwhelmed by the passing of a truck. Maya kissed him again and ran around to the drivers door and tapped on the window as Cary said hello/goodbye to Chloe. + "I didn't get your name?" She said as the window lowered enough to show a pair of muddy green eyes. + "Sil," he said rolling the window the rest of the way down. His lips didn't seem to move and there was no expression on his face, but behind the eyes Maya saw the intensity of something enormous burning. She was instantly obsessed. + "I'm Maya," she held out her hand which he clasped and kissed gently. + "Its nice to meet you Maya. Have a nice stay." the car started up and Sil smiled at her for a brief second before rolling up the black tinted window and heading down the street. Maya stood there for a minute watching the car disappear into Harvard Square. You to she thought blankly. Chloe and William were holding the door for her, she floated upstairs with them. + "What's in the envelope?" William seemed anxious to Maya as she flopped down on the couch." + "lets see..." It was a rather large envelope and she tore it apart like a birthday present. Three passports and three airline tickets spilled out onto the floor. They gathered them up and realized that they needed to be at the airport in two hours. + "Cary's sending us to the flotilla..." William seemed amazed. + "The what?" + Maya was not paying attention she was staring at the ten one thousand dollar bills taped to the inside of her passport. She noticed that it was her picture but not her name. She also noticed that Chloe and William did not have money in their passports. Exchange in Madrid. ...better rates read the note. + + +Why do today what you did yesterday +and can do tomorrow anyway? +-Maya Stevens from A Game-Circuit Guidebook + + Gliding down out of those Elysian fields you often feel tired lonely and a little bit afraid that if death is not the end then what the hell really is going on around here???? Sometimes looking into and through the eyes of someone you don't even know you get the tragic silence of empty timespace tugging at those mindstrings that hide until the lonely hour of the morning when the I sees itself in the mirror, and tries to reconcile the emotions of so many different state of mind —bring the contradictions of emotion into focus— only to reveal them to be more juxtaposed than you had originally imagined. What happens to the sad eyed boys you loved, but never spoke to, lusted after but never kissed warm lips, never felt, salty tequila necks never licked in tropical humid splendor. What becomes of the non-events those give lifes its tragic beauty? It lends poets' enthusiasm, hearing centuries of events that failed to undergo the formality of actually occurring. + Is this occurred, is this happening, are you reaching me or am i reaching you and what is the difference.? What is the difference between an observer created universe existing -only for the individual- and a set of1x1000000000000000000000000000000000 +000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000 multiverses all existing simultaneously? Why has everyone lost their wild-eyed enthusiasm for life? Why was i born in this strange cynical decade? What will you do when the whole thing goes up? Change tunnels involuntarily that's what you'll do; maybe you should start practicing? Do you ever feel hungry tireduglyhungry? Do you ever feel your fingers dancing on skin that isn't there? Slow motion glow of torpid rhythms, dancing like words —first there is skin, then there is no skin, then there is. Undulations felt time-ripple like, something Dali would approve of. From right up under torrid kisses a yearning gripping phantasmal emotion claws at you like rust. digging digging. Have you ever seen hungry eyes? gripped and held them for an instant that transcended TimeSpaceMind points and fell together in grace, like Dante's vision standing on its ear, staring you readydareugly in the face? Don't you want to go? don't you ever want to let go for a second? to see the approval oblivion lugs up behind it? Can you feel it? Its in foreign cities, lands you've only dreamed of. Have you ever wandered what it was exactly that makes the milk of paradise, what did Coolidge see? Have you ever wanted the elixir she carries in that elliptic second? Have you ever hungered? She's hungry yearning tie the tiger to a stick. That thing is going to eat your flesh in horrors you never thought could be true. Don't you want to go? We are here. Don't you want to go? + It was a couple of thousand desert miles and a few seasons ago and you were walking fast to catch a train you'd already missed. And a billboard ad that wasn't new two years ago, spent like a sperm poodle condom. You're just sitting in the red vinyl cushions at an all night diner spinning a few tracks on the jukebox, burying concrete +highway traces of noise, headlights dragging past. Calling up visions of lost highways, dredged out images blurred together; passing seasons traced out in the arks of headlights carved through concrete, and you pull to the side of the road recollecting missed side streets, passed exits and you haven't slept a moment since Taos years ago. Lying down in the back seat, A.M. only radio, and you're playing along on a dimestore guitar you got this past week for ten bucks in Las Crusas, New Mexico, traded it for dinner from a man who already heard music in the season's knew the uglysimpletruth and had no need to catch what you had missed. You drowned it out with desert miles spent walking on asphalt. Mescaline, Morphine and you tried to catch it, photographfreezeframed for an eternity's preservation, just as a moment slid by. Memory is seared to film. Another missed exit on desert highways, the dust turned to miles and passed you out on the two lane, rickety and prone to ruin in the seasons when you passed through; too tired not to stop at an all night diner for a Kerouac cherry pie on the plastic stools. Diner red, hard formica counters raised out of cold concrete floors —scuffed from the worn heels of trucker boots. Watch them treading season after season across the threshold and into the red glow just to rest wearied eyes and maybe spin a few tracks from days past. The waitress departs without a care for the miles missed and you're writing up a catalog of things to seedothink. Fresh customers arriving out of the chilled Kentucky mist. + Sad desert of two days driving slams you back down in the booth, speakers ease out the rhythm of headlights blearing past and the Las Crusas guitar reflects a Picasso shape on the concrete of the parking lot. Thee mist interrupting the even light just +to play proud chords of songs unwritten to mark the passing seasons. Missed out of haste, sown into concrete known only in diner light whose reflection is just fragmented enough with the past to see all the seasons. + Have you ever been hungry? + + Maya had never been to Europe or the Middle East nor had she been in a floating geodesic dome before. The plane touched down at midnight in Madrid. The three travellers were met at the airport by a limo; maya looked at the sleek black car and suddenly had a change of heart. She told them she would catch up in the next few days, reasoning that Cary would not have given her ten thousand dollars if he expected her to go straight to the flotilla. + From the airport Maya got a cab and attempted to lose herself in the night of Madrid. She walked in the crowded streets alone looking for a club or a bar in which she could pass the night. They buildings were white and the streets narrow she walked aimlessly for a while studying the shops and houses wondering what it was like to live somewhere that people had been living for nearly fifteen hundred years. The heavy fiction of history seemed to hang like vaporous lead fog on the streets. When Usincer's travel abroad they are forced to confront the fact that a two hundred year history is but a blip. Maya had never been on a street that was thousand years old in fact the one she was on now had been repaved in 1986, but this did not enter into her thoughts she was thinking that at least some street had been here for a thousand years. Eventually she came to a series of side-streets and alleys that overflowed with bars,cafe's and clubs; drunken Europeans spill out onto the streets and she felt drunken Spanish eyes leering at her. Spanish: Senorita! Come here, you need someone? I'll take care of you eh? We dance make love. Maya ducked in bar without acknowledging them she ordered scotch and sat at the bar for a while listening to the swirling sounds of Spanish and French. She could translate snippets here and there: fuck the government! chinga this and chinga that. Maya hadn't been around real Spanish before, but she recognized traces of bastardized Mexican cuss words and slang. The bar was packed and hot the walls were red and Maya felt the stench of centuries of people with poor bathing habits. Usincer's are a clean obsessed people Maya thought as she finished her scotch and headed toward the door.She went to akl;sdjf lkj, the adfdkjf, and then to a club with the promising name of 69. It was here that she ran into a boisterously drunk American who claimed he was a doctor. + Waiben was leaving when Maya arrived, but the presence of a beautiful white girl convinced him to stay. She noticed him primarily because he was the only white person in the club which reminded Maya that she too was white and that she too probably stuck out every bit as much in this sea of olive-brown faces. But, Maya paid him little mind and settled herself at the bar ordering another scotch. She got her drink and turned around to see Dr. Waiben standing. leaning against a pole and staring at her. She felt an ill vibe about his person and turned back around to the bar, but he came up and leaned in next to her ear. "Are you from Usinc?" + She did not turn to look at him and continued to roll her scotch back and forth on the bar shuffling it between her hands like an ice puck. + "Excuse me miss are you from Usinc?" + "Je Ne Sais Pas?" she smiled and shook her head. + Waiben was quite drunk and he started to ask again only louder like people do when the realize that someone doesn't understand them as if they will when you say it at twice the volume. He caught himself and simply smiled. He stared at her in a way she recognized: hungry. She could tell that deep down he would like to deposit some or preferably all of his sperm on her, Maya knew that was men's first thought when they saw her or any woman for that matter, and Maya was well aware of her biological power over men. She let her spaghetti strap slide down her shoulder so that he could see the top of her breast better. His eyes followed it and she wiggled in her stool and leaned forward to get a napkin, playing him like a fiddle. He just kept staring at her finally her turned and mumbled under his breath and into his drink "Sleep with me you stupid french cunt." But loud enough that Maya caught it. She turned looked him dead in the eyes and said: "If I went to bed with you you won't live through the experience...insecure pencil dicked Usinc businessmen have never turned me on anyway." + He stared at her trying to absorb the impact and looking like a Yugo that's been hit by a cement truck. Maya smiled and stared back, reading him. He was a curious man; medium build and of nondescript stature, the kind of person who passes without notice on a crowded Usinc street. Perfectly nondescript and it gave her the creeps, Maya knew that its the ones that you don't notice that you have to watch out for. + "Actually I'm a doctor," he said lamely. + "That's the best you can do?" she smiled again. "What was your name?" + "Dr. Waiben." + "Well Dr. Waiben it was nice to meet you," she held out her hand and he shook it. Maya sucked down the rest of her drink and set it on the bar. "Would you like another drink?" she could tell Waiben thought this was his big chance, men like to think that if they give you something it means you will give them something in return. They liked that logic so much they built an entire society based on it. Maya hated the barter system and never sold her conversation for drinks. She smiled an artificial ironic smile and said yes waited until he turned to get the bartenders attention and then ducked out the door and into the Spanish night. She hit he street running and laughing outloud much to the amusement of two men kissing in darkened doorway. she answered them with catcalls and a whoop chinga me el nino.... for the first time she felt free and continued running down the Madrid street paying no attention to where she was going. Eventually she found a hotel and got a room. + The next day Maya bought a laptop computer and after much haggling and showing of money got the man at the store to give her a number of another man that claimed he could get her modem that could dial off of payphones. she got a bus ticket to Marabella in the south of Spain which her pocketguide to Spain said was where all the rich and famous movie star types hang out. This, she reasoned, is usually where all the fun stuff goes on —in the houses of the rich and richer. The bus ticket was third class which Maya always travelled so that she could see the countryside and be able to stop frequented to smoke joints or get something to eat. She typed on the bus not worrying about the eyesore nature of a beautiful Usinc woman wearing jeans and a tank top listening to headphones and typing on a laptop on a nineteen seventies bus full of working class Spanish citizens lumber over the hills. From a payphone in aklsdjf kadjf she emailed Cary a message on how to go about getting a boat and shared a hash cigarette with a boy that looked about fifteen and spoke no Usinc. he approached her smoking form shyly and asked something in Spanish which Maya took to mean he wanted her cigarette, she handed it too him and he puffed on it and smiled at her after a thoughtful pause, "lkasdjf?" She took it to mean hash she smiled si. he rambled for sometime in Spanish gesturing occasionally toward the town. Maya caught some of it it seemed like he was offering her something food perhaps, but she declined No grasias and bid him farewell getting back on the bus. It took the better part of the day and into the night to get to Marabella. Maya was tired and went straight to the first hotel and crashed out for the night. + She woke up the next morning and wired herself up to the internet expecting directions to a boat of some sort. Instead there was a map of Marabella with a cafe highlighted and a note below it that read see you here at eleven. Maya looked at the clock it was already ten thirty she threw on her clothes and ran to catch a cab. the drive wound through the town and Maya saw the Mediterranean for the first time. The town reminded her of New Orleans must have looked a hundred years ago whitewash buildings and wrought iron railings. New Orleans if it had been on a hill. The cab dove down the hill and into waterfront plaza littered with Orange Trees and sidewalk vendors. Lovely, Maya murmured in an British accent, imagining some snotty old British bitch delighting in the mock authenticity of Marabella isn't it just lovely.... + Cary was sitting at table in front of cafe klajdklf eating eggs. he got up and gave Maya a hug, offering her a seat. + "I see you decided to take advantage of the opportunity to travel...you don't have guilt circuit cut yet though or you would have just said hey can you send a boat for me... + I didn't want to put you out...' + "No one ever puts me out if i want to do something that i am able to do i do it, if i don't i don't. I find this greatly simplifies what most people call domestic life and leaves me free to do more interesting things: the why's how's and whatfor's.... He smiled, "now for the funny part " and Maya got the lecture that Sil had gotten many years earlier. + + + +Within the province of the mind, What I believe +to be true is true or becomes true, within the limits +to be found experientially and experimentally. +These limits are further beliefs to be transcended. + —Dr John C Lilly from The Center of the Cyclone + +October 23,1999 Two weeks later and i feel a little better —less motion sickness. Went into something like a trance state last night with the sensory depravation chamber and the mushrooms. Cary kept asking me what i saw when i couldn't really make out anything that was describable he gave me a book how to build maps in hyperspace or something of that nature. Mostly i felt cold as if i were on a wind blown desert mesa or something to that effect. Sense of dread and anticipation like you feel when starting a trip that you know will not be easy, but i never went anywhere. Sat around in the bar last night with Chloe and Cary talking about the potential effects of being able to receive all the information in a ten dimensional lattice work universe such as ours. The question being: would computers be capable of translating dimensions the we don't normally have ocular reference points in? In other words Cary was arguing that if implanting new programs in the human mind is through chemical means does that mean that addition things could be seen if chemical were cross referenced (so to speak) with digitally enhanced ocular images? Light conversation around here. That's the thing i can't get over is that there are so much information stored here in computers in nanocreatures and human nervous systems its absolutely incredible. And Cary continues to baffle me in way that no one ever has before without me wanting to sleep with them. Not that i haven't had sex with him, he took me through a wide array of tantric and other sex magic traditions the other day and i came so hard i saw other universes the satori things eastern mystics are always raving about. But it wasn't erotic it was just sex. Really damn good sex. Sometimes i think Cary has cracked the code and knows things the rest of us aren't going to know until after we die and sometimes i think he's just as clueless as the rest of us he just happens to be the guy with the money. I asked him about that this morning and he looked at me for really long time like i was insane. He got that very thoughtful look on his face like i can tell when he finally hits at emotion; he said just because you're dead doesn't mean you stop programming your consciousness. You just don't do it with your body anymore. I take that to mean that he is a trickster like the rest of the religious people of the world, he just tricks me into thinking about things i find enjoyable where as David Koresh did not. + Still haven't met Sil Hawkard again and no one seems to know where he is or when of even if he is coming back. I just remember the piercing green eyes that sparkled and laughed while the face did nothing. Apparently i am not alone in obsessing over his eyes everyone here says that one of the things they notice about him is that her never looks directly into their eyes. When he talks he seems miles away that's what William said when i asked him about him on the plane. But everyone seems to like him or at least respect him even if they don't understand. I heard a story the second day i was here that he had vanished and that not even Cary knew where he was. Apparently he lived here for about four years leaving to conduct some experiments in south America but always going back here never said mush just watched. Some days he just sat in the bar and smoked hash and stared at the walls other days he would just read magazines or watch and laugh as people went about their jobs. they said they never felt that he was laughing at them rather that he laughed because he liked the way he felt when he was laughing. I asked Cary about it that and he just started laughing. He gave me a book that Hawkard wrote though, something called the rubber octopus I read most of it in a day. Very confusing jumbled sort of book that felt more like an interpersonal wrestling match between the author and the story then it did a novel. I couldn't tell what was real and what wasn't and characters would appear without explanation and disappear again and he kept reminding the reader that they are reading a book and that he is in there mind. I am writing a new program in your mind sentences would start and then he would go on to say thinks like UFO's are real i saw one in August 4 2954 on a dirt road in Oklahoma. It was still dark just an hour before sunrise i was driving a '69 Ford truck, the sky was black and the only thing i could see was the road in front of me and then there was a flash and two figures approached me and offered me pancakes and then got back into their spaceship and took off again. then the text would digress into language experiments with semantics and Linguistics. It gives you the feeling that the author is brilliant, but doesn't care if you follow him or not he just wants you to have a good time. And the sex scenes...if he can actually have sex as well as he writes it... he needs to come back here so I can test that theory. + + +November 19, 1999 I flew with Cary to Paris today to have some more tests done on his brain to see if he indeed has a tumor. He still hasn't mentioned anything to anyone yet, he doesn't seem to be bothered by it, but i cried all night last night. + +November 23, 1999 Cary is going to die. the doctors give him two months tops. I flew back alone to the Flotilla he said there were some things he needed to do, but that he would come to have a bon Voyage party. He seemed genuinely excited about death, maybe he is in denial. + +November 29. 1999 Cable received on the antique telegraph machine in Cary's office read: + A thousand apologies for not being able to return.stop.I leave all of you with sufficient funds to continue the facilities into the near future.stop.shutting down costa rica facility all persons there return to Flotilla if it strikes your fancy.stop.smile.stop.i died yesterday and sil is dictating this to the woman at the telegraph office.stop.remember if death is not the end then what the hell is really going on around here.stop. + +STOP.STOP.STOP.STOP.STOP.STOP.STOP.STOP.STOP.STOP.STOP.STOP.STOP +21717 words 58 pages diff --git a/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/chapter one.txt b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/chapter one.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b004e58 --- /dev/null +++ b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/chapter one.txt @@ -0,0 +1,419 @@ +in the beginning +there was the word + + +Sil Hawkard always wanted to be rich, filthy fucking rich, because rich people lie around in opium filled rooms and snap there fingers for food and sex and drugs and what else is there in life really? Fortunately for Sil he is filthy fucking rich and lying around in his own little palace in Mandalay exploring the outer perimeters of sanity by the ingestion of galvanized petroleum vapors. He is an oil man, though he didn’t start that way. He sucks on the thin plastic tube, lighting the huca with a bic lighter bearing the insignia of a crucified christ with crown of thorns. Sil Hawkard notes the christ's crown and thinks to himself -this was not an oil man. Fucking Arabs have the greatest drug on the earth and they won't share it. So Sil had applied what was now called the Kellinger method in the industry; that poor fucker Kellinger had no idea... + Halfway around the world and twenty years before the phone rings; your ears implode at the sound and you look up to the wall where a phone hangs; reaching up with a tendril-like arm and tentatively snaking its receiver to the ear, a voice from far away says "Dr. Kellinger?" Speaking. "I have found the glitch in your prototype Eater and fixed it. It to be an invaluable help in our trade and I have decided that since I have modified it to an extent which you did not anticipate, that it is by all rights my idea. Do you hear that scratching at your door? By altering the genetic coding of the beast I realized that many different applications become available to the user, the one on your door step is called Kellingereater prototype number 1. Goodbye." + The door blows apart into fragments of wood sticking in your wrist and ankles, but this is no more than a passing sensation for the ferocious nature of the Kellingereater is that they have twenty three stomachs each of which must be constantly fed. It rips into you like a butcher chopping meat, systematically picking out vital organs and stuffing them into organized pouches attached to its stomach as its masters had trained it. It sucks the remaining scraps of quivering flesh into its mouth, rises on its hind legs and runs homeward... + Sil lapses back onto a burgandy velvet couch, people would do anything to avoid being fed to the eaters. Anything. Like work until they died of natural causes, sell their daughter for prices way below the market value, sacrifice themselves for their children; Sil takes another deep inhalation of petroleum smoke and contemplates the difference between luck and organized coincidence. For instance he really knew nothing about and had no hand in creating eaters and yet they were essentially his key to wealth. Getting rich is easy in the underworld, staying rich is hard, but if your enemies don't know you exist then there is no one to harm you. hence the end that befell Kellinger who by all rights if his luck had been better, should be sitting on this red velvet couch. Petroleum it was generally believed was made into smokable drug, first by the arabs looking for some potential use for the waste products given off in the refinement process, but this was not strictly true. In fact petroleum was a rather inacurrate name for what Sil and a good percentage of the world was smoking these days. + Sil hits the huca again and feels his face going numb his head slumps down until his chin is nearly on his chest he snaps his fingers twice. Two Arab boys appear and began to dance crooked, spinning patterns devised over centuries of hypnotic oppression which the cockroaches of skid row motels had only recently begun to learn. Oppression is a drug, it acts equally, though differently, on the oppressed and the oppressor alike. All things must remain at equilibrium or fall into decay, this is a law of physics, and it is true of all systems mathematical --however if one considers spiritual and emotional systems one must take into account negative entropy + The crooked dance is hypnotic to watch and all consuming to perform. In India they teach it to snakes, and in the sewers of America cockroaches feasting on the radioactive waste have begun to learn it on their own. Like terrible creatures from a Kafkian nightmare they sit quitely underground, as we go about our lives, learning the dance passing it on to their children and teaching them how to use it as an evolutionary tool --for all systems are also trying to succeed one another. One day a properly evolved cockroach will crawl out of a sewer drain just as the head of state is stepping to the podium to address the nation. He will devour the president raw as the live camera crews feed man's downfall to a nation of viewers even as it happens. The blood soaked +cameramen will never stop filming and the cockroach will scurry to the podium, strain himself to an upright position and address the nation...Behold I am. He will dance and spin and all will be entranced. Women will castrate men and men will bludgeon themselves to death with pickaxes until they are suitable for cockroach consumption and life will continue on much as it always has. The system is independent of its elements, humans are not necessary, cockroaches would uphold the system just as well. Sil Hawkard’s mind is racing, horrible conspiracies are leaping at him from the walls like ostriches gone mad, heads palpating and seeking some soft cerebellum to penetrate. The initial paranoia of the petroleum smoke is fading away and Sil falls into a profound haze of self absorption. The boys continued to dance trance-like as the numbers explode at the edges of his vision. + Sil's story is a rather long and convoluted one and subject to enhancement on his own part, but this much is true: At the age of twenty one Sil Hawkard discovered that while he vaguely enjoyed torturing the professors at Columbia university, most people in the United State are squares, and Sil, already an avowed anarchist was wearymaterialists whom he felt lacked the imagination and understand to really get it so to speak. So he dropped out for a semester and bummed his way around the united states. In the middle of the Utah desert one night in July he ingested a rather large quanity of psilosilum in the form of mushrooms. His facination with with mind manipulation did not began with drugs though, it began much earlier in a high school biology class where he realized the simple truth that the brain is a continuously changing chemical reaction. Thus if one wanted to escape the pattern of chemical reactions typical of human thought, one ought to change the chemistry of the brain itself. Sil's mushroom experience was typical of innerspace voyages except for one thing, he bcame convince that ostriches held the secret to the universe and it was this discovery that led him to Africa. + * * * * * + Discipline is an agent's greatest virtue, thinks Agent Tucker to himself as he draws a long and satisfying hit off the oxygen tube. Behind him Doris Day and her Waxing Loquacious Lesbians play a sultry 60's motown number on a dimly lit stage, and the general atmosphere of +The Knight takes on a surreal quality. A good bar is one where the possibilities remain endless regardless of the irrefutable realities. Agent Tucker is well aware of the realities, but his mind is only now beginning to sense the infinite set of possibilities that comes with every new reality. For instance when considering the overall picture of life and its universal quotient of suffering it is hard to feel pity for one’s own self. There is not nearly enough pity in Tucker to cover even his immediate family. He has no self pity, he considers self pity to be a symptom mental illness because it requires the ego to be divided into pitier and pitied. He likes his ego together as one in harmony he is quite proud of this justification and it helps to ease his innate sense of self pity and focus his mind on work. His work is the great work as a the masters would have called it. He is a Agent of the State. The State is not to be confused with the government as many of you would assume. On the contrary the government is but an instrument of the State, the State is a separate entity whose ultimate identity is unknown even to Tucker; he is but an agent of it charged with ceasing the petroleum trade. He has for months now been stalking the elusive Sil Hawkard, a man whose identity is also unknown to him, he realizes that Hawkard could well be in this very room right now planning Tucker's demise, the thought sends a cold shiver of fear down his spine and he cringes thinking again like a manta: discipline is an agent’s greatest virtue. Agent Tucker takes another hit of the oxygen and notices the numbers exploding at the edges of his vision. Exploding numbers are the smoker's worst fear. Suddenly seized by the idea that Hawkard may be present, Agent Tucker nervously fingers his pistol and glances furtively around the bar. He notes, but passes over one Sil Hawkard quietly sitting at the other end of the bar with a soda water in front of him. Sil is also caressing his own gun and contemplating the effectiveness of the copeater he has tied in a van outside. He watches as Agent Tucker gets up and moves toward the door Sil can see the fear in his eyes he knows that weakness has set into Tucker’s mind. Sil reaches into his pocket and pushes the intercom button on a two way radio, he is thinking about a Keat's poem he hasn't seen since high school. + So old the place was, I remember none + The like upon the earth: what I had seen + Of grey cathedrals, buttressed walls, rent towers, + The superannuations of sunk realms, + Or nature's rocks toiled hard in waves and winds, + Seemed but the faulture of decrepit things + To that eternal doomed monument. + Outside in the back of the van, one of the Arab boys unchains the copeater and lets it out the back door. Agent Tucker is opening the door to his own car with a sense of relief when he feels hot breath on his neck and a dull ache at the base of his spine, but this is fleeting and an instant later the copeater is sucking the remnants of flesh from a spinal chord, being careful not to damage the raw nerves as his masters taught him. + Hawkard is still inside the bar sipping quitely on his soda water, his phone rings, he pulls it out of his jacket and puts it to his ear... + "The Agent Tucker problem has been solved and the shipment will go through as planned." + "Thank you William, your services are invaluable to me, and I will wire the money first thing in the morning." Sil is smiling to himself visualizing the final horror as death met Agent Tucker. Sil replaces the phone on its receiver and lights a cigarette. + Sil hates cops....I fucking hate 'em. I hate 'em. I hate 'em. I hate 'em. I want to kill them all in a violent sea of time-released explosive donuts that when eaten mix with the stomach acids and explode in violent blueberrystrawberrylemon filled death. Die pig die. Imagine it, a million sworn upholders of THE LAW dead in an instant. Think of the society we could have. Think of the freedom, think of the beauty. The sweet satisfaction of tearing down all the rotting pig gut filled doughnut shops in the nation. No more sweaty palms. "License and registration please." Fuck you, never again. Never again. kill every cop you see --a populist revolt. We don't need all these damn laws, the people are okay --we know how to look after ourselves. The laws are the ones that fucked everything up the first place. And who hurts the most people in this here little world? The State. A cattle car streaming over the tracks of life, slick with the blood of the people. The train can't go up the hill because the tracks are too slippery with my guts your guts our guts. +Cut off by THE LAW, our heads impaled on the ends of the its tentacle-like arms as they strangling the last hold outs of resistance into pacified stupidity. + The anger subsides as his mind rationalizes that at least one more is dead. Sil picks up the phone again and dials a number the other end never rings instead a voice says: "hello?" + "May I speak to Captain Clark please?" + "I'm sorry he's not in. May I take a message?" + "No. No message." Sil hangs up the phone. He walks to the back of the bar and flops his body onto the luxurious red velvet couch and is swept by an overwhelming sensation of peace; his mind begin to expand, and he feels the desire for more petroleum benzoates creep over his body. It is his only weakness, the last and greatest of drugs. The weakness of any great mind is that it is constantly aware of its greatness. Consciousness is the death of us all, Sil thinks idly to himself as he lights a pipe under the table and discreetly sucks in a deep inhalation of petroleum benzoate. The sticky sweet smoke that fills his lungs never fails to remind him of his first time and the decision it had forced upon him. Anarchy is the only answer to all questions which begin with why? whY? wHY? WHY? Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law. In distant memory filtering strands of DNA locked deep in Sil's cerebral cortex a vibration begins, infinitely small at first but building slowly into his medulla and finally spring forth into the part of the brain referred to as consciousness. The cameras rolled even as the lights were dimming. +"BRING THE PRISONER FORWARD" + Unrolling a weighty and sterile looking scroll of antiseptically white paper a voice whose origin is masked by the size of the paper itself reads: + After making reviews of the past actions, thoughts, and attributed sentiments, it is the judgement of this committee, and therefore the judgment of the government it represents, that due to a general lack of ability to perceive the options open to the work potential of the drone in question in simple terms of an x or not-x negativism which would be most helpful in these situations and would consequently decrease expenditures and lower taxes for other individuals living in said dualism and therefore we hereby decree that all metaprogramming undertaken by the +individual without the consent and simultaneous approval of this committee and the government it represents to be criminal in intent, hostile in action, and punishable by prison and/or death upon conception. Thank you. You may go. + Sil Hawkard is dragged from the tribunal, hands tied in front of him and legs trailing uselessly behind. His guards use his head to open the heavy wooden door and then they dump him unceremoniously onto the filthy street where a group of children are playing. A monkey runs by, tugging its penis with one hand and slapping its bright red ass with the other . + + + +the doctor will +see you now + Teletype for corsica the agent sent in for returns, Home office denied request for reinforcements, all communication to be ceased henceforth. Piss in the riddle thought the old man wheeling his chair back out to the porch, he picked up a mason jar of corn whiskey and laid the shotgun across his lap. + The languid afternoon floated in and up the beach from the Atlantic bringing photomantages of Mandalay and the Dutch East Indies spice trade boats, far off places he had heard of only as words and imagined smells. Up the beach from the house were the beginnings of the rocky South Carolina shoreline teeming with crabs, sponges, sea anemones, and circle swooping gulls feeding on sand crabs exposed in the fluxuating waves. It was low tide, in fact it was always low tide or at least it seemed that way to the old man. He was partly right, the tide was lower than it had been a year before when a man by the name of Dr. Waiben began overseeing construction of a nuclear power plant burried two miles under ground to hide its heat signature for pesky government satelites. The plant whose only enterance was from the sea, was Sil Hawkard's +Eastern Atlantic Trans-genetic Eectro Radiation facility and it pumped sea water in like a vacuum cleaner to cool the core of the nuclear reactor. Officially neither Waiben nor Sil's names were attached to the plant, and its proported purpose was the rather benign cause of recycling facility. + The old man stood up on the porch and paced back and forth waiting...you understand the seriousness of the matter... obviously we would not expect an ordinary agent to do such a thing...your expertise in these fields...well frankly it's unparalleled..there is no other...These orders are coming straight from the top...your cooperation is non-negotiable... + + Sil had contracted with a building company to construct the domed facility under the rather vague heading of "recycling" which provided the guise to obtain the the necessary building permits and then after it was done, he had brought in his own oil drilling teams to dig down, but it was Waiben who had set up the nuclear capabilities. Of course one can not build a nuclear reactor without some authority noticing but that was where the eaters had come in handy. + Sil decided that nuclear research was of the utmost importance and that scientists and the new scientific inquisition were making it nearly impossible for the work to be accomplished. Naturally Sil himself did not possess the scientific background necessary for research in these fields so he brought in the Doctor. + Two years earlier: Dr. Waiben, pathologist of the state, surveys a long horrifically clean hallway whose smoothness is interrupted only occasionally by the presence of polished sliver knobs indicating doorways. There are no observation windows or any other windows within the rooms. This is the housing quarter for the derelicts of society: prostitutes, schizophrenics, lobotomy patients, drug pushers, anarchists, communists, AIDS victims, the aberrations that society never needed nor found a use for, end up here, under the care of Dr. Waiben, pathologist of the state. The good doctor has, for twenty odd years, been the caretaker of the derelicts, charged with restoring to them a level of functionality deemed necessary by society. He is a man who puts the cogs back into the wheel. + Waiben is an expert in mind manipulation through the use of psychoactive chemicals like the Ayahuasca mushroom which he has recently fed to one whore whom the stae had deemed a "revolutionary" for her accidental particpation in an protest against the siezure of private property. Her constant screaming had disturbed the other doctors, but Waiben found them soothing in the +same erotic kind of way that a soft candle lit room made him desperately want to masturbate. Regardless, he hated departmental friction so he was treating her with his standard dosage of twenty ripe Ayahuasca caps blended into a protein shake. The girl was a fighter and she knew she didn't want the shake; he had been forced to strap her down on a table and put a low voltage cattle prod in her cunt, and even then she had held out for eighteen seconds -it was a record for the floor. + He watched her on a TV monitor from the station at the end of the hall. She alternated between foaming a bloody spit out of her mouth while her eyes bulged menacingly, to sitting apparently quite peacefully on the edge of the toilet seat. Her vital stats were typical for the dosage he had given her. He watched with the detached apathy of those who have seen the degradation of life for twenty odd years and never thought to bat an eye toward suffering. He panned the room camera around and noted blood and little clumps of flesh lying on the floor near the bed, he zoomed in and momentary renewed his interests as he realized that she had been picking the burnt flesh out of her cunt. His stomach turned, not at the idea of her suffering, but at the idea that she would leave it lying about on the floor like a common animal wallowing in its own shit. He sighed and picked up a bic lighter with a picture of Uncle Sam on it, the typical picture was warped due to the surface curvature of the lighter giving Old Sam a peculiar evil bent that Waiben admired; he lit it and held it at the base of the petroleum pipe, taking a deep and satisfying drag. + Petroleum was a recent habit for Waiben, he typically avoided addictive substances out of the repulsion he felt toward people who were dependant on anything. But with petroleum he found a peaceful state of mind that he felt might make a person more susceptible to mind control. However, in experimenting with the drug he had accidentally developed a habit. But since it was basically harmless -as long as he stayed away from open flames- he made no effort to quit. + + Doctor Waiben's petroleum habit did not go unnoticed by others in his department however, and as he was already unpopular for his rather unconventional methods and ideas, it wasn't long before a doctor by the name of Kellinger reported him to the state. In the tumultous time that was the present the good doctor was asked to resign, but did not instead he called a press +conference which was sadly rather ill attended, he proceeded to get up infront off the local new cameras and lauch into an anti-government rant. he was proply arrested for "divulging state secrets and brought to trial before a hastely put together tribunal of senators and judges. + One person who did happen to catch the broadcast was Sil Hawkard who by this time was already not a U.S, citizen but moved through the country in underground netwroks wike the weathermen that had been around for centuries and were activated whenever enough people felt they were needed. Sil was in a New Orlean's safe house when he heard a voice from on the televison drift up to his room...the united states government is by its own legal deffinitions, insane and therefor incapable of being held accountable for its decisions.... + Sil bolted upright in his bed and ran down stares in time to catch the name Waiben before the camera cut out. Two days later Sil was arrested and thrown in prison in the cell next to Waiben. Because Sil was not a United States citizen he was merely given a lecture and thrown bodily out of the building, but he made a deal with Waiben --research these subjects and I will get you out.... + Doctor Waiben was something of an anomaly among scientists, he enjoyed being proved wrong because it saved him the trouble of having to prove anything right. Waiben was one of the unique individuals of this century that understood that when you open one door its real value is not what is behind it but whether or not there are any more doors that revel themselves to the researcher. He did not suffer from what Robert Wilson calls the New Inquisition. This term is a catch phrase for those that try to make a belief system stand up with scientific legs, when in fact science is a tool or method of research, it is amoral. Science does not believe anything because it is not a thing, it is a language. I quote from Wilhelm Reich in Hell: There is also argument by Logic. This can sometimes be combined with scientific experiments and if the two mesh we have a "fit" of theory with fact and scientists are delighted. Pure Argument by Logic, however does not require this experimental back up and only demands that the conclusions by reached by the game-rules of an abstract symbol system. In our hypothetical case, some witness might inform congress: +All mome raths need to be distimmed; +All frammisgoshes are mome raths; therefore; +all frammisgoshes need to be distimmed + This so-called transitive property has led scientists into the same dead end alley of faith that religion finds itself in, I have faith in science the mad man rants on silver screens... Waiben, like Sil, did not have the semantic virus that infects the mass of mankind and Sil thought he might be just the man to cure the bug in the rest of the population. He had built for Waiben four research facilities one in Mandalay which was devoted to semantic research and verbal anomalies, the biologic research facility in Las Vegas devoted to inter-organism research, a non-local mind-body facility in Buenos Aries, and the one in North Carolina for inter atomic structure research. Sil had cured himself with a rather haphazard method of self-experimentation with chemical, wavelength and various energy manipulation technics; Waiben on the other hand seemed to have never had the virus in the first place which was why Sil respected and fear him. Sil had learned to step back --transmission deemed irrelevant given overwhelming incoming signal that sweeps across all frequencies, visual, audio, chemical, and physical. There are five senses, sight, sound, taste, touch, and smell, and only four signal sources; both smell and taste are chemical reactions with tissue that are then turned into different chemical reactions in the brain. Thus the chemical input takes on a greater role suggesting perhaps that additional chemical experimentation is warranted. Perhaps? perhaps not. Quien Sabe? + + + + + Sil however realized that until such time as the doors are open one might as well input positive frequencies which is why he found himself sitting on a porch in Mandalay, scotch whiskey and cocaine laid out like an offering before him, Chloe and maya were having sex on a couch behind him and he heard them orgasming as he sniffed a long line of coke and stood up to refill his glass.... + +The good doctor spent the better part of the day in an oxygen pure environment subjecting himself the recuperative acupuncture therapy his muscles were stimulated one by one with needle pricks while an orgone generated hummed steadily in the corners. The pre-programmed alpha waves stimulated his bodies brain functions that were healing in nature and as the experiment went on electro graphs of brain activity mapped the centers stimulated and was compared with the frequency emitted until each frequency had its effects defined and clearly mapped. + Needless to say this was not effective in the field so the theory then presented itself how can you produce those effects through chemical instead of electrical stimuli. Mapping the effects of chemical stimuli was naturally Waiben’s favorite part of the job. Which is why he and Sil were such good friends --because chemical stimulation of the brain acts at different frequencies then orgone --ones that drove people insane in self destruction. No one said the doors to the chapel perilous wouldn't be guarded. addiction is the first to rear its ugly head the word is obliterated by the need. need is driven by re action, the brain is taught to feel a certain sensation and because evolution was some effective the brain learns to cope and adjust to fit the new reality. Thus it reacts to the stimuli by negating its effects and like the man in the floppy hat said it never got weird enough for me. + avoiding addiction is no easy task --you're up against over ten thousand years of terrestrial survival instincts that are no longer needed. But shedding them is the damnedest thing like the Kimono dragons continually picking at the dead flesh that refuses to leave the beast that it was once a part of. + Sil taps out cocaine on Chloe's nipples and drags his tongue in circles around sweeping powder and nipple into his mouth maya nose glides a velvet straw along the line on Chloe's stomach... + + + + * * * * + + + "Pterodactyl winged birds flew overhead and the ground was squirming the way heat waves shimmer the horizon. The Fort at San Juan rose distinctly to my left as if my subconscious were unabashed stealing its imagery from Salvador Dali. I licked my fingers and and found them to be an interesting Teriyaki-lemon flavor quite unlike anything I had ever tasted before. I looked at my shoes and realized I was standing on a giant skeleton key which I somehow knew was to the old Fort at San Juan. I tried to pick it up and carry it to the door but it was much to heavy for one man. In the distance I could see a bus approaching and felt as though I had been waiting for it the whole time. It pulled up next to me and all my college friends were gesturing for me to come aboard. The door opened." + + Two years before on the west coast Maya Stevens is also hating the public, in her case however it is due to overexposure. She is beginning to think that perhaps Skinner was right maybe there only are eight different kinds of people in the world. She is sitting at a table chain smoking and waiting for William. He told her to write whatever she saw if he was late, well fuck him, writing it down was too much effort it took all she had not to kill them all in some kind of horrifically violent frenzy of sexual energy. Sex and violence, she smiled that's what these people need --sex and violence. She feels the rage building. Writing is therapeutic, that must be what William meant when he said write he meant get out the anger, get out the seething molten rage without going to jail. Maya picks up the pen she had stolen from the bookstore and begins to record the people as they pass her on the street...Dr Waiben's plane is touching down two years away.... + And the Galaxy girl walks down the street, boyfriend in tow, brown stomach seductively bare, midriff shirt. They're meeting friends later at the gate hanging ten feet high down town. She and her shirt with GALAXY GIRL written in glittering silver, would like to get drunk, high on little golden yellow pills, and float in the ecstasy of swirling music. Who wouldn't? Maya thinks +about Chloe and candles and wine and glittering golden sheets and the smell of incense and opium smoke floating across the room. She raised her head and saw Chloe seated on silvery blue satin pillows. Maya's arms shook slightly as her hand nervously ran up Chloe's stomach and circled her nipples. Maya grabbed the chain that held Chloe's nipples and tugged causing her to gasped and press her breasts against her own. She felt Chloe's hard nipples rubbing against her chest sending tremors down her spine and an aching contraction gripped her pussy. Maya's pussy contracts in realtime and seers her back to the chair the table the extent of our known reality. + She looks up as three marines drive smiling and pointed in a squarish red truck (marines de reguir) desperately hoping for some sweet young girl to cross the street coming back from the beach. Stoplights are a woman’s worst nightmare. Catcalls. Warbles, like sex crazed crows float up the street. Victim. Hoping for a smile of a acknowledgement to insincere flattery. Them squirming in their truck. Hey baby... Marines cruising for cunt. Any cunt will do Maya thinks disgustedly. If you want to jack off in something warm and wet why not just use the shower? Why involve women at all? + And they keep walking by as she begins to wander if maybe William isn't going to show at all, but there is the aging club girl with bright cherry lips painted extra red by the contrast in her black leather jacket eyeing her. Maya stares blankly back at her picturing the memories in her mind. The girl sits slouched in a chair as if resigned that she will never make it back to New York. CBGB’s. Those were the good days. Now its just slouched days in slouched chairs cigarette aimed skyward dreaming of darkness and the wild seductive wails of guitar (what was that blonde guys name?) the rhythmic pounding of the beat forcing its way into your chest, the throb, the guttural appeal of all things taboo and enticing. Maya giggles at the stupidity of attributing anything so noble as nostalgia to someone who probably doesn't even know what CBGB’s was. The surfer and his girl stroll by, her breasts spilling out of the too small top, losing its Herculean battle to save the world from nudity. They wander into the cafe for snacks, drinks, to gorge the thirst induced by the haughtless sun now carving the end of its tyrannical arc. They order designer water and leave. + The tired shopkeeper is out smoking her obscenely thin cigarettes again (excuse me is there any tobacco in those?). She smokes constantly pausing only to give a tired answer to the same tourists she has to stare at day after day. An endless reminder that they, not her, are the ones enjoying life. Too many of them day after day year after year look look looking never buying. The Leather Connection doesn’t do a lot of business on hot spring days. Nor is it the kinky sort of fetish shop you might hope for. Not even any leather in the windows. She moves her lips mumbling incoherences intelligible only to herself. She lights another cigarette. Get some thicker smokes, they’ll last longer Maya wants to shout. But she can tell the woman's not the type to take unsolicited advise. Besides Maya is shifting into first person and writing without pause now: + The sharp eyed Asian hawk sitting behind me closes her purse, pen safely secured inside. She licks stamps and affixes them to postcards. Notes for those at home. “Jenny: LA is great -warm sunny. I’m having a great time. Remind me to tell you about this guy Bill I met the other day. Take care of yourself. Say hi to Tom for me. Love....” + Families wander by looking for a nice place to eat. The neon signs offer Mexican Italian Greek food, “but we need a children's menu.” “Tommy’s only nine, he can’t eat a whole meal himself.” “Do you think they could split a dinner, I’m not very hungry myself?” “You brought the credit card right?” “No, but I’ve still got some cash left over from breakfast this morning. “Wasn’t that a charming little place?” “What was it called?” “Lets go there again before we leave.” + The locals, the non-travelers, the doomed-forever-to-live-in-one-placers stream by in shinny cars coming home from work in THE BIG CITY. Their flimsy soda can Japanese cars that look as if a good size bird could, with decent aim, crush the plastic colored roofs. The locals drive with windows up and frowns turned down. “Did I remember to e-mail that memo to Tony at the office in Chicago? I wonder what sort of crap Diane cooked for dinner tonight? She is the worst cook. What happened to that tri-tip on Friday? I wouldn’t have known what is was if I hadn’t bought it myself. Dave and Linda smiled and said it was delicious the lying bastards. don’t encourage her she might actually believe she can cook. Dave probably just wants to sleep with her. That whore. I wonder if she’s fooling around behind my back? She never wants to have sex +anymore. Its always the same routine. Me still dripping from a shower her reading some book I crawl onto of her . ‘Not tonight honey I’m to tired.’ I wait till she’s fast a sleep and sneak down to the kitchen reach behind the fridge and pull out the nudie magazines and --off quietly to the bathroom. I wonder what Diane would look like in tight leather, probably fat. She still hasn’t lost all the wait from the pregnancy. God its been what like eighteen months Justin’s starting to walk for christsakes. The light is green, fucking traffic.” The typical suburbian woes. + Fog is settling in from the hills meeting up with banks rolling in from the sea, threatening the star’s view, tiny windows of the gods peeping in watching our silly games in continued amusement. (“they keep doing it every night”) Reminding me of San Francisco, the golden gate after sundown glowing like it were Apollos chariot itself. Proudly beckoning the traveler with tale of endless wanderlust -out here the final frontier come swim discover secrets hidden from mankind...Come the sharks are hungry. The mashing of teeth and bone the tearing of flesh. A bitter couple take a seat behind me. “out here in the great outdoors the largest smoking section in America.” Amen brother. Places out of reach of the spreading TYRANTS OF HEALTH. Would you like extra grease on that steak? Why, yes please. Breakfast in Memphis, eggs pancakes toast slices of orange parsley, juice and a happy go lucky waiter offering free Sprite? Why, yes please and keep it coming. William could I borrow your lighter? Certainly. Cigarettes coffee and more open road that's what I need. Bad coffee, bad roads full of chuckholes and entire lanes wiped out in flood, and of course really good cigarettes, that's what I really need -enough of this damn city. + The eastern couple hesitates on the steps below he Indian she Asian. Such a wonderfully raceless baby they could have. We need a worldwide orgy to end racial differences. End racism, fuck a foreigner! And of course end culture, diversity and everything interesting about people. + I would not fuck you in Thailand/ I would not fuck you in a plane over Japan. One of Dr. Suess’ lesser known couplets. + Maya puts down her pen and lights another cigarette. She contemplates that effectiveness of writing as a release of anger, it doesn't work, she is thinking --now I just know why I want to +kill them. She leaves the table and jumps on the bus headed into the city. I'll call Chloe she thinks. The sun is setting and several miles out at sea a trident Nuclear submarine is preforming manoeuvres in preparation for a war that most people don't believe will really happen. Maya knows nothing about the submarine, nothing about the eaters, nothing about petroleum, nothing about dancing cockroaches, and nothing about a man who goes by the name of Dr. Waiben. + + * * * * * + + "I find myself surrounded on all sides. Everyone these days is completely obsessed with The Bizarre. So much so that nothing really is The Bizarre anymore. Yuppies ride Harleys and frequent bondage parlors on the weekends while pulling in double incomes of 150K during the week scurrying from house to latte to work to the onceaweekmatrimonialassfucking. This is not bizarre this is vaudevillian comedy gone real life. + You need bizarre, truly bizarre. You need circus freaks castrating themselves on the street corners and pimps shooting heroin in there balls while screaming whores accost their long dead mothers in hotel rooms cockroach won’t set foot in while lawyers sit on the roof television antenna protruding from there limbs as policemen ritualistically torture themselves gouging out there own eyeballs to avoid the scene below them. + <<<We the people who govern you the people we rule do with heavy hearts sanctimoniously declare...>>>> + Sil Hawkard is lighting the petroleum filled huca once again he thinks of the pastpresentfuture as a continually unfolding singularity which can be viewed from points within time or from Nuit outside of the system. He lifts the phone to his ear and dials William to see about the numbers... + William's phone is ringing half way around the world in a slum neighbor hood in Los Angeles California, but Maya is too tired to get it and Sil leaves a voice mail message thus missing his first contact with the Queen of Numbers. + "The bus stopped and I got on board the driver was a stick figure that I had drawn in the fourth grade with his head between his legs and his balls on top of his spine. We took off across a dry lake bed leaving the fort at Old San Juan in the haze of desert road dust. It was going fast for bus so fast I remember becoming alarmed and thinking that we were in danger of bending the SpaceTime perhaps more sharply than I was accustomed to. True to my fears or perhaps as a result of them a balloon in the shape of Einstein's head became to approach from the distance until it gently floated through the window and attached itself to the head of a seagull and began squacking about approach velocities or viscosities and other nonsense I didn't understand, but the kid next to me started feeding it alka seltzers and William Tell began to chase it around screaming seagulls! seagulls! Einstein appeared quite disturbed by the process and began to vomit out great multicolored spears of glass that formed a giant 3-D Kaleidoscope that drifted in midair like a mobile. Seek beauty Seek BEAUTY! Einstein squacked and then the driver blasted the head off with a shotgun and Einstein disintegrated into multicolored bits. It was quite beautiful like the fourth of July. Do you understand what I'm getting at here?" + + "I’m sorry I’m late,” William opens the door out of breath + “I wrote you a poem, and the phone rang but I didn't get it . Do you think that I'm going out on a limb by saying that an ancient skeleton remains from a Tunisian oil field seem to show trace elements of Psilocybin in the molecular structure of the bone." + "Slow down woman one thing at a time. I like the poem,” he says glancing at a three line couplet of Suessian origins. “Let me check the message....Psilocybin in a fossil bone...Is it human?” + "Of course its human who cares if rats have that shit in 'em I want to know if we ever did." + "Have you been reading McKenna again? William yells from the bedroom over the distant sound of Sil Hawkard’s voice encoded message. + "No, but the one time I did made a lot of sense. Do you think Pete could get me Ayahuasca? + "Pete can get you just about anything but my friend Sil called so I've got to go to a remote phone and call him back what time do you think it is in Tunisia? + "I don't know. Wait you didn't answer my question what about the skeletons? + "Are you making this shit up or has it been found by anthropologists?" + "As if that lends it some sort of credibility? Their PhD's mean they can't possibly be lying right?" + "Are you that paranoid?" + "That's not paranoia, that's the language of power." + Maya is lying on the couch rainydayranting in the sun about the link between Psilocybin and human seratonin, it is her theory that the mushrooms that now contain Psilocybin were once a fungus whose primary host was the human skin. The peculiar flesh disease was in fact our link to nirvana, and as it evolved it found us unnecessary for its survival so it evolved into the more independent form it takes today --the mushroom. She doesn't necessarily believe it, but she has fun tormenting William's mind with the possibility. + "The thing is, is that for any set of equations there is an infinite possibility of solutions I'm not trying to say this is the right solution, I'm just trying to point out that it is one of the possibilities and I can't understand why someone like you would dismiss it solely on the basis that it does not fit your model of reality. Does this mean that you've come to have beliefs?" + "Belief is the death of thought'" + "That's great, you're well read, but you're not living what you know to be true so what's the fucking point of knowing?" + "That is the point of knowing, if you know that you can't know anything then you ought to equally realize that you can't know that you don't know anything." + "What the fuck are you trying to say?" + "I'm trying to say that we're all waiting for Godot to get back, and I think that there is no us, there is no waiting, and there certainly is no Godot. The facts are events happening at a point in time and they can only be observed from the point at which they occur, all attempts to +reconstruct them after the point are futile and doomed to failure, you can not escape the fact that you are bounded by time, you are doomed to exist in the present. You can recall the past or think and plan for the future but you will never be there." + "Thank you Einstein, but you're defeating your own argument which was that Ayahuasca was never part of the human metabolism because its outside of your sphere of observation, but that doesn't mean that as an event it never happened." + "Right. It just means I wasn't there to observe it." + "So would you like to try it to see if maybe observing it first hand gives you a better point from which to observe the facts of the event? I think you may find that time is not so rigid of a boundary as you might think. Time is inside you, not around you and you can program the human mind just like you can program any other computer." + "If you're really interested in meta-programing and mind control you should go down to Fahrenheit tonight and hear this guy Dr. Waiben lecture. He's an expert on that shit. He's that official pathologist of the state and according to Sil, head of the psychotropic/biological warfare and mind control division out in Nevada." + "When?" + "I don't know I gotta go the flyers on the nightstand I think...." he shuts the door behind him. + + * * * * * + + Television was Waiben's idea and he was quite proud of it. The emission of a steadily pulsing signal from a transmitter within the individuals' home was low-grade mind control --quite passively making them think less or not at all. But it had an unexpected and quite satisfying side effect --low level blue wavelength energy has a draining and hypnotic effect of the cerebral cortex of the average human brain. Waiben used to drive the suburbs around nine o'clock just watching the eerie blue glow coming from the hundreds of thousands of houses he had infected. +He like to think of television as a virus because in many respects it was; like virus it was benign until the right electrical connection from the host triggered its disease. Like virus it was passed from one generation to the next, and like a virus its spread was exponential. The greatest fallout for television though was quite unintended by Waiben, it had radically reoriented the global mindset from isolated consumption into total slavery to fashion and consumption, the the fastest and most effect way of controlling a large population was to make it genuinely believe that it own enslavers were in fact its heros, thus eliminating or at the very least coopting resistors and making them use the channels of oppression as their only outlet for resistance. Much like controlling any signal, resistors insurrectionists and radicals were diverted by capacitors (“the media”) and squelched by resistors (“the police”) Thus the people remained happy and content with their oppression and no one was able to convince them to give up the convenience of slavery for the freedom of hardship. Wouldn’t you? + It wasn't enough though; true mind control would leave the victim unable to disobey the signal or ideally, unaware that he or she were even being controlled --like Christ reborn, Waiben thinks of the old con artist sitting laughing from con artist heaven. + Sub-audio messages are below the threshold of human hearing, but not that of comprehension. It is the noise of someone thinking. Listening in is just a matter of having the right receptors, psychics and clairvoyants had been doing it as circus tricks for centuries. With practice Waiben had taught himself to receive some peoples signals, but what he needed to figure out was how to create a sub-audio language whose broadcast could actually be controlled and directed like an ordinary radio signal. Telepathy is an interpersonal form of radio, and using the general theories of chaos, what is true for one system should be relatively the same in another if only the signal amplitude is being changed, the problem was that even subtle changes in input can cause radical oscillations in output...somewhere a butterfly is beating its wings and changing world history. + The granddaddy of all his research would be that day when he could say definitively that he had a method for true and total mind control. It was this quest that had led him back to his +lab in Las Vegas where tonight he is planning to induce mind alteration and manipulation with the legendary Ayahuasca which contains a harmine that some believe bonds directly with human DNA. In the good doctor's mind that meant opening up a channel directly into the cellular level, allowing for deep meta-programming and possibly a key for using nanotechnology --but that's to complicated right now. Think of it as inter-cellular radio he told his colleagues who mostly ignored his fanatical rantings. + Stupid fucking scientists he is thinking. I hate 'em I hate 'em I hate 'em I fucking hate 'em. They spend there whole goddamn lives studying the brilliant thoughts culled from centuries of genius's without ever stopping to think that maybe genius lurks in there own minds. Ingrates. Ought to have been stamped out with the rest of the conservative christian movements, they have no understanding of novelty. If it hasn't been done a hundred times before they won't even talk about it let alone attempt to experiment with it. + Paging Dr. Waiben. Dr. Waiben please come to Lab 203. Dr. Waiben Lab 203. + What the fuck have those morons done now? Probably killed one of themselves by mistake. Lab 203 was of course the antidote lab for the biological warfare experiments he had been conducting back east. + + Nine hundred miles east Sil Hawkard boards a jet bound for his Tunisian oil fields in the cargo hold of the private plane is a capsule containing the genetic coding of a man who went by the name of Agent Tucker, whom Chase is planning to update into Agent Fucker a man of many talents. + "We should figure out how to make his neck come out of his ass so he shits out his mouth." + "I don't know if now is the right time for you to be doing this it can bond to your DNA it can open up your mind in ways I don't think your able to envision yet, it'll blow your life apart and turn it inside out and once you're there you can never came back." + "Just give me the stuff, I've done LSD, and mushrooms and lots of shit." + "Alright but let me tell you something so that later when your trying to make sense out of it all you can think about this: there is no more firmament." + "There is no more Firmament? Okay." + Maya takes the vial of Ayahuasca tea and leaves Pete's apartment she wants to share it with William but is afraid that he will send her on a bad trip. She heads to Old Cary Downs house and he opens the door wearing nothing... + "I was just...you can come in but take off your clothes first I'm having a naked party." Maya enters and sees no one. Cary sits down in front of a tape machine he hits play and the walls disappear. +<<<<<<<<<begin transmission ghf8672y101003:41:04 PM03⌘ 03 0323xZDFß∂ƒ©˙¥®´∑¨^øøπππ“π“∫∫~∫∫Ω≈ç√∫~µ≤≥÷⌘12430315 0315 + +\ + +03:41:04 PM1023 + +03:41:04 PM03 + +åß∂ƒ©˙∆˚¬…æ + œ∑´®†¥¨^øπ“´®†¨¨¥ø^¨^ø¨^¡¡¡£™¢∞§¶¶•ªºº––åß∂ƒ©©©©©©˙∆©˙∆∆˚¬˚¬…æ¬ +æΩ≈ç≈√∫~µ≤≥÷-Oct 03, 2015«« ` ¡™£¢∞§¶•ªº–≠123235⌘031515 10 10 +230323tyiyiu + + +ƒ¥†∆†^˙˚∆^¥¥†∆˙ƒ˙©©∆˙˙˙˙ƒƒƒ©©©©©©©©∞§§¶•ª•ªª§∞§∞¢£¢£∞¶§¶∞¶§∞¶§∞¶§§¥†ƒ©∆˙©ƒ∆¥ƒ∂˙©√µ∆~√©ƒ≈߃∂≈Ω˙©∆˙熃∂ߥ®ƒ√˚∆©¨¥†ƒ∂ \03:41:04 PM +1515 +151515 ©ƒ†ƒ˙©¥¥©¨ƒ∆ÁËÂËÁÊÌÁÔÓÔÓÌÁËÁÁÊË„ÎÏ◊ıÙÇ ÓÔ‰ÊÏÁËÈض§•ª–º–≠§Ê¶Á•ÔÈØ +2403 +, +24/,68487654321>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> + + "I slept fitfully under a moonless sky dreaming of a stale, smoky bar's liquor-stained floors and a headless horsemen riding like Icarius out of the fiery sun-gilded gates of hell. The headless horseman swerved and bore down on the I that is me with menacing intent, jolting me out +of my dream and into a sleepnonsleep trance on the isthmus of reality. The horseman dismounted and knocked metaphorically on the nylon tent door. I was bewildered and in my heavy-lidded gaze saw a man with no head standing outside the mesh doorway. Closer inspection revealed a pair of blinking eyes peering at me from where the neck tie should have been; without the neck they seemed appropriate in a way that only Jules Verne could have understood. A hand slipped out from the waist and motioned for me to rise. I climbed clumsily out of my sleeping bag kicking it to the bottom of the tent and crouching down under the low ceiling, I unzipped the door and carefully stepped over my pillow and out onto the the red Utah sand. The headless horseman motioned for me to sit on a log and pulled out a long stick of cinnamon, he lit it and inhaled through a button hole in his chest. I sat down on a log opposite him and staring eye-level at the cinnamonette and I began to appreciate the sheer size of the horseman and realized that even without his head, the horseman was taller than me..." + In the beginning was the word and the word was made flesh by a cacophonous blast out of heaven's pearly cum-stained ass creating the father, the son, and the holy spigot which lies in a secluded garden on the cliffs overlooking the Sargasso sea. The spigot is buried in a volcano designed by Czech ostriches in the eleventh hour of creation to drain all human excrement off the continent of Europe and into the Sargasso sea all lumpy with turd so thick Jesus "conny" Christ in drag is walking along to the amazement of the gullible, floating gently from turd to turd. The piss blood of a million cunts and cocks line the shores giving the whole place a radioactive iridescent red glow not to mention a awful stench. Mr. Rogers and Captain Kangaroo are standing on the bluffs watching the spectacle and scanning with hawk eyes for sweet tight asses in which they can stab their hungry cocks. The father caught the son sitting in the middle of the garden sucking on an apple and he became enraged and hog tied the boy and penetrated every orifice in his body with a peeled and sculpted cucumber cock; the boy was left a whimpering quivering lump of fleshy jello from which spawned humankind. + The piss gut rotting flesh smell, air taunt necked and jerking at the nose, the captain's eyes role back into his head as is guts are blasted out his ass by a giggling man headed tape worm +of extraordinary wit who was prone to quoting Joyce and Bugs Bunny in the same sentence in a way that reminded listeners of Buster Keaton in some strange drugstore hurricane kind of a way. The skatolic odor was rich and the worm refused to bath. Owing to the peculiar nature of its origin the soldiers did not disturb the worm preferring instead to watch the captain writhe in agony pulling his legs back behind his ear to attempt to lick the matted blood soaked pubic hair over the the torn orangish flesh that hung in ribbons over a large hole that had once been a simple anus. The upshot of it all was that the worm ate less rations than the captain so the men were basically satisfied with the arrangement and they followed the worm wiggling through the jungle as it did impersonations of Fred Astaire... + Blasted rot gut con-artist with ten huge molars running across the front of his mouth in a clump owing to his mother's industrial accident with the cunt acid from the chink's hyperdrill. Drilled right on through back to china, the asshole couldn't even close the damn thing and the lower mandible just kind of hung there like a tire swing. Maya spits in his face in disgust and revulsion you don't have enough money for me to kiss you there isn't enough money on the planet... + The giggling Hyenas are dressed in black and high on amphetamines looking to turn you inside out. + Tongue-tied porn queens scream obscenities at passersby "I'll suck your dick until your eyeballs pop out your ass..." + Blown newspapers and advert scrapes cover the bottom three feet of a brick wall like sardines neatly packed in a kipper snack tin from a 1983 supermarket shelf and William is lighting a petroleum pipe behind a school yard where two children shot each other in the asshole with dart guns until the weaker one screamed "uncle!" + <<<<<<<<<<end transmission>>>>>>>>>> + An old man with a sickly grey beard and a ridiculous suit was sitting where the horseman had been. His hand was out of sight down his pants and the other wagged a long finger at me and he began to jerk his cock screaming i want you i want YOU i WANT YOU! Eventually I +slouched over against a tree and slept the rest of the night soundly. I awoke with a start, sweating profusely in the glare of the midday Utah sun. Struggling to my feet and I stretched my arms overhead as if to grasp the immensity of the deep, almost purple, sky. I remembered the arrival of the headless horseman and the sense of telepathic communication it had given me. The campsite was covered with horse tracks and it appeared the headless horseman had left in the same direction he came from. There was no sign of how the bearded man had arrived or departed there was only a gooey clump of sand where he had come on the ground." + Outside the streets are cluttered with wind-junk blown in fifty odd miles from the desert and clinging to the stuccoed buildings like piles. Whores prance at the street corner; occasionally a car swoops in a carnivorous vulture to a road kill, sucking up the promise vacuum cleaner style in a way Hoover himself never have dared dream possible. + One is in a shop window tugging idly at her clit and occasionally spreading her fleshy lips at passersby, she shifts on her pillow and evidence of past customers dribbles timelike out of her ass. Pete watches in idle fascination. Disturbance up the street; an old woman is battering a man with her false teeth stuck on the end on a cane... The teeth leave jagged cuts and tears on the man's face threatening to turn it pock scarred like Jared Towers' whose father once chased him a around the house with a meat cleaver when the boy was caught masturbating to a picture of the Virgin Mary. Pete recalls Jared telling him that he could hold back from climaxing by thinking about meat cleavers and consequently in trying to discourage him from having sex, his father had created a sexual machine capable of satisfying women for hours on end. Jared was a legend among the whores, most of whom would have slept with him for free, but of course professionalism required them to charge. Jared was rumored to have a twelve inch cock, thick as a flashlight, Pete winces as he considers him own cock shriveled down to two inches by the biting cold of the public restroom. + A whore from up the street walks in to wash the cum off her face in the sink. I never seen so much cum and outta such a small dick! She looks squarely at Pete, screws up her face and says you want one too? Twenty five to swallow, thirty on the face. For fifty I'll spit it back in +your mouth. No? Well I have this one guy who loves it and most people don't know about that option so I like to offer it up front. Pete smiles and leaves. + + It is here with in these four walls that American realize their final manifest destiny. It is here that we have struggle so hard to get. The twentieth century Horatio Alger is the Maytag man and a used car dealer rolled into one. + Horatio Alger's sodomizing menage-a-toi with the Maytag Man and Uncle Sam has led us to train station on the SpaceTime line where freedom is an irrelevant inconvenience of language that is slowly being fazed out of history. Language is a virus. The i that is You speaks, I speak and the vibrations of air we create controls our every move. Science gives rise to Magic in the form of powerful papers that tell who what why and how you are to be. You can't march down to city hall to protest without a permit filed ahead of time with the city clerk. You can't drive an automobile without the Proper Papers. You can't leave the country without PAPERS, you can't perform honest labor without PAPERS. You can't buy or grow certain pharmaceuticals at all, nor can you pursue the happiness of your choice unless it falls into one category. Consumption. We are all free to consume, which when you think about it, is the only freedom we really need in a CONSUMER SOCIETY. Televisions, radios, automobiles, washing machines, drying machines, refrigerators, freezers, ovens, microwave ovens, convection ovens, alarm clocks, computers, headphones, home furnishings, bicycles, video games, tennis shoes, laser disc players, DVD players, record players, compact disc players, cordless telephones, wireless phones, digital phones, cellular phones, two way radios, short wave radios, car stereos, home stereos, and every accessory you can conceive of and millions more you couldn't. We have all the entertainment and modern conveniences in the world in our home each assessable at our fingertips when ever you chose. Which is a good thing because the minute you step out of your house some OFFICAL OF THE STATE is going to want to see some goddamn-papers-on-the-double-what-the-hell-are-you-doing-here-cough-up-the-fee-place-your-hands-behind-your-head-you-have-the-right-to-remain-silent-lie-down-and-spread-your-legs-and-shut-the-fuck-up-right-fucking-now sir! + Uncle Sam came on the ground and left without a trace. Horatio and Maytag were emotionally tormented for years until there eventual deaths through ritualistic dismemberment. + And I don't have any papers standing on a cement sidewalk slab starring at the FREEDOM OF AMERICA locked inside a now closed appliance store. The Ace Appliance Store to be precise. I feel suddenly nervous like they know what I am thinking. They know that I am thinking. + -He's not smiling. Oh no, not yet, we're working on it though.- + We the people we govern you the other people have decided for reasons which are beyond the scope of this broadcast and may well be beyond the scope of your comprehension entirely that all freedoms which you previously thought you had but never in reality did possess are summarily denied from this point forward. Please report to the nearest biomedical programing center by the fourth of May where a new human program biounity 3.6 will be installed into your seratonin and allow for future dopemine programing without the need for physical intervention please go about your lives as you always have all those not present for the reprogramming procedures by the fourth of May will be consider fugitives of the state and will be dealt with in the harshest manner allowed by law and endorsed by the entertainment loving public... + Textbook introduction to Linguistics as Maya heard at the lecture in the slum district of Berkeley California. The sixties were molded to create confusion and remind the people of the comfort the felt they had once felt in the peaceful emptiness of the 1950's. Stupidity is a drug and I am on it thought Maya. She sipped more of her tea and watched the speaker's DNA evolve into something more Avian in appearance . Suddenly he raised his wings like the hooded sirius hawk of Uri Gellars nightmares and turned his head to the side as if to receive some kind of outside signal + <<<Extinguish all rational thought>>>" + He's parroting William Burroughs, she laughed to herself and then the voice narrowed its frequency range and began to become two separate voices at the same time. Oh shit thought Maya he knows about tongues, she looked again at the flyer that William had given her, it read: +Speaking on the subjugation of minority races by mind control speaker Dr. Waiben 2:45 rain or shine. + Fragments of ash are falling falling falling...... + Elsewhere a frog hiccups and the premier of Angola nervously fingers his new found nuclear release button dug up by archaeologists looking for the queens underwear we find pig tails and decapitated cats arranged in ceremonial fashion the smoke is unbearable like Milan Kundera's ashes filtered through a sieve and mixed with two cups of cold chicken stock to form surrealist soup. + Circus freaks are castrating themselves on the street corners pimps shooting heroin in their balls while screaming whores accost their long dead mothers in hotel rooms cockroachs wouldn't set foot in while lawyers sit on the roof television antennae protruding from there limbs as policemen ritualistically torture themselves gouging out there own eyeballs to avoid the scene below them. + "The world’s end was at my doorstep. A white hot light had flashed civilization out. Cities ran as great metalglassconcrete rivers of deathdisfiguremanglement. Citizen’s charred limbs protruded like rocks that were floating with the stream. The searing smell of burning flesh darted through the hazy yellow air. A great clock tower was dripping time from its hands and Maya saw herself arms severed and lying by her side. Her face had been burned off and eyes dissolved. Her head was upturned and its jaw hung down swinging stupidly in the yellow flesh burning air. Time was pooling in her mouth and dribbling done her chin like come." + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +Chapter Two + + + + + + + + + + + + + + The plane touched down with Sil clutching the seat, it wasn’t that he feared flying it was that he feared commercial airline pilots. Too many pill do not make for steady hands. He always breathed easier on his own jet but when landing on US territory that was not an option. Sil generally did not come into the the united police state he had other people run these errands for him, but Waiben himself had called this meeting and insisted that it be at the Knight and that the transfer of technology must be done in the flesh. Waiben had promised to give him something pertinent to your line of work he had said in a heavily encrypted email two days before. Sil had been in Bangkok recruiting mercenaries and whores he enjoyed the company of whores even when he wasn’t horny, they like him had no pretensions of honesty or goodness, they were whores and he was a sultan or so he fancied it as he stepped off the plane and into the east Texas night. The McAllen airport still sported the old ladder exits, no air-conditioned luxuries. He was greeted by a government car which whisked him off toward New Orleans. Sil never flew into major commercial airports, far to risky to many hero cop types hell bent of memorizing the pictures of every “bad guy” that came of the wire and while Sil was pretty sure that no one was looking for him it just wasn’t worth the risk. + “Mind if i smoke a little petroleum” + “No sir the Dr. gave me some to give, you he figured you would want it.” + Sil shuddered mentally. “How long will it be before New Orleans?” + “probably get there by sunrise” + Seven hours, perfect for a puff or two and some dream time. + + * * * * * + + <My god sir Mercuries in retrograde and Saturns looking a bit piqued looks like heranus is the place to be. Johnson this is serious business no time for puns! good god man what the hell is wrong with you?! Now getback in there and pull Sirius back so mercury levels off or were going to have worldwide epidemic of assfucking>>>>>This is Ted Kopel...Millions of women world wide can not sit down to day do to a near hysterical episode of ass fucking that in inexplicably broke out around eight EST last night reporting live from Bangkok heres Richard Gere....Thank you Ted <sound effects of screaming and grunts pigs> as you can see behind me the assfucking still hasn't let up oooohhh that's gotta hurt <closeup handheld camera shot of a man being fucked in the ass by a horse> lets see if we can get a word in <moves up to man> sir how does it feel to get fucked in the ass by a horse? We'll i tell ya Richard it takes some getting used to but everybody's gotta make a buck somehow! You mean you're getting paid? Ehy yes of course this is my job I am THE MAN WHO TAKES IT IN THE ASS FROM HORSES. I have a cable show starting next month on the Family Channel, followed hopefully by a live show on Leno the month after but that's still in the planning stages........ + Was I saying something reverent <<<<excuse me sir but this is Ted Turner and you sir are interrupting my broadcast>>>> go to hell I'm writing here and I say there is no Ted Turner so THERE IS NO TED TURNER. What are piles anyway? + Time like most thing is best when foolishly squandered on meaningless pursuits. Useless Stuff. + A ford Econoline blasts headlight beams through a cold Kentucky mist. Clouded sky obscured like Man Ray. Inside Maya is sucking oxygen and sipping Ayahuasca tea, one hand +steadies the wheel --this is it, back to the big sky's, the west ,the desert the last places to hide. Enough of this goddamn smooshed together states claustrophobic monosyllabic citizenry. Ignore the people they're only a temporary inconvenience of sanity. Count Korbinsky fueds with demonologists in the back of her mind. Signing off with lalala she smiles. + Well Well Well cigarette time don't go no where kids and remember crack is good because...<chorus of children chanting> ...it raises money for the CIA to conduct covert operations against foreign nationals that would otherwise lead meaningless and happy lives...that's right now sit tight whilst Mr. Robertson gets a fix.....Kentucky is a beautiful state -if you take the right drugs. The drugs obscure the frightening backward racist mentality that the New South’s propaganda claims is gone. A thing of the past. Earl’s miracle potion wears off and Maya stops for gas in Jasper. + She wires herself into the payphone at the back of the station and quickly sends a message it William on the west coast.....all is well in high spirits. will see you two days hense. will be last transmission. in Jasper. + + + + * * * * * + + It was the Spring of nineteen ninety three when I first stated to write this down in journal form, I was struck by a deep seeded biological need to write, the only problem was I had no story to tell. I was a college sophomore attending the University of Redlands in the smog filled pestilence of Southern California’s Inland Empire. Exactly whose Empire it was remains an uninteresting question. I had know aprticular interest in school, it just seemed better than getting a job and thanks to a small inheritance it was a possibility, so I went with it, but like I said i needed a story not a lesson in how to tell it. I learned to useful things in college, the first is that marajuana will keep moist and fluffy even in the dryest of climes if you keep it in a jar with a small slice of +carrot. The second thing i learned is that to alter the human brain’s tranditional pattern of processing information by the injestion of any chemical is to expand the minds pontential to process the information in an origional way. This processing change is deemed bad by society at large and especially by the middle class, can[t quite afford the countryclub set that my parents belong to. My name is May Steven’s I am twenty one years old and my only loves are the word virus, mind alteration, and my dog named ATW (Al the Wonder Dog). My only hobby is masturbation. + + Maya’s journal was the thing that prompted her to make that fateful decision to turn her back on all that was good and easy and comfortable and drop out of school to find a story worth telling. Journals that said....today i hung out with my friends smoked pot, went to class and then played on the computer until i passed out, do not sell. And Maya above all things realized that in this society money is synonymous with freedom and she wanted freedom more than anything. + + And i don’t mean freedom in the abstract american idealism sort of a way, i mean an Anarchy of the senses, the obliteration of logic and “common” sense, there’s enough of that garbage around that's why its common, what we need what i need is uncommon sense. Anarchy of sense. Most people when they hear the term anarchy associate it with the popular mythology of a chaos-like state with no government where murderers run naked through the street fucking helpless women and doing blizzards of drugs. This apocalyptic vision is childish at best. I do not propose to herein give a true or accurate version of anarchy or how it would work in the current sociological setting. Indeed the central message I hope to convey is that political anarchy is the least of my concerns. I only know what is in my head. If yours is different then you are wrong. At least from my point of view. + Anarchy, like life itself is infinitely more complicated than simple political gaming, left wing right wing, the whole concept of a binary system is illogical. The problem with the west in general is that it makes dichotomies out of what is really just a grey cloudy lump of shit, so to +speak. What i mean by that statement is that nothing is reducible to being either/or, belief itself is multi-dimensional. That is to say that to hold a belief is to filter information through an infinitely complex system and into the brain where the information is organized further and through electro-chemical responses, an opinion is formed. In light of something that is infinitely complex many philosophers, politicians and other freaks of nature have chosen to assume a starting point from which it can be safely assumed that everyone is at least in agreement of basic "facts." But as cutting edge physics and chaos mathematics show, these facts are subjective at best and nonexistent for all practical purposes. Everything is in our heads, everything that occurs around us occurs in our grey matter which is to say that everything is an internal experience of the individual rather than an external event happening to the individual and as poet Bernard Wolfe called the brain. That is to say that everything is constantly in question and it is here that I encourage the reader to remember the words of Robert Anton Wilson who wrote in the preface to Cosmic Trigger: "belief is the death of intelligence." He went on to elaborate saying that once a belief has been decided upon the questioning of the issue ceases. Everything is to be doubted. + Thus the anarchists starting point is simultaneously everywhere and nowhere much like the timespace experience itself. + + Maya’s journal became her life, her drug, the thing that took over. Everyone has a thing that takes over completely --Children, jobs, heroin, art, photographs, anything that feels like genius. Maya’s genius was her journal. Kind of sad that at the time only us ostriches recognized her genius, but you humans did take about ten thousand years to figure out away to dispose of your own feces so I guess that we shouldn’t expect any more. + Maya met William three years ago at a party in Rhode Island --a naked party. Maya dropped out of Redlands at the end of nineteen ninety three, well technically and much to the horror of her parents, she taken an indefinite leave of absence. Her only requirement of life is that it please dear god prove interesting so she piled her belongings in the back of a ford Econline van (suitably painted barf green), and set up a laptop computer with remote internet access in the space +between the seats. Together she and ATW had cut wide random swaths of road across the United States in a vain attempt to write or explore or get lost or take drugs or be or some such nonsense. After the Georgia affair (later) She headed up the East Coast with a vague notion of seeing Boston. She had friends in Rhode Island at Brown University and got slightly side-tracked by brown liquor and green marijuana. Her friend John had a friend who had a friend.... that had invited her to the annual naked party. The naked party was a nationally know event held in an enormous old Victorian house three stories high that had been converted into some sort of hippesque domicile for supposedly poor college students who, mysteriously, were able to afford tuition, but unable to provide a sufficient amount of alcohol, a terribly depressing reality to stumble into when you are also low on cash. It was here she met Yukon Jack, and with a bottle under each arm, he made everything okay. + She met William and his sometime girlfriend Chloe at the naked party. As you might imagine they were all naked, actually everyone was naked, and as you might expect they were all severely inebriated. + Maya stumbled toward the bathroom to rid her body of its pollutants and of course make room for more. She opened the door too drunk to care if it was occupied and burst in to catch William, a slight man of about twenty five with a thin but muscular body, gently fucking a girl doggy style. Chloe’s world was beginning to become less and less vertical, but she caught the girls beautiful face in the mirror, perfectly framed by long angelic golden ringlets of hair that Maya’s eyes followed down to her sweat glistened nipples and heaving breasts. William was leaning toward the sink to do a line of cocaine, at that instant Maya was too drunk to be taken aback, she simply squeezed in and closed the door behind her and sat down to pee. The world was refusing to hold itself up and the toilet seat leapt up to meet her resulting in a fairly loud noise that made the girl turn her head and shimmy slightly “you look like you could use a pick up, give her some coke William.” William pulled out of the girl and turned around confronting Maya with his hard cock which accidentally slapped her cheek. + “Oh my god I’m sorry! oh wow did that just happen?” It was by far the most immediate and personal introduction to anyone she had ever had. + “Usually I date someone for a while before I let them slap my face with their dick.” She stumbled over her words trying to remain sarcastic in the midst of insanity. + The girl laughed, she bent down and licked Maya’s cheek, “Just getting my cum off your face,” she whispered in Maya’s ear. Maya did a line and then another and then the girl grabbed her by the hand and led her out of the bathroom and down the hall into a room that was empty and smelled of the delightfully sweet aroma of Opium. + “You have Opium,” she murmured as the girl pulled her into bed. + “Yes I do. My name is Chloe and that was William, okay that's enough talk,” she lit and huca and passed passed the hose to Maya... + The events that transpired the rest of the night remained a vague and blurry collage of images for all three of them --good times tend to be remembered that way when one is ingesting large quantities of drugs. Maya was short on money and needed a place to crash and work for a little while, so William and Chloe adopted her and took her back to their studio loft in Boston. For four days they took Maya on an opium holiday and had sex and just when Maya was beginning to think that they never worked or in fact did anything at all other than fuck, William received a phone call in the middle of having sex with Maya and inexplicably left without saying a word. + “Where did he go...?” Maya heard her voice before she was aware that she had even spoken. + “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you” Chloe climbed on top of her and began sucking her nipples. Maya felt her body relax and could smell the familiar mingling of incense and opium smoke floating across the room she raised her head and saw Chloe’s hard nipples rub against her own sending tremors down her spine and an aching contraction gripped her pussy. The cream ran down her slit and trickled over her ass onto the pillow. She drew up the Chloe’s leg until it was rubbing against her pussy, smearing herself on her thigh. Maya pulled Chloe’s mouth onto her own and kissed her hard, pushing her tongue into her warm sweet mouth, licking her lips and +nibbling at her tongue. Chloe rolled over and dragged Maya on top of her pushing Maya’s head down between her legs. Maya ran her hands across Chloe’s pussy and down her thighs, pulling her legs apart. Drawing Chloe’s ass into her hands and lifting the pussy onto her tongue, Maya lapped at her creaming pussy, stabbing her tongue between Chloe’s glistening smooth and moist lips, dragging it up over her clit slowly to tease her at first, but Chloe grabbed Maya’s hair and forced her tongue between her lips and ground hard onto her tongue. Cum soaked Maya’s face and she began to lick as hard and fast as she could. + + + Exhausted, and for the first time in her life thoroughly sick of having sex, Maya dragged Chloe out to have coffee at a twenty four hour coffee shop in Harvard Square. + “So what is it you two do?” Maya said trying to make conversation with someone she realized suddenly --she had had sex with, done large quantities of petroleum, cocaine and opium, and yet had never really talked to. Maya thought of the joke about the couple that was getting divorced just out of college. One of their friends says ‘what happened?’ ‘Well,’ says that man ‘we met and got married in college; I didn’t know we couldn’t get along when we were sober.’ But Chloe was to smart to be just a junky. + “So now you think that because we’ve had sex and shared drugs that I should tell you about myself?” Chloe asked smiling. + “No right now i just want to know about you and what you do,” said Maya meeting her smile. + “Well, I paint and write and practice Crowleyian sex magic rituals, how’s that for soundbite length personal history?” + “okay. So William pays your rent huh?” Maya asked a little jealously. + “We have a business together, we sell.” + “Ah” said Maya finally putting the pieces together even as the last of the drugs cleared out of her brain. + “Maybe you could make some money...talk to William see if he needs anything done....” + I don’t know, it was hear that Maya hesitate if only for an instant because she knew that the descent into the world these two were part of was not a simple employment proposition. there are people who work and lead nice lives and are happy and then there are the people who do things, change things and generally control the lives of the other ninety nine percent whether directly and consciously or indirect accidents of “fate.” Maya suddenly realized that the proverbial apple was being thrust in her direction and she was really fucking hungry. + “You want to get something more substantial to eat?” Chloe looked cold. + Sure, you know this town better than I do,” Maya stood, “you lead the way.” + + * * * * * * + + Three years before and one ocean east William was sitting in the Heathrow airport scribbling a journal note about the fat woman selling British flags at a souvenir stand. He had no ticket and was forced for monetary reasons to fly standby, consequently he had been sitting in Heathrow for the better part of forty-eight hours trying to get on a flight bound for New York. At this point however he would have settled for a flight anywhere in the America’s --hitchhiking, while dangerous at the end of the century, was at least more interesting then sitting around an airport selling sketches of tourists to buy cigarettes and donuts. + Sil Hawkard was at this time still funding himself with the international campaign to end petroleum addiction and his recent key note speech in front of the Queen of England while totally meaningless in terms of raising money nevertheless filled him with an ironic sense of power. He struggled throughout the speech not to burst in to hysterics light up a petroleum filled huca and run around the room giggling and blowing petroleum smoke up the snatches of wealthy old British ladies, maybe even goosing the queen for the hell of it. But he had contained himself until now. He slid into the airport restroom, locked the stall behind him and bent down to check for any arrant pairs of trousers that might denote the presence of an Englishman. The only thing worse than the +English are the French. White people victims of a tragic and ancient nuclear accident which had mutated the melatonin cells giving them a sickly white appearance and penchant for dwelling in caves. + He lit the pipe and took a deep hit, coughing profusely at the end of it. + William, being a smoker of many substances heard the coughing in the bathroom and headed for the door to see if it be a sharer or not. See slipped noiselessly in and crept into a stall being careful not to close the door or make a noise, he stood up on the toilet and peered over the edge. He was confronted with a man that looked to be of medium height and muscular build with a hair that all but obscured his head. Shit thought William, a white boy smokin’ petroleum in the airport, gotta be a junky, he cleared his throat. + Sil heard the noise and snapped his head up for and instant, saw William's face peering down at him and then Sil rolled onto the floor and fell into convolutions. + “Shit!” William leapt over the stall falling on the toilet and soaking his foot and pantleg, “Fucking christ, don’t OD here you stupid fuck!” He turned Sil over and slapped his face --a petroleum OD was not uncommon back in the early days, new drugs require test subjects to overdose a few times before the parameters of ingestion are known to the users at large. Sil was crumpled in a ball unconscious, William pulled out his passport and sat down on the toilet, he noticed a piece of paper hanging out of Sil’s coat pocket and pulled out the speaking guide to the symposium on addictive narcotics at the Royal Palace in Buckingham England, he also noticed that the keynote speaker was the same man now crumpled before him. + “Holy heads of lettuce, he whispered to himself. He glanced at Sil’s face recognizing now the most outspoken proponent of banning petroleum. “This is the oldest con i’ve ever heard of you bastard, he kicked Sil in the chest and felt something metallic and hard hit his tow, he bent down to pull the gun out when Sil’s hand flashed across his peripheral vision and pulled the gun first. + “Oh shit man, I’m trying to help you for christ sakes!” said William raising his hands. + Sil was dimly aware, given his state of mind that shooting someone in an airport bathroom was a bad idea. He stared at the twentish black face for moment and said “Help me to my plane and I’ll give you a lift to South America. William had never been poor, but most people he knew didn’t have access to their own planes, he hesitated suspiciously “you have a plane, like your own plane?” + “Technically no, but its available for my use at my convenience, and since I have gun pointed at you, just help me or I’ll shoot you and run for it.” + Okay, fair enough.” William helped him to his feet and they headed out of the bathroom turned into an unmarked door that Sil gestured to, and were soon aboard the government jet of one Dr. Waiben, headed for Buenos Arias. + + + William was out of his mind, or what the nonprofessional drug user refers to as wasted, sound was obliterated as a form on communication, Sil and the other guy were not speaking but William began to hear words forming in the air, like an LSD trip might be , but these words were free of the vibrated source that had created them or rather they had not been created they just were, like turning on a radio and just picking up whatever station it was tuned to.m Bloody words sharp words that hung in the air like knives and when uttered returned to slit the throat of their speaker and if every word you have spoken returned to act upon yourself would you survive the experience?////??//::”::”::”::”::”:”:” <<<<curious words hung about the room William saw them in the air or at least thought he saw them and them the edges of his vision started to dim turning first deep red and then black until the natural light filled his vision and his lost consciousness. He awoke with out having remembered passing out at all. + Sil was still seated next to him and Waiben had brought his chair up in front of him and was leering close to his face shining a red light in his eyes. “Take this,” he handed William a small round pill.” + No thanks man that was heavy enough shit,” he shook his head. + “That's why you need to take this, we haven’t quite perfected this shit yet and it tends to give you glaucoma like symptoms for a few days if you don’t take one of these.” + William took the pill and sat up a little bit “man i been travelling all over Europe and the orient and i’ve smoked a lot of shit, but I’ve never had anything like that. Who the fuck are you guys and where do you get that shit?” + “That as you know is Sil, his last name is Hawkard, and I,” William could sense the pride in his voice, “am Doctor Waiben, pathologist of the state.” + + Chloe and Maya are in Boston nineteen ninety six eating dinner to fill the aching acid burned stomachs after to much caffeine at the coffee house. Now slightly drunk and feeling quite floaty Maya is thinking about sex again. She’s thinking about sex with William though, not Chloe. “When will William be getting back?” she asks + “Probably not ‘til tomorrow or the next day, why you getting tired of my tongue?” + Maya turned red and stammered “no, i mean i was just asking...would it bother you at all if i wanted to fuck him?” + “No only if you wanted to take him away from me...” + “Well I was thinking that since I have a van maybe I could help him with deliveries or whatever it is that he does...” her voice trailed off. + Chloe stared at her coldly for a moment before speaking then spoke slowly and deliberately, “Look Maya I like you and you’re a tremendously good fuck, but you have no idea where William’s past comes from and no idea what it is exactly that he does, the people he works for can...” + “What, kill me?” Maya interrupted her. + Chloe laughed, “if they’re generous. If not they can do things that are a lot worse than death, and they do it to people on a daily basis. They’re not criminals, they’re not interested in any end objective, they just want to push the human experience as far as they can, ‘because it might +prove interesting’ is what Sil always says. Do you understand that you’re way and I mean way, way, out of your league?” + Maya sat in silence for a moment contemplating a life of crime potentially running from people who would torture her or worse with no ultimate objective. She ran it over again and weight it against the thought of eventually returning to college and meeting some guy and getting married and pregnant, and fat. “Please Chloe, get me out of the boredom of my life, physical torture is no worse then psychological torture and I’ve got enough of that already.” + “Alright lets go home, I’ll call William and see if he needs anything.” + + + + he wondered feeling the full force of the drug take him over. Spanish man selling chicletts say no good no bueno, pictures worth not even half a thousand words. Wouldn’ give you ten words, worthless gringo words don’t mean shit. no good no bueno, not worth the blood their written in. The blood of all peoples not yours, not your shoes, by god keep your slave labor camps a closed-mouthed secret. Gotta keep that in house, dis-credit all new agencies by routinely feeding them false information. News doesn’t happen events happen, and the department of television information broadcasting inc. a subdivision of indoctrination inc. decides what gets out and what remains forever sealed in baby pissshitguts. No that's not true. No comment. No need for comment, the preceding has been since proved to be untrue, cut to shots of smart bombs. Couldn’t get fifty words for those now gringo -over exposure- nobody buying. Same old stinking shit. No Good. No Bueno. + Gringo go home in thousand languages in a million words, why don’t you crawl back in your cave get your tail so far between your legs it goes half way up your ass? Lead me to the holy spigot and we’ll show you the bidet of death, constructed by gringos, for gringos, to flush out gringos, to show them all what you do behind closed doors. Can’t close them all --we have our technicians as well and they’re getting to be better than yours. We got the money rolling in --even +offered you the picture words but you don’t want them. No Good. Can’t use those, too strong. No fair, crying boy heads home for cave to lick his dirty balls clean. + I gotta picture for you I on vacation in your country go to hear senator’s speak but all door are closed, all sealed. So i gotta fiber optic and feed it in from the roof show all senators mad with sexual lust and blood thirsty, clamoring for war and stealing souls and bodies and driving them off wherever they see fit. + The technician is retro actively of course --the papers said the man was mentally ill. ‘my cod!’ screamed a church lady in the front row, ‘satan has garbled the lords message, this isn’t what he meant for you to hear, no it was not all like that, there was to be understanding.’ she is parading her old cunt bones whining at the justices --tissue conducts signals, animals communicate through the use of visual, acoustic , chemical, tactile and electrical signals. Our laboratory is an abundant and well preserved feed back loop to understand and interpret Eusocial behavior. negative feedback inhibition to make you shiver Gringo. Make you shiver good. + Repetition unsuccessful. The radiologist was called in to examine the patient --blisters and burns indicate high probability of skin mutation, what would you say Dr. Waiben? Crested and on the nod? Diminutively yes definitely. + Information potential exists --its an unsettling thought, dependency --and what happens when things start to think? How do you draw the lines then. + HOW THE PLAGUE BEGAN: + The wish to preserve -not worth saving what already is- in this scenario. The word, the loss of body situated at the origins of recorded sound -the temporal metaphysical and esthetic possibilities. + <insert sounds of truck on dirt road> + Old man yelling. Get off of my laaawwwnnn! Sits down to oil his gun some more and then half turns in his chair to face the camera and says "i haven't left the porch since i got this CDRom PEOPLE version 3.0. Updated and expanded human potential at your fingertips. Its the only thing i need --got no use for the stinking gringos anymore-- camera pans out and down +revealing a yard strewn with shotgunblasted bodies of young children. We see wife, face half torn off, crawling towards a pistol <shotgun blast stage left> her head disappears entirely. Old man: "human potential, the new CDrom makes wives unnecessary." cue logo: on sale now at a sanatorium near you.... + I'm going to finally send you the orgy papers this time -been fixing to get 'round to that for some time" <heavy southern drawl> don't think he's the type to do it though but i been wrong once or twice a'fore. Don't want people showing up on my lawn though that's never good. get off of my lllaaaawwwwnnnnn! <shotgun blast again, distant screaming sounds of deaths final agonies eeking out blood gurgling windpipes> Fucking Gringos! Go home in a thousand languages! + Experience as much of the human potential as possible retain the container and forward the frog to the fun sun freaks of eastern tibet all is well with alkaline, and acidity is on the skids with death rooted out leaving only chicken shit shovelled scrapped and scraped like lemon lime gatorade poured from a fuck buck of love. Stop talking to yourself --listen to the virus talk to you. All that you consider to be a accident was carefully orchestrated for your benefit by a benevolent cocksucking god from the twenty-third dimension to just plain old irritate the fuck out of you like a bad rectal itch. Stupid gringo got no cure for the ass itch i show you some pictures, yes very dirty, little girls you like?????? + <<<<<commander in chief of the NATO forces in Europe is fucking small refugee boy in the ass, the boy cries for his mother the general is laughing, your mother’s down the hall boy ,she’s busy with the president of France right now. But maybe later you’d like to lick his come off her dead face. Ban those words tear them right out snip snip. Can’t say that, its disgusting. War is a snuff film for the rich. <<<<We gotta step up the bombing chief the public’s losing innarest in us screams the chief of staff running in circles jerking off and slapping his ass until it turns a bright purple and with all seriousness General Jesse Helms pauses to reflect: I remember a time when life was good no one got in our way, why in Europe under Patton i musta raped twenty thirty little boys and a handleful of nuns too. He smiles lost in memory... + But God hath given us these trying times.... + Yes it is bit hard to get cunt these days isn’t it, mumbles the chief of state as he strokes his wife’s cock....Yes dear start a war, get me some cute refugee boys, i so love snapping their necks when i’m coming, she growls affectionately. + That's it gentlemen were going to war! The president stands and ejaculates on a map of the world KOSOVO it is he says as his thick oatmeal consistency sperm all but covers the former republic of Yugoslavia. + You like? You like, no? Too bad. You can’t have those words, too strong. I get power, you give me power, I steal power from you, to expensive to buy it. I get power and you get pictures and maybe I tell you how to cure rectal itch? Eh? Eh? Eh? + + + Chloe and Maya, got back to the loft just as the answering machine was picking up the line in nineteen ninety three. leave a message.....Hi ladies it’s me i need a favor of you, or at least one of you...call me at.... “Hello” Chloe picks up the receiver midway through the message. “Ya okay I’ll tell her.” long Pause. “Just don’t think that she’s yours cause she not she’s ours, okay. Okay. She hangs up the phone + “Well?” Maya is anxious. + “Three months ago William was trying to catch a flight back to the United States from England, and he saw a guy OD on petroleum in the bathroom so the guy helped him out in return for saving his life. This guy is someone you don’t mess with and if I were you I would avoid even having him know who you are. Anyway William needs someone to meet him in Los Angeles next week and I told him you would go.” + “Okay.......that's where i just left from,but what the hell” Maya is slightly disappointed. “What am I going to do?” + “I didn’t ask, but I can almost guarantee you you’re going to be waiting alot, so you can write in that little notebook of yours, and think of me.” Chloe smiled. + Two hours later Maya bid her good bye and the econoline blasted off into the early morning light. The sun finally rose as Maya cut through Virginia and across the Blue Ridge Mountains. + + + + Dr Waiben in Buenos Aries nineteen ninety three the warm summer air is wafting into the hotel room through a window, hot muggy sticky oppressive air Waiben is tuning a radio to short wave frequencies and feeding into a computer which, following a chaos math program for shoreline patterns, varies the signal at seemingly random and sporadic intervals which decay on the same scale as a Koch curve. The computer is broadcasting the signals which Waiben is hoping will be reprinted in some part by William in the next room. This kind of low grade telepathy experiment has become Waiben's latest obsession --having completely abandoned television as a form of active mind control. It’s great as a passive he was fond of saying, but I am an active person and I so are the people I want to control. He leans back in his chair and closes his eyes, he focuses hard on the darkness trying to hear something anything a pattern of sounds from the horns on the street below any repetition that might be considered a signal pattern which could be captured by microphones and modelled by computer. The problem with the technology in the recording industry is that it records what we can already hear he thought suddenly we built the instruments to record what we already know. How do you build instruments that can record something you’re not even sure exists and how would you know if you did record something that that was in fact what you were looking for? + <<<<<<<<<<<exterminate exterminate exterminate>>>>>>:::” radio tissue is chirping broadcasts continuously down the line xxxxxxxxxxxration food and waterxxxxxxxxxxx +<<<<<<<<nothing here now but The Recordingsç∫~µ≤:::::::::”:::::::”::”:::::::::::::: + its an act of will short circuited all back down to earth and at some point deconstruction patterns form. lots of fear bubbling up around the edges the old cunt pears mysteriously self +mocking into a crystal ball, she shakes it again harmonizing the electron spins and creating some unstable sarcastic flux. your gonna have the pellets one day boy, shooda listened to your mother. + in another room the british physicist reminds us that life begets life through the slow rhythms of geophysical oscillations. Whimsical elves re-peal labels back onto soda bottles in a backwards tape loop. + + + The next morning William woke in Buenos Aries to the stink of smog and fumes and too many people living in to close a quarters with not enough bathing going on --the general smell that pervades all human outposts. He stumbled out of bed grabbed the pad of paper that he had been scribbling on last night, walked down the hall to Sil’s room and opened the door. Sil was still in bed with several women lying askew and presenting William with a scene of tantalizing depravity. He crept up to the bed, “Sil.” “Sil.” he whispered in a hiss + Sil bolted upright in bed and muttered, “the thing to do i suppose would be to recreate the future disassemble the present and cut up the past.” + “What?” + “Nothing where’s Waiben?” + “I don’t know.” + “Nevermind. Are ya good with numbers?” + “No but my girlfriend is.” + “She’s not here but i’ll keep that in mind...alright i’ll do the numbers part you go down stairs and get the blue van its with the valet. Bring it around front in half an hour and make sure the gated door is locked with three dead bolts.” + “You got it,” William stood and left taking a long last look at the sleeping girl’s firm round ass. + + William was out front in the Van at the appointed time and Waiben came strolling across the street leading a monkey on a chain. “Meet the President,” he said climbing in the van and shoving the monkey behind the seat. He grabbed the notes William had made the night before and screened them quickly, “Damn...” he muttered. + “Did I do something wrong?” William asked nervously. + “No, would you stop acting like a scared school boy?” Waiben glares at him for an instant and then relaxes. “Look I’m going to explain as much as you need to know okay? Get on the highway right there no just stay on this road for about twenty minutes and pay close attention to me. Don’t worry about me I have no use for you, not right this minute anyway, but Sil needs your help. You’ll start as errand boy or something of the sort if you want to move up Sil will let you, but remember no matter how stupid your part might seem from your point of view you don’t have any other point of view to see it from. Picking your own nose could if viewed from the proper perspective be considered an act of pure genius...... + Waiben continued on in strange circular lines of logic from which William was able to gather only that Sil would pay his bills rent food and all, and give him a cell phone so long as he, William was available whenever Sil needed him to do whatever Sil asked him to do. In a way this was antithical to William's anarchist senses, but no rent and no job were always the true goal of his underdeveloped anarchy anyway. Besides he needed an in to this sort of a life and these guys, whatever it was they did, certain gave a solid illusion of being rich and powerful. + Waiben was using an old police interrogation trick on William, although not because he thought William was stupid, rather because it always works. he set himself up as the wild eyed scientist lunatic (lighthearted good cop) and Sil as the pragmatic realist with the money and means (powerful serious cop). In fact they were both both, but William didn’t need to know that --the less you know about crime the longer you can expect to do it and live. If he had in fact told William that he and Sil were not really good friends and would have killed each other if they thought they could get away with it and live to tell about it, it would have created an uneasy foundation for him to work from and might even have led him to believe that he might off them +both or play them against one another. Sil trusted this kid so Waiben trusted, not Sil, but at least his judgement. So Waiben had taken it upon himself to show him the Buenos Aires research facility. It was something even his assistant Kellinger didn’t know about. + + The following was transcribed from audio tape recorded during the actual research faze and combined with analysis at a later date, it is intended to serve as a metaphoric representation of the dream process. I have printed and edited it into this form so that my many benefactors and supporters both public and private may benefit from the research that they are paying for I thank you for your continued support and sincerely hope that the information I have gathered benefits you and that you will continue on with that support as there is much ground yet to be tread. Sincerely Dr. Waiben: + + + Get me the fuck out of here. bloody words sharp words that hung in the air like knives and when uttered returned to slit the throat of their speaker and if every word you have spoken returned to act upon yourself would you survive the experience, me no way i’m outta here. Situation getting sticky, humid like vaporous blood hanging on in the air. Still acrid smell of urine and small children playing in a asphalt playground ringed on all sides by immense brick walls with basket ball hoops hung half way up each of the sides. Its two months latter and William has settled into his loft with Chloe, he is still trying to make sense of a world in which eaters can exist for years without any one knowing about it. He sits dazed on the couch processing the information like anyone who has suddenly had the proverbial wool removed from their eyes and realized that that which we are taught from childhood to distrust is in fact a pawn of something far more immense and much much more dangerous. The governments and nations of the world are incidental pawns the real powers control them and then beyond there are even more and so on like looking two mirrors facing each other and going on to infinity. The monster of power is faceless there is no one person or group that controls everything they are all parts of a immense and +multiheaded monster that is constantly biting itself and attacking it own heads until some day it will destroy itself. William is unaware of the kind of power that is beyond human ability as we generally think of it, a world of ghost and goblins does not do justice to the power of stars and black holes with there inescapable gravitational pull. William is at the beginning of a tunnel that is long and dark and which only one in million live to see the end of. Its the oldest con, the rebirth mythology chase it forever and you’re only farther away. + Chloe is getting ready for the naked party, painting glitter and neon paint around her breasted and in stripes up her legs. William is admiring her ass and knows nothing about a girl named Maya, a man named Pete, or that Sil Hawkard and Dr. Waiben are slowly but surely attempting to navigated the tunnel and to push humanity down in with them kicking and screaming all the way. + + + * * * * * * + + + + + + + portrait of exhaustion your face hangs from bones like a projector screen, not much happened since the 1995 drop off but don't worry the drinks are on me. Avert eyes look nothing head on --wary gaze averted to the passersby hung headed --lot of insignificant coordinate points brought together by chaotic butterfly thoughts. And then you have to shave. Maybe fifty five heart attack watch on your wrist hung like a trophy in the atrophy with the cigarette still burning --nicotine. number patterns all broken down on account of the Lottery, the old man thinks of nothing but cigarettes and shotguns. + sorry to say that all I really wanted was to lay on rock and smoke your dope, forget fever fears and empty telephone alarms. iAM tired again. hung down and now:where do we go from nowhere --everynothing thing that isn't anywhere will be nothing now here. newspapers blow in slow motion film loops a little too grainy to be real, everything is fine you can spend my money on a lottery ticket, cigarettes and whiskey. Cellular red white and blue control symbol couldn't be reached for comment the old man stands up from the rocking rests the shotgun against the front of the house and retreats inside --Uncle is that you-- you saw uncle? Unencumbered you will float off into abstract nothingness the suits are there for weight-cover --near the end of the line the bathroom attendant of stranger nightmares is helping the man back into his coat... + "ya know sir the thing that's going to get you through the oxygen chambers is going to be this breathing apparatus." He drapes the fleshy blank of virgin skin over the old man's brittle wrinkled canvas innards and sharp protruding age bones. + the attendant adds with snicker "you can't always turn right on red ya know...." he throws the skinned carcass into a lavatory stall where a pile of bloody skinned bodies is building up the old man steps back onto the porch, picks up the shotgun and sits back in the rocking chair the creaky of floor boards sound like screaming children. Shoot her again. + Let me sleep until we have disappeared. The train pulled out of the station before I could my papers in order. Sad desert night and I stood in the phone booth for forty five minutes trying to remember a phone number. I got confused when i remembered nothing was real and couldn't +really have mattered anyway so sat on my suitcase outside the train station and smoked cigarettes until the thought passed. I am alternating between heavy and light like breathing into a balloon. Cars never will be the same, and headlights don't do much for vision in the moonless night. It was dark. Black. Simply black. I slept until morning and caught the next rain east.... + There is nothingeverythingthatis. In Canada great black crowds of crows will descend and attack in mass a single great horned owl and peck it to death in great bombing swoops beaks extended like cheap imitation switchblades from a drunken night in Tijuana. eventually the owls next snaps from the continual battering and the crows fly away and return to eat the body after it has ripened up in the afternoon heat. + I used to go out after work to drink a beer. But i don't anymore. But i likely will again. I likely will do everything i have already done all over again in slowmotion three year cycles like a film loop. This makes me feel safe. Safety makes me want to vomit on fat ladies that take up a whole bench seat on the subways up in San Francisco when i was twenty two I rolled on a new film when I am twenty five I rolled a new film when I am Twenty eight I will roll a new film. This makes me feel safe. Safety makes me think of national geographic pictures where brown skinned natives wrap worm heads on sticks and slowly twist the stick to pull the worm from under their skin with out ripping it in half and leaving its disease riddled body under their skin. + Nowhere anywhere as fast as they could run leaping timespace life elfian nightmarish flashes of light. I think I saw the end as a post script obituary for the living. Its not going to be any better I can tell you that much --Dr. Waiben removed his shoes and sat back on the chair smoking a petroleum cigarette. + menes memories and magnetism + "The British biologist, Richard Dawkins has coined the expression meme to designate a signal traveling in human space-time and carrying information (or mis-information). In Dawkins view, just as biological evolution depends on the circulation of genes, sociological evolution depends on the migratory habits of memes." --from Wilhelm Reich in Hell, by Robert Anton Wilson. + memes by the definition given above would seem to bring the virus of language down yet another level to the point of perhaps decoding its genetic structure. If we are to suppose that the viral quality of language is consistent with other virus then its transmission and ability to replicate itself must in the biologists reality tunnel, have a genetic code by which it reproduces and mutates the host cell structure. Dawkins theory rests on the supposition theat ideas come before words ie the typical theory of language development we speak because we have something to saw. + On the way to visit the ostriches I had the peculiar sensation of running down a long tunnel of green black liquid in which little hairy elf like creatures were urging me to speak I could not speak and I felt a panic at the urgency with which they were probing me to speak I had the distinct feeling that If I did not speak I would cease to inhabit four dimensional spacetime, and I was struck by the overwhelming feeling that without words I would experience what those around me would have called death but what I now simply consider a loss of language I gave not concluded partly from this experience and partly from what the ostrich's told me afterwards that loss of word is loss of body and that we are in fact much like a computer monitor, the hard drive will continue to receive information even if those on the outside can not tell what is being done with the information received. + + + diff --git a/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/open your eyes.txt b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/open your eyes.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..49c9692 --- /dev/null +++ b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/open your eyes.txt @@ -0,0 +1,115 @@ + … It is just, it is just about to, it is just about to rolywholyover. —James Joyce +Eigenstate One (The Year 1999) + Open your eyes to Los Angeles, 1999, the sun is coming up and in state of sleepnonsleep you start to feel, for the first time, the pre-millennium tension building. The room is nearly dark but the translucent glow of morning is beginning to bleed through the window. The clock reads 6:23. The distant sound of crashing waves jars a notion of abstract and ocean size uncertainty into the backbrain of a terminally nebulous domesticated primate. +I lie there for a while just staring at the rough plaster ceiling and wondering if it’s texture is as close to the surface of the moon as I imagine it to be. Sometimes in that half sleep state I try to imagine I am slowly orbiting the moon at about five hundred feet instead of lying on my back staring at a ceiling. I jilt myself out of this mini-eigenstate by lighting a cigarette and turning on the lamp, the warm murky-yellow glow of the rice paper shade is harsh in contrast to the dark room and I am forced to squint until my eyes adjust. The room is of modest size and contains the bed I am sitting up in, a nightstand with a lamp and a half-size bookshelf; the walls are decorated with black and white photographs of New York, Paris and the rural south, some of them I took myself and others are by professionals. The bookshelf holds mainly science textbooks interspersed with occasional antique occult/magic tomes, all of which are related to my work; on top of it is a small meditation shrine which I set up as part of an elaborate personal joke. +I don’t normally get up this early but right now I am still living on New York time. I wear two watches, one is a twenty-four hours stopwatch that I start over everyday when I wake up and the other has the local time of whatever country or continent I happen to be in. I started this practice years ago when I decided to live in a Quantum Relativity State. Not long after I read a joke somewhere that said the man who wears a watch always know what time it is, the man who wears two is never quite sure, I am never quite sure about anything and time is certainly as transient as anything else. + This is, as I said earlier, nineteen ninety-nine on the modern calendar, but it is not technically Los Angeles its actually Sunset Beach, a small ocean community about half an hour south of LA proper; but I refer to everything within a hundred miles of LA as being LA. I never did have a high regard for lines that don’t exist. The house I am staying in is on Huntington Harbor and although I don’t personally own it do I pay any rent on it, nevertheless I think of it as one of my homes. I don’t live anywhere, really, but I have homes here, New York, Paris, and one that actually is in my name —a farm outside of a small town in rural Georgia. I travel a lot between the three cities and only go to The Farm for research and recruiting purposes. + I crush out the cigarette and get up for a shower and shave after which I spend half an hour doing Hatha Yoga followed by some push-ups and sit-ups. This has been my morning routine for three years now and I find that in spite of my love for cigarettes I am in better shape than most people in the western world. This routine also helps to center me in whatever eigenstate I happen to be inhabiting, and serves to remind me at the start of everyday that is just one eigenstate among countless and it is subject to radical and irreversible change at any given point. (Note: an eigenstate is a fancy name for any point at which an observation is made. In Quantum Physics this term is used to denote the activities of particles when they are being measured and helps to differentiate from the actual activity of the particle which may be quite different at other points. In laymen’s terms it means nothing.) Any one interested at all in transcendence or brain modification should take up Hatha Yoga immediately, I also happen to think that Hatha combined with Kundalini can be viable sure for addiction, to quote the master addict himself “anything that can be done with chemicals can be done without.” + I took up yoga because I had a hypothesis that consciousness was a result of the antenna that was receiving it; in other words I thought for a time that we see what we see because of our physical shape. It turned out I was grossly underestimating the complexity of things, but I did walk away with a lifelong habit that keeps me in good physical shape. I have two major drug addictions and no plans to kick either of them and this morning like any other found me at the coffeeshop ingesting caffeine and nicotine until around noon. Of course I was also working a case, but I will be the first to admit that it was a definite second priority. + This particular case had been open, but remained unsolved for eleven years before I was called in to help, and I am pretty sure that I was a last resort for my employer since he has gone to great pains to make sure that there is no trail between him and me. What is it you ask? We will come to that, but let me first say that I am not a cop or a private dick or anything of that sort; I am a specialist and I am not cheap. I started off by soliciting my services in private circles where law does not tread and when I produced results where no one else had, word traveled and now my clients seek me out. This leaves me the luxury of choosing which cases to take and which to walk away from. I have recently gotten in the habit of taking on jobs that do not at first appear solvable to me; it’s the only way I could figure to keep myself on my toes. + Naturally before I committed to this case I checked out my employer who it turned out it was an ex-CIA man with a career that stretched all the way back to the old OSS days. He had, from what my sources told me, worked this case himself for several years without results and apparently it had gotten to him enough that even after he retired he was still working it. And now he wanted my help. + Over coffee and in between cigarettes I hacked my way through some networks and got in touch with an old associate in Rangoon who had some connections that dated back to the OSS; I also put a man on my employer told him to watch but remain hidden. This meant that we could lose him for a while, after all he was CIA and therefore stone paranoid that somebody else might have more information than he did. Such a man can rarely be relied upon to make good judgements, and I knew that he was never going to give up all his information without some effort on my part. I didn’t want to play any card I didn’t have to and most of all I didn’t want him to feel watched, but I did want to know what he was up to. I have found that if you watch people they will usually tell you what you want to know without you having to force it out of them. William handled the grunt work for me without questioning why I was wasting his talents on spook stuff, which was a good thing, because I didn’t really have an answer for him. It just felt right; I thought about the job and he came to mind that’s the way I work. + The CIA man (his agency name was Raptor which was so cheesy and stupid I decided to keep it for him) had made a muck out of project way back in the nineteen fifties. The project was one of those stupid black ops things that are rarely actually operations and never black. “A Secret Agency is an oxymoron run by morons and build on the hard work of more morons,” William used to say. He harbors some bitterness toward the NSA for not recognizing his talents as legitimate, but he is basically right and this case was a spectacular example of an intelligence op that was well neither intelligent nor much of an op. + It was called WAIBEN for the doctor/agent that initiated it and it was really not an issue so far as I could see —they gave some LSD to prisoners several decades ago to see what the drug would do. They were trying to figure out mind control, but the tests had been inconclusive and the project was abandoned in 1963. Waiben had had an accident crossing the street in 1990, but he was old to begin with and had probably threatened to write his memoirs or the like, so they got rid of him. The CIA looking for mind control devises is like a monkey trying to find a monkey. How can you study mind control when you have all the minds working for you under your control? No wonder they didn’t have any luck. + William’s voice was echoing in my head when I put the report down. The gist of it was that it had been a fuck up, and indeed it was true from what the documentation showed it had blown up in Waiben’s face, but where was the case? I noticed a list of names at the back which I assumed were the prisoners who had been given the LSD, two pages and nothing I recognized, but then on page three a name was highlighted Eugene Sean Patriman. On the back of that page held in place by a small paper clips were two photographs; one which showed Mr. Patriman in the traditional mug shot pose, it was dated 1963. The other was color and showed Mr. Patriman eating what looked like breakfast at a table outdoors, he was wearing sunglasses and the photo seemed to be taken from quite a distance, it was dated 1989. None of this struck me as unusual at first glance, Mr. Patriman looked to be well adjusted to society and seemed in good health… really good health on second look, and then after looking at the two side by side… far too good of health. Mr. Patriman should be sixty-one years old in the second photograph, but there was not wrinkle on his face…. I found it unsettling, but I still saw no case. + William dropped some mail on the net that Raptor was preparing to leave for New York and that he had been reading the project reports, apparently there were some pages missing from mine. I read them over quickly and caught a cab to the airport, by ten thirty local I was at café Dante in the East Village waiting on William. + William arrived right on time, he was driving a cab an in the back was Raptor. They were having some sort of argument from the looks of things and eventually I saw Raptor look over at me. I was wearing a smiling Richard Nixon mask to piss him off and through him off guard; I was all ready catching the eye of nearly everyone waling by and if there is one thing that a CIA man hates it’s conspicuity. Raptor was not the timid paranoid man I was expecting, but he did seem truly frightened to be seen with me. Spooks are so easy to throw off their guard its really not even fun to me any more. I need to work with an exhibitionist to see if I can throw them off guard. + Raptor had collected himself by the time he reached my table; he sat and stared at me in silence. In moment or two the waiter came and he order a burger fries and coke which he never touched through out the meal. + “I hired you because you have a perspective that I don’t and its is now obvious to me that I underestimated your capacities for the more mundane aspects of our work so now I will come clean with you. I’m not sure entirely what your man was able to get his hands on, but hear is my information. This case is the biggest thing you are ever going to work and I suspect that you will be killed before you solve it, but if you want to know what really happened in that cell is that the subject made contact with decidedly unfriendly and seemingly alien agencies which you can read as individuals and/or organizations. This sounds ridiculous every time I say but I have found no other explanation for these events that are one these tapes. + He handed me an envelope, which I could tell by touch held three VHS tapes; he kept talking as the waiter set the food down in front of him. +“You have to see the tapes to understand what you are dealing with but the basic gist of it is that some sort of alternate reality seems to exist quite parallel to out own, but frighteningly different and decidedly alien. Dr.Waiben’s experiment –in ways we still don’t understand- appears to have inadvertently created a bridge or passageway between these realities. The really interesting part is that the bridge or link or whatever… is a man. We haven’t been able to get in touch with him since 1989, but we have found photographs of him as far back in time as the American Civil war. Apparently he can um well as improbably as it sounds…he can move through time. The consequences of this experiment remain largely unknown… as if that wasn’t enough…. I know your background in Quantum events… you will understand what I mean when I say we aren’t entirely sure anymore that any of this ever happened that is we have come to question everything and found nothing to be reliable… +“We put timothy Leary on the case for a while but he couldn’t make heads or tales of it either and in the end he concluded that his talents were needed elsewhere… its been hard finding people to work on this sort of a case… rather sensitive you understand… there are two people one I know you are familiar with… operating out of Rangoon I believe. The other wishes to remain anonymous for the time being… I have had about all I can take of this case… I feel like something is taking over my body, my mind, like I am no longer in charge…like there is no control left… I am going to disappear… but the best of luck to you… look up your friend in Rangoon he has been on this one for a couple of years now, he’s the one who took the picture earlier this year good man… + He abruptly jumped up from the table and sprinted down the street. I was in shock. William yelled and started to pursue Raptor but I yelled back to let him go. I took off the Nixon mask and motioned him over to the table. I stood as he approached and told him to bring all of our people to the farm within the next three days. I ran out into the street, jumped in the cab that William had been driving and headed to La Guardia again. + By the time I touched down in Atlanta my brain was spun through, looped and twisted beyond everything. Its one thing to live by certain mantras like changes in perception can come at any second, any one who had ever read a few Quantum Psychology book or been to a transactional theripist new as much as I did they just never thought to use them as tools to make money, but it is an entirely different proposition to be told that everything you hoped was true was indeed true. This was going to be the biggest case I had ever had in fact I had the distinct feeling that after this nothing else was going to matter. The first call I made was to Rangoon. Sil agreed to come to The Farm; it would be the first time we had met since I took it over from him. The second call I made was to a girl; she promised me she would look after me if I lost my mind which by now seemed inevitable. + I put in the first video the minute I walked in the door. It was shot from a ceiling camera and started with a man in a white coat injecting Mr. Patriman with what I assumed was LSD. What followed was largely uninteresting except for a phrase that he kept repeating (it seemed wholely incongues to me) I can’t believe its not butter, I can’t believe its not butter…. At 04:58:23 on my VCR counter, Partiman calmly stood up and walked through the wa ll! I rewound the tape so many times it was in danger of being damaged. + + +Eigenstate Two (The Year of the Logitician) + +Sil Hawkard awoke with a cramp in his neck. He found himself lying on a cold cement floor inside a small room with bare cinderblock walls and two tiny windows that were high up on the walls, near the ceiling. He did not know how he had come to be in the room, there were flashes of falling distant memories of panic that might have been from a movie or might have actually happened. The room felt fake as if suspended in between the known and unknown, not unlike a train station and Sil half imagined that at any moment a giant coastal flyer engine might come crashing through the walls. The windows were too high to see out of and they gave him a dizzy feeling that made him quesy. +He got up to take his mind off the churning in his stomach and see if there was a way out; the door opposite him was locked so he jumped up and down trying to see out the windows, but only glimpsed what he figured was probably another room just like the one he was in. He thought about yelling but was wary of attracting attention. + Far off as if it were traveling a long cooridor came an echoing voice, it was garbled by echo andSil could only hear the word Tribune or was it fly, June? In any case it did not help, you rarely get to the castle in situations like this so Sil resigned himself to waiting. The voice gave him some feeling that at least something somewhere was happening and—good or bad—that thought gave him the comfort to sit down facing the door. He did not remember falling asleep, but he was reasonably sure that the door opening had awoken him. + The door opened and two official looking gentlemen entered, they were wearing uniforms that Sil didn’t recognize. The second one in the door had a syringe in his hand and Sil sae bad things in his future, but the first man very politely asked if he would come with them. They led him down a long hall lined with doors that Sil assumed were more rooms like his own. At the end of the hall was an arched entrance that led into a mezzanine where various officials were milling about and other prisoners were being processed through a serious of desks. His guards led him up to the end of the line and simply left him there. Sil assumed escape was not an option. None of the other prisoners appeared to be trying anyway. +Then Sil realized that such a thing did not technically mean that one could not. He broke out or line and walked toward what seemed like sunlight. That is he went in the brightest direction, no one seemed to pay him any mind and he was soon out of the lobby and found himself on the street + +I hit the street running and the first thing I noticed is one of those old time banners they used to string up between light posts downtown by the park, back when they had light posts and parks, such things being out of favor today. But today for moment I got to get me up outta these old bones and that old banner dragged me kicking and screaming all the way back to San Francisco, Chinatown, big red streamers hanging from windows and red banners with indecipherable Chinese characters strung up between buildings. I was with Mike Cultch and we were mosing our lazy way up to Coit tower to sleep on the cold stone wall on the ast side where the bushes grew up and you could hide from the washout cops. Security guards being the most dangerous form of human know, we like Coit in spite of them. Plenty of light to read by and no one goes up their except the tourists and they're all gone by sundown. Just us and the handfull of wash ups who were mostly too drunk and stoned to notice anything that wasn't trying to bite them. + not that we didn't have few close calls on the day. Like the rent a gun downtpwn standing by the gate of parking lot like he really was Neil Cassady or something and he thinks he smells some shit from my cigarette. he trys to pull a real cop routine on us and mike starts to turn around and I pipe up hey can I see your badge their mister washout. Now he didn't like that name to much so he comes at me swinging and I just duck. he punches the side of a car and it makes this awful crunching sound like when you're biting into a stale rock hard pretzel. I was ready to get out of their on the double, but Mike is pissed cause he got suckered so he starts kicking the cop in the side. I can tell by Washouts expression that its cracking ribs and more than likely creating one hell of mess with his internal organs. I felt sort of bad, but Mikes crazy when he gets mad so I wasn't about to take one in the face for a washout. By the time he let up on him the washout was spitting blood and coughing uncontrollably. we split and never looked back. Maybe that Washout learned the fine are of minding your own business, but more than likely he just beat the crap out of someone who reminded him of mike. Violence as a virus rarely does anything but duplicate and breed. + Today's a long way from washouts, chinatown and the whole San Fransisco scene; today is New York, slivers of sky and me, walking memory, invisible to others because I see them first. I make it my point to see them first that way they don't notice me as much. someones got to be paying attention and as long as someone else is giving off the vibe of paying attention some little nuerocircuit in the back of the brain relaxes and they don't see me. Its an old trick I learned from a voodoo priest one night walking around New Orleans. He had this bone staff with a human baby skull tied to it along with bead and teeth and other little artifact of his trade. I saw the skull, but I never saw him. He distracted my mind and controlled the situation. It so happened that later I did see him sitting on some steps later on in the evening when the salt air was turning to fungus and laying the rest down to sleep. He asked me for light and I noticed it wasn't a cigarette he was smoking so I made myself and home and he shared the joint with me. By and by we feel on the topic of straights and how dope frees up the mind and makes you hyper observant and one thing led to another and I learned how to do invisble. One of the handy thing about this skill is that you can cut through the static of humanity and you start to notice who sees you and who doesn't. As old Bull would say you get to meet the johnsons. right now here walking down the street, long past the red banner and moving up town I am on my way to meet some Johnsons. Nice family, good neighborhood, mind their own business and they were good enough to ask me to dinner. + Living on couches and corner mattresses crawling with tick and bed bugs and fleas you come to miss the home cooked meal. Eventually you stop craving it stop even being aware that such a thing exists, but its a good thing to let someone remind you of every now ans then. I can almost taste it + I closed my eyes and saw a finger print. + + + + + +Eigenstate Two (The Year of the Beast) + +Scene one: ONE DAY IN MAYA'S APARTMENT +MAYA +PETE +NARARATOR +(Stage is a smallish square room with deep red walls, two couches perpendicular to the audience and facing each other with a table between them. MAYA is a slinky sexual girl of twenty-four with fiery grey-green eyes, short black hair like ravens trying to get out of her head and slender arms and legs that slip around her body like ribbons. She is wearing tight black satin pants and a green spaghetti strap tank top which is also tight. She is sitting cross legged on the left hand couch smoking a cigarette. PETE sits across from her watching her with a puzzled look on his face. He is obviously younger than her and of a tall lanky build with an insecure awkwardness that is betrayed in his shifty mannerisms —as if he were not quite comfortable in his own skin.) + +Narrator (sitting on a stool stage left) ...Pete watched Maya with absolute fascination, he had never met a woman, no he had never met anyone, as intelligent or as goddamn sexy as her. He did not fully realize it but he was devastatingly in love with her and this we know meant that she would devour him and destroy his life. He did not know this yet, but the thought did pass through his mind occasionally when he masturbated —imagining her in all sorts of ridiculous situations where the end result was always her sweet innocent but wise voice begging him to Cum all over me...ya come on my face. (aside: wouldn't you?) Pete was smart enough to realize the unlikelihood of him having sex with Maya but dumb enough to pine after her nonetheless. +PETE:(existentially in his own mind) please pleeeeeeease have sex with me. +MAYA: Would you like to see me naked? +PETE: (too eagerly) Yes! +MAYA: huh... I guess that's better than not. (she makes no move to get naked) + +NARRARATOR: It especially disturbed Pete that she seemed to take so much delight in teasing him and frustrating him further. It also disturbed him when she went out with other men instead of him, especially when the other men was Jared Towers. Towers was in Pete's World Religion class and represented a peace of humanity deeply disturbing to Pete, he represented strength and masculinity. Pete was young and still believe that masculinity is limited to those specimens of the male population that look like they just walked off the cover of GQ or its ilk. Later, like the rest of us he would come to realize that these cro-magnon motherfuckers are in fact far to fragile to satisfy a woman in bed and spend the majority of their adult lives desperately trying to convince themselves that they are not gay. But, Pete had fixated on a rumor that Jared had a twelve inch cock, thick as a flashlight and had convinced himself that this was why Maya went out with him. It served the need for self torture that Pete's brain seemed to possess. + +MAYA: "Will you do something for me?" +PETE: (hesitantly) "Maybe" +MAYA: (with deadpan sincerity) "take off you clothes" +JARED: standing as if to strip and then thinking better of it sits back down) "NO" + + (A seven headed snarling beast of unknown but leaning towards demonic origin leaps out of the floor from stage rear he first bites at PETE; several heads lay into his flesh and rips off first his arms and then his legs, and then holding Pete upside down by the stumps of his legs it chews on his balls staring out at the audience. The beast leaps on the narrator and tears him to bits as a laugh tracks play offstage. MAYA is still watching sitting behind the beast on the couch oblivious to the goings on. The beast leaps down and starts to eat the audience; critics first the juicy fat ones in the front row and then the rich lesbians behind them all the way to back ripping up art fag kids who snuck in without a ticket cause there friend works at the door. The beast runs snarling into the streets of New York devouring east village types causing people to go into panic and leap from the tops of burning buildings. Carnage and Mayhem abound.) +Curtain falls. + + +Eigenstate two (year of the Logitician) + +Maya was living on the western edge of Usinc (a state labeled Fornical) in a town by the name of Long Beach, which did not in Maya's opinion possess a beach that would lead any rational person to call it Long. She lived in the upper left hand apartment of a fourplex building. The aforementioned Pete lived below her and next to him was a sweet quiet old woman whose life went on interminable pause between visits of her two grandchildren. The remaining apartment directly across from Maya's belonged to a man who called himself Cary, but Maya suspected that that was not his real name. He was rarely home, extremely wealth, extremely brilliant and seemed vaguely powerful in some way Maya couldn't quite place. Certain people when you meet them give off an air understanding that makes them appear powerful to others who don't have that sense of omnipotent confidence —like they are aware that their "self" is not the sum total of experience. Maya had met him a few times and said hi but she did not know him very well. She wanted to though and when she found out from the old woman down stars that Cary's daughter went to the university Maya enrolled in one of her classes. + Anna was a beautiful girl with black raven hair that swung across her shoulders and bounced when she laughed. Which she did a lot when talking to Maya. She was nothing like her father seemed. She was however always in a good mood and did not seem to have the psychosis of most people in Long Beach. But Maya was disappointed that she couldn't get Anna to divulge any scandalous details of her father's life. But Maya did use her as an impetus to talk to Cary more. This led to vague friendship consisting of a cursory discussion of his world travel habits, lack of official citizenship, and an invite to use his balcony whenever she liked. He did not lock his door and professed not to believe in property instead he had the entire place wired with cameras so that if indeed someone stole something from him he could find them and ascertain whether or not they needed the item more than he did. All of this intrigued Maya and secretly she wanted to know more, but she was happy to just use his balcony which was the largest one in the building. It opened virtually right into a palm tree and gave one the feeling of being at some Mediterranean villa. It made Maya want to waltz around in a leopard trimmed chamois wearing platform shoes and sipping pina coladas. Maya's balcony was drenched in afternoon sun and not a pleasant place to read so she would go to Cary's in the afternoon and read his books and drink pina coladas in her underwear and pace back and forth in her leopard trimmed chamois. She didn't know there was a camera in the tree as well and that it could be remotely moved and zoomed so as to allow Cary to see what she was reading. In fact Cary knew a rather lot more about Maya then Maya realized. That was only because Maya was looking on a different map scale, Cary's map was much much larger. But this is Maya's story and now a one act scene to show character development: + + (The End) + + + Jared was not really Maya's type either she only went out with him because she liked nice dinners, but didn't like to pay for them. Jared was rich or rather his parents were rich and he would do pretty much whatever Maya told him to. She had never had sex with him and didn't want to. You can't have sex with a man who let you hypnotize him and then revealed under hypnosis that his father once chased him a around the house with a meat cleaver when he caught the boy masturbating to a picture of the Virgin Mary. Maya used to wonder over fine french food: what kind of sick fuck finds the mother of god sexually appealing? I mean if sacrilege is a turn on masturbate and think of fucking god in his own ass like he thinks of fucking you in yours...Maya had laughed for hours on that one, of course she didn't tell Jared anything about the revelation or how far into his mind she had gotten that afternoon. + + Pete had left and Maya had changed clothes and was heading out the door to meet Jared for dinner when she noticed light leaking under Cary's door. + "Cary? It's Maya are you home?" She knocked and hearing no reply she pushed gently on the door which floated open as if on its own accord. + A voice floated languidly in from the balcony and said, "Come in... I'm outside..." Maya went out onto the balcony and there was Cary sitting and smoking a cigar shaped object which smelled like hash. + "Hi." + "Hi." + "Sit down," he took another drag and exhaled. It definitely smelled like hash. He caught her staring at it as she sniffed at the smoke. Cary laughed, "would you like to smoke some hash? I brought it back from Morocco..." + "That would be lovely," Maya felt the awkwardness of a setting too intimate for the relationship that was being cast onto it. Cary did not appear anything but relaxed, but of course he was likely quite stoned. Maya accepted the blunt and smoked it for a while before handing it back. + "Have you been enjoying this balcony in my absence?" + "Oh ya, I sit out here in the afternoons and read," the hash hit fast and hard and Maya had to fight to keep her wits about her, she thought vaguely of Hassan I Sabbah and his brainwashing techniques and for a moment she understood why he was so effective. + "This stuff hits hard at first but it settles down and leaves you in a nice contemplative frame of mind, I only smoke it in the evenings. I prefer something more active for the daytime." + "I would never have guessed that you smoked pot..." + "That's the idea." he smiled, handed her the blunt and leaned back in his chair reaching for cigarettes. Maya took the blunt and reached in her bag for her own smokes, lighting one she asked, "What exactly is it that you do? Your daughter told me you own a casino or a mine or something?" + He laughed. "Doing research are we?" Maya blushed, but Cary just kept laughing. "What I do has nothing to do with either of those things. I just believe in diversifying my financial assets...so that if one particular area of the world economy goes snafu I don't lose everything...just good business you know........ but yes I do have both of those things, but they are just things and not even ones that I'm actively involved in..." his voice trailed off. "What I do is more complicated...some might say that I am trying to figure out what the hell is going on down here...others say that I already have figured that out and I have moved on to far more nefarious projects..." + He said the sentence like he knew that Maya would recognize it and the realization gave her an acute sense of paranoia which was accented by the canaboids floating in and out of her brain. Banish fear. Someone knowing you well without having spent any time with them is not necessarily a bad thing...people fall in love and they seem happy about it . Secretly I think they're deluded but this is different. Its a common phrase perhaps we've read similar books or maybe more people are into this sort of thing than you realize. + "So do you know what the hell is really going on down here?" Maya asked as coolly as she could in her stoned state. + He just smiled, "you're the one studying in college trying to figure it out... why don't you tell me?" He settled back in his chair as if waiting to listen to a lengthy discussion on the subject. + "It would take more than pot for me to tell you that..." + "I have more than pot if you would like it." + "What do you have?" + "Do you know anything about South America shamanism? They make a hallucinogenic brew —some people call Yage some call Ayahuasca, I call it the orange stuff that bubbles.... + "Ya I know what Yage is, William Burroughs went looking for it, I read that book...." + "Ah yes the Yage Letters...unfortunately mister Burroughs was an acute heroin addict at the time and heroin tends to not put one in a positive state of mind...the book is a careful and imaginative account of one man's failure to transcend himself." + "I like Burroughs," Maya said slowly, "but sometimes his whole nightmare apocalyptic routine gets a bit old, but he's good at seeing what could go wrong in any situation. If you want to know what could go right, you've got Leary or McKenna." + "You've read a lot of interesting books...I overheard you saying something about Aleister Crowley this afternoon... that's why I decided it was okay to let you know that I can get you anything you want...drug-wise and otherwise....you seem very intelligent." Maya blushed slightly and couldn't decide if Cary was hitting on her or if he was just a genuine intelligent man trying to be nice. "It would be easier to know if we had a script wouldn't it???" + "Excuse me?" Maya had been lost in her internal musings and the question seemed to come out of nowhere + "Nothing I was just listening...I'm going to give you some Yage that I had brewed up for me, its a healthy dose but I think you've the skepticism to handle it. Are you interested?" + "Yes I'd love to but um," Maya hesitated not wanting to be rude, "not to be rude but I don't particularly want to do it right now... in front of you...." + "Of course not, you should go back in your room and drink it on an empty stomach and lie there in the darkness and just watch the back of your eyelids...that's the way you get into this stuff." He was staring at her with his piercing, but unobtrusive green eyes, "but you have to promise me that you'll take it tonight and tell me about it tomorrow afternoon sometime because I have to early the next morning and I want to know what you get out of it" + "Ummm, okay ya," Maya thought for a second, "I can cancel my plans tonight," + "You should he's a waste of time." + Maya started, confused "you know Jared?" + Cary smiled and pulled a vial of Ayahuasca out of his pocket "know I didn't even know you were going out, but since I changed your plans with an exotic blend of South American hallucinogens, he can't meant much to you." + She blushed and took the vial, "thank you. I'll see you tomorrow." + + + diff --git a/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/smiling house.txt b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/smiling house.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9f6289d --- /dev/null +++ b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/smiling house.txt @@ -0,0 +1,179 @@ + I awoke at the age of twenty-five in reasonably good shape and with a seemingly sound mind, but I awoke to a world of total insanity. I say I awoke because the reality I possess is one I would not have voluntarily chosen; no I would have hoped for something where I had a bit more control, more say in the directions of my life. So I say ‘awoke’ because everyone has at some point had that disorienting sensation of awaking in a strange place and for that instant not knowing how or why. I live in that instant. +I am a character in a book. I don’t even know the title of the book, so far it has read at times like a spy novel, a romance, a science textbook, an occult obsession, a personal journal, a metaphysical protein shake, and surrealist soup. The surrealist parts are the funniest, the romance parts the most exciting, and the rest cover a range from downright frightening to mysteriously intriguing. +I have studied extensively, though by no means thoroughly, both eastern and western philosophy from existentialism to Sufism to Christianity to the Gnostic Mushroom Cults of Mexico looking for ways to understand and cope with my situation —how does one behave in a novel? Some have proved useful but there is in the end, I fear no escaping my situation. I live within the constructs of words not objects. +Words are image and idea to me, I do not have your luxury of being able to evaluate and abstract myself, I can not say this thing is real this one is not because everything that could be is. Some days I live dramatic events that shape and influence the entire book other days I spend under a tree reading a book within a book. I never know what I will do until the day is over and this realization has given me the ultimate freedom, but no control and without control I don’t feel at home with the human race. The vast majority of the human race believes that it knows certain things to be true (i.e. you assume each night when you go to bed that you will wake up in the same place) whereas I have found no such consitency in this book. +My awakening as I have called it was simply the realization that I was a character in a novel and that to exert any control whatsoever over my circumstance would require that I gain an audience so I am here for you to let you in on my awakening. I have to offer my finest verbal worlds and the infinite constructs of the imagination which are totally without the bounds of reality which you have to abide by, I can travel the globe at the stroke of a pen. Enough reasoning, you’ll see my predicament eventually. + +All that we are is the result of all that we have thought. It is founded on thought. It is based on thought. —Buddha (transmitted on WORD INC airwaves all rights restricted) + +I am lying back supported by pillows on a small couch in the back corner of an underground bar, dawn, Paris 1999, listening to the radio and staring at walls not yet written by Rembrant, Miller, and all the dead poets. Peace back here in corner where I watch all time pass me by with the detached apathy of non-compliance —after all freedom is the one thing I have the most of. Static chirps of French corporate radio interrupt my musings on arts finer abstracts. Step aside and let the man go through. I feel like a lead train, heavy from hash, muscles detached from their control centers, inoperable, trying to struggle out the words for another espresso to wake the gray cells that hang like storm clouds on the edge of my brain. I am watching Nina who in her lovable French fashion is totally ignoring me. Such a sweet girl, waitress, Nina, cherub cheeks —she puts up with me long after closing time. I dream she loves me but I know she merely wants to go home; she certainly doesn't need me here. I tried to sleep with her once, but her heart wasn't in it. As a kind off consolation prize she lets me stay late until she is done closing up. + Every night I slouch my way here for my fix of stimulants, hallucinogens, and depressants, it's a full time job, shoveling coal in the engine. Of course my drug taking is metaphorical, but I have to explain things in terms you will relate to and you are all addicts of one of the aforementioned whether you know it or not. +Paris in the rain —dark and ugly, a city of dreams gone wrong. Parisians, like New Yorkers, seem to know something that the rest of us are missing, and they show no signs of sharing. Scaring information out of the agents here is like ripping rotting molars from a tweekers corroded mouth —no one wants the job. + Strange French lounge music tumbles in from the WORD INC. speakers behind the bar, it rolls across the room like an ancient reminder of an inadequacy that has been building up since the last ice age. Music ripped the fur from the ape body and made up man/woman, gave the creature a sense of wonder and beauty that demanded self-inspection. Why? Art thou not a self-reflexive monkey? Ancient questions that have been buried so well by the trappings and excrement of civilization; they learned to live in the gutters in alleys, only the homeless and displaced dropouts of society have the time left to investigate. Or course most of them lack the vigor and rigor of mind for such endeavors, but junkies know more about the nature of economy than stock market analysts in sickly air conditioned rooms can ever hope for. +This is the nightmare at the end of the century and like most of some forgotten race of seekers lying in languid rooms in far off dream cities, Paris, Prague, Peking, St Petersburg, I prefer to rest in peace now and start the real work on the edge of death. There at the final moment you will start to get the real digs. + Nowadays, reclined on Persian pillows and sweet perfumed hash dreams, I live here. I also have realities here. Nina with her drooping doe eyes pulls on my arm helping me off the couch, tearing me from the peace of inner reflections. She throws my arm over her shoulder and helps me toward the door. Stumbling up the stairs and onto the street I am blinded by the morning sun finally breaking its way through the sullen clouds. I light a cigarette and draw deeply. Using the building for support, with the cold Paris wind blowing winter right through me and my pea coat, I brace myself for the long stumble home. +The streets of Paris for those that have never had the good fortune to walk them, seem to perhaps been built by someone with a sense of humor someone who sat back and asked themselves: what would travel be like if we made it deliberately difficult instead of deliberately easy? The answer is here somewhere in the meandering alleys, bridges, tunnels, and streets that seem designed to get one lost, confused, and disoriented. Only in such a state do you begin to discover the real Paris. At least that’s my friend Allie says and I walking to her house on this sobering morning so I start to think like her. +Allie is French-Canadian by birth and I know her from Canada where she was a stripper for many years. Three of which she also spent living in my house and I have come here to Paris to return the favor by living ever so briefly in hers. Her full name is Allie Suviguile which I used to tease her about because in the crudest midwestern american accent she is only one r away from sounding like “survive guile” and she does indeed survive by being guile. Everyone at some point evolves to suit their name which is why I am deeply frightened of having children —far to much responsibility, in the back of their minds all parents store guilt at the thought that perhaps some of the wayward tendacies of their children are the result of parential influence, conscious or not. +My own memories may have filters on them that were shaded and toned by my parents. Take for instance Mexico City: I remember Mexico City in hazy brown discolored way, but its not the smog its the nature of memory. The image collages overlay themselves like a bad acid film from the sixties. Cut to a shot of the subway, sad brown faces and I want to know why they aren't on vacation like me… lay on top of it an image of pyramid excavation digging up and trying to solve the Mayan Caper. Years ago you would. Understand she was standing right next to me and then...Warm sweet smelling cab and my father says “hey, look a Kentucky fried Chicken” and sure enough I see one. Americana right in the middle of foreign chaos. +I've had quite a time ever since then trying to pick up the pieces of a world that exists in only my subjective phantasmal experience, but that is partially explained by the fact that I live in book and am subject to forget that at times and think that I actually exist, and that everything is actually happening. Some days everything actually is happening, but I’ll come to that. For now that kaleidoscope memories of my youth — I focused up into the sun , it burned in fantastical visions that all of Dr. Hoffman's LSD could never quite reach and then there was the sound...an unbelievable pulse of something so guttural it would announce itself for years to come by illicit in me the most terrifying kind of fear that paralyzes you. Leaves you like a woman I saw once stone still and shell shocked right in the middle of this great arch in Canyonlands National Park, Utah. She just stood there unable to move, feeling the digging hooks of unbridled terror burning into her brain and creating an endless and spellbinding feedback loop that forbids you to move, rips you right out of the very fabric of collective reality and propels you into strange land of pure abstraction. I watched her sit there unable to help herself doubtless staring at the two thousand foot drop and the meager four foot wide sandstone arch that was holding her there suspended in mid air, seeing herself for the first time the way we are. Naked cold and deathly afraid. + But the cab driver just laughed and said, “here in Mexico City there is no Kentucky Fried Chicken, maybe Kentucky Fried Cat, Kentucky Fried Dog, But definitely no Kentucky Fried Chicken.” He smiled this crooked smile revealing gold caps and over moist gum structure that was so large it seemed to be slowly crawling right up off his teeth. Okay no, that was a devise of literature, but he really did say that and he really did laugh at us, and then sternly advised in all seriousness against eating there, not that we would have anyway. And all this was years before I would ever get to India to learn that first there is a mountain, then there is no mountain, then there is. + But alas I did not have my Mexico City cabbie advise to help that woman frozen there on the Arch, in fact I went all the way to the end of the trail (funny I don't remember were it went) and came back and she was still there, frozen for time. Occasionally I wonder if maybe it would have help to walk by here real quietly and whisper...don't worry there is no Kentucky Fried Chicken, maybe Kentucky Fried Cat or Kentucky Fried Dog, but certainly no Kentucky Fried Chicken. + But that sound would never go away that Kaleidoscope burned out my eyes and left me open, Naked and exposed to be brutalized by sound. But I can't paint the picture that way the sad poet crap...Wilde would never have stood for the half alive black clad zombies that run around pretending to see so much deeper into life than the rest of us and they want to sell their torture to you for an outrageous price. I never saw the likes of such a con, I wouldn't spend a goddamn dime of the crap, sower up punks, shave, you read this stuff, it is mocking you. Yes you! Sour-headed mongrels sucking the joy out of it all, it drives me nuts, makes me want to live in Paris in state of perpetual disgust digging through trash can with this old bum I met once who went by the name of Henry. + But fortunately I ditched Henry for the time being although I have noticed that the oddest characters tend to pop up at the most inopportune times. Now the streets of Paris take on a particularily sinister intent and I duck into more obscure alleys trying to avoid Henry all the while thinking that that might well be just what he would expect me to do. Its not that I don’t want to see him its just that I have a certain hunger right now that Henry can not fill. I need a woman. +I am hoping that Allie did not bring anyone home last night because I am like a primordial beast in heat. The Paris nightlife does that to me, makes me get back in touch with very immediate physical yearnings for things like female flesh and the blessed rite of sex. + Allie and I share only two common points we like to talk about nothing for hours and we like to fuck. I don’t love her at all, though I care emensely for her and would never do anything to hurt her. Unless she asked me to in her special I’m-about-to-come extra breathy voice that crawls all the way to my backbrain and lets me tie her to chairs and whip her and fuck her mouth and joyfully consent to having the same done to me. Allie is Joyce’s worst nightmare, I have yet to find something that will make her blush —I remember the time I walked in on her and some man and without so much as hello she through him on his back impailed herself on his cock and yanked out mine and sucked it as best she could while bouncing up and down. She has dragged me to countless orgies, dominatrixes, and fetish balls all in the aimless pursuit of pleasure. Eventually I grew weary of the scene and I left her, but a chance meeting in the tube has led me here. That’s another great thing about living in book —you have chance meetings with nymphos on subways. + All this and now standing ringing her bell it seems that she has spent the night elsewhere. You never know how your day is going to be until its over. + +Post Script: + + I saw a man upon the stair, + A little man who wasn’t there. + He wasn’t there again today; + Gee, I wish he’d go away. + -WORD INC broadcast all rights are served + +I had a most marvelous vision one day of red brick buildings. Boston -harvard square- fall; the Charles river slips by without a sound, the streets corral throngs of people- onlookers drunk beyond comprehension of what they were there to look at- they stumble out of bars and lurch through doorways like grenades rolled out on the street. Inside the Radcliffe boat house a reserve of surplus energy is released in muscular spasms that pulse in orgasm. Her breasts pool salt onto my tongue. And in walks Truman Copote he looks it over for a minute and then, having taken stock of the affair, proceeds to hand me the rosete stone of Knowledge. He lit a cigarette, took the stone back, and walked out the boathouse doors. I tasted salt in my mouth every time I called up the memory. + + Its cold this time of year in the East out there in backwater eddies towns where the frost had long since burnt the leaves red, yellow and then right of the tree where they pool in sidewlks and street and covered paths in Kaliediscope blankets. We huddled in blankets rather than paying the bills and having heat, we were agents we had to make do, get by on the absolute minmum + + + + +"...and the best part of it is, you're gonna love this, not one word of it is true. I've run it through CHIPS three times and we have no noise coming out of that sector in the last ten years..." + "Could it be an anomaly? We've missed things before..." + "What are you trying to say? that I'm missing a part of the game?" + "Look, how many timetracks are your people watching right now?" + "we're running twenty thousand day in and day out for the entire year local objective..." + "Well maybe somewhere in what must amount to over twenty million local subjective tracks, you missed something. Did i ever tell you the one about the house that smiled?" + "Enlighten me" + "I was killing some time down in the south, waiting between assignments you see, laying low from a job out in LA if I recollect properly, anyway, I had this ramshackle joint out in the woods all overgrown with vines and tree drooping right onto the porch. I spent most of the days working on the Brazilian Caper trying to put together the pieces, information synthesis was my specialty. so one day I came driving home from the bar, now I'd had a couple of gins which is key to the story, I pulled off the highway onto my driveway which was a dirt road maybe half a mile long and you could see the house when you turned off the main road but then you ducked under some trees and lost it until you were right up on it. when i turned off this one particular day I could have sworn the house smiled at me, when I got up on it it looked normal enough and I assumed it was the gin that made it smile. It never occurred to me to look from the point of vies that it was the gin that let me see it smile...I was preoccupied at the time. + "Some weeks later I thought about the incident so I ran the house through on CHIPS to see if we had any information on the place. turned out the house had a history of jealous behavior, so I checked into a skid row hotel and avoided the place for a week. I went back and everything I owned had been burned to the ground and I am still to this day convinced that i missed the clues because I didn't know that I had any. You see everything has a relationship with you, everything you see and do has a reaction to you and if you look at it another way everything you are doing might be a reaction to something you can't see." + "You're saying I'm looking at it wrong? Fine count me out of it, you wanted a background check on the area and I gave you one, if you don't like the information that is not my problem. I'm getting out a here this place gives me the creeps...." + + + I rather liked the place, it was in fact my favorite bar in the state the state being Georgia the country being USinc. The plaster was peeling in great sheets from the ceiling and the walls had a rough texture such that you had to move around and find just the right spot to lean your head back on. I had my spot, it was in the corner and I sat so I faced the front door I liked to see who was coming and going, comes with the trade you understand. I was in a red booth that wrapped the corner and had a table that was too short for it, worked out more as a foot rest than a table, although it held up my legs and drink without too much complaining so I guess you could call it a table, if you wanted to. There were these red lamps sticking out of the walls here and there, that and the kerosene candles on the tables were the only light. It was a small bar (all good bars are small) maybe six seven tables and a handful of stools; the place was a real diamond, but they kept it looking like coal. At the moment I was the only one here except for Harry Woods, the bartender, and of course the man who had just left my table. A man I was not having kind thoughts about right now. + His name was Scratch because he once clawed his way out of a lockup with his bare hands, or so the the story went. The information he was to have imparted was incidental, I had set him up to see if he would feed me a line or hang me out to dry, always good to hit a source with something you already know if like me, you haven't hit the source in a while. I crossed his name off of the list of reliables and I was packing up my bag to go when my phone rang. + I had recently gone into private practice after being with the company for fifteen years. To be completely forthcoming I would I guess have to revel that I was forced to go private on account of a royal fuck up of mine in Brazil, but I was putting it behind me and trying to drum up some work. The phone was an auspicious sign and when I looked at the ID'er it was coming straight in for the quarter itself. Holy Shit I thought, they must be more pissed at me than I thought. When people are trying to get a hold of you and you don't want them to the best idea is to keep moving. + I made a bee line for the bathroom, turned off the phone and pulled out a syringe. I went to do this once and some old junky thought I was shooting up and tried to get one off of me which I refused and he got mad and ran out to tell the management, course I was gone before they got there. I sat down on the toilet and set out the electromagnetic generator on the floor in front of me. I was tapping an old west piano line with my feet while it warmed up. When I saw the portal open I started to masturbate 'til I was just about ready to shoot. With my other hand I readied the needle and felt around for the sore at the base of my spine and inserted it. This was the trickiest part; I drew out a milky white cellular substance and I felt the familiar tingles around the edges of my body, starting in the feet and hands, I knew it was going to hit fast. I made a good jump and landed right on Maya's table where she drew it up into another syringe and then shot into the back of a good looking head. + + + + + Have you ever tried to live at the speed of light? I don't mean literally of course, just so there's no confusion here, we are after all in the middle of what is shaping up to be science fiction story of the worst kind. Agents popping up here and there without warning and always mysteriously knowing more than they could if they possible lived in your world, you the reader that is. But you see at the end I am the one who has to live through it so you ought to be able to read it with out too much pain, that is if I can live it…. +Word comes down from EDITORIAL RE-WRITE, ah ahem we don't quite seem to know what this is...could you expand on the science fiction stuff, now that we can sell. Have a really big hit! I see best seller lists in your future? eh? You want the chiclettes mister? Spanish boy sell that goddamn gum again come stumbling up to you on the street in Mexico City. +NOTICE FROM RE-WRITE: + We can't seem to decide what category of the book store to put this in sometimes it seems like a science textbook, then the next minute it getting dragged by some pimple faced clerk down to the science fiction shelves and then without warning you turn it into a personal confessional and start address the reader directly...could you organize this better we're very interested you see.... + Have you ever tried to live at the metaphorical speed of light. I mean you. Not an abstract self that you think the writer is talking to whenever you see the personal pronouns. You and I are having a dialogue and I'm trying to ask you a question except that we have a time travel issue. Is this nonfiction and true always, or is it fiction and entirely made up of unique emotional moments that fade as quickly as they show themselves? I don’t have that delimma so I don’t have to worry about it. I know I live in pure fiction, not even real you know, just words strung together…. +A while ago I mentioned Henry, well its time for the real digs…. + Nobody around the quarter could stand Henry he was —I admit— a paranoid schizophrenic and sometimes he would forget if he was talking to you or to the voices in his head. They would get kind of mixed up at times and he might occasionally chase you around and try to kill you with his umbrella, but he really meant no harm and he was too old to catch you even if he actually did mean you harm…. Besides I was just to naive to see it in terms of crazy/not crazy. Its all in how you paint it you know…you can try to cut it up and rearrange it and maybe you come closer to the abstract notions of truth that philosophers are always blabbing about, but nobody lives in an objective universe. This is the way I saw it: Henry had good stories, he thought he was an agent see and he loved to tell anybody that would listen to him all about how he had the inside scope on the CIA. “Used to be an agent see and they had me in on the Kennedy job and what better way to discredit me then to drive me out here on the streets?” Sometimes when I was really stoned it did have an eery ring of truth about it, after all NO ONE believed him. + No one really believes anyone really though, I mean we like to think we trust each other and we love to say that we do, but I've watched this tired old game long enough to know one thing, its a game. And in a game nothing is ever what it appears to be because if everything were right there for you on the surface for you it would be a pretty stupid game. So over the years the bipedal monkeys have dreamed up an elaborate universe of intricately interwoven moves and counter moves and rules to the game that has lately had the nasty side effect of becoming terribly obvious and not so much fun anymore. + I studied history quite a bit, I was drawn to it I think because I don’t have time. These stories are only linear in time to make it easier on you the reader, but for me its all always existing forever somewhere and at sometime which makes the whole time concept lose shape and eventually it collapses back to the state vector. There is no such thing as TIME. + + + Something rather strange has been going on lately, too many jumps I think you can't move between the threads of reality to often before you start to wonder which on of them is real. Denizens of psychedelic drugs refer to such people as acid casualties, this is mainly do to their tendency to not be able to let go. You can't move in and out of worlds until you detach, someone once said to me about the experience: first the human game stops, then the time game stops, and then the me game stops. At this point you are confronted with the ugliest aspect of what you call reality, the personalized ego that fights all the way to the bitter end. It might not ever go away for good, but usually in the past I have been able to let go and move and now I find that I have more and more fear about jumping. The very sight of the needle and the apparatus this cold electromagnetic...thing, made partly of inorganic microchips and partly of neuron cells stolen from leeches. +When the thing was first tested the story goes that they used jellyfish, but the director, Dr. Waiben was struck by this "duty to the irony of our situation" and switched the neural tissue to leeches because this thing is going to suck away the last defenses we have. Only that didn't exactly happen, the thing is that people can't be pushed to do anything they can't understand, and therefore they rejected it. so now we’re where we are, like the yogi said —wherever you go there you are. And here we are, with two sets of humanity, those who went and those who didn't. + Naturally this created a certain power dynamic of have and have nots, but the thing is that most people who went lost all concern for what had been their lives, they fell victim to sabetoge, which is okay because it gave me job. I work for the Agency of Interdimensional Control, under the direction of Dr. Waiben. The good doctor and I were working on this project for years before anybody was aware what was going on and consequently we know the system technology and emot vortexes better than most and when people started to get wind we already knew which way it was going to blow. So we started setting up the agency and recruiting like minded individuals to help us keep things under control. + I must take time here in the narrative to mention exactly how the system works. We were both stumbled upon a kind of understanding of the way things work at the same time and hence we wound up in the same place one day which we later realized was not in fact an act of stumbling at all, but anyway we met near the outer edge of the universe on an 8th dimensional string. We had both realized at the same time that the string theory emerging in physics at the end of the twentieth century was in fact a more technical description (less poetic I might add) of the Egyptian book of the dead. At the time I thought this was coincidence, but then one day I was watching movie about virtual reality games and I started thinking about what would happen to human mind if you turned everything on at once. + I couldn't find any literature on the subject so I decided to make my own. I started with a virtual reality suit, a sensory deprivation chamber, ten years practice of yoga, a variety of hallucinogenic chemicals, orgone generators, talismans, magick symbols, and a room full of books, everything religious practice recorded by man, the latest in theoretical physics and everything in between. then their was Maya, but we'll come to that later. + My actual experiments were rather undisciplined and were not yielding much in the way of results until I accidentally left the stereo on one day. In the sensory deprivation chamber on 200 micrograms of DMT, with the orgone generators humming I had the literal felt experience of being on the edge of the universe and I was sure I found GOD. As it turned out I was on the edge of what up until then was thought of as the universe, but I met Dr. Waiben, not GOD. Although I spent the next two years quite sure that I had seen GOD. + + I noticed rather early in my life that movie actresses made me feel funny. When I say this most people think I mean some sexual entendre or maybe funny peculiar. What I really mean is that they made me feel funny. One guy in bar once told me that it is impossible to feel funny, you either are funny or your not he said. I asked him how he could be sure that no one felt funny as in funny haha just because he had never felt funny. He tried to hit me and I left in hurry without finishing my beer. I made it a point not to discusses the "funny" feeling with anyone again. + But I still felt funny and wasn't quite sure why. My natural assumption was that this was some sexual feeling I was having, but at the time I didn't have sex life to compare it too. Over the years I have found that sex will at times produce the funny feeling, but it is not as strong as with the actresses. Another thing that gave me the funny feeling over the years is cannabis. I have smoked pot nearly everyday for three or four years now and I find that toward the end of the night I tend to slide into the "funny" feeling quite naturally now. recently however I have found that the "funny" feeling can be induced at will anytime you want. This is or course the religious secret of the ages and you now expect that I will tell you how to do it yourself. except that words won't let me. I offer you this as a consolation prize: somewhere out there between the eleven dimensions (the four you know, four more you know if you have read mystics, and three more which can not be described they are only lived) there are portals through which you can move your consciousness. + That is why I said that you have to know how to detach. Most people I have noticed tend to think of themselves as their bodies. Interestingly most religions that most people tend to believe have always said that you are not your body, I was never religious though. the language that told me that was science, science said in rather more complicated terms that nothing exists. There has been much despair in fact over this statement. people have natural tendency to belief in what they call "life" that is the material world. They believe that it is real and existing at a point in time. When you learn to let go of the body (usually when you die) a vast array of possibilities open themselves up for examination and I can assure you that there is every bit as much to be feared as any hell fire and damnation sermon has ever threatened, but you only get their if you want to go. I'm not sure how realities come to exist, I can only tell you that they are their, and if you want to find them you will. + + It was sometime before I made the connection between the stereo and GOD, but one day in a vain attempt to get back to where I was I left the stereo on again. This time however I was catapulted into a nightmare of despair and utter gut wrenching fear and I "saw" the music drawing me into it and I had the experience of wrestling something off of me as if every cell in my body were desperately trying to get out of an invisible blanket that was tearing at my flesh threatening to rip me apart. i had a heart attack and started bleeding from my nose and mouth and Maya saved my life. she had walked into the room and thinking that I was gone turned off the radio, when she did I let out what she called the most inorganic noise I have ever had. she called the paramedic and started CPR which saved my life, sort of. + By this time i was quite detached from what most people would call life. I hadn't seen anyone aside from Maya in months and I only slept on Sundays. I had also long forgotten about things like the police and I was busted for having a rather large quantity of what they called controlled substances, the whole thing made the paper and my life went down hill. I moved into a different twelve by twelve room and got a new (and rather boring) wardrobe, but down in Atlanta a similarly minded individual read about my story and contacted me. In fact he managed to get me released and out on bail before the end of the month. + So I happened to come into the more formal experiment complete with government shadow funding. Private companies often donate to private research groups for tax deduction purposes and this money goes into the private sector where the CIA usually recommends projects that ought to get money. It was a rather complicated network of money laundering in the name of science which was why I joined up, its not everyday that you can live in spy novel. Except that I was very bad at it sometimes and liked to smoke pot while doing research and got pulled over stoned at four in the morning which landed me back in jail. this time they didn't want to bale me out so I sat there for a while and thought the nature of the thing. And somewhere in the middle of it I heard Maya recounting that she had turned off the stereo and I remembered the music episode and I had a Joycian moment where I just saw how it was working and it came to more complete and laid out like a plan. Of course now I know why, but at the time it was a monumental feeling to have that thing handed to me. + So I built just like I had seen in it, at a friends house over in Athens. We had worked on some musical experiments, he knew what I knew about the power of sound, and he was pretty open to going out on the edge, which is a good quality to look for in friends. I don't exactly know what I would say if some one came to my door and said hey I was wondering if I could set up an electromagnetic field generator in your living room and maybe project myself into a different multi-verse, but William shrugged and said "um okay." + So we did and it worked and I met Maya finally, although I was under the impression that we had already met in what I was still calling "the real" world. Maya is a mmm , entity is a tempting word but it implies a singularity when Maya is continually unfolding, you can meet here, but its never as good as elsewhere. Elsewhere became the name of the first reality that I encountered In the expeditions Bill and I embarked on. In what we called objective time tracks we had our bodies and world as I knew it, put in Elsewhere their were only subjective time tracks. We started with 1=1. One "normal" world and one "induced world" (since then the ratio has changed to 1=1,000,000,000), jumping between the two involved 200 intramuscular injection of DMT, sitting in a comfortable spot we used an array of speaker wire and amplifier heads to create a magnetic field around the body. When the DMT kick in the walls became electric and vibrated and I saw the cross waves coming in from the speakers (later we found that the low frequency bass helped make the waves easier to see) if you "thought" yourself at the harmonic convergence of the two, you stepped into Elsewhere. + It took two days of tinkering to master it, but when we did we had a reliable and repeatable experiment demonstrating the existence of "tangible" realities other than the consensus one. I took pawned it off on Waiben for a Swiss account and Bill and I were going to hit the road, but Maya intervened. + + + New York City at the end of the 20th century: woman says to me: don't you know you can't smoke in the subway? ya. :you don't give a fuck do ya>no< It was unquestionably rude: she deliberately intruded on my reality and imposed her own. I did not exist in world where people couldn't smoke in subway stations and she imposed RIGHT and WRONG on me. This is of course seen as quite okay as smoking causes death, but I knew that dead was not the end of things so I didn't have to cling like a crying widow to life. I started think what might happen if people expanded and just extended the old rules into the new. It was then that Bill and I laid plans for IAC. At first our goal was to just make a survey of the area. + I ended up on rainforest subtimetrack out on a routine patrol, I had always wanted to see the Jungle so I signed on. the group sailed right down through the mouth of the Amazon all the way down into her bowels it seemed by the time we put in at little fishing village. The sergeant was a trustworthy enough fellow, even looked a bit like some painting I had seen once of Vasco De Gama. He headed up to the mission to see if we could get lead from the Padre. He came back with an ear and the word the Eve El Gui, this woman of revered skills or so we were told. The sergeant was of the opinion that if the company was going to send us into death, it should at least be at the hands of a Sexual Goddess. Eve as we started to call her, was a tantric demonese hauled her self down from the Queens area nineteenth century, spit and polish deal and now wrecked her havoc through seven dimension. There was, besides me two soldiers who carried our heavy cannon, a map man and the sergeant. At first it was normal enough, I've run similar jobs before, just never in the jungle. + + I live in great fear of psychiatrists, which they would doubtless say it irrational, which in turn is the sourse of my fear. Imposing on the world the power to interpret what is real (sane they call it) and what is not real (insane) is to make yourself the living god that the ancients so greatly feared, reverd, and worshipped. The modern psychiatrist is playing out a script that the word created back in the beginning. It started as a word (always does) and it then became an idea, then an emtion...love of god, now it is flesh. We are god. How anticlimatic is that. When Waiben and I were first laying out the architecture of the word created universes we hypothosized that to kill the flesh would be to kill the word. But as we got further and further into the concreteness of the thing the more we realized that the flesh is not the word it is the word that becomes flesh. In other words killing the flesh was analogous to cutting out a tumor, only to have another start growing. Only pure image or pure emotion can knock out the word completely. + Image guns contained word defying images so that when you got shot with them the response would not be in terms of word. This is still the most effective way to rub out the word, although we do also use emotion guns which hit one with wonderous and overwhelming feelings, but some of the more skilled of the enemy have been able to cut these up and move thwn along irrational and chaotic lives and arrive at word. Poetry for instance will often render an emotion gun useless. + In the beginning the enemy started with an agent gone bad which we spun off as a metaphor in the Christ-con caper. Christ was originally one of use and we wrote him in to try to bring things to head, but we were way early on that timetrack and the whole thing blew up in our faces like the CIA at the Bay of Pigs fiasco. At that time the majority of the enemy was moving under the name of Christians, powermongers trying to horde the system and leaving the details to be worked out for future generations. The reverberations cut across nine dimensions and we had a hell of a mess to clean up. + Unfortunately the enemy is wilely, or perhaps that would be the end of the story, but its not, we got even bigger doodoo now. Now they call themselves scientists and they do there work from deep within jungles, concrete, and tropical like the one sarge and I are staring at. somewhere in the dizzying maze of trees and rivers and insects and the very air that is permeated with life, is Eve, the sudectress of word cons and we are being sent to take her out. + It was somewhat unusual to go into a literal jungle, I generally operate in the concrete metaphoric ones, but Eve had special credentials, and so did I. Eve was acting on the Iris script and trying to pick up the scattered pieces. She wanted things run on systems and she was going to bring down the shit house with her, as we say in the trade, one of her systems was an elaborate sex con called unilove. Unilove holds that the self can only love one other self at a time. Monogamy they call it back where I come from. We were having a hell of time trying to bring that one in for trial, and Eve was our chief opposition. My special talent was the ability to bring in the multiplicity of the issue, you see the singularity is but a convergaence of the multiplicies, but shop talk is not what you do sitting in camp at the edge of the jungle. + + + Soem readers no doubt are familiar with the losely defined concept of lucid dreaming, that is consciously indusing in oneself a dream state. Once when I was about ten my dead grandmother called and talked to me on the phone. I have no idea whether or not this actually happened, but I am certain that I experienced the phenomenon of it happening. + years later I had a similar experience of stumbling onto the dead in lucid dream state. this experience was not unlike what happens in virtual reality games only it was self indused rather than coming in from an outside apperatus. This discovery (which is as much of a discovery as Columbus landing and finding a population of five million and then claiming that he had discovered america) led william and I inexoribly into a tunnel of reality that paved the way for a global awakening. + By now we were fairly adept at moving in and out of realities that were from our point of view totally artifical and then we hit a snag, a big snag. We began to think perhaps we had induced some sort of sctizophrenia and conjunctual hallucinations. this proved to be fortuituse thing in the end, because we met the enemy in a virtual sense rther than unwittingly encountering them as actual intities. intities is as I ahve said a poor word for the phenomena, all thing are conceptual nothing exists, (sub atomic physics 101) words define things that exist. anything that can be put into words then has a fairly mapable probability of occuring in subjective reality. + We confronted the enemy before we knew they were the enemy and thus gained the upper hand. gradually we found the Elswhere had distinquitive cities and places not unlike the ones we were already familiar with. One we nicknamed the quarter, because of its resemblance to New Orleans. We chose it as our base of opperations in Elsewhere and went about setting up the scenery to our liking. WRITE and IMAGE were our tools and we painted quite a picture. I was inclined toward french quarter type of arcitecture and went so far as to go down to the "real" french qarter in New Orleans with the image guns to make a rough replica, in time of course others would find the quarter and now its a treaturous hell hole, but its still our jumping off point. + + Lying back supported by pillows on a small couch in the back corner of a bar, Paris 1999, staring at walls not yet written by Rembrant, Miller, and all the dead poets. Peace back here in corner where I watch all time pass me by with the detached apathy of non-compliance. Step aside and let the man go through. I feel like a lead train, heavy from hash, muscles detached from their control centers, inoperable, trying to struggle out the words for another espresso to wake the grey cells that hang like storm clouds on the edge of my brain. I am ignored by the sweet French waitress, Nina, cherub cheeks —the girl puts up with me long after closing time. I dream she loves me but I know she merely wants to go home; she certainly doesn't need me, I tried to sleep with her once, but her heart wasn't in it. As a kind off consolation prize she lets me stay late until she is done closing up. + Every night I slouch my way here for my fix of stimulants, hallucinogens, and depressants, it's a full time job, shoveling coal in the engine. Paris in the rain —dark and ugly like a city of dreams gone wrong. Parisians, like New Yorkers, seem to know something that the rest of us are missing, and they show no signs of sharing. Scaring information out of the agents here is like ripping rotting molars from a tweekers corroded mouth: no one wants the job. + Strange French lounge music tumbles in from speakers behind the bar, it rolls across the room like an ancient reminder of an inadequancy, building up since the last ice age. Music ripped the fur from the ape body and made up man/woman, gave the creature a sense of wonder and beauty that demanded self inspection. Why? Ancient questions that have been buried so well by the trappings and excrement of civilization; they learned to live in the gutters in alleys, only the homeless and displaced dropouts of society have the time left to investigate. Or course most of them lack the vigour and rigour of mind for such indeavors, but most junkies know more about the nature of economy than stock market analysists in sickly air conditioned rooms can ever hope for. + This is the nightmare at the end of the century and like most of some forgotten race of seekers lying in languid rooms in far off dream cities, Paris, Prague, Peking, St Petersburg, I prefer to rest in peace now and start the real work on the edge of death. There at the final moment you will start to get the real digs. Nowadays, reclined on Persian pillows and sweet perfumed hash dreams, I live here. I also have realities here. Nina with her drooping doe eyes pulls on my arm helping me off the couch, tearing me from the peace of inner reflections. She throughs my arm over her shoulder and helps me toward the door. Stumbling up the stairs and onto the street I am blinded by the morning sun finally breaking its way through the sullen clouds. I light a cigarette and using the building for support I brace myself for the walk home. + + + There wasn't much to go on the radio signal was weak and difficult to piece together. Rangoon Jungle Operation Unsucessfull. I ran that over and over the short wave and hoped for the best. The heat and the pain kicked in together like waves on the beach and you have to lie their and feel it, really digging it down deep before they let up. the plane was scattered in the canopies of the trees for several miles. My foot was definately broken in the fall, but the doctor was worse, with a deep puncture wound and labored breathing. He wasn't up to moving and I wasn't up to sitting out a night in the jungle, with god knows what hungry creatures running amuck. + Using the compass I tried to head north to where their should be a river, I had seen it from the plane, but the jungle was thick and I was moving slowly on my bad foot. I reached the river by nightfall though and a fishing boat heading down river picked me up and got me to the village, there was no phone, but I had food and shelter. I suffered a spasm of guilt over some rice when I thought of the doctor, but it passed. + The next morning at dawn I attempted to guide several of the men from the village back to the site of the crash, but we were unable to find the chutes or any sign of Waiben, by nightfall we gave up and the new took me up the river in darkness. At the first road crowssing I stole a car and headed back into Rangoon. I called the Agency and was greeted with a lecture regarding my job performance which I hung up on, and after a brief stop at the hospital where I was assured by ankle was not broken, but badly sprained; I headed to the local bar. Six beers later I no longer cared about the Jungle or Rangoon or anyother + + + + + + + The cold streaking blur of the express train colors the night in Kaliedscope lights that play out in little dances. The train seems on bender this metalic night, New York, 1999, and my head spins after the woman wouldn't let me smoke in peace; the caustic light from the flourecent reflections of white tile at the forty second street station burns on my skin. Letting my head bounce off the window in sway with the movement of the train, I hardly notice the man sitting opposite me until his voice assualts me. + "Where ya from?" + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + No good shits run the world. It's a well established fact, everyone knows this, but that doesn't bother me. Absctracts are okay, the world exists only in my head anyway. What trouibles me is the no good shits are driving around bodies and forcing themselves and their games on you. This is of course what makes them no good shits in the first place, the question is what are you to do about it? The most amusing thing to do is to play their game; times ten. reducto ad absurdum the romans called it; make it fucked up. Agents are always trying to sulk about in corners where no one notices them, but that is of course where people have come to expect them to be, you have to stay ahead of the metaphors. The normals one is the psycho killer (he was such a quite boy), now we got are eyes on the quiet ones...television, gottat stay ahead of the metaphor. Its played out you have to move into some new metaphors, just ahead of the other guy or he's going to mark you for what you are...someone hinding something. + Who isn't you say? Princeses and Diamonds and opals those living on the edge of the shell like little spinning protons hovering the nucleus of infinite faith. The best cover an agent can have is not have a cover. Believe that you are and nothing more, do not become what you are or you will no longer be. You will be something. everyone is something. The only time you're not being something is when you're having sex. Hence the old phrase "sexuality is an agents best cover..." or words to that effect. + The human mind is infinite and what have we done? tied it dopwn with the finite, like impounding a spaceship for being a spaceship. What logic? In order to win you have to play by your own rules and you have to make sure that you are the only one who knows what the rules are, otherwise they will anticipate the next move. disinformation comes from the understanding that you opponet believes womething to be true and you then feed them information that is likely to confirm or adapt to fit what they believe. This is best demonstrated by the Christ -con. This involves convincing people that something exists, once they are convinced that it is real, the world either confirms this at everyturn, or in more severe cases the world is conformed to fit the theory. Mainly only Scientists employ this logic anymore, but few pay them any mind. the Christ-con is wore threadbare and wreeks like drunk from across the room, nobody is being chiclettes in this parts anymore meester. When children laugh at you your cover is blown. + Time to move on they decided so we kicked out for the forest Sarge was riding shotgun and I was driving, an old army jeep looked like it had served half a dozen wars, but it suited us because we had served half a dozen wars. We blew up north on some information passed along by the natives at the outpost, some tribe up in the hills still living in caves and foraging for grubs and roots in the forest repudated to have the key to the rosette stone of knowledge. I was on the look out for a Truman Capote, but we saw no sign of him in the forest country. + + Two days in we picked up an odd broacast from the inspector back at head quarters and for the longest time I couldn't make heads or tails of it.... "The 1994 erie Ordinace was aimed specifically at such established public beliefs as Imagination, Belief, and Constitutional thought...spin like an actor; electricals and the reason that it happened in the first place...The Lawyer sought continuance on the planes altitude." We didn't have the descramblers to go with the code so to speak. We holed up in a nice sleepy town of eighty thousand and sat down to rest up and try to break the transmission in hopes it would have some sort of clue as to what we should do. we came up with... + A full retreat back to headquarters. unacceptable as we were not in any perceivable danger. At least not yet which is why we put it on the table, because they turn you know. + Hole up here for conciderable length of time and dig into the network. We laid the ground work even while we were toying with the idea, always keep working even if you don't know what you are working toward. Focus and concentration can have clearing effect like farting in an elevator. + Jump out of the loop completely and try to tackle the problem from the outside working in. In persuance of this thought we obtained passports and other paper and supplies. There was talk of the eastern front, they always need pack up and the rumor was good lodgings. + Try to jump out and then back in. Reconocince is difficult and involved much tedious and boring work, it was also shocking to the body and in some cases led to death. We made no move on this one, but we talked about it from time to time, but I think it was really more on my mind than Sarges. Sarge was all for the Eastern Front he was hooked on information, and he was checking out his sources in his spare time. I toyed with it, in between Martinis, but my heart wasn't in it, yet. I was working on trying to remember the future. + . Most people who visited were appalled by the rather makeshift nature of the furniture and the transitory feeling that hung in the air around the place. It was not a howm it was a research center for the depraved, we were on to something and we just didn't have the words to wrap around it yet. + from time to time the word wing would float heavy in the air and I used to wonder if I alone felt this or if perhaps it truly was there, tangible and in air like the way the Japanese feel about feng shui and the cannelling of chi. It was pulsating and alive aroung there, nerves were being held bare and exposed to the radiating burn of now. Naseau and disorientation were come and though it was an unwritten rule that one would ascribe the unhidable effects of them to food poisoning or the like, uinderneath it all we knew that something big was a foot. Wing, and truman capote and a little boy coming by all the time selling promotional candy bars to raise money for his little legue baseball team. those are the snapshots that come up when I am drawn back there in memories. It was a good time it flowed right through our bodies and shot out the finger tips, something was most definately going on. It would be years before I was able to day what the it was, but even then I knew it was real. + There was a furniture store downtown in hwat most places I had been would have been called old town, except that here everything is old; old town and oldertown. Normaltown was just up the street from us, though I rarely set foot up there, the name was too obvious, something fishy about the scene. The scene was too transpanrent to have actually existed, at the time I ascribed it to faulty perception, but I was wrong. Awkums razor is no way to shave. + + +It's a self serve station, one of the good old boys that used to fuel Packards from a lever pump, back when driving meant something. When it had risk, and it was an accomplishment to get somewhere. At the pump there was no digital blink in your face, just the rolling click of numbers turning, trains that bore out through the desert country. The town had two smoke stacks and a wheat field to the north side of the station; not much else. This one drifter had pulled through years ago, bit of mental case they said later, he burned three barns a couple of houses and killed of all but two families in town. You can still see the crumpled black barn-skeletons if you cross the road and climb on the top rail of the wood fence that runs the length of the field. When the sun sets it's a magical sight —give you visions, remind you that its all really funny when you stop to think about it. + + + + Old Doc Waiben used to sing "you got to get behind the mule every morning and plow" when he was looking through the kitchen for coffee. The "fridge" was this old ice box that Doc had found at the side of the road and fixed up. When he drank to much and passed out before sundown he'd forget to restock the ice and the melted remnants of the morning would eventually force open the door and the bag of coffee would go sliding across the kitchen floor finding its way into all kind of strange places. "You got to get behind the mule/every morning and plow" Doc used to sing when he looked for the bag, and when he invariably found it lying in the farthest crack he would squat down like a child and scoot it along the floor over to the table, just laughing and singing "...every morning and plow..." +trashy-girl/aol + I had a most marvelous vision one day of red brick buildings. Boston —Harvard square— fall; the Charles river slips by without a sound, the streets corral throngs of people, onlookers too drunk to remember what they were there to look at-. They stumble out of bars and lurch through doorways like grenades rolled out on the street, and inside the Radcliffe boathouse a reserve of surplus energy is released in muscular spasms that pulse in orgasm. Her breasts pool salt onto my tongue. And in walks Truman Copote he looks it over for a minute and then, having taken stock of the affair, proceeds to hand me the rosette stone of Knowledge. He lights a cigarette, takes the stone back, and walks out the boathouse doors. I taste salt in my mouth every time I call up the memory. + + + + You have to sleep, because if you don't sleep you are unable to exist in the consensus reality...sleep is time travel and if you do not travel thru time you become a singularity existing only at one point in time, and the minute that point is passed you no longer exist...the only way to exist in consensus reality is to keep showing up at different points in time...leaving a trail that other reference points can piece together...the flow... the thread, so to speak... and out of this assembly process —run through all the complex webs of the human mind— other observation portals (humans) are able to organize a map of what you are...you exist at said points, exhibit said behaviors and therefore are to be called this object SIL, DR WAIBEN...these are the things we know about you...you must therefore...based on what we know about X...be Y.... + ADAM and some snake and he apperently had the thread the rosette stone of knowledge and you scream...NOT TRUMAN COPOTE!! But there he is nontheless, like a chamelaean, shifting from here to there, becoming what you are...TRUMAN COPOTE...wherever you go there is already an ostrich there...waiting.... + + Happenstance carried you here sitting out on a red rock mesa top forgetting each sunset as quickly as it passed. Staring out into nothingness the purest complete nothingness outside of ocean, in fact this was once a sea floor, even the fish wouldn't have it. But sitting on the porch of run down wood shack that passed as a house and rented for the paltry price of twenty five dollars a month. Actually thats what there paying me, twenty five a month to sit here and write reports; let go of all contact and take notes for somebody elses script, I never would have sritten myself into a role this melodramatic for a million bucks —reaks like hollywood cheese. I keep think that one day I'm going to wake up and find out that I really am just a collection of ideas that if fact at the bottom of the search for everything we're going to find nothing... The Tao Te Ching says that the smallest thing is in the biggest and vice verse, it seems to me then that since we already know that "everything" is actually made up of indescribably tiny "nothings" called electrons that it is only a matter of time before the big stuff, God, god, philosophy, science all the big stuff is going to turn out to be founded on nothing. + I first had this realization years ago and I decided to take on the big job myself I set out to find the unknown and find some way, however thin, to make it known. I wrote a book on what I found and met the interedting folks at the AIC and then I wa here, like you just sitting on the porch of a shitstye in the unbearable afternoon heat —southeastern Utah in August. All I do is wait for the mercy of the thunder clouds which manage to bring the temperature down to the high nineties, of course the trade off is in the humidity. I write reports, though not many anymore, for the AIC. Actually the bulk of this book will likely be filed away somewhere back in D.C. which is really just as well I guess, should it ever be needed at least someone can find what they're looking for. I'm just not looking for it anymore. But its a long way from here to there and I have to give some background. + In the beginning was the word and the word was with God. Like most sunday scholl children, I have no actual memory of hearing those words or at least I paid no attention to the idea of them. Not until years later, but lately I've been thinking that it might have been there the whole time from the beginning. Anyway at one point that little sentence was threatening to take control of my life and I met Sil and the rest of the people at AIC and found out rather to my embarassment that I was not the novelty I thought I was, rather I was endanger of becoming left behind with the women in children so to speak. And somehow the whole time I think I was trying to solve a riddle that had been subtly implanted near birth and which wormed its way out to consciousness just before the turn of the millenium. + + + + Sil lived in train station. He was not employed by the train company nor was he waiting on any particular train, he simply lived in the train station. It was his house, it just also happened to be train station. Trains came and went at all hours of the night, the worst were the ones that didn't stop, moving through at high speed it sounded like a freight train going through the house. Sil didn't mind it too much, only when he couldn't get to sleep nor did he mind the people milling about the station except for the tourists who would walk out into the flow of traffic and just stand there trying to decide which way to turn until some commuter collided and propelled them in one direction or another invariably the wrong one. These people are lost anywhere and that frustrated Sil, but the ones minding there own business didn't bother him some of them he even recognized and greeted, a few of them were true friends of his. + The lost ones were usually heading to the airport from some outer bungalow turned town in the sticks, off to Paris on family outing. The mass transportation of lost families was not Sil's specialty, he was doubly unhappy to have to share a home with them. diff --git a/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/the house that smiled.odt b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/the house that smiled.odt Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..95ceccc --- /dev/null +++ b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/the house that smiled.odt diff --git a/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/the house that smiled.txt b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/the house that smiled.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9268c50 --- /dev/null +++ b/veryold/very old writings/sil chronicles/the house that smiled.txt @@ -0,0 +1,176 @@ + I awoke at the age of twenty-five in reasonably good shape and with a seemingly sound mind, but I awoke to a world of total insanity. I say I awoke because the reality I possess is one I would not have voluntarily chosen; no I would have hoped for something where I had a bit more control, more say in the directions of my life. So I say ‘awoke’ because everyone has at some point had that disorienting sensation of awaking in a strange place and for that instant not knowing how or why. I live in that instant. +I am a character in a book. I don’t even know the title of the book, so far it has read at times like a spy novel, a romance, a science textbook, an occult obsession, a personal journal, a metaphysical protein shake, and surrealist soup. The surrealist parts are the funniest, the romance parts the most exciting, and the rest cover a range from downright frightening to mysteriously intriguing. +I have studied extensively, though by no means thoroughly, both eastern and western philosophy from existentialism to Sufism to Christianity to the Gnostic Mushroom Cults of Mexico looking for ways to understand and cope with my situation —how does one behave in a novel? Some have proved useful but there is in the end, I fear no escaping my situation. I live within the constructs of words not objects. +Words are image and idea to me, I do not have your luxury of being able to evaluate and abstract myself, I can not say this thing is real this one is not because everything that could be is. Some days I live dramatic events that shape and influence the entire book other days I spend under a tree reading a book within a book. I never know what I will do until the day is over and this realization has given me the ultimate freedom, but no control and without control I don’t feel at home with the human race. The vast majority of the human race believes that it knows certain things to be true (i.e. you assume each night when you go to bed that you will wake up in the same place) whereas I have found no such consitency in this book. +My awakening as I have called it was simply the realization that I was a character in a novel and that to exert any control whatsoever over my circumstance would require that I gain an audience so I am here for you to let you in on my awakening. I have to offer my finest verbal worlds and the infinite constructs of the imagination which are totally without the bounds of reality which you have to abide by, I can travel the globe at the stroke of a pen. Enough reasoning, you’ll see my predicament eventually. + +All that we are is the result of all that we have thought. It is founded on thought. It is based on thought. —Buddha (transmitted on WORD INC airwaves all rights restricted) + +I am lying back supported by pillows on a small couch in the back corner of an underground bar, dawn, Paris 1999, listening to the radio and staring at walls not yet written by Rembrant, Miller, and all the dead poets. Peace back here in corner where I watch all time pass me by with the detached apathy of non-compliance —after all freedom is the one thing I have the most of. Static chirps of French corporate radio interrupt my musings on arts finer abstracts. Step aside and let the man go through. I feel like a lead train, heavy from hash, muscles detached from their control centers, inoperable, trying to struggle out the words for another espresso to wake the gray cells that hang like storm clouds on the edge of my brain. I am watching Nina who in her lovable French fashion is totally ignoring me. Such a sweet girl, waitress, Nina, cherub cheeks —she puts up with me long after closing time. I dream she loves me but I know she merely wants to go home; she certainly doesn't need me here. I tried to sleep with her once, but her heart wasn't in it. As a kind off consolation prize she lets me stay late until she is done closing up. + Every night I slouch my way here for my fix of stimulants, hallucinogens, and depressants, it's a full time job, shoveling coal in the engine. Of course my drug taking is metaphorical, but I have to explain things in terms you will relate to and you are all addicts of one of the aforementioned whether you know it or not. +Paris in the rain —dark and ugly, a city of dreams gone wrong. Parisians, like New Yorkers, seem to know something that the rest of us are missing, and they show no signs of sharing. Scaring information out of the agents here is like ripping rotting molars from a tweekers corroded mouth —no one wants the job. + Strange French lounge music tumbles in from the WORD INC. speakers behind the bar, it rolls across the room like an ancient reminder of an inadequacy that has been building up since the last ice age. Music ripped the fur from the ape body and made up man/woman, gave the creature a sense of wonder and beauty that demanded self-inspection. Why? Art thou not a self-reflexive monkey? Ancient questions that have been buried so well by the trappings and excrement of civilization; they learned to live in the gutters in alleys, only the homeless and displaced dropouts of society have the time left to investigate. Or course most of them lack the vigor and rigor of mind for such endeavors, but junkies know more about the nature of economy than stock market analysts in sickly air conditioned rooms can ever hope for. +This is the nightmare at the end of the century and like most of some forgotten race of seekers lying in languid rooms in far off dream cities, Paris, Prague, Peking, St Petersburg, I prefer to rest in peace now and start the real work on the edge of death. There at the final moment you will start to get the real digs. + Nowadays, reclined on Persian pillows and sweet perfumed hash dreams, I live here. I also have realities here. Nina with her drooping doe eyes pulls on my arm helping me off the couch, tearing me from the peace of inner reflections. She throws my arm over her shoulder and helps me toward the door. Stumbling up the stairs and onto the street I am blinded by the morning sun finally breaking its way through the sullen clouds. I light a cigarette and draw deeply. Using the building for support, with the cold Paris wind blowing winter right through me and my pea coat, I brace myself for the long stumble home. +The streets of Paris for those that have never had the good fortune to walk them, seem to perhaps been built by someone with a sense of humor someone who sat back and asked themselves: what would travel be like if we made it deliberately difficult instead of deliberately easy? The answer is here somewhere in the meandering alleys, bridges, tunnels, and streets that seem designed to get one lost, confused, and disoriented. Only in such a state do you begin to discover the real Paris. At least that’s my friend Allie says and I walking to her house on this sobering morning so I start to think like her. +Allie is French-Canadian by birth and I know her from Canada where she was a stripper for many years. Three of which she also spent living in my house and I have come here to Paris to return the favor by living ever so briefly in hers. Her full name is Allie Suviguile which I used to tease her about because in the crudest midwestern american accent she is only one r away from sounding like “survive guile” and she does indeed survive by being guile. Everyone at some point evolves to suit their name which is why I am deeply frightened of having children —far to much responsibility, in the back of their minds all parents store guilt at the thought that perhaps some of the wayward tendacies of their children are the result of parential influence, conscious or not. +My own memories may have filters on them that were shaded and toned by my parents. Take for instance Mexico City: I remember Mexico City in hazy brown discolored way, but its not the smog its the nature of memory. The image collages overlay themselves like a bad acid film from the sixties. Cut to a shot of the subway, sad brown faces and I want to know why they aren't on vacation like me… lay on top of it an image of pyramid excavation digging up and trying to solve the Mayan Caper. Years ago you would. Understand she was standing right next to me and then...Warm sweet smelling cab and my father says “hey, look a Kentucky fried Chicken” and sure enough I see one. Americana right in the middle of foreign chaos. +I've had quite a time ever since then trying to pick up the pieces of a world that exists in only my subjective phantasmal experience, but that is partially explained by the fact that I live in book and am subject to forget that at times and think that I actually exist, and that everything is actually happening. Some days everything actually is happening, but I’ll come to that. For now that kaleidoscope memories of my youth — I focused up into the sun , it burned in fantastical visions that all of Dr. Hoffman's LSD could never quite reach and then there was the sound...an unbelievable pulse of something so guttural it would announce itself for years to come by illicit in me the most terrifying kind of fear that paralyzes you. Leaves you like a woman I saw once stone still and shell shocked right in the middle of this great arch in Canyonlands National Park, Utah. She just stood there unable to move, feeling the digging hooks of unbridled terror burning into her brain and creating an endless and spellbinding feedback loop that forbids you to move, rips you right out of the very fabric of collective reality and propels you into strange land of pure abstraction. I watched her sit there unable to help herself doubtless staring at the two thousand foot drop and the meager four foot wide sandstone arch that was holding her there suspended in mid air, seeing herself for the first time the way we are. Naked cold and deathly afraid. + But the cab driver just laughed and said, “here in Mexico City there is no Kentucky Fried Chicken, maybe Kentucky Fried Cat, Kentucky Fried Dog, But definitely no Kentucky Fried Chicken.” He smiled this crooked smile revealing gold caps and over moist gum structure that was so large it seemed to be slowly crawling right up off his teeth. Okay no, that was a devise of literature, but he really did say that and he really did laugh at us, and then sternly advised in all seriousness against eating there, not that we would have anyway. And all this was years before I would ever get to India to learn that first there is a mountain, then there is no mountain, then there is. + But alas I did not have my Mexico City cabbie advise to help that woman frozen there on the Arch, in fact I went all the way to the end of the trail (funny I don't remember were it went) and came back and she was still there, frozen for time. Occasionally I wonder if maybe it would have help to walk by here real quietly and whisper...don't worry there is no Kentucky Fried Chicken, maybe Kentucky Fried Cat or Kentucky Fried Dog, but certainly no Kentucky Fried Chicken. + But that sound would never go away that Kaleidoscope burned out my eyes and left me open, Naked and exposed to be brutalized by sound. But I can't paint the picture that way the sad poet crap...Wilde would never have stood for the half alive black clad zombies that run around pretending to see so much deeper into life than the rest of us and they want to sell their torture to you for an outrageous price. I never saw the likes of such a con, I wouldn't spend a goddamn dime of the crap, sower up punks, shave, you read this stuff, it is mocking you. Yes you! Sour-headed mongrels sucking the joy out of it all, it drives me nuts, makes me want to live in Paris in state of perpetual disgust digging through trash can with this old bum I met once who went by the name of Henry. + But fortunately I ditched Henry for the time being although I have noticed that the oddest characters tend to pop up at the most inopportune times. Now the streets of Paris take on a particularily sinister intent and I duck into more obscure alleys trying to avoid Henry all the while thinking that that might well be just what he would expect me to do. Its not that I don’t want to see him its just that I have a certain hunger right now that Henry can not fill. I need a woman. +I am hoping that Allie did not bring anyone home last night because I am like a primordial beast in heat. The Paris nightlife does that to me, makes me get back in touch with very immediate physical yearnings for things like female flesh and the blessed rite of sex. + Allie and I share only two common points we like to talk about nothing for hours and we like to fuck. I don’t love her at all, though I care emensely for her and would never do anything to hurt her. Unless she asked me to in her special I’m-about-to-come extra breathy voice that crawls all the way to my backbrain and lets me tie her to chairs and whip her and fuck her mouth and joyfully consent to having the same done to me. Allie is Joyce’s worst nightmare, I have yet to find something that will make her blush —I remember the time I walked in on her and some man and without so much as hello she through him on his back impailed herself on his cock and yanked out mine and sucked it as best she could while bouncing up and down. She has dragged me to countless orgies, dominatrixes, and fetish balls all in the aimless pursuit of pleasure. Eventually I grew weary of the scene and I left her, but a chance meeting in the tube has led me here. That’s another great thing about living in book —you have chance meetings with nymphos on subways. + All this and now standing ringing her bell it seems that she has spent the night elsewhere. You never know how your day is going to be until its over. + + + I saw a man upon the stair, + A little man who wasn’t there. + He wasn’t there again today; + Gee, I wish he’d go away. + -WORD INC broadcast all rights are served + + +"...and the best part of it is, you're gonna love this, not one word of it is true. I've run it through CHIPS three times and we have no noise coming out of that sector in the last ten years..." + "Could it be an anomaly? We've missed things before..." + "What are you trying to say? that I'm missing a part of the game?" + "Look, how many timetracks are your people watching right now?" + "we're running twenty thousand day in and day out for the entire year local objective..." + "Well maybe somewhere in what must amount to over twenty million local subjective tracks, you missed something. Did i ever tell you the one about the house that smiled?" + "Enlighten me" + "I was killing some time down in the south, waiting between assignments you see, laying low from a job out in LA if I recollect properly, anyway, I had this ramshackle joint out in the woods all overgrown with vines and tree drooping right onto the porch. I spent most of the days working on the Brazilian Caper trying to put together the pieces, information synthesis was my specialty. so one day I came driving home from the bar, now I'd had a couple of gins which is key to the story, I pulled off the highway onto my driveway which was a dirt road maybe half a mile long and you could see the house when you turned off the main road but then you ducked under some trees and lost it until you were right up on it. when i turned off this one particular day I could have sworn the house smiled at me, when I got up on it it looked normal enough and I assumed it was the gin that made it smile. It never occurred to me to look from the point of vies that it was the gin that let me see it smile...I was preoccupied at the time. + "Some weeks later I thought about the incident so I ran the house through on CHIPS to see if we had any information on the place. turned out the house had a history of jealous behavior, so I checked into a skid row hotel and avoided the place for a week. I went back and everything I owned had been burned to the ground and I am still to this day convinced that i missed the clues because I didn't know that I had any. You see everything has a relationship with you, everything you see and do has a reaction to you and if you look at it another way everything you are doing might be a reaction to something you can't see." + "You're saying I'm looking at it wrong? Fine count me out of it, you wanted a background check on the area and I gave you one, if you don't like the information that is not my problem. I'm getting out a here this place gives me the creeps...." + + + I rather liked the place, it was in fact my favorite bar in the state the state being Georgia the country being USinc. The plaster was peeling in great sheets from the ceiling and the walls had a rough texture such that you had to move around and find just the right spot to lean your head back on. I had my spot, it was in the corner and I sat so I faced the front door I liked to see who was coming and going, comes with the trade you understand. I was in a red booth that wrapped the corner and had a table that was too short for it, worked out more as a foot rest than a table, although it held up my legs and drink without too much complaining so I guess you could call it a table, if you wanted to. There were these red lamps sticking out of the walls here and there, that and the kerosene candles on the tables were the only light. It was a small bar (all good bars are small) maybe six seven tables and a handful of stools; the place was a real diamond, but they kept it looking like coal. At the moment I was the only one here except for Harry Woods, the bartender, and of course the man who had just left my table. A man I was not having kind thoughts about right now. + His name was Scratch because he once clawed his way out of a lockup with his bare hands, or so the the story went. The information he was to have imparted was incidental, I had set him up to see if he would feed me a line or hang me out to dry, always good to hit a source with something you already know if like me, you haven't hit the source in a while. I crossed his name off of the list of reliables and I was packing up my bag to go when my phone rang. + I had recently gone into private practice after being with the company for fifteen years. To be completely forthcoming I would I guess have to revel that I was forced to go private on account of a royal fuck up of mine in Brazil, but I was putting it behind me and trying to drum up some work. The phone was an auspicious sign and when I looked at the ID'er it was coming straight in for the quarter itself. Holy Shit I thought, they must be more pissed at me than I thought. When people are trying to get a hold of you and you don't want them to the best idea is to keep moving. + I made a bee line for the bathroom, turned off the phone and pulled out a syringe. I went to do this once and some old junky thought I was shooting up and tried to get one off of me which I refused and he got mad and ran out to tell the management, course I was gone before they got there. I sat down on the toilet and set out the electromagnetic generator on the floor in front of me. I was tapping an old west piano line with my feet while it warmed up. When I saw the portal open I started to masturbate 'til I was just about ready to shoot. With my other hand I readied the needle and felt around for the sore at the base of my spine and inserted it. This was the trickiest part; I drew out a milky white cellular substance and I felt the familiar tingles around the edges of my body, starting in the feet and hands, I knew it was going to hit fast. I made a good jump and landed right on Maya's table where she drew it up into another syringe and then shot into the back of a good looking head. + + + + + Have you ever tried to live at the speed of light? I don't mean literally of course, just so there's no confusion here, we are after all in the middle of what is shaping up to be science fiction story of the worst kind. Agents popping up here and there without warning and always mysteriously knowing more than they could if they possible lived in your world, you the reader that is. I know its all crap, that's just the hack shit people work in. Word comes down from EDITORIAL RE-WRITE, ah ahem we don't quite seem to know what this is...could you expand on the science fiction stuff, now that we can sell. Have a really big hit! I see best seller lists in your future? eh? You want the chiclettes mister? Spanish boy sell that goddamn gum again come stumbling up to you on the street in Mexico City. +NOTICE FROM RE-WRITE: + We can't seem to decide what category of the book store to put this in sometimes it seems like a science textbook, then the next minute it getting dragged by some pimple faced clerk down to the science fiction shelves and then without warning you turn it into a personal confessional and start address the reader directly...could you organize this better we're very interested you see.... + Have you ever tried to live at the metaphorical speed of light. I mean you. Not an abstract self that you think the writer is talking to whenever you see the personal pronouns. You and I are having a dialogue and I'm trying to ask you a question except that we have a time travel issue. Is this nonfiction and true always, or is it fiction and entirely made up of unique emotional moments that fade as quickly as they show themselves? + I don’t have that delimma so I don’t have to worry about it I know I live in pure fiction, not even real you know, just words strung together…. A while ago I mentioned Henry, well its time for the real digs…. + Nobody around town could stand Henry he was I admit a paranoid schizophrenic and sometimes he would forget if he was talking to you or to the voices in his head. They would get kind of mixed up at time and he might occasionally chase you around and try to kill you with his umbrella, but he really meant no harm and he was too old to catch you even if he actually did mean you harm and I was just to naive to see it. Its all in how you paint it you know. you can try to cut it up and rearrange it and maybe you come closer to the abstract notions of truth that philosophers are always blabbing about, but nobody lives in an objective universe. this is the way I saw it Henry had good stories, he thought he was an agent see and he loved to tell anybody that would listen to him all about how he had the inside scope on the CIA. Used to be an agent see and they had me in on the Kennedy job and what better way to discredit me then to drive me out here on the streets? Sometimes when I was really stoned it did have an eery ring of truth about it, after all No one believed him. + No one really believes anyone really though, I mean we like to think we trust each other and we love to say that we do, but I've watched this tired old game long enough to know one thing, its a game. And in a game nothing is ever what it appears to be because if everything were right there for you on the surface for you it would be a pretty stupid game. So over the years the bipedal monkeys have dreamed up an elaborate universe of intricately interwoven moves and counter moves and rules to the game that has lately had the nasty side effect of becoming terribly obvious and not so much fun anymore. + I studied history quite a bit, I was drawn to it I think because I don’t have time. These stories are only linear in time to make iteasier on you the reader, but for me its all always existing forever somewhere and at sometime which makes the whole time concept lose shape and eventually it collapsesback to the state vector. + + + For that brief instant that the I that is me was in Maya's mouth I had the delectable sensation of what I imaging a cock must fell like roosting in a warm mouth. One of my projects with the company had been (my own design of course) to try to concentrate the entire essence of consciousness into the penis. That is to take on the identity of a cock and live through an orgasm that (in my theory) would resonate though the entire conscious. the only problem was that realistically we had no way of defining ourselves. so I took it upon myself to put aside the dope and cocaine and endless gratuitous blow jobs to first find this here consciousness thing that nobody would quite put there finger on. Regrettably I failed and that is the gist of the Brazilian Caper, maybe later we'll get into the tasty details but first I needed some time to adjust to a new body. + + + + Something rather strange has been going on lately, too many jumps I think you can't move between the threads of reality to often before you start to wonder which on of them is real. Denizens of psychedelic drugs refer to such people as acid casualties, this is mainly do to their tendency to not be able to let go. You can't move in and out of worlds until you detach, some one once said to me about the experience, first the human game stops then, the time game stops and then the me game stops. At this point you are confronted with the ugliest aspect of what you call reality, the personalized ego that fights all the way to the bitter end. It might not ever go away for good, but usually in the past I have been able to let go and move and now I find that I have more and more hear about jumping. The very sight of the needle and the apparatus this cold electromagnetic...thing, made partly of inorganic microchips and partly of neuron cells stolen from leeches. When the thing was first tested the story goes that they used jellyfish, but the director, Dr. Waiben was struck by this "duty to the irony of our situation" and switched the neural tissue to leeches because this thing is going to suck away the last defenses we have. Only that didn't exactly happen, the thing is that people can't be pushed to do anything they can't understand, and therefore they rejected it. so now were where we are, like the yogi said wherever you go there you are. And here we are, with too sets of humanity, those who went and those who didn't. + Naturally this created a certain power dynamic of have and have nots, but the thing is that most people who went lost all concern for what had been their lives, they fell victim to sabetoge, which is okay because it gave me job. I work for the Agency of Interdimensional Control, under the direction of Dr. Waiben. The good doctor and I were working on this project for years before anybody was aware what was going on and consequently we know the system technology and emot vortexes better than most and when people started to get wind we already knew which way it was going to blow. So we started setting up the agency and recruiting like minded individuals to help us keep things under control. + I must take time here in the narrative to mention exactly how the system works. We were both stumbled upon a kind of understanding of the way things work at the same time and hence we wound up in the same place one day which we later realized was not in fact an act of stumbling at all, but anyway we met near the outer edge of the universe on an 8th dimensional string. We had both realized at the same time that the string theory emerging in physics at the end of the twentieth century was in fact a more technical description (less poetic I might add) of the Egyptian book of the dead. At the time I thought this was coincidence, but then one day I was watching movie about virtual reality games and I started thinking about what would happen to human mind if you turned everything on at once. + I couldn't find any literature on the subject so I decided to make my own. I started with a virtual reality suit, a sensory deprivation chamber, ten years practice of yoga, a variety of hallucinogenic chemicals, orgone generators, talismans, magick symbols, and a room full of books, everything religious practice recorded by man, the latest in theoretical physics and everything in between. then their was Maya, but we'll come to that later. + My actual experiments were rather undisciplined and were not yielding much in the way of results until I accidentally left the stereo on one day. In the sensory deprivation chamber on 200 mc of DMT, with the orgone generators humming I had the literal felt experience of being on the edge of the universe and I was sure I found GOD. As it turned out I was on the edge of what up until then was thought of as the universe, but I met Dr. Waiben, not GOD. Although I spent the next two years quite sure that I had seen GOD. + + I noticed rather early in my life that movie actresses made me feel funny. When I say this most people think I mean some sexual entendre or maybe funny peculiar. What I really mean is that they made me feel funny. One guy in bar once told me that it is impossible to feel funny, you either are funny or your not he said. I asked him how he could be sure that no one felt funny as in funny haha just because he had never felt funny. He tried to hit me and I left in hurry without finishing my beer. I made it a point not to discusses the "funny" feeling with anyone again. + But I still felt funny and wasn't quite sure why. My natural assumption was that this was some sexual feeling I was having, but at the time I didn't have sex life to compare it too. Over the years I have found that sex will at times produce the funny feeling, but it is not as strong as with the actresses. Another thing that gave me the funny feeling over the years is cannabis. I have smoked pot nearly everyday for three or four years now and I find that toward the end of the night I tend to slide into the "funny" feeling quite naturally now. recently however I have found that the "funny" feeling can be induced at will anytime you want. This is or course the religious secret of the ages and you now expect that I will tell you how to do it yourself. except that words won't let me. I offer you this as a consolation prize: somewhere out there between the eleven dimensions (the four you know, four more you know if you have read mystics, and three more which can not be described they are only lived) there are portals through which you can move your consciousness. + That is why I said that you have to know how to detach. Most people I have noticed tend to think of themselves as their bodies. Interestingly most religions that most people tend to believe have always said that you are not your body, I was never religious though. the language that told me that was science, science said in rather more complicated terms that nothing exists. There has been much despair in fact over this statement. people have natural tendency to belief in what they call "life" that is the material world. They believe that it is real and existing at a point in time. When you learn to let go of the body (usually when you die) a vast array of possibilities open themselves up for examination and I can assure you that there is every bit as much to be feared as any hell fire and damnation sermon has ever threatened, but you only get their if you want to go. I'm not sure how realities come to exist, I can only tell you that they are their, and if you want to find them you will. + + It was sometime before I made the connection between the stereo and GOD, but one day in a vain attempt to get back to where I was I left the stereo on again. This time however I was catapulted into a nightmare of despair and utter gut wrenching fear and I "saw" the music drawing me into it and I had the experience of wrestling something off of me as if every cell in my body were desperately trying to get out of an invisible blanket that was tearing at my flesh threatening to rip me apart. i had a heart attack and started bleeding from my nose and mouth and Maya saved my life. she had walked into the room and thinking that I was gone turned off the radio, when she did I let out what she called the most inorganic noise I have ever had. she called the paramedic and started CPR which saved my life, sort of. + By this time i was quite detached from what most people would call life. I hadn't seen anyone aside from Maya in months and I only slept on Sundays. I had also long forgotten about things like the police and I was busted for having a rather large quantity of what they called controlled substances, the whole thing made the paper and my life went down hill. I moved into a different twelve by twelve room and got a new (and rather boring) wardrobe, but down in Atlanta a similarly minded individual read about my story and contacted me. In fact he managed to get me released and out on bail before the end of the month. + So I happened to come into the more formal experiment complete with government shadow funding. Private companies often donate to private research groups for tax deduction purposes and this money goes into the private sector where the CIA usually recommends projects that ought to get money. It was a rather complicated network of money laundering in the name of science which was why I joined up, its not everyday that you can live in spy novel. Except that I was very bad at it sometimes and liked to smoke pot while doing research and got pulled over stoned at four in the morning which landed me back in jail. this time they didn't want to bale me out so I sat there for a while and thought the nature of the thing. And somewhere in the middle of it I heard Maya recounting that she had turned off the stereo and I remembered the music episode and I had a Joycian moment where I just saw how it was working and it came to more complete and laid out like a plan. Of course now I know why, but at the time it was a monumental feeling to have that thing handed to me. + So I built just like I had seen in it, at a friends house over in Athens. We had worked on some musical experiments, he knew what I knew about the power of sound, and he was pretty open to going out on the edge, which is a good quality to look for in friends. I don't exactly know what I would say if some one came to my door and said hey I was wondering if I could set up an electromagnetic field generator in your living room and maybe project myself into a different multi-verse, but William shrugged and said "um okay." + So we did and it worked and I met Maya finally, although I was under the impression that we had already met in what I was still calling "the real" world. Maya is a mmm , entity is a tempting word but it implies a singularity when Maya is continually unfolding, you can meet here, but its never as good as elsewhere. Elsewhere became the name of the first reality that I encountered In the expeditions Bill and I embarked on. In what we called objective time tracks we had our bodies and world as I knew it, put in Elsewhere their were only subjective time tracks. We started with 1=1. One "normal" world and one "induced world" (since then the ratio has changed to 1=1,000,000,000), jumping between the two involved 200 intramuscular injection of DMT, sitting in a comfortable spot we used an array of speaker wire and amplifier heads to create a magnetic field around the body. When the DMT kick in the walls became electric and vibrated and I saw the cross waves coming in from the speakers (later we found that the low frequency bass helped make the waves easier to see) if you "thought" yourself at the harmonic convergence of the two, you stepped into Elsewhere. + It took two days of tinkering to master it, but when we did we had a reliable and repeatable experiment demonstrating the existence of "tangible" realities other than the consensus one. I took pawned it off on Waiben for a Swiss account and Bill and I were going to hit the road, but Maya intervened. + + + New York City at the end of the 20th century: woman says to me: don't you know you can't smoke in the subway? ya. :you don't give a fuck do ya>no< It was unquestionably rude: she deliberately intruded on my reality and imposed her own. I did not exist in world where people couldn't smoke in subway stations and she imposed RIGHT and WRONG on me. This is of course seen as quite okay as smoking causes death, but I knew that dead was not the end of things so I didn't have to cling like a crying widow to life. I started think what might happen if people expanded and just extended the old rules into the new. It was then that Bill and I laid plans for IAC. At first our goal was to just make a survey of the area. + I ended up on rainforest subtimetrack out on a routine patrol, I had always wanted to see the Jungle so I signed on. the group sailed right down through the mouth of the Amazon all the way down into her bowels it seemed by the time we put in at little fishing village. The sergeant was a trustworthy enough fellow, even looked a bit like some painting I had seen once of Vasco De Gama. He headed up to the mission to see if we could get lead from the Padre. He came back with an ear and the word the Eve El Gui, this woman of revered skills or so we were told. The sergeant was of the opinion that if the company was going to send us into death, it should at least be at the hands of a Sexual Goddess. Eve as we started to call her, was a tantric demonese hauled her self down from the Queens area nineteenth century, spit and polish deal and now wrecked her havoc through seven dimension. There was, besides me two soldiers who carried our heavy cannon, a map man and the sergeant. At first it was normal enough, I've run similar jobs before, just never in the jungle. + + I live in great fear of psychiatrists, which they would doubtless say it irrational, which in turn is the sourse of my fear. Imposing on the world the power to interpret what is real (sane they call it) and what is not real (insane) is to make yourself the living god that the ancients so greatly feared, reverd, and worshipped. The modern psychiatrist is playing out a script that the word created back in the beginning. It started as a word (always does) and it then became an idea, then an emtion...love of god, now it is flesh. We are god. How anticlimatic is that. When Waiben and I were first laying out the architecture of the word created universes we hypothosized that to kill the flesh would be to kill the word. But as we got further and further into the concreteness of the thing the more we realized that the flesh is not the word it is the word that becomes flesh. In other words killing the flesh was analogous to cutting out a tumor, only to have another start growing. Only pure image or pure emotion can knock out the word completely. + Image guns contained word defying images so that when you got shot with them the response would not be in terms of word. This is still the most effective way to rub out the word, although we do also use emotion guns which hit one with wonderous and overwhelming feelings, but some of the more skilled of the enemy have been able to cut these up and move thwn along irrational and chaotic lives and arrive at word. Poetry for instance will often render an emotion gun useless. + In the beginning the enemy started with an agent gone bad which we spun off as a metaphor in the Christ-con caper. Christ was originally one of use and we wrote him in to try to bring things to head, but we were way early on that timetrack and the whole thing blew up in our faces like the CIA at the Bay of Pigs fiasco. At that time the majority of the enemy was moving under the name of Christians, powermongers trying to horde the system and leaving the details to be worked out for future generations. The reverberations cut across nine dimensions and we had a hell of a mess to clean up. + Unfortunately the enemy is wilely, or perhaps that would be the end of the story, but its not, we got even bigger doodoo now. Now they call themselves scientists and they do there work from deep within jungles, concrete, and tropical like the one sarge and I are staring at. somewhere in the dizzying maze of trees and rivers and insects and the very air that is permeated with life, is Eve, the sudectress of word cons and we are being sent to take her out. + It was somewhat unusual to go into a literal jungle, I generally operate in the concrete metaphoric ones, but Eve had special credentials, and so did I. Eve was acting on the Iris script and trying to pick up the scattered pieces. She wanted things run on systems and she was going to bring down the shit house with her, as we say in the trade, one of her systems was an elaborate sex con called unilove. Unilove holds that the self can only love one other self at a time. Monogamy they call it back where I come from. We were having a hell of time trying to bring that one in for trial, and Eve was our chief opposition. My special talent was the ability to bring in the multiplicity of the issue, you see the singularity is but a convergaence of the multiplicies, but shop talk is not what you do sitting in camp at the edge of the jungle. + + + Soem readers no doubt are familiar with the losely defined concept of lucid dreaming, that is consciously indusing in oneself a dream state. Once when I was about ten my dead grandmother called and talked to me on the phone. I have no idea whether or not this actually happened, but I am certain that I experienced the phenomenon of it happening. + years later I had a similar experience of stumbling onto the dead in lucid dream state. this experience was not unlike what happens in virtual reality games only it was self indused rather than coming in from an outside apperatus. This discovery (which is as much of a discovery as Columbus landing and finding a population of five million and then claiming that he had discovered america) led william and I inexoribly into a tunnel of reality that paved the way for a global awakening. + By now we were fairly adept at moving in and out of realities that were from our point of view totally artifical and then we hit a snag, a big snag. We began to think perhaps we had induced some sort of sctizophrenia and conjunctual hallucinations. this proved to be fortuituse thing in the end, because we met the enemy in a virtual sense rther than unwittingly encountering them as actual intities. intities is as I ahve said a poor word for the phenomena, all thing are conceptual nothing exists, (sub atomic physics 101) words define things that exist. anything that can be put into words then has a fairly mapable probability of occuring in subjective reality. + We confronted the enemy before we knew they were the enemy and thus gained the upper hand. gradually we found the Elswhere had distinquitive cities and places not unlike the ones we were already familiar with. One we nicknamed the quarter, because of its resemblance to New Orleans. We chose it as our base of opperations in Elsewhere and went about setting up the scenery to our liking. WRITE and IMAGE were our tools and we painted quite a picture. I was inclined toward french quarter type of arcitecture and went so far as to go down to the "real" french qarter in New Orleans with the image guns to make a rough replica, in time of course others would find the quarter and now its a treaturous hell hole, but its still our jumping off point. + + Lying back supported by pillows on a small couch in the back corner of a bar, Paris 1999, staring at walls not yet written by Rembrant, Miller, and all the dead poets. Peace back here in corner where I watch all time pass me by with the detached apathy of non-compliance. Step aside and let the man go through. I feel like a lead train, heavy from hash, muscles detached from their control centers, inoperable, trying to struggle out the words for another espresso to wake the grey cells that hang like storm clouds on the edge of my brain. I am ignored by the sweet French waitress, Nina, cherub cheeks —the girl puts up with me long after closing time. I dream she loves me but I know she merely wants to go home; she certainly doesn't need me, I tried to sleep with her once, but her heart wasn't in it. As a kind off consolation prize she lets me stay late until she is done closing up. + Every night I slouch my way here for my fix of stimulants, hallucinogens, and depressants, it's a full time job, shoveling coal in the engine. Paris in the rain —dark and ugly like a city of dreams gone wrong. Parisians, like New Yorkers, seem to know something that the rest of us are missing, and they show no signs of sharing. Scaring information out of the agents here is like ripping rotting molars from a tweekers corroded mouth: no one wants the job. + Strange French lounge music tumbles in from speakers behind the bar, it rolls across the room like an ancient reminder of an inadequancy, building up since the last ice age. Music ripped the fur from the ape body and made up man/woman, gave the creature a sense of wonder and beauty that demanded self inspection. Why? Ancient questions that have been buried so well by the trappings and excrement of civilization; they learned to live in the gutters in alleys, only the homeless and displaced dropouts of society have the time left to investigate. Or course most of them lack the vigour and rigour of mind for such indeavors, but most junkies know more about the nature of economy than stock market analysists in sickly air conditioned rooms can ever hope for. + This is the nightmare at the end of the century and like most of some forgotten race of seekers lying in languid rooms in far off dream cities, Paris, Prague, Peking, St Petersburg, I prefer to rest in peace now and start the real work on the edge of death. There at the final moment you will start to get the real digs. Nowadays, reclined on Persian pillows and sweet perfumed hash dreams, I live here. I also have realities here. Nina with her drooping doe eyes pulls on my arm helping me off the couch, tearing me from the peace of inner reflections. She throughs my arm over her shoulder and helps me toward the door. Stumbling up the stairs and onto the street I am blinded by the morning sun finally breaking its way through the sullen clouds. I light a cigarette and using the building for support I brace myself for the walk home. + + + There wasn't much to go on the radio signal was weak and difficult to piece together. Rangoon Jungle Operation Unsucessfull. I ran that over and over the short wave and hoped for the best. The heat and the pain kicked in together like waves on the beach and you have to lie their and feel it, really digging it down deep before they let up. the plane was scattered in the canopies of the trees for several miles. My foot was definately broken in the fall, but the doctor was worse, with a deep puncture wound and labored breathing. He wasn't up to moving and I wasn't up to sitting out a night in the jungle, with god knows what hungry creatures running amuck. + Using the compass I tried to head north to where their should be a river, I had seen it from the plane, but the jungle was thick and I was moving slowly on my bad foot. I reached the river by nightfall though and a fishing boat heading down river picked me up and got me to the village, there was no phone, but I had food and shelter. I suffered a spasm of guilt over some rice when I thought of the doctor, but it passed. + The next morning at dawn I attempted to guide several of the men from the village back to the site of the crash, but we were unable to find the chutes or any sign of Waiben, by nightfall we gave up and the new took me up the river in darkness. At the first road crowssing I stole a car and headed back into Rangoon. I called the Agency and was greeted with a lecture regarding my job performance which I hung up on, and after a brief stop at the hospital where I was assured by ankle was not broken, but badly sprained; I headed to the local bar. Six beers later I no longer cared about the Jungle or Rangoon or anyother + + + + + + + The cold streaking blur of the express train colors the night in Kaliedscope lights that play out in little dances. The train seems on bender this metalic night, New York, 1999, and my head spins after the woman wouldn't let me smoke in peace; the caustic light from the flourecent reflections of white tile at the forty second street station burns on my skin. Letting my head bounce off the window in sway with the movement of the train, I hardly notice the man sitting opposite me until his voice assualts me. + "Where ya from?" + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + No good shits run the world. It's a well established fact, everyone knows this, but that doesn't bother me. Absctracts are okay, the world exists only in my head anyway. What trouibles me is the no good shits are driving around bodies and forcing themselves and their games on you. This is of course what makes them no good shits in the first place, the question is what are you to do about it? The most amusing thing to do is to play their game; times ten. reducto ad absurdum the romans called it; make it fucked up. Agents are always trying to sulk about in corners where no one notices them, but that is of course where people have come to expect them to be, you have to stay ahead of the metaphors. The normals one is the psycho killer (he was such a quite boy), now we got are eyes on the quiet ones...television, gottat stay ahead of the metaphor. Its played out you have to move into some new metaphors, just ahead of the other guy or he's going to mark you for what you are...someone hinding something. + Who isn't you say? Princeses and Diamonds and opals those living on the edge of the shell like little spinning protons hovering the nucleus of infinite faith. The best cover an agent can have is not have a cover. Believe that you are and nothing more, do not become what you are or you will no longer be. You will be something. everyone is something. The only time you're not being something is when you're having sex. Hence the old phrase "sexuality is an agents best cover..." or words to that effect. + The human mind is infinite and what have we done? tied it dopwn with the finite, like impounding a spaceship for being a spaceship. What logic? In order to win you have to play by your own rules and you have to make sure that you are the only one who knows what the rules are, otherwise they will anticipate the next move. disinformation comes from the understanding that you opponet believes womething to be true and you then feed them information that is likely to confirm or adapt to fit what they believe. This is best demonstrated by the Christ -con. This involves convincing people that something exists, once they are convinced that it is real, the world either confirms this at everyturn, or in more severe cases the world is conformed to fit the theory. Mainly only Scientists employ this logic anymore, but few pay them any mind. the Christ-con is wore threadbare and wreeks like drunk from across the room, nobody is being chiclettes in this parts anymore meester. When children laugh at you your cover is blown. + Time to move on they decided so we kicked out for the forest Sarge was riding shotgun and I was driving, an old army jeep looked like it had served half a dozen wars, but it suited us because we had served half a dozen wars. We blew up north on some information passed along by the natives at the outpost, some tribe up in the hills still living in caves and foraging for grubs and roots in the forest repudated to have the key to the rosette stone of knowledge. I was on the look out for a Truman Capote, but we saw no sign of him in the forest country. + + Two days in we picked up an odd broacast from the inspector back at head quarters and for the longest time I couldn't make heads or tails of it.... "The 1994 erie Ordinace was aimed specifically at such established public beliefs as Imagination, Belief, and Constitutional thought...spin like an actor; electricals and the reason that it happened in the first place...The Lawyer sought continuance on the planes altitude." We didn't have the descramblers to go with the code so to speak. We holed up in a nice sleepy town of eighty thousand and sat down to rest up and try to break the transmission in hopes it would have some sort of clue as to what we should do. we came up with... + A full retreat back to headquarters. unacceptable as we were not in any perceivable danger. At least not yet which is why we put it on the table, because they turn you know. + Hole up here for conciderable length of time and dig into the network. We laid the ground work even while we were toying with the idea, always keep working even if you don't know what you are working toward. Focus and concentration can have clearing effect like farting in an elevator. + Jump out of the loop completely and try to tackle the problem from the outside working in. In persuance of this thought we obtained passports and other paper and supplies. There was talk of the eastern front, they always need pack up and the rumor was good lodgings. + Try to jump out and then back in. Reconocince is difficult and involved much tedious and boring work, it was also shocking to the body and in some cases led to death. We made no move on this one, but we talked about it from time to time, but I think it was really more on my mind than Sarges. Sarge was all for the Eastern Front he was hooked on information, and he was checking out his sources in his spare time. I toyed with it, in between Martinis, but my heart wasn't in it, yet. I was working on trying to remember the future. + I had a most marvelous vision one day of red brick buildings. Boston -harvard square- fall; the Charles river slips by without a sound, the streets corral throngs of people- onlookers drunk beyond comprehension of what they were there to look at- they stumble out of bars and lurch through doorways like grenades rolled out on the street. Inside the Radcliffe boat house a reserve of surplus energy is released in muscular spasms that pulse in orgasm. Her breasts pool salt onto my tongue. And in walks Truman Copote he looks it over for a minute and then, having taken stock of the affair, proceeds to hand me the rosete stone of Knowledge. He lit a cigarette, took the stone back, and walked out the boathouse doors. I tasted salt in my mouth every time I called up the memory. + + Its cold this time of year in the East out there in backwater eddies towns where the frost had long since burnt the leaves red, yellow and then right of the tree where they pool in sidewlks and street and covered paths in Kaliediscope blankets. We huddled in blankets rather than paying the bills and having heat, we were agents we had to make do, get by on the absolute minmum. Most people who visited were appalled by the rather makeshift nature of the furniture and the transitory feeling that hung in the air around the place. It was not a howm it was a research center for the depraved, we were on to something and we just didn't have the words to wrap around it yet. + from time to time the word wing would float heavy in the air and I used to wonder if I alone felt this or if perhaps it truly was there, tangible and in air like the way the Japanese feel about feng shui and the cannelling of chi. It was pulsating and alive aroung there, nerves were being held bare and exposed to the radiating burn of now. Naseau and disorientation were come and though it was an unwritten rule that one would ascribe the unhidable effects of them to food poisoning or the like, uinderneath it all we knew that something big was a foot. Wing, and truman capote and a little boy coming by all the time selling promotional candy bars to raise money for his little legue baseball team. those are the snapshots that come up when I am drawn back there in memories. It was a good time it flowed right through our bodies and shot out the finger tips, something was most definately going on. It would be years before I was able to day what the it was, but even then I knew it was real. + There was a furniture store downtown in hwat most places I had been would have been called old town, except that here everything is old; old town and oldertown. Normaltown was just up the street from us, though I rarely set foot up there, the name was too obvious, something fishy about the scene. The scene was too transpanrent to have actually existed, at the time I ascribed it to faulty perception, but I was wrong. Awkums razor is no way to shave. + + +It's a self serve station, one of the good old boys that used to fuel Packards from a lever pump, back when driving meant something. When it had risk, and it was an accomplishment to get somewhere. At the pump there was no digital blink in your face, just the rolling click of numbers turning, trains that bore out through the desert country. The town had two smoke stacks and a wheat field to the north side of the station; not much else. This one drifter had pulled through years ago, bit of mental case they said later, he burned three barns a couple of houses and killed of all but two families in town. You can still see the crumpled black barn-skeletons if you cross the road and climb on the top rail of the wood fence that runs the length of the field. When the sun sets it's a magical sight —give you visions, remind you that its all really funny when you stop to think about it. + + + + Old Doc Waiben used to sing "you got to get behind the mule every morning and plow" when he was looking through the kitchen for coffee. The "fridge" was this old ice box that Doc had found at the side of the road and fixed up. When he drank to much and passed out before sundown he'd forget to restock the ice and the melted remnants of the morning would eventually force open the door and the bag of coffee would go sliding across the kitchen floor finding its way into all kind of strange places. "You got to get behind the mule/every morning and plow" Doc used to sing when he looked for the bag, and when he invariably found it lying in the farthest crack he would squat down like a child and scoot it along the floor over to the table, just laughing and singing "...every morning and plow..." +trashy-girl/aol + I had a most marvelous vision one day of red brick buildings. Boston —Harvard square— fall; the Charles river slips by without a sound, the streets corral throngs of people, onlookers too drunk to remember what they were there to look at-. They stumble out of bars and lurch through doorways like grenades rolled out on the street, and inside the Radcliffe boathouse a reserve of surplus energy is released in muscular spasms that pulse in orgasm. Her breasts pool salt onto my tongue. And in walks Truman Copote he looks it over for a minute and then, having taken stock of the affair, proceeds to hand me the rosette stone of Knowledge. He lights a cigarette, takes the stone back, and walks out the boathouse doors. I taste salt in my mouth every time I call up the memory. + + + + You have to sleep, because if you don't sleep you are unable to exist in the consensus reality...sleep is time travel and if you do not travel thru time you become a singularity existing only at one point in time, and the minute that point is passed you no longer exist...the only way to exist in consensus reality is to keep showing up at different points in time...leaving a trail that other reference points can piece together...the flow... the thread, so to speak... and out of this assembly process —run through all the complex webs of the human mind— other observation portals (humans) are able to organize a map of what you are...you exist at said points, exhibit said behaviors and therefore are to be called this object SIL, DR WAIBEN...these are the things we know about you...you must therefore...based on what we know about X...be Y.... + ADAM and some snake and he apperently had the thread the rosette stone of knowledge and you scream...NOT TRUMAN COPOTE!! But there he is nontheless, like a chamelaean, shifting from here to there, becoming what you are...TRUMAN COPOTE...wherever you go there is already an ostrich there...waiting.... + + Happenstance carried you here sitting out on a red rock mesa top forgetting each sunset as quickly as it passed. Staring out into nothingness the purest complete nothingness outside of ocean, in fact this was once a sea floor, even the fish wouldn't have it. But sitting on the porch of run down wood shack that passed as a house and rented for the paltry price of twenty five dollars a month. Actually thats what there paying me, twenty five a month to sit here and write reports; let go of all contact and take notes for somebody elses script, I never would have sritten myself into a role this melodramatic for a million bucks —reaks like hollywood cheese. I keep think that one day I'm going to wake up and find out that I really am just a collection of ideas that if fact at the bottom of the search for everything we're going to find nothing... The Tao Te Ching says that the smallest thing is in the biggest and vice verse, it seems to me then that since we already know that "everything" is actually made up of indescribably tiny "nothings" called electrons that it is only a matter of time before the big stuff, God, god, philosophy, science all the big stuff is going to turn out to be founded on nothing. + I first had this realization years ago and I decided to take on the big job myself I set out to find the unknown and find some way, however thin, to make it known. I wrote a book on what I found and met the interedting folks at the AIC and then I wa here, like you just sitting on the porch of a shitstye in the unbearable afternoon heat —southeastern Utah in August. All I do is wait for the mercy of the thunder clouds which manage to bring the temperature down to the high nineties, of course the trade off is in the humidity. I write reports, though not many anymore, for the AIC. Actually the bulk of this book will likely be filed away somewhere back in D.C. which is really just as well I guess, should it ever be needed at least someone can find what they're looking for. I'm just not looking for it anymore. But its a long way from here to there and I have to give some background. + In the beginning was the word and the word was with God. Like most sunday scholl children, I have no actual memory of hearing those words or at least I paid no attention to the idea of them. Not until years later, but lately I've been thinking that it might have been there the whole time from the beginning. Anyway at one point that little sentence was threatening to take control of my life and I met Sil and the rest of the people at AIC and found out rather to my embarassment that I was not the novelty I thought I was, rather I was endanger of becoming left behind with the women in children so to speak. And somehow the whole time I think I was trying to solve a riddle that had been subtly implanted near birth and which wormed its way out to consciousness just before the turn of the millenium. + + + + Sil lived in train station. He was not employed by the train company nor was he waiting on any particular train, he simply lived in the train station. It was his house, it just also happened to be train station. Trains came and went at all hours of the night, the worst were the ones that didn't stop, moving through at high speed it sounded like a freight train going through the house. Sil didn't mind it too much, only when he couldn't get to sleep nor did he mind the people milling about the station except for the tourists who would walk out into the flow of traffic and just stand there trying to decide which way to turn until some commuter collided and propelled them in one direction or another invariably the wrong one. These people are lost anywhere and that frustrated Sil, but the ones minding there own business didn't bother him some of them he even recognized and greeted, a few of them were true friends of his. + The lost ones were usually heading to the airport from some outer bungalow turned town in the sticks, off to Paris on family outing. The mass transportation of lost families was not Sil's specialty, he was doubly unhappy to have to share a home with them. |