Filed under: Philosophy
That Van Morrison song is playing in the background, kind of slow and fast at the same time. Eyes that have long since glazed over for the day gaze inward, trying to find some explanation for letters that don’t arrive conveying feelings that don’t exist. It’s not the precision irony of laser guided idiocy that can be found in the seedier avenues of this fair city, but in some ways, it’s even better. My own eyes, focusing on non-existent shapes, send the signals to a brain reflexively searching for the logical ending of an image stream. But what could it mean? I wanted to ask someone, but almost intuitively grasped the sad truth that nobody but a junkie would be able to answer, and none of them are around tonight, except me. And, to top it off, some son of a bitch told me I don’t even qualify for membership in that group based on my ability to hold down a job. So, you can see the conundrum I’m in regarding the quest for sympathetic and like minded individuals with just a little bit of wisdom. I smile, because it’s funny.
That kind of itinerant madness aside, let’s focus on the prospect of taking the rest of the night and sacrificing it to lost causes. I’m in the mood for some kind of overtly symbolic gesture that amounts to wasted effort without even pretending to make a point. Perhas inviting honourable and good people to a fine dining esperience and showing up with a plate of McDonalds hamburgers. That doesn’t engender much goodwill towards me, but I don’t think it costs me much either. That kind of balance is appealing, but I still need to figure out this meaningless symbolic gesture. I should get on that with thinking.
Well, obviously, this is far shorter than usual, but I’m going to take a pass on that based on my exhaustion and supreme indifference to a fucked up week. The best part has been the explosion of literature from random sources. Troost is real find, bloody fucking genius. Now, to finish up that and tend to my revenge for this banal, harmless, and frustrating day. It’s the kind of day that makes you want to shave off your facial hair off just to make sure you’re still “you” underneath it. After all, it grows back, eventually, and besides; what price would you pay for that kind of certainty of self?
Filed under: Uncategorized
I used the last few days as a temporal “cooler,” keeping most everything I am on ice in order to save some semblance of sanity at this late date. Shit, I even stole an hour from the day to pull back from my usual exposure rate and keep the hair out of my eyes. Hmm. This seems to be coming off more negative than intended. It isn’t like that; if anything, it’s more like those times when life moves so fast that keeping some sort of balance between self and surroundings becomes impossible. Things are seguing into each other like crazy, which just makes it harder to distinguish the irony in my head from the reality of the situation. When I’m not playing corrupt games with superheroes, I’m making sick jokes at the expense of anyone I can find. Mind you, this isn’t meant as an apoplogy, just an explanation. The underlying point is that it is getting increasingly frustrating not being able to remember a simple narrative that would fit the evidence and memory of the last few days.
My antidote to this dreamscape melange has been to make up the hows and why’s as I go along. Or, I lie. Or, I blame Trowell, because he is a sick fuck, and very much taken with the notion of moving through life as if there were no repercussions for anything. I don’t need someone to tell me what a horrific way this is to go through life. Of course, there is the good with the bad. There is a lot more unintentional comedy when everything that anybody says is completely without context. It’s something comparable to living in an unending Jeopardy game. Alot of questions are asked. Sometimes, you know the answer. Sometimes you don’t. Sometimes, you think you know the answer, but you’re really just walking around with a hand stuck up your ass, perpetually waiting for the right moment to stinkpalm your other hand. Know what I mean?
Now, far be it from your humble writer to ever assert he has any idea about what is going on. That’s a given. Oddly enough, I once tried to explain this in very clear, concise terms, using small words with few syllables and a warm, inviting tone to invoke a feeling of peace to the carefully considered words. It didn’t come out any better then than now. Some things never change. (That phrase makes me want to vomit, but I’m going to use it anyways, because it is true, and also because I am at my house, and I will throw up wherever I damn well please.)
Lately, I have the distinct impression that events are proceeding much faster than the rational ability to concurrently evaluate and respond accordingly. I also find myself making oddly unsubstantiated judgements about things I know nothing about. Partially, it amuses me, but mostly it’s just an excercise in exponentially expanding circular logic, like a child’s game. Between the two random notations, I’m not sure which one concerns me more, but both seem rather bad habits to get into. Self-improvement through socialization.
Upon further review, that is close to the dumbest thing I’ve ever written. I should make myself talk to a wall until the wall talks back. Short of that, there’s no reason to flog the conscience any more than minimally, this being my chief preoccupation of late. Smooth sailing and sunny skies, know what I mean? There is much catching up to do, from figuring out the many facets of the various folks maintaining an interest in the continuation of this mise-en-scene to establishing some clear path to follow that provides the proper illumination as well as motivation. All of this remains to be achieved of course, but it’s a lot easier to go from general to specific than vice versa.
So, it’s quiet and dark, the kind of atmosphere that invites imagination and a certain sense of patient acceptance of the current malaise. Movement would be great, but miracles are the last gasp of the faithful, so I’m not sure I qualify (at least in that respect.) Instead, there is the quiet contemplation of changing circumstances, and questions about counterfit gears and 18 speed bikes. There is nothing so confusing as coming to consciousness in the middle an existential realization. Lucky for me, that isn’t tonight’s conundrum. If the phone doesn’t ring…know what I mean?
Filed under: thoughtful trips
“You lookee like-a Japanese sandman”
“He goes rang tang ding dong rangy sang”
Wow. With all this fucking snow-fall, “spun-out” isn’t even on the radar any more, and jello is not just for the kids. You know that feeling you get when some chick is blowing you, and then, just as you’re about to cum, all of a sudden, you slam two fingers in a car door? It was exactly like that, without the car, or the chick, or the sperm, or the blood. You want to talk about a total loss of self, holy shit. I’m really barely holding on to my body by the toes, and I don’t even know what that means. I have words written on my hand that I don’t remember writing, but there could be a good reason for that. Just so you know, the words say “Chicken in Black. Cash.” Yes, I am akimbo with curiosity.
All that aside, in this post-apocalyptic day, things are good, and I am enjoying some solitude and a fine repast. Seriously though, I’m not sure what’s going on these days, but all I can do is laugh. When I stop laughing, I start singing, and that just gets me laughing again. Positive reinforcement cycle is just another name for addiction. No surprises there. The befuddlement is odd, because it seems out of place. What is there to be unclear about? Well, anyone who understands how much of an inside joke the line “pretty strict drug regimen” is probobly needs no further advice about THAT subject. Not that it matters though, for I am the king of this castle. My cell phone told me so. (Another mystery.)
I’m cracking joints at an exponential rate. Fingers, neck, back, even a toe. That felt great, and totally unexpected. It brought with it a sense of calm, a feeling of temporary absolution. My own mental tally of my crimes and vagaries was wiped clean, and in its place a recognition that shit hapens, and there is nothing to be gained from worrying about things that happened god knows when concerning who the fuck knows what. Even if I could recognize the temporary nature of this realization (or would it be a rationalization?) it doesn’t feel any worse. It’s a credit card emotional experience. Trip now, but pay later.
“I want too much
And I want you
When I hope I won’t
I want too much
When you try to save yourself,
and I hope you don’t
I want too much”
(“i want too much” by j. henry)
My anger muscle must be tired, I can’t work myself into a towering bit of self-righteousness about anything right now. I am so happy to watch the world walk on by that I am on the verge of literally giving up today as a success and simply going to sleep. It’s an old idea I had about recognizing when you have reached a level of maximum possible enjoymeny from a given timeframe. In this specific example, I am almost convinced that today simply could not get any better, so why bother doing anything but enjoying it? To put it another way, I don’t need anything else to happen today to make it a wonderful day. Anything good that happens from now (ten until noon) until tomorrow is just gravy. Totally gravy!
I’m going to go exploring around the house for clues about yesterday. And let me say this, because I theorized about it late late Friday night or early early Saturday morning. That was the single smoothest come down ever. I am in awe of the ease with which I navigated my way from Friday to Sunday. (Shit, do I have to remember the journey to know it was a success?) Aside from the incidental paranoia of the two car trips, it was downright bonzer. All that’s left is Colonel Flagg’s explanation about truth and knowledge; “Nobody can get the truth out of me because even I don’t know what it is. I keep myself in a constant state of utter confusion.”
Folks, that really does work. OK, gone explorin’. See you later.
Filed under: Philosophy
I must be easily influenced. More likely, I just talk to much. While peace reigns here for the beginning of the weekend, there are disruptions in the air and the taste of salt and cigarettes in the air. Why this moment of doubt? Why all these rumors of storms still not clouding the late afternoon sky? Out of all the voices clamoring for some kind of enthusiastic washing away of the sins, why doesn’t someone tell them there aren’t any sins? I want to scream like a banshee running around the hallways of my memory palace, and stomp my feel, and throw glass objects at stone walls just to see if it is even possible to WAKE UP someone to discuss all of this with. Mostly I want to know why it seems so easy to pull away from all of the bullshit psychosis yet seems so physically daunting. This kind of selective perception is killing my spirit. How in the world do you recruit the mind to see might rather than are?
There is an easy answer to this question. The truth of the matter is that I don’t like this answer, and that in this specific instance, the easy way out is as dangerous as the Protestants say it is. (Score one for the theists. They seem to need it, especially lately in this granfalloon. Although, these things have a way of balancing out.) The easy answer would be to admit that my perspective, my orientation, my internal logic is simply wrong, and I take more than my fair share from the world around me. Like I said, not a pleasant option mentally or spiritually. I call this the easy option because it represents a nonstrategic defeat. (OK, before you read on, the next part is one of the driving factors of my internal logic. My filters on what I see and hear.)
I get the impression that most people do not consider defeat a “good” alternative to any given situation. This is a failure to see the big picture. Defeat is only loss if it is not planned out as a strategic method of dealing with a short term problem by altering a given situation to better serve a long term goal. This is applicable to any given situation, and it is a relatively simple way to choose from a range of actions/reactions in response to stimuli. One example is George Washington commanding the Continental Army. His ultimate goal was indeed to defeat the British, but the disadvantages to overcome were fierce. The strategy became one of survival, of choosing retreat and defeat anytime the risk of being overun by the better equiped and trained British Army. Instead, Washington always put the fight on his terms. By staying alive, and keeping a modicum of the Army intact, Washington was able to slowly alter the landscape, aided by the introduction of the French on behalf of the new Republic. In the end, Washington received the surrender of the last British troops arrayed against him, and the war was won. (I am greatly oversimplifying the story of the American Revolution, but I believe the gist is correct.) On the individual level, one example would be choosing to lose an argument to prove a greater point, or perhaps aid in a future discussion, or establishing trust with another person. It is representational action, seeing the possibility of the future and acting towards what is desired rather than what is established. Baby, things change.
This being the case, a non-strategic defeat is a defeat resulting from poorly planned strategy, or without an eye toward longer term ipmlications, or simply making poor choices, or etc. It is defeat without any redeeming value to the individual. A good example of this would be drawing a firearm at a cop. Best case scenario, you die instantly. Worst case, the end is the same but it takes a lot longer, and more people are hurt. So, with that established, back to my origional point about my own beliefs. In this case, admitting I was wrong would not end the problems, only excacerbate them. Without some kind of perspective, I’d just stand in the corner and drool. That’s only one step from being a greeter at a Wal-Mart. Since I need some kind of context, it’s a lot easier to stick with what I have than come u with a new one. Besides, that would be something close to brainwashing yourself, and the mind doesn’t partition like a hard drive.
That being the case, my origional complaint is still unresolved. Waiting for an answer is proving to be rather futile, and as noted, trying to wake up the somnombulent is not going well either. The worst part, or at least the most frustrating part is I’ve been down this songline before. I had a brilliant professor a few years back, and we had some great philosophical discussions trying to establish the best method of building some kind of artificial consenses on the nature of singular ideas. I was never convinced there was single method, let along any singular idea (nature abhors a vacuum, right?) but the notion was fascinating. Eventually, we ended up talking about the socialization process of differentiation, and how it is influenced to a great degree by the individual response to authority. I let you guess what I think of most authority, but perhaps you can see the connection. Baby, some things don’t ever change.
So, all that aside, my mind is kind of blown at this point. Near as I can tell, my reaction to the last seven days of life is as close to neutral as I can get. I can’t decide if that reresents catharsis or indecisiveness. Well, it ain’t an either/or proposition. More like answering every question with “maybe.” That’s one of those situations that makes everyone want to find someplace else to be.
This was not supposed to be one of those long, drawn-out, introspective moment. Things were pretty clear earlier today, at least in regards to the philosophy issues. I never should have smoked that last cigarette. Batman’s sister speaks in platitudes. I’m not sure if thats a disorder or even a conscious action, but it got me thinking about my own reactions to life over the last few months. One of those slowly building notions of horror, repulsed by something shapeless and dark, rose up from my stomach. There are times when the line between clarity of thought and imagination is really blurred. What was I supposed to do? Does anyone remember?
Filed under: the lost children of the bokonists
As I sit writing, the kitchen is filling with smoke and I am wondering why it smells like burnt bread. Before I rush out and open the doors and windows so as to avoid any fire alarms or curious neighbors, I lost myself in thought about how this situation had reached these proportions. The line seemed clear, if not a little contorted by my own tendency to draw premature conclusions about issues like blame, treachery, and the like. Imagine, if you will, a guy sitting on the floor, noticing the first wave of a burning smell that choked out the more complex and subtle scent of blueberries or strawberries or whatever the fuck flavor of the candle burning on the coffee table. On one level, he knows he should get up and explore the fire situation. Now, on another level, an incredible amount of time is simply wasted while he connects the dots from the past to the present. Luckily, he is in no danger, at least not from the fire in the kitchen. All that said, before I begin the story, I guess I should go take care of that.
—half hour later—
It still stinks like a dead otter in here, but at least the smoke has begun to clear. Now it smells like shit AND is fucking freezing in here. So now we come to the worm in the tequila. Why am I, renowned writer, environmental activist, and occasional martian sitting in a smoky room, smelling of blackened bread and smiling like an anesthetized hooligan? It took a while to remember how this all happened, but it came to me after an old-fashioned and the Baker. Mostly the Baker. Nobody is ever going to know how much damage that does to my senses, but I won’t to go on the record and say that I am thankful and pleased by that. But let’s begin.
Saturday, February 17th.
Feeling hungry after a long night of partying over at casa de batman, I searched the fridge for anything that looked tasty. There were some cold cuts. There was some leftover mexican food. There was spoiled milk, but I dumped that down the sink while holding my nose so as not to offend my delicate olfactory senses. In short, nothing looked good. It had been a rather late night, and I was really craving something bulky, perhaps a burger, or some chilli. Predictably, we were fresh out of chilli and ground beef of any kind, so that was out. Rooting around in the freezer, I found two Italian rolls and a fresh pack of those thin sliced steaks that must have been totally forgotten about since they were brought home. It was bonzer, let me assure you.
Shortly after noticing the proper ingredients for my steak sub, I ran into serious difficulties. First off, all of hte fry pans were dirty, and I had essentially no motivation to clean them. That would make the steak hard to cook. Second, I couldn’t toast the bread because it was too thick to fit into the toaster. (We have a pump action toaster, and the slots are thin. It’s got a smiley face painted on the side, and it makes me laugh when bread pops up unexpectedly. It was totally useless for toasting sub rolls.) Ironically enough, these problems occurred to me in the reverse order presented here, which meant I threw the two rolls into the oven before noting the lack of available fry pans. Setting the oven to 200 degrees, I wandered the kitchen checking this and that before deciding that life was sometimes unkind, and just because there were delicious Philly Sandwich Steaks in the freezer did not mean that I would be eating any delicious Philly Sandwich Steaks. That was uncool, but remarkably prescient.
I soon wandered off to bigger and better things, as usually happens on days when nothing is going on. I had been ditched by someone who decided that they had better thigns to do than me, so I spent most of the day writing and amusing myself with all sorts of pleasures that blinded the mind and eased the spirit. The rolls lay forgotten about, the oven still heating at 200 degrees, while all the while I moved about my business, saving the world from the forces arrayed against the Lost Children of the Bokonists. (See our group on Facebook.com. I am Chief Wampeter of Disambiguation, and it shall be thus!) At any rate, at about 10:00 p.m., hunger pains set in, and a toasted roll sounded wonderful.
Arriving back in my kitchen and discovering the roll had been cooking for almost 8 hours a bit strange, but I laughed merrily and wrote it off to my issues with addiction and stupidity. (When you’re me, you can do that whenver you want for whatever reason you want. It’s just that good to be me sometimes.) I turned off the oven, but forgot to check on the bread because of a few distractions that suddenly cropped up but have no bearing here.
Sunday, February 18th
I’m not going to lie. Sunday was one of those days that I would just as soon forget. I lost a friend, and had a relatively minor confrontation with a atron at the local video store. After I got done yelling at this little guy for not holding the door (my biggest pet peeve for various reasons) I realized the whole episode had been one of those episodes of projection anger, and calling the guy “a four year old dumb fuck that couldn’t catch crabs from a two dollar hooker.” In return, all he gave me was one of those looks that says “I’m middle class and I drive a Lexus and I have some sort of rod up my fucking ass.” Other than that, Sunday was a wash, but that too is immaterial at this point. I did not open the oven or eat near as I can remember. I’m sure I snacked on something, but whateverthefuck, ya know? At the end of the day on Sunday, I dropped a cigarette on the floor, but the flames and smoke were still three days away.
Monday, February 19th
A day of highs, and a day of lows. There was the good, the great, and another one of life’s little lessons that most people are only as kind as the situation requires. There was no cooking because I wasn’t here for most of the day, although, in an odd sense of foreshadowing the cause of the fire on Wednesday night, I did eat some delicious Totino’s Pepperoni Pizza Rolls. But that was down South, not in this house, and most of them got thrown out because eating is not what the body needs while dealing with long-term stresses like the day brought on. Memory fails, but I think I ate a package of microwave sausages. Poker was a success, moe than making up for the shady three day weekend. Arriving back home at 2 a.m. Tuesday moring, I began to get excited for the events of Tuesday night, which luckily also did not require cooking, because that would have sucked more ass than a girl with two mouths working the VIP room at a West Virginia titty bar.
Tuesday, February 20th
Back to work and all that shit. As it turns out, things weren’t quite as bad as feared, but all the same, I’d be more than willing to bet that my perceptions were correct about one of the two conquistadores. No reason to get any more detailed than that, but it did go to prove the 50/50 axiom of life. Besides that, focusing on the bad would be reckless, something akin to watching a one hitter and complaining that it wasn’t a perfect game. Besides, I’ve said what I need to say about that, and anything more would be like eating too many corn dogs. I’ve said it many times, but I’ll repeat it here, because clarity is so important. 4 corn dogs is the limit. Any more, and they start to taste like shit. I don’t know why, it just is. You can’t fight city hall; at least that is what they tell me.
Aside from the good times, Borat showed up earlier than expected. (Actually, most of you will wait another week to do what I am doing as I sit up all night writing this. It’s almost 5 a.m. and Borat is on. Is that pathetic or what? Nothing beats bragging about the favors others do for you.) But I only have another hour before getting ready for work, so let me rush to the conclusion of this before the time comes.
Wednesday, February 21
So here I am, smelling the remnants of the night scattered around me. Cigarette butts, lighters, dirty bowls, the works! Not to mention I totally forgot about the Huey Lewis moment in Borat, so that was good. But the fire, the fucking fire, that was the impetus here. The day saw th creation of the aformentioned LCotB, and there will be more about all that soon, but before I finish the last cigarette of the night (about a half hour before I start the first cigarette of the day…) let’s get this done. Motherfucker I’m wordy tonight… Nevermind that. When I reached the oven, thick smoke was pouring out of the vents under the burners. It smelled like lotion and doodoo, and this was unacceptable. Plus, the oven was on fire. Well, not the oven, but the bread in the oven that had been left there when I discovered a lack of fry pans on which to cook my delicious Philly Steak Sub. In one of those moments of being mocked by the idiocy of the situation, the fry pans were all clean, and one was even sitting on the range as if waiting to be applied to heat and used to cook thin sliced Philly Steak. I immediately reached the conclusion that to prevent fires, I would make extra sure to alwaysw keep one fry pan clean. You know, like if you were in the Army, perhaps a member of an elite unit researching why the dead were rising from the grave and becoming flesh eating zombies, you’d never leave the only helicopter’s gas tank unfilled. What if the zombies crashed the gate and tried to eat you? Well?
At any rate, like a total skifooz, I opened the fucking oven door and out comes the heat of the oven riding a think grey smoke. Lotion and doodoo became burning cat hair, or perhaps some kind of old folks home post apocalytic fire. That aside, quick action was needed. I opened windows and doors and watched in a kind of muted horror, waiting for the fire alarm to go off. The fact that it never did was even more surprising, and a little bit worrisome. So, the house is cold, and even now, many hours past the fire, still smells horrible. But at least I knnow why, and that is something in this fucking day and age. Now the movie is over and it is shower time (don’t get too excited, I’d hate for you to get some kind of liquid on your computer. I jest because I love. Anyway, there won’t be much time to write tomorrow, but soon there will be a whole post on my new group. You can’t join though. I’m closing membership except to tramps, thieves, and petty vandals. I’ll tell you why later. But at least you know the story of the founding of the lost children of the bokonists. busy busy busy.
We’re gonna roll tomorrow night, so that should be good. Now, does anyone know how to defunkify a kitchen? It stinks like a pile of burning limbs in here. Goddamn it, do I have to do everything around here?
Filed under: thoughtful trips
OK, my memory is kind of overloaded right now in that rushed sort of way. I’m struggling mightily to try an assemble a clearer narritive of the evening. Laughing at Ving Rhames playing an ambulance driver is not helping. If anything, it’s a bit of a hindrance, because every time the picture starts to clear, Ving says something funny, and I lose my train of thought. As problems go, it is hardly all consuming, but it is somewhat baffling, all things being equal.
On an evening of such distributed elegeance, it was all cigarettes and fine dining. My supposedly well honed instincts (how’s that for an inside joke?) aside, that felt right. I’d throw down an anagram, but running on 3 hours of sleep for the second straight day is getting the best of me, and it is way too complicated to explain in such a way. Still, after the tyranny of the weekend, it feels good to take some time for a smile and one of those extremely satisfied naps. Fuck it man, that was fun. I’d say more, but the words escape me, and I’m still laughing at Ving Rhames. Is that fucking spelled right? I don’t know, but that shit about the power of the Lord and I. B. Bangin’ was funny as shit.
(I’m trying to think of a snazzy ending, but all that comes to mind is the Fred Eaglesmith story about Moose Poo Pie.) That being the case, perhaps it would be a good time to attempt equal stress on all parts. You know, aside from the rain, and of course Ving Rhames bitch-slapping my funny bone for like 45 minutes, this was the bees knees. Fucking shit, I can’t keep my mouth shut at all. It’s a wonder people can’t read me better.
Marcus: I rebuke the spirit of drugs in the name of Jesus. What’s his name?
Drummer: I.B. Bangin’.
Marcus: What you mean I.B. Bangin’?
Drummer: I.B. Bangin’!
Marcus: What the hell kind of name is I.B. Bangin’?
Drummer: I don’t know his real name.
I.B.’s Girlfriend: It’s Frederick Smith.
Marcus: Okay, Freddy…
I.B.’s Girlfriend: It’s Frederick.
Marcus: Okay, I.B. Bangin’, we’re gonna bring you back from the dead.
THEY BROUGHT HIM BACK FROM THE DEAD. Very funny, y’all should watch the movie.
(update the morning after)
It’s the morning, and I am totally preoccupied with something she said about cognition. Hey girl, what does the DSM-IV say about that? HAHAHAHAHAHAHA
Filed under: thoughtful trips
In my dream, I was laughing about something one of the dead white men said a long time ago when i was awoken by the sound of the telephone ringing. In a daze, I answered it with my customary flourish, and demanded what to know what the caller wanted. Near as I can tell, the conversation went something like this;
Me: “Whaddya want?”
Caller: “You care if I stop by? We need to talk.”
Me: “Bout what? I’m still in fucking bed.”
Caller: “Fuck that shit. I ain’t got time to go into detail now, but we need to get some shit straight. Do you remember what you said last night? You talk too much with the wrong fucking words.”
Me: “Just come over, but don’t bring the boukiac with you. I don’t trust her.”
Caller: “See you in ten minutes asshole.”
I sat up in bed, knowing we had finally come to the root of the problem. Truth is, I didn’t remember last night, at least not in the way Mr. Mysterio meant. There had been an argument about something, but who the fuck knows what it was? Not me, that’s for fuck sure. I vaguely recall the guy taking some umbrage at a comment I made, but I couldn’t remember the comment. In all likelihood, there’s going to be hell to pay when the guy gets here. Time to get up and throw on some clean clothes. This situation may well require some ass kissing, and nobody in his right mind kisses ass in pajamas.
After I got downstairs, I sat on the couch and tried to remember what I’d said that was memorable (and evidently hurtful) enough to require a trip to my home on a Sunday morning. Some people have no decency. No decency at all. On the spot, I decided to sandbag the motherfucker to protect my own sanity, as well as my freedom of speech. I went upstairs to put my pajamas back on. There would be no ass kissing this morning. Let me tell you how this is going to be done.
First off, I’d need a diversion. That sonofabitch could arrive at any time, so I jumped in the shower still wearing my jammies. After about 3 seconds, I got out, a little wet, and looking slightly more disheveled. To add to the overall image, I messed up my hair and ripped my t-shirt in a few places. Next, I punched the cement wall as hard as I could, until my knuckles were raw and bleeding. This was coming together nicely. I took a few seconds to admire my disheveled appearence in the mirror and smiled at the sly dog staring back.
However, the illusion wasn’t complete. To finish off the disguise, I scratched the shit out of the back of my hands, and added a few deep scratches to my face. With the sharpest knife I could find, I cut a few lines in my left bicep, then smeared the blood around to make the would look a little older. This motherfucker has no idea what’s about to hit him. If I wasn’t so busy trying to remember what I’d said to the cocksucker, I might even have laughed.
With some ice wrapped up in a dish towel, the illusion was complete. I sat down on the couch, absentmindedly driping blood on the couch. Shit happens, you know? I waited for what seemed like ever for the knock on the door, planning out what to say, and more importantly, how to say it. Eventually, there was a knock on the door.
A voice yelled out from behid the door. “Dude, open up the fucking door. It’s cold as balls out here. I need to talk to you!” This was followed by another set of knocks on the door. Approaching the door, I opened it just enough for the guy to see my wounds, then closed it quickly. He must have been surprised. “No. you can’t come in, you already sent your leg breakers over to rough me up. Fuck you you Jack Daniels swilling sonofabitch. I’ll see you in irons for this.”
From the tone of his voice, I could tell I’d caught him off guard. “Dude! What the fuck are you talking about? I didn’t send nobody over there. I don’t even know any leg breakers.” In the fog, I realized he was right, but why give him the satisfaction? “They bashed me with a mallet of some kind. Cut my cheek, shit they even got blood on the couch. My blood. There will be hell to pay you voracious swine. Get the fuck away or I’ll call the cops. There’s a prison cell with some guy named Judy with your name all over it.”
I had to hold my hands over my mouth to kee from laughing. He gave some feeble rely I couldn’t hear through the door separating us, but the fucker was getting ready to call my bluff. Give him some credit, the guy could yell. He just wasn’t that smart. “Why’d you tell Marissa that Robby said she was a cunt? Tony overheard the comment and went back to Marissa’s fucking sister. She’s screaming bloody murder, all kinds of shit about wanting to cut your balls off. You’re not helping you fucking asshole.”
It took me a minute to figure out how to respond. I couldn’t dispute the facts. I didn’t even know the facts. However, Marissa is indeed a cunt, and there is the chance I might have informed her of said cuntness. Of course, all that aside, the point of the exercise was to make this guy go away. It was time for panic and paranoia. “They cut my cheeks! Threw me in the shower. I think one of them said something anti-semetic. Those rat-fucks even stuck a knife in my gerbil.” (I don’t own a gerbil, but maybe this guy don’t know that.)
“Dude, you don’t even own a gerbil. Open the door, we gotta talk.” He was a cagey fuck, no doubt about it. But I was faster. My answer was already out of my mouth before he finished talking. “Well, not anymore. Now he’s a gerbil with a big hole in his back. I can barely stand to look at the little fucker. If I wasn’t already crying about my wounds, it would bring a tear to my eye. Now just get out of here, you can’t come in, and I have to clean up the mess they made. Call me later.”
All I heard after that was footsteps gradually fading. However, on second thought, I knew I had outsmarted myself. Not only could I not remember what started the whole fracas, but I couldn’t remember why I was so keen to fuck with the guy. The only thing I could think was that it had seemed like a good idea at the time. There was only one thing to do, so I did it. The eggs were good, but the bacon was better. Now do you understand what I’m saying? Like I said, a cagey fuck. Anybody got a cigarette?
From the Journal of Marshmellow Trowell
Some dumb cunt left a used tampon on the dinner table, just sitting there leaking blood all over the fresh fried lobster. Fucking bitch, you can’t trust anyone these days. I found it intensely amusing to watch her try to play dummy as she smoked cigarettes and spit into a bucket on the floor. One thing is for sure; most bitches can’t lie to save their life. Most guys can’t either, but women and men lie differently, and while the guy method is sad and pathetic, the chick variety is amusing and existentially pleasing. However, I draw the line at bleeding all over the dinner table. That shit is hard to clean.
While cunts and cocks certainly differ in certain respects, events have proceeded in a way that has convinced me that when you get down to brass tacks, there is a degree of rich brown bullshit that has to be mastered before anyone can really make any progress in this world. I’d lie and tell you some heartbreaking story about how I learned that particular lesson, but y’all know me too well, and I’d hardly expect anyone to believe it. Instead, let me say a few things about the recent madness that has afflicted my fair city.
First, let’s preface all of this with a simple admission. Due both to my indifference and a lack of opportunity, it’s been a while since I’ve seen a slit. This had been bothering me for a few weeks, but I have now reached catharsis. Of course, this would be the time when you question one of the following issues, trying to find out if I’ve been lying. Were you guessing dick size related confidence issues? Funding shortage? Shortness of breath? Impotence? The encumbrance of depression? None of the above my well scrubbed friend. Well, maybe somewhat.
Of course, I don’t want to offend anybody, so the faint of heart may well desire to skip forward to the next paragraph, becasue what I need to get at cuts right to the heart of the bullshit that has been going on lately. I’ve had enough of it, and it is getting old. We are all such shit. Whether you got tits and slits or pricks and balls, you are wasting your time trying to rationalize the difference between what you got, and what you want. I’m not excepting myself here, I’ve been as bad as the rest of you, worse even in some ways. The only difference is I have NEVER lied to anyone about my being a scumbag. A lot of people think I am a lousy liar. That may or may not be the case. This is not a lie. We’re fucking ourselves to oblivion, and I won’t be a part of it anymore.
So, the real question is not what this other cunt did to the guy I liked, or what this motherfucking dickless fuck stuck me with and left. It’s really fun to cry about. It’s so useful to worry about all the shit we can’t control, and then snap at people because there is no outlet for that fucking anger that replaced the blood in your veins. It’s lovely to lead some fucker on (cock or clit) and then act surprised when shit gets out of hand. Now, sarcasm aside, let me put it to you thusly; You, me, the stranger on the street, even the psycho killer rotting in jail will never, ever get what we deserve. Justice is a great concept, but while you sit worrying about how to find it, the rest of the world says “Fuck it, let’s move on.”
I have about 7 really good friends, and with each one, the conversation has come up about how much of an asshole I am/can be. Trust me (or don’t, whatever) that while I may be nonviolent, I am not down with this time wasting emotional bullshit. This makes me a hypocrit, but I’ll gleefully acknowledge every single one of my faults without the least bit of guilt, so what difference does it make? At any rate, where we? Ah yes, my general point. Aisde from the contentious manner that leads to all of these consequences, the underlying cause is a total misunderstanding of the phrase “enlightened self-interest.” I’d explain it, but if life hasn’t taught you the meaning yet, you’re either inexperienced or too fucking stupid to figure it out now, and nothing I can say will change either of those things.
Now, lest anyone get the idea that your humble author is somehow not as guilty as the rest of the world, let’s cut that shit out right now. I try to be loyal to the people that are with me, and there isn’t any limit on that. To me, loyalty is the only way to express love, and I love my friends. I love the people that give me the their friendship, energy, money, favors, and time. But loyalty and love only goes so far, as we all know. Good intentions and “trying really hard” are not substitutes for the reality of the situation. Your bullshit detector doesn’t seem to be worth much of late, but as far as I know, mine is working fine. Fucking skifooz. You’re of no use to me without a sense of humor.
It seems fashionable to say that “I hate liars” and “people who lie are scumbag motherfuckers” and that sort of thing. Unsaid is the fact that we all lie, we all cheat, we all fuck around when we shouldn’t. My problem is the game of playing the innocent victim is like trying to hold up the wind with a sail. How innocent can anyone be? You didn’t get where you are without making a fuckload of decisions, and pretending there is a conspiracy against you is laughable.
I spent a lot of t ime trying to get my dick into as many slits as possible. Fuck, I still do. Lack of success is no barrier to effort. Ha! But does it take a genius to look around and notice if you spread your legs carelessly, or put your prick in the wrong hole, there are consequences. It ain’t fucking fair he left you with the kid. It ain’t fucking right that your former snatch left for a better deal. So what? Is this news? My choices have been about 50/50. Don’t you think I know every day as I wake up that shit might not have gone my way? But it did, and all the wannabe electricians in the world can’t change that. Now, the junkie perspective may well be a problem, I don’t know. Even if I did, I doubt I would care. As always, I’ll take what comes either way. So you tell me; do you hold someone’s hand as they circle the pishadoo, or look them in the eye and tell them that the hammer is falling? Before you answer, ask yourself this; does it matter? (I’m pretty sure it does, but that’s just me.)
I should end this here, but the speed compels me to continue, and I’m under direct orders to do whatever it says.
Driving on the highway at half past four in the morning, it hit me. There has to be something better out there. I refuse to believe that an orgasm or the rush of an amphetamine is the best that there is. (That doesn’t mean I’m gonna turn down either, but come on, we’re friends, and you know this.) As soon as I realized this, I couldn’t help but smile and laugh. It does make things easier, and far less complicated. Maybe you’re asking what it means. I don’t really know yet. But you and me, we’re gonna keep searching around, and sampling this and that.
In the spirit of friendship, let me propose a deal. You learn to lie a little better, and I may throw you a few fazouls, just for the entertainment value. Like I said, cock or cunt, it doesn’t fucking matter anymore. But if you don’t start being who you are with a little more consistency, I just might have to bring you over for a chat, and it won’t be pleasent for either of us. I can take the worst you have to give. Can you take the worst I have to give? Just remember, I’m not your enemy.
And I never will be.
Filed under: thoughtful trips
There is a man on the television selling confidence by telephone. It takes a few minutes for the image to sink in because my incredulity is so strongly ambient that I can’t even imagine who would call in and buy it. Maybe the misunderstanding is on my side of the highway. There’s so much snow sitting here next to me that this trip has misunderstanding written all over it. Ah, but there’s nobody here, and in the antecedent music running from the speakers, visions of illustrious personages are everywhere. Good friends mix with strangers, the multiplicitous hordes that begin to meld into a single CROWD devoid of individuals. I’m guardedly optimistic, everyone is smiling and milling around, occasionally asking a question or smoking a cigarette, and nobody seems mean or antagonistic.
With so many words crowding my throat at the same time, there is no way to speak clearly, even though I desperately want to say something. The crowd ebbs
and flows, energy surging from one heated discussion to roaring laughter at shared memories. Hearing the old stories from various friends and passer’s by, I want to join in, maybe even be able to share what I have to say. Unable to speak or join in with the shadow figures, I return to my seat to consider shadow speak and illumination. Even without words, I can scream. Would anyone notice if I went outside and threw a brick through my own window? True, there is the chance that nobody would notice because shadows don’t require heat (or glass for that matter.) That could also lead to all sorts of investigations by any number of opportunistic people, something that must be avoided at all costs. Nobody should ever know too much about things nobody can see.Returning to my perch above the din of voices and historically significant strangers, I just sit and listen for awhile, trying to reconfigure enough of a nasal passage to restore balance to my ragged breathing. Where are my cigarettes, and how did they get out of my pocket? Some sonofabitch (probobly me) left them all the way across the room, out of easy reach. All the better, I could use some purposeful movement. The cigarettes availed themselves to fingertips after only five steps, and another three steps led me to a red lighter with a white warning sticker on the side. Much like any veteran smoker, I can light a cigarette with my eyes closed. (Laugh goddamn it! I laugh at all of your jokes, and turnabout is fair play.) As the first jet stream of cold air piles in through the crack in the back door, the tip of the cigarette is transformed by the flame at the tips of my fingers.
Losing focus on the room behind me, I watched a few dogs play in a snowy field, alternatively whistling to see if I could catch their attention and reading from a tattered Chinese menu. Now was not the time for food. Keeping the cigarette going slowly was relfexive, and the only gripe was the silence of the room now that my frenetic attention span had shifted focus yet again. The shadow figures were gone, replaced by a stillness and quiet that was a litte off-setting, if not dismal. Of course, this sudden change in ambience was swiftly followed by the realization that the snow supply would probobly last much longer this way. So cold it could hardly melt…I wish you could have heard me laughing. Even now, I’m smiling my ass off thinking about the situation. Sweet fucking christ, are you
feeling me yet?
(Pause while author gets up and dances for about five minutes while “Dear Mr. Fantasy” plays on the radio.)
Aside from this mini-story about the morning that might have been, there is something else, something not as concrete as wandering through a surprisingly
unfamiliar townhouse. Having avoided really digging into the realities of the current holding pattern, the concept of actually making some sort of movement
in an attempt towards progress seems almost foolish. Honestly, I’m not even quite sure what progress would be. It has become startlingly clear to me that there isn’t anything else I really need. There are a few wants, but nothing frenzied enough for anything more than disarticulation and semantic parsing. Is this perfection? Hardly, but it is much closer to the ideal (for me, this existence might very kill other people, but then again, to live in their existence might very well kill me!) Having tired of the games and drama, it astounds me how fast some people need to move simply to stay alive. The speed is frightening, and the sound they make rushing through existence reminds me of the shriek of fireworks. Of course, I can’t tell anyone else how to live, so if speed is your game, by all means, play on; I’m just saying it ain’t for me.
Let’s get down to brass tacks. My red eyed crystal ball tells me the shifting winds are starting to blow again, and I’m in no mood to evacuate this post until forced out. After making a life or death decision, there was nothing to do afterwards but evaluate what was chosen. I could be hypocritical here and try to make you think there was some kind of clarity to my judgement and imagination, but there wasn’t, at least no less than usual. There isn’t much logic emanating from a cigarette smoker when it comes to subjects like life. The reason are obvious, and needn’t be restated here. That aside, I can’t see any harm offering the thoughts here. What’s the worst that could happen? (Don’t answer that. I like my tradgedy in surprise form, thank you very much.)
Did you ever notice that the people most likely to chastise someone for being too nice are usually rather antagonistic themselves? This has always bothered me. There is a certain indifference about this type of person, something mysterious. It says a lot about the fealty of human nature. Anything that kneels in deference to something else repulses me. I’ll make no claim to being completly selfless. That would be a joke, and only moderatly funny. When it comes a ranking judgement, I’ll choose myself as quickly as anyone else. Pride is such a humanistic concept. Still, wait long enough and the same fate awaits us all. That’s democracy for you.
Trying to navigate some kind of compromise on all of these bigger questions is akin to trying to clean the Aegean Stables with a toothbrush. Good luck you poor deluded bastard. You know what I mean. I’m not dumb enough to believe compromise is intrinsically bad, any more than wealth is intrinsically good. Like everything else in this existence, it is everything and more. It’s just a lot easier than killing people is all I’m saying. (I’d put in a dig towards war in general, but nobody would listen, so suffice it to say supporting war is _________.) Don’t put words in my mouth.
(Another joke, but only laugh if you thought it was funny. I did.)
How long would this have to go on before it finally begins to make sense? Like everyone else, I don’t know. I’m no longer waiting for someone to hold my hand when the scary parts arrive. That was a hard habit to break, and at times it still surfaces like some ugly rash, that scared little fucker stupid enough to believe that disaster is more enjoyable in pairs. I want to laugh at him. Actually, I’d like to shoot him behind the ear so he could stop suffering, but we share the same body and I have a lot to do. (By the way; no comments about compartmentalization. We needn’t dirty the air with polluted ideas like that. Let us not forget what happened when Tony Soprano mixed psychiatry and cunnilingus. It was messy.
(the way things are/they way i want them to be)
What is it all about? Is it always about the same thing? The first question I couldn’t even begin to answer. I’m pretty sure the answer to the second question is no. Despite the purity of purpose in movies and television shows, things have a way of changing so drastically that the search can’t be limited to a singularity. OK, but where does that leave things? Forget the big picture; can’t we try looking at the little one? These kind of connectivity issues are the hardest to solve. Try as we might, it takes forever to even contextualize BIG to small. Maybe it doesn’t fit. Maybe BIG only exists as theory. Maybe the small is what there is, somehow grafted onto the notion of some wider world. These are only guesses, because there isn’t one answer to satisfy the incredible range of possibilities. Anyone who says that life is a test is a wrong. Loyalty is a test. Judgements are a test. Life is not a test. Life has as many answers as you can will into existence. Why get bogged down in minutiae?
It is almost a given facet of faith amongst some. There has to be one right answer. We are here because __________. This means this, and that means that. Some are good, some are bad. There is one or the other. All of this passes for philosophy; never is it labelled as it really is; JUSTIFICATION. The word
itself is too rank too speak in polite society. Amongst the lower classes, it has too many intellectual connotations for it to be successfully used on a wide scale. All of this is the silent moving force that ends with a loud explosion. Does anyone else mind? Why do the smartest always build the biggest bombs? The ones who aren’t building bombs are either trading paper or improvising new contextually appropriate sanctification. We are an amazing species when we want to be. That might explain the current predicament.
I don’t feel like castigating anyone today. Not anyone in particular. The most recent reminder of the kind of warm friendship discussed with my dear friend was marvelous. Streeful situations aside, it was something that hasn’t happened for quite awhile. Someone who burns as many bridges as I cannot claim ignorance of arctic existence, but temporary reminders certainly arouse a longing for some undetermined sense of warmth. Still, looking back over my past history is a cautionary scene. Nobody likes to be the last one to get the joke, and this is no different. On an afternoon like this, with tainted eyes and some remandered melancholia trying to displace such carefully constructed peace, I really don’t want to fight. I don’t have the stomache for anger right now. Here in my home, things are going well, but I am extremely concerned. Stability has a way of breeding complancence, and that could very well wreck everything. I’m almost home free. Things are close to harmony, and to disrupt that for small hands and that beautiful smile is….well, it isn’t really an option right now. Still, a lack of discipline on my part would be nothing new. Is it right, or smart? Who are yougonna trust if not me? Ah, but my baby knows all the ways to keep me wanting more.
———————————————-
“I remember you well in the Chelsea Hotel
you were famous, your heart was a legend.
You told me again you preferred handsome men
but for me you would make an exception.
And clenching your fist for the ones like us
who are oppressed by the figures of beauty,
you fixed yourself, you said, “Well never mind,
we are ugly but we have the music.”
(“chelsea hotel” by l. cohen)
Filed under: love n' luck
I was cruising on some counterfeit enjoyment stolen from some nameless apparition. Sweating pure laughter, trying to remember the latin history of the word oomhaloskepsis and then forgetting why it seemed so madly important only moments before. Screaming obscenities in a non-antagonistic voice, there was real hope to establish some false sense of dominance over the current malaise. Whether or not the hope was misplaced is a matter for some unbiased outside entity to decide, seeing as how I’m both intimately involved with the situation as well as of unsound mind, at least momentarily. However, in the proud tradition of exposing the talismanic nature of suburban argumentations, let it be known that there is no cause for concern, only the rational enjoyment of post-modern pleasures wrapped in curious rhetoric. Nevermore, nevermore.
The hazards of this type of indisriminately salacious thinking are twofold; first, a tendency to over-embellish the importance of a given event, and second, a marked decrease in the ability to make qualitative judgements about intransigent properties. In some kind of shuddery, nebulous process totally divorced from the passage of narrative reality, amorphous movements represent something deeper and more concrete than they appear. The more obvious tie-in to some mental product placement taking cues from the volumnous DSM or basic Freudian monolith previously discarded would bore even the most studious amongst us, not to get ahead of ourselves. If this is really about symbolic connections, there are easier ways of breaking the code than talking about it. Laugh and nod, it is the coin of the realm.
Meandering through the umpteen thousandth reenactment of the weekday ritual was the Tuesday attitude so repugnant to all of the finer social gatherings and Lexus driver’s. First reports of snow came on the same wavelength as quickly moving theories revolving around the identity of a mysterious stranger I saw knocking on doors and surveying the locals yesterday. When he came to knock on the front door, I had a sudden paranoid sensation that something was amiss. Nobody in their right mind knocks on doors in the early afternoon while the temerature is so low. There was only one reason anyone would do such a masochistic thing. Money. Seeing his shadow creep up the path to the door, a sense of total aversion wracked any plan to open the door and query the stranger as to his purpose. Perhaps I was afraid of frightening the stranger, as I had no money to donate and no wish to support some half baked cause fighting injustice on the part of some oppressed partisans. There was no time for that, and besides, injustice should be fought in small groups and individually. Anything else is just organized mayhem with positive intent.
There should be a cigarette sometime soon. With a horizon of narcoleptic fantasy, the paranoia will pass, equisite though it may be. Certainly there is no time like the present for unencumbered aesthetics and the slow movement of warm winds. The scent of coconut or some island smell ripe with violent colors and pastel notations eases off the irrelevent forays into falsehood and ambiguity. This is the kind of clarity that spills over from a dream to the waking life. This fantastic combination of momentary amnesiacs surreptitiously embracing the complex subtleties of ambient ethnography. Nobody likes the long winded version splashed with references to artistic works of obscure writers, but ending with a cigarette should prove my dedication to disregarding prurient standards and self-destructive practices. Not that it matters, but whatever happened to “all this and more.”? Waiting for the first snowflakes to hit the ground, it is one too many contradictions. This label isn’t big enough for all of them, and nobody reads warning labels anymore. Too cliche, like the end of a movie fading to black.
