Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Monday, February 26, 2007
Little fluffy clouds
It was as nice as one could hope for late-February, I suppose, blue skies and the black mounds in the gutter bleeding into the streets, the rot of winter brushed out onto the plains with a wind that warmed us with a tease of Spring. The huddling away and faces tucked under collars was gone, replaced with easy conversation, the weather and then other things, heads tilting back to take it all in, bathing in the caress of a sun that has been far too infrequent this season. The mass psychosis that has gripped everyone tired of swinging a snow shovel suddenly slipped to the sidewalk and smiles arose like daffodil petals, stretching out to meet the sunlight.
Little fluffy clouds shuttling across the sky like little sailboats, sails full to edge towards the east. I watched them grow into triremes or frigates in the swirling shipyard above me, built in the wind and the inevitability of whatever weather travelled in their wake, swirling eddys and snowflakes that never ended up on the ground here. Better them than us, I thought, then wished them the best; whatever whisps we've sent them built up in the towers of a cummulus is, I hoped, an announcement of better things. The gift of the crocus, the lilly, and then the inevitible iris and buds on trees, the hazy green glow amongst the cracks against the winter horizon.
Three more weeks and then we're free and clear, I think, except the weather has been weird: Global Warming seems to have to have tossed us all a gutter ball. Armadillos and weird weeds and bugs, oh yeah, get used to the bugs. Glad we're all Americans.
Which entirely explains Condaleeza Rice.
All I know is that pitchers and catchers have been called up, the rest report in two weeks and opening day is April Fool's Day. Better days ahead, yes, but when you're a foot deep in water where it's not supposed to be, I doubt opening day means much; just ask the folks in New Orleans. A year and a half later and they still haven't seen the springtime, the rot of winter still lingering. Baseball goes on as a city dies.
Deny that a city dies, deny that a planet grows warmer due to human activity, deny that things have not gotten worse in the last seven years and then watch the clouds travel to the east, little fluffy clouds, tornadoes in Alabama but they sure look pretty here.
(cheat)
Little fluffy clouds shuttling across the sky like little sailboats, sails full to edge towards the east. I watched them grow into triremes or frigates in the swirling shipyard above me, built in the wind and the inevitability of whatever weather travelled in their wake, swirling eddys and snowflakes that never ended up on the ground here. Better them than us, I thought, then wished them the best; whatever whisps we've sent them built up in the towers of a cummulus is, I hoped, an announcement of better things. The gift of the crocus, the lilly, and then the inevitible iris and buds on trees, the hazy green glow amongst the cracks against the winter horizon.
Three more weeks and then we're free and clear, I think, except the weather has been weird: Global Warming seems to have to have tossed us all a gutter ball. Armadillos and weird weeds and bugs, oh yeah, get used to the bugs. Glad we're all Americans.
Little by little she had been discovering the uncertainty of her husband's step, his mood changes, the gaps in his memory, his recent habit of sobbing while he slept, but she did not identify as these as the unequivocal signs of final decay but rather as the happy return to childhood. That was why she did not treat him like a difficult old man but as a senile baby, and that deception was providential for the two of them because it put them beyond the reach of pity*.
Which entirely explains Condaleeza Rice.
All I know is that pitchers and catchers have been called up, the rest report in two weeks and opening day is April Fool's Day. Better days ahead, yes, but when you're a foot deep in water where it's not supposed to be, I doubt opening day means much; just ask the folks in New Orleans. A year and a half later and they still haven't seen the springtime, the rot of winter still lingering. Baseball goes on as a city dies.
Deny that a city dies, deny that a planet grows warmer due to human activity, deny that things have not gotten worse in the last seven years and then watch the clouds travel to the east, little fluffy clouds, tornadoes in Alabama but they sure look pretty here.
(cheat)
Silly Idol
OK, so I'm as much of an American Idol geek as the next person. And my insights this week aren't earth shattering: the guys sucked, the white chicks sucked. Period. Jordan is my girl. Lamika is great, Melinda Doolittle is awesome, but I'm pulling for Jordan. Love me some Chris Sligh, but he'll get himself a career regardless.
One of my biggest beefs with the show are the mostly awful song choices. If I hear "Ribbon in the Sky" one more time I think I'll yank my intestines out through my nose with a crochet hook. One reason I love Jordan is that she picked a Joan Armatrading tune! Thank you Jeeeezus.
But what I will never, ever understand about this show is the concept of having the LOSERS "sing one more time". Huh?? "America" has just told you that you are the worst of the worst, the silt at the bottom of my gas tank, the nose goblins under Stimpy's desk.... and yet we want to hear you again? No, the point is that we NEVER want to hear you again!
And can someone please instruct Ryan Seacrest on the fine art of contestant elimination? He either pulls the band-aid off one hair at a time, or he offhandedly informs the stunned victim that he or she is heading home with about the same amount of drama in his voice that he'd use to say "Um, you've got spinach in your teeth."
So... that's my Idol wrap up for this week. The show that makes TiVO worth every penny I spend on it.
One of my biggest beefs with the show are the mostly awful song choices. If I hear "Ribbon in the Sky" one more time I think I'll yank my intestines out through my nose with a crochet hook. One reason I love Jordan is that she picked a Joan Armatrading tune! Thank you Jeeeezus.
But what I will never, ever understand about this show is the concept of having the LOSERS "sing one more time". Huh?? "America" has just told you that you are the worst of the worst, the silt at the bottom of my gas tank, the nose goblins under Stimpy's desk.... and yet we want to hear you again? No, the point is that we NEVER want to hear you again!
And can someone please instruct Ryan Seacrest on the fine art of contestant elimination? He either pulls the band-aid off one hair at a time, or he offhandedly informs the stunned victim that he or she is heading home with about the same amount of drama in his voice that he'd use to say "Um, you've got spinach in your teeth."
So... that's my Idol wrap up for this week. The show that makes TiVO worth every penny I spend on it.
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Bend so you don't break
I remember it was a warm evening for February. I drove with the windows down all the way through town, and under the underpass near the railroad tracks--the same underpass that was notorious for catching trucks whose drivers weren't thinking about the height of their vehicles until it was suddenly too late.
My roommate, Angela, and I drove out of town and on to the winding gravel side roads… I don't recall--now some 30 years later--much else except that I wrecked my car. I knocked down a few trees and went through a fence. I think the windshield was busted, the roof and a door was caved in and the car had to be towed.
I think we were probably both just limber enough that evening to avoid injury.
The police came, no tickets were issued and no ambulances were called. A friend of my came by in the midst of all this and gave us a ride to my boyfriend's house.
I know that it took 3 or 4 weeks to repair my car. During that time, I borrowed my boyfriend's car and/or van to get back and forth to my job at the local newspaper.
I asked my mother, just this morning, what she recalled about this particular incident. She said she knew alcohol must have been involved because Angela and I were always drinking and getting into things.
I don't recall having that conversation, 30 years ago. I asked her--point blank--did she say anything to that effect, when I had the accident.
"No," she said. "Because it wouldn't have made any difference."
(cheat)
My roommate, Angela, and I drove out of town and on to the winding gravel side roads… I don't recall--now some 30 years later--much else except that I wrecked my car. I knocked down a few trees and went through a fence. I think the windshield was busted, the roof and a door was caved in and the car had to be towed.
I think we were probably both just limber enough that evening to avoid injury.
The police came, no tickets were issued and no ambulances were called. A friend of my came by in the midst of all this and gave us a ride to my boyfriend's house.
I know that it took 3 or 4 weeks to repair my car. During that time, I borrowed my boyfriend's car and/or van to get back and forth to my job at the local newspaper.
I asked my mother, just this morning, what she recalled about this particular incident. She said she knew alcohol must have been involved because Angela and I were always drinking and getting into things.
I don't recall having that conversation, 30 years ago. I asked her--point blank--did she say anything to that effect, when I had the accident.
"No," she said. "Because it wouldn't have made any difference."
(cheat)
Bend so you don't break
It had been a gray, damp afternoon, the air oppressive and humid. John and I had hooked up with a couple really young girls, high school seniors from a local prep-school and figured we were going to have a huge old time. Most of the afternoon was spent trying to chase down some acid and what we finally found was extremely week. It was all we could get.
By time we started hiking up the canyon, the sun was setting and it was completely dark when we arrived at the perch above the waterfall. Rain was falling steady and the four of us stood up there, soaked and shivering. We passed a bottle of tequilla around to stay warm.
Though the acid was weak, we'd taken enough to get a bit of a trip. There's something about LSD that makes me glib and often times, caustic, as if my filter has been completely ripped away. As we scrambled around trying to build a fire so we'd have something to huddle around, I said some rather unkind things to John, things bitter enough to really piss him off. The girls were losing patience with us. Freezing, wet, and now fighting, still no fire, they had to be wondering why they'd followed us up there.
At some point, on the rain-slick rocks and enough acid and tequilla in me to make my footing unceertain, I started to fall back. John reached out and grabbed me, preventing my fall. I clutched his arm and steadied myself, thanked him; and everything was fine.
We finally got a little fire started and coupled up. Finished the tequilla, doused the fire, and walked back down the canyon. The girls held on to us as we went blindly through the brush back to the car. We drove back to my place in silence.
The next day, John and I went back up the canyon, I think we'd left something up there. When we arrived back to our perch, I looked at where I'd almost fallen. It was a about an eighty foot drop onto sharp rocks. I'd have certainly been killed. John didn't say anything, I don't even know if he realized he'd saved my life. Looking at where we'd been, I realized it had been insane to be up there, in complete darkness, drunk and tripping.
We never saw those girls again. John and I went on to do many more insane things together, saving each other's lives.
By time we started hiking up the canyon, the sun was setting and it was completely dark when we arrived at the perch above the waterfall. Rain was falling steady and the four of us stood up there, soaked and shivering. We passed a bottle of tequilla around to stay warm.
Though the acid was weak, we'd taken enough to get a bit of a trip. There's something about LSD that makes me glib and often times, caustic, as if my filter has been completely ripped away. As we scrambled around trying to build a fire so we'd have something to huddle around, I said some rather unkind things to John, things bitter enough to really piss him off. The girls were losing patience with us. Freezing, wet, and now fighting, still no fire, they had to be wondering why they'd followed us up there.
At some point, on the rain-slick rocks and enough acid and tequilla in me to make my footing unceertain, I started to fall back. John reached out and grabbed me, preventing my fall. I clutched his arm and steadied myself, thanked him; and everything was fine.
We finally got a little fire started and coupled up. Finished the tequilla, doused the fire, and walked back down the canyon. The girls held on to us as we went blindly through the brush back to the car. We drove back to my place in silence.
The next day, John and I went back up the canyon, I think we'd left something up there. When we arrived back to our perch, I looked at where I'd almost fallen. It was a about an eighty foot drop onto sharp rocks. I'd have certainly been killed. John didn't say anything, I don't even know if he realized he'd saved my life. Looking at where we'd been, I realized it had been insane to be up there, in complete darkness, drunk and tripping.
We never saw those girls again. John and I went on to do many more insane things together, saving each other's lives.
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Mother Nature Strikes Again
I’d planned on walking to the coffee shop today to get out of the house, but it appears we’re having an ice storm. Plans thwarted.
Worse, I’m out of cat food, Pablo is flipping out, and I hate driving on ice. Tonight is going to rule.
UPDATE: The question of the night is what you can do when you halfway expect the power to go out. So far I’ve broken out a ton of ancient make-up and painted blue eyeshadow up to my eyebrows. Thankfully I am home alone.
UPDATE II: Apparently tonight’s plans include cleaning out the closet and starving the cats. Not like it isn’t good for them.
(cheat)
Worse, I’m out of cat food, Pablo is flipping out, and I hate driving on ice. Tonight is going to rule.
UPDATE: The question of the night is what you can do when you halfway expect the power to go out. So far I’ve broken out a ton of ancient make-up and painted blue eyeshadow up to my eyebrows. Thankfully I am home alone.
UPDATE II: Apparently tonight’s plans include cleaning out the closet and starving the cats. Not like it isn’t good for them.
(cheat)
Mother Nature Strikes Again
Snot dripping everywhere, down shirt fronts, on the tops of cups, slick and green on the roads. Beh-huh, beh-huh, *snort sniffle snort* this thing is bigger than the Rocky Mountains, much bigger than brunettes in thigh-high boots, and even bigger than the time/space continuum wiped on the side of a chair. You're welcome to it, I'm done.
Update: Everything sucks but at leat I can't smell any of it. Why are my neighbors loud and ugly? They need to be shot.
Update II: The neighbors were gunned down by me but the cops decided it was justifiable. I agreed and went back to bed. Sweet slumber.
(cheat)
Update: Everything sucks but at leat I can't smell any of it. Why are my neighbors loud and ugly? They need to be shot.
Update II: The neighbors were gunned down by me but the cops decided it was justifiable. I agreed and went back to bed. Sweet slumber.
(cheat)
Today you get three which is actually illegal in some dry counties
Damn near forgot that today's the day we're all supposed to be posting our "mystery themes". For those of you who sat out this mixmania! because you were too busy solving world hunger and global warming, just keep pretending you're reading and pointing to the screen to remind those walking by that you're "hep" and "mod" and one of those who pretend to read me and point at your monitor. One of THEM.
My Chaquita Mamacita
Mixmaster Sterfish
K? Sarah-Sarah....
alala la la lalala la
Thee comely Emily
Oh, so really Cyli
My doobie bruddah, Duble Jerry
~d~d~d~damn you HAWT
All the math that mathers
My love the Soiled Dove
Da' buggy, punchy one
Oh mama, redneck Goddess
Right Said, Smed
Gah-gah-gah-got cow, now?
To the credit of my patient and precious (lovessss our precioussss, we do) mix recipient, my theme is actually "pulled my head out of my ass and finally mailed the damn thing" and a testament to my willingness to shit where I eat.
Interesting as that might be as a mix, I'm not that original. My theme is:
Desperation.
Small wonder.
My Chaquita Mamacita
Mixmaster Sterfish
K? Sarah-Sarah....
alala la la lalala la
Thee comely Emily
Oh, so really Cyli
My doobie bruddah, Duble Jerry
~d~d~d~damn you HAWT
All the math that mathers
My love the Soiled Dove
Da' buggy, punchy one
Oh mama, redneck Goddess
Right Said, Smed
Gah-gah-gah-got cow, now?
To the credit of my patient and precious (lovessss our precioussss, we do) mix recipient, my theme is actually "pulled my head out of my ass and finally mailed the damn thing" and a testament to my willingness to shit where I eat.
Interesting as that might be as a mix, I'm not that original. My theme is:
Desperation.
Small wonder.
Shaddup
Some of you have noticed I've been comotose (noticably, the glimmering, glorious Vicki who has miraculously impregnated me with a baby that I will carry to term and then donate to our Jupeterian masters who intend to, you know, slice and dice the tyke), especially those of you who lost the bet. Those of you who didn't notice were busy rooting for holes to put Anna Nicole's body into and weren't reading me. Bahamas. US. Go USA. Believe me, I haven't been rah-rahing. Retching maybe but not because I'd also fed on the corpse of The Rose of America (she wasn't on ice! YUM!!!) but because another bug hit me.
Defeating the odds (four out five doctors say, four out of five doctors say), a week later after swimming in snot, I found myself shivering under blankets in pools of sweat.
So there you have it. That and I was on a secret mission in Central America buying cocaine to trade for guns and nuclear technology and whores who look like my sixth-grade teacher, Mrs. Martinez. The whole trip would have been worth it for finding her and telling her, hey, I finally read "When Worlds Collide" all the way through and I still think it sucks. Boning a faux her, better still.
But here I am and in a shameless ploy to trap the unintended, the beheaded and the been too dark, deep, dumb to know it. In the spirit of the 'Mystery Mixmania!' (and the action figures that have been produced since), I'm going to post twice everyday for the next week.
I know, you're like "Jim - are you huffing gasoline?" And in fact I am - hell, why else would I make this promise? SHeee-YOU, let's have a cigarette and think about this.
Don't get you woodies all a-slather and slivered. Twice a day I'm going to post something of mine and something from someone else and then you can decide if it's mine or someone else's (hint: the other post is the one not typed by the chimp that, statistically, missed Shakespeare completely).
The person who guesses why I did this by next Monday gets my special secret second side of my Mystery mix, the one where, if you play it in the dark with your eyes closed and your fingers in your ears, yelling "DA DA DA, I'M NOT HEARING YOU" really loud, is a different CD than the one I sent to my match. Either that or endless postcards telling you your prize is on it's way but previous versions have been recalled for their tendency to fly across the room as if they're badgers ripping out of a cage. And you have tuna smeared on your face and your wrists are duct-taped to your ankles. That kind of recall; like the exploding Pintos, the gray goo, the decapitating Australian booroo outback blades rimmed with puffer fish poison.
Not only guess why I did this but guess what it all means. It all means, man, this, that, and everything else. So make you guesses now. The scores will be tabulated and made available to the AnImAliZed YuNG TeEn In pEril people.
Considering my taste for seeing yung-ian cheerleaders animalized, you have no one but yourselves to blame.
Defeating the odds (four out five doctors say, four out of five doctors say), a week later after swimming in snot, I found myself shivering under blankets in pools of sweat.
So there you have it. That and I was on a secret mission in Central America buying cocaine to trade for guns and nuclear technology and whores who look like my sixth-grade teacher, Mrs. Martinez. The whole trip would have been worth it for finding her and telling her, hey, I finally read "When Worlds Collide" all the way through and I still think it sucks. Boning a faux her, better still.
But here I am and in a shameless ploy to trap the unintended, the beheaded and the been too dark, deep, dumb to know it. In the spirit of the 'Mystery Mixmania!' (and the action figures that have been produced since), I'm going to post twice everyday for the next week.
I know, you're like "Jim - are you huffing gasoline?" And in fact I am - hell, why else would I make this promise? SHeee-YOU, let's have a cigarette and think about this.
Don't get you woodies all a-slather and slivered. Twice a day I'm going to post something of mine and something from someone else and then you can decide if it's mine or someone else's (hint: the other post is the one not typed by the chimp that, statistically, missed Shakespeare completely).
The person who guesses why I did this by next Monday gets my special secret second side of my Mystery mix, the one where, if you play it in the dark with your eyes closed and your fingers in your ears, yelling "DA DA DA, I'M NOT HEARING YOU" really loud, is a different CD than the one I sent to my match. Either that or endless postcards telling you your prize is on it's way but previous versions have been recalled for their tendency to fly across the room as if they're badgers ripping out of a cage. And you have tuna smeared on your face and your wrists are duct-taped to your ankles. That kind of recall; like the exploding Pintos, the gray goo, the decapitating Australian booroo outback blades rimmed with puffer fish poison.
Not only guess why I did this but guess what it all means. It all means, man, this, that, and everything else. So make you guesses now. The scores will be tabulated and made available to the AnImAliZed YuNG TeEn In pEril people.
Considering my taste for seeing yung-ian cheerleaders animalized, you have no one but yourselves to blame.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
“Wahhhh” is me
Steady snowfall right now, fat flakes as arid and brittle as flecks of ancient parchment settling on the lid of some forgotten tomb. It’s like that here, stuck and lost in some room of the pyramids, eating a shoe, freezing so bad you’ll piss all over yourself just to get instantaneously warm. The winter of the oh-six oh-seven pissfest. A lot of smoking and body spray, that winter.
When the Nobel Prize committee comes asking me for my nomination, the inventor of heated car seats is at the top of my list. My ass is warm and although it might feel like I’ve pissed my pants, I actually haven’t (usually).
If Sudafed wasn’t propping me up to report any of this, I doubt you’d be reading it. Not unless I got up and sleep-wrote and the chances of that happening are about as good as me sleep-washing-and-folding-and-putting-it-all-away laundry action. Ergo, you’re either reading this by the magic of cold medicine or threatened by my somnambulant stumble, arms outstretched and fingers dangling threateningly (your leg must be broken if you can’t outrun a zombie).
Sunday night I was feeling that "uh-oh, I'm getting that “vague malaise but definitely a cold” thing and sure enough, when I got up Monday morning, the ick was in full-swing. Working and sleeping has been the extent of my last two days.
Considering twenty feet of snow in New York and dangerous tornadoes all over the place, yeah, "wahhhh is me”. X tells me Marni has had a 103 temp all day and as much as that kills me, it's my broken toe, your broken leg. Shut up already about it, my toe fucking hurts.
When the Nobel Prize committee comes asking me for my nomination, the inventor of heated car seats is at the top of my list. My ass is warm and although it might feel like I’ve pissed my pants, I actually haven’t (usually).
If Sudafed wasn’t propping me up to report any of this, I doubt you’d be reading it. Not unless I got up and sleep-wrote and the chances of that happening are about as good as me sleep-washing-and-folding-and-putting-it-all-away laundry action. Ergo, you’re either reading this by the magic of cold medicine or threatened by my somnambulant stumble, arms outstretched and fingers dangling threateningly (your leg must be broken if you can’t outrun a zombie).
Sunday night I was feeling that "uh-oh, I'm getting that “vague malaise but definitely a cold” thing and sure enough, when I got up Monday morning, the ick was in full-swing. Working and sleeping has been the extent of my last two days.
Considering twenty feet of snow in New York and dangerous tornadoes all over the place, yeah, "wahhhh is me”. X tells me Marni has had a 103 temp all day and as much as that kills me, it's my broken toe, your broken leg. Shut up already about it, my toe fucking hurts.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Ketamine
There is probably a million among none of you who remember that summer when I was bringing vials of Ketamine to anyone who’d have them. Them with bud and those that'd just jam a milligram into a muscle and wonder where they'd end up, them that got a taste of dimension K for no other reason than being in proximity of A and B. Them that went to it and then felt the wind ripping past their fingertips as they fell into it.
My buddy John called that exprerience "It" because really, there's nothing to call it, really. Experiencing the entire life of a butterfly in a few seconds or realizing what some Hindu deity did in another dimension, the key to the secret of everything that matters. Something dirty smelling, blood-soaked soil and the essence of pure light, really; some thing, the it and the rest, bits of life strewn down a dark unknown street, shimmering on junk oil in a gutter, chipped stars tipped to this side and that by jet tadpoles swimming in another mirror sky looking back. That it there, thrtipping through the uni-verthe.
Once I was standing in the patio of a Spanish Villa, the bricks of the patio slick beneath my feet, looking at a fountain, listening to the sound of splashing water echoed across the compound, staring at the stars that screamed for me to return. I'd just been the Number 6 or something, for some time, and suddenly it was a warm night, exquisite, in balance, alive. The echo of a fountain resounded all around me, the chatter of falling water calling back from the soft shadows that rimmed the plaza. I could feel humidity glistening on my skin, the tiles of the piazza slick with dew, bits of moss clinging tenaciously to the lines of grout fed by the damp air.
Each breath I took was heavy, verdant with its immediacy, full, deep, the clarity of the cloudless night sky above steeped with the complete experience of my vision. There I was, in it, the thick of it, dripping off me; then it spun me off into something else, plunged headlong into some other corner of the universe, without knowledge nor even an indication of what I needed to navigate the next labyrinth. The unforgiving and uncaring It that tosses everyone objectively across space/time with no concern with where the dice will land.
It was that full-bore condition of the trip that, I think, made most people uncomfortable. In the summer of lost hours, I remember people embracing the vials and almost immediately rejecting the effect, their fear of losing who they acyually were a litle too much for them to handle. A little E and some weed, big booze tossed back forcefully while kneeling in piss – all that was fine, safe. Getting ripped from here to there and no face to show the universe, well, that was tolerable. But a K-Hole is real, more real than you’ll ever know; the ‘more real’ part that scared the be-jeebus out of of almost anyone who fell into it. Not junkies but adventurers. Being a junkie just requires getting lost inside one’s self; in a K-Hole, 'Self' is discarded with cold disregard. Poof, it’s gone, the rest of you go there, now. Then there and there and so on.
After that, back to earth. Feeling a bit vertically challenged sure, (kinda' shitfaced drunk) but otherwise intact, mind body and soul. Whatever Rubick's Cube minds remain in disarray and unsolved - I mean, someone's always switching the stickers and shit anyway, checking the answers, flipping the paper back and forth, sereptitiously, like no one's looking.
It was a weird summer and things shifted in chaotic ways. John said he'd suck my cock; so did his girlfriend, Jane. Just to jam something into muscles and go away for an hour. John claimed it improved sex with Jane and she swore it cured her migraines. Not junkies but them, then, scrabbling and scratching, scratching, the itch, fill it, please, whatever it takes. Junkies keep scratching but as far as I was concerned, so do the rest of us; sucking cock and curing our headaches.
My buddy John called that exprerience "It" because really, there's nothing to call it, really. Experiencing the entire life of a butterfly in a few seconds or realizing what some Hindu deity did in another dimension, the key to the secret of everything that matters. Something dirty smelling, blood-soaked soil and the essence of pure light, really; some thing, the it and the rest, bits of life strewn down a dark unknown street, shimmering on junk oil in a gutter, chipped stars tipped to this side and that by jet tadpoles swimming in another mirror sky looking back. That it there, thrtipping through the uni-verthe.
Once I was standing in the patio of a Spanish Villa, the bricks of the patio slick beneath my feet, looking at a fountain, listening to the sound of splashing water echoed across the compound, staring at the stars that screamed for me to return. I'd just been the Number 6 or something, for some time, and suddenly it was a warm night, exquisite, in balance, alive. The echo of a fountain resounded all around me, the chatter of falling water calling back from the soft shadows that rimmed the plaza. I could feel humidity glistening on my skin, the tiles of the piazza slick with dew, bits of moss clinging tenaciously to the lines of grout fed by the damp air.
Each breath I took was heavy, verdant with its immediacy, full, deep, the clarity of the cloudless night sky above steeped with the complete experience of my vision. There I was, in it, the thick of it, dripping off me; then it spun me off into something else, plunged headlong into some other corner of the universe, without knowledge nor even an indication of what I needed to navigate the next labyrinth. The unforgiving and uncaring It that tosses everyone objectively across space/time with no concern with where the dice will land.
It was that full-bore condition of the trip that, I think, made most people uncomfortable. In the summer of lost hours, I remember people embracing the vials and almost immediately rejecting the effect, their fear of losing who they acyually were a litle too much for them to handle. A little E and some weed, big booze tossed back forcefully while kneeling in piss – all that was fine, safe. Getting ripped from here to there and no face to show the universe, well, that was tolerable. But a K-Hole is real, more real than you’ll ever know; the ‘more real’ part that scared the be-jeebus out of of almost anyone who fell into it. Not junkies but adventurers. Being a junkie just requires getting lost inside one’s self; in a K-Hole, 'Self' is discarded with cold disregard. Poof, it’s gone, the rest of you go there, now. Then there and there and so on.
After that, back to earth. Feeling a bit vertically challenged sure, (kinda' shitfaced drunk) but otherwise intact, mind body and soul. Whatever Rubick's Cube minds remain in disarray and unsolved - I mean, someone's always switching the stickers and shit anyway, checking the answers, flipping the paper back and forth, sereptitiously, like no one's looking.
It was a weird summer and things shifted in chaotic ways. John said he'd suck my cock; so did his girlfriend, Jane. Just to jam something into muscles and go away for an hour. John claimed it improved sex with Jane and she swore it cured her migraines. Not junkies but them, then, scrabbling and scratching, scratching, the itch, fill it, please, whatever it takes. Junkies keep scratching but as far as I was concerned, so do the rest of us; sucking cock and curing our headaches.
Monday, February 05, 2007
Spin the bottle, pass the kiss, whisper in my ear
As I’ve gloated before, I’m going to BlogHer by harpoon, stabbed through and tethered to the 12 or so hours it takes to get to Chicago via one of the nabobs, Grace, not Ishmael. She may snag her white whale/elephant/weasel but we all know who gets it in the end. When Mamacita writes about finally meeting Grace and me, she’ll mention Grace’s spinning pupils and uncontrollable shaking while my big teeth, grin, and the fact that I blow air and water out of a hole in the top of my head will certainly get talked about a lot. No mention of sleeping with a Samoan, I'm sure (mostly because it would be like, get on with it, PLEASE)
(MA MA SEE TAH, EYE KEED, EYE KEED, EES JUAN POOR CHOKE, JESS?).
This is fair warning to Grace: fill your ashtray full of Xanex and keep a .38 revolver underneath your seat for the sake of occasionally pointing that puppy at me and screaming, “Shut up your inane chatter, NOW!” Maybe twin tanks of oxygen and nitrous, too, I can suck the spirit out of a room. I’d suggest a sock in my mouth and duct tape but I’ll inevitably choke to death which would lead to the inevitable explaining of the body and why it was kicked out the side door at 70 miles an hour.
Don’t tell but the best plan is to hit me up with a hefty shot of Demerol and hand me a bottle of brandy. Let me smoke in the car (yes!) and then wait until I slide into a drooling heap onto the floormats. Pry me off like a wad of gum and then plant my comatose carcass on a bench in the St. Louis bus terminal. Same concept there, just different sides of the bench. SSSssshhhh, Since Grace don't read this blog nevah nohow, titah nevah know; she's just pickin' me up like a three-headed cow fetus in a jar full of formaldehyde.
And since no one reads me in general, my secret’s secure. Grace will be flying into Chicago with the bats, you can rest assured that Mamacita’s reports will be accurate (except her sin of omission on the Samoan) and I’ll be rubbing Carmex around the rim of my blowhole while I type dispatches from the bitch bitching thing. Much like I am now, except I’m using ChapStick on the hole in the top of my head and I’m not in Chicago and I haven’t had a gun pointed at me recently. Certainly no bitches, dawg.
Not true. I have some loyal readers, people of good character (for the most part, from what I can tell) but questionable taste. A cool community nonetheless - I’d love to have coffee with one and all, get bank and routing information from them, credit card numbers, grab their grandmother’s jewelry, if you know what I mean. I’m not quite sure I do.
The media certainly doesn’t either; a call for the beheading, shooting, stabbing, and raping the corpse of President George Bush would (bring in the NSA and then the FBI, boost my traffic!) attract a million times the attention my last post got. My few loyal readers would be likewise investigated, probed (light some candles! Open some wine!), shipped off to Gitmo for a state-sponsored blogger party. And – there goes my loyal following; buh-bye.
My plans for Blogher 07 involves fire hoses, German Shepards, stun batons, mace, rubber bullets, tear gas, and several cases of Stroh’s. Not in any particular order. If the government is going to confuse the Cartoon Network’s blinking advertisements for terrorist bombs, then surely a convention of female bloggers entails some lezbo blitz on everything that makes us all what we are – paranoid and bigoted. Only a bad (or poor) American wouldn’t feel like rioting in Chicago. In the summer. With a nice breeze coming across the lake.
After I set everything on fire, a local friend plans to have a dinner party for all us fire-setting bloggers. We're supposed to bring every bit of charred flesh we've managed to achieve with our rubber-band and balsa wood airplanes, rhetoric, and ta deum. Sheesh, she’s lived there six months and apparently she still hasn’t found good BBQ. Well, she'll by god get around this summer. My goal is to get everyone arrested, for one reason or another. Cuz' sister, you're not American until you've been arrested.
(MA MA SEE TAH, EYE KEED, EYE KEED, EES JUAN POOR CHOKE, JESS?).
This is fair warning to Grace: fill your ashtray full of Xanex and keep a .38 revolver underneath your seat for the sake of occasionally pointing that puppy at me and screaming, “Shut up your inane chatter, NOW!” Maybe twin tanks of oxygen and nitrous, too, I can suck the spirit out of a room. I’d suggest a sock in my mouth and duct tape but I’ll inevitably choke to death which would lead to the inevitable explaining of the body and why it was kicked out the side door at 70 miles an hour.
Don’t tell but the best plan is to hit me up with a hefty shot of Demerol and hand me a bottle of brandy. Let me smoke in the car (yes!) and then wait until I slide into a drooling heap onto the floormats. Pry me off like a wad of gum and then plant my comatose carcass on a bench in the St. Louis bus terminal. Same concept there, just different sides of the bench. SSSssshhhh, Since Grace don't read this blog nevah nohow, titah nevah know; she's just pickin' me up like a three-headed cow fetus in a jar full of formaldehyde.
And since no one reads me in general, my secret’s secure. Grace will be flying into Chicago with the bats, you can rest assured that Mamacita’s reports will be accurate (except her sin of omission on the Samoan) and I’ll be rubbing Carmex around the rim of my blowhole while I type dispatches from the bitch bitching thing. Much like I am now, except I’m using ChapStick on the hole in the top of my head and I’m not in Chicago and I haven’t had a gun pointed at me recently. Certainly no bitches, dawg.
Not true. I have some loyal readers, people of good character (for the most part, from what I can tell) but questionable taste. A cool community nonetheless - I’d love to have coffee with one and all, get bank and routing information from them, credit card numbers, grab their grandmother’s jewelry, if you know what I mean. I’m not quite sure I do.
The media certainly doesn’t either; a call for the beheading, shooting, stabbing, and raping the corpse of President George Bush would (bring in the NSA and then the FBI, boost my traffic!) attract a million times the attention my last post got. My few loyal readers would be likewise investigated, probed (light some candles! Open some wine!), shipped off to Gitmo for a state-sponsored blogger party. And – there goes my loyal following; buh-bye.
My plans for Blogher 07 involves fire hoses, German Shepards, stun batons, mace, rubber bullets, tear gas, and several cases of Stroh’s. Not in any particular order. If the government is going to confuse the Cartoon Network’s blinking advertisements for terrorist bombs, then surely a convention of female bloggers entails some lezbo blitz on everything that makes us all what we are – paranoid and bigoted. Only a bad (or poor) American wouldn’t feel like rioting in Chicago. In the summer. With a nice breeze coming across the lake.
After I set everything on fire, a local friend plans to have a dinner party for all us fire-setting bloggers. We're supposed to bring every bit of charred flesh we've managed to achieve with our rubber-band and balsa wood airplanes, rhetoric, and ta deum. Sheesh, she’s lived there six months and apparently she still hasn’t found good BBQ. Well, she'll by god get around this summer. My goal is to get everyone arrested, for one reason or another. Cuz' sister, you're not American until you've been arrested.
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