I wished my family would go away every day the day I went to east Texas to wander through the woods for no reason. I ended up kicking aluminum cans older than me and laughing at couches rotting way past my dues.
My uncle had insisted.
It was his Property.
Just like that. Capital boring letters. THE PROPERTY. Let's drive two hours to see THE PROPERTY.
He called me "Hollywood". I was a magic elixer and we would forget that we had all forgot my mother like some inheritance gold. Sorry, mother. I'm sure you never enjoyed this place, despite the way your brother insisted that you did. You died in the north. The north is filled with places like this. To such an extent, that they're annoying. You'd call us in when we played in woods like these. How could you enjoy them?
Lighten up. I made the mistake of wearing sunglasses and nice clothes. I had been to Santa Monica Blvd., once, and I hated it. But they called me "Hollywood". Probably because I wasn't impressed by the woods.
I could have been looking for a real job. Or bothering pretty girls on Guadalupe St. But I was wandering the woods like I did for 3 years when I was 15 and high all the time. An insatiable appetite filled me apathetically.
"Your mother loved these woods." He said to me.
Bullshit. I know because I hate these woods. As they stop to take every picture like a grandfather dying from brain cancer holding the youngest grandchild. We both know it's bullshit as we waste our time and the worthless dog sniffs the roots. Had I brought my gun, I think, I could've at least shot some cans.
"This is a pine." They say, as everyone crowds around digging a plant with nothing special about it. This land drags me down.
"Look how old this can is." Says a cousin-in-law holding a 7-up piece of trash. She's worthless. At first I thought her red hair was a nice change but she revealed herself to be boring as hell. She asked me to quickly explain the book "Guns, Germs, and Steel." I lost her when she said it sounded "Too liberal." I didn't ask her what she meant, just smiled and ate my dinner.
They fell further behind as I walked faster along barbed wire fences towards the road by the car filled with brownies on THE PROPERTY. UCLA is a joke, and if I'm Hollywood, no one loves me. This is my country. Finally, my family emerges, only described as wearing bright colors fearing the next door neighbor who happens to be a washed up country music star, might shoot them. Don't shoot them.
Didn't you hear? My mother loved these woods.
It's some ground we bought back in '72. The neighbors call to buy the lumber. But I never saw any trees worth cutting.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Saturday, November 21, 2009
But one fiend at a time
I'm the boy in the room with a hole the size of a fist punched through the door at the end of the hall. The year I realized the girl who sat in front of me, Julie, wore a thong, I smoked enough marijuana to come home completely detached from reality everyday but in tune enough to sit somberly in front of a television older than me and have silent tears drift down my cheeks.
I'm not sure what the tears were for. But outside the sky tore itself apart with snow and other cold things like wind, while my father tinkered around in the kitchen.
The winter was quiet enough to hear him chew his crackers through two well constructed stories and a hollow bodied door and one old television dubbed over with "Obscured by Clouds." When he peeled an orange it would wake me.
Trees croaked with blankets of snow, and wind was thankfully loud enough to drown out the sound of his throat clearing. Somewhere, though, I could hear a gripped pen in a white knuckled fist giving me D's and F's. Leaned back in my home, back pressed against fist-punched walls within the Water's soundscape, I could hear my punishment from the future. Future father would say,
"C's are a disgrace."
And the house would creak, quiet enough for socks three rooms over to grind against a carpet and wake everyone from a deep sleep. Hidden girlfriends would huddle under covers and their soft voices would be hushed by their loves. Drunk sons head upstairs to deposit drugs first, and secondly they would warm food in microwaves while above their light stomachs and heads, a father would pace from bathroom to bed. Kidney stones are better than divorces and widows. The silent pain from a kidney stone eventually fades.
Grey pants sit on my floor. Lone socks converse in the corner. Dances with shadows on my chair. A light wind blows outside, cutting through the snow on the trees. It falls like lint from a belly to the bathroom floor. Harmless. Somewhere a single hand detached from all that is youth slips an envelope into the bin. Only name is marked for my father.
I am in the woods laughing with my friends like the last day of school.
A sun slowly sets over the individually ordered houses. Everyday and it's nothing different. The same cars driving come by like old women at a pants sale. A cyan backs into the driveway. Dark grey parks along the street. Tires being more costly than convenience. I try to stay away.
Non-ringed hand reaches into the mailbox. I pull on some resin. His hands tear open the envelope filled with C's.
Some days later and I'm sitting in the Prague, slowly sipping Pilsner Urquel and laughing with a Czech blond about the desolate ways of Minnesota.
I'm not sure what the tears were for. But outside the sky tore itself apart with snow and other cold things like wind, while my father tinkered around in the kitchen.
The winter was quiet enough to hear him chew his crackers through two well constructed stories and a hollow bodied door and one old television dubbed over with "Obscured by Clouds." When he peeled an orange it would wake me.
Trees croaked with blankets of snow, and wind was thankfully loud enough to drown out the sound of his throat clearing. Somewhere, though, I could hear a gripped pen in a white knuckled fist giving me D's and F's. Leaned back in my home, back pressed against fist-punched walls within the Water's soundscape, I could hear my punishment from the future. Future father would say,
"C's are a disgrace."
And the house would creak, quiet enough for socks three rooms over to grind against a carpet and wake everyone from a deep sleep. Hidden girlfriends would huddle under covers and their soft voices would be hushed by their loves. Drunk sons head upstairs to deposit drugs first, and secondly they would warm food in microwaves while above their light stomachs and heads, a father would pace from bathroom to bed. Kidney stones are better than divorces and widows. The silent pain from a kidney stone eventually fades.
Grey pants sit on my floor. Lone socks converse in the corner. Dances with shadows on my chair. A light wind blows outside, cutting through the snow on the trees. It falls like lint from a belly to the bathroom floor. Harmless. Somewhere a single hand detached from all that is youth slips an envelope into the bin. Only name is marked for my father.
I am in the woods laughing with my friends like the last day of school.
A sun slowly sets over the individually ordered houses. Everyday and it's nothing different. The same cars driving come by like old women at a pants sale. A cyan backs into the driveway. Dark grey parks along the street. Tires being more costly than convenience. I try to stay away.
Non-ringed hand reaches into the mailbox. I pull on some resin. His hands tear open the envelope filled with C's.
Some days later and I'm sitting in the Prague, slowly sipping Pilsner Urquel and laughing with a Czech blond about the desolate ways of Minnesota.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
To The Winds Pity, Who Sigh Back Again
Part of the bed again. It didn't matter. The bed was beginning to feel like a part of me. I wasn't sure what month or day it was. Or what year really, but that didn't matter either. I awoke confused, thinking of how this bed and its sweaty pillow knew me better than I knew myself these days. And I vaguely wondered how I had returned home, to a place in the past long gone and dead, with people who I didn't know anymore, and who were miles and miles away. But time is funny like that, I am certain that it is not a straight one way road. But more of an intersecting rotary, where you can get on and off in different areas any time you choose.
Because I was certain that I was home again. I could feel the cold air of New England winter snuffing my nose, the great exhale of winter. Despite twenty or thirty passing since I had last returned, I didn't particularly care how I was back. Or how I was a young man again. And I didn't want to open my eyes for a while, even after waking.
Because with them closed, I could feel the old room of my childhood, tucked away in the far corner of the big, cold house, safe and secure. In my mind, it was winter, and snow was silently falling onto the frozen hill of our court yard, and I could see the passing plows pushing snow in the street, blocking the driveway which would no doubt upset my dad when he got home from work at 5:30 as my brother and I played video games. Probably a football game, as it was the season.
We'd be there, Polar bear.
Then I could feel my cellphone in my pocket, even though I hadn't had a phone until I was twenty, and suddenly I was older, and it was vacation time at the university. I was walking under burned and ambered leaves which feel the air to their deaths on the ground every septemeber. It had been years since I was even in a climate which had an autumn. But there I was, within the laughter of the living youth, crossing the streets with books tucked under my arms and my black winter cap pulled tightly down over my long hair. I rubbed my chin, and felt a goatee which I hadn't sported since I was an optimistic, smiling student.
Chipping away, Polar bear.
Taken from my prime, I awoke with a gurgling sound. I was back in the present now, and my eye lids felt very heavy. My lips are sour sandpaper. I was in my bed, before a great window which I always insisted stay unobstructed so I could view the weather. Bedridden, and rarely speaking, I sat before this portal to the living, every day now, watching the weather change. It was the best television I could ask for. The acting was fantastic. Mailmen drive by with their holiday surprises. Couples holding each other in a lovely way that made anyone watching forget all the terrible news that wouldn't matter in another few days. Thrombotic thrombocytopenic purpura. Polycythemia vera. Idiopathic myelofibrosis. Whats a few more weeks. Months. Such a wonderful time.
And more and more, as the bed began to mold to my skin, I felt at peace with the way things had come to be. No bitterness or spite in my thoughts, for I could always escape to the happier times of splendor in my mind, where time was just a ride that I could climb upon and go wherever I had been and where I will always be.
I'll always be there, Polar bear.
And I thought to myself sometimes, this must be what Christ had felt, on his lonesome cross, waiting for his own weight to crush his lungs and choke on himself as the weather slowly moved overhead. Probably hoping to fade and disappear into the wood. Left alone with thoughts and too much time, watching the weather move. I closed my eyes, and saw the sunlight making strange patterns through the rushing blood in my eyelids. Flowing like the blood in my veins. My white cells drifting through the rivers of platelets, dying. Drifting already dead. Millions of little white corpses in my body.
Polar bears starving on drifting islands of ice.
I was gracefully back in my younger self again. My clothes wore tight on my muscular arms, and a scarf was tied tight around my neck to protect against the wind which wept from the thick forest. I was on a back porch somewhere in autumn again, at a pub it seemed. And around me were the beautiful women I had surrounded myself with when I had the charm and wit to do so. And we laughed and drank from pitchers of beer, smoking cigarettes like chimneys and telling stories in our thick accents like we did at least once a year in the valley. The whole world lay before us a virgin, young and unfulfilled. And we were the youth, bright eyed and dangerously innocent. Only concerned with each others smiles.
Just wanted to say thank you for being here with me. As I lay on my own cross. Right now my skin feels like its on fire. Can you get a sunburn with out being in the sun? Did Christ's skin blister and whither like leather, dead armadillos on the side of the road pounded by rubber into pavement under hot skies? The birds circling looking for a meal. The birds wouldn't get me. And they didn't get the Son either, because they took him down. But they would've. The birds take the bones. Break on rocks like oysters for the soft marrow. Such a wonderful time. God, I hate birds. I always hated birds.
Do Polar bears eat birds?
Because I was certain that I was home again. I could feel the cold air of New England winter snuffing my nose, the great exhale of winter. Despite twenty or thirty passing since I had last returned, I didn't particularly care how I was back. Or how I was a young man again. And I didn't want to open my eyes for a while, even after waking.
Because with them closed, I could feel the old room of my childhood, tucked away in the far corner of the big, cold house, safe and secure. In my mind, it was winter, and snow was silently falling onto the frozen hill of our court yard, and I could see the passing plows pushing snow in the street, blocking the driveway which would no doubt upset my dad when he got home from work at 5:30 as my brother and I played video games. Probably a football game, as it was the season.
We'd be there, Polar bear.
Then I could feel my cellphone in my pocket, even though I hadn't had a phone until I was twenty, and suddenly I was older, and it was vacation time at the university. I was walking under burned and ambered leaves which feel the air to their deaths on the ground every septemeber. It had been years since I was even in a climate which had an autumn. But there I was, within the laughter of the living youth, crossing the streets with books tucked under my arms and my black winter cap pulled tightly down over my long hair. I rubbed my chin, and felt a goatee which I hadn't sported since I was an optimistic, smiling student.
Chipping away, Polar bear.
Taken from my prime, I awoke with a gurgling sound. I was back in the present now, and my eye lids felt very heavy. My lips are sour sandpaper. I was in my bed, before a great window which I always insisted stay unobstructed so I could view the weather. Bedridden, and rarely speaking, I sat before this portal to the living, every day now, watching the weather change. It was the best television I could ask for. The acting was fantastic. Mailmen drive by with their holiday surprises. Couples holding each other in a lovely way that made anyone watching forget all the terrible news that wouldn't matter in another few days. Thrombotic thrombocytopenic purpura. Polycythemia vera. Idiopathic myelofibrosis. Whats a few more weeks. Months. Such a wonderful time.
And more and more, as the bed began to mold to my skin, I felt at peace with the way things had come to be. No bitterness or spite in my thoughts, for I could always escape to the happier times of splendor in my mind, where time was just a ride that I could climb upon and go wherever I had been and where I will always be.
I'll always be there, Polar bear.
And I thought to myself sometimes, this must be what Christ had felt, on his lonesome cross, waiting for his own weight to crush his lungs and choke on himself as the weather slowly moved overhead. Probably hoping to fade and disappear into the wood. Left alone with thoughts and too much time, watching the weather move. I closed my eyes, and saw the sunlight making strange patterns through the rushing blood in my eyelids. Flowing like the blood in my veins. My white cells drifting through the rivers of platelets, dying. Drifting already dead. Millions of little white corpses in my body.
Polar bears starving on drifting islands of ice.
I was gracefully back in my younger self again. My clothes wore tight on my muscular arms, and a scarf was tied tight around my neck to protect against the wind which wept from the thick forest. I was on a back porch somewhere in autumn again, at a pub it seemed. And around me were the beautiful women I had surrounded myself with when I had the charm and wit to do so. And we laughed and drank from pitchers of beer, smoking cigarettes like chimneys and telling stories in our thick accents like we did at least once a year in the valley. The whole world lay before us a virgin, young and unfulfilled. And we were the youth, bright eyed and dangerously innocent. Only concerned with each others smiles.
Just wanted to say thank you for being here with me. As I lay on my own cross. Right now my skin feels like its on fire. Can you get a sunburn with out being in the sun? Did Christ's skin blister and whither like leather, dead armadillos on the side of the road pounded by rubber into pavement under hot skies? The birds circling looking for a meal. The birds wouldn't get me. And they didn't get the Son either, because they took him down. But they would've. The birds take the bones. Break on rocks like oysters for the soft marrow. Such a wonderful time. God, I hate birds. I always hated birds.
Do Polar bears eat birds?
Hell is Empty and all the Devils are Here
It always rained on the days I would pack all my earthly belongings into my car and leave my life behind to go somewhere else. A year ago, Lars and I walked out from a girlfriends house on a rainy morning in the Massachusetts valley. I exchanged a much familiar awkward embrace with her before we left, gently tickling her bare feet as she lay in bed looking up at me before I left all my regrets with her. We ate a rainy breakfast with Lars' sister on campus for the last time, then pulled into a department store bathroom with water dripping off of us. We washed up and proceeded to drive eleven hours to Ohio through the gray roads of Conneticut and Pennsylvania. Pennsylvania is soggy, boring state. Some states are more annoying than boring, like Nevada, Wyoming and New Mexico. But Pennsylvania and Nebraska are boring. It rained again when we got to Nebraska. That storm had almost killed us.
But now that I was in Eugene, Oregon, rain was expected. Dismal for eight months of the year, the twenty something year olds which seem to run the place are content to stand still in the moving universe. Egotiscally grasping at the straws of its past, Eugene longs for a time which in hindsight seemed better than it actually was. The bare downtown streets are brightly naked during the day, dusty and bleak. Bare of any semblance of evolving life or an economy. Until night falls, and the bars open up. Then the streets would fill with complacent shadows of people who refused to grow up. Purple jackets, blue hair, facial tattoos, leather pants, dreadlocks, drifters, beggars, tweakers, homosexuals, gypsies, buyers and sellers. It was like Neverland. Everyone was a Peter Pan.
I had moved 3 times in the year I lived in Eugene. And the pathetic streets of downtown always remained my true home. My last night in town, the two female bartenders I had befriended my first night a year earlier looked at me with somber eyes. Brimming with tears, they crossed the threshold of the counter and hugged me as I stood to leave. How fitting. Their best customer was leaving.
My friends did the same. My friends-- a collection of people I had gathered in the last twelve months. They were sad to see me go. My brother thought I was a fool for even arriving.
He couldn't believe I had made it a year in Eugene. The town was dying fast, and it would never recover. Even with the university, there was not much life blood rushing through its veins. The economy was absurdly non existent. The roads cracked and uneven. People happily sitting back on their $9/hour jobs. Homeless on the corners. A harsh smell in the air lamenting the advent of a new season. Trees were starting to get that sickly look as they danced with autumnal death. I had experienced the worst luck of my life in the last sixty days. I was homeless. My breakfast waffles were in the shape of Texas. The writing was on the wall.
When your breakfast tells you to do something, you do it. Close your eyes and let the chips fall where they may. So Austin it was. A new place to start a new life. The polarity of Eugene, Austin was hot, big, growing. Positive. And if I could survive in Eugene, I could make it in any American city. This time on the road would be different. For some day, we all shall find our buddhas of love beneath this illusion of life. For the road is life. And it beckons.
But now that I was in Eugene, Oregon, rain was expected. Dismal for eight months of the year, the twenty something year olds which seem to run the place are content to stand still in the moving universe. Egotiscally grasping at the straws of its past, Eugene longs for a time which in hindsight seemed better than it actually was. The bare downtown streets are brightly naked during the day, dusty and bleak. Bare of any semblance of evolving life or an economy. Until night falls, and the bars open up. Then the streets would fill with complacent shadows of people who refused to grow up. Purple jackets, blue hair, facial tattoos, leather pants, dreadlocks, drifters, beggars, tweakers, homosexuals, gypsies, buyers and sellers. It was like Neverland. Everyone was a Peter Pan.
I had moved 3 times in the year I lived in Eugene. And the pathetic streets of downtown always remained my true home. My last night in town, the two female bartenders I had befriended my first night a year earlier looked at me with somber eyes. Brimming with tears, they crossed the threshold of the counter and hugged me as I stood to leave. How fitting. Their best customer was leaving.
My friends did the same. My friends-- a collection of people I had gathered in the last twelve months. They were sad to see me go. My brother thought I was a fool for even arriving.
He couldn't believe I had made it a year in Eugene. The town was dying fast, and it would never recover. Even with the university, there was not much life blood rushing through its veins. The economy was absurdly non existent. The roads cracked and uneven. People happily sitting back on their $9/hour jobs. Homeless on the corners. A harsh smell in the air lamenting the advent of a new season. Trees were starting to get that sickly look as they danced with autumnal death. I had experienced the worst luck of my life in the last sixty days. I was homeless. My breakfast waffles were in the shape of Texas. The writing was on the wall.
When your breakfast tells you to do something, you do it. Close your eyes and let the chips fall where they may. So Austin it was. A new place to start a new life. The polarity of Eugene, Austin was hot, big, growing. Positive. And if I could survive in Eugene, I could make it in any American city. This time on the road would be different. For some day, we all shall find our buddhas of love beneath this illusion of life. For the road is life. And it beckons.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Even here I will put off my Hope
It was right after the summer when swine flu broke out and before the president won the nobel prize when some guy was handing out coupons for Diablo's Cantina on the Las Vegas strip. We stopped and collected a few. Apparently house margaritas were only 3$ inside. He also handed us some free passes to the roof. We looked up onto the porch and saw girls in stockings and lacy bikini tops dancing on tables. Flames roared skyward. Red bathing suits hugged asses. Had to be uncomfortable. But what did I know?
The coupons were significant because we had just returned from the Bellagio. We had ordered 2 mixed drinks at the bar for a ridiculous price. I was traveling across the country, from Oregon to Texas. I only ate magical granola protein cubes from health food stores. I only drank alcohol and free water. There was a recession. 2009.
For the second time in a year, I left my life behind. I couldn't afford to sit at the Bellagio hotel bar drinking 11$ bourbons.
I went into Diablo's and I led us to the bar. We sat next to a couple of girls and a guy. The bartender came buy and I ordered two blue margaritas.
"Noooo...." My brother yelled behind me. I turned.
"House margaritas are the shitty ones. They're 3$. The blue ones are full price." He grimaced.
The bartender returned. The tab was 22$. "Marcus, pick up this tab, will ya?" I said to him. He made an angry sound and handed over a few twenties.
"Proximity alert." Marcus said to me suddenly. The black haired girl next to me was trying to start a conversation with us. Whenever women approached us for no reason in particular, usually with their back to us, they hoped for conversation. Her pants were torn at the knees. I wondered if she had holes in everything she owned.
I was wearing a red leather jacket. She reached out and caressed my sleeve. "Hey, hands off the merchandise." I said to her.
She laughed. "I'm so glad you guys aren't creepy...I've had the creepiest guys sitting next to me all night." She said to me. This I could understand. She reached out to any guy. There was no father with her. Her mother was sipping Patron from a large glass with a water chaser.
"Where are you staying?" She asked. I told her our hotel, not trying to impress her. She bought me a shot of tequilla. My fried sat in between us, motioning for me to pull up a seat. He couldn't see that she was already mine. So I ignored them both. I talked to a rich blond with a giant margarita. I convinced her she was a unique snow flake as she poured red pomegranite flavored alcohol into my empty glass and my mouth and all over the bar. Her fiance was not impressed.
A flash is off in my face and I set down my glass. I am alone with the women and they ask for my picture. As is custom, I stick out my tongue and try to lick the young one's face. She knows my game, she knows she is mine. She licks my face. Then my tongue. Somewhere in Colorado, there is an 18 year old girl with pictures of me. Her tongue is like a chewed piece of bazooka joe that I had forgotten how sugarless it can be. especially in the desert air. Her mother laughs and takes more pictures.
She gives me her number and I promise to call as I head upstairs to the VIP room. I'll text her later. But I end up drinking 9 Keystones outside The Excaliber as my phone weeps, "come get me, come get me"- Las Vegas Jackie.
Marcus went to the bathroom. A hand on my shoulder asked me for a picture. It was a dark haired girl and a mother.
The coupons were significant because we had just returned from the Bellagio. We had ordered 2 mixed drinks at the bar for a ridiculous price. I was traveling across the country, from Oregon to Texas. I only ate magical granola protein cubes from health food stores. I only drank alcohol and free water. There was a recession. 2009.
For the second time in a year, I left my life behind. I couldn't afford to sit at the Bellagio hotel bar drinking 11$ bourbons.
I went into Diablo's and I led us to the bar. We sat next to a couple of girls and a guy. The bartender came buy and I ordered two blue margaritas.
"Noooo...." My brother yelled behind me. I turned.
"House margaritas are the shitty ones. They're 3$. The blue ones are full price." He grimaced.
The bartender returned. The tab was 22$. "Marcus, pick up this tab, will ya?" I said to him. He made an angry sound and handed over a few twenties.
"Proximity alert." Marcus said to me suddenly. The black haired girl next to me was trying to start a conversation with us. Whenever women approached us for no reason in particular, usually with their back to us, they hoped for conversation. Her pants were torn at the knees. I wondered if she had holes in everything she owned.
I was wearing a red leather jacket. She reached out and caressed my sleeve. "Hey, hands off the merchandise." I said to her.
She laughed. "I'm so glad you guys aren't creepy...I've had the creepiest guys sitting next to me all night." She said to me. This I could understand. She reached out to any guy. There was no father with her. Her mother was sipping Patron from a large glass with a water chaser.
"Where are you staying?" She asked. I told her our hotel, not trying to impress her. She bought me a shot of tequilla. My fried sat in between us, motioning for me to pull up a seat. He couldn't see that she was already mine. So I ignored them both. I talked to a rich blond with a giant margarita. I convinced her she was a unique snow flake as she poured red pomegranite flavored alcohol into my empty glass and my mouth and all over the bar. Her fiance was not impressed.
A flash is off in my face and I set down my glass. I am alone with the women and they ask for my picture. As is custom, I stick out my tongue and try to lick the young one's face. She knows my game, she knows she is mine. She licks my face. Then my tongue. Somewhere in Colorado, there is an 18 year old girl with pictures of me. Her tongue is like a chewed piece of bazooka joe that I had forgotten how sugarless it can be. especially in the desert air. Her mother laughs and takes more pictures.
She gives me her number and I promise to call as I head upstairs to the VIP room. I'll text her later. But I end up drinking 9 Keystones outside The Excaliber as my phone weeps, "come get me, come get me"- Las Vegas Jackie.
Marcus went to the bathroom. A hand on my shoulder asked me for a picture. It was a dark haired girl and a mother.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Field Report
I had a bad case going. When one pines for a single woman, and in doing so attempts to get closer to her, displaying neediness and lowering his value, he results in pushing her away--this is known as Oneitis.
Fortunately there is a cure. The cure is to go out and find as many other women as possible.
Marcus and I shotgunned some beers before we headed out. Usually this is not a good idea, because for most people gaming women is not as effective when drunk. But we weren't most people. I pounded two cheap beers quickly. Marcus had three. He was trying to beat his record he set the previous night of shotgunning three beers in six minutes.
Eight minutes later we were on the corner of Broadway and Olive where we ran into Jorge as he smoked a cigarette outside our favorite bar on the street.
"Why aren't you on the smoking patio?" I asked him as we approached.
Jorge shrugged. "I don't like that crowd. Plus there's just fat people." He said in disgust. A bartender from inside was on the street, and she came up and commented on my jacket. It was red leather and a size too small, much like Michael Jackson's from his video 'Thriller'. She caressed it. I said "thanks." That's the best answer a confident person can give to a compliment.
Jorge finished his cigarette and we walked inside. A girl with a lot of tattoos was checking i.d.'s. I had gamed her a few weeks ago, but had forgotten her name. She smiled, recognizing me, and let me in right away. "I like your tattoo." I said. "Reminds me of a comic book."
We strode to the bar and Jorge bought us all drinks. I realized that he was already rather drunk. Apparently he had been there for an hour or so, drinking tequilla and PBR by himself. We talked at the bar, as Marcus played scout and checked out potential targets. It was still rather early, so we laid low and got a little drunker.
Jorge was talking about his new band when I spotted a 8.5 at the bar. Blond with gigantic breasts. "Marcus," I said, "go open up that Blond 8.5 set." He looked at me, with his back to the bar.
"Where?" He asked.
"Behind you, center of the bar." He turned slightly. I notice the blond checking us out. We made eye contact, a definite sign that she was interested in meeting us. This was understandable.
I was wearing a green hat to compliment my red leather jacket over a tight black t-shirt and a lot of cheap necklaces. Marcus was wearing a purple patchwork velvet jacket that I had loaned him, an expensive black hat, and a neon green undershirt. Even for Eugene, we looked ridiculous. The night before, a group of girls had approached Marcus and I as we played pool and asked if it was okay to get their pictures taken with us.
Our experiments over the last week had proved that looks did not matter much, at least for men. Social value was much more important.
"Ok." He said. "I've been toying with a new opener. I'm going to test it out." He walked over to her. Jorge gave me a strange look.
"You know," he said, "I like talking to you guys about music and shit because you're so cool. But when you start talking about opening sets and shit, it kind of creeps me out."
"Don't worry, buddy." I reassured him. "It's just a glorified hobby."
Marcus and the blond were talking up a storm at the bar. He was confidently motioning with his hands and the blond was leaning in towards him, smiling brightly.
"I just think that gaming people is gay." Jorge said. He was drunk.
"Perhaps." I told him. "It's completely superficial. Almost devious. But how many phone numbers have you gotten in the last week?" I asked him. It was a mean thing to say, but Jorge needed the message. I had gotten 6 numbers in the last 5 days. Marcus 8.
Marcus returned. "How'd it go?" I asked him.
"Good. Lindsay, I think." He said.
"Very nice. She definitely looked like she was into you." I said.
"Yeah she was. I told her I had to get back to my friends as a bunch of people she knew came by."
"I'd like to open some mixed sets with some guys involved." I said, searching for targets.
"Why?" Jorge asked.
"Good practice," I answered.
"How do you get girls in groups of guys?" Jorge questioned.
"Basically just give a lot of attention to the guys. Make them know you're not stealing their turf when that's exactly what your doing. Let them think they're the alpha male. Ignore the girls essentially, except to neg them."
"Really? Ignore the girls?" Jorge asked.
"Definitely. They're all dolled up, looking pretty. And this guy comes up and completely ignores them? They'll wonder what the deal is. They'll fight for your attention. And it demonstrates social value." Marcus said.
"Or they'll think you're gay." I said, which happened almost often to me. "Especially in this town."
We decided to head out to the smoking porch. On the way out I noticed a brunette 8 standing at the bar by herself. I stopped to order a drink and opened her.
"Hey, I need your opinion," I said as I ordered a Guiness draft.
"Okay!" She smiled. 90% of women loved to give their opinions.
"What's the difference between this bar, and the Horsehead across the street? People keep telling me to check it out because they think I'd love it." This was a lie.
She started telling me about it, and her favorite spots around town. I eventually got around to reading her palm, and she loved the vague cliches and truisms. I told her it was great to meet her, but that I had to get back to my friends outside. This was true. She smiled and we exchanged phone numbers.
I walked out onto the porch and noticed Marcus and Jorge were in a 2 set with a couple of 9's. I was impressed, but didn't want to interrupt so I walked right by them without acknowledging the group and immediately approached a 2 set of girls sitting by themselves in the back of the patio.
I couldn't think of an opener, so I just sat down at their table. They turned to me and smiled. I noticed they were 7's at best, probably low self esteem girls. I didn't need an opener for them; they were glad enough that a man of my stature had approached them.
I asked them how they felt about the end of summer, and we began conversing about things we'd done the last few months. I paid more attention to the unattractive one, who was named Leanor, instead of the slightly cuter blond girl. Suddenly I saw a couple of my friends enter the porch. Ben put both arms in the air and shouted my name. Mike, who was painfully shy and awkward around strangers, was in tow. Shit.
Ben came over and slapped me on the back. He was drunk. He sat down and I introduced my friends to the ladies. I had forgotten the slightly cuter girl's name, which worked well as a neg. It showed that I wasn't interested enough to remember her name, even though I remembered the clearly less attractive Leanor.
Ben began talking to me about something ridiculous, and the girls turned away. Soon they stood and left, saying good bye to me. Granted, it was a weak set, two 7's, but I still hated being cock blocked.
Marcus and Jorge had finished their set and came to our table, greeting everybody.
"Nice set." I said.
"Elysia." Marcus said. "I don't have my phone with me, but she wrote down her number and winery she works at. She said we should come visit." Mike and Ben looked shocked and awed.
"She's standing over there with a girlfriend still, so no one react in case she sees. Good work, Marcus." I said.
"You got her number?" Mike asked, his jaw still open.
Marcus nodded. "We're practicing to become social artists." I explained to Mike. "It's basically using psychology and social principles to our advantage."
"Wow. I wish I could be a social artist." Mike said sadly.
"It's a piece of cake. Watch, go up to this girl behind us and ask her if pork is white meat or red meat." I told him.
"What? Why?" Mike asked.
"It'll get a conversation started. And it really doesn't matter what you say, but rather how you say it. The point is, is just to get two strangers talking." I explained.
"No, I'm not doing that." Mike said.
"Meh, fine." I stood up and walked over to her. She was a blond 7.5.
"Hey," I said, "my friend and I are having an argument. I used to work in a deli," (this was true) "and he thinks that pork is white meat, whereas I'm saying it's red," (this was a lie), "what do you think?" She smiled, and as it turned out she was an avid hunter. So was one of my good friends. We ended up talking for a while, and I demonstrated higher value until she started leaning into me and touching me.
"Hands off the merchandise." I told her, and she laughed.
"Too bad none of those couches are open. I totally wanna go sit down over there with you." She said to me.
"Well, tell you what, you go buy us some drinks and I'll try to find us a quieter place to talk." I told her, and off she went.
I returned to my group briefly. Mike was in awe.
"Man, I can only admire your magic." He said.
"Magic? It's not magic." Marcus declared. "Pick any group of people out here, and I'll go open them up."
"Ok...that group right there." Ben pointed to a large set. Five girls it seemed. Two of them were high value targets, a couple of 8's. Marcus smiled and went over to their table. I made my way back inside to try to find the girl with my drink.
I walked inside but couldn't find her among the crowd. The bar was getting more popular as it got later and townies got drunker. I made my way to the bathroom and took a leak. On the way back I noticed blue lights flashing from outside. The police were around for some reason. I ran into Marcus as I made my way back to the patio. He handed me a fresh beer.
"What's with the cops?" I asked.
"I don't know. I think some street rats got into a fight outside or something."
We walked back onto the porch. I noticed three blond girls sitting by themselves at a table to my right. I decided to take advantage of the police so I approached and asked them if they knew what was going on. Two of the three girls were attractive. I decided to make the brunette my target, as I generally was more attracted to the dark haired rather than light haired.
Apparently some drifters had beaten up a tweeker on crutches. I joked if that was why I saw a man with crutches running away. They all laughed. I negged my target, telling her friends that "You can dress her up, but you can't take her out, huh?" Again they all laughed. I was standing above their set, and needed to get onto equal ground quickly.
"Let me show you something," I said, motioning for my target to stand up.
"What?" She asked suspiciously.
"Are you adventurous?"
"Yes." She replied.
"Spontaneous?"
"Yes." She replied.
"Want to get your palm read?" I asked.
"Yeah!" She said.
"Alright, stand up first of all." She stood.
I grabbed her hands and pulled her by me, then stole her seat.
"Hey!" She said, laughing.
"Don't worry, I'm an Indian giver. I'll give it back." I replied. "Now, which hand do you write with?"
Her friends laughed, and turned to judge my target's reaction. Clearly she wasn't used to this kind of stuff. The social artist is always an exception.
I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned around. It was Sarah, a friend of a friend.
"Vlad!" She cried out. "Be a gentleman! Give her her seat back!" She shook her head in disgust.
Goddamnit, I thought. Everyone I knew in this town was a cockblocker.
"Don't worry," I said, although my eyes said, 'fuck off', "I know what I'm doing. Mike and Ben are over there." I said pointing. Thankfully, she took the hint and left. I turned back to the girls, but my target looked worried.
"I can't find my debit card!" She exclaimed. She was digging through her pockets. "I think I left it at the Indigo District!" She was looking at her friends for help. I decided to evacuate.
"It was good to meet you." I said, shaking their hands. "I hope you find your card, miss."
I stood and saw a commotion in the back of the patio. Jorge was drunk and trying to climb the fence onto the street. My friends were trying to compel him to stop.
"Don't worry!" He shouted. "All the cops are over there and they're distracted!" People were laughing and cheering him on. I decided to leave the patio before we all got kicked out. I walked back inside and found Marcus sitting at that bar. He flashed me his phone which displayed a phone number with the name 'Amanda' above it. I patted his back and he handed me another beer.
"Jesus, I'm kind of drunk. Everyone can stop buying me beers anytime now." I said, and we laughed. I had to work in roughly 4 hours.
"Check out that set behind us. At the booth." I turned and checked it out. Three blond girls were sitting by themselves. All of them high value targets, 8's at least all the way around. Two fo the blonds were on their cellphones, texting and looking bored.
"That's going to be a tough one." I said. "You'll want to sit down immediately to avoid looking needy, but you'll want to sit down as you're speaking. You can't directly approach either, or you'll come off as creepy. I'd walk by like you've got somewhere better to be, then stop as if you suddenly thought of a question to ask and noticed their group."
"Yeah," Marcus said thoughtfully, "but there's that table of giant meatheads and bro-dudes right there behind them. So there really wouldn't be any reason for you to be walking by."
"Maybe. Worth a shot though. Do you want this set or can I have it?" I asked.
He shrugged. "All yours."
I stood and walked by their table and to the group of large bro-dudes. I found the first one I could and started acting like I was his best friend, asking if you saw the fight outside and all the cops. After a bit, I excused myself and walked back past the table of girls, and turned my head over my shoulder, speaking to them as I continued to walk.
"Hey guys, I need your opinion real quickly." I said.
"Yeah, okay what?" They asked.
"Well, I'm trying to cheer up my buddy over there," I said motioning to the bro dude. This was a lie. "He just broke up with his fiancee, they've been together for like 18 months, not even 2 years." I slid into the booth next to one of the blonds. She smiled and moved over to make room for me.
"Anyway, he bought her this bad ass engagement ring for 6 thousand dollars, and he wants it back. That's like a month's worth of salary for him but she--"
"Wait," one of the blonds asked. All three of them were leaning towards me, captivated. "Your friend makes 6 thousand dollars a month?"
"Oh--yeah. He's a financial analyst in the state capital." This was only a half lie, because I did have a friend who was a financial analyst in a state capital. Just not this state. And I did have a friend who broke up with his girlfriend and wanted the ring back. It was flirting.
"So she's a grad student, and needs the money. So she'll probably sell it. But he bought it, and she broke his heart, so he kind of wants it back. What would you guys do?"
They began discussing their answers. What they said wasn't important. The one next to me was asking about my Buddha necklace. The one across from me was laughing at my jokes. The third girl was checking her phone again. I was losing her. One of them started caressing my jacket when two males approached our table. I ignored them as the blond across from me finished a story, but I could see the males motioning towards me, confused. They were asking each other, "who is this guy?"
"Are these guys friends of yours?" I asked the ladies.
"Yeah, they're the boyfriends." The girl next to me said.
I turned and saw one wearing a Yankees t-shirt. I was an avid Redsox fan. "Oh no dude, tell me you're not a Yankees fan. I think you just lost some points with me." I told him.
He seemed confused, then remembered his shirt. "Oh, no, no...I just have this shirt. I don't really like the Yankees. I'm a big Giants fan." He said. Just then, Marcus came into the group and started talking to the boyfriends. The guys turned around and became engrossed in the distraction. A perfect wingman.
"Tell me this guy isn't stealing our girlfriends?" One of the guys said.
I decided it was time to evacuate.
"Do you guys know each other?" One of the girls asked. "Both of you have awesome jackets."
"Nah," I replied, "but I'd like to get to know him. That definitely is an awesome jacket." I didn't know it then, but I had broken a rule of winging: Always acknowledge your wingman, and value him more than any woman in the club.
We evacuated the set and sat down at the bar. The 8.5 with large breasts came and sat down with us.
"You can only sit here if your name isn't Lindsay." Marcus said. The girl pouted.
"Please?" She asked playfully.
"She seems pretty cool, Marcus. Maybe we can make an exception this one time." I said.
Marcus pretended to think it over, then relented. They began talking about Chicago, as apparently she had lived there for some time. I threw in some things to give Marcus some higher value, and she seemed to dig him. But I felt she would've dug him even if we weren't using her as a test subject. She seemed to genuinely enjoy the conversation, and was actually a pretty nice person.
I left the set so they could be alone, and opened up a redhead with some tattoos on her biceps. I asked her if she had seen the fight, and we began conversing. She worked downtown as a waitress at a fancy gym that apparently served food. We joked around until I felt that I was getting sufficient indications that she was interested in me, so I established an emotional connection by telling her about the significance of her tattoos--they were lotus--and she seemed surprised that I would know such a thing.
It was late, and the bar was closing soon, so I decided to number close her and evac. I told her it was great to talk with her, and she agreed. I said we should continue it again some time, and she agreed. I handed her my phone and she typed her number in it, under "Racchel", misspelled. She asked if I was a player. I told her absolutely not. I wasn't sure if that was a lie or not.
I went back into the bar and Marcus had a beer waiting for me. By this point I was rather drunk and had to work extremely soon, so I started drinking as quickly as possible because I was exhausted.
But Marcus insisted that I open a three set that had just walked in. "Don't think about it, just do it. Three second rule. It'll be good practice." He insisted. The set seemed low value to me, but he was right. I had spoken those same lines to him before.
I got up and opened them with the engagement ring opener. But I was tired, and my enthusiasm wasn't 100%. And they could sense it. Half way through my routine, they asked me if it was a pick up line. I was blowing it. But I managed to get through the material, and was kind of shocked when they said that they would keep the ring.
"Fuck the guy. It's her ring now. I'd keep it if I was her." They all said this. And it was strange because Marcus and I had been using that opener all night, and everyone had insisted that they would return it. This seemed to be an omen of their low value. I made some small talk with one of the girls before I told them it was nice to meet them, and then left.
I told Marcus about their response and he agreed that it was weird that the last group we approached would give that response. But I didn't even care that I had half assed my way through it, because I was drunk and exhausted. And I needed to be at my day job at in three hours. The next day my voice would be hoarse from talking over the music and speaking to so many groups of people.
I had gone out in search of curing my oneitis. I returned drunk and with a couple of numbers that I would add to the growing collection in my phone. I didn't even bother calling most of them. It was like a video game. I wanted to see if it could be done. I was always prepared to fail. But it was nice to beat a level every now and then.
Regards, Esortnom
Fortunately there is a cure. The cure is to go out and find as many other women as possible.
Marcus and I shotgunned some beers before we headed out. Usually this is not a good idea, because for most people gaming women is not as effective when drunk. But we weren't most people. I pounded two cheap beers quickly. Marcus had three. He was trying to beat his record he set the previous night of shotgunning three beers in six minutes.
Eight minutes later we were on the corner of Broadway and Olive where we ran into Jorge as he smoked a cigarette outside our favorite bar on the street.
"Why aren't you on the smoking patio?" I asked him as we approached.
Jorge shrugged. "I don't like that crowd. Plus there's just fat people." He said in disgust. A bartender from inside was on the street, and she came up and commented on my jacket. It was red leather and a size too small, much like Michael Jackson's from his video 'Thriller'. She caressed it. I said "thanks." That's the best answer a confident person can give to a compliment.
Jorge finished his cigarette and we walked inside. A girl with a lot of tattoos was checking i.d.'s. I had gamed her a few weeks ago, but had forgotten her name. She smiled, recognizing me, and let me in right away. "I like your tattoo." I said. "Reminds me of a comic book."
We strode to the bar and Jorge bought us all drinks. I realized that he was already rather drunk. Apparently he had been there for an hour or so, drinking tequilla and PBR by himself. We talked at the bar, as Marcus played scout and checked out potential targets. It was still rather early, so we laid low and got a little drunker.
Jorge was talking about his new band when I spotted a 8.5 at the bar. Blond with gigantic breasts. "Marcus," I said, "go open up that Blond 8.5 set." He looked at me, with his back to the bar.
"Where?" He asked.
"Behind you, center of the bar." He turned slightly. I notice the blond checking us out. We made eye contact, a definite sign that she was interested in meeting us. This was understandable.
I was wearing a green hat to compliment my red leather jacket over a tight black t-shirt and a lot of cheap necklaces. Marcus was wearing a purple patchwork velvet jacket that I had loaned him, an expensive black hat, and a neon green undershirt. Even for Eugene, we looked ridiculous. The night before, a group of girls had approached Marcus and I as we played pool and asked if it was okay to get their pictures taken with us.
Our experiments over the last week had proved that looks did not matter much, at least for men. Social value was much more important.
"Ok." He said. "I've been toying with a new opener. I'm going to test it out." He walked over to her. Jorge gave me a strange look.
"You know," he said, "I like talking to you guys about music and shit because you're so cool. But when you start talking about opening sets and shit, it kind of creeps me out."
"Don't worry, buddy." I reassured him. "It's just a glorified hobby."
Marcus and the blond were talking up a storm at the bar. He was confidently motioning with his hands and the blond was leaning in towards him, smiling brightly.
"I just think that gaming people is gay." Jorge said. He was drunk.
"Perhaps." I told him. "It's completely superficial. Almost devious. But how many phone numbers have you gotten in the last week?" I asked him. It was a mean thing to say, but Jorge needed the message. I had gotten 6 numbers in the last 5 days. Marcus 8.
Marcus returned. "How'd it go?" I asked him.
"Good. Lindsay, I think." He said.
"Very nice. She definitely looked like she was into you." I said.
"Yeah she was. I told her I had to get back to my friends as a bunch of people she knew came by."
"I'd like to open some mixed sets with some guys involved." I said, searching for targets.
"Why?" Jorge asked.
"Good practice," I answered.
"How do you get girls in groups of guys?" Jorge questioned.
"Basically just give a lot of attention to the guys. Make them know you're not stealing their turf when that's exactly what your doing. Let them think they're the alpha male. Ignore the girls essentially, except to neg them."
"Really? Ignore the girls?" Jorge asked.
"Definitely. They're all dolled up, looking pretty. And this guy comes up and completely ignores them? They'll wonder what the deal is. They'll fight for your attention. And it demonstrates social value." Marcus said.
"Or they'll think you're gay." I said, which happened almost often to me. "Especially in this town."
We decided to head out to the smoking porch. On the way out I noticed a brunette 8 standing at the bar by herself. I stopped to order a drink and opened her.
"Hey, I need your opinion," I said as I ordered a Guiness draft.
"Okay!" She smiled. 90% of women loved to give their opinions.
"What's the difference between this bar, and the Horsehead across the street? People keep telling me to check it out because they think I'd love it." This was a lie.
She started telling me about it, and her favorite spots around town. I eventually got around to reading her palm, and she loved the vague cliches and truisms. I told her it was great to meet her, but that I had to get back to my friends outside. This was true. She smiled and we exchanged phone numbers.
I walked out onto the porch and noticed Marcus and Jorge were in a 2 set with a couple of 9's. I was impressed, but didn't want to interrupt so I walked right by them without acknowledging the group and immediately approached a 2 set of girls sitting by themselves in the back of the patio.
I couldn't think of an opener, so I just sat down at their table. They turned to me and smiled. I noticed they were 7's at best, probably low self esteem girls. I didn't need an opener for them; they were glad enough that a man of my stature had approached them.
I asked them how they felt about the end of summer, and we began conversing about things we'd done the last few months. I paid more attention to the unattractive one, who was named Leanor, instead of the slightly cuter blond girl. Suddenly I saw a couple of my friends enter the porch. Ben put both arms in the air and shouted my name. Mike, who was painfully shy and awkward around strangers, was in tow. Shit.
Ben came over and slapped me on the back. He was drunk. He sat down and I introduced my friends to the ladies. I had forgotten the slightly cuter girl's name, which worked well as a neg. It showed that I wasn't interested enough to remember her name, even though I remembered the clearly less attractive Leanor.
Ben began talking to me about something ridiculous, and the girls turned away. Soon they stood and left, saying good bye to me. Granted, it was a weak set, two 7's, but I still hated being cock blocked.
Marcus and Jorge had finished their set and came to our table, greeting everybody.
"Nice set." I said.
"Elysia." Marcus said. "I don't have my phone with me, but she wrote down her number and winery she works at. She said we should come visit." Mike and Ben looked shocked and awed.
"She's standing over there with a girlfriend still, so no one react in case she sees. Good work, Marcus." I said.
"You got her number?" Mike asked, his jaw still open.
Marcus nodded. "We're practicing to become social artists." I explained to Mike. "It's basically using psychology and social principles to our advantage."
"Wow. I wish I could be a social artist." Mike said sadly.
"It's a piece of cake. Watch, go up to this girl behind us and ask her if pork is white meat or red meat." I told him.
"What? Why?" Mike asked.
"It'll get a conversation started. And it really doesn't matter what you say, but rather how you say it. The point is, is just to get two strangers talking." I explained.
"No, I'm not doing that." Mike said.
"Meh, fine." I stood up and walked over to her. She was a blond 7.5.
"Hey," I said, "my friend and I are having an argument. I used to work in a deli," (this was true) "and he thinks that pork is white meat, whereas I'm saying it's red," (this was a lie), "what do you think?" She smiled, and as it turned out she was an avid hunter. So was one of my good friends. We ended up talking for a while, and I demonstrated higher value until she started leaning into me and touching me.
"Hands off the merchandise." I told her, and she laughed.
"Too bad none of those couches are open. I totally wanna go sit down over there with you." She said to me.
"Well, tell you what, you go buy us some drinks and I'll try to find us a quieter place to talk." I told her, and off she went.
I returned to my group briefly. Mike was in awe.
"Man, I can only admire your magic." He said.
"Magic? It's not magic." Marcus declared. "Pick any group of people out here, and I'll go open them up."
"Ok...that group right there." Ben pointed to a large set. Five girls it seemed. Two of them were high value targets, a couple of 8's. Marcus smiled and went over to their table. I made my way back inside to try to find the girl with my drink.
I walked inside but couldn't find her among the crowd. The bar was getting more popular as it got later and townies got drunker. I made my way to the bathroom and took a leak. On the way back I noticed blue lights flashing from outside. The police were around for some reason. I ran into Marcus as I made my way back to the patio. He handed me a fresh beer.
"What's with the cops?" I asked.
"I don't know. I think some street rats got into a fight outside or something."
We walked back onto the porch. I noticed three blond girls sitting by themselves at a table to my right. I decided to take advantage of the police so I approached and asked them if they knew what was going on. Two of the three girls were attractive. I decided to make the brunette my target, as I generally was more attracted to the dark haired rather than light haired.
Apparently some drifters had beaten up a tweeker on crutches. I joked if that was why I saw a man with crutches running away. They all laughed. I negged my target, telling her friends that "You can dress her up, but you can't take her out, huh?" Again they all laughed. I was standing above their set, and needed to get onto equal ground quickly.
"Let me show you something," I said, motioning for my target to stand up.
"What?" She asked suspiciously.
"Are you adventurous?"
"Yes." She replied.
"Spontaneous?"
"Yes." She replied.
"Want to get your palm read?" I asked.
"Yeah!" She said.
"Alright, stand up first of all." She stood.
I grabbed her hands and pulled her by me, then stole her seat.
"Hey!" She said, laughing.
"Don't worry, I'm an Indian giver. I'll give it back." I replied. "Now, which hand do you write with?"
Her friends laughed, and turned to judge my target's reaction. Clearly she wasn't used to this kind of stuff. The social artist is always an exception.
I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned around. It was Sarah, a friend of a friend.
"Vlad!" She cried out. "Be a gentleman! Give her her seat back!" She shook her head in disgust.
Goddamnit, I thought. Everyone I knew in this town was a cockblocker.
"Don't worry," I said, although my eyes said, 'fuck off', "I know what I'm doing. Mike and Ben are over there." I said pointing. Thankfully, she took the hint and left. I turned back to the girls, but my target looked worried.
"I can't find my debit card!" She exclaimed. She was digging through her pockets. "I think I left it at the Indigo District!" She was looking at her friends for help. I decided to evacuate.
"It was good to meet you." I said, shaking their hands. "I hope you find your card, miss."
I stood and saw a commotion in the back of the patio. Jorge was drunk and trying to climb the fence onto the street. My friends were trying to compel him to stop.
"Don't worry!" He shouted. "All the cops are over there and they're distracted!" People were laughing and cheering him on. I decided to leave the patio before we all got kicked out. I walked back inside and found Marcus sitting at that bar. He flashed me his phone which displayed a phone number with the name 'Amanda' above it. I patted his back and he handed me another beer.
"Jesus, I'm kind of drunk. Everyone can stop buying me beers anytime now." I said, and we laughed. I had to work in roughly 4 hours.
"Check out that set behind us. At the booth." I turned and checked it out. Three blond girls were sitting by themselves. All of them high value targets, 8's at least all the way around. Two fo the blonds were on their cellphones, texting and looking bored.
"That's going to be a tough one." I said. "You'll want to sit down immediately to avoid looking needy, but you'll want to sit down as you're speaking. You can't directly approach either, or you'll come off as creepy. I'd walk by like you've got somewhere better to be, then stop as if you suddenly thought of a question to ask and noticed their group."
"Yeah," Marcus said thoughtfully, "but there's that table of giant meatheads and bro-dudes right there behind them. So there really wouldn't be any reason for you to be walking by."
"Maybe. Worth a shot though. Do you want this set or can I have it?" I asked.
He shrugged. "All yours."
I stood and walked by their table and to the group of large bro-dudes. I found the first one I could and started acting like I was his best friend, asking if you saw the fight outside and all the cops. After a bit, I excused myself and walked back past the table of girls, and turned my head over my shoulder, speaking to them as I continued to walk.
"Hey guys, I need your opinion real quickly." I said.
"Yeah, okay what?" They asked.
"Well, I'm trying to cheer up my buddy over there," I said motioning to the bro dude. This was a lie. "He just broke up with his fiancee, they've been together for like 18 months, not even 2 years." I slid into the booth next to one of the blonds. She smiled and moved over to make room for me.
"Anyway, he bought her this bad ass engagement ring for 6 thousand dollars, and he wants it back. That's like a month's worth of salary for him but she--"
"Wait," one of the blonds asked. All three of them were leaning towards me, captivated. "Your friend makes 6 thousand dollars a month?"
"Oh--yeah. He's a financial analyst in the state capital." This was only a half lie, because I did have a friend who was a financial analyst in a state capital. Just not this state. And I did have a friend who broke up with his girlfriend and wanted the ring back. It was flirting.
"So she's a grad student, and needs the money. So she'll probably sell it. But he bought it, and she broke his heart, so he kind of wants it back. What would you guys do?"
They began discussing their answers. What they said wasn't important. The one next to me was asking about my Buddha necklace. The one across from me was laughing at my jokes. The third girl was checking her phone again. I was losing her. One of them started caressing my jacket when two males approached our table. I ignored them as the blond across from me finished a story, but I could see the males motioning towards me, confused. They were asking each other, "who is this guy?"
"Are these guys friends of yours?" I asked the ladies.
"Yeah, they're the boyfriends." The girl next to me said.
I turned and saw one wearing a Yankees t-shirt. I was an avid Redsox fan. "Oh no dude, tell me you're not a Yankees fan. I think you just lost some points with me." I told him.
He seemed confused, then remembered his shirt. "Oh, no, no...I just have this shirt. I don't really like the Yankees. I'm a big Giants fan." He said. Just then, Marcus came into the group and started talking to the boyfriends. The guys turned around and became engrossed in the distraction. A perfect wingman.
"Tell me this guy isn't stealing our girlfriends?" One of the guys said.
I decided it was time to evacuate.
"Do you guys know each other?" One of the girls asked. "Both of you have awesome jackets."
"Nah," I replied, "but I'd like to get to know him. That definitely is an awesome jacket." I didn't know it then, but I had broken a rule of winging: Always acknowledge your wingman, and value him more than any woman in the club.
We evacuated the set and sat down at the bar. The 8.5 with large breasts came and sat down with us.
"You can only sit here if your name isn't Lindsay." Marcus said. The girl pouted.
"Please?" She asked playfully.
"She seems pretty cool, Marcus. Maybe we can make an exception this one time." I said.
Marcus pretended to think it over, then relented. They began talking about Chicago, as apparently she had lived there for some time. I threw in some things to give Marcus some higher value, and she seemed to dig him. But I felt she would've dug him even if we weren't using her as a test subject. She seemed to genuinely enjoy the conversation, and was actually a pretty nice person.
I left the set so they could be alone, and opened up a redhead with some tattoos on her biceps. I asked her if she had seen the fight, and we began conversing. She worked downtown as a waitress at a fancy gym that apparently served food. We joked around until I felt that I was getting sufficient indications that she was interested in me, so I established an emotional connection by telling her about the significance of her tattoos--they were lotus--and she seemed surprised that I would know such a thing.
It was late, and the bar was closing soon, so I decided to number close her and evac. I told her it was great to talk with her, and she agreed. I said we should continue it again some time, and she agreed. I handed her my phone and she typed her number in it, under "Racchel", misspelled. She asked if I was a player. I told her absolutely not. I wasn't sure if that was a lie or not.
I went back into the bar and Marcus had a beer waiting for me. By this point I was rather drunk and had to work extremely soon, so I started drinking as quickly as possible because I was exhausted.
But Marcus insisted that I open a three set that had just walked in. "Don't think about it, just do it. Three second rule. It'll be good practice." He insisted. The set seemed low value to me, but he was right. I had spoken those same lines to him before.
I got up and opened them with the engagement ring opener. But I was tired, and my enthusiasm wasn't 100%. And they could sense it. Half way through my routine, they asked me if it was a pick up line. I was blowing it. But I managed to get through the material, and was kind of shocked when they said that they would keep the ring.
"Fuck the guy. It's her ring now. I'd keep it if I was her." They all said this. And it was strange because Marcus and I had been using that opener all night, and everyone had insisted that they would return it. This seemed to be an omen of their low value. I made some small talk with one of the girls before I told them it was nice to meet them, and then left.
I told Marcus about their response and he agreed that it was weird that the last group we approached would give that response. But I didn't even care that I had half assed my way through it, because I was drunk and exhausted. And I needed to be at my day job at in three hours. The next day my voice would be hoarse from talking over the music and speaking to so many groups of people.
I had gone out in search of curing my oneitis. I returned drunk and with a couple of numbers that I would add to the growing collection in my phone. I didn't even bother calling most of them. It was like a video game. I wanted to see if it could be done. I was always prepared to fail. But it was nice to beat a level every now and then.
Regards, Esortnom
Monday, September 7, 2009
Caveman
We had tinkered with the Steroid Diet. For a week and a half my buddy Dale and I ate nothing but egg whites and baked potatoes. Potatoes wrapped in aluminum foil lined the bottom shelf of my fridge. Giant bowls filled with hard boiled eggs lined the top shelves. Egg yolks filled my kitchen trashcan and started to smell after a while.
I heard it was what steroid users ate during their cycles. So we figured we'd give it a shot. On our lunch breaks, Dale and I would pile salt and pepper onto the eggs and potatoes as we drank beer and watched Sportscenter. After a week, we got sick of the diet. It was too bland. We started going to Carl's Jr. and Subway again on our lunches. Big Carl burgers for 2.49. Foot long subs for 5$. It was cheap. It was easy. It was alright tasting.
A girl we worked with introduced us to the Paleo-diet. Or the Caveman Diet. She touted the benefits of this 'cleanse', as she called it. Her long black hair flowed over muscular shoulders and thick biceps. She was short, but solid. Light colored hairs prickled her square jaw. She squatted to tie her shoes, and bent over to push heavy objects as she grunted. There was something grotesquely masculine about her.
She was the perfect example of what we were looking to become.
I went jogging with her one hot afternoon when she gave me the caveman diet template. She had just ran a half mile up a hill twice. I only made it once. And barely. I held the paper with the outlines in a sweaty hand as I collected my keys from her hot apartment and left.
Dale asked me how it went.
"She kicked my ass." I said.
"Obviously." He replied.
She had placed some bottles in front of her doorstep to take out later before we went for the run. I told her the bums and tweakers would take them for their deposit. She didn't believe me. I savored a brief victory when we returned and the front of her steps were bare.
It was the night before Dale's birthday party when I went over to her house to make jello shots. I thought she wanted to get drunk and take advantage of me, but it turned out that I was the most alcoholic person she knew and she wanted my advice on the recipe, which was sad for the both of us.
I drank warm tequila and toyed with her cat while she got high out of a small bong and the television made noise at us. It was the depths of a summer, and the boiling jello made us sweat as we sat on separate couches worlds apart. My phone was vibrating constantly. Other people wanted me. I wanted her. She wanted to get high and watch sitcoms.
I compromised by asking if she wanted to go out. She declined. I left her in a pair of white bike shorts and a black tank top to go hit on the big breasted dipshits my socially awkward companions had waiting for me at the Horsehead. When I mentioned that Bear Gylles was a fraud and a rip off of Les Stroud, they refused to speak to me for the rest of the evening. I introduced myself to another table and began to eat their fries.
I heard it was what steroid users ate during their cycles. So we figured we'd give it a shot. On our lunch breaks, Dale and I would pile salt and pepper onto the eggs and potatoes as we drank beer and watched Sportscenter. After a week, we got sick of the diet. It was too bland. We started going to Carl's Jr. and Subway again on our lunches. Big Carl burgers for 2.49. Foot long subs for 5$. It was cheap. It was easy. It was alright tasting.
A girl we worked with introduced us to the Paleo-diet. Or the Caveman Diet. She touted the benefits of this 'cleanse', as she called it. Her long black hair flowed over muscular shoulders and thick biceps. She was short, but solid. Light colored hairs prickled her square jaw. She squatted to tie her shoes, and bent over to push heavy objects as she grunted. There was something grotesquely masculine about her.
She was the perfect example of what we were looking to become.
I went jogging with her one hot afternoon when she gave me the caveman diet template. She had just ran a half mile up a hill twice. I only made it once. And barely. I held the paper with the outlines in a sweaty hand as I collected my keys from her hot apartment and left.
Dale asked me how it went.
"She kicked my ass." I said.
"Obviously." He replied.
She had placed some bottles in front of her doorstep to take out later before we went for the run. I told her the bums and tweakers would take them for their deposit. She didn't believe me. I savored a brief victory when we returned and the front of her steps were bare.
It was the night before Dale's birthday party when I went over to her house to make jello shots. I thought she wanted to get drunk and take advantage of me, but it turned out that I was the most alcoholic person she knew and she wanted my advice on the recipe, which was sad for the both of us.
I drank warm tequila and toyed with her cat while she got high out of a small bong and the television made noise at us. It was the depths of a summer, and the boiling jello made us sweat as we sat on separate couches worlds apart. My phone was vibrating constantly. Other people wanted me. I wanted her. She wanted to get high and watch sitcoms.
I compromised by asking if she wanted to go out. She declined. I left her in a pair of white bike shorts and a black tank top to go hit on the big breasted dipshits my socially awkward companions had waiting for me at the Horsehead. When I mentioned that Bear Gylles was a fraud and a rip off of Les Stroud, they refused to speak to me for the rest of the evening. I introduced myself to another table and began to eat their fries.
Monday, August 17, 2009
That Good Mischief Which Makes this World Mine
I had just been up all night doing dangerous drugs 3000 miles away the last time I was at a DMV. My brother and I strolled in, haggard faced and disheveled, our eyes wide and confused. We walked up to the little machine that gives out numbers. Our number was very far away.
"My God, this is so inefficient. Only Americans could arrange a mess this like." My brother said. He had just returned from living in Europe. He was having trouble readjusting to the fat, illogical ways of the free and brave.
I asked my brother, who was good with numbers, how long we had to wait.
"About two hours, I'd say." He replied
"Fuck this. Let's go to a bar. We'll come back in 120 minutes." I said.
He immediately agreed.
Finding a decent bar at 11 am on a tuesday proved to be more difficult than it would have been if we were still in the Czech Republic. When we slept there, we actually had to kill time doing something productive, like visiting Communist Museums, before we could justify to ourselves drinking. Here, everything was a reason to drink.
We pushed onwards towards a large shopping plaza with generic corporate eateries and retail bargin basements. We selected one cookie cutter restaurant and immediately headed towards the bar. I wasn’t hungry still as the acid was still working on my stomach, so I ordered a couple of large beers. My brother ate a sandwich as we stared at a cable news channel on television. It was one of the first times that I had cynically watched television all summer, and it hadn’t changed a bit.
I finished my beers and ordered two more, as my brother commented, “I’m impressed with your tolerance for alcohol.” He was casually sipping his first beer still.
“It’s something I’ve been working on for the last few years or so.” I said absently, starring at the waitress.
I paid the tab, and we left. Once back at the DMV, we opened the doors and they immediately called our numbers. It worked perfectly. Except I spaced out slightly, distracted by fleeting drug psychosis and alcohol, and missed my number. So I had to charm the old woman into taking me anyway, and she obliged.
Today, 3,000 miles to the west, I had my doubts that it would work out this well again. I walked into the DMV with my sunglasses on my head, a collared shirt slightly undone with my jewelry glittering in the hot sun. I felt good. The potato salad in my hand felt cold. It was a great day for a DMV picnic.
I pushed open the doors and pulled a number from the machine, just like back east. I grabbed a form from an old lady who smiled pleasantly at me. I beamed right back, my brown eyes wide and friendly. An old woman walked by, eyeing me up and down like she wanted to touch me. I sat down on an empty bench, my potato salad beside me, spreading out my arms confidently like wings. I started to fill out the form, realizing my number was only about a dozen away from being called. The little ticket said, "ETA: 15 min."
Not too bad for Oregon, I thought.
I scanned the room looking for a target. A young girl in a tight white 'Obama' T-shirt was standing nervously against the wall, wearing tight jean shorts. Her purple bra was visible underneath her t-shirt. I stood and walked over to where she was standing, and began absently digging through the brochures beside her.
"Why is it," I said, "that they bore you with this stuff?" I held up a brochure about driving commercial trucks. "Where are all the Maxims?"
She smiled. "I guess they're for the last minute people who didn't study."
She had a pretty voice. I vaguely wondered if she was here to get her permit or something. That'd peg her at 16, 17 tops.
I was nearly 24.
But she was lovely.
"I probably shouldn't say this, but you remind me a lot of Bugs Bunny's girlfriend from Looney Tunes."
She laughed, and mentioned how much she loved that show as a kid.
I decided she was probably trying to regain her license after a DUI or something.
"Hey, let me show you something my friend taught me today." I said. "Let's go sit over there." I led her back to my empty bench.
I took her hand in mine, and softly began tracing the lines. I gave her a palm reading. And I was good at it. I always enjoyed the occult. And she was amazed. She smiled at me, impressed with my vague truisms and cliches which on the surface seemed insightful.
I put my arm around her. At times, it was too easy.
Suddenly, she stood alert. They had called her number. She placed her hand on my shoulder, and said it was nice talking to me. She stood up, and pulled down her tight jean shorts around her thighs.
She walked around a corner to take her permit test.
Damn.
I had to wait maybe thirty seconds until I saw another target. A dark haired girl, looking a little goth. A lot of mascara. A lot of eye shadow. Jet black hair. Large breasts in a tight purple shirt and tight jeans. She'd suffice.
I walked over to her bench, and sat down between her and an older woman. I began talking to the old woman like I knew her my whole life. A few jokes later, and she was cracking up, leaning into me. I turned my attention to the goth.
"I don't mean to sound out of tune, but your hair looks awesome. It reminds me of that Scandinavian band that just played in Portland...what were they called?"
She smiled. Apparently she had modeled her appearance after male death metal norwegian music groups. It was the perfect thing to say.
"I'm not sure...I just saw Decadence up there a few weeks ago." She smiled at me. If she took off some of the make-up, she'd be helluh cuter.
"You go to Portland a lot? I know a lot of people up there." I said.
"No...I wish I went a lot. I need to meet more people up there." She replied.
"Well, if you play your cards right, maybe I could introduce you to some people. Not as cool as me of course, but close." I smiled a shit eating grin. "That is, if you go up there often."
"Oh yeah, I try to go all the time." She tried to qualify herself to me. She wanted to prove she was cool.
She laughed, and relaxed. Her eyes dilated slightly. She was comfortable.
"Let me show you something. Do you like magick?" I asked.
"Amber, are you ready for your test?" The old woman asked across me to the goth chick. Goth Chick rolled her eyes. I realized I had sat between the Goth Chick and her mother.
"Yeah...Don't worry!" Goth Chick said dramatically.
"Would you like some potato salad?" I asked the mother to keep her busy. "It's homemade." I had bought it on sale at Albertsons two days ago.
"Potato salad? Does it have egg?" She asked. How should I know? Oh, because I told her I had made it.
"Of course not." I replied.
She happily dug in with a fork I produced.
"What's your name?" Goth Chick asked me. This was a sign that she was interested in me, despite her mother leaning over us. Hell, maybe I could get them both at the same time. I smiled at the challenge.
"Moon." I replied. "And you?"
"Amber." She replied. "And how long have you known your friend here?"
She made a face, and I could feel mom beaming beside me at the backhanded compliment.
"That's my mom. Adrianna."
Suddenly, Adrianna stood quickly. "Amber," She cried, "we missed our number! Come on, they only give tests until 4!" She pulled Goth Chick away, and another blond girl followed as well, which I assumed was a sister.
Amber smiled, slightly embarrassed, and began to walk away. I held out my hand, and she took it and squeezed it. I watched them walk away, and I laughed to myself out loud, garnishing the uncomfortable look of a fat black woman.
This was the danger. I was hooked. I didn't even care, I just wanted to defeat any challenge, like the next level in a video game.
I smiled, my eyes wide and warm.
"Can I get your opinion on something?" I asked the black fatty.
"How do you make potato salad? Do you use eggs?"
Regards, Esortnom
"My God, this is so inefficient. Only Americans could arrange a mess this like." My brother said. He had just returned from living in Europe. He was having trouble readjusting to the fat, illogical ways of the free and brave.
I asked my brother, who was good with numbers, how long we had to wait.
"About two hours, I'd say." He replied
"Fuck this. Let's go to a bar. We'll come back in 120 minutes." I said.
He immediately agreed.
Finding a decent bar at 11 am on a tuesday proved to be more difficult than it would have been if we were still in the Czech Republic. When we slept there, we actually had to kill time doing something productive, like visiting Communist Museums, before we could justify to ourselves drinking. Here, everything was a reason to drink.
We pushed onwards towards a large shopping plaza with generic corporate eateries and retail bargin basements. We selected one cookie cutter restaurant and immediately headed towards the bar. I wasn’t hungry still as the acid was still working on my stomach, so I ordered a couple of large beers. My brother ate a sandwich as we stared at a cable news channel on television. It was one of the first times that I had cynically watched television all summer, and it hadn’t changed a bit.
I finished my beers and ordered two more, as my brother commented, “I’m impressed with your tolerance for alcohol.” He was casually sipping his first beer still.
“It’s something I’ve been working on for the last few years or so.” I said absently, starring at the waitress.
I paid the tab, and we left. Once back at the DMV, we opened the doors and they immediately called our numbers. It worked perfectly. Except I spaced out slightly, distracted by fleeting drug psychosis and alcohol, and missed my number. So I had to charm the old woman into taking me anyway, and she obliged.
Today, 3,000 miles to the west, I had my doubts that it would work out this well again. I walked into the DMV with my sunglasses on my head, a collared shirt slightly undone with my jewelry glittering in the hot sun. I felt good. The potato salad in my hand felt cold. It was a great day for a DMV picnic.
I pushed open the doors and pulled a number from the machine, just like back east. I grabbed a form from an old lady who smiled pleasantly at me. I beamed right back, my brown eyes wide and friendly. An old woman walked by, eyeing me up and down like she wanted to touch me. I sat down on an empty bench, my potato salad beside me, spreading out my arms confidently like wings. I started to fill out the form, realizing my number was only about a dozen away from being called. The little ticket said, "ETA: 15 min."
Not too bad for Oregon, I thought.
I scanned the room looking for a target. A young girl in a tight white 'Obama' T-shirt was standing nervously against the wall, wearing tight jean shorts. Her purple bra was visible underneath her t-shirt. I stood and walked over to where she was standing, and began absently digging through the brochures beside her.
"Why is it," I said, "that they bore you with this stuff?" I held up a brochure about driving commercial trucks. "Where are all the Maxims?"
She smiled. "I guess they're for the last minute people who didn't study."
She had a pretty voice. I vaguely wondered if she was here to get her permit or something. That'd peg her at 16, 17 tops.
I was nearly 24.
But she was lovely.
"I probably shouldn't say this, but you remind me a lot of Bugs Bunny's girlfriend from Looney Tunes."
She laughed, and mentioned how much she loved that show as a kid.
I decided she was probably trying to regain her license after a DUI or something.
"Hey, let me show you something my friend taught me today." I said. "Let's go sit over there." I led her back to my empty bench.
I took her hand in mine, and softly began tracing the lines. I gave her a palm reading. And I was good at it. I always enjoyed the occult. And she was amazed. She smiled at me, impressed with my vague truisms and cliches which on the surface seemed insightful.
I put my arm around her. At times, it was too easy.
Suddenly, she stood alert. They had called her number. She placed her hand on my shoulder, and said it was nice talking to me. She stood up, and pulled down her tight jean shorts around her thighs.
She walked around a corner to take her permit test.
Damn.
I had to wait maybe thirty seconds until I saw another target. A dark haired girl, looking a little goth. A lot of mascara. A lot of eye shadow. Jet black hair. Large breasts in a tight purple shirt and tight jeans. She'd suffice.
I walked over to her bench, and sat down between her and an older woman. I began talking to the old woman like I knew her my whole life. A few jokes later, and she was cracking up, leaning into me. I turned my attention to the goth.
"I don't mean to sound out of tune, but your hair looks awesome. It reminds me of that Scandinavian band that just played in Portland...what were they called?"
She smiled. Apparently she had modeled her appearance after male death metal norwegian music groups. It was the perfect thing to say.
"I'm not sure...I just saw Decadence up there a few weeks ago." She smiled at me. If she took off some of the make-up, she'd be helluh cuter.
"You go to Portland a lot? I know a lot of people up there." I said.
"No...I wish I went a lot. I need to meet more people up there." She replied.
"Well, if you play your cards right, maybe I could introduce you to some people. Not as cool as me of course, but close." I smiled a shit eating grin. "That is, if you go up there often."
"Oh yeah, I try to go all the time." She tried to qualify herself to me. She wanted to prove she was cool.
She laughed, and relaxed. Her eyes dilated slightly. She was comfortable.
"Let me show you something. Do you like magick?" I asked.
"Amber, are you ready for your test?" The old woman asked across me to the goth chick. Goth Chick rolled her eyes. I realized I had sat between the Goth Chick and her mother.
"Yeah...Don't worry!" Goth Chick said dramatically.
"Would you like some potato salad?" I asked the mother to keep her busy. "It's homemade." I had bought it on sale at Albertsons two days ago.
"Potato salad? Does it have egg?" She asked. How should I know? Oh, because I told her I had made it.
"Of course not." I replied.
She happily dug in with a fork I produced.
"What's your name?" Goth Chick asked me. This was a sign that she was interested in me, despite her mother leaning over us. Hell, maybe I could get them both at the same time. I smiled at the challenge.
"Moon." I replied. "And you?"
"Amber." She replied. "And how long have you known your friend here?"
She made a face, and I could feel mom beaming beside me at the backhanded compliment.
"That's my mom. Adrianna."
Suddenly, Adrianna stood quickly. "Amber," She cried, "we missed our number! Come on, they only give tests until 4!" She pulled Goth Chick away, and another blond girl followed as well, which I assumed was a sister.
Amber smiled, slightly embarrassed, and began to walk away. I held out my hand, and she took it and squeezed it. I watched them walk away, and I laughed to myself out loud, garnishing the uncomfortable look of a fat black woman.
This was the danger. I was hooked. I didn't even care, I just wanted to defeat any challenge, like the next level in a video game.
I smiled, my eyes wide and warm.
"Can I get your opinion on something?" I asked the black fatty.
"How do you make potato salad? Do you use eggs?"
Regards, Esortnom
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Uxbridge
One day while walking downtown, a yellow paper had blown against my shoe. Thinking that it had gone through so much trouble to find me, i picked it up and brought it home. After finding it crumpled in my pocket, I read it and saw that the town was looking for a parade commissioner.
I toyed with the idea of marching to the city offices and applying. It said that experience in town management was required, but I was quite certain that I could use my lust for everything to my advantage, and convince the city clerk that I was the right man for the job. Late at night, when my friends and I all sat around laughing and talking, out of our minds as the weather slowly changed around us, this seemed like an especially good idea. But when the mornings would come, all anonymous hope would fade with the night, leaving uncertainty and insecurity in everything which I hoped to attain.
The bleakness was painted on the mills and grew on the trees. The cracks in the sidewalks sprouted little green bulbs of sadness. And under a rusting steel bridge caked with spider webs, a polluted river flowed with all that could have been, heading south back down towards the city where this whole mess began and inspired me to hide in the saddest place I've ever lived, thinking I could use the peace and quiet. When in reality, all the peace and quiet was killing me, making me feel old and useless, as though I was missing great things going on some place where people were actually living and smiling.
Now, of course, I know this is all just delusional silliness. Coast to coast, it is all the same. There are no places on this land where people are enjoying themselves and smiling all day. The American dream was just hype, happiness could not really be achieved. But I was young and wanted to run. So I packed up everything I loved except my cat into my blue little car, and headed west.
Regards, Esortnom
I toyed with the idea of marching to the city offices and applying. It said that experience in town management was required, but I was quite certain that I could use my lust for everything to my advantage, and convince the city clerk that I was the right man for the job. Late at night, when my friends and I all sat around laughing and talking, out of our minds as the weather slowly changed around us, this seemed like an especially good idea. But when the mornings would come, all anonymous hope would fade with the night, leaving uncertainty and insecurity in everything which I hoped to attain.
The bleakness was painted on the mills and grew on the trees. The cracks in the sidewalks sprouted little green bulbs of sadness. And under a rusting steel bridge caked with spider webs, a polluted river flowed with all that could have been, heading south back down towards the city where this whole mess began and inspired me to hide in the saddest place I've ever lived, thinking I could use the peace and quiet. When in reality, all the peace and quiet was killing me, making me feel old and useless, as though I was missing great things going on some place where people were actually living and smiling.
Now, of course, I know this is all just delusional silliness. Coast to coast, it is all the same. There are no places on this land where people are enjoying themselves and smiling all day. The American dream was just hype, happiness could not really be achieved. But I was young and wanted to run. So I packed up everything I loved except my cat into my blue little car, and headed west.
Regards, Esortnom
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
At Thy Request Monster, I Shall Reason
Officer Martin Jergins walked to the front of Blanton’s post office and threw himself down on a wooden bench. He pulled out a tattered blue handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his forehead and the back of his neck, reclining into the warm bench. His legs were sore from the morning patrol, and it was just too goddamn hot to be strolling the dusty streets much longer. Besides, it was only a little past one o’clock in the afternoon, the schools hadn’t let out yet, and most of the towns occupants were still at work, if not returning from their lunch hour.
His stomach groaned at the thought of lunch, and he idly contemplated heading into the Uptowne Café and grabbing a turkey club and some ice tea. He wondered if the old woman would be working today, or if her young daughter Juliet would be behind the counter. He replaced the handkerchief into his back pocket and grinned at the thought of young Juliet in the air conditioned café.
“How’d it goin, Off’cer Jergins?” A raspy drawl from behind the bench.
Jergins straightened a little in the bench, sitting upright and turning to face the voice. He knew who it belonged to, of course. He greeted the man, and moved over on the bench to make room for him, as Leon always looked about ready to fall down some place if you didn’t offer him a seat fast enough.
Leon Kentwood was always hanging around the post office, or across the street at the Rosebud Tobacco and Cigar. The old man was haggard and thin, his face mapped with the all the journeys which came with living in the town of Blanton. His hands were large and scarred, the nails seemingly always black with grease or tobacco resin. He always had long sleeved flannel shirts tucked into scraggled jeans despite the heat, but never seemed to notice the large moisture spots of sweat which stained the arm pits.
“Don’t believe it muh self, but uh Janice back dere in the Post Office told me they’re fixin’ to raise stamps again? You believe that, sir?” Kentwood joined Jergins on the bench and pulled out a pack of Benson and Hedges.
Jergins agreed that no, he could not believe that the price of stamps was going up another nickel.
“It’s jus like I pictured it, en everythan.” Leon muttered, striking a match on his boot and inhaling deeply on his cigarette. He offered a smoke to Jergins, and after hesitating, Jergins accepted. Leon noticed his pause.
“Wife making ya quit again, sir?” He said with a sly grin.
“You know it, ol’ boy. She took my pipe and threw it out with the rubbish last Wednesday. Said if I don’t quit, she’s gonna leave me. I told her if she kept yanking my pipes, I’d be leaving anys ways.” Both men laughed as Jergins lit his Benson, looking down the street casually, in case his wife happened to be in town today.
“Ain’t that broads though, eh?” Leon crossed his legs, and flicked his ashes onto the sidewalk. Jergins nodded slowly without saying anything, enjoying the smooth golden flavor of an expensive cigarette with the hot sun on his back. It was a fine day in his town, and at that moment, sitting next to old man Kentwood, enjoying a smoke, he was entirely happy in his life.
A large rumbling vibrated the air, like small explosions going off somewhere down the horizon. He could feel the air pushing against his face from the force of the noise, and see dust rising up down the street. At first Jergins was reminded of artillery shells in Korea, but that image quickly flashed from his mind.
“What in the damn hell...” Leon started, sitting up straight, starring down the street searching for the source of the noise. Almond eyes wide, the man looked outraged at whatever force had the nerve to abruptly end his mid day dreams.
Kicking up dust on the horizon, and speedily approaching the two men on the bench, a red foreign made automobile blazed through cross walks and yield signs. As it grew closer, the awful wails of distortions and thrashing percussion instruments could be heard under the thumps of the bass. The car slowed briefly, then accelerated again and blew by the two men, including Jergins, an officer of the law. Jergins could not view the driver through the tinted windows, but could only imagine the shit head teenager behind the wheel.
“Christ on the cross.” Leon’s jaw gaped open in disbelief. “What the damn hell was that? You see that, Of’cer Jergins?” The old man turned to Jergins, still wide eyed.
“Yup.”
“Damn shit for brains. Driving all around like that gonna kill some one, ya know that? Ya reckon ‘bout doing anything ‘bout that feller?” Leon looked hopefully at Jergins.
“Dunno if I can...ain’t all ‘em like that now adays, anyways? These boys dumping any and all their savings into cars and music...seems like ‘to hell with the future’. That’s their attitudes now.”
“Ain’t that the truth. I still remember when we were young, Off’cer Jergins, that some things were sacred. Now, I dunno...everything is questioned. This world’s gone to shit, ain’t it Off’cer Jergins?”
“Yessir.” Jergins stood looking down the vast road, the dust still settling. He shifted his pants around his crotch, then sat back down on the bench. He pulled out another cigarette, and after a slight hesitation began smoking. After another moment he began enjoying himself. Leon stood at the road, looking haplessly in case the car roared back again. He kept his back to Jergins, but after a while he sat back down and joined him.
Regards, Esortnom
His stomach groaned at the thought of lunch, and he idly contemplated heading into the Uptowne Café and grabbing a turkey club and some ice tea. He wondered if the old woman would be working today, or if her young daughter Juliet would be behind the counter. He replaced the handkerchief into his back pocket and grinned at the thought of young Juliet in the air conditioned café.
“How’d it goin, Off’cer Jergins?” A raspy drawl from behind the bench.
Jergins straightened a little in the bench, sitting upright and turning to face the voice. He knew who it belonged to, of course. He greeted the man, and moved over on the bench to make room for him, as Leon always looked about ready to fall down some place if you didn’t offer him a seat fast enough.
Leon Kentwood was always hanging around the post office, or across the street at the Rosebud Tobacco and Cigar. The old man was haggard and thin, his face mapped with the all the journeys which came with living in the town of Blanton. His hands were large and scarred, the nails seemingly always black with grease or tobacco resin. He always had long sleeved flannel shirts tucked into scraggled jeans despite the heat, but never seemed to notice the large moisture spots of sweat which stained the arm pits.
“Don’t believe it muh self, but uh Janice back dere in the Post Office told me they’re fixin’ to raise stamps again? You believe that, sir?” Kentwood joined Jergins on the bench and pulled out a pack of Benson and Hedges.
Jergins agreed that no, he could not believe that the price of stamps was going up another nickel.
“It’s jus like I pictured it, en everythan.” Leon muttered, striking a match on his boot and inhaling deeply on his cigarette. He offered a smoke to Jergins, and after hesitating, Jergins accepted. Leon noticed his pause.
“Wife making ya quit again, sir?” He said with a sly grin.
“You know it, ol’ boy. She took my pipe and threw it out with the rubbish last Wednesday. Said if I don’t quit, she’s gonna leave me. I told her if she kept yanking my pipes, I’d be leaving anys ways.” Both men laughed as Jergins lit his Benson, looking down the street casually, in case his wife happened to be in town today.
“Ain’t that broads though, eh?” Leon crossed his legs, and flicked his ashes onto the sidewalk. Jergins nodded slowly without saying anything, enjoying the smooth golden flavor of an expensive cigarette with the hot sun on his back. It was a fine day in his town, and at that moment, sitting next to old man Kentwood, enjoying a smoke, he was entirely happy in his life.
A large rumbling vibrated the air, like small explosions going off somewhere down the horizon. He could feel the air pushing against his face from the force of the noise, and see dust rising up down the street. At first Jergins was reminded of artillery shells in Korea, but that image quickly flashed from his mind.
“What in the damn hell...” Leon started, sitting up straight, starring down the street searching for the source of the noise. Almond eyes wide, the man looked outraged at whatever force had the nerve to abruptly end his mid day dreams.
Kicking up dust on the horizon, and speedily approaching the two men on the bench, a red foreign made automobile blazed through cross walks and yield signs. As it grew closer, the awful wails of distortions and thrashing percussion instruments could be heard under the thumps of the bass. The car slowed briefly, then accelerated again and blew by the two men, including Jergins, an officer of the law. Jergins could not view the driver through the tinted windows, but could only imagine the shit head teenager behind the wheel.
“Christ on the cross.” Leon’s jaw gaped open in disbelief. “What the damn hell was that? You see that, Of’cer Jergins?” The old man turned to Jergins, still wide eyed.
“Yup.”
“Damn shit for brains. Driving all around like that gonna kill some one, ya know that? Ya reckon ‘bout doing anything ‘bout that feller?” Leon looked hopefully at Jergins.
“Dunno if I can...ain’t all ‘em like that now adays, anyways? These boys dumping any and all their savings into cars and music...seems like ‘to hell with the future’. That’s their attitudes now.”
“Ain’t that the truth. I still remember when we were young, Off’cer Jergins, that some things were sacred. Now, I dunno...everything is questioned. This world’s gone to shit, ain’t it Off’cer Jergins?”
“Yessir.” Jergins stood looking down the vast road, the dust still settling. He shifted his pants around his crotch, then sat back down on the bench. He pulled out another cigarette, and after a slight hesitation began smoking. After another moment he began enjoying himself. Leon stood at the road, looking haplessly in case the car roared back again. He kept his back to Jergins, but after a while he sat back down and joined him.
Regards, Esortnom
Sunday, July 19, 2009
They Sleep as She Swims
My spirits as if in a dream
are unraveled and lay like string
bobbing loudly in a fishing stream
falling above so longing to reach.
She spirals towards my being
arms outstretch and reaching
faintly caressing her beauty
and lightly loving her meaning
intentionally moving towards me.
My senses are lost
blended and so perfected in her presence
where she so graces my eye I can no longer cry;
as any tears of grief she simply dries.
She doesn't ever stop to understand
because she knows I'd lose anything
to keep coming and enjoy
the ways i can make her dance.
Happily she spins in my hands
grasping for me despite sweaty palms
and long locks of dark beauty
effect my life in ways i dont understand
it's a lovely language we both speak
and such a strange repose
flutters her eyelids
as she gently sleeps.
Thus Spake Thujon
are unraveled and lay like string
bobbing loudly in a fishing stream
falling above so longing to reach.
She spirals towards my being
arms outstretch and reaching
faintly caressing her beauty
and lightly loving her meaning
intentionally moving towards me.
My senses are lost
blended and so perfected in her presence
where she so graces my eye I can no longer cry;
as any tears of grief she simply dries.
She doesn't ever stop to understand
because she knows I'd lose anything
to keep coming and enjoy
the ways i can make her dance.
Happily she spins in my hands
grasping for me despite sweaty palms
and long locks of dark beauty
effect my life in ways i dont understand
it's a lovely language we both speak
and such a strange repose
flutters her eyelids
as she gently sleeps.
Thus Spake Thujon
Monday, July 13, 2009
My Sweet Mistress Weeps When She Sees Me Work
Dressed from head to toe in all black, I stepped confidently on every crack I encountered on the sidewalk, completely assured that I would not break my mother’s back. Crossing the street without looking either way (the street was a one way anyways) I reached the other side without breaking a stride. The joke was on the sidewalk-my mother was dead.
I ran a thin hand through my hair. Geez, goddamn. Where should I go? I mean Samael just completely zonked out of me back there, now the earth is my pincushion. I pulled my black shirt tighter around my chest and buttoned it up. It was going to be morning soon and I wanted to look presentable should anyone happen to see me walking down the street.
Lawns, in this neighborhood, were extremely valued. They appeared to be better fed than children halfway across the world. I had to take extra caution, and care, as I took a piss in a yard, as my foot prints seemed to have tracked upon a carefully maintained flowerbed. Among the pumpkin patch and mid life crisis tomatoes, sexually lonesome sunflowers, was a size eleven avia airwalk logo. Free advertising, you bastards.
The heavy burden of modern living pushed people to do strange things. Some drank, some smoke. Some people think, most people don’t. The other day I saw a report on the news about some lunatic who walked into a department store and opened fire on everyone in the store, killing four employees and a customer. A survivor of the shooting, who is in stable condition, reported that the attacker allegedly groped one of the female employees before he shot her. The attacker managed to get out of the building and elude capture. The state police were in the midst of the manhunt: day 4.
Anyway, I took a quick look behind a house marked ‘Calhoun’ on the mailbox. As I reached the yard, I thought about how nice your voice would sound whispered from my side in a warm bed, as my feet iron clad in airwalks stomped shallow, wet graves into the moist ground. Fertile.
Normally I only trespass when I’m working or really need to piss, but you see, sometimes I notice things. I see things. Not like the LSD funnyhouse way, or in the ‘I smell oranges’ sense, but in the way like an old photograph looks in memory. Like remembering what your parents were like years ago in a frame on a desk. And I see these old photographs of things happening, I see, even as I am so blinded, still, I witness a grip of the truth; (I think this as a marching band begins to play in ab minor somewhere) the truth comes in still frames of reality.
So, as I think of you, I climb Ms. Calhoun’s back steps onto her wooden am-i-socially-superior-yet porch, I realized that everything around here is done for looks, not comfort. How pretentious.
Making sure for the last time that my boots were securely laced, I reached into my black leather satchel and pulled on my cotton gloves. They slid smoothly over my sweaty hands, and would provide a good grip along with anonymity. They were a cheap pair I had procured at a local pharmacy for 2.99, or two pairs for 5$. After today, however, I would not have to be so frugal when it came to my winter apparel shopping.
In a way, I had a lot in common with the shooter in the department store. In my dreams I could see his eyes, and they were very much like mine. Eyes which had starred too long without seeing anything worthwhile. Eyes of a man who is joking, but no one understands that he is joking. The eyes of man who is looking for warmth, but keeps falling away, yet does not get cynical. They are the eyes of someone who has seen too much.
But in many more ways, I was completely different. Whatever fueled the man’s anger and aggression towards everything was clearly beyond my understanding. Hell, in my opinion, it was obviously beyond his grasp. But what I was doing was clear, it was precise, and it was different. I was not into senseless violence. What I was doing made sense, to myself, and to anyone familiar with the woes of the modern man. My work was about clarity, about truth. My work was just that–a job.
I turned the handle on the door and it opened loudly. I entered into some kind of family scene, interrupting their conversation:
“...I was on a plane bound for West Germany when I first met him, a Class A Gentleman but a novice lover, I could not--”
“Oh! Ohwhat the–?!?”
I quickly scanned the room, and made mental notes of everything I observed.
A young woman: light haired, wearing an old sweatshirt and loose jeans. A small child was tucked into the nape of her neck as she impatiently shifted her weight from foot to foot. Rings on her hands displays that she is married at least once, wrinkles in her face says she has many children. Makeup and earings show that she cares about her appearance, and is probably wearing an expensive fragrance. It’s a pity I couldn’t see her shoes.
Risk factors: defiance, problem solving ability, improvision, motherly instinct, faded athleticism, yoga perhaps.
An old woman: dressed in a long black overcoat despite the April warmth. A beige purse was strung around her forearm, and a gold heart pendant around her neck. Her hair was carefully tucked back, and makeup meticulously applied, as if this was her Big Day Out in the World.
Risk factors: possible mace canister, hysterical crying.
An overweight young man: red baseball hat over his matted down brown hair, unshaven and unkept appearance, large generic t-shirt and work out pants. Holding a cellular telephone and a lighter in his right hand, an envelope in his left.
Risk factors: obesity, heart disease, smoking.
A male: young guy, probably fresh out of school or an academy. Social skills by the look of his hands and smile, well groomed and nice clothes says that he wants to impress most people he meets, while his fake smile indicates insecurity and indecisiveness.
Risk factors: leader, multitasker, detail oriented.
Making my judgment quickly, I smiled. I felt good about the situation, and I felt good about what I was about to do. I would most definitely ruin these peoples’ day, but that was okay, because they would have plenty more. Whereas a man such as myself, sick yet confident, defiant yet sensible enough to know when the dogs were clutching in, well a man such as myself had to take chances, and had to know that every risk was just about worth it.
Reaching into my satchel, and finally drawing attention to myself from a few of the humans, I pulled out my gun. The act of this drew everyone out of their warm, familiar set and setting like cold water on a sleeping child. Eyes grew wide, bladders grew loose, and the male stepped forward. His hands were outstretched, palms up, to show that he meant no harm, while I knew the females were scrambling to silently dial the police on their phones.
I would not have much time on my hands, but a few seconds is a lifetime. I distantly thought to spores of mold, being released into the air millions at a time as someone carelessly exhaled onto it. If it’s green, it grows.
The male was talking to me in calm, non threatening tones. I raised the gun, aimed, and fire. The muzzle flashed, and I could actually see the bullet,-the cylindrical piece of crafted lead spiraling with accuracy-stop in midair. I was certain, I could see it, freeze, right there in the middle of empty space, where soon a noise would follow the bullet as it gutted the air and would rip through the man. But first, it balanced delicately, like a humming bird, dancing with friction, in nothingness. It hung in the air if only for a split second, in the illusion of time. In the illusion of a lifetime.
Regards, Esortnom
I ran a thin hand through my hair. Geez, goddamn. Where should I go? I mean Samael just completely zonked out of me back there, now the earth is my pincushion. I pulled my black shirt tighter around my chest and buttoned it up. It was going to be morning soon and I wanted to look presentable should anyone happen to see me walking down the street.
Lawns, in this neighborhood, were extremely valued. They appeared to be better fed than children halfway across the world. I had to take extra caution, and care, as I took a piss in a yard, as my foot prints seemed to have tracked upon a carefully maintained flowerbed. Among the pumpkin patch and mid life crisis tomatoes, sexually lonesome sunflowers, was a size eleven avia airwalk logo. Free advertising, you bastards.
The heavy burden of modern living pushed people to do strange things. Some drank, some smoke. Some people think, most people don’t. The other day I saw a report on the news about some lunatic who walked into a department store and opened fire on everyone in the store, killing four employees and a customer. A survivor of the shooting, who is in stable condition, reported that the attacker allegedly groped one of the female employees before he shot her. The attacker managed to get out of the building and elude capture. The state police were in the midst of the manhunt: day 4.
Anyway, I took a quick look behind a house marked ‘Calhoun’ on the mailbox. As I reached the yard, I thought about how nice your voice would sound whispered from my side in a warm bed, as my feet iron clad in airwalks stomped shallow, wet graves into the moist ground. Fertile.
Normally I only trespass when I’m working or really need to piss, but you see, sometimes I notice things. I see things. Not like the LSD funnyhouse way, or in the ‘I smell oranges’ sense, but in the way like an old photograph looks in memory. Like remembering what your parents were like years ago in a frame on a desk. And I see these old photographs of things happening, I see, even as I am so blinded, still, I witness a grip of the truth; (I think this as a marching band begins to play in ab minor somewhere) the truth comes in still frames of reality.
So, as I think of you, I climb Ms. Calhoun’s back steps onto her wooden am-i-socially-superior-yet porch, I realized that everything around here is done for looks, not comfort. How pretentious.
Making sure for the last time that my boots were securely laced, I reached into my black leather satchel and pulled on my cotton gloves. They slid smoothly over my sweaty hands, and would provide a good grip along with anonymity. They were a cheap pair I had procured at a local pharmacy for 2.99, or two pairs for 5$. After today, however, I would not have to be so frugal when it came to my winter apparel shopping.
In a way, I had a lot in common with the shooter in the department store. In my dreams I could see his eyes, and they were very much like mine. Eyes which had starred too long without seeing anything worthwhile. Eyes of a man who is joking, but no one understands that he is joking. The eyes of man who is looking for warmth, but keeps falling away, yet does not get cynical. They are the eyes of someone who has seen too much.
But in many more ways, I was completely different. Whatever fueled the man’s anger and aggression towards everything was clearly beyond my understanding. Hell, in my opinion, it was obviously beyond his grasp. But what I was doing was clear, it was precise, and it was different. I was not into senseless violence. What I was doing made sense, to myself, and to anyone familiar with the woes of the modern man. My work was about clarity, about truth. My work was just that–a job.
I turned the handle on the door and it opened loudly. I entered into some kind of family scene, interrupting their conversation:
“...I was on a plane bound for West Germany when I first met him, a Class A Gentleman but a novice lover, I could not--”
“Oh! Ohwhat the–?!?”
I quickly scanned the room, and made mental notes of everything I observed.
A young woman: light haired, wearing an old sweatshirt and loose jeans. A small child was tucked into the nape of her neck as she impatiently shifted her weight from foot to foot. Rings on her hands displays that she is married at least once, wrinkles in her face says she has many children. Makeup and earings show that she cares about her appearance, and is probably wearing an expensive fragrance. It’s a pity I couldn’t see her shoes.
Risk factors: defiance, problem solving ability, improvision, motherly instinct, faded athleticism, yoga perhaps.
An old woman: dressed in a long black overcoat despite the April warmth. A beige purse was strung around her forearm, and a gold heart pendant around her neck. Her hair was carefully tucked back, and makeup meticulously applied, as if this was her Big Day Out in the World.
Risk factors: possible mace canister, hysterical crying.
An overweight young man: red baseball hat over his matted down brown hair, unshaven and unkept appearance, large generic t-shirt and work out pants. Holding a cellular telephone and a lighter in his right hand, an envelope in his left.
Risk factors: obesity, heart disease, smoking.
A male: young guy, probably fresh out of school or an academy. Social skills by the look of his hands and smile, well groomed and nice clothes says that he wants to impress most people he meets, while his fake smile indicates insecurity and indecisiveness.
Risk factors: leader, multitasker, detail oriented.
Making my judgment quickly, I smiled. I felt good about the situation, and I felt good about what I was about to do. I would most definitely ruin these peoples’ day, but that was okay, because they would have plenty more. Whereas a man such as myself, sick yet confident, defiant yet sensible enough to know when the dogs were clutching in, well a man such as myself had to take chances, and had to know that every risk was just about worth it.
Reaching into my satchel, and finally drawing attention to myself from a few of the humans, I pulled out my gun. The act of this drew everyone out of their warm, familiar set and setting like cold water on a sleeping child. Eyes grew wide, bladders grew loose, and the male stepped forward. His hands were outstretched, palms up, to show that he meant no harm, while I knew the females were scrambling to silently dial the police on their phones.
I would not have much time on my hands, but a few seconds is a lifetime. I distantly thought to spores of mold, being released into the air millions at a time as someone carelessly exhaled onto it. If it’s green, it grows.
The male was talking to me in calm, non threatening tones. I raised the gun, aimed, and fire. The muzzle flashed, and I could actually see the bullet,-the cylindrical piece of crafted lead spiraling with accuracy-stop in midair. I was certain, I could see it, freeze, right there in the middle of empty space, where soon a noise would follow the bullet as it gutted the air and would rip through the man. But first, it balanced delicately, like a humming bird, dancing with friction, in nothingness. It hung in the air if only for a split second, in the illusion of time. In the illusion of a lifetime.
Regards, Esortnom
Do Love, Prize, Honour You.
signals sent miss the mark
maker sighs in disgust
a creation lost
reflects upon the smith
and bends the rest
a victim of time
covered in moss
'Good evening
could everyone in the audience
please join me for an experience
relax.
open your face to the light shining
through your face, be at one with the universe.
open your mind ,come with me.
everyone join hands, everyone become.
close your eyes, empty your minds.
follow the energy with your mind.
sipping the wine of the creator
reflects upon the art that made of the same
who dig the blend with torn boundary
The harmony of their tongues hath into bondage
And each hour, they drink from obsahem thujonu,' thy lovely tree
My heart fly to your beauties; there my face resides,
To make me a slave to it; and for your brunette sake
Am I this patient sipper of wine
that of snoozes in the shadow of the creator
reflecting upon the art that makes the same
digs the blend of us all
Thus spake Thujonu
maker sighs in disgust
a creation lost
reflects upon the smith
and bends the rest
a victim of time
covered in moss
'Good evening
could everyone in the audience
please join me for an experience
relax.
open your face to the light shining
through your face, be at one with the universe.
open your mind ,come with me.
everyone join hands, everyone become.
close your eyes, empty your minds.
follow the energy with your mind.
sipping the wine of the creator
reflects upon the art that made of the same
who dig the blend with torn boundary
The harmony of their tongues hath into bondage
And each hour, they drink from obsahem thujonu,' thy lovely tree
My heart fly to your beauties; there my face resides,
To make me a slave to it; and for your brunette sake
Am I this patient sipper of wine
that of snoozes in the shadow of the creator
reflecting upon the art that makes the same
digs the blend of us all
Thus spake Thujonu
The Aisle is Full of Noises
I tilted my head back to listen to the night. The children of the darkness, lowly crickets chirping and soaring bats devouring blood sucking mosquitos vibrated my ears, and somewhere far ahead, i could see the moon watching over us like a proud mother. The goddess Diana smiled and shined down upon us, reflected in the love and light of the mighty sleeping sun.
Christina swayed drunkenly and beauitfully in the moonlight. On this night, she resembled a dark, earthly goddess more so than a self-proclaimed irish princess. Despite months of working beside her, i had never particulary found her attractive. She'd bend over and sometimes i'd take a brief glance down her shirt, noting the way her b-cup tits were loosley cupped by an unnecessary bra. She always dressed sharply, and in her tight black work pants it was obvious that she rarely wore underwear, but i usually paid no attention. The way the young lady presented herself, the way she projected the presentation of herself is what really turned me off. She was the type of girl who seemed as tho she sat in her car before walking into work, windows rolled up, in complete silence, giving herself a talk of encouragement, then walk in, her seemless ass pointed in the air, barking out orders. I was far too laid back to squawk with this main hen, despite being somewhat of an alpha cock myself.
WIth shadows drapped across her round face, her eyes red and slow from rum, and her long blonde hair swaying across her body, i fell in love with her. The out of work Christina, this Casual I Know How to Have Fun Now That I'm Not Taking Care of Business Christina was like another person. Her hair, usually tucked back tightly in a bun behind her head, was dishevelled, chaotic, blowing across her face, she frequently had to brush it out of her eyes and mouth. Her shirt was slipping off her shoulders, and she had to keep pulling the straps back up before her small tits would be drunkenly exposed.
She turned to me and caught my eyes. I returned her gaze, and she smiled warmly.
This was the first time we had really seen each other, with the masks and pretentious facades of middle management simmered away by alcohol consumption. We had no employees to impress, we were free from the moral and social restraints of the office; we could talk about dope, sex, niggers, and anything that would normally get us crucified at work. A drunken thought stumbled into my mind: i wondered if everyone was capable of achieving such beauty and perfection once the bondage of the weekday work week wore off. I wondered if the woes of modern man were merely a side effect of this rush rush capitalist consumer culture, a gradual death sentence for all involved. Perhaps in the slow, mellow underbelly of life, sitting on ones back porch in the sun with a large glass of whiskey, ice, and cola in one hand, a large pipe filled with fine marijuana in another hand, and a fine paperback book spread open on ones lap, perhaps in that state of existence, was the truest form of beauty and perfection; miles and miles away from the burdens of fake customs and superstitions instilled within us by our very life styles.
Christina said something to someone and laughed. I drunkenly tuned out the conversation, but noticed the way every muscle in her face jumped and twitched when she laughed, the way her eyes reflected the lights and lives of the night when she smiled. I sat down on the cold concrete steps next to her, and she turned and smiled as she acknowledge me. I could feel the warmth eminating off her in the cold night, enhancing the environment, and i suspect she could feel mine as she leaned slightly against me, her leg resting against mine. I leaned back, my arms sprawled out, and she leaned further into me, almost to the point that i was holding her.
Somewhere in my drunken mind, memories creeped into my main theater. I could see myself many years ago, drinking myself to death in an anonymous townie bar. A tall glass of some dark ale was in front of me, my head swimming in the alcohol and noise. I was in between a girl Jamie and her friend whose name i could never remember then and long forgot now. I had been talking to Jamie's friend all night, quite sure that we were flirting, and almost certain that she dug me. In the course of our conversation i had put my arm around her, and in my chaotic drunken stupor, completely forgot that my arm was still there. Oblivious to any discomfort she might've shown, Jamie turned to me and said "Take your hand off my friend." I laughed and did so, slightly embarrassed at my actions, slightly horrified that i was powerless over myself and the situation.
Chrsistina leaned back with me, closer into my arms. I quickly scanned our companions, and decided that none would judge or demand that i remove my hands from Christina. I was in no immediate danger. Besides, i thought, Christina was her own goddamn person in her own right-- if she wanted me to back off, she wouldn't be afraid to tell me to go fuck myself, with the same tone of voice she uses to tell employees at the office to go fill the paper bay...
Christina would strain her eyes as she noticed that the paper bay was empty. Her voice clear and ringing:
"Debbie, would you fill the paper bay?"
And sweet Debbie, confused, lost, and drifting well into her late teenage years was like a yellow chick tossed to some hungry wolf. Her eyes acknowledged the situation, but her tone of voice revealed her confusion.
"The paper bay?...Ms. Doherty...I never fill the paper bay..."
Christina wouldn't miss a beat, as if she prepared for this conversation in her prework car prep talk.
"Yeah, just make sure its filled to the line then you can take your break if you want, thank you Debbie."
Already defeated, knowing that all was lost, Debbie would play her last card in hopes of preventing the hoop-la that would follow: lugging the heavy cases of paper up two flights of stars, fumbling with the box cover as it never could be opened nor closed, then the inevitable horror of realizing that the dickless piece of shit who filled the bay before you lacked the decency to properly empty it in the first place, causing at least another twenty minutes of bickering with the printer over paper jams and code 32:error 's.
It was clear to everyone, including Chritina Doherty, that Debbie wanted to take her break now, not after crusading against the paper bay.
"But Ms. Doherty...Mr. Meztner never makes fill the paper bay...he says the morning folks do it."
And that would be the last bomb in Debbie's arsenol-- ratting me out. Inevitably, all their eyes would turn to me, sweet Debbie begging me to say something to redeem her, and Christina Doherty eyeing me with pure dismay, silenting demanding that i keep my mouth shut in case i had a cocky comment to contribute or casually contradict. I would look at them both, back and forth, wipe the sweat from my upper lip, knowing full well that i had to side with fellow managament rather than a lost stoner a thousand times more interesting and whom could possibly benefit from my focused energy. Perhaps I would joke about the ridiculous conflict that had somehow exploded between the three of us, and if i was feeling especially focused and creative that day, everything i said would have sharp sexual undertones. Neither of them would acknowledge my comment either way, and i would be free to roam around once again, thinking dark thoughts and searching for a peaceful area to work in.
Surfacing back into present consciousness, i vaguely wondered what the fuck it was that i was doing here, drunk on the library steps hours after the ancient building had closed, casually associating with Ms. Doherty: a fellow manager, and a gaggle of lackeys that had taken to following and eminating me at the bar. Hours later, and it was increasingly difficult to focus, while my vision would fade out every now and then into some obscure, insightful drunken void where details seemed sharper and more important, and subleties were painfully obvious to myself, the causual observer. The drunken halo around my neck began to tighten, and i was having trouble concentrating on one thought for more than a few seconds at a time.
Someone was talking, and they all laughed. Realizing that they weren't laughing at me, i relaxed back towards the drunken undertow. Christina pulled me back tho, shining brightly as she leaned in closely whispered something into my ear. I couldn't quite catch it, but her hair whipped back against the side of my face, so i smiled at her and nodded.
Someone suggested that we head into the library. It's possible that it was me who suggested it, but i didn't really care who it was who brought it up because it was such a damn good idea. Our small group quickly agreed, and people began sitting up and shuffling around nervously trying to find a way in. I absently lit a cigarette, and roamed around the giant structure of the library itself, marvelling over its sharp right angle edges and cracked limestone exterior.
Christina had jumped up, and in my drunken insight i could actually see the glow encompassing her slender body. She had a look in her eyes that i had never seen in her before. I had seen it within others, of course, usually in the late morning hours of some emotionally or drug fueled escapade, the sun slowly rising and most of the unknown glory dying with the dark as a single individual in the group rose up to lead us towards one last thrust of greatness before the adventure was truly over and we all passed out for 12 hours. I had seen this divine insanity in the eyes of my greatest friends at the edge of a vast mirror like lake, in the eyes of my young brother in the mountains of the western eastcoast states, and in the eyes of strangers in the desert fields of tennesse. I now saw it in the eyes of the prestigious Christina Doherty.
"I know how we can get in! I used to work in this library!" Christina slurred drunkenly. Apparently we had been holding hands, and in her rush to find the entrance to our shelter she dropped my hand and ran to the far side of the library. The members of the group turned to me for verification. I shrugged and started to follow. I didn't give a shit where Christina led us; i was here to get drunk.
As we turned the corner of the great book house, we came upon Christina, half eclipsed by bushes, kneeling upon the ground. Her eyes flashed wildly as she pried at a small window and the iron grating covering it for security. I had never noticed this window before, although i had spent much of my youth in this building, wandering around vast stacks of literature that i would never be able to fully comprehend or appreciate.
"When i used to work here, i'd sometimes get to work early...I'd have to climb thru this window because all the doors were locked that early in the morning." Christina fumbled with the latch drunkenly, causing her to almost lose her balance and tip over.
"Why didnt you have a key?" A man in the group asked. He was trying to come off as sly, but it seemed as tho he were just very intoxicated.
Christina ignored the question as she dug further deeper into the small piece of steal separating us from the cavernous inards of the library.
I was about to offer some kind of assistance, but as I opened my mouth to tell her to step aside, the latch suddenly swung up, and the window flew back and open. A dark cavity in the limestone wall of the building was exposed, a gaping hole in the towering wide toothed grin of the library. Whatever waited inside for us was ours, beckoning with beautiful darkness and oppurtunity. There was room to grow within this real eastate.
Thus Spake thujonu
Christina swayed drunkenly and beauitfully in the moonlight. On this night, she resembled a dark, earthly goddess more so than a self-proclaimed irish princess. Despite months of working beside her, i had never particulary found her attractive. She'd bend over and sometimes i'd take a brief glance down her shirt, noting the way her b-cup tits were loosley cupped by an unnecessary bra. She always dressed sharply, and in her tight black work pants it was obvious that she rarely wore underwear, but i usually paid no attention. The way the young lady presented herself, the way she projected the presentation of herself is what really turned me off. She was the type of girl who seemed as tho she sat in her car before walking into work, windows rolled up, in complete silence, giving herself a talk of encouragement, then walk in, her seemless ass pointed in the air, barking out orders. I was far too laid back to squawk with this main hen, despite being somewhat of an alpha cock myself.
WIth shadows drapped across her round face, her eyes red and slow from rum, and her long blonde hair swaying across her body, i fell in love with her. The out of work Christina, this Casual I Know How to Have Fun Now That I'm Not Taking Care of Business Christina was like another person. Her hair, usually tucked back tightly in a bun behind her head, was dishevelled, chaotic, blowing across her face, she frequently had to brush it out of her eyes and mouth. Her shirt was slipping off her shoulders, and she had to keep pulling the straps back up before her small tits would be drunkenly exposed.
She turned to me and caught my eyes. I returned her gaze, and she smiled warmly.
This was the first time we had really seen each other, with the masks and pretentious facades of middle management simmered away by alcohol consumption. We had no employees to impress, we were free from the moral and social restraints of the office; we could talk about dope, sex, niggers, and anything that would normally get us crucified at work. A drunken thought stumbled into my mind: i wondered if everyone was capable of achieving such beauty and perfection once the bondage of the weekday work week wore off. I wondered if the woes of modern man were merely a side effect of this rush rush capitalist consumer culture, a gradual death sentence for all involved. Perhaps in the slow, mellow underbelly of life, sitting on ones back porch in the sun with a large glass of whiskey, ice, and cola in one hand, a large pipe filled with fine marijuana in another hand, and a fine paperback book spread open on ones lap, perhaps in that state of existence, was the truest form of beauty and perfection; miles and miles away from the burdens of fake customs and superstitions instilled within us by our very life styles.
Christina said something to someone and laughed. I drunkenly tuned out the conversation, but noticed the way every muscle in her face jumped and twitched when she laughed, the way her eyes reflected the lights and lives of the night when she smiled. I sat down on the cold concrete steps next to her, and she turned and smiled as she acknowledge me. I could feel the warmth eminating off her in the cold night, enhancing the environment, and i suspect she could feel mine as she leaned slightly against me, her leg resting against mine. I leaned back, my arms sprawled out, and she leaned further into me, almost to the point that i was holding her.
Somewhere in my drunken mind, memories creeped into my main theater. I could see myself many years ago, drinking myself to death in an anonymous townie bar. A tall glass of some dark ale was in front of me, my head swimming in the alcohol and noise. I was in between a girl Jamie and her friend whose name i could never remember then and long forgot now. I had been talking to Jamie's friend all night, quite sure that we were flirting, and almost certain that she dug me. In the course of our conversation i had put my arm around her, and in my chaotic drunken stupor, completely forgot that my arm was still there. Oblivious to any discomfort she might've shown, Jamie turned to me and said "Take your hand off my friend." I laughed and did so, slightly embarrassed at my actions, slightly horrified that i was powerless over myself and the situation.
Chrsistina leaned back with me, closer into my arms. I quickly scanned our companions, and decided that none would judge or demand that i remove my hands from Christina. I was in no immediate danger. Besides, i thought, Christina was her own goddamn person in her own right-- if she wanted me to back off, she wouldn't be afraid to tell me to go fuck myself, with the same tone of voice she uses to tell employees at the office to go fill the paper bay...
Christina would strain her eyes as she noticed that the paper bay was empty. Her voice clear and ringing:
"Debbie, would you fill the paper bay?"
And sweet Debbie, confused, lost, and drifting well into her late teenage years was like a yellow chick tossed to some hungry wolf. Her eyes acknowledged the situation, but her tone of voice revealed her confusion.
"The paper bay?...Ms. Doherty...I never fill the paper bay..."
Christina wouldn't miss a beat, as if she prepared for this conversation in her prework car prep talk.
"Yeah, just make sure its filled to the line then you can take your break if you want, thank you Debbie."
Already defeated, knowing that all was lost, Debbie would play her last card in hopes of preventing the hoop-la that would follow: lugging the heavy cases of paper up two flights of stars, fumbling with the box cover as it never could be opened nor closed, then the inevitable horror of realizing that the dickless piece of shit who filled the bay before you lacked the decency to properly empty it in the first place, causing at least another twenty minutes of bickering with the printer over paper jams and code 32:error 's.
It was clear to everyone, including Chritina Doherty, that Debbie wanted to take her break now, not after crusading against the paper bay.
"But Ms. Doherty...Mr. Meztner never makes fill the paper bay...he says the morning folks do it."
And that would be the last bomb in Debbie's arsenol-- ratting me out. Inevitably, all their eyes would turn to me, sweet Debbie begging me to say something to redeem her, and Christina Doherty eyeing me with pure dismay, silenting demanding that i keep my mouth shut in case i had a cocky comment to contribute or casually contradict. I would look at them both, back and forth, wipe the sweat from my upper lip, knowing full well that i had to side with fellow managament rather than a lost stoner a thousand times more interesting and whom could possibly benefit from my focused energy. Perhaps I would joke about the ridiculous conflict that had somehow exploded between the three of us, and if i was feeling especially focused and creative that day, everything i said would have sharp sexual undertones. Neither of them would acknowledge my comment either way, and i would be free to roam around once again, thinking dark thoughts and searching for a peaceful area to work in.
Surfacing back into present consciousness, i vaguely wondered what the fuck it was that i was doing here, drunk on the library steps hours after the ancient building had closed, casually associating with Ms. Doherty: a fellow manager, and a gaggle of lackeys that had taken to following and eminating me at the bar. Hours later, and it was increasingly difficult to focus, while my vision would fade out every now and then into some obscure, insightful drunken void where details seemed sharper and more important, and subleties were painfully obvious to myself, the causual observer. The drunken halo around my neck began to tighten, and i was having trouble concentrating on one thought for more than a few seconds at a time.
Someone was talking, and they all laughed. Realizing that they weren't laughing at me, i relaxed back towards the drunken undertow. Christina pulled me back tho, shining brightly as she leaned in closely whispered something into my ear. I couldn't quite catch it, but her hair whipped back against the side of my face, so i smiled at her and nodded.
Someone suggested that we head into the library. It's possible that it was me who suggested it, but i didn't really care who it was who brought it up because it was such a damn good idea. Our small group quickly agreed, and people began sitting up and shuffling around nervously trying to find a way in. I absently lit a cigarette, and roamed around the giant structure of the library itself, marvelling over its sharp right angle edges and cracked limestone exterior.
Christina had jumped up, and in my drunken insight i could actually see the glow encompassing her slender body. She had a look in her eyes that i had never seen in her before. I had seen it within others, of course, usually in the late morning hours of some emotionally or drug fueled escapade, the sun slowly rising and most of the unknown glory dying with the dark as a single individual in the group rose up to lead us towards one last thrust of greatness before the adventure was truly over and we all passed out for 12 hours. I had seen this divine insanity in the eyes of my greatest friends at the edge of a vast mirror like lake, in the eyes of my young brother in the mountains of the western eastcoast states, and in the eyes of strangers in the desert fields of tennesse. I now saw it in the eyes of the prestigious Christina Doherty.
"I know how we can get in! I used to work in this library!" Christina slurred drunkenly. Apparently we had been holding hands, and in her rush to find the entrance to our shelter she dropped my hand and ran to the far side of the library. The members of the group turned to me for verification. I shrugged and started to follow. I didn't give a shit where Christina led us; i was here to get drunk.
As we turned the corner of the great book house, we came upon Christina, half eclipsed by bushes, kneeling upon the ground. Her eyes flashed wildly as she pried at a small window and the iron grating covering it for security. I had never noticed this window before, although i had spent much of my youth in this building, wandering around vast stacks of literature that i would never be able to fully comprehend or appreciate.
"When i used to work here, i'd sometimes get to work early...I'd have to climb thru this window because all the doors were locked that early in the morning." Christina fumbled with the latch drunkenly, causing her to almost lose her balance and tip over.
"Why didnt you have a key?" A man in the group asked. He was trying to come off as sly, but it seemed as tho he were just very intoxicated.
Christina ignored the question as she dug further deeper into the small piece of steal separating us from the cavernous inards of the library.
I was about to offer some kind of assistance, but as I opened my mouth to tell her to step aside, the latch suddenly swung up, and the window flew back and open. A dark cavity in the limestone wall of the building was exposed, a gaping hole in the towering wide toothed grin of the library. Whatever waited inside for us was ours, beckoning with beautiful darkness and oppurtunity. There was room to grow within this real eastate.
Thus Spake thujonu
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Let Us to the Castle
If you drop the “r” s at the end of your words, can’t purchase Sam Adams on a Sunday night, and are wicked crazy about baseball, it’s a blatant indication, aside from a license plate, that you’re from the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. The cradle of our country, the so-called seat of the American war of independence from Britain. A good place filled with mostly good people like most others. But then there is this strange breed known as a Masshole.
Every Masshole is in a hurry. And anyone who hurries is a Masshole. Time is money, because time is another 30 miles up I-95, or another green light before the snow and night simultaneously fall on 495 South, or another bagel from Dunkin’ Donuts before your half hour lunch break ends. There is something about the population density which is infective, like too many monkeys in a cage. Every side of the highways are lined with suburbs, towns, and cities. The winters can be brutal, the summers are humid, and like geese, the elderly flock themselves south and back again with the change of the seasons, with fewer returning than left.
Massachusetts is America’s coronary heart attack. Most of the 7 million or so humans live in the eastern suburbs of Boston. Outside the loop of highways and interstates surrounding the city, the population and modern urban sprawl drops off and the culture becomes significantly more rural, more blue collared, and more sports crazy-- less likely to riot and attempt to raze everything to the ground in a drunken haze, but rather likely to crash their Ford drunkenly into a lamp post on a narrow and poorly lit road lined with maple trees. Boston is a relatively old city in American terms, and holds some of the greatest places to both stand and fall. Aside from it’s bigger cousin New York, Boston is the cultural center of Eastern America. Despite this, Massachusetts is more than just Boston.
In the city of Leominster (pronounced Lem-in-stah) the pink plastic flamingo was invented, and is where you can smell nearby Fitchburg or “The Dirty Burg“, which is filled with decaying buildings, beautiful broken glass fields and welfare paid drug dealers. It is close enough to the northern border to be considered New Hampshire’s Woonsocket, and the residents have been known to find small cellophane bags of cocaine on their front lawns while letting their dogs out on Sunday morning.
In Plymouth, there’s a big rock reminder of the founding uptight, fun-hating Pilgrims, or white devil depending on your perspective, which fathered the state out of wedlock from slaughtered aboriginal natives in their attempt to escape the ‘tyranny’ of the British. Though it’s probably not the actual, authentic rock which the settlers landed near, it doesn’t really matter, and no one really cares. After all, the whimsical Separatist Pilgrims weren’t the first Europeans to land here, not even the first English settlers to do so, but once again it doesn’t matter because no one cares.
The town of Salem milks dollars from its past overreaction and religious fanaticism (see Pilgrims) which led to the killing of young girls and old men via creative methods such as crushing by rock. Old cemeteries and witchcraft museums are a cheap thrill if you’re Pagan or Wiccan with nothing better to do on summer afternoons. Or if it is Halloween, it is fun for the whole family. Either way, the locals would love your money.
Concord is home to Walden Pond. The 102 foot deep body of water is where the philosophical American transcendentalist Henry Thoreau lived beside for a couple of years in the mid 1800’s and wrote Life in the Woods. Despite being a popular swimming hole for locals in the summer, it was almost drained in the 1960’s to complete the clear cutting which had already began. The goal was to make the area a parking lot for the local shopping center. A portion of it had already been demolished by then to support an amusement park called Lake Walden, complete with water slides, public baths, and a dance hall. After finally burning down, supporters and school children fought to save the land, and the Massachusetts State Supreme Court agreed to bar any further development, no doubt making Thoreau smile just a little.
Massive, bloodthirsty corporations set up their regional offices on the outskirts in Framingham, where there are more furniture and tire stores than there are living rooms and cars. Framingham is an example of hungry immigrants encroaching on the complacent locals, much like the English did three hundred years earlier on the coast. Nearby Natick features the largest shopping mall in New England, recently re-dubbed the ‘Natick Collection’, formerly the Natick Mall where it was surprising easy to shop lift video games from the first and third floor electronic stores. The security guards and black camera orbs guarding the Nordstroms and Nieman Marcuses are now a shining example of the perseverance of capitalism, and the Collection boasts more than 7,000 parking spots.
Springfield is the Boston of the western half of the state which means it is generally ignored by everyone east of it, and is the most violent city in the country but also home to the Basketball Hall of Fame. Otherwise, there would be no reason to visit the home of roaming, ultra-violent Asian and Negro gangs.
Nearby is Amherst, home of the New England Mystic Emily Dickinson, and named after biological warfare pioneer Jeffrey Amherst. Filled with a lot of colleges, this area is a haven for liberals, educated socialites, lesbians, and farmers. There is a bylaw stating that no more than 6 unrelated adults may live together in a house preventing communes and those seeking to team up against life from doing so. The Amherst area is a shinning of example of where budget cuts and leftist political talk without action will get you. Good luck with parking.
Worcester is good as a marker on satellite weather maps on the evening news, and really nothing else except homes for broken down blue collared workers slowly drinking themselves to death at monster truck events. The scruffy population roams the streets late at night, smashing bottles and searching for cheap ‘Gansett beer.
Milford is a suburb growing too fast for its own good, filled with South American immigrants who work day labor, and a clashing self righteous white population with nothing better to do than to complain about the South Americans living next door to them, unless someone needs a new roof.
Lowell had historic significance in regards to the country’s once infant economy, but now is significant for its needle drugs, gangs, and dirty river. A treacherous bridge crossing the river and its jagged rocks below is a popular suicide hot spot for the local population, and a good destination for those seeking various drugs. Birthplace of Jack Kerouac, who took a lot of drugs and drove around, then wrote books about it.
Almost everyone in the state of Massachusetts are on the roads between 7 and 8 am and 5 to 6 pm. The immigrants will be packed like sardines in red Toyotas keeping right to avoid conflict with any authorities, the hard working manual laborers with Red Sox and Patriots and, if they’re winning, Bruins swag will drive their pick-ups and SUVs at or around the speed limit while keeping as far left as possible, and will glare at you like you pissed on their mother’s coffin if you pass them. The rich corporate swine and well-to-do management types weave and dodge their low riding cars in between the two because time is money.
Classic symptoms of living within the sprawl includes shortness of breath, anxiety, nausea, and vomiting.
But once you learn to see past the initial choking pain, the numbness in the arms, and the blind confusion and learn to accept what is happening, you can achieve serenity. And even beauty. This atmosphere breeds the Masshole, and it breeds very homogenized people who believe they are entitled to something for some reason, but it also breeds freaks like myself who live two or three lives at the same time. Everyone I knew was actually two or three other people. Or they had a child. Unlike the east coast majority, they were not so much concerned with perfecting their current life, but rather carving one out for themselves from the dross. These good people put on their public faces in order to survive the rigid culture, but once the sun went down they were able to grab a cold beer from a friend's fridge---and they were able to comfortably smile in their own skin.
Regards, Esortnom
Every Masshole is in a hurry. And anyone who hurries is a Masshole. Time is money, because time is another 30 miles up I-95, or another green light before the snow and night simultaneously fall on 495 South, or another bagel from Dunkin’ Donuts before your half hour lunch break ends. There is something about the population density which is infective, like too many monkeys in a cage. Every side of the highways are lined with suburbs, towns, and cities. The winters can be brutal, the summers are humid, and like geese, the elderly flock themselves south and back again with the change of the seasons, with fewer returning than left.
Massachusetts is America’s coronary heart attack. Most of the 7 million or so humans live in the eastern suburbs of Boston. Outside the loop of highways and interstates surrounding the city, the population and modern urban sprawl drops off and the culture becomes significantly more rural, more blue collared, and more sports crazy-- less likely to riot and attempt to raze everything to the ground in a drunken haze, but rather likely to crash their Ford drunkenly into a lamp post on a narrow and poorly lit road lined with maple trees. Boston is a relatively old city in American terms, and holds some of the greatest places to both stand and fall. Aside from it’s bigger cousin New York, Boston is the cultural center of Eastern America. Despite this, Massachusetts is more than just Boston.
In the city of Leominster (pronounced Lem-in-stah) the pink plastic flamingo was invented, and is where you can smell nearby Fitchburg or “The Dirty Burg“, which is filled with decaying buildings, beautiful broken glass fields and welfare paid drug dealers. It is close enough to the northern border to be considered New Hampshire’s Woonsocket, and the residents have been known to find small cellophane bags of cocaine on their front lawns while letting their dogs out on Sunday morning.
In Plymouth, there’s a big rock reminder of the founding uptight, fun-hating Pilgrims, or white devil depending on your perspective, which fathered the state out of wedlock from slaughtered aboriginal natives in their attempt to escape the ‘tyranny’ of the British. Though it’s probably not the actual, authentic rock which the settlers landed near, it doesn’t really matter, and no one really cares. After all, the whimsical Separatist Pilgrims weren’t the first Europeans to land here, not even the first English settlers to do so, but once again it doesn’t matter because no one cares.
The town of Salem milks dollars from its past overreaction and religious fanaticism (see Pilgrims) which led to the killing of young girls and old men via creative methods such as crushing by rock. Old cemeteries and witchcraft museums are a cheap thrill if you’re Pagan or Wiccan with nothing better to do on summer afternoons. Or if it is Halloween, it is fun for the whole family. Either way, the locals would love your money.
Concord is home to Walden Pond. The 102 foot deep body of water is where the philosophical American transcendentalist Henry Thoreau lived beside for a couple of years in the mid 1800’s and wrote Life in the Woods. Despite being a popular swimming hole for locals in the summer, it was almost drained in the 1960’s to complete the clear cutting which had already began. The goal was to make the area a parking lot for the local shopping center. A portion of it had already been demolished by then to support an amusement park called Lake Walden, complete with water slides, public baths, and a dance hall. After finally burning down, supporters and school children fought to save the land, and the Massachusetts State Supreme Court agreed to bar any further development, no doubt making Thoreau smile just a little.
Massive, bloodthirsty corporations set up their regional offices on the outskirts in Framingham, where there are more furniture and tire stores than there are living rooms and cars. Framingham is an example of hungry immigrants encroaching on the complacent locals, much like the English did three hundred years earlier on the coast. Nearby Natick features the largest shopping mall in New England, recently re-dubbed the ‘Natick Collection’, formerly the Natick Mall where it was surprising easy to shop lift video games from the first and third floor electronic stores. The security guards and black camera orbs guarding the Nordstroms and Nieman Marcuses are now a shining example of the perseverance of capitalism, and the Collection boasts more than 7,000 parking spots.
Springfield is the Boston of the western half of the state which means it is generally ignored by everyone east of it, and is the most violent city in the country but also home to the Basketball Hall of Fame. Otherwise, there would be no reason to visit the home of roaming, ultra-violent Asian and Negro gangs.
Nearby is Amherst, home of the New England Mystic Emily Dickinson, and named after biological warfare pioneer Jeffrey Amherst. Filled with a lot of colleges, this area is a haven for liberals, educated socialites, lesbians, and farmers. There is a bylaw stating that no more than 6 unrelated adults may live together in a house preventing communes and those seeking to team up against life from doing so. The Amherst area is a shinning of example of where budget cuts and leftist political talk without action will get you. Good luck with parking.
Worcester is good as a marker on satellite weather maps on the evening news, and really nothing else except homes for broken down blue collared workers slowly drinking themselves to death at monster truck events. The scruffy population roams the streets late at night, smashing bottles and searching for cheap ‘Gansett beer.
Milford is a suburb growing too fast for its own good, filled with South American immigrants who work day labor, and a clashing self righteous white population with nothing better to do than to complain about the South Americans living next door to them, unless someone needs a new roof.
Lowell had historic significance in regards to the country’s once infant economy, but now is significant for its needle drugs, gangs, and dirty river. A treacherous bridge crossing the river and its jagged rocks below is a popular suicide hot spot for the local population, and a good destination for those seeking various drugs. Birthplace of Jack Kerouac, who took a lot of drugs and drove around, then wrote books about it.
Almost everyone in the state of Massachusetts are on the roads between 7 and 8 am and 5 to 6 pm. The immigrants will be packed like sardines in red Toyotas keeping right to avoid conflict with any authorities, the hard working manual laborers with Red Sox and Patriots and, if they’re winning, Bruins swag will drive their pick-ups and SUVs at or around the speed limit while keeping as far left as possible, and will glare at you like you pissed on their mother’s coffin if you pass them. The rich corporate swine and well-to-do management types weave and dodge their low riding cars in between the two because time is money.
Classic symptoms of living within the sprawl includes shortness of breath, anxiety, nausea, and vomiting.
But once you learn to see past the initial choking pain, the numbness in the arms, and the blind confusion and learn to accept what is happening, you can achieve serenity. And even beauty. This atmosphere breeds the Masshole, and it breeds very homogenized people who believe they are entitled to something for some reason, but it also breeds freaks like myself who live two or three lives at the same time. Everyone I knew was actually two or three other people. Or they had a child. Unlike the east coast majority, they were not so much concerned with perfecting their current life, but rather carving one out for themselves from the dross. These good people put on their public faces in order to survive the rigid culture, but once the sun went down they were able to grab a cold beer from a friend's fridge---and they were able to comfortably smile in their own skin.
Regards, Esortnom
Monday, July 6, 2009
From Drowning in Rivers to Drops
I was struggling not to punch Lars in the back of the head when he told me:
"Don't let us hold you back, go ahead, have a great time."
Tthe other members of my house nodded slowly, sitting dilated in front of a television box. I sighed in disgust, the sigh of man who had not had a television for a while and does not understand anymore the homely warmth of being fed while your mouth and belly is full.
"Very well, Lars. So it goes." I said, and pulled on my purple jacket. They didn't acknowledge me, and I suppose it was best because sometimes I get like this-all fed up and angry at everything and everyone around me, and the ones who know me well know that the best way to deal with it is to let me feed off it until it burns me out and I'm placid again. But right now I was red.
I hopped onto a bike from the garage and bolted out into the dark rain of the evening. I was curious as to the effect the rain would have on my purple jacket which seemed to be made of felt, but I naively believed that I could just bike fast enough to avoid the rain.
I stopped at a local AM/PM mini market to buy cheap tobacco in a pouch and an alcoholic energy drink. I felt the urge to poison my body in any way possible, to destroy everything and anything that was beautiful. The freezing rain wrapping its fingers around my body dampened my hate for everything in this forsaken town on the edge of the western forest, and everyone in it. And mostly myself, for having risked everything for boardwalk, but landing on park place which I already owned.
I bought my poisons and started to unlock my bike, digging for the keys which were caught somewhere in my already soaking wet pants. I rode until the devil stopped chasing me. I lost him under a bridge which occasionally dotted the Northwest bike paths as roads roared overhead.
I fished a soggy phone out of my pocket and called Jessika. I made a silent promise to myself that I wouldn't let her know how abysmal all this was. What friend unloads all his cynical sadness upon the other? Why would she even answer? Lovely Jess, who was wise enough not to follow me out here into this pine smelling mess. Lovely Jess, somewhere with her life together, quiet with out unpublished poets drinking themselves to death knocking on her door asking if she'd like a shot.
The phone rang and rang, and of course she answered, because sometimes the divine do answer your calls. And I didn't mention once anything overwhelmingly negative, but instead used my only talent to paint bright praise of this place, as I sat under a soggy bridge, edging away from the growing puddle approaching my feet aided by the sleeting rain.
We said our goodbyes, myself promising to finish my book and I hung up. Called Kevin, whom I had met at a halloween warehouse party. This was before I knew he had warrants out for his arrest in California and Iowa. They were only drug warrants. Relax, this is a common thing in the Northwest. I fell in love with a woman who fled to Alaska to avoid warrants in California.
"Hey man, it's #&^^, we met at that Halloween warhouse party."
"Huh?"
"With the fire dancers. Out front. My buddy was playing "Peaches in Regalia"."
"Oh yeah...poet, right? From Minnesota?"
"Massachusetts."
"Right. Right on. What's up?"
"I'm going down to Max's tonight. Wanna get drunk?"
"Man," he said, after I knew he was thinking about it. "I made a promise to myself. I promised that I wouldn't get drunk for a week."
"Bummer." I replied, watching the rancid water crawl towards my wet feet. I backed away a few more feet, closer to the end of the bridge and the pouring rain. This would be a reoccurring theme during the next 9 months or so.
"Not only that," Kevin continued, "but I'm not smoking. Bud, tobacco, white, dmt, anything. Or sugar. Or caffeine. None of it. I'm going completely sober for a week. I've been fucked up for so long, this is going to be good. It's going to be like I'm fucked up."
"Damn, man." I said, backing up further away from the shelter of the bridge. The river was overflowing. "Well, I guess I'll talk to you later."
"Yeah, man. But I might be there later."
"Huh?" I said. I could barely here him over the flowing water.
"I'll probably be at Max's around eleven or so. I've got something you'll probably dig."
"Huh?" I asked.
"Yeah, you'll definitely like it. Someone with a mind like yours, you'll love it. See ya then." He hung up.
I sat confused, but then I realized the puddle had reached my left toe. I slipped my phone back into my soggy pants and mounted my wet bike. I rode into the rain, trying to go fast enough to avoid the rain. Full speed towards Max's.
"Don't let us hold you back, go ahead, have a great time."
Tthe other members of my house nodded slowly, sitting dilated in front of a television box. I sighed in disgust, the sigh of man who had not had a television for a while and does not understand anymore the homely warmth of being fed while your mouth and belly is full.
"Very well, Lars. So it goes." I said, and pulled on my purple jacket. They didn't acknowledge me, and I suppose it was best because sometimes I get like this-all fed up and angry at everything and everyone around me, and the ones who know me well know that the best way to deal with it is to let me feed off it until it burns me out and I'm placid again. But right now I was red.
I hopped onto a bike from the garage and bolted out into the dark rain of the evening. I was curious as to the effect the rain would have on my purple jacket which seemed to be made of felt, but I naively believed that I could just bike fast enough to avoid the rain.
I stopped at a local AM/PM mini market to buy cheap tobacco in a pouch and an alcoholic energy drink. I felt the urge to poison my body in any way possible, to destroy everything and anything that was beautiful. The freezing rain wrapping its fingers around my body dampened my hate for everything in this forsaken town on the edge of the western forest, and everyone in it. And mostly myself, for having risked everything for boardwalk, but landing on park place which I already owned.
I bought my poisons and started to unlock my bike, digging for the keys which were caught somewhere in my already soaking wet pants. I rode until the devil stopped chasing me. I lost him under a bridge which occasionally dotted the Northwest bike paths as roads roared overhead.
I fished a soggy phone out of my pocket and called Jessika. I made a silent promise to myself that I wouldn't let her know how abysmal all this was. What friend unloads all his cynical sadness upon the other? Why would she even answer? Lovely Jess, who was wise enough not to follow me out here into this pine smelling mess. Lovely Jess, somewhere with her life together, quiet with out unpublished poets drinking themselves to death knocking on her door asking if she'd like a shot.
The phone rang and rang, and of course she answered, because sometimes the divine do answer your calls. And I didn't mention once anything overwhelmingly negative, but instead used my only talent to paint bright praise of this place, as I sat under a soggy bridge, edging away from the growing puddle approaching my feet aided by the sleeting rain.
We said our goodbyes, myself promising to finish my book and I hung up. Called Kevin, whom I had met at a halloween warehouse party. This was before I knew he had warrants out for his arrest in California and Iowa. They were only drug warrants. Relax, this is a common thing in the Northwest. I fell in love with a woman who fled to Alaska to avoid warrants in California.
"Hey man, it's #&^^, we met at that Halloween warhouse party."
"Huh?"
"With the fire dancers. Out front. My buddy was playing "Peaches in Regalia"."
"Oh yeah...poet, right? From Minnesota?"
"Massachusetts."
"Right. Right on. What's up?"
"I'm going down to Max's tonight. Wanna get drunk?"
"Man," he said, after I knew he was thinking about it. "I made a promise to myself. I promised that I wouldn't get drunk for a week."
"Bummer." I replied, watching the rancid water crawl towards my wet feet. I backed away a few more feet, closer to the end of the bridge and the pouring rain. This would be a reoccurring theme during the next 9 months or so.
"Not only that," Kevin continued, "but I'm not smoking. Bud, tobacco, white, dmt, anything. Or sugar. Or caffeine. None of it. I'm going completely sober for a week. I've been fucked up for so long, this is going to be good. It's going to be like I'm fucked up."
"Damn, man." I said, backing up further away from the shelter of the bridge. The river was overflowing. "Well, I guess I'll talk to you later."
"Yeah, man. But I might be there later."
"Huh?" I said. I could barely here him over the flowing water.
"I'll probably be at Max's around eleven or so. I've got something you'll probably dig."
"Huh?" I asked.
"Yeah, you'll definitely like it. Someone with a mind like yours, you'll love it. See ya then." He hung up.
I sat confused, but then I realized the puddle had reached my left toe. I slipped my phone back into my soggy pants and mounted my wet bike. I rode into the rain, trying to go fast enough to avoid the rain. Full speed towards Max's.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
I Shall Show Thee the Best Springs
"Aw man...there's naked old men." I said sadly.
Mason looked towards me apologetically. "Sorry." She said.
She had promised me that there wasn't going to be any naked old men at the hot springs. My buddy Dale had warned me about such things. He had been right after all.
"Oh well." I said. I took off my backpack and reached for the high proofed rum. I took a swig and grimaced as the awful stuff burned my stomach. I was already kind of drunk despite the long drive through the mountains. We had taken the wrong turn at Cougar Lake and ended up at something called a powerhouse which over looked the reservoir, but had finally made it to the summit where we hiked a half mile into the Oregonian forest and reached the sulfur springs.
Despite Mason's assurances, the first thing I noticed as I gazed downward towards the hot water pool was a floating, 50 something year old hippy penis drifting like a piece of sea weed.
"I'm not gonna get naked." Mason told me and began to pull off her clothes revealing her white bikini underneath. I shrugged and pulled off my clothes to my boxers and took another swig of the rum, deciding that I wouldn't get naked either. Mason pulled out a marijuana pipe and began stuffing it with high powered marijuana.
"Hey guys, welcome!" I turned and a naked girl climbed up from the rocks towards us on the bank. She had long hair and national geographic boobs which hung scarily down her body. She had a crystal tied into the widow's peak of her dreadlocks which reflected the slowly setting sun which was drifting downwards in shafts through the green moss covered branches. I would later ask her the significance of the crystal, but she just smiled at me and said, "It keeps me fresh."
"Oh, hey Almana!" Mason said. Apparently they knew each other. The naked girl joined us on the bank and casually handed me a joint. Mason introduced me to her friend and we shook hands. I handed her the bottle of rum and she took a swig and coughed. We talked casually for a while as I tried to avoid looking at the naked old men until we finally decided to go into the spring.
I climbed into the hot water and almost fell drunkenly on the slippery rocks. I caught myself before I ate a mouthful of sulfur water and splashed towards the bottom. A large hole in the rocks above us formed a cavern which spouted smelly steam and hot water down into the pool bellow where I floated casually.
An older guy sitting fully clothed was speaking to a naked man sitting on the bank. "Yeah man," he said in a slow, drawn out way which LSD victims usually sport, "Janis, Morrison, Hendrix, Jerry Garcia...they all died for our sins. All of them."
I snorted with laughter. Son of a goose, I thought, if this is what years of heavy drug use did to one, I was glad that I no longer participated. The old guy heard my laughter and nodded at me, as though I understood. The naked guy he was talking to just starred blankly into the dusky sky above, slightly cross eyed. I was beginning to feel uneasy.
I swam to the other side of the hot pool, and climbed out onto the slippery rocks, careful not to fall and crack my skull. The heat was making me thirsty, and a flowing river ran adjacent to the hot spring. I climbed into the icy water of the river, and my body began convulsing from the contrast of the 104 degree hot spring. I had heard that this was good for the body, going from extreme heat to extreme cold. It was just stress. Like lifting weights.
"Can we drink this water?" I asked Almana. She smiled. "I wouldn't. They do," she said pointing to the naked men, "but I wouldn't. Here, have some of this." And she handed me a large plastic jug of water. I took a long swig, my body submerged in icy water splashing over me like melting snow on my winter skin, somewhere deep in the Oregonian wilderness surrounded with space cased, yet well meaning people who were talking about subjects they knew nothing about.
"And that's the universal mass constant." The clothed man said from the bank. "Does anyone mind cigarette smoke?" He asked to no one in particular, and no one answered him so he lit a cigarette. I climbed out of the icy river and went back into the hot spring with out cracking my skull. My body relaxed. A naked old man slowly lowers himself into the water as Almana smiles, her national geographic titties swaying slightly as she leans forward in the hot water. Mason stands and declares that she is getting out and going back to the bank to get high.
I decide that I have enough, so I climb out and join her on the bank. She is talking to two old men who are thankfully clothed. Mason excuses herself to go urinate in the woods, leaving me alone with the two old hippies. The older guy from the spring, the one who believes that the pop stars from the 60's and 70's died as martyrs for our sins climbs up and sits next to me. He introduces himself as Captain Beyond.
"I got that name in the fourth dimension," he explains to me. "When you reach that place, you'll get a name too."
"Can I be an admiral?" I ask him.
"Hell, you could be. I got this name because I'm so far beyond, and a captain gives out the orders. I am, like, the master."
"Well," I say carefully, "an admiral out ranks a captain."
He smiles, and tells me that there are plenty of titles in the fourth dimension for everyone. Even me. He attempts to introduce me to his friends, but he can't remember their names.
"Oh shit--Mike. That's right, I remember now." Cpt. Beyond tells me after a little assistance from his friends. "Mike here is the business guru hippy. I'm the spiritual LSD guru hippy. It's a nice balance." Cpt. Beyond asks me for some of the rum, and I oblige. He coughs heavily after sipping it, and seems impressed by the high quality of a common, cheap liquor.
Mason returns and joins me on the bank by the three old men. Cpt. Beyond asks me if I want any opium.
"Sure." I said, because I do enjoy opium.
"Here, check this out." He pulled out a stash of incense.
"What's this?" I ask the good Captain.
"This," he explains, "is pure, holy opium."
"No, it's not." I said. "That's incense. I thought you had opium?"
"This is opium." The Capt. argued.
"No it's not, that's just incense. You said you had opium. That means black tar stuff."
"Oh man," the Capt. said, "I wish I had some of that. Do you have any?"
"No," I laughed. "You said you had some." I sighed. Talking to these people was like dealing with children. I returned to my bottle of rum, hopeful to get drunk.
"Check this out." Captain beyond was over my shoulder again, reaching into his pack like his bag of tricks. He pulled out a knot of t-shirts and clothes. "You want to see my paintings? I'm a visionary artist." And I believe him, because all visionaries always tell you that they're visionaries.
He shows off some mediocre print screenings and acrylic paint splashed onto an assortment of t-shirts, and I fear that he'll ask me to buy some but thankfully he doesn't, because his art is awful and none of the pictures look right. Jesus Christ is a red and blue blob, Hendrix is yellow smeared on blue, and the holy flower of life is a mess of yellow spirals. I nod and act impressed. Mason and the others pull off the act much more convincing than me. Or more frightfully, they really are in impressed. This worries me very much.
The Captain has a final surprise for all of us gathered on the bank over looking the hot springs. By this time, the sun is starting to go down, and it is illegal to be up here past dark. Some young teenagers have made their way up to the springs, and none of them have national geographic titties and I am highly interested in them. Mason taps my shoulder and draws my attention to Captain Beyond's hands. They're filled with beads, necklaces, and bracelets.
Again, I assume that he is trying to sell them and make some quick cash. But I am surprised when he shoves them into the hands of the girls, and Almana and Mason start putting them around each other's necks and the Captain insists that they keep the handful of jewelry. The ladies started to tie bracelets around my wrists and ankles, as Almana tells me how each consecutive knot is a symbol of strength upon me. I don't believe in it, but I do like hemp jewelry so I bite my tongue and enjoy my free stuff.
Captain Beyond sighs and stands. He zips up his pack as his buddies whose names he could not remember start putting on their socks and tying their expensive looking Timberlands and Northface apparel. The Captain just has an old pair of Nike's, worn down and beaten with the souls coming off. I assume that they are leaving; they are very worried about the park rangers coming up and finding us up here in the dark. The old men claim that they helped build the paths leading to the springs, lugging stones up in wheel barrows over the steep hills. This justifies their extreme territorial habits.
In the impending dark, Captain Beyond looks sad and older. He does not look like a spiritual LSD guru. He does not look powerful or wise. Not that he did much in the light either, but in the darkness his vulnerability is almost comically exposed. He seems lost.
Someone asks him if he has a place to stay after all this. The Captain explains that he's sleeping down at the base of the mountain. He's being doing that for the past week. But he puffs his chest out and proudly states that he has found a home outside of the state park. He has a trailer in the front yard of someone's house which he can stay in during the day. And when the people inside the house aren't home, he can sleep on their couch. He's not sure how he knows the people who own the trailer and the house, but it seems as though he's fought for this for a long time.
These are the words of a man who claims to have experienced the esoteric secrets of the universe. Living the way that the pop star martyrs claimed everyone should and could has lead him to confused nudity at a hot spring deep in the Oregonian forest. For the last time that day, I am glad in a self righteous kind of way that I have moved beyond the notions of enlightenment through substance abuse. Because I can see what it has done to all these poor bastards.
Regards, Esortnom
Mason looked towards me apologetically. "Sorry." She said.
She had promised me that there wasn't going to be any naked old men at the hot springs. My buddy Dale had warned me about such things. He had been right after all.
"Oh well." I said. I took off my backpack and reached for the high proofed rum. I took a swig and grimaced as the awful stuff burned my stomach. I was already kind of drunk despite the long drive through the mountains. We had taken the wrong turn at Cougar Lake and ended up at something called a powerhouse which over looked the reservoir, but had finally made it to the summit where we hiked a half mile into the Oregonian forest and reached the sulfur springs.
Despite Mason's assurances, the first thing I noticed as I gazed downward towards the hot water pool was a floating, 50 something year old hippy penis drifting like a piece of sea weed.
"I'm not gonna get naked." Mason told me and began to pull off her clothes revealing her white bikini underneath. I shrugged and pulled off my clothes to my boxers and took another swig of the rum, deciding that I wouldn't get naked either. Mason pulled out a marijuana pipe and began stuffing it with high powered marijuana.
"Hey guys, welcome!" I turned and a naked girl climbed up from the rocks towards us on the bank. She had long hair and national geographic boobs which hung scarily down her body. She had a crystal tied into the widow's peak of her dreadlocks which reflected the slowly setting sun which was drifting downwards in shafts through the green moss covered branches. I would later ask her the significance of the crystal, but she just smiled at me and said, "It keeps me fresh."
"Oh, hey Almana!" Mason said. Apparently they knew each other. The naked girl joined us on the bank and casually handed me a joint. Mason introduced me to her friend and we shook hands. I handed her the bottle of rum and she took a swig and coughed. We talked casually for a while as I tried to avoid looking at the naked old men until we finally decided to go into the spring.
I climbed into the hot water and almost fell drunkenly on the slippery rocks. I caught myself before I ate a mouthful of sulfur water and splashed towards the bottom. A large hole in the rocks above us formed a cavern which spouted smelly steam and hot water down into the pool bellow where I floated casually.
An older guy sitting fully clothed was speaking to a naked man sitting on the bank. "Yeah man," he said in a slow, drawn out way which LSD victims usually sport, "Janis, Morrison, Hendrix, Jerry Garcia...they all died for our sins. All of them."
I snorted with laughter. Son of a goose, I thought, if this is what years of heavy drug use did to one, I was glad that I no longer participated. The old guy heard my laughter and nodded at me, as though I understood. The naked guy he was talking to just starred blankly into the dusky sky above, slightly cross eyed. I was beginning to feel uneasy.
I swam to the other side of the hot pool, and climbed out onto the slippery rocks, careful not to fall and crack my skull. The heat was making me thirsty, and a flowing river ran adjacent to the hot spring. I climbed into the icy water of the river, and my body began convulsing from the contrast of the 104 degree hot spring. I had heard that this was good for the body, going from extreme heat to extreme cold. It was just stress. Like lifting weights.
"Can we drink this water?" I asked Almana. She smiled. "I wouldn't. They do," she said pointing to the naked men, "but I wouldn't. Here, have some of this." And she handed me a large plastic jug of water. I took a long swig, my body submerged in icy water splashing over me like melting snow on my winter skin, somewhere deep in the Oregonian wilderness surrounded with space cased, yet well meaning people who were talking about subjects they knew nothing about.
"And that's the universal mass constant." The clothed man said from the bank. "Does anyone mind cigarette smoke?" He asked to no one in particular, and no one answered him so he lit a cigarette. I climbed out of the icy river and went back into the hot spring with out cracking my skull. My body relaxed. A naked old man slowly lowers himself into the water as Almana smiles, her national geographic titties swaying slightly as she leans forward in the hot water. Mason stands and declares that she is getting out and going back to the bank to get high.
I decide that I have enough, so I climb out and join her on the bank. She is talking to two old men who are thankfully clothed. Mason excuses herself to go urinate in the woods, leaving me alone with the two old hippies. The older guy from the spring, the one who believes that the pop stars from the 60's and 70's died as martyrs for our sins climbs up and sits next to me. He introduces himself as Captain Beyond.
"I got that name in the fourth dimension," he explains to me. "When you reach that place, you'll get a name too."
"Can I be an admiral?" I ask him.
"Hell, you could be. I got this name because I'm so far beyond, and a captain gives out the orders. I am, like, the master."
"Well," I say carefully, "an admiral out ranks a captain."
He smiles, and tells me that there are plenty of titles in the fourth dimension for everyone. Even me. He attempts to introduce me to his friends, but he can't remember their names.
"Oh shit--Mike. That's right, I remember now." Cpt. Beyond tells me after a little assistance from his friends. "Mike here is the business guru hippy. I'm the spiritual LSD guru hippy. It's a nice balance." Cpt. Beyond asks me for some of the rum, and I oblige. He coughs heavily after sipping it, and seems impressed by the high quality of a common, cheap liquor.
Mason returns and joins me on the bank by the three old men. Cpt. Beyond asks me if I want any opium.
"Sure." I said, because I do enjoy opium.
"Here, check this out." He pulled out a stash of incense.
"What's this?" I ask the good Captain.
"This," he explains, "is pure, holy opium."
"No, it's not." I said. "That's incense. I thought you had opium?"
"This is opium." The Capt. argued.
"No it's not, that's just incense. You said you had opium. That means black tar stuff."
"Oh man," the Capt. said, "I wish I had some of that. Do you have any?"
"No," I laughed. "You said you had some." I sighed. Talking to these people was like dealing with children. I returned to my bottle of rum, hopeful to get drunk.
"Check this out." Captain beyond was over my shoulder again, reaching into his pack like his bag of tricks. He pulled out a knot of t-shirts and clothes. "You want to see my paintings? I'm a visionary artist." And I believe him, because all visionaries always tell you that they're visionaries.
He shows off some mediocre print screenings and acrylic paint splashed onto an assortment of t-shirts, and I fear that he'll ask me to buy some but thankfully he doesn't, because his art is awful and none of the pictures look right. Jesus Christ is a red and blue blob, Hendrix is yellow smeared on blue, and the holy flower of life is a mess of yellow spirals. I nod and act impressed. Mason and the others pull off the act much more convincing than me. Or more frightfully, they really are in impressed. This worries me very much.
The Captain has a final surprise for all of us gathered on the bank over looking the hot springs. By this time, the sun is starting to go down, and it is illegal to be up here past dark. Some young teenagers have made their way up to the springs, and none of them have national geographic titties and I am highly interested in them. Mason taps my shoulder and draws my attention to Captain Beyond's hands. They're filled with beads, necklaces, and bracelets.
Again, I assume that he is trying to sell them and make some quick cash. But I am surprised when he shoves them into the hands of the girls, and Almana and Mason start putting them around each other's necks and the Captain insists that they keep the handful of jewelry. The ladies started to tie bracelets around my wrists and ankles, as Almana tells me how each consecutive knot is a symbol of strength upon me. I don't believe in it, but I do like hemp jewelry so I bite my tongue and enjoy my free stuff.
Captain Beyond sighs and stands. He zips up his pack as his buddies whose names he could not remember start putting on their socks and tying their expensive looking Timberlands and Northface apparel. The Captain just has an old pair of Nike's, worn down and beaten with the souls coming off. I assume that they are leaving; they are very worried about the park rangers coming up and finding us up here in the dark. The old men claim that they helped build the paths leading to the springs, lugging stones up in wheel barrows over the steep hills. This justifies their extreme territorial habits.
In the impending dark, Captain Beyond looks sad and older. He does not look like a spiritual LSD guru. He does not look powerful or wise. Not that he did much in the light either, but in the darkness his vulnerability is almost comically exposed. He seems lost.
Someone asks him if he has a place to stay after all this. The Captain explains that he's sleeping down at the base of the mountain. He's being doing that for the past week. But he puffs his chest out and proudly states that he has found a home outside of the state park. He has a trailer in the front yard of someone's house which he can stay in during the day. And when the people inside the house aren't home, he can sleep on their couch. He's not sure how he knows the people who own the trailer and the house, but it seems as though he's fought for this for a long time.
These are the words of a man who claims to have experienced the esoteric secrets of the universe. Living the way that the pop star martyrs claimed everyone should and could has lead him to confused nudity at a hot spring deep in the Oregonian forest. For the last time that day, I am glad in a self righteous kind of way that I have moved beyond the notions of enlightenment through substance abuse. Because I can see what it has done to all these poor bastards.
Regards, Esortnom
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