Acid and LSD are the same thing. I’ve met a lot of people who get confused and all puffed up over this, they try to argue the difference, but they are incorrect. Football is soccer, Boomers are mushrooms, and acid is LSD. Despite the grainy propaganda films I was shown in high school health classes ranting the horrors of LSD-the dangerous visuals, the lost perception of reality, and the alleged dangers of flashbacks years later possibly occurring while you’re riding a bike, flying a helicopter, or performing surgery-despite this, I was eager to embrace the drug as soon as possible.
Once exposed in the world, it was better to get completely out of my mind on whatever was available as an excuse to not care. I blame gym class. Once I realized some truths which should have became self evident to the gym teachers, I stopped trying in gym class. And it was either pretend that I was a punk in order to show the jocks and coaches how little I cared about running laps and doing jumping jacks, or get completely involved with drugs. And I couldn’t stand the new wave of punk music, so six months after I had smoked marijuana for the first time I took three copper tasting pieces of paper in my friends back yard.
It was an escape. For a young man in the pre and post 9/11 world, it was the only and the most extreme sacrament to transcend the frivolous and narrow mindedness which was daily life in the American Northeast. And as a self proclaimed poet in a time when proclaiming yourself a poet was considered pretty gay, it seemed to be the simplest way to legitimize myself as an artist. So I embraced it with open arms, and the crowd I romped around with embraced it as well, because we had so much free time, and so little sense of accomplishment, that we'd search for something to fill that gap at all costs. Anything.
We perceived fully, all too well actually, the impermanence of human life and the inevitability of bodily harm and the loss of fleshly pleasure. It was these terrifying notions which fed our mantra of unequal equilibrium, of excess, and of unconscious self destruction for the sake of accomplishment and deliverance. Also, we were just really fucking bored.
There was wandering happiness scattered all over the place, probably from a time which we failed to recognize, and wouldn't recognize again until we were dying and bound to relive it again in the endless cycle of what Buddhists call Samsara. But we still looked everywhere for it all along the towns of our youth which we were occupying by default.
So we smoked dope in the woods behind our well manicured lawns, and stole music players and bottles of wine from supermarkets. We’d pick cigarettes out of ashtrays and smoke them in parking lots, saying we wanted to upset the upper middle class folk buying their groceries, but really we just wanted a piece of their attention. We’d sit under a bridge in a cemetery lighting small fires and complaining, or we’d drive around with bottles of whiskey in the back seat slashing strangers’ tires because we had to get our kicks some way in a town where the grass was better fed than most people and even the poor were fat and played youth sports. While our Italian and Irish parents drank their Sundays away at pretentious cook outs after church on the weekends among a bunch of bores who didn’t stand out at all, we set off to disrupt their picturesque accomplishments before the snow fell and we’d have to spend the winter smoking inside restaurants until they kicked us out. The west is where people go to start new lives. The east is where people are perfecting their current one.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Portland Conversations
apparently
we all went crazy
Mark that fuckin slut
screwed a bunch-i dunno
its been a long time since this story
but god damn Kat- this is the best story
give me a second
Kat's description of sex with Cal
he smiles the whole time
now remember his shit eating grin
i can picture him
smiling thru a few hair clips
maybe smiling to himself
ok
maybe i will
just for comedy
thats funny, he would
they were living together
and apparently they'd still cuddle together
and he'd stay all awake
all night
cuddling together
she was sleeping
but he was awake just starring at her
he's so sad and pathetic really
-this must've happened after i left?
it was after yeah
right before they bulldozed that park
across from Bottle's place
and turned it into a parking lot
yeah i got my bike stolen there and shit
apparently on highland a bunch of people
got beaten and killed
they're blaming it on college kids
fuck that shit, its because we left college
yeah
now i guess they're just calling violence and shit
senseless violence
and shit
Thus Spake Thujonu
we all went crazy
Mark that fuckin slut
screwed a bunch-i dunno
its been a long time since this story
but god damn Kat- this is the best story
give me a second
Kat's description of sex with Cal
he smiles the whole time
now remember his shit eating grin
i can picture him
smiling thru a few hair clips
maybe smiling to himself
ok
maybe i will
just for comedy
thats funny, he would
they were living together
and apparently they'd still cuddle together
and he'd stay all awake
all night
cuddling together
she was sleeping
but he was awake just starring at her
he's so sad and pathetic really
-this must've happened after i left?
it was after yeah
right before they bulldozed that park
across from Bottle's place
and turned it into a parking lot
yeah i got my bike stolen there and shit
apparently on highland a bunch of people
got beaten and killed
they're blaming it on college kids
fuck that shit, its because we left college
yeah
now i guess they're just calling violence and shit
senseless violence
and shit
Thus Spake Thujonu
Waiting for Rainy Day Buffalo Chicken
Factory ejaculates pollutants into the air in short, rapid bursts. Puff-puff-pufft. The sky groans as it grudgingly accepts the offering-like a lover half out the door, it has no choice but to accept. The favor is returned though as it begins to rain, and the cycle continues. Water tumbling down through a rip in the sky. Puddles rainbow slickened with oil. Fat middle aged white americans scurry their offspring from home to SUV less they catch a chill. I can't help but think-millons of years of evolution, for this? Grant me some time to ponder this dismal evaluation, this cynical revelation, so i can at least perform and perfect some art to reflect this cold harsh realization.
Standing here in this air conditioned building in some anonymous, blood thirsty corporate belly i can't help but think that I've forgotten what I'm looking for. Perhaps I left it all behind up in those mountains, where the sun could not reach and the rain always fell. How silly of me and how serious of my drugs. Of my friends. Some of the best/worst minds in this country are products of a consumerism society as they wait tables at a bar all day long then go drink themselves to death slowly at other bars. In this town, the caged bird doesn't sing, it drunkenly weeps as it swerves home.
Thus Spake Thujonu
Standing here in this air conditioned building in some anonymous, blood thirsty corporate belly i can't help but think that I've forgotten what I'm looking for. Perhaps I left it all behind up in those mountains, where the sun could not reach and the rain always fell. How silly of me and how serious of my drugs. Of my friends. Some of the best/worst minds in this country are products of a consumerism society as they wait tables at a bar all day long then go drink themselves to death slowly at other bars. In this town, the caged bird doesn't sing, it drunkenly weeps as it swerves home.
Thus Spake Thujonu
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Children of the Night
Leaves barely crunched as she joined me at my side as we walked swiftly away from the target house.
"Beautiful." I muttered. She reached her gloved hand over and grasped mine affectionately.
"I knew it would be...I pick the best houses..." Her voice rose slightly, the volume almost yellow. Jami had a
habit of getting excited after a target. She had a horrible habit of getting cocky...not arrogance, but rather a kind of emanating certainty.
And that kind of presumptious confidence, that false security upset me terribly. I was well aware that hubris was alone
capable of destroying the greatest of heros.
"You were right honey, but come now, let us make flight into this night and leave this place. That house was small and tight.
Such close quarters is like removing one grape from the stem, its impossible to do so without shaking the other grapes."
I let her hand drop back to her side, and quickend my pace to show her that i wasn't fucking around.
"No one saw you though..you gave the 'relax signal'. We conquered another one...what's this?" She had caught up to me, and her
hand had fallen to my cargo pocket.
"A souvenier, baby." I said quietly, as we crossed the street. We had parked the car a good half mile away on the
side of a back road, discreetly out of view from any main streets or residential homes.
"A souvenier? You took something? What the fuck! You know I hate it when you do that shit...we're not thieves.." Her voice
was approaching yellow volume. Not loud, but close enough to unacceptable that I was uncomfortable.
"Lower your voice, babe. I know we're not thieves, we're fucking professionals. This is nothing of value, only--what's it
called? It has emotional value to me?" I turned to Jami as our car came into view, obscurred by looming trees and darkness.
"Sentimental value?" Jami suggested.
"Yes, yes, yes! Sentimental value...this is my trophy, of the conquered beasts I- we- slayed together,
on this night, in this foul year of America." I rambled, and was getting close to yellow volume. "The taking of trophies
from the battlefield has been practiced through out human history, demonstrating the dominance over the defeated. The Ottomans cut fifteen thousand ears off the Famagustans." We reached the car. We quietly pulled open the doors, and then slowly let them shut, as we had practiced hundreds of times before. I looked into the mirrors, then started the car and quickly went into drive.
*****************************
Mornings, to me, are always such an apocalyptic time. I've been an insomniac since my teenage years, when I'd lay awake, terrified mostly of everything. The origin and destination of the universe was a troubling notion. Then it became the preoccupation with other people, and how they would view me, how they would interpret myself. Vanity. But I learned not to hate the inevitable.
I haven't learned how to sleep more than 5 hours a night though.
And it would bother me so much, laying awoke as Jami slept peacefully beside me, when early morning light would pour through my blinds, and the cars and trucks would roar down the lonely road loudly in the morning. Heading to work, or whatever it is normal people do early in the morning. Whatever it is they do to justify their existence.
Jami awoke and saw me sitting wide eyed awake in the chair by the window. The shades were half drawn, so I could watch the traffic move below. I didn't know what time it was, but cars were zooming in both directions, although it was still early enough for the sun to be split in a red haze across the summer sky.
"Babe?" She asked, sleep stuck in her throat.
"..I'm here, honey..."
"Can't sleep?" She asked me like the sugar on my cereal.
"No,i just...can't understand this." Struggling for the words. Gasping for them like a swimmer's breath. My leg was shaking nervously, and I felt as though I was definitely yellow.
"What... hon?" Sitting up a little, her hair flows like a gold river in the early morning light. Her soft skin looks so dark in the early morning, she looks so naked, like a child, from her sleep that i feel truly connected with her. Our innocent nakedness joins us at the hip, like the two original youths in the garden of eden.
"Is this what the real world does? Do they do this every morning? Even when i'm not looking--they do this each morning. Why do they bother? Whey do they squander their time, their resources, their being, on stupid shit like this? They shuffle back and forth everyday, huh?"
She's stopped listening a little now, as she sometimes does when I ramble at inconvenient times. The connection is broken, the plug is pulled. Someone has flicked a switch somewhere, and the divinity is gone. She's just a naked blonde girl laying in my expensive bamboo sheets, and I'm just a half crazed lunatic looking out a window during rush hour morning traffic.
"..s'alright, hun. They're not hurting anyone." Her eyes are closed, and after a while she's breathing in a slow, steady rhythm of sleep. Unguarded and unaware in her slumber, i slowly walk over to her. I stand above her, watching her peacefully rest. I envy her ability to leave it all behind to those of us in the world of the waking. I'm jealous. I'm red.
She's wrong. They're hurting themselves. And by that extension, they're hurting me.
I can't help but feel angry and irrelevant. I wondered if I went and got myself a job some place near the city, if I went out and joined the rat race, would I feel better. What if I had to wake up at a certain time almost everyday, and shuffle out the door to the highways like an elephant to die, would I be able to sleep each night? Would I pass for normal?
I sat back down by the window and smoked a cigarette. Watching the traffic crawl by below, horns blasting and radios murmuring news about home invasions and a killer. I giggled a bit.
I wonder when the media would progress, and start calling him The Killer. Caps lock on.
I felt a little better, being able to laugh at the rat race. After a while I lay down next to my naked girl and smiled. I was feeling green.
*********************************
Jami smiled at me from her place in the shawdows. Her athletic legs were bent at the knees as she hugged the concrete wall, her breath coming out in slow mist in defiance of the chill of the night.
She was right about wearing long sleeves. Even so, we should've been cold. But adrenaline kept us going. Purpose kept us moving. I learned long ago that not everything has a reason. But everything has a purpose.
The still night air seemed to accentuate the cold stone of the church. I had no idea what branch, what denomination it was. Definitely Christian though, I was sure of that. It sat solemnly at the end of a large grassy lot, an empty parking lot rested behind the structure like a silent pool of water. We had driven past it many times on this side of town, and I couldn't help but think that it would look way better as an empty field.
I was sure it was locked. It had to be. Jami argued otherwise, saying that places of worship were always open. I had laughed at the notion, assuring her that that was an earmark of a time of tolerance long past. I pointed out that homeless people would be found sleeping and pissing and jerking off like monkeys in zoos within churches during the 1980's. The 80's had set to bed a lot of things for later generations.
Our generation seeked to hold a pillow over those relics, smothering it with excess frustration as a forsaken heir would to a twitching patriarch in his death bed.
I joined my girl in front of the massive structure. We embraced, and our tongues danced in the meeting of our lips. She tasted sweet and musty. Eager.
We turned around and pressed our backs against each other.
We began a slow descent to our knees in unison, then back up again towards the night sky. She raised her arms slowly above her head, then down in front of her and then back up in a kind of digging motion. I extended my hands, pushing the air in front of me, then slowly retracted them. As we both brought our arms back, we joined hands briefly then dropped them, just as our breathes exhaled in union.
We were absolutely green in the night.
Calming our hearts and clearing our minds, we were better prepared for the journey. We were better prepared to walk out the solemn stone steps and try to open the door to the church which I was cynically certain was locked.
We walked carefully to the front steps, as to not set off the motion sensored light which had gone off upon our initial arrival. We had layed frozen with our faces to the ground, waiting for the noxious waves and beams of light to shut off before continuing, hearts pounding us towards yellow.
At the top of the stairs now, Jami hesitated slightly. She turned back and stole a glance at me as she reached for the enormous handle of the door. Her small white hand folded around it and pulled. It creaked slightly, but made no movement. She moved to the second handle and pulled that one. No response returned.
Biting her lower lips in disappointment, she turned to me. I shrugged in the darkness, saying I told you so. We retreated down the steps and walked back through the field, staying close to the edges. Moisture had saturated the grass, and our steps were imprinted in the ground from the moisutre. My shoes shone, illuminated by the tears of the sky. Jami walked slowly behind in silent disappointment, as our night was still a virgin-- young and unfulfilled.
Suddenly, she reached out and grabbed my arm. Communicating with out words, she showed me a small side door. It was towards the back of the church, and looked like a fire exit or something. Above it a yellow light sickly shown. It wasn't motioned sensitive, just perpetually on through out each dark night. A vague metaphor for the light which benevolently shone within those who accepted the advertised god.
A couple hundred of feet away from the back door way, on the far side of the dark waters of the parking lot sat the priestly living quarters.
Jami and I turned to each other, our eyes confirming what we both already knew.
Approaching it from the southern side, we flanked the house's front door. Two large skitsch statues of virgins with their palms out stretch in mercy and/or forgiveness towered on each side of the path, eminating a sad blue. Patches of ivy ran through them, and creeped up the side of the brick walls far past the second story. The night groaned in anticipation before the solemn facade of the palace of the divine's own humble servent.
We stood in the shadows of the virgins, getting a feel for the situation. There was little light on this side of the property, so that was not an issue. Jami seemed concerned over the iron gate which swung over the door. Knowing doors like I did, I was not particularly concerned. The situation was contained, a greenish-yellow of placid anticipation.
Finally, settled that we were safe, we approached the entrance and I pulled gently on the cold iron handle. It swung inwards with ease, unlocked of course. It seemed peculiar that an empty church would be locked, yet a house of sleeping clergy would be open for whomever happened to stagger by. For whomever happened to creepy crawl on in.
Stepping inside was like entering a tomb. I went first, Jami not far behind me. As a child, I had spent some time in the homes of priests as my mother sought comfort from various religions as cancer was seeking her various organs. All the homes I had visited had smelled the same. Bleak, sterile, with slight undertones of shame not unlike constant, clandestine masturbation.
We climbed the stairs from the first landing up into the main space. Sparsely decorated, even in the darkness I noted the walls were a drab color. Portraits of various religious scenes and dogmatic trinkets were sometimes carefully feng shui'd. The parlor was furnished with a nice looking sofa and end tables. A fake looking marble rendition of the virgin and her young christ were placed in the center of the room whereas every other home in the country has their furniture revolving around the most common diety worshipped-- a television. A bleak message to the futuristic archeologists that would excavate our tombs.
-News reports of a The Killer terrorizing the city. Bludgeoning victims to death.
-Hear report on radio in early morning hours. Wonder if his name is in all caps. Glee at the killer existing, being on the loose. Warnings to stay inside. Happy, giggles, finally go to sleep.
-Fight ensues over whether or not to enter church. Go solo w/o Jami. Come out disappointed, find Jami sprawled in pile of dead leaves w/ head smashed. Bend over here in horror, heart thumping. She's still warm. Not a lot of blood yet. Hear noise behind , it's the killer. Head cracked. Things go read. Stagger to feet, to fight, but take another blow to temple and fall to grown, wondering if his name is spelled in capitols as everything is black.
Regards, Esortnom
"Beautiful." I muttered. She reached her gloved hand over and grasped mine affectionately.
"I knew it would be...I pick the best houses..." Her voice rose slightly, the volume almost yellow. Jami had a
habit of getting excited after a target. She had a horrible habit of getting cocky...not arrogance, but rather a kind of emanating certainty.
And that kind of presumptious confidence, that false security upset me terribly. I was well aware that hubris was alone
capable of destroying the greatest of heros.
"You were right honey, but come now, let us make flight into this night and leave this place. That house was small and tight.
Such close quarters is like removing one grape from the stem, its impossible to do so without shaking the other grapes."
I let her hand drop back to her side, and quickend my pace to show her that i wasn't fucking around.
"No one saw you though..you gave the 'relax signal'. We conquered another one...what's this?" She had caught up to me, and her
hand had fallen to my cargo pocket.
"A souvenier, baby." I said quietly, as we crossed the street. We had parked the car a good half mile away on the
side of a back road, discreetly out of view from any main streets or residential homes.
"A souvenier? You took something? What the fuck! You know I hate it when you do that shit...we're not thieves.." Her voice
was approaching yellow volume. Not loud, but close enough to unacceptable that I was uncomfortable.
"Lower your voice, babe. I know we're not thieves, we're fucking professionals. This is nothing of value, only--what's it
called? It has emotional value to me?" I turned to Jami as our car came into view, obscurred by looming trees and darkness.
"Sentimental value?" Jami suggested.
"Yes, yes, yes! Sentimental value...this is my trophy, of the conquered beasts I- we- slayed together,
on this night, in this foul year of America." I rambled, and was getting close to yellow volume. "The taking of trophies
from the battlefield has been practiced through out human history, demonstrating the dominance over the defeated. The Ottomans cut fifteen thousand ears off the Famagustans." We reached the car. We quietly pulled open the doors, and then slowly let them shut, as we had practiced hundreds of times before. I looked into the mirrors, then started the car and quickly went into drive.
*****************************
Mornings, to me, are always such an apocalyptic time. I've been an insomniac since my teenage years, when I'd lay awake, terrified mostly of everything. The origin and destination of the universe was a troubling notion. Then it became the preoccupation with other people, and how they would view me, how they would interpret myself. Vanity. But I learned not to hate the inevitable.
I haven't learned how to sleep more than 5 hours a night though.
And it would bother me so much, laying awoke as Jami slept peacefully beside me, when early morning light would pour through my blinds, and the cars and trucks would roar down the lonely road loudly in the morning. Heading to work, or whatever it is normal people do early in the morning. Whatever it is they do to justify their existence.
Jami awoke and saw me sitting wide eyed awake in the chair by the window. The shades were half drawn, so I could watch the traffic move below. I didn't know what time it was, but cars were zooming in both directions, although it was still early enough for the sun to be split in a red haze across the summer sky.
"Babe?" She asked, sleep stuck in her throat.
"..I'm here, honey..."
"Can't sleep?" She asked me like the sugar on my cereal.
"No,i just...can't understand this." Struggling for the words. Gasping for them like a swimmer's breath. My leg was shaking nervously, and I felt as though I was definitely yellow.
"What... hon?" Sitting up a little, her hair flows like a gold river in the early morning light. Her soft skin looks so dark in the early morning, she looks so naked, like a child, from her sleep that i feel truly connected with her. Our innocent nakedness joins us at the hip, like the two original youths in the garden of eden.
"Is this what the real world does? Do they do this every morning? Even when i'm not looking--they do this each morning. Why do they bother? Whey do they squander their time, their resources, their being, on stupid shit like this? They shuffle back and forth everyday, huh?"
She's stopped listening a little now, as she sometimes does when I ramble at inconvenient times. The connection is broken, the plug is pulled. Someone has flicked a switch somewhere, and the divinity is gone. She's just a naked blonde girl laying in my expensive bamboo sheets, and I'm just a half crazed lunatic looking out a window during rush hour morning traffic.
"..s'alright, hun. They're not hurting anyone." Her eyes are closed, and after a while she's breathing in a slow, steady rhythm of sleep. Unguarded and unaware in her slumber, i slowly walk over to her. I stand above her, watching her peacefully rest. I envy her ability to leave it all behind to those of us in the world of the waking. I'm jealous. I'm red.
She's wrong. They're hurting themselves. And by that extension, they're hurting me.
I can't help but feel angry and irrelevant. I wondered if I went and got myself a job some place near the city, if I went out and joined the rat race, would I feel better. What if I had to wake up at a certain time almost everyday, and shuffle out the door to the highways like an elephant to die, would I be able to sleep each night? Would I pass for normal?
I sat back down by the window and smoked a cigarette. Watching the traffic crawl by below, horns blasting and radios murmuring news about home invasions and a killer. I giggled a bit.
I wonder when the media would progress, and start calling him The Killer. Caps lock on.
I felt a little better, being able to laugh at the rat race. After a while I lay down next to my naked girl and smiled. I was feeling green.
*********************************
Jami smiled at me from her place in the shawdows. Her athletic legs were bent at the knees as she hugged the concrete wall, her breath coming out in slow mist in defiance of the chill of the night.
She was right about wearing long sleeves. Even so, we should've been cold. But adrenaline kept us going. Purpose kept us moving. I learned long ago that not everything has a reason. But everything has a purpose.
The still night air seemed to accentuate the cold stone of the church. I had no idea what branch, what denomination it was. Definitely Christian though, I was sure of that. It sat solemnly at the end of a large grassy lot, an empty parking lot rested behind the structure like a silent pool of water. We had driven past it many times on this side of town, and I couldn't help but think that it would look way better as an empty field.
I was sure it was locked. It had to be. Jami argued otherwise, saying that places of worship were always open. I had laughed at the notion, assuring her that that was an earmark of a time of tolerance long past. I pointed out that homeless people would be found sleeping and pissing and jerking off like monkeys in zoos within churches during the 1980's. The 80's had set to bed a lot of things for later generations.
Our generation seeked to hold a pillow over those relics, smothering it with excess frustration as a forsaken heir would to a twitching patriarch in his death bed.
I joined my girl in front of the massive structure. We embraced, and our tongues danced in the meeting of our lips. She tasted sweet and musty. Eager.
We turned around and pressed our backs against each other.
We began a slow descent to our knees in unison, then back up again towards the night sky. She raised her arms slowly above her head, then down in front of her and then back up in a kind of digging motion. I extended my hands, pushing the air in front of me, then slowly retracted them. As we both brought our arms back, we joined hands briefly then dropped them, just as our breathes exhaled in union.
We were absolutely green in the night.
Calming our hearts and clearing our minds, we were better prepared for the journey. We were better prepared to walk out the solemn stone steps and try to open the door to the church which I was cynically certain was locked.
We walked carefully to the front steps, as to not set off the motion sensored light which had gone off upon our initial arrival. We had layed frozen with our faces to the ground, waiting for the noxious waves and beams of light to shut off before continuing, hearts pounding us towards yellow.
At the top of the stairs now, Jami hesitated slightly. She turned back and stole a glance at me as she reached for the enormous handle of the door. Her small white hand folded around it and pulled. It creaked slightly, but made no movement. She moved to the second handle and pulled that one. No response returned.
Biting her lower lips in disappointment, she turned to me. I shrugged in the darkness, saying I told you so. We retreated down the steps and walked back through the field, staying close to the edges. Moisture had saturated the grass, and our steps were imprinted in the ground from the moisutre. My shoes shone, illuminated by the tears of the sky. Jami walked slowly behind in silent disappointment, as our night was still a virgin-- young and unfulfilled.
Suddenly, she reached out and grabbed my arm. Communicating with out words, she showed me a small side door. It was towards the back of the church, and looked like a fire exit or something. Above it a yellow light sickly shown. It wasn't motioned sensitive, just perpetually on through out each dark night. A vague metaphor for the light which benevolently shone within those who accepted the advertised god.
A couple hundred of feet away from the back door way, on the far side of the dark waters of the parking lot sat the priestly living quarters.
Jami and I turned to each other, our eyes confirming what we both already knew.
Approaching it from the southern side, we flanked the house's front door. Two large skitsch statues of virgins with their palms out stretch in mercy and/or forgiveness towered on each side of the path, eminating a sad blue. Patches of ivy ran through them, and creeped up the side of the brick walls far past the second story. The night groaned in anticipation before the solemn facade of the palace of the divine's own humble servent.
We stood in the shadows of the virgins, getting a feel for the situation. There was little light on this side of the property, so that was not an issue. Jami seemed concerned over the iron gate which swung over the door. Knowing doors like I did, I was not particularly concerned. The situation was contained, a greenish-yellow of placid anticipation.
Finally, settled that we were safe, we approached the entrance and I pulled gently on the cold iron handle. It swung inwards with ease, unlocked of course. It seemed peculiar that an empty church would be locked, yet a house of sleeping clergy would be open for whomever happened to stagger by. For whomever happened to creepy crawl on in.
Stepping inside was like entering a tomb. I went first, Jami not far behind me. As a child, I had spent some time in the homes of priests as my mother sought comfort from various religions as cancer was seeking her various organs. All the homes I had visited had smelled the same. Bleak, sterile, with slight undertones of shame not unlike constant, clandestine masturbation.
We climbed the stairs from the first landing up into the main space. Sparsely decorated, even in the darkness I noted the walls were a drab color. Portraits of various religious scenes and dogmatic trinkets were sometimes carefully feng shui'd. The parlor was furnished with a nice looking sofa and end tables. A fake looking marble rendition of the virgin and her young christ were placed in the center of the room whereas every other home in the country has their furniture revolving around the most common diety worshipped-- a television. A bleak message to the futuristic archeologists that would excavate our tombs.
-News reports of a The Killer terrorizing the city. Bludgeoning victims to death.
-Hear report on radio in early morning hours. Wonder if his name is in all caps. Glee at the killer existing, being on the loose. Warnings to stay inside. Happy, giggles, finally go to sleep.
-Fight ensues over whether or not to enter church. Go solo w/o Jami. Come out disappointed, find Jami sprawled in pile of dead leaves w/ head smashed. Bend over here in horror, heart thumping. She's still warm. Not a lot of blood yet. Hear noise behind , it's the killer. Head cracked. Things go read. Stagger to feet, to fight, but take another blow to temple and fall to grown, wondering if his name is spelled in capitols as everything is black.
Regards, Esortnom
Friday, April 17, 2009
Wyomming: Not Just a Cigarette Anymore
Laramie, Wyoming is a pretty great town. I promised several people that i'd never say that I miss it. But I do, because there is nothing there but sand, and dust, and small roads that lead to train tracks and day sleeping cowboys that sneer at me because i'm wearing a scarf and look like a strange stranger. After the sad overflowing floods of Nebraska, the flatness of absolutely nothing on the lonesome highways surrounded by ranches and rain clouds, the car was beginning to feel more like home, as Lars smoked cigarettes the welcoming expanse of infinite wyoming sky was so refreshing like the alcoholic caffeine drinks we pounded thru Iowa.
Eating a sandwich we passed into Wyoming and all the rain stopped, the switch is pulled and it's suddenly bright, sunny warmth of happiness is pouring through the bug holocausted windshield with a black wall of storm clouds behind us. The paranoid washer machine of Nebraska is gone forever, and the mountains and sand and sickly looking trees dot the land, planted in despite of, like otherworldly holidays with i don't understand, but I don't care because at this point i only want peace.
A giant coyote is at the top of a peak overlooking the dark highway, howling skywards, moonwise at the glowing lunar jewel that we look at hoping UFO's will obscure it, but we're just paranoid. Lights on the horizon become Cheyenne and we plow thru, Lars calling his buddy Sloth to tell him we're hours away--Wake up and prepare the feast, Laramie is on the green highway signs but he's not answering and it's making me very nervous....I've been driving for hours now, thru Iowa and Nebraska, then no rest as Lars-paranoid from the dope-tried not to kill us in the rain when the car started to rattle, but that passed and now i'm behind the wheel again roaring 90 mph because there's no pigs out here, there's nothing at all, and i'm fucking tired but to stop before Laramie would be a crime, it's right here and unimpressive looking in the dark. Down we go a totally corporate road like any other strip of gas stations and fast food in America, littered with people and trashed with obesity and wrappers blwoing in the wind in little cyclone corners like at the toyworks back east before it closed forever...We follow the directions towards and to campus, past the stadium which is the largest concentration of people in wyomming when a game is on, but its dark and quiet down the weird streets with grey speed ditches as opposed to bumps, to a random neighborhood and finally we get out and I piss and Lars says "beware of snakes, this is snake country now",, and the directions are incorrect so we're kind of lost and we ask a nice girl who seems afraid of us and our funny voices where we are and she says it's a nursing home, so we leave, back to the car past private homes despite no trespassing signs and finally we drive back down the strip, understanding and realizing we can;t find the right address and Sloth won't answer his phone and I'm tired and thinking that it might be a cold, cheap motel night again like in Chicago, crazy booming chicago, fuck, so we smoke cigarettes and Lars thinks he recognizes every car belonging to Sloth but he's incorrect every time.
So we give up and go to the bar and get drunk, laying down low I don't want to talk to anyone except the bartender, but a the most beautiful blonde in the mountains worked up front and I went to say hello but she was walking out, she was leaving so I went to smoke a cigarette (i was smoking cigarettes again after a year or so, back on my regular cigarette regiment) and they tell me to leave my drink inside so I do and its cold and windy up in the mountains of Laramie, the 7k feet in the air, the cigarette tasted bad and sloth is not answering his phone and no one called my phone so i stood outside spitting by myself lonely in wyoming with my scarf blowing in the dusty-railroad air, watching stupid cars pull in and out and i angrily think everything is pretty stupid, especially Lars and his friends, cigarettes and railroads, and pretty blond mountain girls that leave too early and myself gor getting all restless with the repetitive burden of life on the east coast, so much so that i moved my sad lonely furniture back to my dad's house and packed up all my fears, hopes, questiions and clothes and drove all the way to wyoming because i was terribly unhappy back east and i can find temporary smiles and solace on the road with a can of half drunk black 8% AbV Sparks jammed between my crotch while everything i love is packed in the trunk except my cat and everything else is outside the windows, falling 25 miles over the speed limit behind me, thinking about how those wholesome family sitcoms always preached that one could not run away from their problems. That is false, one can definitely run away from problems, especially if you drive fast enough and don't get pulled over when you're buzzed with a backseat filled with empties and your co-pilot is sparking up a Manchester Chillum, and now im smoking cigarettes again in the cold wind of Laramie some how where no one answers their phones and its great woe in the old world where my new words fail to describe it, but i need to be brave for Lars who i can see sitting all placidly inside the bar drinking himself slowly to death so i say to myself, 'just another day in the void', and walk back inside to finish my beer despite being in no particular mood to drink...
Regards, Esortnom
Eating a sandwich we passed into Wyoming and all the rain stopped, the switch is pulled and it's suddenly bright, sunny warmth of happiness is pouring through the bug holocausted windshield with a black wall of storm clouds behind us. The paranoid washer machine of Nebraska is gone forever, and the mountains and sand and sickly looking trees dot the land, planted in despite of, like otherworldly holidays with i don't understand, but I don't care because at this point i only want peace.
A giant coyote is at the top of a peak overlooking the dark highway, howling skywards, moonwise at the glowing lunar jewel that we look at hoping UFO's will obscure it, but we're just paranoid. Lights on the horizon become Cheyenne and we plow thru, Lars calling his buddy Sloth to tell him we're hours away--Wake up and prepare the feast, Laramie is on the green highway signs but he's not answering and it's making me very nervous....I've been driving for hours now, thru Iowa and Nebraska, then no rest as Lars-paranoid from the dope-tried not to kill us in the rain when the car started to rattle, but that passed and now i'm behind the wheel again roaring 90 mph because there's no pigs out here, there's nothing at all, and i'm fucking tired but to stop before Laramie would be a crime, it's right here and unimpressive looking in the dark. Down we go a totally corporate road like any other strip of gas stations and fast food in America, littered with people and trashed with obesity and wrappers blwoing in the wind in little cyclone corners like at the toyworks back east before it closed forever...We follow the directions towards and to campus, past the stadium which is the largest concentration of people in wyomming when a game is on, but its dark and quiet down the weird streets with grey speed ditches as opposed to bumps, to a random neighborhood and finally we get out and I piss and Lars says "beware of snakes, this is snake country now",, and the directions are incorrect so we're kind of lost and we ask a nice girl who seems afraid of us and our funny voices where we are and she says it's a nursing home, so we leave, back to the car past private homes despite no trespassing signs and finally we drive back down the strip, understanding and realizing we can;t find the right address and Sloth won't answer his phone and I'm tired and thinking that it might be a cold, cheap motel night again like in Chicago, crazy booming chicago, fuck, so we smoke cigarettes and Lars thinks he recognizes every car belonging to Sloth but he's incorrect every time.
So we give up and go to the bar and get drunk, laying down low I don't want to talk to anyone except the bartender, but a the most beautiful blonde in the mountains worked up front and I went to say hello but she was walking out, she was leaving so I went to smoke a cigarette (i was smoking cigarettes again after a year or so, back on my regular cigarette regiment) and they tell me to leave my drink inside so I do and its cold and windy up in the mountains of Laramie, the 7k feet in the air, the cigarette tasted bad and sloth is not answering his phone and no one called my phone so i stood outside spitting by myself lonely in wyoming with my scarf blowing in the dusty-railroad air, watching stupid cars pull in and out and i angrily think everything is pretty stupid, especially Lars and his friends, cigarettes and railroads, and pretty blond mountain girls that leave too early and myself gor getting all restless with the repetitive burden of life on the east coast, so much so that i moved my sad lonely furniture back to my dad's house and packed up all my fears, hopes, questiions and clothes and drove all the way to wyoming because i was terribly unhappy back east and i can find temporary smiles and solace on the road with a can of half drunk black 8% AbV Sparks jammed between my crotch while everything i love is packed in the trunk except my cat and everything else is outside the windows, falling 25 miles over the speed limit behind me, thinking about how those wholesome family sitcoms always preached that one could not run away from their problems. That is false, one can definitely run away from problems, especially if you drive fast enough and don't get pulled over when you're buzzed with a backseat filled with empties and your co-pilot is sparking up a Manchester Chillum, and now im smoking cigarettes again in the cold wind of Laramie some how where no one answers their phones and its great woe in the old world where my new words fail to describe it, but i need to be brave for Lars who i can see sitting all placidly inside the bar drinking himself slowly to death so i say to myself, 'just another day in the void', and walk back inside to finish my beer despite being in no particular mood to drink...
Regards, Esortnom
Hidden Beyond Repair (As Fortold by the Prophet Lyihpa)
the amish are geniuses
the religious are ignorant and selfish, but accepted as normal
buddhists are optimists
humans are not stupid, but selfish and ignorant, thus explaining the acceptance of religion.
everything has a reason
nothing has a purpose
life is a big play, with fine acting but a bad story line and plot
the world is an atom, humans are quarks
the universe is both imaginary and reality, playing a sort of game
acceptance is the beginning of failure
non acceptance is the beginning of evolution
the big wheel is a void of nothing
the big wheel holds nothing
written under a predetermined feeling that my future is foretold
the stars are aligned but the event is equal to a small flight of emotion
444 x 333=nothing
333 x 444=infinity
don't ever understand anything
!/!/!/!= a pointless display of anger
?/?/?/?=not understanding but a need to
life is full of pleasures
death is full of condensation
to fill your orifice with a stick of disease is to scream in emotional gratification
to wake up to a place of passion is to wake up to an awful stench
to wake up to a fool's face is to rot in torment
to wake up to a beautiful face full of glory and shine and satisfaction will numb you to where you are and whatever you are doing
to take place in a place of death is to forever regret
to take place in the feast of life is to forever yearn more
to search for your soul is to waste my time and yours
to wonder about death is to waste my time and yours
the beast is eating me
one points north
one points south
one points east
one points west
one points souteast
one points southwest
one points northeast
one points northwest
they all will end up in the same place
Thus Spake Thujonu
the religious are ignorant and selfish, but accepted as normal
buddhists are optimists
humans are not stupid, but selfish and ignorant, thus explaining the acceptance of religion.
everything has a reason
nothing has a purpose
life is a big play, with fine acting but a bad story line and plot
the world is an atom, humans are quarks
the universe is both imaginary and reality, playing a sort of game
acceptance is the beginning of failure
non acceptance is the beginning of evolution
the big wheel is a void of nothing
the big wheel holds nothing
written under a predetermined feeling that my future is foretold
the stars are aligned but the event is equal to a small flight of emotion
444 x 333=nothing
333 x 444=infinity
don't ever understand anything
!/!/!/!= a pointless display of anger
?/?/?/?=not understanding but a need to
life is full of pleasures
death is full of condensation
to fill your orifice with a stick of disease is to scream in emotional gratification
to wake up to a place of passion is to wake up to an awful stench
to wake up to a fool's face is to rot in torment
to wake up to a beautiful face full of glory and shine and satisfaction will numb you to where you are and whatever you are doing
to take place in a place of death is to forever regret
to take place in the feast of life is to forever yearn more
to search for your soul is to waste my time and yours
to wonder about death is to waste my time and yours
the beast is eating me
one points north
one points south
one points east
one points west
one points souteast
one points southwest
one points northeast
one points northwest
they all will end up in the same place
Thus Spake Thujonu
Lifers vs Livers
There are a few types which I will be covering though out the summer months. On Fridays, if it is nice enough, we will go outside and sit under the sun and try to get work done, if not for the bone enriching vitamins of D, but then to tan the upper part of our arms so if we ever have to reach for something far over our heads, we won't look so awkwardly pale above our sleeve lines.
There are a few types. The Lifers are separate from those of us just here for kicks. Those of us who are just trying to survive and get by, trying to hide the sweat stains from our armpits and the marijuana from our eyes and the alcoholic lunch from our breaths. Despite these attempts at etiquette, we still stick out, obviously our futures are meant to unfold elsewhere-- not here.
And the Lifers, if capable of realizing such an esoteric thought as rapid movement without any direction, like the nucleus of electrons, sometimes resent us. When I say sometimes, I essentially mean that Livers are generally resented 90% of the time by Lifers.
Otherwise it was mostly envious awe that other 10%, awe at someone evolving like watching those cheap, mail order caterpillars hatch from their cocoons as sluggish, unfolding butterflies on that Friday afternoon right before school ended for the weekend that time in second grade. Envy at evolution. Those who stay still in a moving world go backwards, depending on perspective.
Botelo was a sad case. She wasn't quite a Lifer, not that many people naturally are, but she wanted to be one. She wanted to be a Lifer. She aspired to rot away in the enclosure and restraints of the repetitive cycle of trivial bullshit, much like Boddhisattvas dealing with the eternal Samsara, but only without the hindsight, foresight, all other sights, and enlightenment to consciously call it what it was--self imposed human bondage.
Botelo could've moved on, could have flown away like those cheap second grade butterflies, but she wanted to belong with Lifers, and I think it was because she never really belonged anywhere else. So she built for herself a secure niche and a nice little lifestyle with a mid paying job and a five year long time boyfriend to be a crutch, and a longing to join the hollow order of the Lifer.
I think she honestly believed that that choice would really help to define her.
Underneath it all, however, she was lonely and scared of the possibility that her own pretentiousness had gone too far, and she'd clutch at anything that would momentarily defy her suspicions that she was actually a loser.
Regards, Esortnom
There are a few types. The Lifers are separate from those of us just here for kicks. Those of us who are just trying to survive and get by, trying to hide the sweat stains from our armpits and the marijuana from our eyes and the alcoholic lunch from our breaths. Despite these attempts at etiquette, we still stick out, obviously our futures are meant to unfold elsewhere-- not here.
And the Lifers, if capable of realizing such an esoteric thought as rapid movement without any direction, like the nucleus of electrons, sometimes resent us. When I say sometimes, I essentially mean that Livers are generally resented 90% of the time by Lifers.
Otherwise it was mostly envious awe that other 10%, awe at someone evolving like watching those cheap, mail order caterpillars hatch from their cocoons as sluggish, unfolding butterflies on that Friday afternoon right before school ended for the weekend that time in second grade. Envy at evolution. Those who stay still in a moving world go backwards, depending on perspective.
Botelo was a sad case. She wasn't quite a Lifer, not that many people naturally are, but she wanted to be one. She wanted to be a Lifer. She aspired to rot away in the enclosure and restraints of the repetitive cycle of trivial bullshit, much like Boddhisattvas dealing with the eternal Samsara, but only without the hindsight, foresight, all other sights, and enlightenment to consciously call it what it was--self imposed human bondage.
Botelo could've moved on, could have flown away like those cheap second grade butterflies, but she wanted to belong with Lifers, and I think it was because she never really belonged anywhere else. So she built for herself a secure niche and a nice little lifestyle with a mid paying job and a five year long time boyfriend to be a crutch, and a longing to join the hollow order of the Lifer.
I think she honestly believed that that choice would really help to define her.
Underneath it all, however, she was lonely and scared of the possibility that her own pretentiousness had gone too far, and she'd clutch at anything that would momentarily defy her suspicions that she was actually a loser.
Regards, Esortnom
Friday, April 10, 2009
Leon Kentwood's Scraggled Jeans.
Adrian Saturnius was smoking a cigarette during his break from work when he first met Marcell Laves. It was just another day in the jungle for Adrian, dressed smartly in a tie and a vest, leaned back against the brick facade of his building. Inhaling deeply, he peered into the southern skies, trying to appreciate the natural comfort of the sky. Thinking that Muir would have been proud, Adrian grinned, appreciating how the sky appealed to him as an untamed force, a laughingly proud blue completely unconcerned with Adrian’s puny, insignificant problems.
Stomping out his cigarette, Adrian turned to face his largest current problem. The looming department store stood massively between him and freedom. Packed tightly in the pocket of a corporate business zone, punctuated with do-nut shops and bowling alleys, ATM machines and gas stations.
It seemed that each and every day, something was being bulldozed into a parking lot or bowling alley. A hundred years into the future, and all that will remain will be bowling alleys. For our convenience, Adrian thought bitterly. Free bread and circus to keep the citizens happy.
Adrian reached for his pocket and lit another cigarette. He still had time before he had to go into work, so smoke ‘em if ya got ‘em. He smiled grimly, shielding his eyes from the bright mid day sun. Suddenly he heard the loud THUMP THUMP THUMP of a car stereo rapidly approaching. The bass was turned to maximum volume, announcing the cars impending arrival long before the engine itself could be heard, or the auto seen.
Peeling into the parking lot was a red foreign made automobile. The bass seemed to vibrate the whole car, and as it screeched wildly into a parking space, the wail of guitars speed picking bar chords and a drummer kicking violently at double bass pedals could be clearly heard. Birds scrambled from power lines into the air, old women stopped hobbling and turned to look disapprovingly, and Adrian smiled slightly as he exhaled smoke.
The red door swung open and the music abruptly stopped as Marcell Laves stepped from the car into the bright sun. Grinning madly, his dark hair unkept and blowing in the wind, Marcell reached into his car to pull out his work uniform, crumpled in a wrinkled ball. His black boots crunched over the gravel as he made his way over to Adrian, who had to marvel at the man named Marcell and the way he made seemingly made a living on his own terms.
“What’s up, nigger?” Marcell called out from across the parking lot.
“How you living?” Adrian responded.
“Can’t complain. I think I ran over a dog on my way over...thought I’d be late so I didn’t bother
to stop. Remember; today belongs to us.” He caught the dismay on Adrian’s face.
“No matter,” he said quickly “it was a rotten stray, picking at some trash. Had no business being in the road anyways, especially when I’m late for work.” Marcell stretched his wrinkled work uniform over his shoulders. “Probably belonged to one of those pathetic poor assholes digging ditches across town anyhow.” He added, extending his hand. “Marcell Laves.”
“Adrian Saturnius.” Adrian simply said, shaking the man’s hand.
“Weird fucking name.” Marcel said. “But I dig it. So how’s this place, job any good?”
“Can’t complain when those checks come through.”
“Noted.” Marcel started to button up his wrinkled work shirt. “Got me a boy I got to pay for. Mother’s a real fucking classy job too, god damn skank whore. No matter, her pussy is so dry, the fleas carry canteens.” Marcel squinted against the exhale of Adrian’s smoke. “Guess I ain‘t that late if you‘re out here smoking yourself to death.”
Always the epitome of sympathy, Marcell felt threatened by what he perceived as the inevitable and immediate demise of the culture of youth. Surrounded By Thieves was a phrase Marcell was extremely fond of, and used to describe anyone whom impeded upon his living space or had the misfortune to be caught underneath the stomps of his heavy work boots.
“Well,” Adrian began, smoking his cigarette down to the filter, “you’re not late for work, you’re right on time. Anyways, I’m surprised your goddamn noise didn’t scare the mutt off. I heard you coming from miles away.”
Marcell grinned. His car stereo was something of a status symbol for him, and he always crooned when you mentioned it or complimented the way it penetrated walls or sleep.
“Noise? Shit man, that ain’t noise. It’s fucking art. It’s the new A Gore Aphobe Sick cd; it’s called Raiding Christ’s Heaven with a Hammer. It’s fucking brutal, man.”
The music which Marcell enjoyed illustrated perfectly his frustration and obscure paranoia. Watching the man nod his head in rhythm to screeching guitars, phlegm rattling drums, and humans growling like dogs merely confirmed what Adrian already knew and what everyone else suspected: Marcell Laves was completely insane.
“ It sounds like noise to me,” Adrian said delicately. “I can’t tell the difference between any of those obscure bands anyways.” Adrian tossed his cigarette butt into the gutter as Marcell pulled one out of a fresh pack and lit it, inhaling slowly. “You ready for a thrilling day at the crap factory?” Adrian remarked.
Marcell looked annoyed. The only thing worst, to him, than being a tool of a corporate department store was mentioning the fact that he was a tool of a corporate department store.
“Fuck man. Today better go by fast. I swear to god I’m about ready to quit.” Marcell spat.
“Yeah? Quit? Your first fucking day, and you’re ready to call it a ballgame? No shit.”
“Shit.”
“And then you’ll be back doing…what?”
“Slicing meat.” Marcel responded.
“Naturally.” Adrian said.
Regards, Esortnom
Stomping out his cigarette, Adrian turned to face his largest current problem. The looming department store stood massively between him and freedom. Packed tightly in the pocket of a corporate business zone, punctuated with do-nut shops and bowling alleys, ATM machines and gas stations.
It seemed that each and every day, something was being bulldozed into a parking lot or bowling alley. A hundred years into the future, and all that will remain will be bowling alleys. For our convenience, Adrian thought bitterly. Free bread and circus to keep the citizens happy.
Adrian reached for his pocket and lit another cigarette. He still had time before he had to go into work, so smoke ‘em if ya got ‘em. He smiled grimly, shielding his eyes from the bright mid day sun. Suddenly he heard the loud THUMP THUMP THUMP of a car stereo rapidly approaching. The bass was turned to maximum volume, announcing the cars impending arrival long before the engine itself could be heard, or the auto seen.
Peeling into the parking lot was a red foreign made automobile. The bass seemed to vibrate the whole car, and as it screeched wildly into a parking space, the wail of guitars speed picking bar chords and a drummer kicking violently at double bass pedals could be clearly heard. Birds scrambled from power lines into the air, old women stopped hobbling and turned to look disapprovingly, and Adrian smiled slightly as he exhaled smoke.
The red door swung open and the music abruptly stopped as Marcell Laves stepped from the car into the bright sun. Grinning madly, his dark hair unkept and blowing in the wind, Marcell reached into his car to pull out his work uniform, crumpled in a wrinkled ball. His black boots crunched over the gravel as he made his way over to Adrian, who had to marvel at the man named Marcell and the way he made seemingly made a living on his own terms.
“What’s up, nigger?” Marcell called out from across the parking lot.
“How you living?” Adrian responded.
“Can’t complain. I think I ran over a dog on my way over...thought I’d be late so I didn’t bother
to stop. Remember; today belongs to us.” He caught the dismay on Adrian’s face.
“No matter,” he said quickly “it was a rotten stray, picking at some trash. Had no business being in the road anyways, especially when I’m late for work.” Marcell stretched his wrinkled work uniform over his shoulders. “Probably belonged to one of those pathetic poor assholes digging ditches across town anyhow.” He added, extending his hand. “Marcell Laves.”
“Adrian Saturnius.” Adrian simply said, shaking the man’s hand.
“Weird fucking name.” Marcel said. “But I dig it. So how’s this place, job any good?”
“Can’t complain when those checks come through.”
“Noted.” Marcel started to button up his wrinkled work shirt. “Got me a boy I got to pay for. Mother’s a real fucking classy job too, god damn skank whore. No matter, her pussy is so dry, the fleas carry canteens.” Marcel squinted against the exhale of Adrian’s smoke. “Guess I ain‘t that late if you‘re out here smoking yourself to death.”
Always the epitome of sympathy, Marcell felt threatened by what he perceived as the inevitable and immediate demise of the culture of youth. Surrounded By Thieves was a phrase Marcell was extremely fond of, and used to describe anyone whom impeded upon his living space or had the misfortune to be caught underneath the stomps of his heavy work boots.
“Well,” Adrian began, smoking his cigarette down to the filter, “you’re not late for work, you’re right on time. Anyways, I’m surprised your goddamn noise didn’t scare the mutt off. I heard you coming from miles away.”
Marcell grinned. His car stereo was something of a status symbol for him, and he always crooned when you mentioned it or complimented the way it penetrated walls or sleep.
“Noise? Shit man, that ain’t noise. It’s fucking art. It’s the new A Gore Aphobe Sick cd; it’s called Raiding Christ’s Heaven with a Hammer. It’s fucking brutal, man.”
The music which Marcell enjoyed illustrated perfectly his frustration and obscure paranoia. Watching the man nod his head in rhythm to screeching guitars, phlegm rattling drums, and humans growling like dogs merely confirmed what Adrian already knew and what everyone else suspected: Marcell Laves was completely insane.
“ It sounds like noise to me,” Adrian said delicately. “I can’t tell the difference between any of those obscure bands anyways.” Adrian tossed his cigarette butt into the gutter as Marcell pulled one out of a fresh pack and lit it, inhaling slowly. “You ready for a thrilling day at the crap factory?” Adrian remarked.
Marcell looked annoyed. The only thing worst, to him, than being a tool of a corporate department store was mentioning the fact that he was a tool of a corporate department store.
“Fuck man. Today better go by fast. I swear to god I’m about ready to quit.” Marcell spat.
“Yeah? Quit? Your first fucking day, and you’re ready to call it a ballgame? No shit.”
“Shit.”
“And then you’ll be back doing…what?”
“Slicing meat.” Marcel responded.
“Naturally.” Adrian said.
Regards, Esortnom
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Last moments before evacuation
Like two long lost spacemen returning from a flight at or near light speed, where things are similar in location to where they were when you left them but everyone you knew is grown, old and gone--new faces in the same places like a board game with the same rules but different playing pieces, i returned. Call the racecar or the hat, we lost the dog-what do you want for boardwalk?
we stopped at Newcom to buy sunglasses and body jewelry and a scarf too from a spanish speaking street merchant to complete the disguise because i wanted nothing to do with any strangers except the waitress, please just leave me be all i want is my peace with the people from my past, sitting and drinking on the patio smoking expensive cigars i really probably can't afford but it's amerika so give the people what they want, i have good credit in certain circles.
I left to say hello and goodbye to Julianna or Jewely-Santa depending on her mood, but it is always such a let down seeing her, there is the apprehension over unfinished business, incomplete love and early morning laying on the bed nakeds which never really happened because summer came too fast that one year and now i'm too far away and she's too fat, so i kept slightly quiet off the side while drinking caffeine and alcohol while all the ladies ate cake and Julianna got fatter. Women eating cake grosses me me out, like the inside of a camel's mouth-imagine that. It's always so anti-climatic now when i see Julianna and it's such a damn shame because we're almost long lost friends but the unfinished desires and longing for closure that always ends with everyone watching television and eating something gross just about kills me and promises me to never return and i usually don't until i forget the facts and come back a year or two later. Finally I spilled my alcohol and caffeine all over the floor which made a rickety segway for me to leave.
Drinking two Guiness on a back porch somewhere where 18 months ago my writing class gathered to trade wit and get drunk and tell invective jokes about Carsten so we could get to know him, get to dig the professor and his flaws so we could bust his balls like that time he wore really short shorts to class. Dark porter down the throat chases away mortality, until I can't find the bathroom and ask the bouncer if he'd think any less of me if i pissed outside and he says, "whatever man, i don't care." So i do, and finish just in time as the girls show up and we smoke on the porch and drink and laugh at sex ads in the classifieds because I guess print isn't quite dead yet, thanks to lonely GBM's that can still afford the space.
ANd the girls show up with thick Northeast accents, they have no r's and drink like I do and smoke like chimneys and i get caught in between that place where past memories of people hit the eternal present images and one can glimpse into the future and i see the beautiful girls as the beautiful irish women they are, were and always will be and i kind of slip down in my seat as they manage a free pitcher of beer somehow and we pour it into our bodies laughing in the cold September air like I do at least once a year each September before my birthday in the valley for the last five years.
And after the beer ran low and the guy who said it was cool to piss outside kicked us off the porch and told us to close our tabs already, right now, we exchanged bags of drugs for money and hand shakes and hugs and little kisses on the cheeks real innocent and childlike, because before evacuation what kind of commitments can be made other than hollow sounding "see you soons"? so we left each other right there in the parking lot which was more of a grassy field flattened by constant movement, and as the girls climbed in their separate vehicles and went their own separate ways before i went mine, and instead of following them like i always had in the past, i marveled at their pure beauty for perhaps the last time in the cold night time of uncertain autumnal migration, when everyone else had found their homes and were settling down preparing their finger tips and noses for the cold winter i was abandoning ship and getting ready to find my own land, for the world was just passing thru, and i was too, looking for a place to call home and stay for a bit in order to describe everything in beauteous wonder before evacuating 4...3...2...1...
Regards, Esortnom
we stopped at Newcom to buy sunglasses and body jewelry and a scarf too from a spanish speaking street merchant to complete the disguise because i wanted nothing to do with any strangers except the waitress, please just leave me be all i want is my peace with the people from my past, sitting and drinking on the patio smoking expensive cigars i really probably can't afford but it's amerika so give the people what they want, i have good credit in certain circles.
I left to say hello and goodbye to Julianna or Jewely-Santa depending on her mood, but it is always such a let down seeing her, there is the apprehension over unfinished business, incomplete love and early morning laying on the bed nakeds which never really happened because summer came too fast that one year and now i'm too far away and she's too fat, so i kept slightly quiet off the side while drinking caffeine and alcohol while all the ladies ate cake and Julianna got fatter. Women eating cake grosses me me out, like the inside of a camel's mouth-imagine that. It's always so anti-climatic now when i see Julianna and it's such a damn shame because we're almost long lost friends but the unfinished desires and longing for closure that always ends with everyone watching television and eating something gross just about kills me and promises me to never return and i usually don't until i forget the facts and come back a year or two later. Finally I spilled my alcohol and caffeine all over the floor which made a rickety segway for me to leave.
Drinking two Guiness on a back porch somewhere where 18 months ago my writing class gathered to trade wit and get drunk and tell invective jokes about Carsten so we could get to know him, get to dig the professor and his flaws so we could bust his balls like that time he wore really short shorts to class. Dark porter down the throat chases away mortality, until I can't find the bathroom and ask the bouncer if he'd think any less of me if i pissed outside and he says, "whatever man, i don't care." So i do, and finish just in time as the girls show up and we smoke on the porch and drink and laugh at sex ads in the classifieds because I guess print isn't quite dead yet, thanks to lonely GBM's that can still afford the space.
ANd the girls show up with thick Northeast accents, they have no r's and drink like I do and smoke like chimneys and i get caught in between that place where past memories of people hit the eternal present images and one can glimpse into the future and i see the beautiful girls as the beautiful irish women they are, were and always will be and i kind of slip down in my seat as they manage a free pitcher of beer somehow and we pour it into our bodies laughing in the cold September air like I do at least once a year each September before my birthday in the valley for the last five years.
And after the beer ran low and the guy who said it was cool to piss outside kicked us off the porch and told us to close our tabs already, right now, we exchanged bags of drugs for money and hand shakes and hugs and little kisses on the cheeks real innocent and childlike, because before evacuation what kind of commitments can be made other than hollow sounding "see you soons"? so we left each other right there in the parking lot which was more of a grassy field flattened by constant movement, and as the girls climbed in their separate vehicles and went their own separate ways before i went mine, and instead of following them like i always had in the past, i marveled at their pure beauty for perhaps the last time in the cold night time of uncertain autumnal migration, when everyone else had found their homes and were settling down preparing their finger tips and noses for the cold winter i was abandoning ship and getting ready to find my own land, for the world was just passing thru, and i was too, looking for a place to call home and stay for a bit in order to describe everything in beauteous wonder before evacuating 4...3...2...1...
Regards, Esortnom
Monday, April 6, 2009
A Casual Trip Beyond the Forest
And so once again, we stormed back upstairs, our feet wrapped in rubber and plastic marauding upon the hollow tree corpses lining the floors of my apartment, echoing like a war drum in my mind, drowning out the laughter and distracted conversation of my two beautiful friends. We plowed open the door as a frightened cat, my lovely and majestic yellow cat, bounded away from us to his secret hiding space where silly cats lay for safety, but then emerge again to be with us and exist together for life is lonesome enough, life is stacked against love and this is understood even by young felines having already bounced between two owners, and it is obvious to young people like us struggling to find a home for ourselves. Looking into my kitty's eyes in the early summer morning heat, sweat on my forehead dripping off my bearded chin from the seasonal climate and drugs in my system, the cat simply innocently purrs and circles my extended arm as if its only another day.
Beaglesworth sat down on my couch, drinking water straight from the pitcher's mouth with a exhausted, exasperated look on his face, nervous and uncertain, as his mind wrangles with Hoffman's lovechild. Our brains work hard, having defeated the alcohol already we are stone sober whenever our minds momentarily clear up, causing me to stand and search for something that I know will come in handy, but then I am standing at my bookshelf confused and sweaty, my legs rubbery a little bit so I sit back down empty handed having forgotten why I had stood in the first place.
In the eternal now, we drift slowly in our boats, and suddenly we decide to go back outside again, why not, the air isn't quite as thick and heavy outside, it is cool and delicious and feels amazing on my hot face and body, so we pound back down the stairs after an unknown amount of time inside, it seems like minutes but was probably an hour or two, as the great bringer of light and warmth, our planet's sun is starting to come, poking through the jelly colored clouds, tearing a hole in the summer sky and birds are beginning to wake up and line the tree ways and sing us lullabies, reminding us that we're not alone, but in this together, and Beaglesworth says that the birds are probably out of their minds too, probably way more than we are, and probably all the time. The paranoia helps them survive, he explains, and my heart beats faster and faster as I contemplate this and that, and head in random directions trying to see what is what everywhere at once.
Our trio rejoins, and we come back together, a tripod of chaos and laughter, the sky is orange and yellow with light as sunlight pours onto route 17 which becomes busier with the onset of morning traffic, so we instinctively head back behind the house, taking shelter down a tiny road towards the forest. Behind an old giant mill, rusted and windowless, next door to my building, the lot abruptly ends and trees reach towards the sky like natural cell phone towers, their branches swaying and blurring in the breeze which the sun seems to have brought along, the solar wind making everything dance, including us. Jerica, Beaglesworth and I dance and laugh our way through the empty parking lot, a van heading down the road putts along slowly behind us, watching us for a while, the poor driver probably laughing himself to tears until he beeps the horn twice and we dance onto the sidewalk and he blurs past us, most likely bringing home the bacon to his 2.5 kids somewhere.
We reach the borderline of pavement and grass, and hop onto the grass merrily and up a path. We find a bridge to our chagrin, and we stand upon it defiantly, above slow moving tepid water, brackish with greens and browns, probably another arm of the waterfall further downtown. I yell something about a bridge to Terabithia and we laugh and move along, off the bridge and onto the bank of the water. We shuffle along, examining everything, following an unknown path, overgrown with weeds and plants, the river slowly oozing beside us in the opposite direction, and we continue this for a half mile or so, the world's slowest rush hour traffic on a hidden interstate of grass and algae and water and rock and tree and leaf. We tilt our heads back like lost sailors in the night looking for the stars and get confused in the light filtering through the foliage, the sun is above the horizon now, it is light and the canopy is alive with birds and song, bouncing off our laughter.
The path opens up to our right and we enter the natural archway of trees, and it is perfect, way too perfect to be an accident and I say so, but the other kids don't hear me, lost in their own thoughts and admiration of natural beauty which our videogame generation sadly doesn't have the patience for anymore, and if they did they'd get bored too quickly, because there's no action in things like natural archways made of ancient botanical life, there's no control, and the graphics fucking suck....Nonetheless, we are spat out from the sheltering throat of the path into the wide open air of a green knoll, ankle high in vitality, and healthy grass is thick under our feet and the blue, bright sky is now playing on the giant screen above everything, and it is warm and summer and beautiful, preparing this main course all night we are starving, and we are feasting upon the solemn tranquility of low winds making dandelions and blades of grass twitch and dance on a backdrop of living oak and maple and evergreen, our ancient companions, and for the first time in a long time everything is alright in my life.
Thus Spake Thujonu
Beaglesworth sat down on my couch, drinking water straight from the pitcher's mouth with a exhausted, exasperated look on his face, nervous and uncertain, as his mind wrangles with Hoffman's lovechild. Our brains work hard, having defeated the alcohol already we are stone sober whenever our minds momentarily clear up, causing me to stand and search for something that I know will come in handy, but then I am standing at my bookshelf confused and sweaty, my legs rubbery a little bit so I sit back down empty handed having forgotten why I had stood in the first place.
In the eternal now, we drift slowly in our boats, and suddenly we decide to go back outside again, why not, the air isn't quite as thick and heavy outside, it is cool and delicious and feels amazing on my hot face and body, so we pound back down the stairs after an unknown amount of time inside, it seems like minutes but was probably an hour or two, as the great bringer of light and warmth, our planet's sun is starting to come, poking through the jelly colored clouds, tearing a hole in the summer sky and birds are beginning to wake up and line the tree ways and sing us lullabies, reminding us that we're not alone, but in this together, and Beaglesworth says that the birds are probably out of their minds too, probably way more than we are, and probably all the time. The paranoia helps them survive, he explains, and my heart beats faster and faster as I contemplate this and that, and head in random directions trying to see what is what everywhere at once.
Our trio rejoins, and we come back together, a tripod of chaos and laughter, the sky is orange and yellow with light as sunlight pours onto route 17 which becomes busier with the onset of morning traffic, so we instinctively head back behind the house, taking shelter down a tiny road towards the forest. Behind an old giant mill, rusted and windowless, next door to my building, the lot abruptly ends and trees reach towards the sky like natural cell phone towers, their branches swaying and blurring in the breeze which the sun seems to have brought along, the solar wind making everything dance, including us. Jerica, Beaglesworth and I dance and laugh our way through the empty parking lot, a van heading down the road putts along slowly behind us, watching us for a while, the poor driver probably laughing himself to tears until he beeps the horn twice and we dance onto the sidewalk and he blurs past us, most likely bringing home the bacon to his 2.5 kids somewhere.
We reach the borderline of pavement and grass, and hop onto the grass merrily and up a path. We find a bridge to our chagrin, and we stand upon it defiantly, above slow moving tepid water, brackish with greens and browns, probably another arm of the waterfall further downtown. I yell something about a bridge to Terabithia and we laugh and move along, off the bridge and onto the bank of the water. We shuffle along, examining everything, following an unknown path, overgrown with weeds and plants, the river slowly oozing beside us in the opposite direction, and we continue this for a half mile or so, the world's slowest rush hour traffic on a hidden interstate of grass and algae and water and rock and tree and leaf. We tilt our heads back like lost sailors in the night looking for the stars and get confused in the light filtering through the foliage, the sun is above the horizon now, it is light and the canopy is alive with birds and song, bouncing off our laughter.
The path opens up to our right and we enter the natural archway of trees, and it is perfect, way too perfect to be an accident and I say so, but the other kids don't hear me, lost in their own thoughts and admiration of natural beauty which our videogame generation sadly doesn't have the patience for anymore, and if they did they'd get bored too quickly, because there's no action in things like natural archways made of ancient botanical life, there's no control, and the graphics fucking suck....Nonetheless, we are spat out from the sheltering throat of the path into the wide open air of a green knoll, ankle high in vitality, and healthy grass is thick under our feet and the blue, bright sky is now playing on the giant screen above everything, and it is warm and summer and beautiful, preparing this main course all night we are starving, and we are feasting upon the solemn tranquility of low winds making dandelions and blades of grass twitch and dance on a backdrop of living oak and maple and evergreen, our ancient companions, and for the first time in a long time everything is alright in my life.
Thus Spake Thujonu
Saturday, April 4, 2009
You've got corporate written all over you.
I sprayed some cologne which my boss had given me last Christmas for the present swap we had done.
“I don’t know anything about you or anything you like, so I just got you this.” She had rasped on the December morning before the horrid holiday, her face way too tight, like a veined balloon atop a sagging, pale body about to break down. She tolerated me because I was a hard worker, but I knew she felt contempt towards me that usually would take years to cultivate, but I had managed to accumulate in only a few months.
I reached into the back seat of my car and grabbed a random tie which was already noosely knotted and threw it over my head and tightened it around my neck. I clipped my manager keys to my belt and smoothed over my hair in my review mirror then hopped out of my car and strode into work.
She smoked a couple packs of cigarettes a day, and probably had for a long time, so when I reached the back office it was no surprise that Ms. Krause, my boss, was smoking. At times, right in the middle of barking out commands, she’d break down and cough for minutes, while the rest of us, her ever loyal troops, stood around awkwardly waiting for the emphysematic blitzkrieg to pass.
“Mr. Moooon.” She said, dragging my last name out like an old door opened slowly in the early morning hours as not to wake other occupants of the house.
The informalities being over, she cleared her throat to become businesslike, but she coughed, the burst capillaries underneath her pale cheeks highlighted bright pink momentarily, her eyes bulging because she was suffocating. Finally able to communicate again, she began to bark out orders.
“Who built the Tuf’s display? It looks like crap. Knoxville said it was you.”
“I’m not aware of any Tuf display.” I replied, which was true. Usually as soon as I stepped foot outside of work, I immediately forgot anything which occurred within its walls, regardless of the drugs or alcohol I may later consume.
“Well, I need you to rebuild it. It looks like shit. And when you’re done with that…” She croaked, and began to hawk phlegm up in her intimidating throat and then swallow it, rising her fat arms to cover her mouth causing the flabby undersides of her upper biceps to sway and jiggle. I turned away my eyes, the morning rum suddenly not sitting as pretty as I imagined it would when I woke up to the morning sun.
She wheezed, then caught her breath, her meaty knuckles turning white as it grasped her soft drink bottle. “What was I saying…?”
“Telling me that the Tuf someone built looks like shit.”
“Right. Do that again. Then I want you to climb up to your bay and organize all the boxes of your paper. They look like shit, I want to be able to see every product from the floor.”
“Why?” I asked. “I’m the one who goes up there and gets the boxes. As long as I can read it, it shouldn’t be an issue.”
“It is an issue. I want to be able to see it. I don’t care if you can see it or not, I need to be able to read them, okay?” She croaked.
“Right.” I said. The bay was a twenty foot high wooden shelf where we stored the giant boxes of toilet paper and paper towels. It was going to be hot up there, and I’d have to climb a rickety ladder of poor career choice to the top and rearrange the heavy bastards. I’d be sweating through the armpits of my nice work shirt in no time, so I loosened my tie right away.
“Then come see me when you’re done, I’ll have more for you. And I want it done fast, don’t pull any shit, you’re going to be very busy today.” She rumbled past me, knocking into my shoulder and knocking me back with out seeming to notice it. The door slammed as she walked out onto the sales floor.
I spat on the floor and quickly counted the safe, becoming an authority by default. I was on the brink, on the edge--a young man in his early twenties with a middle management job who still wandered the streets all night with a head full of lysergic acid until the sun came up. I was supposed to crack the whip around here, to put the company first and foremost--and got paid like I did. Hell, I might have even been rich compared to the people who I ran around with that owned nothing--anything was possible. But I was more interested in getting wasted and being wicked, getting girls to smile, getting laughs, and getting crazy enough to sing with everyone and anybody.
I still felt like a champion not like a middle management wet bag who fretted over the sales numbers for a small finger nail of a massive corporate body. And this made me feel old, and slightly nervous. The idea that I’d being doing all these retail things, all this nothing, for such a long time, made me want to scream in the faces of every customer who walked through the door that was so addicted to pharmaceuticals or so completely gone that they didn’t even realize that they had shit themselves until it brought them back to life. And it made me want to cut Krause and Knoxville into little pieces for trading in their lives for their paychecks, for so complacently accepting the deal with the devil, and seemingly loving every second of it.
But, it wasn’t all bad.
The high school girl who loved me was named Evelyn, but everyone called her Eva...
Regards, Esortnom
“I don’t know anything about you or anything you like, so I just got you this.” She had rasped on the December morning before the horrid holiday, her face way too tight, like a veined balloon atop a sagging, pale body about to break down. She tolerated me because I was a hard worker, but I knew she felt contempt towards me that usually would take years to cultivate, but I had managed to accumulate in only a few months.
I reached into the back seat of my car and grabbed a random tie which was already noosely knotted and threw it over my head and tightened it around my neck. I clipped my manager keys to my belt and smoothed over my hair in my review mirror then hopped out of my car and strode into work.
She smoked a couple packs of cigarettes a day, and probably had for a long time, so when I reached the back office it was no surprise that Ms. Krause, my boss, was smoking. At times, right in the middle of barking out commands, she’d break down and cough for minutes, while the rest of us, her ever loyal troops, stood around awkwardly waiting for the emphysematic blitzkrieg to pass.
“Mr. Moooon.” She said, dragging my last name out like an old door opened slowly in the early morning hours as not to wake other occupants of the house.
The informalities being over, she cleared her throat to become businesslike, but she coughed, the burst capillaries underneath her pale cheeks highlighted bright pink momentarily, her eyes bulging because she was suffocating. Finally able to communicate again, she began to bark out orders.
“Who built the Tuf’s display? It looks like crap. Knoxville said it was you.”
“I’m not aware of any Tuf display.” I replied, which was true. Usually as soon as I stepped foot outside of work, I immediately forgot anything which occurred within its walls, regardless of the drugs or alcohol I may later consume.
“Well, I need you to rebuild it. It looks like shit. And when you’re done with that…” She croaked, and began to hawk phlegm up in her intimidating throat and then swallow it, rising her fat arms to cover her mouth causing the flabby undersides of her upper biceps to sway and jiggle. I turned away my eyes, the morning rum suddenly not sitting as pretty as I imagined it would when I woke up to the morning sun.
She wheezed, then caught her breath, her meaty knuckles turning white as it grasped her soft drink bottle. “What was I saying…?”
“Telling me that the Tuf someone built looks like shit.”
“Right. Do that again. Then I want you to climb up to your bay and organize all the boxes of your paper. They look like shit, I want to be able to see every product from the floor.”
“Why?” I asked. “I’m the one who goes up there and gets the boxes. As long as I can read it, it shouldn’t be an issue.”
“It is an issue. I want to be able to see it. I don’t care if you can see it or not, I need to be able to read them, okay?” She croaked.
“Right.” I said. The bay was a twenty foot high wooden shelf where we stored the giant boxes of toilet paper and paper towels. It was going to be hot up there, and I’d have to climb a rickety ladder of poor career choice to the top and rearrange the heavy bastards. I’d be sweating through the armpits of my nice work shirt in no time, so I loosened my tie right away.
“Then come see me when you’re done, I’ll have more for you. And I want it done fast, don’t pull any shit, you’re going to be very busy today.” She rumbled past me, knocking into my shoulder and knocking me back with out seeming to notice it. The door slammed as she walked out onto the sales floor.
I spat on the floor and quickly counted the safe, becoming an authority by default. I was on the brink, on the edge--a young man in his early twenties with a middle management job who still wandered the streets all night with a head full of lysergic acid until the sun came up. I was supposed to crack the whip around here, to put the company first and foremost--and got paid like I did. Hell, I might have even been rich compared to the people who I ran around with that owned nothing--anything was possible. But I was more interested in getting wasted and being wicked, getting girls to smile, getting laughs, and getting crazy enough to sing with everyone and anybody.
I still felt like a champion not like a middle management wet bag who fretted over the sales numbers for a small finger nail of a massive corporate body. And this made me feel old, and slightly nervous. The idea that I’d being doing all these retail things, all this nothing, for such a long time, made me want to scream in the faces of every customer who walked through the door that was so addicted to pharmaceuticals or so completely gone that they didn’t even realize that they had shit themselves until it brought them back to life. And it made me want to cut Krause and Knoxville into little pieces for trading in their lives for their paychecks, for so complacently accepting the deal with the devil, and seemingly loving every second of it.
But, it wasn’t all bad.
The high school girl who loved me was named Evelyn, but everyone called her Eva...
Regards, Esortnom
Jonathon, I'd like to get pictures of the children today.
Flipping thru the pages, we stumble to a key written in Enochian, the language of the angels according to mister John Dee (if one chooses to believe that dogma), refreshingly refreshing from the loosely written words in extinct Latin which is just as useless as Enochian unless you happen to speak the dead language, which our hero did at the time.
So let us read out loud in the mother tongue of heaven's cherubim horsed upon the sightless winds. Crying out like angels trumpet tongued against damnation, the words written on this massively reproduced not so sacred parchment rained tears into the air:
ANK-FO
NU THE SOD
PON RE MOSS
NAU DAU LO VANK SHAW
The last word being sung rather than spoken, as is customary when communicating to those that are now gone, but will return again.
Suddenly, as the words roll out from our hero's tongue like condemnation placing the poisoned chalice to his own lips, the lone candle guarding against the darkness in the room turns out. Our hero feels nervousness grabbing his testicles thru his stomache.
"Fuck you, nervousness." He laments. Perhaps his eyes, worn from midnight readings with little oil in his lamp, are deceiving him, merely playing tricks upon him and jumping at shadows. It is, after all, the eyes of childhood which jump at vaulted images.
Rubbing his eyes, and trying not consider it not so deeply, our hero realizes the ghastly form emitting a light brighter than all the candles in Beaumont. It is no illusion, and it is, in fact, real, Jack.
Startled, our scholar flips thru the momentarily forgotten book searching for a remedy to this current state of affairs. Attempting to wash the filthy witness from his hands quickly, for careful consideration of the situation could drive him mad, he finds some pages near the back of the book. Entitled, "Ra Dosu Valnuk" (Ratify the work of Hell), he gurgles the verses from his humbled throat as the apparition sways like dead trees in a breeze.
The spoken word hinders the situation, as the ghastly apparation appears to gain strength and poise, no longer swaying like a newborn child tired with drink, but reinforced like concrete poured onto steal frames, the lights of the blues and reds swirl around him, a wedding train of horrible colors not seen by any living eye bearing credible witness.
Within the lotus position, our hero realizes his ultimatum to banish this dreadful foe. They must meet in neutral ground, for the physical realm is far too brash and savage for such a delicate dance of death which will no doubt be deduced. Seeing his body from above, as darkness folds into the corners of his green eyes, he heads for a place foregin to the many and known, but well mapped to the few and secret: The Astral Plane!
Thus Spake Thujonu
So let us read out loud in the mother tongue of heaven's cherubim horsed upon the sightless winds. Crying out like angels trumpet tongued against damnation, the words written on this massively reproduced not so sacred parchment rained tears into the air:
ANK-FO
NU THE SOD
PON RE MOSS
NAU DAU LO VANK SHAW
The last word being sung rather than spoken, as is customary when communicating to those that are now gone, but will return again.
Suddenly, as the words roll out from our hero's tongue like condemnation placing the poisoned chalice to his own lips, the lone candle guarding against the darkness in the room turns out. Our hero feels nervousness grabbing his testicles thru his stomache.
"Fuck you, nervousness." He laments. Perhaps his eyes, worn from midnight readings with little oil in his lamp, are deceiving him, merely playing tricks upon him and jumping at shadows. It is, after all, the eyes of childhood which jump at vaulted images.
Rubbing his eyes, and trying not consider it not so deeply, our hero realizes the ghastly form emitting a light brighter than all the candles in Beaumont. It is no illusion, and it is, in fact, real, Jack.
Startled, our scholar flips thru the momentarily forgotten book searching for a remedy to this current state of affairs. Attempting to wash the filthy witness from his hands quickly, for careful consideration of the situation could drive him mad, he finds some pages near the back of the book. Entitled, "Ra Dosu Valnuk" (Ratify the work of Hell), he gurgles the verses from his humbled throat as the apparition sways like dead trees in a breeze.
The spoken word hinders the situation, as the ghastly apparation appears to gain strength and poise, no longer swaying like a newborn child tired with drink, but reinforced like concrete poured onto steal frames, the lights of the blues and reds swirl around him, a wedding train of horrible colors not seen by any living eye bearing credible witness.
Within the lotus position, our hero realizes his ultimatum to banish this dreadful foe. They must meet in neutral ground, for the physical realm is far too brash and savage for such a delicate dance of death which will no doubt be deduced. Seeing his body from above, as darkness folds into the corners of his green eyes, he heads for a place foregin to the many and known, but well mapped to the few and secret: The Astral Plane!
Thus Spake Thujonu
If Only Freddy Mercury Had Facebook
Facebook How Gross.
Fcebook, how gross.
I check it to see if my life has been updated within the last 12 hours. No new messages. No new friends. No new photos. Fuck.
I know I've been doing a lot of living these days. But I despair, for it does not seem to be reflected in the facebook. How are others, but mostly I, supposed to stay precise, updated, and informed of my existence? This is the twenty first century, our crude cave paintings are drunken photos taken on a space age phone leaked onto a website containing proof of my existence.
Proof that I am indeed alive. Even if I may sometimes believe otherwise.
Dismal. That is how I feel when I log in after entering the wrong password, and see that I have no new friends. And that none of my existing ones bothered to write to me or take photos of our shanigans. Aren't I here? Am I not alive?
I browse the selection of almost everyone I know whom owns a computer and is under 27. The people who are currently most important go first. Those who I hardly recall or know, never mind befriend, don't even get brushed upon. I don't have time for people I don't care about. Life connects, but the internet stays connected. I really don't want to see that fat girl I accepted as a friend go swimming in Maine, her latest picture album update entitled "Randoms Summer 08". Fuck, I don't even like seeing you in life.
How gross.
Old college buddies who I took LSD with and drank whiskey until the sun came up on early foggy mornings in the mountains are nurses or physcists. That beautiful blonde woman who lay with me naked as we discussed literature and smoked cigarettes in bed all night is married to a tool-ish looking kid in conneticut. The smartest guy I knew in high school who influenced my earliest choices in life works on a ranch in Montanna and enjoys opiate pills. The kid who helped me blow up a chinese classmate's mailbox just got retired from the US army since an IED blew through his left arm and thigh. My best friends have met some girls that I wasn't introduced to and an ex girlfiend has changed her profile picture to a cat. How gross.
There's not much info on myself. It's for the best. All members vainly realize that if they die right now, their epitaph will be heavily based on facebook. One must be cautious. Any biography will cite their interests or quotes from their profile. Pictures will describe the best moments they witnessed with a cellphone camera and any groups will display political views. And any friends will post their regrets, regards, and realizations about the recently deceased.
How gross.
Soon they'll be no reason to leave the comforting green glow of the computer screen. All relationships will be based upon facebook. Bars to partylines to chatrooms to social networking. Why spend money on coffee when we can chat right here on facebook. My sarcasm will go unnoticed, but in the mean time we can browse each other's pictures. You look so cute in this picture, lol rofl! Spare me.
Relationships jump at the twitch of a finger tip. I can start a new relationship or fuck up an old one. Touch a long awaited friend, or poke a cute suburban girl I have nothing in common with. Maybe I'll write poem to my sister. I just hope her kids don't friend request me, or I'll have to delete a bunch of my rad pictures.
It won't be long until a marketing company finds us all. A giant machine will compile all our data and calculate anything and everything under a flourescent light with a price tag and try to sell it to us. We'll get catalogs for things we never planned on buying, and phone calls from grassroot radical political groups from Denmark. Soon, the growth will go unchecked. Businesses will rely upon it. Schools will lean on it. Government will probe it. Unpleasant, unsightly, and obsolete, the members will emerge, just as they walk in front of mirrors, justifying their roll out of bed that morning. Money will be made, and graveyards created for those who have passed on and no longer tender their account. The accounts will be shut down, of course, and flowers for the dead will cost 1.00 to send.
How gross.
Regards, Esortnom
Fcebook, how gross.
I check it to see if my life has been updated within the last 12 hours. No new messages. No new friends. No new photos. Fuck.
I know I've been doing a lot of living these days. But I despair, for it does not seem to be reflected in the facebook. How are others, but mostly I, supposed to stay precise, updated, and informed of my existence? This is the twenty first century, our crude cave paintings are drunken photos taken on a space age phone leaked onto a website containing proof of my existence.
Proof that I am indeed alive. Even if I may sometimes believe otherwise.
Dismal. That is how I feel when I log in after entering the wrong password, and see that I have no new friends. And that none of my existing ones bothered to write to me or take photos of our shanigans. Aren't I here? Am I not alive?
I browse the selection of almost everyone I know whom owns a computer and is under 27. The people who are currently most important go first. Those who I hardly recall or know, never mind befriend, don't even get brushed upon. I don't have time for people I don't care about. Life connects, but the internet stays connected. I really don't want to see that fat girl I accepted as a friend go swimming in Maine, her latest picture album update entitled "Randoms Summer 08". Fuck, I don't even like seeing you in life.
How gross.
Old college buddies who I took LSD with and drank whiskey until the sun came up on early foggy mornings in the mountains are nurses or physcists. That beautiful blonde woman who lay with me naked as we discussed literature and smoked cigarettes in bed all night is married to a tool-ish looking kid in conneticut. The smartest guy I knew in high school who influenced my earliest choices in life works on a ranch in Montanna and enjoys opiate pills. The kid who helped me blow up a chinese classmate's mailbox just got retired from the US army since an IED blew through his left arm and thigh. My best friends have met some girls that I wasn't introduced to and an ex girlfiend has changed her profile picture to a cat. How gross.
There's not much info on myself. It's for the best. All members vainly realize that if they die right now, their epitaph will be heavily based on facebook. One must be cautious. Any biography will cite their interests or quotes from their profile. Pictures will describe the best moments they witnessed with a cellphone camera and any groups will display political views. And any friends will post their regrets, regards, and realizations about the recently deceased.
How gross.
Soon they'll be no reason to leave the comforting green glow of the computer screen. All relationships will be based upon facebook. Bars to partylines to chatrooms to social networking. Why spend money on coffee when we can chat right here on facebook. My sarcasm will go unnoticed, but in the mean time we can browse each other's pictures. You look so cute in this picture, lol rofl! Spare me.
Relationships jump at the twitch of a finger tip. I can start a new relationship or fuck up an old one. Touch a long awaited friend, or poke a cute suburban girl I have nothing in common with. Maybe I'll write poem to my sister. I just hope her kids don't friend request me, or I'll have to delete a bunch of my rad pictures.
It won't be long until a marketing company finds us all. A giant machine will compile all our data and calculate anything and everything under a flourescent light with a price tag and try to sell it to us. We'll get catalogs for things we never planned on buying, and phone calls from grassroot radical political groups from Denmark. Soon, the growth will go unchecked. Businesses will rely upon it. Schools will lean on it. Government will probe it. Unpleasant, unsightly, and obsolete, the members will emerge, just as they walk in front of mirrors, justifying their roll out of bed that morning. Money will be made, and graveyards created for those who have passed on and no longer tender their account. The accounts will be shut down, of course, and flowers for the dead will cost 1.00 to send.
How gross.
Regards, Esortnom
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Tonight, Thus Spake Thujonu
whenever things are quiet im never trying to sleep this is one of my better days thats the strange part
pride gets me to the bottom of the well when im too tall to peer into the edge
the water is cold and over flows the ankles int othe shoe when the walls are too wet to climb
eugene is broken down and dead where the freaks with warrants come to hide from competant cops
nothing is what it seems because everyone is fony fake tweaker drunk artist socialite poser trying to run from something
everyones poor but everyone drinks to get rich
i cam all this way and just want to leave because a wandering soul has no home and no one to place the food in the pot in his home so he wonders until he is dead and cold counting ties in railroad tracks thousands of miles away from birthland
the girls are broken down and dirty looking except the pretty ones who all have boys or babies and the sluts that look to fuck even though they kinda creep you out and run shivers down the eternal spine within the mind when they slide up to the bar looking for covnersation
the wander cant pass a mirror without thinking is this what i was expecting is this why i came
leaving behind a niche carbed for onself already to stand on his own two legs destined to succeed even though everyday is a slow failure slightly worse than the one before it how can he carry on
darkness falls with the cold and smoke exhaled in puffs drag into the night lonesome and dark like winos spreading their throats open to sing into the night a hand grasping a cold large can of booze to sleep keep them warm as they sleeep meanwhile less than a miles distance a young man the wander downs warm whiskey and coffee to keep him warm as he stays up all night because sleep is just so awful when its the only option as everything else just seems not so much fun anymore
everyones going to their place and i think maybe this is harder than it looks which is myself stumbling over myself as the eternal self is drowned in eternal drink to numb the realization
beautiful people in my eyes like lovely explosions in the sky strong like the pull from the moon help pick me up from this devestation and winters cold nights and the springish days when i walk to work under the storm chasing me and everything underneath my restless complacency
restricted to wander tell me i wont always be so down but lies and deception to the self are more laughable than those to other sentients which arent in the know
the true meaning of all this is to grow but without refrence its just repetitive dreaming
dancing with myself cutting down the sides and keeping the middle sticky rides i wish youd know me so you could love me and show me the inside of your soul but because of you all that you inspire you know that theres nothing like heaven when i open my eyes and see the outside of your head from the inside of my head i cant help but wonder at those mountains look down upon this town of the living dead what is beyond why not drive through nebraska all day every day my least favorite state so far even pennslyvania had its upsides get me down to the desert where the walls are dry and the sky is red and i cant sit in peace and quiet until i am dead
Thus Spake Thujonu
pride gets me to the bottom of the well when im too tall to peer into the edge
the water is cold and over flows the ankles int othe shoe when the walls are too wet to climb
eugene is broken down and dead where the freaks with warrants come to hide from competant cops
nothing is what it seems because everyone is fony fake tweaker drunk artist socialite poser trying to run from something
everyones poor but everyone drinks to get rich
i cam all this way and just want to leave because a wandering soul has no home and no one to place the food in the pot in his home so he wonders until he is dead and cold counting ties in railroad tracks thousands of miles away from birthland
the girls are broken down and dirty looking except the pretty ones who all have boys or babies and the sluts that look to fuck even though they kinda creep you out and run shivers down the eternal spine within the mind when they slide up to the bar looking for covnersation
the wander cant pass a mirror without thinking is this what i was expecting is this why i came
leaving behind a niche carbed for onself already to stand on his own two legs destined to succeed even though everyday is a slow failure slightly worse than the one before it how can he carry on
darkness falls with the cold and smoke exhaled in puffs drag into the night lonesome and dark like winos spreading their throats open to sing into the night a hand grasping a cold large can of booze to sleep keep them warm as they sleeep meanwhile less than a miles distance a young man the wander downs warm whiskey and coffee to keep him warm as he stays up all night because sleep is just so awful when its the only option as everything else just seems not so much fun anymore
everyones going to their place and i think maybe this is harder than it looks which is myself stumbling over myself as the eternal self is drowned in eternal drink to numb the realization
beautiful people in my eyes like lovely explosions in the sky strong like the pull from the moon help pick me up from this devestation and winters cold nights and the springish days when i walk to work under the storm chasing me and everything underneath my restless complacency
restricted to wander tell me i wont always be so down but lies and deception to the self are more laughable than those to other sentients which arent in the know
the true meaning of all this is to grow but without refrence its just repetitive dreaming
dancing with myself cutting down the sides and keeping the middle sticky rides i wish youd know me so you could love me and show me the inside of your soul but because of you all that you inspire you know that theres nothing like heaven when i open my eyes and see the outside of your head from the inside of my head i cant help but wonder at those mountains look down upon this town of the living dead what is beyond why not drive through nebraska all day every day my least favorite state so far even pennslyvania had its upsides get me down to the desert where the walls are dry and the sky is red and i cant sit in peace and quiet until i am dead
Thus Spake Thujonu
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