Beaglesworth yells my name, he calls for my presence so I scamper across the field to their side across the distance. I reach them, joining their auras that I can no longer see but feel, and Jayha is already climbing down some embankment at the edge of the field, down between the trees and we follow and again we're spat out onto another river bank. This time the water is moving fast, like the waterfall downtown, a large stream emptying into a placid pool, and it is exactly like the waterfall downtown, except this one was nature's idea, not included on the blueprints to a textile factory from a hundred years ago. We pick up stones and toss them absently into the water, and for the first time we acknowledge out loud how amazing this all is, how beautiful this all is, how unexpected and rewarding a little piece of earth can be, even if we were stone sober, I know we'd drop to our knees, overwhelmed from encountering such soaring beauty in these early morning hours.
Eyes attached to our little piece of silent water, our voices mute because there is nothing to be said now, like when the Hatemachine and I walked silently and solemnly back to my apartment downtown, dirty and haggard, among the jeeps and SUVs and freshly showered working class. We stare straight ahead in the lullaby of water, under the veil of branches and swaying leaves, some fluttering gently down in the breeze like snowflakes on cold eastern eves. I caught Beaglesworth's dilated eyes, no longer alarmed, but now gently sorrowful and detached, like a Zen master who knows this is all irrelevant anyway, because nothing is permanent. So we stand there in the early morning on the river bank, and get our fill, drinking from the cup of life careful not to spill, passing it back and forth, taking our fill of unique beauty before passing it to someone else.
We climb back up to the field, and walk quietly across back to the path, praising the decision to come back here to the woods and reaping the reward in store for us. We hop onto the path and walk back towards my apartment, as early morning joggers start to pass us, out for a quick run before work on the path, and now the serenity is lost and tainted, the dream is broken because regular people are among us, saying "excuse me" and "how do you do", with a tinge of fear in their voices. We stick out like sore thumbs, clearly there is no reason for us to be out here this early in the morning, and no one would understand if we tried to explain the holy moment we witnessed down by the water. So we head back to my apartment, it is completely light out now, it is morning, and as we pass my neighbors house, I can see them suspiciously starring out their living room window at us, sipping coffee and shaking their heads nervously.
We sit around on my couch now, smoking cigarettes in the yellow morning light, trying to decide our next move. I have to work later that night, and I laugh about it. If I don't get some sleep now, I'll be awake for another twenty four hours, my head drifting instead of watching floor cleaning minorities to ensure that they don't steal from a multibillion dollar corporation. So I take off my pants because they're covered in mud and grass and we think we smell animal shit also, so I toss them off into a corner and Jayha giggles and Irish-Catholic Beaglesworth turns away as I walk into my bedroom and say "goodnight."
I lay on my soft, sad mattress, sad because it's the only piece of furniture in my bedroom besides a shitty, white table which was there when I moved in. But it's fine, and I realize as my head begins to clear, and I see everything in this reality for the first time again, that it's all I really need. I close my eyes, and my cat comes bounding in, purring and seemingly upset that these crazy humans were awake all night, keeping him up, and it makes me wonder briefly about my neighbors too. I start to giggle about it, then laugh out right, real loud and maniacally. Jayha and Beaglesworth hear me, and they can't help but laugh too, and we're all laughing for no reason at all, and I'm sitting there with a wall between them and I, with a giant smile on my face, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes.
The windows are all open, my makeshift curtains flutter beautifully in the sunlit wind, drifting and barely touching the tips of my toes. Loud motorcycles are really common in this town, and they roar by, echoing throughout my thin walled apartment, with loud trucks shaking the whole thing to its foundation. I close my eyes and marvel at the patterns and geometry dancing about in my eyelids as my tired, tired body pleads for my brain to rest so it can too. Then I hear Jayha and Beaglesworth having sex in the other room, and I pretend it's just an illusion, the acid playing tricks with the sounds of the traffic, but no, it's just the muffled sounds of people trying to have sex quietly because they know I'm still awake, ten feet away. It confronts me with my loneliness again, and I feel lousy that they're having sex in my apartment on my couch, and I tell myself that if there's any jizz or vaginal juice, or any black light stains I'm going to react harshly. But then I realize that I've had sex before on Beaglesworth's couch, on his parents' couch, actually, so I feel better and struggle not to laugh again, because it turns out we're even. Catch it when it comes around.
I finally fall into a restless sleep somewhere in between the dizzying patterns and orange spirals in my mind. I wake up a few hours later surprisingly refreshed, with my mouth and teeth feeling strange like they always do after a good trip. I take a long shower, standing under the water, half asleep almost, but more awake than I have been in a week or so. Everything is optimistic and bright, sunny and new to me, I feel like a man fresh out of prison. I get out of the shower and walk naked back to my room wanting to eat fruit. I toss on some clothes then go to wake up Jayha and Beaglesworth, but they are already gone. I'm not sure if they left while I slept or while I showered, but I don't care because at least they turned the bed back into my couch so I didn't have to confront any black light stains, although I briefly realized that the chore of cleaning up cum is better than cleaning up blood.
Regards, Esortnom
Saturday, June 27, 2009
8 Hours to Reykjavik
The man sitting next to me at the airport bar was extremely drunk.
"Are you going to Iceland, too?" He asked me, as I threw my leather bag under the stool and climbed to the bar. I ordered another whiskey and cola and nodded in response.
He laughed, his bald head and light eyes red with drink and fatigue. Clearly this man wasn’t going anywhere– most likely he had watched his son or daughter off on a flight to somewhere, and afterwards had settled nicely into the airport bar rather than return to his lonely post-divorce life. I vaguely wondered if his drinking had anything to do with his crumbled marriage.
"You're like the fif’ person who's sat there in that seat thass going to Iceland." He slurred, grinning and leaning back as he sipped his domestic beer.
"Ya, well that's because there's a plane leaving for Iceland in an hour." A large woman interjected, sitting between us. The Drunk Bald Man laughed and tried to make a joke, which caused the fat woman to turn away, disgusted. I smiled and turned back to my whiskey, grateful for the interruption from the red faced old man.
I looked at my watch nervously, with the ire of a man who has been drinking heavily and has a plane to Iceland to catch. Devouring my whiskey, I politely slid my empty glass across the bar in order to get the bartender’s attention. She quickly walked past me towards the kitchen, her face taut with stress.
A middle aged woman with dyed blonde hair, the bartender had probably been serving aviophobia whiskeys and jet lag bloody marys to strangers for years, always waking up to the same alarm clock and squeezing into the same tight black pants which had probably made her ass look good long before I was born. She had the eyes of a woman whom had been watching others move and carry on, shuffling onto aluminum aircraft which would carry them to destinations across the planet, to cities who’s names she could not even pronounce. She had the eyes of a woman who had been watching others selfishly carry on to infinite possibilities, while she silently and sadly returned to her VCR to watch taped re runs of her favorite sitcoms which had been off the air for nearly a decade.
I caught her eye, and ordered a large Guiness beer. The extremely Drunk Bald Man was talking politics with the fat lady next to me. He was insisting that the moronic and blundering policies of the current conservative administration had no connection to the northern liberal yet patriotic states from which he himself spawned. The fat woman was intensely listening now, and every so often providing him with the general views which she assumed all Icelandic-Americans to possess, nodding her head in agreement whenever the Drunk Bald Man described his vigor for killing “terrorists and other bad guys”.
Getting sick of the show at the bar, I realized that I needed to piss. Glancing at my watch again, I gulped down my Guiness and tossed a twenty dollar bill onto the bar. I grabbed my leather bag from under the stool as the fat woman smiled at me and wished me a pleasant flight. I bid her ado, just as the aging blonde bar tender who’s ass had no business in those black tight pants told the Bald Drunk Man that he was cut off; the bartender had a responsibility as a pusher of booze. And she was certain that the airlines would not appreciate the Drunk Bald Man getting onto a plane intoxicated. Confirming what I suspected, he insisted that he was not getting onto a plane. No matter, the bartender retorted, he was cut off. Knowing that he could not win this battle, he nodded in agreement, saying that he understood, probably numb to these kind of matriarchal beat downs from years of his ex-wife.
Exiting the airport bar, I glanced around the terminal with the confidence of a man carrying a leather bag whom has been drinking heavily for several hours. I noticed a tall, blonde Nordic looking girl, approximately my age, sitting on a bench. She was listening to an I-Pod, her tight jeans ending slightly above her white Nike sneakers. I smiled, vaguely thinking of globalization and world order, but quickly turned my thoughts to finding a toilet. I needed to piss.
Walking pass the beautiful Nordic Girl, I followed the signs which pointed to the bathrooms. The bathroom was tiled and dirty, paper towels were crumpled into balls and littered the floor, no where near the waste basket. Rows of urinals lined the wall, directly behind it were toilets in stalls. I finished up and exited, passed the Nordic Girl still listening to her music and headed towards the gate. Iceland Air 9pm departure to Reykjavik was now boarding.
Climbing aboard the aircraft, I clutched my leather bag and looked around confidently. Eyes full of intent like a polar bear on the hunt, I could already taste the new existence which awaited me overseas. In an attempt to break the stalemate that was my life, I had stuffed a leather bag full of clothes, pens, and notebooks in the hopes of Leaving-It-All-Behind. A vile commute to the disgusting confines of a modern recession-proof house of bargains and blood sucking madness, I was forced to seek some kind of sanity on foreign soil. Despite still being on the tarmac, it felt as though I was already gone.
Glaring at all that I passed on my way to seat 23C, it seemed that the mostly fat Americans which had dominated the airport lounge had given away to thin, tall, beautiful Aryans and Scandinavians. The stewardess held out Icelandic newspapers and periodicals, all written in a language which I could not understand. I grabbed the current issue of Morgunblaðið, which seemed to be the Iceland Times, in the hopes of blending in better.
Staggering to my seat, I found myself sitting in the aisle. To my right was a fat American couple. They said they were visiting their son in Stockholm. He went to school there. I muttered something in French, hoping that it would confuse them and cause them to leave me alone for the remainder of the flight. I was drunk and charged up, but I had embraced this journey in order to leave these exact kind of slobs behind, not enjoy a 8 hour flight with them. I was determined to make this some kind of holy pilgrimage, but far more tangible and hopeful than any stampede towards Mecca or Vatican City.
I stowed my leather bag under my seat and browsed through the Icelandic newspaper. I focused on the sports, deciding that this would be my best chance to learn the language. Turning to my left, across the eighteen inch aisle, the beautiful blonde Nordic Girl sat down. I gazed at her drunkenly, admiring the shape of her face, watching her settle into her seat. Her shirt clung high on her back and I noticed her light green underwear sticking out from the back of her jeans. She put on her music headphones when she turned and met my stare. She smiled, her blue eyes sparkling like the Drunk Bald Man’s head, but then she turned away quickly, seemingly embarrassed.
The flight took off without any delay, and as the 12 ton aluminum transportation tube, equipped with wings and engines, somehow managed to leave the earth and enter its skies, all eyes aboard turned to the small windows to watch the planet fall behind. In the darkness, the lights of a distant human city sparkled and glowed, until all that was below were miles of water, an oceanic ecosystem on the verge of collapse, and all the turmoil and dismay from which I was running.
Lost in my rambling thoughts and drunken delusions, I was not unpleasantly jarred back to reality by a stewardess. She was shuffling down the aisle, pestering passengers if they cared for drinks. Deciding that I probably could use something nutritious, I ordered the cliche Bloody Mary, speaking in French in order to better blend in. Handing her a ten dollar bill, the stewardess, a large burly woman who resembled an upright hippopotamus, looked at me quizzically, then reluctantly handed me a tiny bottle of Grey Goose and a can of tomato juice.
“Don’t worry,” I assured her in a horrible French accent, “I’m a responsible person.” I turned to the Nordic Girl, hoping she would be enjoying fine inhibition lowering spirits much like I was, but noticed that she was asleep. She had taken her Nike shoes off, and her pink socked feet were tucked under her as beauty slept at 35,000 feet.
Just as well, I thought. Feeling recharged by the alcohol, I pulled out some scrap paper and my pen. I began jarring down notes and thoughts, in no particular chronology, sense or system. Waking me again from my ramblings and delusions, the fat American couple next to me. The wife sitting next to me was trying to motion something to me, attempting to communicate with me in hand signals still under the impression that I didn’t understand English.
“Huh– what?” I asked, no longer caring about the European facade. No need to impress these used car salesman anyway.
“It’s my husband,” she said apologetically. “He needs to get out. He needs to use the bathroom.”
I climbed out of my seat and into the aisle. I watched as the woman climbed out next, then finally her large counterpart. He shuffled down towards the bathrooms as his wife climbed back into her seat, still apologizing to me. I sat back down, pulled my tray table back down and began writing furiously once again.
The commotion had awoken the Nordic Girl. I could feel her looking at my from out of the corner of my eye as I wrote on my scraps of paper. I turned towards her and she quickly looked away. I sipped my drink again, turning the bottle of vodka upside down and tapping the bottom, attempting to Jew the last bit of alcohol from the tiny container. Sighing, I looked up and fiddled with the button which turned on the fan. I picked up my pen and looked distractedly at my writing.
“Hey?” I felt a tap on my shoulder. The beautiful Nordic Girl was reaching across the aisle.
“You want some real paper?” She asked me, motioning to a large notebook she had with her. I couldn’t help but smile.
“Here,” she said, quickly ripping out several sheets. She handed them to me. I thanked her, and we began to converse.
“What is that, that you’re drinking there?” She asked me, in heavily accented English. I was still holding my cocktail.
“It’s vodka and tomato.” I said. The hum of the plane engines gave our conversation a natural vibration, almost a steady rhythm. It drowned out our words to any of the surrounding passengers, including the fat Americans.
“Ah, I wanted one too when I saw you drinking some. But I’m not old enough in America to drink alcohol. In Europe, yes, but not old enough for America.” She laughed.
Almost dreamlike, the Nordic Girl extended her small hand across the eighteen inches of aisle.
“My name is Natascha. What is yours?”
“********” I replied.
“It is great to meet you, ********.” Natascha smiled at me. “Why do you travel to Iceland?”
“I’m not staying in Iceland. I’m going to Copenhagen. My brother lives there.” I replied.
“Oh...Copenhagen. Very beautiful city there.”
“That’s what I hear. Why were you in Boston?” I tilted back and pounded the rest of my tiny cocktail.
“I was there for school. A exchange. I live with a family for three months there. A very nice family, I liked them very much, but many times we don’t...understand each other.” She laughed.
I nodded. “How about the city? How did you like the city of Boston?”
She thought for a moment, then wrinkled her nose. “It’s a nice city. Not so big, it’s pretty small. Dirty. Gangsta.”
I laughed.
“What is that there? I saw you writing earlier when I got on the plane?” She motioned to my scraps of paper. “Are you a writer?”
I nodded. Born of that curse, embued with the haunting burden that what I thought actually mattered, and worse of all, that I was somehow responsible for portraying and passing on any insights unto the modern man who was more interested in awful entertaining electronic dross than enlightenment.
This seemed to impress Natascha very much. She squealed with delight and smiled, thinking that I was some type of celebrity.
“Do you have...whatsitcalled...a manager?” She asked, hopefully.
I laughed. “No, no...hell no....I write, and hope that someone reads it. If anyone can still read anymore.” I added bitterly, thinking of the people whom I associated with back home. I saw Thomas and Bighead, waiting tables at a bar all day then slowly drinking themselves to death at another bar after work. Where I was from, the caged birds didn’t sing, but instead drunkenly wept as they swerve home.
She laughed, probably not understanding what I had said. She asked me about the movie they were showing on the plane, some new flick about a pregnant teenage girl in an anonymous American town, hoping that she can raise the child sans money but on pure grit and love. Definitely made in the movie factory somewhere in Hollywood which mass produced seemingly every movie since 1994, almost always starring a worn out looking American, imbuing the rest of us with notions of hope and desire for the seemingly always attainable dreams of fame and fortune. If not today, then if we all worked hard, with heads down, we’d all certainly be movie stars tomorrow. And if not tomorrow, then....
Instead, I sighed and looked to my right, and responded with dismay. Taking the hint, she began to tell me about her home town in Sweden.
“Sounds beautiful.” I said, imagining a place where all the women looked like Natascha, the men stood tall and strong, war was unknown, and everyone lived happily and long.
After a while, we ran out of things to talk about, so she went back to the movie and I went back to my writing. Starring across the laps of the fat Americans, I gazed out the window, across miles of oceanic darkness. The drone of the engines and the length of the flight seemed to put everyone into a dream, as everything was very muffled and slow. I vaguely wondered what time it was as it seemed late, but realized that this high above the ground, traveling at 600 miles per hour, drunk, I really didn’t give a shit about the time nor did it particularly matter.
Coming out of my daze, I quickly put together a poem. Looking across the aisle, I handed it to Natascha. She was watching the movie, so I had to lightly tap her arm to get her attention. She turned and gave me a friendly look, then took the notebook paper with my words scrawled on them:
“Dreaming across an aisle
When 60 centimeters is a mile
The higher we fly, the deeper we breathe
The darker the sky, over land and sea
And at our highest peak,
You and I shall meet”
She read it once, then again. She turned to me, grinning wide, eyes bright as her smile. She half stood, half leaned, and quickly crossed the aisle and hugged me. Her hair brushed against my face, and the sweet smell of her blonde strands graced my nostrils. She sat back down in her chair, and leaned forward, talking fast and thanking me. Her demeanor had completely changed once again, and it seemed that not only did she want to touch me, but that she wanted to devour me.
“Sir..’scuse me...” I felt a shove to my right. I turned away from the beautiful Natascha towards the fat Americans. The woman was looking at me, her dismal face nervous and embarrassed.
“My husband...he needs to use the bathroom again. I’m terribly sorry.” She said apologetically.
“Of course.” I replied.
I climbed out of my seat and into the aisle. Natascha held whatever praise she had for me, and looked on as we all paraded out once again.
I stood in the aisle, seven miles high, looking out upon the top of all those heads, most of them speaking a language I could never possibly understand, watching a fat, bald, American with a bad prostate lunge past other passengers in the narrow aisles of the ship. As I headed towards an unlikely destination, what better way, I thought to myself, than to prepare oneself by devouring large amounts of booze then next attempting to copulate with a sweet, young, Swede who is under the impression that you’re Francis Scott Fitzgerald back for one last hooray aboard Iceland Air?
Taking my seat again, Natascha thanked me again and again, then handed me the sheet back. She insisted that I sign it, so she could show her family that a real, live author had written something just for her. Embarrassed, I quickly scrawled “Nikolas Cassidy” across the bottom, in handwriting that looked like it was traveling at high speeds very intoxicated. I tried to coast Natascha into taking a walk around the plane with me, so we could peer out all the little port windows and try to gather as much of the view as possible. She seemed dangerously worried about disturbing the other passengers, however I insisted that they wouldn’t mind. After a few minutes I gave up, and she returned to her movie. I starred into the Arthur C. Clarke novel for a bit, then I passed out.
Regards, Esortnom
"Are you going to Iceland, too?" He asked me, as I threw my leather bag under the stool and climbed to the bar. I ordered another whiskey and cola and nodded in response.
He laughed, his bald head and light eyes red with drink and fatigue. Clearly this man wasn’t going anywhere– most likely he had watched his son or daughter off on a flight to somewhere, and afterwards had settled nicely into the airport bar rather than return to his lonely post-divorce life. I vaguely wondered if his drinking had anything to do with his crumbled marriage.
"You're like the fif’ person who's sat there in that seat thass going to Iceland." He slurred, grinning and leaning back as he sipped his domestic beer.
"Ya, well that's because there's a plane leaving for Iceland in an hour." A large woman interjected, sitting between us. The Drunk Bald Man laughed and tried to make a joke, which caused the fat woman to turn away, disgusted. I smiled and turned back to my whiskey, grateful for the interruption from the red faced old man.
I looked at my watch nervously, with the ire of a man who has been drinking heavily and has a plane to Iceland to catch. Devouring my whiskey, I politely slid my empty glass across the bar in order to get the bartender’s attention. She quickly walked past me towards the kitchen, her face taut with stress.
A middle aged woman with dyed blonde hair, the bartender had probably been serving aviophobia whiskeys and jet lag bloody marys to strangers for years, always waking up to the same alarm clock and squeezing into the same tight black pants which had probably made her ass look good long before I was born. She had the eyes of a woman whom had been watching others move and carry on, shuffling onto aluminum aircraft which would carry them to destinations across the planet, to cities who’s names she could not even pronounce. She had the eyes of a woman who had been watching others selfishly carry on to infinite possibilities, while she silently and sadly returned to her VCR to watch taped re runs of her favorite sitcoms which had been off the air for nearly a decade.
I caught her eye, and ordered a large Guiness beer. The extremely Drunk Bald Man was talking politics with the fat lady next to me. He was insisting that the moronic and blundering policies of the current conservative administration had no connection to the northern liberal yet patriotic states from which he himself spawned. The fat woman was intensely listening now, and every so often providing him with the general views which she assumed all Icelandic-Americans to possess, nodding her head in agreement whenever the Drunk Bald Man described his vigor for killing “terrorists and other bad guys”.
Getting sick of the show at the bar, I realized that I needed to piss. Glancing at my watch again, I gulped down my Guiness and tossed a twenty dollar bill onto the bar. I grabbed my leather bag from under the stool as the fat woman smiled at me and wished me a pleasant flight. I bid her ado, just as the aging blonde bar tender who’s ass had no business in those black tight pants told the Bald Drunk Man that he was cut off; the bartender had a responsibility as a pusher of booze. And she was certain that the airlines would not appreciate the Drunk Bald Man getting onto a plane intoxicated. Confirming what I suspected, he insisted that he was not getting onto a plane. No matter, the bartender retorted, he was cut off. Knowing that he could not win this battle, he nodded in agreement, saying that he understood, probably numb to these kind of matriarchal beat downs from years of his ex-wife.
Exiting the airport bar, I glanced around the terminal with the confidence of a man carrying a leather bag whom has been drinking heavily for several hours. I noticed a tall, blonde Nordic looking girl, approximately my age, sitting on a bench. She was listening to an I-Pod, her tight jeans ending slightly above her white Nike sneakers. I smiled, vaguely thinking of globalization and world order, but quickly turned my thoughts to finding a toilet. I needed to piss.
Walking pass the beautiful Nordic Girl, I followed the signs which pointed to the bathrooms. The bathroom was tiled and dirty, paper towels were crumpled into balls and littered the floor, no where near the waste basket. Rows of urinals lined the wall, directly behind it were toilets in stalls. I finished up and exited, passed the Nordic Girl still listening to her music and headed towards the gate. Iceland Air 9pm departure to Reykjavik was now boarding.
Climbing aboard the aircraft, I clutched my leather bag and looked around confidently. Eyes full of intent like a polar bear on the hunt, I could already taste the new existence which awaited me overseas. In an attempt to break the stalemate that was my life, I had stuffed a leather bag full of clothes, pens, and notebooks in the hopes of Leaving-It-All-Behind. A vile commute to the disgusting confines of a modern recession-proof house of bargains and blood sucking madness, I was forced to seek some kind of sanity on foreign soil. Despite still being on the tarmac, it felt as though I was already gone.
Glaring at all that I passed on my way to seat 23C, it seemed that the mostly fat Americans which had dominated the airport lounge had given away to thin, tall, beautiful Aryans and Scandinavians. The stewardess held out Icelandic newspapers and periodicals, all written in a language which I could not understand. I grabbed the current issue of Morgunblaðið, which seemed to be the Iceland Times, in the hopes of blending in better.
Staggering to my seat, I found myself sitting in the aisle. To my right was a fat American couple. They said they were visiting their son in Stockholm. He went to school there. I muttered something in French, hoping that it would confuse them and cause them to leave me alone for the remainder of the flight. I was drunk and charged up, but I had embraced this journey in order to leave these exact kind of slobs behind, not enjoy a 8 hour flight with them. I was determined to make this some kind of holy pilgrimage, but far more tangible and hopeful than any stampede towards Mecca or Vatican City.
I stowed my leather bag under my seat and browsed through the Icelandic newspaper. I focused on the sports, deciding that this would be my best chance to learn the language. Turning to my left, across the eighteen inch aisle, the beautiful blonde Nordic Girl sat down. I gazed at her drunkenly, admiring the shape of her face, watching her settle into her seat. Her shirt clung high on her back and I noticed her light green underwear sticking out from the back of her jeans. She put on her music headphones when she turned and met my stare. She smiled, her blue eyes sparkling like the Drunk Bald Man’s head, but then she turned away quickly, seemingly embarrassed.
The flight took off without any delay, and as the 12 ton aluminum transportation tube, equipped with wings and engines, somehow managed to leave the earth and enter its skies, all eyes aboard turned to the small windows to watch the planet fall behind. In the darkness, the lights of a distant human city sparkled and glowed, until all that was below were miles of water, an oceanic ecosystem on the verge of collapse, and all the turmoil and dismay from which I was running.
Lost in my rambling thoughts and drunken delusions, I was not unpleasantly jarred back to reality by a stewardess. She was shuffling down the aisle, pestering passengers if they cared for drinks. Deciding that I probably could use something nutritious, I ordered the cliche Bloody Mary, speaking in French in order to better blend in. Handing her a ten dollar bill, the stewardess, a large burly woman who resembled an upright hippopotamus, looked at me quizzically, then reluctantly handed me a tiny bottle of Grey Goose and a can of tomato juice.
“Don’t worry,” I assured her in a horrible French accent, “I’m a responsible person.” I turned to the Nordic Girl, hoping she would be enjoying fine inhibition lowering spirits much like I was, but noticed that she was asleep. She had taken her Nike shoes off, and her pink socked feet were tucked under her as beauty slept at 35,000 feet.
Just as well, I thought. Feeling recharged by the alcohol, I pulled out some scrap paper and my pen. I began jarring down notes and thoughts, in no particular chronology, sense or system. Waking me again from my ramblings and delusions, the fat American couple next to me. The wife sitting next to me was trying to motion something to me, attempting to communicate with me in hand signals still under the impression that I didn’t understand English.
“Huh– what?” I asked, no longer caring about the European facade. No need to impress these used car salesman anyway.
“It’s my husband,” she said apologetically. “He needs to get out. He needs to use the bathroom.”
I climbed out of my seat and into the aisle. I watched as the woman climbed out next, then finally her large counterpart. He shuffled down towards the bathrooms as his wife climbed back into her seat, still apologizing to me. I sat back down, pulled my tray table back down and began writing furiously once again.
The commotion had awoken the Nordic Girl. I could feel her looking at my from out of the corner of my eye as I wrote on my scraps of paper. I turned towards her and she quickly looked away. I sipped my drink again, turning the bottle of vodka upside down and tapping the bottom, attempting to Jew the last bit of alcohol from the tiny container. Sighing, I looked up and fiddled with the button which turned on the fan. I picked up my pen and looked distractedly at my writing.
“Hey?” I felt a tap on my shoulder. The beautiful Nordic Girl was reaching across the aisle.
“You want some real paper?” She asked me, motioning to a large notebook she had with her. I couldn’t help but smile.
“Here,” she said, quickly ripping out several sheets. She handed them to me. I thanked her, and we began to converse.
“What is that, that you’re drinking there?” She asked me, in heavily accented English. I was still holding my cocktail.
“It’s vodka and tomato.” I said. The hum of the plane engines gave our conversation a natural vibration, almost a steady rhythm. It drowned out our words to any of the surrounding passengers, including the fat Americans.
“Ah, I wanted one too when I saw you drinking some. But I’m not old enough in America to drink alcohol. In Europe, yes, but not old enough for America.” She laughed.
Almost dreamlike, the Nordic Girl extended her small hand across the eighteen inches of aisle.
“My name is Natascha. What is yours?”
“********” I replied.
“It is great to meet you, ********.” Natascha smiled at me. “Why do you travel to Iceland?”
“I’m not staying in Iceland. I’m going to Copenhagen. My brother lives there.” I replied.
“Oh...Copenhagen. Very beautiful city there.”
“That’s what I hear. Why were you in Boston?” I tilted back and pounded the rest of my tiny cocktail.
“I was there for school. A exchange. I live with a family for three months there. A very nice family, I liked them very much, but many times we don’t...understand each other.” She laughed.
I nodded. “How about the city? How did you like the city of Boston?”
She thought for a moment, then wrinkled her nose. “It’s a nice city. Not so big, it’s pretty small. Dirty. Gangsta.”
I laughed.
“What is that there? I saw you writing earlier when I got on the plane?” She motioned to my scraps of paper. “Are you a writer?”
I nodded. Born of that curse, embued with the haunting burden that what I thought actually mattered, and worse of all, that I was somehow responsible for portraying and passing on any insights unto the modern man who was more interested in awful entertaining electronic dross than enlightenment.
This seemed to impress Natascha very much. She squealed with delight and smiled, thinking that I was some type of celebrity.
“Do you have...whatsitcalled...a manager?” She asked, hopefully.
I laughed. “No, no...hell no....I write, and hope that someone reads it. If anyone can still read anymore.” I added bitterly, thinking of the people whom I associated with back home. I saw Thomas and Bighead, waiting tables at a bar all day then slowly drinking themselves to death at another bar after work. Where I was from, the caged birds didn’t sing, but instead drunkenly wept as they swerve home.
She laughed, probably not understanding what I had said. She asked me about the movie they were showing on the plane, some new flick about a pregnant teenage girl in an anonymous American town, hoping that she can raise the child sans money but on pure grit and love. Definitely made in the movie factory somewhere in Hollywood which mass produced seemingly every movie since 1994, almost always starring a worn out looking American, imbuing the rest of us with notions of hope and desire for the seemingly always attainable dreams of fame and fortune. If not today, then if we all worked hard, with heads down, we’d all certainly be movie stars tomorrow. And if not tomorrow, then....
Instead, I sighed and looked to my right, and responded with dismay. Taking the hint, she began to tell me about her home town in Sweden.
“Sounds beautiful.” I said, imagining a place where all the women looked like Natascha, the men stood tall and strong, war was unknown, and everyone lived happily and long.
After a while, we ran out of things to talk about, so she went back to the movie and I went back to my writing. Starring across the laps of the fat Americans, I gazed out the window, across miles of oceanic darkness. The drone of the engines and the length of the flight seemed to put everyone into a dream, as everything was very muffled and slow. I vaguely wondered what time it was as it seemed late, but realized that this high above the ground, traveling at 600 miles per hour, drunk, I really didn’t give a shit about the time nor did it particularly matter.
Coming out of my daze, I quickly put together a poem. Looking across the aisle, I handed it to Natascha. She was watching the movie, so I had to lightly tap her arm to get her attention. She turned and gave me a friendly look, then took the notebook paper with my words scrawled on them:
“Dreaming across an aisle
When 60 centimeters is a mile
The higher we fly, the deeper we breathe
The darker the sky, over land and sea
And at our highest peak,
You and I shall meet”
She read it once, then again. She turned to me, grinning wide, eyes bright as her smile. She half stood, half leaned, and quickly crossed the aisle and hugged me. Her hair brushed against my face, and the sweet smell of her blonde strands graced my nostrils. She sat back down in her chair, and leaned forward, talking fast and thanking me. Her demeanor had completely changed once again, and it seemed that not only did she want to touch me, but that she wanted to devour me.
“Sir..’scuse me...” I felt a shove to my right. I turned away from the beautiful Natascha towards the fat Americans. The woman was looking at me, her dismal face nervous and embarrassed.
“My husband...he needs to use the bathroom again. I’m terribly sorry.” She said apologetically.
“Of course.” I replied.
I climbed out of my seat and into the aisle. Natascha held whatever praise she had for me, and looked on as we all paraded out once again.
I stood in the aisle, seven miles high, looking out upon the top of all those heads, most of them speaking a language I could never possibly understand, watching a fat, bald, American with a bad prostate lunge past other passengers in the narrow aisles of the ship. As I headed towards an unlikely destination, what better way, I thought to myself, than to prepare oneself by devouring large amounts of booze then next attempting to copulate with a sweet, young, Swede who is under the impression that you’re Francis Scott Fitzgerald back for one last hooray aboard Iceland Air?
Taking my seat again, Natascha thanked me again and again, then handed me the sheet back. She insisted that I sign it, so she could show her family that a real, live author had written something just for her. Embarrassed, I quickly scrawled “Nikolas Cassidy” across the bottom, in handwriting that looked like it was traveling at high speeds very intoxicated. I tried to coast Natascha into taking a walk around the plane with me, so we could peer out all the little port windows and try to gather as much of the view as possible. She seemed dangerously worried about disturbing the other passengers, however I insisted that they wouldn’t mind. After a few minutes I gave up, and she returned to her movie. I starred into the Arthur C. Clarke novel for a bit, then I passed out.
Regards, Esortnom
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Turn Away
The strangest thing about becoming an alcoholic is that I just about completely fill the stereotype. The label. And I don't particularly care. I'm walking around keeping a stereotype alive. I don't see a star on my sleeve or marks on my left hand. But I was never one for labels. They were always exceptions.
You walk into an Applebee's in Killingsworth, PA at 10 am and order 24 oz of cold draft bliss, and you get funny looks. A fat 40 something woman will frown but booze will keep coming so long as you pay and tip well. She's got at least one kid, its obvious by the lack of any chimerical grin on the tired face. Here, kids are a sign of poverty. A relative unknown, I just want to turn away from everything. I'm just glad if everyone leaves me alone, except maybe the bar tender.
In the Czech Republic, you can walk by a bar at any time of the day and it's filled with people not all that different from yourself. Except they're skinny and smoking cigarettes. A thin forty something year old girl will smile and pour you a cold one, then come to the other side of the bar and smoke a cigarette beside you. She looks tired also, but in a jovial way. As though she has walked a long way to get here. To join you. If alcoholism only exists in America, I'm very patriotic.
Staying local can become hazardous. One downside of constantly drinking is that after a time you begin to run out of local places to drink. People start to recognize you in that slightly unpleasant way, as though you met them through a car accident. They come up and make small talk about trivial shit neither of you really cares about, just attempts to be pleasant while constantly shielding any dismal factors which may explain why they're always here drinking whenever I walk into the door.
In hip, young cultural tumors like Portland and such, this is okay. Because even if you do recognize someone, if you do become a 'regular', it is understood that we're all fighting the same good fight. Everyone is young but slightly older, idealistic but realists, we're all vibrant as we pour depressants down our throats while fighting the good fight by hiding in dark bars, turning away. You're a 'friend', a 'brother', a member not a victim of a disease. Rather just another ant in the colony, similar to Europe, except there's more fat people around you.
My friend laughs as I try to justify our habits. He's a fat American, but we're both young and our livers are strong. We have no qualms or quarrels over the tempest of our mortality, as we speed through red lights and pass slow minivans on the right, laughing at the terrified slobs inside. We press on, pushing and bending envelopes; we thoroughly live in the present as we search for a place to drink away the next few hours. A place where we may one day become regulars and fight the good fight. But until then, we search for a place where we can turn away from everything.
Regards, Esortnom
You walk into an Applebee's in Killingsworth, PA at 10 am and order 24 oz of cold draft bliss, and you get funny looks. A fat 40 something woman will frown but booze will keep coming so long as you pay and tip well. She's got at least one kid, its obvious by the lack of any chimerical grin on the tired face. Here, kids are a sign of poverty. A relative unknown, I just want to turn away from everything. I'm just glad if everyone leaves me alone, except maybe the bar tender.
In the Czech Republic, you can walk by a bar at any time of the day and it's filled with people not all that different from yourself. Except they're skinny and smoking cigarettes. A thin forty something year old girl will smile and pour you a cold one, then come to the other side of the bar and smoke a cigarette beside you. She looks tired also, but in a jovial way. As though she has walked a long way to get here. To join you. If alcoholism only exists in America, I'm very patriotic.
Staying local can become hazardous. One downside of constantly drinking is that after a time you begin to run out of local places to drink. People start to recognize you in that slightly unpleasant way, as though you met them through a car accident. They come up and make small talk about trivial shit neither of you really cares about, just attempts to be pleasant while constantly shielding any dismal factors which may explain why they're always here drinking whenever I walk into the door.
In hip, young cultural tumors like Portland and such, this is okay. Because even if you do recognize someone, if you do become a 'regular', it is understood that we're all fighting the same good fight. Everyone is young but slightly older, idealistic but realists, we're all vibrant as we pour depressants down our throats while fighting the good fight by hiding in dark bars, turning away. You're a 'friend', a 'brother', a member not a victim of a disease. Rather just another ant in the colony, similar to Europe, except there's more fat people around you.
My friend laughs as I try to justify our habits. He's a fat American, but we're both young and our livers are strong. We have no qualms or quarrels over the tempest of our mortality, as we speed through red lights and pass slow minivans on the right, laughing at the terrified slobs inside. We press on, pushing and bending envelopes; we thoroughly live in the present as we search for a place to drink away the next few hours. A place where we may one day become regulars and fight the good fight. But until then, we search for a place where we can turn away from everything.
Regards, Esortnom
The Idiot Generation
After overhearing a conversation about the artistic merit of ‘modern masterpiece’ films such as “Knocked Up” and “Wedding Crashers” for their ability to represent our generation, I nearly vomited. It was at this point that the cold realization hit me, that these mediums are the ones whom indeed represent my generation -and I am the one who does not.
Anna Nicole Smith-can I get a witness? This debacle of a human life is a prime example of this nation and the media’s clear obsession with celebrities and the pointless drama-much of it media fueled and created-that plagues all of us. Why is it that even on such ‘informative’ channels such as CNN, NECN, or even Fox News, I can not seem to find any ‘news’? Is there any outrage over the media’s obsession with celebrities? I mean, for pete’s sake, there are a couple of wars going on. (Albeit a couple of them are taking place in countries that the majority of us could not find on a map even if Britney Spears or Seth Rogan whispered clues in our ears).
After viewing painfully ‘full and complete’ coverage about the marriages, addictions, and car accidents of the rich and famous, I embarrassingly acknowledge that this is not the problem, but the symptom of a much deeper cancer afflicting the minds of our nation. Indeed, this sickness is deeper than the macabre thrill of watching a rich, beautiful, famous individual succumb to human weakness and hubris. It is a sign that our culture is starting to tank and taint this generation as The Idiot Generation.
How many people do I know that simply don't read? That can not even remember the last time they even contemplated opening a book? How many people can name, by heart,
the characters from 'Heros' and the actors that play them, but not the secretary of state,vice president, or speaker of the house? Is this a reflection of our government’s squandering of time and money over stupid and trivial issues such as political correctness in regards to holidays, or is this what gives them the gall to lie to our very faces?
If, perhaps,more Americans reluctantly opened books, we would have more intelligent citizens, and more intelligent representatives. I can't help but believe that the election of George W. Bush (twice!) is a direct symptom of this Idiot Culture that we breed with our electronic distractions and alternatives
to genuine operation of the brain.
Free circus and bread, football and cheap beer, keeps the masses slow, docile, and stupid the way we need to be if wars are to be started under false pretenses or if our civil liberties are to be stripped from underneath our feet as we stand watching, mouth ajar with drool oozing down our chins, Hannah Montana or Lost. As other nations who have not had the luxury to get fat on Mcdonalds and pro sports and Hollywood hash start to multiply and modernize, as their economies will inevitably pass ours, I can't help but wonder, will anyone I went to high school with even notice? Or will I instead get a call describing the season finale to "The Amazing Race" even though India and China’s total GDP has surpassed ours?
Perhaps these dismal electronic distractions, which offer no perspective or comparison, no critical thinking or analysis, reduced to unreferencable half hour memories, are the reasons why our clowns , actors and athletes are paid considerably more than even the most deserving humans contributing to our existence and evolution.
Reading is not the same as sitting in front of an electronic stimulation device all day. By reading, ideas are exchanged and acknowledged,compared and contrasted, blended and balanced. A thirty minute television program can be similar, but rather than absorbing like a sponge, television pounds and tenderizes like a hammer one view home, one ideal of life where everyone is beautiful, cars are fast, the weather is sunny, and all conflicts can be resolved in thirty minutes. Instead of the notions of Freeman, King, Huxley, or Orwell living vicariously through modern youth, I see the tight jeans, pierced navels, tramp-stamp tattoos and pretentious selfish attitudes embedded within the all too ignorant youth who lack the perspective to know any better.
Art is an important aspect to life, but modern entertainment is akin to a thirty second car crash,
with no sympathy or thoughts about the event itself, but merely appreciation for the screeching breaks and crashing of glass. Perhaps this is an isolated view of a bitter man who watches uneducated, chiseled human hamburgers each Sunday afternoon in the local bar, bashing each other apart, as I slowly drink myself to death, trying to escape the harsh fact that these jesters
get free rides thru school and make millions of dollars more in one year on their respective stages than I ever will in my whole life-times a thousand.
Or perhaps this is a symptom of a more wide spread disease, one I callously refer to as The Idiot Generation.
Regards, Esortnom
Anna Nicole Smith-can I get a witness? This debacle of a human life is a prime example of this nation and the media’s clear obsession with celebrities and the pointless drama-much of it media fueled and created-that plagues all of us. Why is it that even on such ‘informative’ channels such as CNN, NECN, or even Fox News, I can not seem to find any ‘news’? Is there any outrage over the media’s obsession with celebrities? I mean, for pete’s sake, there are a couple of wars going on. (Albeit a couple of them are taking place in countries that the majority of us could not find on a map even if Britney Spears or Seth Rogan whispered clues in our ears).
After viewing painfully ‘full and complete’ coverage about the marriages, addictions, and car accidents of the rich and famous, I embarrassingly acknowledge that this is not the problem, but the symptom of a much deeper cancer afflicting the minds of our nation. Indeed, this sickness is deeper than the macabre thrill of watching a rich, beautiful, famous individual succumb to human weakness and hubris. It is a sign that our culture is starting to tank and taint this generation as The Idiot Generation.
How many people do I know that simply don't read? That can not even remember the last time they even contemplated opening a book? How many people can name, by heart,
the characters from 'Heros' and the actors that play them, but not the secretary of state,vice president, or speaker of the house? Is this a reflection of our government’s squandering of time and money over stupid and trivial issues such as political correctness in regards to holidays, or is this what gives them the gall to lie to our very faces?
If, perhaps,more Americans reluctantly opened books, we would have more intelligent citizens, and more intelligent representatives. I can't help but believe that the election of George W. Bush (twice!) is a direct symptom of this Idiot Culture that we breed with our electronic distractions and alternatives
to genuine operation of the brain.
Free circus and bread, football and cheap beer, keeps the masses slow, docile, and stupid the way we need to be if wars are to be started under false pretenses or if our civil liberties are to be stripped from underneath our feet as we stand watching, mouth ajar with drool oozing down our chins, Hannah Montana or Lost. As other nations who have not had the luxury to get fat on Mcdonalds and pro sports and Hollywood hash start to multiply and modernize, as their economies will inevitably pass ours, I can't help but wonder, will anyone I went to high school with even notice? Or will I instead get a call describing the season finale to "The Amazing Race" even though India and China’s total GDP has surpassed ours?
Perhaps these dismal electronic distractions, which offer no perspective or comparison, no critical thinking or analysis, reduced to unreferencable half hour memories, are the reasons why our clowns , actors and athletes are paid considerably more than even the most deserving humans contributing to our existence and evolution.
Reading is not the same as sitting in front of an electronic stimulation device all day. By reading, ideas are exchanged and acknowledged,compared and contrasted, blended and balanced. A thirty minute television program can be similar, but rather than absorbing like a sponge, television pounds and tenderizes like a hammer one view home, one ideal of life where everyone is beautiful, cars are fast, the weather is sunny, and all conflicts can be resolved in thirty minutes. Instead of the notions of Freeman, King, Huxley, or Orwell living vicariously through modern youth, I see the tight jeans, pierced navels, tramp-stamp tattoos and pretentious selfish attitudes embedded within the all too ignorant youth who lack the perspective to know any better.
Art is an important aspect to life, but modern entertainment is akin to a thirty second car crash,
with no sympathy or thoughts about the event itself, but merely appreciation for the screeching breaks and crashing of glass. Perhaps this is an isolated view of a bitter man who watches uneducated, chiseled human hamburgers each Sunday afternoon in the local bar, bashing each other apart, as I slowly drink myself to death, trying to escape the harsh fact that these jesters
get free rides thru school and make millions of dollars more in one year on their respective stages than I ever will in my whole life-times a thousand.
Or perhaps this is a symptom of a more wide spread disease, one I callously refer to as The Idiot Generation.
Regards, Esortnom
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
What it Does to You
“Ew!” Jayha squeaked. “Look, they’re having sex now!”
We all turned and it was true, the two strangers were doing the familiar rhythmic thrust into each other on the no longer lonely bench which I sometimes sat on to meditate and contemplate the life altering decisions which I was occasionally forced to make.
“I think it’s time to go.” Beaglesworth said, no longer laughing.
Back around through the thicket of bushes and the feeling of being inside a giant bonsai tree overwhelmed me once again like it always did when I was tripping at the waterfall, and then rushing back up the wooden stairs as the couple on the bench didn’t even turn or stare, their actions lost within each other and the rush of the water. Behind us they fell, and further back as we climbed over the wall and back onto the empty street. Sick yellow light fell from lamp posts, illuminating us and playing strange kaleidoscopic games with our shadows as we roamed aimlessly along the solid yellow line in the middle of the road.
Half of us walked on one side of the road, while the other half of the group strode in the middle, in between. The division between us was the direction we were each heading, and I was haunted with the paranoid acid induced metaphor that this was it, this was us; each one of us traveling some road, heading somewhere, herded together briefly for school and training but then released to our own whims and will to the road. Some of us walked forward, others laterally, or even standing still. Those who stood still might as well have been walking backwards, for the rest of us kept walking into the night, bouncing from yellow street light to street light while the stragglers were left behind in the darkness, puzzled over broken glass in the gutter or bright fire balls in the sky.
A warm breeze passed us by, cooling the sweat which ran down my forehead and my hair onto my body and down my legs into my sandals which were cracked and broken and held together by duck tape and love. Beaglesworth and I rounded up the drifters, mostly Gom and Jayha who had fallen silently behind us, and brought them forth to the rest of us, approaching the behemoth black tooth grinning skeleton of a burned out mill.
Rising up from the fencing surrounding it, protecting us from it and it from us, the building stood tall and proud like a monument to the forgotten lifeblood of the town which ran through its veins for a hundred years or so before it became obsolete and discarded. Until it burned down, and then it made the news again, for one last time. And now it was just an old relic, a reminder of the fire hazards poorly and quickly constructed antique mills pose to those who are unfortunate enough to live within its mammoth, cobwebbed shadows of its shell.
Under its gaze we admired the blackened streaks and terrifyingly dark crusted corners of its tallest windows where the flames had licked and leaped outwards, trying to smote the whole town in some sick euthanasia moment of pity and outraged disgust. Silently, we mused over the structure like patrons to a museum would contemplate a twisted work of post modern art which rejected logic yet was brutally primitive enough to be placed beside a statue from Willendorf.
Ugly scar on an ugly town which should’ve burned to the ground long before I had the opportunity to flip through the classifieds while working an obscure midnight shift in some bloodthirsty and faceless retail outlet, why did the fire patrol cease the engulfing of the whole town by your angry flames bred of the mill which gave this very town birth?
Why not let things come full circle? Let the flaming holocaust spread to the mill next door, and the ancient New England cemetery across the street with its crooked tooth gravestones which resemble the foundation stones in the basement of the place I now call home, where all the people drive their broken down cars to their broken down lives while avoiding the face to face confrontation with their broken down dreams and the dismal fact that the human race is slowly losing because the race is considered a marathon. Meanwhile those of us who reject that silly notion stay up all night and wonder the abandoned streets in the summer heat and decide to sprint until our sides burst into oceanic dreamscapes of LSD induced pure reality which shred the thin blanket of comfort the retail outlets and landlords and politicians and sports stars cling to in order to establish a ground set of rules while cop cruisers drive by slow and shine lights onto us wondering what we’re doing out so late but we just smile sly grins and stick out our tongues with our fingers in our ears, mocking the small town pigs. I say let the whole place burn because it’s evolve or die in the hostile universe, and a town like this is an ugly reminder of the way things used to be, not what they could or should be and it just made me go mad in my frenzied state, like seeing a beaten down dog still chained to its post in its owner’s yard. Why even have a dog if you’re going to treat it like that?
The drug makes me feel so tall yet scrutinized like I’m under a microscope while pointing out that I am in control of all of my reality. This fact puts so much power into my hands that it in fact makes me feel small, as though I should be ashamed that this is the best that I can do. Sometimes acid trips can be very frustrating for this reason.
My friends tell me to shush until the cop turns his spot light back off and continues his slow coast down the road and they all burst out laughing but I’m not sure at what or why because what I’ve thought and said was very true to me and it seems to me that they don’t spend all day and all night out here, in the dusty solitude of a town that has no business existing anymore, where multiple types of drug abusers roam the streets and occupy the same waterfall simultaneously while not working together to bring about some type of positive change, because it’s so much easier to turn away than it is to embrace the world, than it is to change the world, especially when late night police cruisers shine bright lights right at your faces without exchanging any words for some reason and my friends can always return to their parents houses and their little bedrooms while the mom does the laundry and dad mows the lawn.
So we leave the giant structure behind when Gom and Beaglesworth become concerned about the signs warning of Asbestos and cancer and such, and we returned to my little second floor apartment overlooking the abandoned street. Loudly we piled back in and collapse onto the couch, and I’m so god damn hot it’s making me feel sick. The acid makes me out of touch enough not even realize how much I’ve been sweating, and the answer is a lot, and even sweet Jayha says, “Moon, you look like a drowning rat.” Because the sweat has completely soaked my hair and my shirt and I’m red faced and out of breath. I think maybe the playground really got right on top of me back there, and that’s part of it, but I think the sick realizations in front of the charred skeletal mill really made me uneasy and nervous. LSD produces strange realizations and truths which sometimes are better left buried beneath the conscious sometimes, otherwise everyone would be a nervous, sweating mess wandering the streets in confusion and dismay at the way things have come to be.
I go into my room and throw off my clothes and put on some more accommodating ones which I hoped would ventilate and cool my raving body and brain off, then I parked myself in front of the fan and let it blow hot air at me so I can cool off a bit, and everyone laughed at me because I looked so out of it, the supposed LSD guru who’s not worried about his brain turning to mush is slowly melting to death because it’s so fucking humid and hot and nothing’s alright in this town yet still the residents quietly sleep in their darkened rooms in the corners or their mattresses which are propped up against walls during the day to make more room for the dogs. My only relief is cold water which Marcus brings me and my drawing pad and a few colored pencils, because otherwise I’d probably just scream out in frustration.
I calmed down a bit and begin to draw aimlessly and beautifully. Drawing and painting under the influence of LSD is such a simple and casual experience; no thought is required to produce eccentric and eye catching art, one must merely let the pencil or brush glide over the page independently while the mind merely sits back and folds and shifts everything its watching while it is creating.
Everyone’s drinking water and talking softly about obscure topics. Mostly we discussed things which we have determined to be clearly illogical now that the drug has sharpened our gaze to the most basic and simplest form. It seems that the whole world has gotten unnecessarily complicated for the sake of being so, just in case a visitor happens to swing by our little blue life forging planet and ask us, “What have you monkeys been up to in the last five thousand years or so?” We can just close our eyes and point to anything and feel justified about the systems we’ve created for ourselves to follow. And in this country, in the last days of the American century, it seems more illogical and futile than ever before, especially in the eyes of Marcus who has spent considerable time in Denmark, the happiest country in the world, which is everything the American Empire should be but isn’t, and it’s just so insanely frustrating for the thinkers, fighters, and sprinters like us who realize that things have to change otherwise we’ll all end up like the burned out mills which landmark the roadway into the small New England town I came to hide in.
I turned on some beautiful music and the room fell silent as we all descend into our own minds and the games they play when stimulated so. My beautiful cat pounced onto the couch and I pet him softly as he collapses onto my lap happily, slightly paranoid like he always is whenever a bunch of us are awake all night laughing so hard that we cry one moment and then the next becoming deathly silent as we were confronted with realizations and strange logic which usually is forgotten by the next day until we remind each other over beers in some bar filled with old people that won’t let you talk about a thing. This is how we searched for meaning and illumination under the hot nights, happy for our efforts but frustrated by our lack of progress. This is what it does to you.
Regards, Esortnom
We all turned and it was true, the two strangers were doing the familiar rhythmic thrust into each other on the no longer lonely bench which I sometimes sat on to meditate and contemplate the life altering decisions which I was occasionally forced to make.
“I think it’s time to go.” Beaglesworth said, no longer laughing.
Back around through the thicket of bushes and the feeling of being inside a giant bonsai tree overwhelmed me once again like it always did when I was tripping at the waterfall, and then rushing back up the wooden stairs as the couple on the bench didn’t even turn or stare, their actions lost within each other and the rush of the water. Behind us they fell, and further back as we climbed over the wall and back onto the empty street. Sick yellow light fell from lamp posts, illuminating us and playing strange kaleidoscopic games with our shadows as we roamed aimlessly along the solid yellow line in the middle of the road.
Half of us walked on one side of the road, while the other half of the group strode in the middle, in between. The division between us was the direction we were each heading, and I was haunted with the paranoid acid induced metaphor that this was it, this was us; each one of us traveling some road, heading somewhere, herded together briefly for school and training but then released to our own whims and will to the road. Some of us walked forward, others laterally, or even standing still. Those who stood still might as well have been walking backwards, for the rest of us kept walking into the night, bouncing from yellow street light to street light while the stragglers were left behind in the darkness, puzzled over broken glass in the gutter or bright fire balls in the sky.
A warm breeze passed us by, cooling the sweat which ran down my forehead and my hair onto my body and down my legs into my sandals which were cracked and broken and held together by duck tape and love. Beaglesworth and I rounded up the drifters, mostly Gom and Jayha who had fallen silently behind us, and brought them forth to the rest of us, approaching the behemoth black tooth grinning skeleton of a burned out mill.
Rising up from the fencing surrounding it, protecting us from it and it from us, the building stood tall and proud like a monument to the forgotten lifeblood of the town which ran through its veins for a hundred years or so before it became obsolete and discarded. Until it burned down, and then it made the news again, for one last time. And now it was just an old relic, a reminder of the fire hazards poorly and quickly constructed antique mills pose to those who are unfortunate enough to live within its mammoth, cobwebbed shadows of its shell.
Under its gaze we admired the blackened streaks and terrifyingly dark crusted corners of its tallest windows where the flames had licked and leaped outwards, trying to smote the whole town in some sick euthanasia moment of pity and outraged disgust. Silently, we mused over the structure like patrons to a museum would contemplate a twisted work of post modern art which rejected logic yet was brutally primitive enough to be placed beside a statue from Willendorf.
Ugly scar on an ugly town which should’ve burned to the ground long before I had the opportunity to flip through the classifieds while working an obscure midnight shift in some bloodthirsty and faceless retail outlet, why did the fire patrol cease the engulfing of the whole town by your angry flames bred of the mill which gave this very town birth?
Why not let things come full circle? Let the flaming holocaust spread to the mill next door, and the ancient New England cemetery across the street with its crooked tooth gravestones which resemble the foundation stones in the basement of the place I now call home, where all the people drive their broken down cars to their broken down lives while avoiding the face to face confrontation with their broken down dreams and the dismal fact that the human race is slowly losing because the race is considered a marathon. Meanwhile those of us who reject that silly notion stay up all night and wonder the abandoned streets in the summer heat and decide to sprint until our sides burst into oceanic dreamscapes of LSD induced pure reality which shred the thin blanket of comfort the retail outlets and landlords and politicians and sports stars cling to in order to establish a ground set of rules while cop cruisers drive by slow and shine lights onto us wondering what we’re doing out so late but we just smile sly grins and stick out our tongues with our fingers in our ears, mocking the small town pigs. I say let the whole place burn because it’s evolve or die in the hostile universe, and a town like this is an ugly reminder of the way things used to be, not what they could or should be and it just made me go mad in my frenzied state, like seeing a beaten down dog still chained to its post in its owner’s yard. Why even have a dog if you’re going to treat it like that?
The drug makes me feel so tall yet scrutinized like I’m under a microscope while pointing out that I am in control of all of my reality. This fact puts so much power into my hands that it in fact makes me feel small, as though I should be ashamed that this is the best that I can do. Sometimes acid trips can be very frustrating for this reason.
My friends tell me to shush until the cop turns his spot light back off and continues his slow coast down the road and they all burst out laughing but I’m not sure at what or why because what I’ve thought and said was very true to me and it seems to me that they don’t spend all day and all night out here, in the dusty solitude of a town that has no business existing anymore, where multiple types of drug abusers roam the streets and occupy the same waterfall simultaneously while not working together to bring about some type of positive change, because it’s so much easier to turn away than it is to embrace the world, than it is to change the world, especially when late night police cruisers shine bright lights right at your faces without exchanging any words for some reason and my friends can always return to their parents houses and their little bedrooms while the mom does the laundry and dad mows the lawn.
So we leave the giant structure behind when Gom and Beaglesworth become concerned about the signs warning of Asbestos and cancer and such, and we returned to my little second floor apartment overlooking the abandoned street. Loudly we piled back in and collapse onto the couch, and I’m so god damn hot it’s making me feel sick. The acid makes me out of touch enough not even realize how much I’ve been sweating, and the answer is a lot, and even sweet Jayha says, “Moon, you look like a drowning rat.” Because the sweat has completely soaked my hair and my shirt and I’m red faced and out of breath. I think maybe the playground really got right on top of me back there, and that’s part of it, but I think the sick realizations in front of the charred skeletal mill really made me uneasy and nervous. LSD produces strange realizations and truths which sometimes are better left buried beneath the conscious sometimes, otherwise everyone would be a nervous, sweating mess wandering the streets in confusion and dismay at the way things have come to be.
I go into my room and throw off my clothes and put on some more accommodating ones which I hoped would ventilate and cool my raving body and brain off, then I parked myself in front of the fan and let it blow hot air at me so I can cool off a bit, and everyone laughed at me because I looked so out of it, the supposed LSD guru who’s not worried about his brain turning to mush is slowly melting to death because it’s so fucking humid and hot and nothing’s alright in this town yet still the residents quietly sleep in their darkened rooms in the corners or their mattresses which are propped up against walls during the day to make more room for the dogs. My only relief is cold water which Marcus brings me and my drawing pad and a few colored pencils, because otherwise I’d probably just scream out in frustration.
I calmed down a bit and begin to draw aimlessly and beautifully. Drawing and painting under the influence of LSD is such a simple and casual experience; no thought is required to produce eccentric and eye catching art, one must merely let the pencil or brush glide over the page independently while the mind merely sits back and folds and shifts everything its watching while it is creating.
Everyone’s drinking water and talking softly about obscure topics. Mostly we discussed things which we have determined to be clearly illogical now that the drug has sharpened our gaze to the most basic and simplest form. It seems that the whole world has gotten unnecessarily complicated for the sake of being so, just in case a visitor happens to swing by our little blue life forging planet and ask us, “What have you monkeys been up to in the last five thousand years or so?” We can just close our eyes and point to anything and feel justified about the systems we’ve created for ourselves to follow. And in this country, in the last days of the American century, it seems more illogical and futile than ever before, especially in the eyes of Marcus who has spent considerable time in Denmark, the happiest country in the world, which is everything the American Empire should be but isn’t, and it’s just so insanely frustrating for the thinkers, fighters, and sprinters like us who realize that things have to change otherwise we’ll all end up like the burned out mills which landmark the roadway into the small New England town I came to hide in.
I turned on some beautiful music and the room fell silent as we all descend into our own minds and the games they play when stimulated so. My beautiful cat pounced onto the couch and I pet him softly as he collapses onto my lap happily, slightly paranoid like he always is whenever a bunch of us are awake all night laughing so hard that we cry one moment and then the next becoming deathly silent as we were confronted with realizations and strange logic which usually is forgotten by the next day until we remind each other over beers in some bar filled with old people that won’t let you talk about a thing. This is how we searched for meaning and illumination under the hot nights, happy for our efforts but frustrated by our lack of progress. This is what it does to you.
Regards, Esortnom
Brenton
The building sat empty or near empty for a while as a newer, smaller school opened up in a neighboring district, funneling away any remaining students and faculty. Nationwide, corporal punishment fell out of favor as a means of disciplining students, and the notion of positive reinforcement became the strong new paradigm, as teachers were no longer expected to act as substitute parents during school hours. Student misbehavior is not a new phenomenon, but as the "video game generation" matured and angered, it characterized misbehavior with physical violence against teachers and other students. Sometime as the calendar turned from the 1980's towards the 1990's, the school received private funding to create an alternative schooling program which would ideally accept "low incident risk, special education children whose needs cannot be best served through that student’s own district."
Brenton High accepted those who were not accepted anywhere else.
Up a dark, winding stair case to the second floor, only two class room doors are open and unlocked. The air is thick and hot, stuffy from lack of circulation and rules against opening windows. A large chart with every students name and the days of the week on it is the only thing on the blackboard.
Brenton uses a point system to judge the behavior of each student. Everyone starts at level 1, and if a student has a good day, he can get up to 5 full points. Each incident or disruption can and will detract from your points. Accumulating points can lead to an upgrade in your level. Higher levels can choose movies to watch, or games to play during gym class. Sometimes, the higher levels can even forgo the otherwise mandatory routine of push-ups and jumping jacks each morning.
Shawn leads the pack as a level 4. He is a blond haired, articulate 13 year old. His laughter is contagious, and if he died right now, his obituary could possibly read, "he put a smile on everyone's face". However, Shawn has anger management issues, and is prone to violence over trivial matters. He seriously beat a classmate at his former school, then injured a female teacher who tried to stop the fight. Everyone, including Shawn, is unclear over what provoked the attack. So Shawn now sits in the back row of one of the two classrooms in Brenton High.
"For the most part, Shawn is a good kid. They're all good kids. But they all have issues, which is why they're here, obviously. Shawn especially has a quick temper. He can get really riled up real quickly, but a few seconds later be fine. He's a good kid, he just has serious issues." Says Janice, who is one of three certified teachers at Brenton. She is a large woman with a serious face and calm eyes, and by no means attractive. Yet she is the most popular faculty member at Brenton because she is the only female in the whole school.
"He screamed like a hyena," Max says, "when Burt sat on him, he screamed his head off just like a cotton picking hyena." Despite being the longest tenured student, Max is behind Shawn as a level 3 as his behavior is constantly a problem. Max looks normal enough, but after talking with him briefly, one immediately concludes that he is not completely there mentally. Max had issues with physical and possible sexual abuse as a youngster, and was recommended to Brenton after he was caught killing neighborhood cats in his garage in fifth grade.
"Burt's a fat guy." Max says softly.
Burt is certainly a fat guy, and probably the least liked among Brenton's staff. Burt is not really a teacher, per say, but rather more like hired security. His big body sweats a lot in the humid May air, even as he merely sits at his desk in the back of the room, making sure everything is in order. He does not garnish resentment because of his personality or size, but because he carries a 10$ roll of quarters in his back pocket. Max is one of many students who can testify to the disciplinary effects of a fist full of change to the back of the neck.
Anthony, who pulled a knife on another student and attempted to stab him at his former school, could also attest to the benefits of not being hit by a roll of quarters. A level 2, he is imposing and very angry, but enjoys playing dodge ball and cards. Not everyone enjoys dodge ball, and it seems strange that a game where heavy leather balls are chucked at space cadet teenagers who stare at their shoes or pick their noses is encouraged by the staff. But everyone at Brenton enjoys playing cards, and they all know hundreds of games to play. Some days, there is nothing else to do in the hot classroom but play golf, or poker or crazy eights, or face off, or hockey.
Patrick sits quietly at his desk and does not participate in card games with the others. His is a level 1 not because of his lack of highly encouraged participation with others, but because he is the newest edition to Brenton's core. As is customary, he was told he would be merely visiting Brenton to determine if he liked it, but was then left for the first of many days at the alternative school. Well, half day. It is policy to bring first time students to Brenton after lunch time, as to not arouse the student's suspicion of why a bagged lunch is necessary if he is merely only going to take a tour.
The next day, Patrick brings his bagged lunch, and it is searched by staff as he enters the classroom. Lunches are searched daily for weapons and drugs. No back packs are allowed; all books, papers, and academic materials are kept in the classroom each night. Students are followed and observed in the bathrooms to prevent them from bumping lines of cocaine or jerking off or killing themselves or each other. Patrick watches unemotionally as the faculty searches through his cheese sandwich and fruit snacks. Patrick is a vegetarian, because he believes, "it is in accordance with the Left Hand Path." Patrick is a self proclaimed Satanist.
"The ways of Judeo-Christian theocracy have strangled human culture for centuries, and are the sources of major prosecutions of opposing religions, cultures, and even nature itself." Patrick says to Sherry-Brenton's resident child psychologist.
Sherry nods, displaying a semi-interested look of some one who has heard it all before. As if not hearing Patrick's opening remark, she asks him,
"So when was the first time you toked on pot?"
Patrick smiles softly. "Poisoning the body which is Lucifer's temple of the morning star is strictly against the tenants of the Left Hand Path." He casually replies.
It is clear that Patrick is intelligent and even studious, especially when compared with his classmates, some who barely break 80 on Brenton administered IQ tests. Patrick carefully considers each answer and reply he gives to Sherry, as he realizes that the judgment Sherry passes on him is his ticket out of Brenton. He desperately misses his old friends, however few and far in between. It is obvious that Patrick would be an odd duck almost anywhere, clad in full length black sleeves and pants even in the humid May sun, but at Brenton, he is a freak among freaks.
He rubs his chin with a palm sporting a hand drawn pentagram. This kind of artwork is the reason Patrick is here--teachers and psychologists at his former school found a cache of his artwork. While if it was hanging in a museum, it would seem almost tame, but when found in the folder of a 13 year old 8th grader, the artwork put fear into the hearts of his peers and administrators. Thus, Patrick is in the midst of his second week among the other freaks at Brenton.
He looks past Sherry, and out her locked window as he speaks. He refuses any behavior modifying medication, and discusses his misunderstood philosophy of Anton Szandor LaVey, Nietzsche, and the Marquis de Sade. Sherry humors him, and hopes to catch him in a contradiction or in a self imposes trap of guilt, somehow trying to justify his enrollment at Brenton.
When asked his thoughts on his chances of returning to his old school, Patrick shrugs. He knows it's rare for people to return without spending at least six weeks at Brenton. By then, the school year will be over.
"At my old high school," Patrick says, looking out the window, "I was too ugly to be let in. At Brenton, here, I'm too beautiful to be let out."
Regards, Esortnom
Brenton High accepted those who were not accepted anywhere else.
Up a dark, winding stair case to the second floor, only two class room doors are open and unlocked. The air is thick and hot, stuffy from lack of circulation and rules against opening windows. A large chart with every students name and the days of the week on it is the only thing on the blackboard.
Brenton uses a point system to judge the behavior of each student. Everyone starts at level 1, and if a student has a good day, he can get up to 5 full points. Each incident or disruption can and will detract from your points. Accumulating points can lead to an upgrade in your level. Higher levels can choose movies to watch, or games to play during gym class. Sometimes, the higher levels can even forgo the otherwise mandatory routine of push-ups and jumping jacks each morning.
Shawn leads the pack as a level 4. He is a blond haired, articulate 13 year old. His laughter is contagious, and if he died right now, his obituary could possibly read, "he put a smile on everyone's face". However, Shawn has anger management issues, and is prone to violence over trivial matters. He seriously beat a classmate at his former school, then injured a female teacher who tried to stop the fight. Everyone, including Shawn, is unclear over what provoked the attack. So Shawn now sits in the back row of one of the two classrooms in Brenton High.
"For the most part, Shawn is a good kid. They're all good kids. But they all have issues, which is why they're here, obviously. Shawn especially has a quick temper. He can get really riled up real quickly, but a few seconds later be fine. He's a good kid, he just has serious issues." Says Janice, who is one of three certified teachers at Brenton. She is a large woman with a serious face and calm eyes, and by no means attractive. Yet she is the most popular faculty member at Brenton because she is the only female in the whole school.
"He screamed like a hyena," Max says, "when Burt sat on him, he screamed his head off just like a cotton picking hyena." Despite being the longest tenured student, Max is behind Shawn as a level 3 as his behavior is constantly a problem. Max looks normal enough, but after talking with him briefly, one immediately concludes that he is not completely there mentally. Max had issues with physical and possible sexual abuse as a youngster, and was recommended to Brenton after he was caught killing neighborhood cats in his garage in fifth grade.
"Burt's a fat guy." Max says softly.
Burt is certainly a fat guy, and probably the least liked among Brenton's staff. Burt is not really a teacher, per say, but rather more like hired security. His big body sweats a lot in the humid May air, even as he merely sits at his desk in the back of the room, making sure everything is in order. He does not garnish resentment because of his personality or size, but because he carries a 10$ roll of quarters in his back pocket. Max is one of many students who can testify to the disciplinary effects of a fist full of change to the back of the neck.
Anthony, who pulled a knife on another student and attempted to stab him at his former school, could also attest to the benefits of not being hit by a roll of quarters. A level 2, he is imposing and very angry, but enjoys playing dodge ball and cards. Not everyone enjoys dodge ball, and it seems strange that a game where heavy leather balls are chucked at space cadet teenagers who stare at their shoes or pick their noses is encouraged by the staff. But everyone at Brenton enjoys playing cards, and they all know hundreds of games to play. Some days, there is nothing else to do in the hot classroom but play golf, or poker or crazy eights, or face off, or hockey.
Patrick sits quietly at his desk and does not participate in card games with the others. His is a level 1 not because of his lack of highly encouraged participation with others, but because he is the newest edition to Brenton's core. As is customary, he was told he would be merely visiting Brenton to determine if he liked it, but was then left for the first of many days at the alternative school. Well, half day. It is policy to bring first time students to Brenton after lunch time, as to not arouse the student's suspicion of why a bagged lunch is necessary if he is merely only going to take a tour.
The next day, Patrick brings his bagged lunch, and it is searched by staff as he enters the classroom. Lunches are searched daily for weapons and drugs. No back packs are allowed; all books, papers, and academic materials are kept in the classroom each night. Students are followed and observed in the bathrooms to prevent them from bumping lines of cocaine or jerking off or killing themselves or each other. Patrick watches unemotionally as the faculty searches through his cheese sandwich and fruit snacks. Patrick is a vegetarian, because he believes, "it is in accordance with the Left Hand Path." Patrick is a self proclaimed Satanist.
"The ways of Judeo-Christian theocracy have strangled human culture for centuries, and are the sources of major prosecutions of opposing religions, cultures, and even nature itself." Patrick says to Sherry-Brenton's resident child psychologist.
Sherry nods, displaying a semi-interested look of some one who has heard it all before. As if not hearing Patrick's opening remark, she asks him,
"So when was the first time you toked on pot?"
Patrick smiles softly. "Poisoning the body which is Lucifer's temple of the morning star is strictly against the tenants of the Left Hand Path." He casually replies.
It is clear that Patrick is intelligent and even studious, especially when compared with his classmates, some who barely break 80 on Brenton administered IQ tests. Patrick carefully considers each answer and reply he gives to Sherry, as he realizes that the judgment Sherry passes on him is his ticket out of Brenton. He desperately misses his old friends, however few and far in between. It is obvious that Patrick would be an odd duck almost anywhere, clad in full length black sleeves and pants even in the humid May sun, but at Brenton, he is a freak among freaks.
He rubs his chin with a palm sporting a hand drawn pentagram. This kind of artwork is the reason Patrick is here--teachers and psychologists at his former school found a cache of his artwork. While if it was hanging in a museum, it would seem almost tame, but when found in the folder of a 13 year old 8th grader, the artwork put fear into the hearts of his peers and administrators. Thus, Patrick is in the midst of his second week among the other freaks at Brenton.
He looks past Sherry, and out her locked window as he speaks. He refuses any behavior modifying medication, and discusses his misunderstood philosophy of Anton Szandor LaVey, Nietzsche, and the Marquis de Sade. Sherry humors him, and hopes to catch him in a contradiction or in a self imposes trap of guilt, somehow trying to justify his enrollment at Brenton.
When asked his thoughts on his chances of returning to his old school, Patrick shrugs. He knows it's rare for people to return without spending at least six weeks at Brenton. By then, the school year will be over.
"At my old high school," Patrick says, looking out the window, "I was too ugly to be let in. At Brenton, here, I'm too beautiful to be let out."
Regards, Esortnom
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