My spirits as if in a dream
are unraveled and lay like string
bobbing loudly in a fishing stream
falling above so longing to reach.
She spirals towards my being
arms outstretch and reaching
faintly caressing her beauty
and lightly loving her meaning
intentionally moving towards me.
My senses are lost
blended and so perfected in her presence
where she so graces my eye I can no longer cry;
as any tears of grief she simply dries.
She doesn't ever stop to understand
because she knows I'd lose anything
to keep coming and enjoy
the ways i can make her dance.
Happily she spins in my hands
grasping for me despite sweaty palms
and long locks of dark beauty
effect my life in ways i dont understand
it's a lovely language we both speak
and such a strange repose
flutters her eyelids
as she gently sleeps.
Thus Spake Thujon
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Monday, July 13, 2009
My Sweet Mistress Weeps When She Sees Me Work
Dressed from head to toe in all black, I stepped confidently on every crack I encountered on the sidewalk, completely assured that I would not break my mother’s back. Crossing the street without looking either way (the street was a one way anyways) I reached the other side without breaking a stride. The joke was on the sidewalk-my mother was dead.
I ran a thin hand through my hair. Geez, goddamn. Where should I go? I mean Samael just completely zonked out of me back there, now the earth is my pincushion. I pulled my black shirt tighter around my chest and buttoned it up. It was going to be morning soon and I wanted to look presentable should anyone happen to see me walking down the street.
Lawns, in this neighborhood, were extremely valued. They appeared to be better fed than children halfway across the world. I had to take extra caution, and care, as I took a piss in a yard, as my foot prints seemed to have tracked upon a carefully maintained flowerbed. Among the pumpkin patch and mid life crisis tomatoes, sexually lonesome sunflowers, was a size eleven avia airwalk logo. Free advertising, you bastards.
The heavy burden of modern living pushed people to do strange things. Some drank, some smoke. Some people think, most people don’t. The other day I saw a report on the news about some lunatic who walked into a department store and opened fire on everyone in the store, killing four employees and a customer. A survivor of the shooting, who is in stable condition, reported that the attacker allegedly groped one of the female employees before he shot her. The attacker managed to get out of the building and elude capture. The state police were in the midst of the manhunt: day 4.
Anyway, I took a quick look behind a house marked ‘Calhoun’ on the mailbox. As I reached the yard, I thought about how nice your voice would sound whispered from my side in a warm bed, as my feet iron clad in airwalks stomped shallow, wet graves into the moist ground. Fertile.
Normally I only trespass when I’m working or really need to piss, but you see, sometimes I notice things. I see things. Not like the LSD funnyhouse way, or in the ‘I smell oranges’ sense, but in the way like an old photograph looks in memory. Like remembering what your parents were like years ago in a frame on a desk. And I see these old photographs of things happening, I see, even as I am so blinded, still, I witness a grip of the truth; (I think this as a marching band begins to play in ab minor somewhere) the truth comes in still frames of reality.
So, as I think of you, I climb Ms. Calhoun’s back steps onto her wooden am-i-socially-superior-yet porch, I realized that everything around here is done for looks, not comfort. How pretentious.
Making sure for the last time that my boots were securely laced, I reached into my black leather satchel and pulled on my cotton gloves. They slid smoothly over my sweaty hands, and would provide a good grip along with anonymity. They were a cheap pair I had procured at a local pharmacy for 2.99, or two pairs for 5$. After today, however, I would not have to be so frugal when it came to my winter apparel shopping.
In a way, I had a lot in common with the shooter in the department store. In my dreams I could see his eyes, and they were very much like mine. Eyes which had starred too long without seeing anything worthwhile. Eyes of a man who is joking, but no one understands that he is joking. The eyes of man who is looking for warmth, but keeps falling away, yet does not get cynical. They are the eyes of someone who has seen too much.
But in many more ways, I was completely different. Whatever fueled the man’s anger and aggression towards everything was clearly beyond my understanding. Hell, in my opinion, it was obviously beyond his grasp. But what I was doing was clear, it was precise, and it was different. I was not into senseless violence. What I was doing made sense, to myself, and to anyone familiar with the woes of the modern man. My work was about clarity, about truth. My work was just that–a job.
I turned the handle on the door and it opened loudly. I entered into some kind of family scene, interrupting their conversation:
“...I was on a plane bound for West Germany when I first met him, a Class A Gentleman but a novice lover, I could not--”
“Oh! Ohwhat the–?!?”
I quickly scanned the room, and made mental notes of everything I observed.
A young woman: light haired, wearing an old sweatshirt and loose jeans. A small child was tucked into the nape of her neck as she impatiently shifted her weight from foot to foot. Rings on her hands displays that she is married at least once, wrinkles in her face says she has many children. Makeup and earings show that she cares about her appearance, and is probably wearing an expensive fragrance. It’s a pity I couldn’t see her shoes.
Risk factors: defiance, problem solving ability, improvision, motherly instinct, faded athleticism, yoga perhaps.
An old woman: dressed in a long black overcoat despite the April warmth. A beige purse was strung around her forearm, and a gold heart pendant around her neck. Her hair was carefully tucked back, and makeup meticulously applied, as if this was her Big Day Out in the World.
Risk factors: possible mace canister, hysterical crying.
An overweight young man: red baseball hat over his matted down brown hair, unshaven and unkept appearance, large generic t-shirt and work out pants. Holding a cellular telephone and a lighter in his right hand, an envelope in his left.
Risk factors: obesity, heart disease, smoking.
A male: young guy, probably fresh out of school or an academy. Social skills by the look of his hands and smile, well groomed and nice clothes says that he wants to impress most people he meets, while his fake smile indicates insecurity and indecisiveness.
Risk factors: leader, multitasker, detail oriented.
Making my judgment quickly, I smiled. I felt good about the situation, and I felt good about what I was about to do. I would most definitely ruin these peoples’ day, but that was okay, because they would have plenty more. Whereas a man such as myself, sick yet confident, defiant yet sensible enough to know when the dogs were clutching in, well a man such as myself had to take chances, and had to know that every risk was just about worth it.
Reaching into my satchel, and finally drawing attention to myself from a few of the humans, I pulled out my gun. The act of this drew everyone out of their warm, familiar set and setting like cold water on a sleeping child. Eyes grew wide, bladders grew loose, and the male stepped forward. His hands were outstretched, palms up, to show that he meant no harm, while I knew the females were scrambling to silently dial the police on their phones.
I would not have much time on my hands, but a few seconds is a lifetime. I distantly thought to spores of mold, being released into the air millions at a time as someone carelessly exhaled onto it. If it’s green, it grows.
The male was talking to me in calm, non threatening tones. I raised the gun, aimed, and fire. The muzzle flashed, and I could actually see the bullet,-the cylindrical piece of crafted lead spiraling with accuracy-stop in midair. I was certain, I could see it, freeze, right there in the middle of empty space, where soon a noise would follow the bullet as it gutted the air and would rip through the man. But first, it balanced delicately, like a humming bird, dancing with friction, in nothingness. It hung in the air if only for a split second, in the illusion of time. In the illusion of a lifetime.
Regards, Esortnom
I ran a thin hand through my hair. Geez, goddamn. Where should I go? I mean Samael just completely zonked out of me back there, now the earth is my pincushion. I pulled my black shirt tighter around my chest and buttoned it up. It was going to be morning soon and I wanted to look presentable should anyone happen to see me walking down the street.
Lawns, in this neighborhood, were extremely valued. They appeared to be better fed than children halfway across the world. I had to take extra caution, and care, as I took a piss in a yard, as my foot prints seemed to have tracked upon a carefully maintained flowerbed. Among the pumpkin patch and mid life crisis tomatoes, sexually lonesome sunflowers, was a size eleven avia airwalk logo. Free advertising, you bastards.
The heavy burden of modern living pushed people to do strange things. Some drank, some smoke. Some people think, most people don’t. The other day I saw a report on the news about some lunatic who walked into a department store and opened fire on everyone in the store, killing four employees and a customer. A survivor of the shooting, who is in stable condition, reported that the attacker allegedly groped one of the female employees before he shot her. The attacker managed to get out of the building and elude capture. The state police were in the midst of the manhunt: day 4.
Anyway, I took a quick look behind a house marked ‘Calhoun’ on the mailbox. As I reached the yard, I thought about how nice your voice would sound whispered from my side in a warm bed, as my feet iron clad in airwalks stomped shallow, wet graves into the moist ground. Fertile.
Normally I only trespass when I’m working or really need to piss, but you see, sometimes I notice things. I see things. Not like the LSD funnyhouse way, or in the ‘I smell oranges’ sense, but in the way like an old photograph looks in memory. Like remembering what your parents were like years ago in a frame on a desk. And I see these old photographs of things happening, I see, even as I am so blinded, still, I witness a grip of the truth; (I think this as a marching band begins to play in ab minor somewhere) the truth comes in still frames of reality.
So, as I think of you, I climb Ms. Calhoun’s back steps onto her wooden am-i-socially-superior-yet porch, I realized that everything around here is done for looks, not comfort. How pretentious.
Making sure for the last time that my boots were securely laced, I reached into my black leather satchel and pulled on my cotton gloves. They slid smoothly over my sweaty hands, and would provide a good grip along with anonymity. They were a cheap pair I had procured at a local pharmacy for 2.99, or two pairs for 5$. After today, however, I would not have to be so frugal when it came to my winter apparel shopping.
In a way, I had a lot in common with the shooter in the department store. In my dreams I could see his eyes, and they were very much like mine. Eyes which had starred too long without seeing anything worthwhile. Eyes of a man who is joking, but no one understands that he is joking. The eyes of man who is looking for warmth, but keeps falling away, yet does not get cynical. They are the eyes of someone who has seen too much.
But in many more ways, I was completely different. Whatever fueled the man’s anger and aggression towards everything was clearly beyond my understanding. Hell, in my opinion, it was obviously beyond his grasp. But what I was doing was clear, it was precise, and it was different. I was not into senseless violence. What I was doing made sense, to myself, and to anyone familiar with the woes of the modern man. My work was about clarity, about truth. My work was just that–a job.
I turned the handle on the door and it opened loudly. I entered into some kind of family scene, interrupting their conversation:
“...I was on a plane bound for West Germany when I first met him, a Class A Gentleman but a novice lover, I could not--”
“Oh! Ohwhat the–?!?”
I quickly scanned the room, and made mental notes of everything I observed.
A young woman: light haired, wearing an old sweatshirt and loose jeans. A small child was tucked into the nape of her neck as she impatiently shifted her weight from foot to foot. Rings on her hands displays that she is married at least once, wrinkles in her face says she has many children. Makeup and earings show that she cares about her appearance, and is probably wearing an expensive fragrance. It’s a pity I couldn’t see her shoes.
Risk factors: defiance, problem solving ability, improvision, motherly instinct, faded athleticism, yoga perhaps.
An old woman: dressed in a long black overcoat despite the April warmth. A beige purse was strung around her forearm, and a gold heart pendant around her neck. Her hair was carefully tucked back, and makeup meticulously applied, as if this was her Big Day Out in the World.
Risk factors: possible mace canister, hysterical crying.
An overweight young man: red baseball hat over his matted down brown hair, unshaven and unkept appearance, large generic t-shirt and work out pants. Holding a cellular telephone and a lighter in his right hand, an envelope in his left.
Risk factors: obesity, heart disease, smoking.
A male: young guy, probably fresh out of school or an academy. Social skills by the look of his hands and smile, well groomed and nice clothes says that he wants to impress most people he meets, while his fake smile indicates insecurity and indecisiveness.
Risk factors: leader, multitasker, detail oriented.
Making my judgment quickly, I smiled. I felt good about the situation, and I felt good about what I was about to do. I would most definitely ruin these peoples’ day, but that was okay, because they would have plenty more. Whereas a man such as myself, sick yet confident, defiant yet sensible enough to know when the dogs were clutching in, well a man such as myself had to take chances, and had to know that every risk was just about worth it.
Reaching into my satchel, and finally drawing attention to myself from a few of the humans, I pulled out my gun. The act of this drew everyone out of their warm, familiar set and setting like cold water on a sleeping child. Eyes grew wide, bladders grew loose, and the male stepped forward. His hands were outstretched, palms up, to show that he meant no harm, while I knew the females were scrambling to silently dial the police on their phones.
I would not have much time on my hands, but a few seconds is a lifetime. I distantly thought to spores of mold, being released into the air millions at a time as someone carelessly exhaled onto it. If it’s green, it grows.
The male was talking to me in calm, non threatening tones. I raised the gun, aimed, and fire. The muzzle flashed, and I could actually see the bullet,-the cylindrical piece of crafted lead spiraling with accuracy-stop in midair. I was certain, I could see it, freeze, right there in the middle of empty space, where soon a noise would follow the bullet as it gutted the air and would rip through the man. But first, it balanced delicately, like a humming bird, dancing with friction, in nothingness. It hung in the air if only for a split second, in the illusion of time. In the illusion of a lifetime.
Regards, Esortnom
Do Love, Prize, Honour You.
signals sent miss the mark
maker sighs in disgust
a creation lost
reflects upon the smith
and bends the rest
a victim of time
covered in moss
'Good evening
could everyone in the audience
please join me for an experience
relax.
open your face to the light shining
through your face, be at one with the universe.
open your mind ,come with me.
everyone join hands, everyone become.
close your eyes, empty your minds.
follow the energy with your mind.
sipping the wine of the creator
reflects upon the art that made of the same
who dig the blend with torn boundary
The harmony of their tongues hath into bondage
And each hour, they drink from obsahem thujonu,' thy lovely tree
My heart fly to your beauties; there my face resides,
To make me a slave to it; and for your brunette sake
Am I this patient sipper of wine
that of snoozes in the shadow of the creator
reflecting upon the art that makes the same
digs the blend of us all
Thus spake Thujonu
maker sighs in disgust
a creation lost
reflects upon the smith
and bends the rest
a victim of time
covered in moss
'Good evening
could everyone in the audience
please join me for an experience
relax.
open your face to the light shining
through your face, be at one with the universe.
open your mind ,come with me.
everyone join hands, everyone become.
close your eyes, empty your minds.
follow the energy with your mind.
sipping the wine of the creator
reflects upon the art that made of the same
who dig the blend with torn boundary
The harmony of their tongues hath into bondage
And each hour, they drink from obsahem thujonu,' thy lovely tree
My heart fly to your beauties; there my face resides,
To make me a slave to it; and for your brunette sake
Am I this patient sipper of wine
that of snoozes in the shadow of the creator
reflecting upon the art that makes the same
digs the blend of us all
Thus spake Thujonu
The Aisle is Full of Noises
I tilted my head back to listen to the night. The children of the darkness, lowly crickets chirping and soaring bats devouring blood sucking mosquitos vibrated my ears, and somewhere far ahead, i could see the moon watching over us like a proud mother. The goddess Diana smiled and shined down upon us, reflected in the love and light of the mighty sleeping sun.
Christina swayed drunkenly and beauitfully in the moonlight. On this night, she resembled a dark, earthly goddess more so than a self-proclaimed irish princess. Despite months of working beside her, i had never particulary found her attractive. She'd bend over and sometimes i'd take a brief glance down her shirt, noting the way her b-cup tits were loosley cupped by an unnecessary bra. She always dressed sharply, and in her tight black work pants it was obvious that she rarely wore underwear, but i usually paid no attention. The way the young lady presented herself, the way she projected the presentation of herself is what really turned me off. She was the type of girl who seemed as tho she sat in her car before walking into work, windows rolled up, in complete silence, giving herself a talk of encouragement, then walk in, her seemless ass pointed in the air, barking out orders. I was far too laid back to squawk with this main hen, despite being somewhat of an alpha cock myself.
WIth shadows drapped across her round face, her eyes red and slow from rum, and her long blonde hair swaying across her body, i fell in love with her. The out of work Christina, this Casual I Know How to Have Fun Now That I'm Not Taking Care of Business Christina was like another person. Her hair, usually tucked back tightly in a bun behind her head, was dishevelled, chaotic, blowing across her face, she frequently had to brush it out of her eyes and mouth. Her shirt was slipping off her shoulders, and she had to keep pulling the straps back up before her small tits would be drunkenly exposed.
She turned to me and caught my eyes. I returned her gaze, and she smiled warmly.
This was the first time we had really seen each other, with the masks and pretentious facades of middle management simmered away by alcohol consumption. We had no employees to impress, we were free from the moral and social restraints of the office; we could talk about dope, sex, niggers, and anything that would normally get us crucified at work. A drunken thought stumbled into my mind: i wondered if everyone was capable of achieving such beauty and perfection once the bondage of the weekday work week wore off. I wondered if the woes of modern man were merely a side effect of this rush rush capitalist consumer culture, a gradual death sentence for all involved. Perhaps in the slow, mellow underbelly of life, sitting on ones back porch in the sun with a large glass of whiskey, ice, and cola in one hand, a large pipe filled with fine marijuana in another hand, and a fine paperback book spread open on ones lap, perhaps in that state of existence, was the truest form of beauty and perfection; miles and miles away from the burdens of fake customs and superstitions instilled within us by our very life styles.
Christina said something to someone and laughed. I drunkenly tuned out the conversation, but noticed the way every muscle in her face jumped and twitched when she laughed, the way her eyes reflected the lights and lives of the night when she smiled. I sat down on the cold concrete steps next to her, and she turned and smiled as she acknowledge me. I could feel the warmth eminating off her in the cold night, enhancing the environment, and i suspect she could feel mine as she leaned slightly against me, her leg resting against mine. I leaned back, my arms sprawled out, and she leaned further into me, almost to the point that i was holding her.
Somewhere in my drunken mind, memories creeped into my main theater. I could see myself many years ago, drinking myself to death in an anonymous townie bar. A tall glass of some dark ale was in front of me, my head swimming in the alcohol and noise. I was in between a girl Jamie and her friend whose name i could never remember then and long forgot now. I had been talking to Jamie's friend all night, quite sure that we were flirting, and almost certain that she dug me. In the course of our conversation i had put my arm around her, and in my chaotic drunken stupor, completely forgot that my arm was still there. Oblivious to any discomfort she might've shown, Jamie turned to me and said "Take your hand off my friend." I laughed and did so, slightly embarrassed at my actions, slightly horrified that i was powerless over myself and the situation.
Chrsistina leaned back with me, closer into my arms. I quickly scanned our companions, and decided that none would judge or demand that i remove my hands from Christina. I was in no immediate danger. Besides, i thought, Christina was her own goddamn person in her own right-- if she wanted me to back off, she wouldn't be afraid to tell me to go fuck myself, with the same tone of voice she uses to tell employees at the office to go fill the paper bay...
Christina would strain her eyes as she noticed that the paper bay was empty. Her voice clear and ringing:
"Debbie, would you fill the paper bay?"
And sweet Debbie, confused, lost, and drifting well into her late teenage years was like a yellow chick tossed to some hungry wolf. Her eyes acknowledged the situation, but her tone of voice revealed her confusion.
"The paper bay?...Ms. Doherty...I never fill the paper bay..."
Christina wouldn't miss a beat, as if she prepared for this conversation in her prework car prep talk.
"Yeah, just make sure its filled to the line then you can take your break if you want, thank you Debbie."
Already defeated, knowing that all was lost, Debbie would play her last card in hopes of preventing the hoop-la that would follow: lugging the heavy cases of paper up two flights of stars, fumbling with the box cover as it never could be opened nor closed, then the inevitable horror of realizing that the dickless piece of shit who filled the bay before you lacked the decency to properly empty it in the first place, causing at least another twenty minutes of bickering with the printer over paper jams and code 32:error 's.
It was clear to everyone, including Chritina Doherty, that Debbie wanted to take her break now, not after crusading against the paper bay.
"But Ms. Doherty...Mr. Meztner never makes fill the paper bay...he says the morning folks do it."
And that would be the last bomb in Debbie's arsenol-- ratting me out. Inevitably, all their eyes would turn to me, sweet Debbie begging me to say something to redeem her, and Christina Doherty eyeing me with pure dismay, silenting demanding that i keep my mouth shut in case i had a cocky comment to contribute or casually contradict. I would look at them both, back and forth, wipe the sweat from my upper lip, knowing full well that i had to side with fellow managament rather than a lost stoner a thousand times more interesting and whom could possibly benefit from my focused energy. Perhaps I would joke about the ridiculous conflict that had somehow exploded between the three of us, and if i was feeling especially focused and creative that day, everything i said would have sharp sexual undertones. Neither of them would acknowledge my comment either way, and i would be free to roam around once again, thinking dark thoughts and searching for a peaceful area to work in.
Surfacing back into present consciousness, i vaguely wondered what the fuck it was that i was doing here, drunk on the library steps hours after the ancient building had closed, casually associating with Ms. Doherty: a fellow manager, and a gaggle of lackeys that had taken to following and eminating me at the bar. Hours later, and it was increasingly difficult to focus, while my vision would fade out every now and then into some obscure, insightful drunken void where details seemed sharper and more important, and subleties were painfully obvious to myself, the causual observer. The drunken halo around my neck began to tighten, and i was having trouble concentrating on one thought for more than a few seconds at a time.
Someone was talking, and they all laughed. Realizing that they weren't laughing at me, i relaxed back towards the drunken undertow. Christina pulled me back tho, shining brightly as she leaned in closely whispered something into my ear. I couldn't quite catch it, but her hair whipped back against the side of my face, so i smiled at her and nodded.
Someone suggested that we head into the library. It's possible that it was me who suggested it, but i didn't really care who it was who brought it up because it was such a damn good idea. Our small group quickly agreed, and people began sitting up and shuffling around nervously trying to find a way in. I absently lit a cigarette, and roamed around the giant structure of the library itself, marvelling over its sharp right angle edges and cracked limestone exterior.
Christina had jumped up, and in my drunken insight i could actually see the glow encompassing her slender body. She had a look in her eyes that i had never seen in her before. I had seen it within others, of course, usually in the late morning hours of some emotionally or drug fueled escapade, the sun slowly rising and most of the unknown glory dying with the dark as a single individual in the group rose up to lead us towards one last thrust of greatness before the adventure was truly over and we all passed out for 12 hours. I had seen this divine insanity in the eyes of my greatest friends at the edge of a vast mirror like lake, in the eyes of my young brother in the mountains of the western eastcoast states, and in the eyes of strangers in the desert fields of tennesse. I now saw it in the eyes of the prestigious Christina Doherty.
"I know how we can get in! I used to work in this library!" Christina slurred drunkenly. Apparently we had been holding hands, and in her rush to find the entrance to our shelter she dropped my hand and ran to the far side of the library. The members of the group turned to me for verification. I shrugged and started to follow. I didn't give a shit where Christina led us; i was here to get drunk.
As we turned the corner of the great book house, we came upon Christina, half eclipsed by bushes, kneeling upon the ground. Her eyes flashed wildly as she pried at a small window and the iron grating covering it for security. I had never noticed this window before, although i had spent much of my youth in this building, wandering around vast stacks of literature that i would never be able to fully comprehend or appreciate.
"When i used to work here, i'd sometimes get to work early...I'd have to climb thru this window because all the doors were locked that early in the morning." Christina fumbled with the latch drunkenly, causing her to almost lose her balance and tip over.
"Why didnt you have a key?" A man in the group asked. He was trying to come off as sly, but it seemed as tho he were just very intoxicated.
Christina ignored the question as she dug further deeper into the small piece of steal separating us from the cavernous inards of the library.
I was about to offer some kind of assistance, but as I opened my mouth to tell her to step aside, the latch suddenly swung up, and the window flew back and open. A dark cavity in the limestone wall of the building was exposed, a gaping hole in the towering wide toothed grin of the library. Whatever waited inside for us was ours, beckoning with beautiful darkness and oppurtunity. There was room to grow within this real eastate.
Thus Spake thujonu
Christina swayed drunkenly and beauitfully in the moonlight. On this night, she resembled a dark, earthly goddess more so than a self-proclaimed irish princess. Despite months of working beside her, i had never particulary found her attractive. She'd bend over and sometimes i'd take a brief glance down her shirt, noting the way her b-cup tits were loosley cupped by an unnecessary bra. She always dressed sharply, and in her tight black work pants it was obvious that she rarely wore underwear, but i usually paid no attention. The way the young lady presented herself, the way she projected the presentation of herself is what really turned me off. She was the type of girl who seemed as tho she sat in her car before walking into work, windows rolled up, in complete silence, giving herself a talk of encouragement, then walk in, her seemless ass pointed in the air, barking out orders. I was far too laid back to squawk with this main hen, despite being somewhat of an alpha cock myself.
WIth shadows drapped across her round face, her eyes red and slow from rum, and her long blonde hair swaying across her body, i fell in love with her. The out of work Christina, this Casual I Know How to Have Fun Now That I'm Not Taking Care of Business Christina was like another person. Her hair, usually tucked back tightly in a bun behind her head, was dishevelled, chaotic, blowing across her face, she frequently had to brush it out of her eyes and mouth. Her shirt was slipping off her shoulders, and she had to keep pulling the straps back up before her small tits would be drunkenly exposed.
She turned to me and caught my eyes. I returned her gaze, and she smiled warmly.
This was the first time we had really seen each other, with the masks and pretentious facades of middle management simmered away by alcohol consumption. We had no employees to impress, we were free from the moral and social restraints of the office; we could talk about dope, sex, niggers, and anything that would normally get us crucified at work. A drunken thought stumbled into my mind: i wondered if everyone was capable of achieving such beauty and perfection once the bondage of the weekday work week wore off. I wondered if the woes of modern man were merely a side effect of this rush rush capitalist consumer culture, a gradual death sentence for all involved. Perhaps in the slow, mellow underbelly of life, sitting on ones back porch in the sun with a large glass of whiskey, ice, and cola in one hand, a large pipe filled with fine marijuana in another hand, and a fine paperback book spread open on ones lap, perhaps in that state of existence, was the truest form of beauty and perfection; miles and miles away from the burdens of fake customs and superstitions instilled within us by our very life styles.
Christina said something to someone and laughed. I drunkenly tuned out the conversation, but noticed the way every muscle in her face jumped and twitched when she laughed, the way her eyes reflected the lights and lives of the night when she smiled. I sat down on the cold concrete steps next to her, and she turned and smiled as she acknowledge me. I could feel the warmth eminating off her in the cold night, enhancing the environment, and i suspect she could feel mine as she leaned slightly against me, her leg resting against mine. I leaned back, my arms sprawled out, and she leaned further into me, almost to the point that i was holding her.
Somewhere in my drunken mind, memories creeped into my main theater. I could see myself many years ago, drinking myself to death in an anonymous townie bar. A tall glass of some dark ale was in front of me, my head swimming in the alcohol and noise. I was in between a girl Jamie and her friend whose name i could never remember then and long forgot now. I had been talking to Jamie's friend all night, quite sure that we were flirting, and almost certain that she dug me. In the course of our conversation i had put my arm around her, and in my chaotic drunken stupor, completely forgot that my arm was still there. Oblivious to any discomfort she might've shown, Jamie turned to me and said "Take your hand off my friend." I laughed and did so, slightly embarrassed at my actions, slightly horrified that i was powerless over myself and the situation.
Chrsistina leaned back with me, closer into my arms. I quickly scanned our companions, and decided that none would judge or demand that i remove my hands from Christina. I was in no immediate danger. Besides, i thought, Christina was her own goddamn person in her own right-- if she wanted me to back off, she wouldn't be afraid to tell me to go fuck myself, with the same tone of voice she uses to tell employees at the office to go fill the paper bay...
Christina would strain her eyes as she noticed that the paper bay was empty. Her voice clear and ringing:
"Debbie, would you fill the paper bay?"
And sweet Debbie, confused, lost, and drifting well into her late teenage years was like a yellow chick tossed to some hungry wolf. Her eyes acknowledged the situation, but her tone of voice revealed her confusion.
"The paper bay?...Ms. Doherty...I never fill the paper bay..."
Christina wouldn't miss a beat, as if she prepared for this conversation in her prework car prep talk.
"Yeah, just make sure its filled to the line then you can take your break if you want, thank you Debbie."
Already defeated, knowing that all was lost, Debbie would play her last card in hopes of preventing the hoop-la that would follow: lugging the heavy cases of paper up two flights of stars, fumbling with the box cover as it never could be opened nor closed, then the inevitable horror of realizing that the dickless piece of shit who filled the bay before you lacked the decency to properly empty it in the first place, causing at least another twenty minutes of bickering with the printer over paper jams and code 32:error 's.
It was clear to everyone, including Chritina Doherty, that Debbie wanted to take her break now, not after crusading against the paper bay.
"But Ms. Doherty...Mr. Meztner never makes fill the paper bay...he says the morning folks do it."
And that would be the last bomb in Debbie's arsenol-- ratting me out. Inevitably, all their eyes would turn to me, sweet Debbie begging me to say something to redeem her, and Christina Doherty eyeing me with pure dismay, silenting demanding that i keep my mouth shut in case i had a cocky comment to contribute or casually contradict. I would look at them both, back and forth, wipe the sweat from my upper lip, knowing full well that i had to side with fellow managament rather than a lost stoner a thousand times more interesting and whom could possibly benefit from my focused energy. Perhaps I would joke about the ridiculous conflict that had somehow exploded between the three of us, and if i was feeling especially focused and creative that day, everything i said would have sharp sexual undertones. Neither of them would acknowledge my comment either way, and i would be free to roam around once again, thinking dark thoughts and searching for a peaceful area to work in.
Surfacing back into present consciousness, i vaguely wondered what the fuck it was that i was doing here, drunk on the library steps hours after the ancient building had closed, casually associating with Ms. Doherty: a fellow manager, and a gaggle of lackeys that had taken to following and eminating me at the bar. Hours later, and it was increasingly difficult to focus, while my vision would fade out every now and then into some obscure, insightful drunken void where details seemed sharper and more important, and subleties were painfully obvious to myself, the causual observer. The drunken halo around my neck began to tighten, and i was having trouble concentrating on one thought for more than a few seconds at a time.
Someone was talking, and they all laughed. Realizing that they weren't laughing at me, i relaxed back towards the drunken undertow. Christina pulled me back tho, shining brightly as she leaned in closely whispered something into my ear. I couldn't quite catch it, but her hair whipped back against the side of my face, so i smiled at her and nodded.
Someone suggested that we head into the library. It's possible that it was me who suggested it, but i didn't really care who it was who brought it up because it was such a damn good idea. Our small group quickly agreed, and people began sitting up and shuffling around nervously trying to find a way in. I absently lit a cigarette, and roamed around the giant structure of the library itself, marvelling over its sharp right angle edges and cracked limestone exterior.
Christina had jumped up, and in my drunken insight i could actually see the glow encompassing her slender body. She had a look in her eyes that i had never seen in her before. I had seen it within others, of course, usually in the late morning hours of some emotionally or drug fueled escapade, the sun slowly rising and most of the unknown glory dying with the dark as a single individual in the group rose up to lead us towards one last thrust of greatness before the adventure was truly over and we all passed out for 12 hours. I had seen this divine insanity in the eyes of my greatest friends at the edge of a vast mirror like lake, in the eyes of my young brother in the mountains of the western eastcoast states, and in the eyes of strangers in the desert fields of tennesse. I now saw it in the eyes of the prestigious Christina Doherty.
"I know how we can get in! I used to work in this library!" Christina slurred drunkenly. Apparently we had been holding hands, and in her rush to find the entrance to our shelter she dropped my hand and ran to the far side of the library. The members of the group turned to me for verification. I shrugged and started to follow. I didn't give a shit where Christina led us; i was here to get drunk.
As we turned the corner of the great book house, we came upon Christina, half eclipsed by bushes, kneeling upon the ground. Her eyes flashed wildly as she pried at a small window and the iron grating covering it for security. I had never noticed this window before, although i had spent much of my youth in this building, wandering around vast stacks of literature that i would never be able to fully comprehend or appreciate.
"When i used to work here, i'd sometimes get to work early...I'd have to climb thru this window because all the doors were locked that early in the morning." Christina fumbled with the latch drunkenly, causing her to almost lose her balance and tip over.
"Why didnt you have a key?" A man in the group asked. He was trying to come off as sly, but it seemed as tho he were just very intoxicated.
Christina ignored the question as she dug further deeper into the small piece of steal separating us from the cavernous inards of the library.
I was about to offer some kind of assistance, but as I opened my mouth to tell her to step aside, the latch suddenly swung up, and the window flew back and open. A dark cavity in the limestone wall of the building was exposed, a gaping hole in the towering wide toothed grin of the library. Whatever waited inside for us was ours, beckoning with beautiful darkness and oppurtunity. There was room to grow within this real eastate.
Thus Spake thujonu
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Let Us to the Castle
If you drop the “r” s at the end of your words, can’t purchase Sam Adams on a Sunday night, and are wicked crazy about baseball, it’s a blatant indication, aside from a license plate, that you’re from the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. The cradle of our country, the so-called seat of the American war of independence from Britain. A good place filled with mostly good people like most others. But then there is this strange breed known as a Masshole.
Every Masshole is in a hurry. And anyone who hurries is a Masshole. Time is money, because time is another 30 miles up I-95, or another green light before the snow and night simultaneously fall on 495 South, or another bagel from Dunkin’ Donuts before your half hour lunch break ends. There is something about the population density which is infective, like too many monkeys in a cage. Every side of the highways are lined with suburbs, towns, and cities. The winters can be brutal, the summers are humid, and like geese, the elderly flock themselves south and back again with the change of the seasons, with fewer returning than left.
Massachusetts is America’s coronary heart attack. Most of the 7 million or so humans live in the eastern suburbs of Boston. Outside the loop of highways and interstates surrounding the city, the population and modern urban sprawl drops off and the culture becomes significantly more rural, more blue collared, and more sports crazy-- less likely to riot and attempt to raze everything to the ground in a drunken haze, but rather likely to crash their Ford drunkenly into a lamp post on a narrow and poorly lit road lined with maple trees. Boston is a relatively old city in American terms, and holds some of the greatest places to both stand and fall. Aside from it’s bigger cousin New York, Boston is the cultural center of Eastern America. Despite this, Massachusetts is more than just Boston.
In the city of Leominster (pronounced Lem-in-stah) the pink plastic flamingo was invented, and is where you can smell nearby Fitchburg or “The Dirty Burg“, which is filled with decaying buildings, beautiful broken glass fields and welfare paid drug dealers. It is close enough to the northern border to be considered New Hampshire’s Woonsocket, and the residents have been known to find small cellophane bags of cocaine on their front lawns while letting their dogs out on Sunday morning.
In Plymouth, there’s a big rock reminder of the founding uptight, fun-hating Pilgrims, or white devil depending on your perspective, which fathered the state out of wedlock from slaughtered aboriginal natives in their attempt to escape the ‘tyranny’ of the British. Though it’s probably not the actual, authentic rock which the settlers landed near, it doesn’t really matter, and no one really cares. After all, the whimsical Separatist Pilgrims weren’t the first Europeans to land here, not even the first English settlers to do so, but once again it doesn’t matter because no one cares.
The town of Salem milks dollars from its past overreaction and religious fanaticism (see Pilgrims) which led to the killing of young girls and old men via creative methods such as crushing by rock. Old cemeteries and witchcraft museums are a cheap thrill if you’re Pagan or Wiccan with nothing better to do on summer afternoons. Or if it is Halloween, it is fun for the whole family. Either way, the locals would love your money.
Concord is home to Walden Pond. The 102 foot deep body of water is where the philosophical American transcendentalist Henry Thoreau lived beside for a couple of years in the mid 1800’s and wrote Life in the Woods. Despite being a popular swimming hole for locals in the summer, it was almost drained in the 1960’s to complete the clear cutting which had already began. The goal was to make the area a parking lot for the local shopping center. A portion of it had already been demolished by then to support an amusement park called Lake Walden, complete with water slides, public baths, and a dance hall. After finally burning down, supporters and school children fought to save the land, and the Massachusetts State Supreme Court agreed to bar any further development, no doubt making Thoreau smile just a little.
Massive, bloodthirsty corporations set up their regional offices on the outskirts in Framingham, where there are more furniture and tire stores than there are living rooms and cars. Framingham is an example of hungry immigrants encroaching on the complacent locals, much like the English did three hundred years earlier on the coast. Nearby Natick features the largest shopping mall in New England, recently re-dubbed the ‘Natick Collection’, formerly the Natick Mall where it was surprising easy to shop lift video games from the first and third floor electronic stores. The security guards and black camera orbs guarding the Nordstroms and Nieman Marcuses are now a shining example of the perseverance of capitalism, and the Collection boasts more than 7,000 parking spots.
Springfield is the Boston of the western half of the state which means it is generally ignored by everyone east of it, and is the most violent city in the country but also home to the Basketball Hall of Fame. Otherwise, there would be no reason to visit the home of roaming, ultra-violent Asian and Negro gangs.
Nearby is Amherst, home of the New England Mystic Emily Dickinson, and named after biological warfare pioneer Jeffrey Amherst. Filled with a lot of colleges, this area is a haven for liberals, educated socialites, lesbians, and farmers. There is a bylaw stating that no more than 6 unrelated adults may live together in a house preventing communes and those seeking to team up against life from doing so. The Amherst area is a shinning of example of where budget cuts and leftist political talk without action will get you. Good luck with parking.
Worcester is good as a marker on satellite weather maps on the evening news, and really nothing else except homes for broken down blue collared workers slowly drinking themselves to death at monster truck events. The scruffy population roams the streets late at night, smashing bottles and searching for cheap ‘Gansett beer.
Milford is a suburb growing too fast for its own good, filled with South American immigrants who work day labor, and a clashing self righteous white population with nothing better to do than to complain about the South Americans living next door to them, unless someone needs a new roof.
Lowell had historic significance in regards to the country’s once infant economy, but now is significant for its needle drugs, gangs, and dirty river. A treacherous bridge crossing the river and its jagged rocks below is a popular suicide hot spot for the local population, and a good destination for those seeking various drugs. Birthplace of Jack Kerouac, who took a lot of drugs and drove around, then wrote books about it.
Almost everyone in the state of Massachusetts are on the roads between 7 and 8 am and 5 to 6 pm. The immigrants will be packed like sardines in red Toyotas keeping right to avoid conflict with any authorities, the hard working manual laborers with Red Sox and Patriots and, if they’re winning, Bruins swag will drive their pick-ups and SUVs at or around the speed limit while keeping as far left as possible, and will glare at you like you pissed on their mother’s coffin if you pass them. The rich corporate swine and well-to-do management types weave and dodge their low riding cars in between the two because time is money.
Classic symptoms of living within the sprawl includes shortness of breath, anxiety, nausea, and vomiting.
But once you learn to see past the initial choking pain, the numbness in the arms, and the blind confusion and learn to accept what is happening, you can achieve serenity. And even beauty. This atmosphere breeds the Masshole, and it breeds very homogenized people who believe they are entitled to something for some reason, but it also breeds freaks like myself who live two or three lives at the same time. Everyone I knew was actually two or three other people. Or they had a child. Unlike the east coast majority, they were not so much concerned with perfecting their current life, but rather carving one out for themselves from the dross. These good people put on their public faces in order to survive the rigid culture, but once the sun went down they were able to grab a cold beer from a friend's fridge---and they were able to comfortably smile in their own skin.
Regards, Esortnom
Every Masshole is in a hurry. And anyone who hurries is a Masshole. Time is money, because time is another 30 miles up I-95, or another green light before the snow and night simultaneously fall on 495 South, or another bagel from Dunkin’ Donuts before your half hour lunch break ends. There is something about the population density which is infective, like too many monkeys in a cage. Every side of the highways are lined with suburbs, towns, and cities. The winters can be brutal, the summers are humid, and like geese, the elderly flock themselves south and back again with the change of the seasons, with fewer returning than left.
Massachusetts is America’s coronary heart attack. Most of the 7 million or so humans live in the eastern suburbs of Boston. Outside the loop of highways and interstates surrounding the city, the population and modern urban sprawl drops off and the culture becomes significantly more rural, more blue collared, and more sports crazy-- less likely to riot and attempt to raze everything to the ground in a drunken haze, but rather likely to crash their Ford drunkenly into a lamp post on a narrow and poorly lit road lined with maple trees. Boston is a relatively old city in American terms, and holds some of the greatest places to both stand and fall. Aside from it’s bigger cousin New York, Boston is the cultural center of Eastern America. Despite this, Massachusetts is more than just Boston.
In the city of Leominster (pronounced Lem-in-stah) the pink plastic flamingo was invented, and is where you can smell nearby Fitchburg or “The Dirty Burg“, which is filled with decaying buildings, beautiful broken glass fields and welfare paid drug dealers. It is close enough to the northern border to be considered New Hampshire’s Woonsocket, and the residents have been known to find small cellophane bags of cocaine on their front lawns while letting their dogs out on Sunday morning.
In Plymouth, there’s a big rock reminder of the founding uptight, fun-hating Pilgrims, or white devil depending on your perspective, which fathered the state out of wedlock from slaughtered aboriginal natives in their attempt to escape the ‘tyranny’ of the British. Though it’s probably not the actual, authentic rock which the settlers landed near, it doesn’t really matter, and no one really cares. After all, the whimsical Separatist Pilgrims weren’t the first Europeans to land here, not even the first English settlers to do so, but once again it doesn’t matter because no one cares.
The town of Salem milks dollars from its past overreaction and religious fanaticism (see Pilgrims) which led to the killing of young girls and old men via creative methods such as crushing by rock. Old cemeteries and witchcraft museums are a cheap thrill if you’re Pagan or Wiccan with nothing better to do on summer afternoons. Or if it is Halloween, it is fun for the whole family. Either way, the locals would love your money.
Concord is home to Walden Pond. The 102 foot deep body of water is where the philosophical American transcendentalist Henry Thoreau lived beside for a couple of years in the mid 1800’s and wrote Life in the Woods. Despite being a popular swimming hole for locals in the summer, it was almost drained in the 1960’s to complete the clear cutting which had already began. The goal was to make the area a parking lot for the local shopping center. A portion of it had already been demolished by then to support an amusement park called Lake Walden, complete with water slides, public baths, and a dance hall. After finally burning down, supporters and school children fought to save the land, and the Massachusetts State Supreme Court agreed to bar any further development, no doubt making Thoreau smile just a little.
Massive, bloodthirsty corporations set up their regional offices on the outskirts in Framingham, where there are more furniture and tire stores than there are living rooms and cars. Framingham is an example of hungry immigrants encroaching on the complacent locals, much like the English did three hundred years earlier on the coast. Nearby Natick features the largest shopping mall in New England, recently re-dubbed the ‘Natick Collection’, formerly the Natick Mall where it was surprising easy to shop lift video games from the first and third floor electronic stores. The security guards and black camera orbs guarding the Nordstroms and Nieman Marcuses are now a shining example of the perseverance of capitalism, and the Collection boasts more than 7,000 parking spots.
Springfield is the Boston of the western half of the state which means it is generally ignored by everyone east of it, and is the most violent city in the country but also home to the Basketball Hall of Fame. Otherwise, there would be no reason to visit the home of roaming, ultra-violent Asian and Negro gangs.
Nearby is Amherst, home of the New England Mystic Emily Dickinson, and named after biological warfare pioneer Jeffrey Amherst. Filled with a lot of colleges, this area is a haven for liberals, educated socialites, lesbians, and farmers. There is a bylaw stating that no more than 6 unrelated adults may live together in a house preventing communes and those seeking to team up against life from doing so. The Amherst area is a shinning of example of where budget cuts and leftist political talk without action will get you. Good luck with parking.
Worcester is good as a marker on satellite weather maps on the evening news, and really nothing else except homes for broken down blue collared workers slowly drinking themselves to death at monster truck events. The scruffy population roams the streets late at night, smashing bottles and searching for cheap ‘Gansett beer.
Milford is a suburb growing too fast for its own good, filled with South American immigrants who work day labor, and a clashing self righteous white population with nothing better to do than to complain about the South Americans living next door to them, unless someone needs a new roof.
Lowell had historic significance in regards to the country’s once infant economy, but now is significant for its needle drugs, gangs, and dirty river. A treacherous bridge crossing the river and its jagged rocks below is a popular suicide hot spot for the local population, and a good destination for those seeking various drugs. Birthplace of Jack Kerouac, who took a lot of drugs and drove around, then wrote books about it.
Almost everyone in the state of Massachusetts are on the roads between 7 and 8 am and 5 to 6 pm. The immigrants will be packed like sardines in red Toyotas keeping right to avoid conflict with any authorities, the hard working manual laborers with Red Sox and Patriots and, if they’re winning, Bruins swag will drive their pick-ups and SUVs at or around the speed limit while keeping as far left as possible, and will glare at you like you pissed on their mother’s coffin if you pass them. The rich corporate swine and well-to-do management types weave and dodge their low riding cars in between the two because time is money.
Classic symptoms of living within the sprawl includes shortness of breath, anxiety, nausea, and vomiting.
But once you learn to see past the initial choking pain, the numbness in the arms, and the blind confusion and learn to accept what is happening, you can achieve serenity. And even beauty. This atmosphere breeds the Masshole, and it breeds very homogenized people who believe they are entitled to something for some reason, but it also breeds freaks like myself who live two or three lives at the same time. Everyone I knew was actually two or three other people. Or they had a child. Unlike the east coast majority, they were not so much concerned with perfecting their current life, but rather carving one out for themselves from the dross. These good people put on their public faces in order to survive the rigid culture, but once the sun went down they were able to grab a cold beer from a friend's fridge---and they were able to comfortably smile in their own skin.
Regards, Esortnom
Monday, July 6, 2009
From Drowning in Rivers to Drops
I was struggling not to punch Lars in the back of the head when he told me:
"Don't let us hold you back, go ahead, have a great time."
Tthe other members of my house nodded slowly, sitting dilated in front of a television box. I sighed in disgust, the sigh of man who had not had a television for a while and does not understand anymore the homely warmth of being fed while your mouth and belly is full.
"Very well, Lars. So it goes." I said, and pulled on my purple jacket. They didn't acknowledge me, and I suppose it was best because sometimes I get like this-all fed up and angry at everything and everyone around me, and the ones who know me well know that the best way to deal with it is to let me feed off it until it burns me out and I'm placid again. But right now I was red.
I hopped onto a bike from the garage and bolted out into the dark rain of the evening. I was curious as to the effect the rain would have on my purple jacket which seemed to be made of felt, but I naively believed that I could just bike fast enough to avoid the rain.
I stopped at a local AM/PM mini market to buy cheap tobacco in a pouch and an alcoholic energy drink. I felt the urge to poison my body in any way possible, to destroy everything and anything that was beautiful. The freezing rain wrapping its fingers around my body dampened my hate for everything in this forsaken town on the edge of the western forest, and everyone in it. And mostly myself, for having risked everything for boardwalk, but landing on park place which I already owned.
I bought my poisons and started to unlock my bike, digging for the keys which were caught somewhere in my already soaking wet pants. I rode until the devil stopped chasing me. I lost him under a bridge which occasionally dotted the Northwest bike paths as roads roared overhead.
I fished a soggy phone out of my pocket and called Jessika. I made a silent promise to myself that I wouldn't let her know how abysmal all this was. What friend unloads all his cynical sadness upon the other? Why would she even answer? Lovely Jess, who was wise enough not to follow me out here into this pine smelling mess. Lovely Jess, somewhere with her life together, quiet with out unpublished poets drinking themselves to death knocking on her door asking if she'd like a shot.
The phone rang and rang, and of course she answered, because sometimes the divine do answer your calls. And I didn't mention once anything overwhelmingly negative, but instead used my only talent to paint bright praise of this place, as I sat under a soggy bridge, edging away from the growing puddle approaching my feet aided by the sleeting rain.
We said our goodbyes, myself promising to finish my book and I hung up. Called Kevin, whom I had met at a halloween warehouse party. This was before I knew he had warrants out for his arrest in California and Iowa. They were only drug warrants. Relax, this is a common thing in the Northwest. I fell in love with a woman who fled to Alaska to avoid warrants in California.
"Hey man, it's #&^^, we met at that Halloween warhouse party."
"Huh?"
"With the fire dancers. Out front. My buddy was playing "Peaches in Regalia"."
"Oh yeah...poet, right? From Minnesota?"
"Massachusetts."
"Right. Right on. What's up?"
"I'm going down to Max's tonight. Wanna get drunk?"
"Man," he said, after I knew he was thinking about it. "I made a promise to myself. I promised that I wouldn't get drunk for a week."
"Bummer." I replied, watching the rancid water crawl towards my wet feet. I backed away a few more feet, closer to the end of the bridge and the pouring rain. This would be a reoccurring theme during the next 9 months or so.
"Not only that," Kevin continued, "but I'm not smoking. Bud, tobacco, white, dmt, anything. Or sugar. Or caffeine. None of it. I'm going completely sober for a week. I've been fucked up for so long, this is going to be good. It's going to be like I'm fucked up."
"Damn, man." I said, backing up further away from the shelter of the bridge. The river was overflowing. "Well, I guess I'll talk to you later."
"Yeah, man. But I might be there later."
"Huh?" I said. I could barely here him over the flowing water.
"I'll probably be at Max's around eleven or so. I've got something you'll probably dig."
"Huh?" I asked.
"Yeah, you'll definitely like it. Someone with a mind like yours, you'll love it. See ya then." He hung up.
I sat confused, but then I realized the puddle had reached my left toe. I slipped my phone back into my soggy pants and mounted my wet bike. I rode into the rain, trying to go fast enough to avoid the rain. Full speed towards Max's.
"Don't let us hold you back, go ahead, have a great time."
Tthe other members of my house nodded slowly, sitting dilated in front of a television box. I sighed in disgust, the sigh of man who had not had a television for a while and does not understand anymore the homely warmth of being fed while your mouth and belly is full.
"Very well, Lars. So it goes." I said, and pulled on my purple jacket. They didn't acknowledge me, and I suppose it was best because sometimes I get like this-all fed up and angry at everything and everyone around me, and the ones who know me well know that the best way to deal with it is to let me feed off it until it burns me out and I'm placid again. But right now I was red.
I hopped onto a bike from the garage and bolted out into the dark rain of the evening. I was curious as to the effect the rain would have on my purple jacket which seemed to be made of felt, but I naively believed that I could just bike fast enough to avoid the rain.
I stopped at a local AM/PM mini market to buy cheap tobacco in a pouch and an alcoholic energy drink. I felt the urge to poison my body in any way possible, to destroy everything and anything that was beautiful. The freezing rain wrapping its fingers around my body dampened my hate for everything in this forsaken town on the edge of the western forest, and everyone in it. And mostly myself, for having risked everything for boardwalk, but landing on park place which I already owned.
I bought my poisons and started to unlock my bike, digging for the keys which were caught somewhere in my already soaking wet pants. I rode until the devil stopped chasing me. I lost him under a bridge which occasionally dotted the Northwest bike paths as roads roared overhead.
I fished a soggy phone out of my pocket and called Jessika. I made a silent promise to myself that I wouldn't let her know how abysmal all this was. What friend unloads all his cynical sadness upon the other? Why would she even answer? Lovely Jess, who was wise enough not to follow me out here into this pine smelling mess. Lovely Jess, somewhere with her life together, quiet with out unpublished poets drinking themselves to death knocking on her door asking if she'd like a shot.
The phone rang and rang, and of course she answered, because sometimes the divine do answer your calls. And I didn't mention once anything overwhelmingly negative, but instead used my only talent to paint bright praise of this place, as I sat under a soggy bridge, edging away from the growing puddle approaching my feet aided by the sleeting rain.
We said our goodbyes, myself promising to finish my book and I hung up. Called Kevin, whom I had met at a halloween warehouse party. This was before I knew he had warrants out for his arrest in California and Iowa. They were only drug warrants. Relax, this is a common thing in the Northwest. I fell in love with a woman who fled to Alaska to avoid warrants in California.
"Hey man, it's #&^^, we met at that Halloween warhouse party."
"Huh?"
"With the fire dancers. Out front. My buddy was playing "Peaches in Regalia"."
"Oh yeah...poet, right? From Minnesota?"
"Massachusetts."
"Right. Right on. What's up?"
"I'm going down to Max's tonight. Wanna get drunk?"
"Man," he said, after I knew he was thinking about it. "I made a promise to myself. I promised that I wouldn't get drunk for a week."
"Bummer." I replied, watching the rancid water crawl towards my wet feet. I backed away a few more feet, closer to the end of the bridge and the pouring rain. This would be a reoccurring theme during the next 9 months or so.
"Not only that," Kevin continued, "but I'm not smoking. Bud, tobacco, white, dmt, anything. Or sugar. Or caffeine. None of it. I'm going completely sober for a week. I've been fucked up for so long, this is going to be good. It's going to be like I'm fucked up."
"Damn, man." I said, backing up further away from the shelter of the bridge. The river was overflowing. "Well, I guess I'll talk to you later."
"Yeah, man. But I might be there later."
"Huh?" I said. I could barely here him over the flowing water.
"I'll probably be at Max's around eleven or so. I've got something you'll probably dig."
"Huh?" I asked.
"Yeah, you'll definitely like it. Someone with a mind like yours, you'll love it. See ya then." He hung up.
I sat confused, but then I realized the puddle had reached my left toe. I slipped my phone back into my soggy pants and mounted my wet bike. I rode into the rain, trying to go fast enough to avoid the rain. Full speed towards Max's.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
I Shall Show Thee the Best Springs
"Aw man...there's naked old men." I said sadly.
Mason looked towards me apologetically. "Sorry." She said.
She had promised me that there wasn't going to be any naked old men at the hot springs. My buddy Dale had warned me about such things. He had been right after all.
"Oh well." I said. I took off my backpack and reached for the high proofed rum. I took a swig and grimaced as the awful stuff burned my stomach. I was already kind of drunk despite the long drive through the mountains. We had taken the wrong turn at Cougar Lake and ended up at something called a powerhouse which over looked the reservoir, but had finally made it to the summit where we hiked a half mile into the Oregonian forest and reached the sulfur springs.
Despite Mason's assurances, the first thing I noticed as I gazed downward towards the hot water pool was a floating, 50 something year old hippy penis drifting like a piece of sea weed.
"I'm not gonna get naked." Mason told me and began to pull off her clothes revealing her white bikini underneath. I shrugged and pulled off my clothes to my boxers and took another swig of the rum, deciding that I wouldn't get naked either. Mason pulled out a marijuana pipe and began stuffing it with high powered marijuana.
"Hey guys, welcome!" I turned and a naked girl climbed up from the rocks towards us on the bank. She had long hair and national geographic boobs which hung scarily down her body. She had a crystal tied into the widow's peak of her dreadlocks which reflected the slowly setting sun which was drifting downwards in shafts through the green moss covered branches. I would later ask her the significance of the crystal, but she just smiled at me and said, "It keeps me fresh."
"Oh, hey Almana!" Mason said. Apparently they knew each other. The naked girl joined us on the bank and casually handed me a joint. Mason introduced me to her friend and we shook hands. I handed her the bottle of rum and she took a swig and coughed. We talked casually for a while as I tried to avoid looking at the naked old men until we finally decided to go into the spring.
I climbed into the hot water and almost fell drunkenly on the slippery rocks. I caught myself before I ate a mouthful of sulfur water and splashed towards the bottom. A large hole in the rocks above us formed a cavern which spouted smelly steam and hot water down into the pool bellow where I floated casually.
An older guy sitting fully clothed was speaking to a naked man sitting on the bank. "Yeah man," he said in a slow, drawn out way which LSD victims usually sport, "Janis, Morrison, Hendrix, Jerry Garcia...they all died for our sins. All of them."
I snorted with laughter. Son of a goose, I thought, if this is what years of heavy drug use did to one, I was glad that I no longer participated. The old guy heard my laughter and nodded at me, as though I understood. The naked guy he was talking to just starred blankly into the dusky sky above, slightly cross eyed. I was beginning to feel uneasy.
I swam to the other side of the hot pool, and climbed out onto the slippery rocks, careful not to fall and crack my skull. The heat was making me thirsty, and a flowing river ran adjacent to the hot spring. I climbed into the icy water of the river, and my body began convulsing from the contrast of the 104 degree hot spring. I had heard that this was good for the body, going from extreme heat to extreme cold. It was just stress. Like lifting weights.
"Can we drink this water?" I asked Almana. She smiled. "I wouldn't. They do," she said pointing to the naked men, "but I wouldn't. Here, have some of this." And she handed me a large plastic jug of water. I took a long swig, my body submerged in icy water splashing over me like melting snow on my winter skin, somewhere deep in the Oregonian wilderness surrounded with space cased, yet well meaning people who were talking about subjects they knew nothing about.
"And that's the universal mass constant." The clothed man said from the bank. "Does anyone mind cigarette smoke?" He asked to no one in particular, and no one answered him so he lit a cigarette. I climbed out of the icy river and went back into the hot spring with out cracking my skull. My body relaxed. A naked old man slowly lowers himself into the water as Almana smiles, her national geographic titties swaying slightly as she leans forward in the hot water. Mason stands and declares that she is getting out and going back to the bank to get high.
I decide that I have enough, so I climb out and join her on the bank. She is talking to two old men who are thankfully clothed. Mason excuses herself to go urinate in the woods, leaving me alone with the two old hippies. The older guy from the spring, the one who believes that the pop stars from the 60's and 70's died as martyrs for our sins climbs up and sits next to me. He introduces himself as Captain Beyond.
"I got that name in the fourth dimension," he explains to me. "When you reach that place, you'll get a name too."
"Can I be an admiral?" I ask him.
"Hell, you could be. I got this name because I'm so far beyond, and a captain gives out the orders. I am, like, the master."
"Well," I say carefully, "an admiral out ranks a captain."
He smiles, and tells me that there are plenty of titles in the fourth dimension for everyone. Even me. He attempts to introduce me to his friends, but he can't remember their names.
"Oh shit--Mike. That's right, I remember now." Cpt. Beyond tells me after a little assistance from his friends. "Mike here is the business guru hippy. I'm the spiritual LSD guru hippy. It's a nice balance." Cpt. Beyond asks me for some of the rum, and I oblige. He coughs heavily after sipping it, and seems impressed by the high quality of a common, cheap liquor.
Mason returns and joins me on the bank by the three old men. Cpt. Beyond asks me if I want any opium.
"Sure." I said, because I do enjoy opium.
"Here, check this out." He pulled out a stash of incense.
"What's this?" I ask the good Captain.
"This," he explains, "is pure, holy opium."
"No, it's not." I said. "That's incense. I thought you had opium?"
"This is opium." The Capt. argued.
"No it's not, that's just incense. You said you had opium. That means black tar stuff."
"Oh man," the Capt. said, "I wish I had some of that. Do you have any?"
"No," I laughed. "You said you had some." I sighed. Talking to these people was like dealing with children. I returned to my bottle of rum, hopeful to get drunk.
"Check this out." Captain beyond was over my shoulder again, reaching into his pack like his bag of tricks. He pulled out a knot of t-shirts and clothes. "You want to see my paintings? I'm a visionary artist." And I believe him, because all visionaries always tell you that they're visionaries.
He shows off some mediocre print screenings and acrylic paint splashed onto an assortment of t-shirts, and I fear that he'll ask me to buy some but thankfully he doesn't, because his art is awful and none of the pictures look right. Jesus Christ is a red and blue blob, Hendrix is yellow smeared on blue, and the holy flower of life is a mess of yellow spirals. I nod and act impressed. Mason and the others pull off the act much more convincing than me. Or more frightfully, they really are in impressed. This worries me very much.
The Captain has a final surprise for all of us gathered on the bank over looking the hot springs. By this time, the sun is starting to go down, and it is illegal to be up here past dark. Some young teenagers have made their way up to the springs, and none of them have national geographic titties and I am highly interested in them. Mason taps my shoulder and draws my attention to Captain Beyond's hands. They're filled with beads, necklaces, and bracelets.
Again, I assume that he is trying to sell them and make some quick cash. But I am surprised when he shoves them into the hands of the girls, and Almana and Mason start putting them around each other's necks and the Captain insists that they keep the handful of jewelry. The ladies started to tie bracelets around my wrists and ankles, as Almana tells me how each consecutive knot is a symbol of strength upon me. I don't believe in it, but I do like hemp jewelry so I bite my tongue and enjoy my free stuff.
Captain Beyond sighs and stands. He zips up his pack as his buddies whose names he could not remember start putting on their socks and tying their expensive looking Timberlands and Northface apparel. The Captain just has an old pair of Nike's, worn down and beaten with the souls coming off. I assume that they are leaving; they are very worried about the park rangers coming up and finding us up here in the dark. The old men claim that they helped build the paths leading to the springs, lugging stones up in wheel barrows over the steep hills. This justifies their extreme territorial habits.
In the impending dark, Captain Beyond looks sad and older. He does not look like a spiritual LSD guru. He does not look powerful or wise. Not that he did much in the light either, but in the darkness his vulnerability is almost comically exposed. He seems lost.
Someone asks him if he has a place to stay after all this. The Captain explains that he's sleeping down at the base of the mountain. He's being doing that for the past week. But he puffs his chest out and proudly states that he has found a home outside of the state park. He has a trailer in the front yard of someone's house which he can stay in during the day. And when the people inside the house aren't home, he can sleep on their couch. He's not sure how he knows the people who own the trailer and the house, but it seems as though he's fought for this for a long time.
These are the words of a man who claims to have experienced the esoteric secrets of the universe. Living the way that the pop star martyrs claimed everyone should and could has lead him to confused nudity at a hot spring deep in the Oregonian forest. For the last time that day, I am glad in a self righteous kind of way that I have moved beyond the notions of enlightenment through substance abuse. Because I can see what it has done to all these poor bastards.
Regards, Esortnom
Mason looked towards me apologetically. "Sorry." She said.
She had promised me that there wasn't going to be any naked old men at the hot springs. My buddy Dale had warned me about such things. He had been right after all.
"Oh well." I said. I took off my backpack and reached for the high proofed rum. I took a swig and grimaced as the awful stuff burned my stomach. I was already kind of drunk despite the long drive through the mountains. We had taken the wrong turn at Cougar Lake and ended up at something called a powerhouse which over looked the reservoir, but had finally made it to the summit where we hiked a half mile into the Oregonian forest and reached the sulfur springs.
Despite Mason's assurances, the first thing I noticed as I gazed downward towards the hot water pool was a floating, 50 something year old hippy penis drifting like a piece of sea weed.
"I'm not gonna get naked." Mason told me and began to pull off her clothes revealing her white bikini underneath. I shrugged and pulled off my clothes to my boxers and took another swig of the rum, deciding that I wouldn't get naked either. Mason pulled out a marijuana pipe and began stuffing it with high powered marijuana.
"Hey guys, welcome!" I turned and a naked girl climbed up from the rocks towards us on the bank. She had long hair and national geographic boobs which hung scarily down her body. She had a crystal tied into the widow's peak of her dreadlocks which reflected the slowly setting sun which was drifting downwards in shafts through the green moss covered branches. I would later ask her the significance of the crystal, but she just smiled at me and said, "It keeps me fresh."
"Oh, hey Almana!" Mason said. Apparently they knew each other. The naked girl joined us on the bank and casually handed me a joint. Mason introduced me to her friend and we shook hands. I handed her the bottle of rum and she took a swig and coughed. We talked casually for a while as I tried to avoid looking at the naked old men until we finally decided to go into the spring.
I climbed into the hot water and almost fell drunkenly on the slippery rocks. I caught myself before I ate a mouthful of sulfur water and splashed towards the bottom. A large hole in the rocks above us formed a cavern which spouted smelly steam and hot water down into the pool bellow where I floated casually.
An older guy sitting fully clothed was speaking to a naked man sitting on the bank. "Yeah man," he said in a slow, drawn out way which LSD victims usually sport, "Janis, Morrison, Hendrix, Jerry Garcia...they all died for our sins. All of them."
I snorted with laughter. Son of a goose, I thought, if this is what years of heavy drug use did to one, I was glad that I no longer participated. The old guy heard my laughter and nodded at me, as though I understood. The naked guy he was talking to just starred blankly into the dusky sky above, slightly cross eyed. I was beginning to feel uneasy.
I swam to the other side of the hot pool, and climbed out onto the slippery rocks, careful not to fall and crack my skull. The heat was making me thirsty, and a flowing river ran adjacent to the hot spring. I climbed into the icy water of the river, and my body began convulsing from the contrast of the 104 degree hot spring. I had heard that this was good for the body, going from extreme heat to extreme cold. It was just stress. Like lifting weights.
"Can we drink this water?" I asked Almana. She smiled. "I wouldn't. They do," she said pointing to the naked men, "but I wouldn't. Here, have some of this." And she handed me a large plastic jug of water. I took a long swig, my body submerged in icy water splashing over me like melting snow on my winter skin, somewhere deep in the Oregonian wilderness surrounded with space cased, yet well meaning people who were talking about subjects they knew nothing about.
"And that's the universal mass constant." The clothed man said from the bank. "Does anyone mind cigarette smoke?" He asked to no one in particular, and no one answered him so he lit a cigarette. I climbed out of the icy river and went back into the hot spring with out cracking my skull. My body relaxed. A naked old man slowly lowers himself into the water as Almana smiles, her national geographic titties swaying slightly as she leans forward in the hot water. Mason stands and declares that she is getting out and going back to the bank to get high.
I decide that I have enough, so I climb out and join her on the bank. She is talking to two old men who are thankfully clothed. Mason excuses herself to go urinate in the woods, leaving me alone with the two old hippies. The older guy from the spring, the one who believes that the pop stars from the 60's and 70's died as martyrs for our sins climbs up and sits next to me. He introduces himself as Captain Beyond.
"I got that name in the fourth dimension," he explains to me. "When you reach that place, you'll get a name too."
"Can I be an admiral?" I ask him.
"Hell, you could be. I got this name because I'm so far beyond, and a captain gives out the orders. I am, like, the master."
"Well," I say carefully, "an admiral out ranks a captain."
He smiles, and tells me that there are plenty of titles in the fourth dimension for everyone. Even me. He attempts to introduce me to his friends, but he can't remember their names.
"Oh shit--Mike. That's right, I remember now." Cpt. Beyond tells me after a little assistance from his friends. "Mike here is the business guru hippy. I'm the spiritual LSD guru hippy. It's a nice balance." Cpt. Beyond asks me for some of the rum, and I oblige. He coughs heavily after sipping it, and seems impressed by the high quality of a common, cheap liquor.
Mason returns and joins me on the bank by the three old men. Cpt. Beyond asks me if I want any opium.
"Sure." I said, because I do enjoy opium.
"Here, check this out." He pulled out a stash of incense.
"What's this?" I ask the good Captain.
"This," he explains, "is pure, holy opium."
"No, it's not." I said. "That's incense. I thought you had opium?"
"This is opium." The Capt. argued.
"No it's not, that's just incense. You said you had opium. That means black tar stuff."
"Oh man," the Capt. said, "I wish I had some of that. Do you have any?"
"No," I laughed. "You said you had some." I sighed. Talking to these people was like dealing with children. I returned to my bottle of rum, hopeful to get drunk.
"Check this out." Captain beyond was over my shoulder again, reaching into his pack like his bag of tricks. He pulled out a knot of t-shirts and clothes. "You want to see my paintings? I'm a visionary artist." And I believe him, because all visionaries always tell you that they're visionaries.
He shows off some mediocre print screenings and acrylic paint splashed onto an assortment of t-shirts, and I fear that he'll ask me to buy some but thankfully he doesn't, because his art is awful and none of the pictures look right. Jesus Christ is a red and blue blob, Hendrix is yellow smeared on blue, and the holy flower of life is a mess of yellow spirals. I nod and act impressed. Mason and the others pull off the act much more convincing than me. Or more frightfully, they really are in impressed. This worries me very much.
The Captain has a final surprise for all of us gathered on the bank over looking the hot springs. By this time, the sun is starting to go down, and it is illegal to be up here past dark. Some young teenagers have made their way up to the springs, and none of them have national geographic titties and I am highly interested in them. Mason taps my shoulder and draws my attention to Captain Beyond's hands. They're filled with beads, necklaces, and bracelets.
Again, I assume that he is trying to sell them and make some quick cash. But I am surprised when he shoves them into the hands of the girls, and Almana and Mason start putting them around each other's necks and the Captain insists that they keep the handful of jewelry. The ladies started to tie bracelets around my wrists and ankles, as Almana tells me how each consecutive knot is a symbol of strength upon me. I don't believe in it, but I do like hemp jewelry so I bite my tongue and enjoy my free stuff.
Captain Beyond sighs and stands. He zips up his pack as his buddies whose names he could not remember start putting on their socks and tying their expensive looking Timberlands and Northface apparel. The Captain just has an old pair of Nike's, worn down and beaten with the souls coming off. I assume that they are leaving; they are very worried about the park rangers coming up and finding us up here in the dark. The old men claim that they helped build the paths leading to the springs, lugging stones up in wheel barrows over the steep hills. This justifies their extreme territorial habits.
In the impending dark, Captain Beyond looks sad and older. He does not look like a spiritual LSD guru. He does not look powerful or wise. Not that he did much in the light either, but in the darkness his vulnerability is almost comically exposed. He seems lost.
Someone asks him if he has a place to stay after all this. The Captain explains that he's sleeping down at the base of the mountain. He's being doing that for the past week. But he puffs his chest out and proudly states that he has found a home outside of the state park. He has a trailer in the front yard of someone's house which he can stay in during the day. And when the people inside the house aren't home, he can sleep on their couch. He's not sure how he knows the people who own the trailer and the house, but it seems as though he's fought for this for a long time.
These are the words of a man who claims to have experienced the esoteric secrets of the universe. Living the way that the pop star martyrs claimed everyone should and could has lead him to confused nudity at a hot spring deep in the Oregonian forest. For the last time that day, I am glad in a self righteous kind of way that I have moved beyond the notions of enlightenment through substance abuse. Because I can see what it has done to all these poor bastards.
Regards, Esortnom
Nomad Found
Of the greatest faults of Nomad, was his inability to remain satisfied in any area within his continental reach which did not incorporate several important characteristics. Not since long has a gentleman lived so craving the madness of expensive whiskey when he had no money, as he roamed the swept streets with no where to go while searching for his queen while having no kingdom. Never before had one's own lust for purpose cast him out so harshly. The only thing which occasionally slowed this Zetes to a sloth was the occasional return back to normal society for brief periods, if not to recharge his resources than but to remind him of the reasons for his ways.
So every few months would pass, and Nomad firstly dusts of his musical instrument, then stirs up what few belongings he will carry alongside his taste for awesomeness upon his broad back, leaving behind his degree of higher education which will not apply to his current lifestyle. Also, because of his taste for the forbidden fruits of modern man less he be acknowledge as shiftless, baseless, and lazy, Nomad wears a fedora, saves 2.49$ by not buying deodorant, and sports a long beard no longer in style. In the begging ways of the shiftless culture, 2.49$ demands hours of loyal work: tearing the skin off the knuckles while grasping a sign, begging for those generous enough with kind hearts to aide in his adventurous journey, for he his hungry, tired, and smelly. Saving coin where coin can be saved is the mantra, and Nomad is a great spokesman, earning his coins for words and charm.
Yet no matter, for to starve in a modern kingdom of waste and gluttony would be criminal. Invoking the darkest apathy and hunger he can muster, Nomad is seduced by the garbage of Krispy Kreme and Dairy Queen. Timing the closing of their doors, Nomad sets himself accordingly to raid the heaps of trash behind each building. Discovering a steaming pile of hot fries merely moments out of the oil is not surprising. The kingdom is blissfully rambling on, while small pockets of disobedience pick through their trash, outrageously capitalizing upon everyone else restraint.
You must also know, that the above mentioned gentleman, when on his leisure (which was mostly all year long) took to reading books of great chivalry and adventure, which he enjoyed discussing with men of his similar value and taste. He kept with him Boit, a man of twenty five and Cuillere, a woman of nineteen, whom Boit belonged to. Along in their red truck, they sped and begged on railways and corners, men and women of the day advertising the need for deodorants from Murfreesboro to the village of Quaker Street, where the vagrants and bums like themselves have long sat upon their park bench thrones, dispelling the notions of quarter Nomad and his clan foolishly imagined.
With these advantages, Nomad managed to climb the social ladder of the bum underworld and attain admirable respect and valor. Not quite earning his wings, but rather a nick name and any herb which came along the way, for also Boit nor Cuillere bothered with the smoke, nor any substance aside from wine and cheap ale. It is true that the lack of drug abuse makes for a more substantial adventure, and this deficiency of consciousness expansion and psychedelic vegetables merely makes the power and deities of the kingdom powerless upon pulling over the red truck of Nomad.
So as the night rises on another corner, this time in the Beaver State, Nomad sits not half dreaming on a corner with his shined musical instrument, but rather behind the Jackalope. Nomad hardly believes that other people are bumming cigarettes off him, yet he still donates. Having not a name for himself over here quite yet, he has no worries of fighting off the changers (strangers just asking for change), homebums (bums who live in Eugene), travbums (traveling bums such as Nomad, Boit, and Cuillere), nor the junkbums (people begging for coin for drugs), not including punk rockers and other untrusted looking for fight. It should also be noted that the Beaver State is notorious for being unkind to this culture, thus leading to trouble by both open war and covert guile.
He views this land as a strange virgin, still young and unfulfilled. Union and faith are amongst its angels--the upright wings against some higher foe back east, perhaps in The Old Dominion (Virginia) which was the only state in the union to pull over his red truck. To Nomad, the mortal gates of Eugene are decorated with little birds of the early morning, fit to be brass mountings. By heart, he knows that he will move on soon enough, even in the presence of its beauty, but that is adverse. For presently, he is love stricken, and will forever hold in remembrance of his heart his anguished pining for love from thee.
Regards, Esortnom
So every few months would pass, and Nomad firstly dusts of his musical instrument, then stirs up what few belongings he will carry alongside his taste for awesomeness upon his broad back, leaving behind his degree of higher education which will not apply to his current lifestyle. Also, because of his taste for the forbidden fruits of modern man less he be acknowledge as shiftless, baseless, and lazy, Nomad wears a fedora, saves 2.49$ by not buying deodorant, and sports a long beard no longer in style. In the begging ways of the shiftless culture, 2.49$ demands hours of loyal work: tearing the skin off the knuckles while grasping a sign, begging for those generous enough with kind hearts to aide in his adventurous journey, for he his hungry, tired, and smelly. Saving coin where coin can be saved is the mantra, and Nomad is a great spokesman, earning his coins for words and charm.
Yet no matter, for to starve in a modern kingdom of waste and gluttony would be criminal. Invoking the darkest apathy and hunger he can muster, Nomad is seduced by the garbage of Krispy Kreme and Dairy Queen. Timing the closing of their doors, Nomad sets himself accordingly to raid the heaps of trash behind each building. Discovering a steaming pile of hot fries merely moments out of the oil is not surprising. The kingdom is blissfully rambling on, while small pockets of disobedience pick through their trash, outrageously capitalizing upon everyone else restraint.
You must also know, that the above mentioned gentleman, when on his leisure (which was mostly all year long) took to reading books of great chivalry and adventure, which he enjoyed discussing with men of his similar value and taste. He kept with him Boit, a man of twenty five and Cuillere, a woman of nineteen, whom Boit belonged to. Along in their red truck, they sped and begged on railways and corners, men and women of the day advertising the need for deodorants from Murfreesboro to the village of Quaker Street, where the vagrants and bums like themselves have long sat upon their park bench thrones, dispelling the notions of quarter Nomad and his clan foolishly imagined.
With these advantages, Nomad managed to climb the social ladder of the bum underworld and attain admirable respect and valor. Not quite earning his wings, but rather a nick name and any herb which came along the way, for also Boit nor Cuillere bothered with the smoke, nor any substance aside from wine and cheap ale. It is true that the lack of drug abuse makes for a more substantial adventure, and this deficiency of consciousness expansion and psychedelic vegetables merely makes the power and deities of the kingdom powerless upon pulling over the red truck of Nomad.
So as the night rises on another corner, this time in the Beaver State, Nomad sits not half dreaming on a corner with his shined musical instrument, but rather behind the Jackalope. Nomad hardly believes that other people are bumming cigarettes off him, yet he still donates. Having not a name for himself over here quite yet, he has no worries of fighting off the changers (strangers just asking for change), homebums (bums who live in Eugene), travbums (traveling bums such as Nomad, Boit, and Cuillere), nor the junkbums (people begging for coin for drugs), not including punk rockers and other untrusted looking for fight. It should also be noted that the Beaver State is notorious for being unkind to this culture, thus leading to trouble by both open war and covert guile.
He views this land as a strange virgin, still young and unfulfilled. Union and faith are amongst its angels--the upright wings against some higher foe back east, perhaps in The Old Dominion (Virginia) which was the only state in the union to pull over his red truck. To Nomad, the mortal gates of Eugene are decorated with little birds of the early morning, fit to be brass mountings. By heart, he knows that he will move on soon enough, even in the presence of its beauty, but that is adverse. For presently, he is love stricken, and will forever hold in remembrance of his heart his anguished pining for love from thee.
Regards, Esortnom
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Over Twisted Ankles and Thorns for the Queen
it's really hot out. i was sleeping on my mattress in my new apartment when i got the text. i was glad my new roommate wasn't home because she always tried to lay down next to me when i slept. it was terrible; i could not sleep at all when this particular human being was laying next to me. every strand of dna of my existence fought against me laying down next to her and closing my eyes. the one time i was able to sleep for extended hours, i dreamed i was sleeping next to another girl. the satisfaction of my arms around a warm body was mildly unfulfilled when she was involved.
anyways, my roommate wasn't around so i was able to sleep for about 2 hours, which when coupled with my usual regiment of 5 hours of sleep/night, wasn't a bad ratio of sleep per 24 hours. i woke up with my head all sweaty and my pillow kind of soggy, which is a terrible feeling. Luckily i received a text message from one of my favorite oregonians which dispelled the swampy sleep conditions, advising me to drink plenty of water and arrive at her house by 5 in the p.m. in order to jog a few quarter miles of an uphill incline.
Now, since february, roughly 5 months, i've been making a conscious decision to treat my body better. I am convinced that one's body is his holy temple, his church and house of god. i do make the distinction that a body does not make a person, for i believe that our bodies are mere vessels, transporting and quartering our spiritual beings within. Sometimes we leave them behind. But we owe them for the hard work our DNA and RNA accomplished, not to mention our thrusting fathers and lovely mothers, for creating these handy contraptions which allow me to breathe, feel, and know that i am alive*...So we might as well show our bodies respect, if not for them, then for ourselves. Because we have to live with them.
So I joined a gym in the winter after i shaved my head into a mohawk thinking i was badass when really i was just horribly out of shape from driving across the country and sitting in a car for 2 weeks straight. And after arriving here, i became gradually very poor from lack of employment and surplus of booze and fast food. However, now I feel as though I am making progress in reforming my body into something sacred once again. Thus, I assumed I could jog with a beautiful girl.
It turns out that some beautiful girls are more athletic than you think you ever were. I played hockey for multiple years in my youth and I bet you all the money in my roommates bank account that this woman could give me a run for my money crossing over or doing break outs on ice skates. And when you start running uphill with a beautiful western woman in the rare oregon sun after hiding her car keys so they wouldn't slap against your thighs as you run uphill, you realize that all the water you drank while fantasizing about unrealistic and illogical scenarios suddenly seems too much of a burden to bear.
So as I stomp one heavy foot after another onto inclined pavement and roll my left ankle as sweat pours down my back, and face, and neck--yes, somehow i am so hot my neck is sweating--i can't even continue marveling at her beautious wonder in tight black shorts or her explosive breathing which i pathetically imagine to be sexual because im so pathetically infatuated with her as she humors me and keeps pace until i say "one hand washes the other" which is code for "stop!".
So we stop and i take a piss under high tension power lines, listening to their thriving hum as my urine splashes onto cascading rocks, and my jogging buddy is across the street, and she admits that at red lights while waiting to cross the street she is one of those people who jogs in place until the light is green, and i laugh and admire her strange dedication and allegiance to all this.
One the way back down the hill, she is much faster than me, and i feel like puking all over the place but i hold it back, even though i'm certain that it wouldn't change her thoughts about me but rather i am concerned about the ride home in the hot sun while smelling like puke. We reach the bottom, and she lets me rest while she does and does it again, and i suddenly realize how overcome and overwhelmed i am, so i sit down and breathe slow then stand and stretch and poke at trees. I move further down the road because the air smells like crap, i think there is an open sewer somewhere like in that episode of 'dirty jobs' with mike rowe, and it's a good thing i decided to move because the lovely lady is coming down the hill and she joins me and i am grateful to hear her say, 'let's leave', even though i now feel rejuvenated enough to run up the hill again.
She encourages me to do so, saying that'll she wait at the bottom for me. But what's the point of that? The only reason I came was you. So i decline, and we jump back onto the road, heading back as our clothes absorb our sweat and we talk about urges to swim and urges to touch cold bodies of water until we reach her house and notice that the bums had already stolen the empty bottles i had left outside. Impressed, i go upstairs and gather my belongings, thinking of the significance of trying to catch this beautiful woman running gracefully ahead of me as i struggled not to vomit all over myself and her lovely hair.
Regards, Esortnom
anyways, my roommate wasn't around so i was able to sleep for about 2 hours, which when coupled with my usual regiment of 5 hours of sleep/night, wasn't a bad ratio of sleep per 24 hours. i woke up with my head all sweaty and my pillow kind of soggy, which is a terrible feeling. Luckily i received a text message from one of my favorite oregonians which dispelled the swampy sleep conditions, advising me to drink plenty of water and arrive at her house by 5 in the p.m. in order to jog a few quarter miles of an uphill incline.
Now, since february, roughly 5 months, i've been making a conscious decision to treat my body better. I am convinced that one's body is his holy temple, his church and house of god. i do make the distinction that a body does not make a person, for i believe that our bodies are mere vessels, transporting and quartering our spiritual beings within. Sometimes we leave them behind. But we owe them for the hard work our DNA and RNA accomplished, not to mention our thrusting fathers and lovely mothers, for creating these handy contraptions which allow me to breathe, feel, and know that i am alive*...So we might as well show our bodies respect, if not for them, then for ourselves. Because we have to live with them.
So I joined a gym in the winter after i shaved my head into a mohawk thinking i was badass when really i was just horribly out of shape from driving across the country and sitting in a car for 2 weeks straight. And after arriving here, i became gradually very poor from lack of employment and surplus of booze and fast food. However, now I feel as though I am making progress in reforming my body into something sacred once again. Thus, I assumed I could jog with a beautiful girl.
It turns out that some beautiful girls are more athletic than you think you ever were. I played hockey for multiple years in my youth and I bet you all the money in my roommates bank account that this woman could give me a run for my money crossing over or doing break outs on ice skates. And when you start running uphill with a beautiful western woman in the rare oregon sun after hiding her car keys so they wouldn't slap against your thighs as you run uphill, you realize that all the water you drank while fantasizing about unrealistic and illogical scenarios suddenly seems too much of a burden to bear.
So as I stomp one heavy foot after another onto inclined pavement and roll my left ankle as sweat pours down my back, and face, and neck--yes, somehow i am so hot my neck is sweating--i can't even continue marveling at her beautious wonder in tight black shorts or her explosive breathing which i pathetically imagine to be sexual because im so pathetically infatuated with her as she humors me and keeps pace until i say "one hand washes the other" which is code for "stop!".
So we stop and i take a piss under high tension power lines, listening to their thriving hum as my urine splashes onto cascading rocks, and my jogging buddy is across the street, and she admits that at red lights while waiting to cross the street she is one of those people who jogs in place until the light is green, and i laugh and admire her strange dedication and allegiance to all this.
One the way back down the hill, she is much faster than me, and i feel like puking all over the place but i hold it back, even though i'm certain that it wouldn't change her thoughts about me but rather i am concerned about the ride home in the hot sun while smelling like puke. We reach the bottom, and she lets me rest while she does and does it again, and i suddenly realize how overcome and overwhelmed i am, so i sit down and breathe slow then stand and stretch and poke at trees. I move further down the road because the air smells like crap, i think there is an open sewer somewhere like in that episode of 'dirty jobs' with mike rowe, and it's a good thing i decided to move because the lovely lady is coming down the hill and she joins me and i am grateful to hear her say, 'let's leave', even though i now feel rejuvenated enough to run up the hill again.
She encourages me to do so, saying that'll she wait at the bottom for me. But what's the point of that? The only reason I came was you. So i decline, and we jump back onto the road, heading back as our clothes absorb our sweat and we talk about urges to swim and urges to touch cold bodies of water until we reach her house and notice that the bums had already stolen the empty bottles i had left outside. Impressed, i go upstairs and gather my belongings, thinking of the significance of trying to catch this beautiful woman running gracefully ahead of me as i struggled not to vomit all over myself and her lovely hair.
Regards, Esortnom
Thursday, July 2, 2009
The Resentful House of Lovecraft
dripping maroon
from sloppy ceiling sending sound
cascading down like rain dripping down
messing with vision blurred by alcohol consumption
jokers and wildcards slowly sipping draft social dynamics
in the masquerade everyone's got a mask
to go with their game especially when they dress
all the same with overcoat shields and dyed blond spears
some bother to smoke when its clear
that everything's not worth being alright
sometimes across buildings and city blocks
which segregate others who staggerly walk
from one point of unbeing to another in the dark
we believe that its just about the same
and they wish that someone else could relate
the wind inhales and waves goodbye
to buildings painted on buildings in disguise
signals sent miss the mark and the creator
sighs in disgust, reflected in his art
a creation lost which bends like all the rest
Cheers,
Thujonu
from sloppy ceiling sending sound
cascading down like rain dripping down
messing with vision blurred by alcohol consumption
jokers and wildcards slowly sipping draft social dynamics
in the masquerade everyone's got a mask
to go with their game especially when they dress
all the same with overcoat shields and dyed blond spears
some bother to smoke when its clear
that everything's not worth being alright
sometimes across buildings and city blocks
which segregate others who staggerly walk
from one point of unbeing to another in the dark
we believe that its just about the same
and they wish that someone else could relate
the wind inhales and waves goodbye
to buildings painted on buildings in disguise
signals sent miss the mark and the creator
sighs in disgust, reflected in his art
a creation lost which bends like all the rest
Cheers,
Thujonu
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