What it Does to You

“Ew!” Jayha squeaked. “Look, they’re having sex now!”

We all turned and it was true, the two strangers were doing the familiar rhythmic thrust into each other on the no longer lonely bench which I sometimes sat on to meditate and contemplate the life altering decisions which I was occasionally forced to make.

“I think it’s time to go.” Beaglesworth said, no longer laughing.

Back around through the thicket of bushes and the feeling of being inside a giant bonsai tree overwhelmed me once again like it always did when I was tripping at the waterfall, and then rushing back up the wooden stairs as the couple on the bench didn’t even turn or stare, their actions lost within each other and the rush of the water. Behind us they fell, and further back as we climbed over the wall and back onto the empty street. Sick yellow light fell from lamp posts, illuminating us and playing strange kaleidoscopic games with our shadows as we roamed aimlessly along the solid yellow line in the middle of the road.

Half of us walked on one side of the road, while the other half of the group strode in the middle, in between. The division between us was the direction we were each heading, and I was haunted with the paranoid acid induced metaphor that this was it, this was us; each one of us traveling some road, heading somewhere, herded together briefly for school and training but then released to our own whims and will to the road. Some of us walked forward, others laterally, or even standing still. Those who stood still might as well have been walking backwards, for the rest of us kept walking into the night, bouncing from yellow street light to street light while the stragglers were left behind in the darkness, puzzled over broken glass in the gutter or bright fire balls in the sky.

A warm breeze passed us by, cooling the sweat which ran down my forehead and my hair onto my body and down my legs into my sandals which were cracked and broken and held together by duck tape and love. Beaglesworth and I rounded up the drifters, mostly Gom and Jayha who had fallen silently behind us, and brought them forth to the rest of us, approaching the behemoth black tooth grinning skeleton of a burned out mill.

Rising up from the fencing surrounding it, protecting us from it and it from us, the building stood tall and proud like a monument to the forgotten lifeblood of the town which ran through its veins for a hundred years or so before it became obsolete and discarded. Until it burned down, and then it made the news again, for one last time. And now it was just an old relic, a reminder of the fire hazards poorly and quickly constructed antique mills pose to those who are unfortunate enough to live within its mammoth, cobwebbed shadows of its shell.

Under its gaze we admired the blackened streaks and terrifyingly dark crusted corners of its tallest windows where the flames had licked and leaped outwards, trying to smote the whole town in some sick euthanasia moment of pity and outraged disgust. Silently, we mused over the structure like patrons to a museum would contemplate a twisted work of post modern art which rejected logic yet was brutally primitive enough to be placed beside a statue from Willendorf.

Ugly scar on an ugly town which should’ve burned to the ground long before I had the opportunity to flip through the classifieds while working an obscure midnight shift in some bloodthirsty and faceless retail outlet, why did the fire patrol cease the engulfing of the whole town by your angry flames bred of the mill which gave this very town birth?

Why not let things come full circle? Let the flaming holocaust spread to the mill next door, and the ancient New England cemetery across the street with its crooked tooth gravestones which resemble the foundation stones in the basement of the place I now call home, where all the people drive their broken down cars to their broken down lives while avoiding the face to face confrontation with their broken down dreams and the dismal fact that the human race is slowly losing because the race is considered a marathon. Meanwhile those of us who reject that silly notion stay up all night and wonder the abandoned streets in the summer heat and decide to sprint until our sides burst into oceanic dreamscapes of LSD induced pure reality which shred the thin blanket of comfort the retail outlets and landlords and politicians and sports stars cling to in order to establish a ground set of rules while cop cruisers drive by slow and shine lights onto us wondering what we’re doing out so late but we just smile sly grins and stick out our tongues with our fingers in our ears, mocking the small town pigs. I say let the whole place burn because it’s evolve or die in the hostile universe, and a town like this is an ugly reminder of the way things used to be, not what they could or should be and it just made me go mad in my frenzied state, like seeing a beaten down dog still chained to its post in its owner’s yard. Why even have a dog if you’re going to treat it like that?

The drug makes me feel so tall yet scrutinized like I’m under a microscope while pointing out that I am in control of all of my reality. This fact puts so much power into my hands that it in fact makes me feel small, as though I should be ashamed that this is the best that I can do. Sometimes acid trips can be very frustrating for this reason.

My friends tell me to shush until the cop turns his spot light back off and continues his slow coast down the road and they all burst out laughing but I’m not sure at what or why because what I’ve thought and said was very true to me and it seems to me that they don’t spend all day and all night out here, in the dusty solitude of a town that has no business existing anymore, where multiple types of drug abusers roam the streets and occupy the same waterfall simultaneously while not working together to bring about some type of positive change, because it’s so much easier to turn away than it is to embrace the world, than it is to change the world, especially when late night police cruisers shine bright lights right at your faces without exchanging any words for some reason and my friends can always return to their parents houses and their little bedrooms while the mom does the laundry and dad mows the lawn.

So we leave the giant structure behind when Gom and Beaglesworth become concerned about the signs warning of Asbestos and cancer and such, and we returned to my little second floor apartment overlooking the abandoned street. Loudly we piled back in and collapse onto the couch, and I’m so god damn hot it’s making me feel sick. The acid makes me out of touch enough not even realize how much I’ve been sweating, and the answer is a lot, and even sweet Jayha says, “Moon, you look like a drowning rat.” Because the sweat has completely soaked my hair and my shirt and I’m red faced and out of breath. I think maybe the playground really got right on top of me back there, and that’s part of it, but I think the sick realizations in front of the charred skeletal mill really made me uneasy and nervous. LSD produces strange realizations and truths which sometimes are better left buried beneath the conscious sometimes, otherwise everyone would be a nervous, sweating mess wandering the streets in confusion and dismay at the way things have come to be.

I go into my room and throw off my clothes and put on some more accommodating ones which I hoped would ventilate and cool my raving body and brain off, then I parked myself in front of the fan and let it blow hot air at me so I can cool off a bit, and everyone laughed at me because I looked so out of it, the supposed LSD guru who’s not worried about his brain turning to mush is slowly melting to death because it’s so fucking humid and hot and nothing’s alright in this town yet still the residents quietly sleep in their darkened rooms in the corners or their mattresses which are propped up against walls during the day to make more room for the dogs. My only relief is cold water which Marcus brings me and my drawing pad and a few colored pencils, because otherwise I’d probably just scream out in frustration.

I calmed down a bit and begin to draw aimlessly and beautifully. Drawing and painting under the influence of LSD is such a simple and casual experience; no thought is required to produce eccentric and eye catching art, one must merely let the pencil or brush glide over the page independently while the mind merely sits back and folds and shifts everything its watching while it is creating.

Everyone’s drinking water and talking softly about obscure topics. Mostly we discussed things which we have determined to be clearly illogical now that the drug has sharpened our gaze to the most basic and simplest form. It seems that the whole world has gotten unnecessarily complicated for the sake of being so, just in case a visitor happens to swing by our little blue life forging planet and ask us, “What have you monkeys been up to in the last five thousand years or so?” We can just close our eyes and point to anything and feel justified about the systems we’ve created for ourselves to follow. And in this country, in the last days of the American century, it seems more illogical and futile than ever before, especially in the eyes of Marcus who has spent considerable time in Denmark, the happiest country in the world, which is everything the American Empire should be but isn’t, and it’s just so insanely frustrating for the thinkers, fighters, and sprinters like us who realize that things have to change otherwise we’ll all end up like the burned out mills which landmark the roadway into the small New England town I came to hide in.

I turned on some beautiful music and the room fell silent as we all descend into our own minds and the games they play when stimulated so. My beautiful cat pounced onto the couch and I pet him softly as he collapses onto my lap happily, slightly paranoid like he always is whenever a bunch of us are awake all night laughing so hard that we cry one moment and then the next becoming deathly silent as we were confronted with realizations and strange logic which usually is forgotten by the next day until we remind each other over beers in some bar filled with old people that won’t let you talk about a thing. This is how we searched for meaning and illumination under the hot nights, happy for our efforts but frustrated by our lack of progress. This is what it does to you.

Regards, Esortnom

Brenton

The building sat empty or near empty for a while as a newer, smaller school opened up in a neighboring district, funneling away any remaining students and faculty. Nationwide, corporal punishment fell out of favor as a means of disciplining students, and the notion of positive reinforcement became the strong new paradigm, as teachers were no longer expected to act as substitute parents during school hours. Student misbehavior is not a new phenomenon, but as the "video game generation" matured and angered, it characterized misbehavior with physical violence against teachers and other students. Sometime as the calendar turned from the 1980's towards the 1990's, the school received private funding to create an alternative schooling program which would ideally accept "low incident risk, special education children whose needs cannot be best served through that student’s own district."

Brenton High accepted those who were not accepted anywhere else.

Up a dark, winding stair case to the second floor, only two class room doors are open and unlocked. The air is thick and hot, stuffy from lack of circulation and rules against opening windows. A large chart with every students name and the days of the week on it is the only thing on the blackboard.

Brenton uses a point system to judge the behavior of each student. Everyone starts at level 1, and if a student has a good day, he can get up to 5 full points. Each incident or disruption can and will detract from your points. Accumulating points can lead to an upgrade in your level. Higher levels can choose movies to watch, or games to play during gym class. Sometimes, the higher levels can even forgo the otherwise mandatory routine of push-ups and jumping jacks each morning.

Shawn leads the pack as a level 4. He is a blond haired, articulate 13 year old. His laughter is contagious, and if he died right now, his obituary could possibly read, "he put a smile on everyone's face". However, Shawn has anger management issues, and is prone to violence over trivial matters. He seriously beat a classmate at his former school, then injured a female teacher who tried to stop the fight. Everyone, including Shawn, is unclear over what provoked the attack. So Shawn now sits in the back row of one of the two classrooms in Brenton High.

"For the most part, Shawn is a good kid. They're all good kids. But they all have issues, which is why they're here, obviously. Shawn especially has a quick temper. He can get really riled up real quickly, but a few seconds later be fine. He's a good kid, he just has serious issues." Says Janice, who is one of three certified teachers at Brenton. She is a large woman with a serious face and calm eyes, and by no means attractive. Yet she is the most popular faculty member at Brenton because she is the only female in the whole school.

"He screamed like a hyena," Max says, "when Burt sat on him, he screamed his head off just like a cotton picking hyena." Despite being the longest tenured student, Max is behind Shawn as a level 3 as his behavior is constantly a problem. Max looks normal enough, but after talking with him briefly, one immediately concludes that he is not completely there mentally. Max had issues with physical and possible sexual abuse as a youngster, and was recommended to Brenton after he was caught killing neighborhood cats in his garage in fifth grade.

"Burt's a fat guy." Max says softly.

Burt is certainly a fat guy, and probably the least liked among Brenton's staff. Burt is not really a teacher, per say, but rather more like hired security. His big body sweats a lot in the humid May air, even as he merely sits at his desk in the back of the room, making sure everything is in order. He does not garnish resentment because of his personality or size, but because he carries a 10$ roll of quarters in his back pocket. Max is one of many students who can testify to the disciplinary effects of a fist full of change to the back of the neck.

Anthony, who pulled a knife on another student and attempted to stab him at his former school, could also attest to the benefits of not being hit by a roll of quarters. A level 2, he is imposing and very angry, but enjoys playing dodge ball and cards. Not everyone enjoys dodge ball, and it seems strange that a game where heavy leather balls are chucked at space cadet teenagers who stare at their shoes or pick their noses is encouraged by the staff. But everyone at Brenton enjoys playing cards, and they all know hundreds of games to play. Some days, there is nothing else to do in the hot classroom but play golf, or poker or crazy eights, or face off, or hockey.

Patrick sits quietly at his desk and does not participate in card games with the others. His is a level 1 not because of his lack of highly encouraged participation with others, but because he is the newest edition to Brenton's core. As is customary, he was told he would be merely visiting Brenton to determine if he liked it, but was then left for the first of many days at the alternative school. Well, half day. It is policy to bring first time students to Brenton after lunch time, as to not arouse the student's suspicion of why a bagged lunch is necessary if he is merely only going to take a tour.

The next day, Patrick brings his bagged lunch, and it is searched by staff as he enters the classroom. Lunches are searched daily for weapons and drugs. No back packs are allowed; all books, papers, and academic materials are kept in the classroom each night. Students are followed and observed in the bathrooms to prevent them from bumping lines of cocaine or jerking off or killing themselves or each other. Patrick watches unemotionally as the faculty searches through his cheese sandwich and fruit snacks. Patrick is a vegetarian, because he believes, "it is in accordance with the Left Hand Path." Patrick is a self proclaimed Satanist.

"The ways of Judeo-Christian theocracy have strangled human culture for centuries, and are the sources of major prosecutions of opposing religions, cultures, and even nature itself." Patrick says to Sherry-Brenton's resident child psychologist.

Sherry nods, displaying a semi-interested look of some one who has heard it all before. As if not hearing Patrick's opening remark, she asks him,

"So when was the first time you toked on pot?"

Patrick smiles softly. "Poisoning the body which is Lucifer's temple of the morning star is strictly against the tenants of the Left Hand Path." He casually replies.

It is clear that Patrick is intelligent and even studious, especially when compared with his classmates, some who barely break 80 on Brenton administered IQ tests. Patrick carefully considers each answer and reply he gives to Sherry, as he realizes that the judgment Sherry passes on him is his ticket out of Brenton. He desperately misses his old friends, however few and far in between. It is obvious that Patrick would be an odd duck almost anywhere, clad in full length black sleeves and pants even in the humid May sun, but at Brenton, he is a freak among freaks.

He rubs his chin with a palm sporting a hand drawn pentagram. This kind of artwork is the reason Patrick is here--teachers and psychologists at his former school found a cache of his artwork. While if it was hanging in a museum, it would seem almost tame, but when found in the folder of a 13 year old 8th grader, the artwork put fear into the hearts of his peers and administrators. Thus, Patrick is in the midst of his second week among the other freaks at Brenton.

He looks past Sherry, and out her locked window as he speaks. He refuses any behavior modifying medication, and discusses his misunderstood philosophy of Anton Szandor LaVey, Nietzsche, and the Marquis de Sade. Sherry humors him, and hopes to catch him in a contradiction or in a self imposes trap of guilt, somehow trying to justify his enrollment at Brenton.

When asked his thoughts on his chances of returning to his old school, Patrick shrugs. He knows it's rare for people to return without spending at least six weeks at Brenton. By then, the school year will be over.

"At my old high school," Patrick says, looking out the window, "I was too ugly to be let in. At Brenton, here, I'm too beautiful to be let out."

Regards, Esortnom

Fences Are Real Cunts

It was morning when Monterey awoke to the familiar sound of the breeze, the birds, and the sun rushing through his eyelids like the blood in his veins. He rolled over on his filthy Styrofoam mat and tiredly groaned, frustrated that another day had found him. Despite his best efforts to hide, he couldn’t keep running from the advent of another box in the expired calendar which dangled by his mat.

Sitting up, he reached for his pouch of tobacco and began to roll a cigarette. Behind him, separated by a large piece of cardboard, his roommate Felt sat in a rusty folding chair spreading peanut butter onto an old apple he had found somewhere. Monterey lit his cigarette and stood so that he could see Felt better.

‘Morning, son.” Felt said, absently. He bit into the apple.

“Where’d ya find that?” Monterey wasn’t quite hungry yet, but he would be eventually. The hunger usually wasn’t so bad, not for himself. The fact of the matter was, however, that if you were afraid of germs, being homeless was not for you.

Starving to death in an era of wanton wastefulness and careless self indulgent littering was unacceptable.

“The tree’s finally starting to produce.” Felt said, nodding his head towards the far end of the courtyard.

Across the concrete littered with used needles, cigarette butts, and fast food wrappers, a sickly apple tree swayed in the wind with the green buds of fruits hanging low. Soon they’d start to fall and we’ll have to get more peanut butter, Monterey thought.

“Once they begin to fall, that means fall, and we won’t be able to sleep outside anymore.” Felt stood up suddenly and tossed the apple to Monterey’s hands.

“That’s fine. Maybe some housing will come down by then.” They were always waiting for subsidized housing to come down. That was always their plan, distant and far off in the safe future, where it may be bleak, but at least it was unstained by the fuck ups of the present. Eventually, spring would come, the bearer of hope and warmth, and they would sleep outside for a season or two, forgetting honey coated notions of roofs and walls.

“Worse comes to it,” Felt said, getting groggily to his feet, “we can just pry off some of these boards,” he motioned to the sealed windows and doors around them, “and take shelter inside. ‘Least it’s a roof over our heads.”

“As long as you’re under my roof, you’re going to follow my rules.” Monterey joked.

Felt didn’t smile. “We’re not under any roofs right now. That means no rules, huh?”

“You know how I feel about rules, man.”

Felt sighed. “Authority is such a cunt. I’m going to rush. You want to get loaded before you have to work?”

“No, I’m not working today.”

“Oh.” Felt began cooking up in an old aluminum can.

“I’m going to town to do some errands, then I’ll come back and nod off.” Monterey said, but thinking of getting high was making him lick his lips.

“Very well. It’s your existence. Hey, try to find some Gatorade?” Felt looked up hopefully. He always drank Gatorade after coming back to earth.

“I’m not making any promises.”

“A promise can be such a cunt.” Felt said, as he began tapping his arm, looking for a fat vein.

Monterey turned away quickly before he became completely subdued in its face, in its smell. Slinging his worn pack over a shoulder, he grabbed his black shoes and carried them quickly away from their camp, careful to avoid the mess scattered on the concrete. Weaving through the corridor between the boarded up windows of the old buildings, he stopped to pick up a used needle and heave it at one of the pieces of plywood keeping them from shelter. It stuck in the wood like a dart.

Reaching a chain link fence, Monterey stopped to slip on his shoes. Looking through the fence, he tossed his pack over, then placed his fingers through the links in the fence. Across the field, he watched the breeze softly move the grass and trees.

Before jumping the fence, he hesitated, letting his fingers rest upon the holes between the links. Everything was a fence in his life. And as his roommate would so eloquently state, fences could be such cunts.

But they could be jumped. No matter if they even had that sharp razor wire on top, they could easily be defied. Like crowns of security resting upon the summit, he could stand upon it with the razors digging into his soft shins, watching both sides of the divide at once. He could see the familiar and the failures behind him, and the almost elaborate clarity of Eden in from of him.

But even then, he could only take a few breaths as he gazed across all that was and all the could have been. For soon his lack of balance would over power him more than the divide, and he could merely hope to swing his back leg high enough to clear the wire, and avoid crashing back into the known and present failures. But rather he aimed to swing over in Eden and smile before the ground would knock it off his face.

Regards, Esortnom