My mother was the only other person in the room, the only other sound was the persistent beat of Gramma’s heart monitor. Mom motioned for me to sit next to her beside the bed and said to Gramma “ Mom, Jack is here to see you.” Gramma’s eyes were glued shut with sleep secretions, her face hung sallow off her bones. I watched her lips tremble for a second and heard the faintest of wheezes. That’s when I turned my heard away to press back the stinging in my eyes and sinuses. This is it, she is going to die today. Mom held her hand, which was blackened with constant bruising , heavy medications had left her flesh the consistency of overcooked chicken and the slightest touch liquefied her muscles and turned her skin a dark viscous color. She had been like this for almost a year, in this “home” filled with the mediciney smell of industrial cleanser, all alone with her memories and the other elderly who had given up
and were waiting to die. This was a bad place, a place that I hated and never wanted to be. This was a forlorn state of being, and as I sat there watching her, watching this fading image of a person I only knew in living color, I wondered what would make a person persist in this state, when death was within reach, why they didn’t float down the tunnel and into the light, why they didn’t leave the pain and suffering of this world behind and ascend to the next glorious level of existence at the promised right hand of our father. Was it a passion and reverence for life? Was it to settle unfinished business and bid farewell to loved ones? Was it waiting for the gates of eternity to open and to rise out of the mortal coil, carving a blazing trail of ethereal beauty through all seven dimensions of God’s divine creation?
No.
Of course not.
They persist in their tortured corporeal forms because their alternative is the abyss, the inky black void of non existence, and they are afraid. Yes, afraid because life is warm and life is good and death is colder than outer space. They say death is the unknown but I disagree, death is so terrifying because we ALL know what the void is, it’s where we came from, and somewhere deep in the recess of our beings we know the horror and agony of Nothing.
“the dead know only one thing, it is better to be alive”-Pvt. Joker Full Metal Jacket
I heard someone once speak about how the here and now is heaven, the best its going to get, and to start enjoying it because it’s the only respite we get from the big dark empty. The terror must be unspeakably powerful to make person choose constant agony, the worst experience in life, the persistent state of incredible pain and torment, over the cold comfort of nothingness. I don’t believe in god or heaven but not because it’s all stories about clouds and saints and puppy farms where we can chase squirrels forever. No, I don’t believe because people have to be convinced that a deity exists, they have to be threatened with punishment to obey the odd social morays and taboos of their particular sect or religion. I don’t believe because If my mother hadn’t built an invisible boogeyman in my mind to keep me from kicking my sister and playing with my peepee than never in a million years could I have dreamed up such a ridiculous circumstance. I just would have known, this is what is and it is good, and I shall cherish it throughout all my grass stained dirty faced days. Most of all I don't believe because I watched a woman wither and die, and never once did I see a glimmer of hope in her eyes that something better lay beyond. I only saw pain, fear and pain.
Don’t misunderstand me, this doesn’t make me amoral, far from it, I am big on life and living. I’m all about getting along with each other and attempting squeeze the maximum fun factor out of every minute of my lifetime. If I had things my way, we would all be running around in an H.R. Puff n’ Stuff ,tripped out, super fantasy porno, constantly eating awesome food, drinking the good wine, and getting our sex organs pampered with over stimulation. I guess in lieu of that reality I’ll just have to make due with what I got. I’m just not about to live my life in accordance with arcane rules and standards in order to gain entrance into some misty fairy land at the other end of the space time continuum. Especially when it generally requires depriving myself of some of life’s finest pleasures and arbitrarily hating someone else, who otherwise could be an potential super friend and good time pal, based on their race, creed, color, belief system, or a thousand year old blood feud. All set.
Now for any of you who are true believers out there, for those of you who think that my heathen ass is going to perish in eternal heck fire for my blasphemous stance on the afterlife; I sincerely hope that I am mistaken. I hope there is something beyond the inconceivable lack of substance that awaits us in the end. I hope I die and wake up in the supermarket, with all the pizza and peanut butter cup ice cream I can eat. I hope I end up in the Elysian fields (Elysian Park will do; on a Sunday afternoon in springtime when the Mexican families are having barbecues and their kids are taking swings at piñata stuffed with sugary goodness.). Hell, I hope I wake up in the DMV in Pawtucket Rhode Island, a fate worse than death some might say, but hey, something , ANYTHING is better than nothing. The problem is, it remains very much unknowable so I try not to worry about it and attempt to deal more with the here and now. As far as Mr.Death is concerned, the check is in the mail, it’s not like we won’t find out eventually, so in a hopeful conclusion to this otherwise dour and troubling piece, I say we all should cross that bridge when we get there, because maybe the reason nobody comes back from the dead to tell us all about it is because its so sweet, so RAD that they don’t want to ruin the surprise.
…and they better not eat all the god damned pizza, lest afterlife asses need kicking.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Gee Oh Dee
Friday, March 28, 2008
Riot Face, Strong Heart
I had tried to wake up Artie, but he just farted and went back to sleep. I waited in the cold alone, blowing into my hands because the heater in my car was broken. The bus was supposed to have arrived at 6:30am and it was almost 8:00 before it showed up. One by one we piled on, until the greyhound was filled to capacity. I didn’t know anyone else on board but we shared one thing besides a mutual destination, we didn’t want our country to go to war and we were meeting half of a million other like minded citizens in New York city to let the world know.
It started off as a riotous cacophony of voices and chants. People brought instruments and there was music drifting out of the long serpentine river of bodies that drifted through the city. We sang and we danced and it was good, it felt like we were doing something, like all of us together might make a difference. It was two years after September 11 and the nation was still shaken, the impetus to get revenge was palpable, but we in the streets had the will to resist the temptation. We weren’t going to give in to our baser instincts, we would rise above and persevere.
I don’t know why I did it really, I don’t know what I thought it would do, I just didn’t want to let these anonymous enforcers dissolve me, silence me, make me obey. I wasn’t doing anything wrong, it was my country that was committing the crime, the war on terror was a travesty and I didn’t want my to be any part of it. They had the horses buck their steel bridles on top on my head, they kicked me from their mounts, and finally one of them came from behind and hit me behind the right knee with a billy club. I quickly found myself being zip tied and thrown into the back of a paddy wagon.
Inside the wagon I met a few other nice guys, we all shook hands in a silly back to back sort of way with our zip cuffed hands. One of them, Brian from Virginia, had a cell phone that we each took turns calling our friends on. I remember leaving a highly excited message for my friend Jay whom I was supposed to find somewhere in the masses of collected faces that day. The others assured my nerves that what lay in store for us was just a process, a lot of waiting and not much else. I guess they had done this kind of thing before.
They drove us down to central processing, by this time my cuffs were cutting my wrists, drawing tiny droplets of blood to the surface, my arms were numbing up and I wore a sort of grimace. They pulled us out and filed us through and it was there I noticed the most pronounced difference in the police attitude. While the front line cops were frothing at the mouth and spitting their most hateful epitaphs at us, the rear quarter cops looked ashamed of what was happening. I guess that’s the way it goes when you watch almost a thousand people, mostly kids being dragged in, beaten, bloody, and abused by the very people who have sworn to "protect and serve" them. They would offer off handed apologies like " I think you guys have the right to do what you’re doing, we’re just doing our job, it’s not our fault." or even " I’m just waiting to get into the fire department, I don’t want to be a cop." They took more pictures, I for one would love to see mine someday. All brash and defiant in my self righteous 22nd year, sporting my FUCK THE WAR hoodie and the kindling angst that will typify my Millennial generation.
We were held in what I understand is a " drunk tank", huge cells that accommodate hundreds and most typically used for St. Patrick’s day and Puerto Rican day parades, where serious drinkers and gregarious mischief makers can cool off after a long day on the job. It would have been bad if I was alone, but that cell was a pretty good place to be if you had to be stuck somewhere indefinitely. I got thrown in with about two hundred other fist lifters like myself, I was immediately congratulated and welcomed into the flock, I was amongst the others like me, the ones who stood against the tide, I was home. When they brought Jared in I could only smile and say "what’s up man?" he was shocked to see me, and he gave me a big hug, and pretty much became the best jail buddy you could ask for. I had grown up with Jared in the town of Lincoln, we played football together at Lincoln high, and we went out causing trouble together on many occasions, once he even called my Mother when after a run in with Police I ended up stranded on the other side of town way past curfew and he, being older and class president, tried to smooth things over (unsuccessfully) . He was a the same age as my older brother and had gone on to become a outspoken local activist and poet. Funny. It was funny to see us both sitting there, I was still totally overwhelmed by what was happening and terrified of the consequences of what I had done. Was I a traitor? Were they going to deport me? Am I going to trial? Am I going to prison? I didn’t voice any of this, but Jared could tell I was nervous, he helped calm me down, and I was grateful to have friend there, I knew he would look out for me. That’s when one of the other detainees got on top of a bench and started to speak " Hi, my name is Michael and I am an attorney at law, and I want to tell you what your rights are, and what they can and can’t do to you".
Dumb fucking luck.
We spent eight hours in that cell. Michael, the lawyer, gave us the lowdown ; basically they were going to interrogate us, idly threaten us and let us go. There was nothing they could really do, after all there were at least five hundred of us in this building alone, and they couldn’t possibly supply adequate and humane facilities to us, we were in the shade. We passed the time by talking to each other, retelling our story of how we got nabbed, and listening to impromptu freestyle sessions between those so inclined, while drumming out beats on the bars and benches in the jail cell. It got a kind of feel good hippie vibe in there, it was all "we shall overcome" and " peace , love and civil disobedience". While we were together we were the good guys and we were united against the dumpy boys in blue on the outside of the cell, we told them jokes and sang their praises when they came in and they couldn’t help but laugh despite their impenetrable veneers. They had separated the men and women into different cells, but when they started the interrogations and releases, they had to parade the women by our cell to the interrogation rooms. We cheered, beat the bars, chanted love songs, and feminist slogans. They blew kisses, shook their hands together like champions and screamed populist rally cries, and we couldn’t help smiling knowing that release was eminent and once we hit the street again we will have our voices back we will have won.
The fat detective asked me a lot of questions, but I didn’t answer any of them, I just replied " no comment". He told me If I didn’t cooperate I was going to go downtown to the city jail, with some bad black men who would love to get their hands on me.
I laughed because Michael had told us the cops would say something like " they will bring you downtown or to Rikers Island and you’ll get sodomized by row after row of big scary black men" as one of their idle threats. The fat detective didn’t appreciate my disrespect so he got close and did the whole "super close spit talking routine" in my face, I just averted my eyes and repeated my mantra " No…Comment". He dragged me back to the cell and told me to have fun rotting in there. Before the cell door even closed my name was called again, I was cut loose.
After you’ve been in a small room with three hundred other guys for eight hours straight, no food, water or bathroom facilities, coming out into downtown Manhattan is some kind of surreal revelation. I was greeted by a large group of supporters, other members of the protest or affiliated groups, that had camped out in front of the central processing building, with hot coffee, doughnuts and hugs.
RULE. Yes, it kept being reaffirmed, I did a good thing this day, took it to the fullest extent, went on the record to say that this war and the new slate of foreign and domestic policies were a mistake, were against our own best interests, were bad for America. I stood with many others who felt the same way and could probably articulate their thoughts and feelings much more eloquently than I can, but I was there to say no, no more blood, we have suffered enough already.
Back at the University of Rhode Island, not many people shared my view, frequently during class discussions of this critical topic I was called a "traitor" and " Un American" .I’m sure many of the other people who I shared that cell in March had to absorb these same kinds of insults. Five years and 4003 dead Americans soldiers later, public opinion has finally caught up to us, finally sobered from their hate laden bloodlust after young members of their own communities came home in boxes or missing limbs. 29, 541 American servicemen and women have been wounded since this whole affair began, and finally people have had enough. They want to call it quits, want to call it a mistake, want to pin it on Bush like they didn’t go along with it the whole time with their American flag stickers on their SUV’s; but it’s too late to go back., it’s too late to withdraw. What amazes me most is that the entire Baby-boomer generation, which prides itself on it’s youthful political activism and its valiant championing of civil rights and the end to violence in Vietnam, could have wholesale sold their OWN CHILDREN down the river to the same kind of imperialist war of occupation that they struggled so hard to end? How did they not see the writing on the wall? Was it not obvious how all this would play out? I was only a child, 23 and greener than a golf course and I knew that this would end bad, it would be nothing but blood and tears. Now they want a big change, now everyone wants out, get out of Iraq, end the war, bring the soldiers home. Well I wish they could come home too, I wish they never left; but if there is any hope for us, if there is any hope for a free Iraq and a stable middle east and a safe America, we cannot back out now.
There comes a time when we all have to grow up. We have to accept responsibly for ourselves and our actions. The United States is a young culture, a strong culture, and a very immature culture. We came to the opportunistic rescue of our European allies sixty years ago and watched as the old imperial power structures crumbled and the new American free market became the dominate force on the planet. We used our power recklessly, over turning popularly elected governments in favor of puppet states our companies could exploit (cough, Vietnam, cough) We created Manuel Noriega, Saddam Hussein, and Osama Bin laden, all "assets" funded, supplied and trained by fat Yankee treasures. Our grandfathers never had to realize their own consequences, as they had passed into senility and dust by the time one of our "assets" drove two jet airliners full of American citizens into the twin towers of the World Trade Center . Let that be the lesson, let us learn. We went to Iraq for the wrong reasons, we waged a war that was by all rule and principle , a criminal act. That war is over. Now there exists a fractured society, that was once held together by fear and fist and now has been haphazardly glued with good intentions. Iraq is a state that was carved
out of the Ottoman Empire at the end of the Great War, it’s borders were arbitrarily drawn by British bureaucrats. It has bound tightly disparate tribes of peoples (Sunni, Shiite, Kurds) who have a history of "not getting along" and no experience with self rule. These people have been under a autocratic regime since prehistory, they are used to one strong voice telling them what to do. If we leave now, there will no one strong enough to resist the well funded , well trained, and zealotous forces of Radical Fundamentalism from taking control of the state.
I don’t want to be mired in an almost endless struggle to stand a fledgling Iraqi state on it’s feet, or wait the thirty some odd years for reconciliations to take place amongst the various tribes and ethnic minorities. I don’t want to dump trillions of tax dollars into the desert just to say we did what we said we were going to do, bake up a free and democratic Iraqi cake.
No.
I want to do those things because WE OWE IT TO THEM.
We owe it to the kids whose fathers got blown up because they worked next door to a viable target, we owe it to the mothers whose children were "collateral damage", we owe it to the Fathers who were kidnapped and stolen to Guantanamo or murdered by a rival tribe in the chaotic aftermath of the invasion that we headed, brash, brazen, hooting and hollering. We owe it to the simple people of that country, who went to sleep one day with a very stable government , albeit headed by a sociopath but a reliable sociopath ( maybe not so much different than ourselves?) and they woke up the next day to a living hell that has persisted for the past five years. We promised these people everything, we told them they would get schools like ours, free choice like ours, clean water , power, and food, PEACE we promised them PEACE. IF the forces of Fundamentalist Religious Extremism take hold of their lives then they will never know peace, they will never know the freedom that we know. Believe me I have my qualms with this broad nation of ours, but I know that it is the best thing going, I want those people to have what I have because, goddamn it ,THEY’VE EARNED IT. They have bled and suffered enough, over a million total deaths, and if we disappear on them now there is no telling how bad it will get. Guess what, when the kids are grown and look back and the misery that is their lives you know what they will see? Some semblance 
That is why I say we stay. That’s why I say we have to eat this one. America needs to shut up, grow up, and MAN the fuck up and deal with the mess we have created. The entire world watched us do this, and they will watch to see what we do next, if we really are force of freedom and democracy, if we really are a nation full of good, compassionate souls who are trying to raise the world out of the strife and despair that it has known for ten thousand years, then we need to show that we are mature enough and strong enough to admit we were wrong and to use our power to correct our mistake. It is still possible to save them, it is still possible to give them the bright and glorious future promised, they will stand up and claim it for themselves if we can be the light that shows them the way. This would be the greatest work of our young nation, this would make us great, not our wars or our television shows, but our heart and our commitment to doing right no matter the cost. I think we can be that great, the question is, do you?
I stand up for what I believe in, and I’m an American whether we are right or wrong, I will do my best to help steer this nation in a responsible direction. I support my troops, and very much believe in their mission, I am against the war, now and forever, but I am also against giving up on the people we have promised to help, I am against giving in, I am against letting them suffer. This isn’t going to be easy, this will cost us dearly, but on the other end we will have learned, grown smarter, done good for the world, and we will not be fooled again.
The Origin of my Blog's name
February 18th, 2004...
The wind was biting my cheeks, crisp in the winter evening. I couldn’t feel a thing, my whole body was swimming in the warmth provided by camaraderie, merriment and about forty dollars worth of whiskey. Each hand was absent from their typical duties, gripping the handle bars of my rugged ten speed road bike; instead they grasp the black plastic garbage bags packed full of baker’s work, the warm sweet breads I had so skillfully pilfered fresh from the day old dumpster. I was flying downhill well ahead of my following companions, drunk on the freedom total recklessness provides. If I noticed the glare of the on coming headlights I didn’t care, I had lost breaking ability days before; I had never seriously considered repairing it and so in fact, I had no intention of stopping.
I woke up at some point while I was still lying on the street, frosted in sugary crystals of safety glass. Two friends were holding me down, telling me not to move. There was something very wrong, I was in pain so severe I couldn’t quite comprehend it and now looking back I have no real memory of it at all. My shoulder was way out of it usual place, my skull was dented, my brain bruised and my body feeling about as good as it possibly could after the head on meeting with the frame of the late model Japanese coupe. Apparently the driver hadn’t noticed me at all, he was on his cell phone with his girlfriend, which was good because I was drunk as sin and in the throes of the ultimate "I don’t give a fuck" period in my life. We met in the intersection, I kissed his windshield and he never even bothered to call me back.
The street was littered with my pilfered bread, which seemed to confound the police. They couldn’t figure out where the cinnamon rolls, raisin bread, and baguettes could have materialized from. It was three in the morning on a Thursday night, there was a mangled bicycle and kid lying in the street, a Subaru with it’s windshield smashed in, and a about three hundred dollars worth of bread lying around, It just didn’t seem to fit together. Eventually the vanguard of the homeless and junkie populations that inhabited my neighborhood came out to investigate the excitement and lo and behold they were treated to street snacks as they took in all the commotion. It was likened to a George Romero film, by my friends who were there; the emergency lights painting the world alternating shades of red and blue, the lurching void of dope sick vagrancy, the authority figures with their hands in their pockets. I remember a police officer asking how I was doing as I lay writhing in agony on the cold pavement, I screamed at him as loud as I could, jacked up on booze, adrenalin, and more endorphins than I ever remember tasting " THIS FUCKING SUCKS!!!" ,The cop turned away and off handedly announced " He’ll be alright" like there was someone else listening.
I woke up again in this hospital, this time fully myself. I lie on a stainless steel operating table with a great deal of commotion going on, I began to sit up ,felt the searing pain all over my left side and decided to just hang out. The doctors all looked down at me, I looked up at them, sighed loudly and said "This is just perfect" They snickered and went about their preparations confident that I had a full grasp on the situation. Fact was, I didn’t remember what happened, I didn’t remember who I was, my brain had swollen from the trauma casting a thin fog over the world . The nurses asked me a lot of questions I couldn’t answer, I knew the information they were looking for, but the fog was hiding them from me, like I could make out their outline but not the distinct features. I wished I could have pointed and said " yup your answers are right there but it’s no use trying to see them it’s like pea soup in here!." I just stared at the ceiling trying to stay awake and wondering what I had done this time, because I knew for sure this wasn’t the first occasion I had seen the inside of an emergency room.
After the morphine I became a whole lot more optimistic about the situation. I smiled as the doctors popped ol' lefty back into place.
"Lefty, left-o, Lou, Louie my boy, my ace, my number one hand, how you doin’ baby? You feeling better? Alrighhhhttt, me and roger here were real worried about you."
While I sat in the unit waiting to be discharged, I puked all over myself. I honestly had tried to call the nurses but they were busy, and my voice was weak. I didn’t really care anyway, I was doped up and didn’t feel like bothering them, I had done quite enough already. My friends came in laughing, they said the nurses were making fun of me because I just sat there and made a mess of myself; I just shrugged, Morphine offers little resistance and makes no apologies. I was glad to have my friends around, even if I couldn’t remember their names, there is just a feeling, a warm color pattern in your chest that resonates when you see them, they are known and you are happy, it feels safe and good to be near them.
Later after everyone left my Mother and Father showed up to pay the bill and drag me home. They always knew it would be like this with me and they really didn’t seem to mind. After all,at least I was still alive. The real kick in the teeth was when I woke up later that day. I had come back to my parents house and been put to sleep in my old room, in my old bed. Now this wasn’t the last place I slept before being thrown out of the nest at age 19, no this was my OLD bed, My OLD room from when I was a child. It was all arranged the same way, the major furniture where my Mother wanted it, before I was big enough to move things around on my own. When my eyes opened I was still suffering from amnesia a bit. By and large the fog had lifted as I sat in the Emergency room waiting to leave but things still weren’t crisp, I was pretty slow on the draw. So was the case, when I peeked through my foggy eyes at the room I recognized from boyhood. It was only a second, maybe half a second, that I didn’t remember but it was enough; enough time to break my fucking heart. I woke up and looked at the same wall, with the same window, the same house and trees that I had for the first ten years of my life. The TV was in my room and there were scrambled eggs, English muffins and orange juice on the nightstand...
"Price is Right is on, Bob barker, "Come on down!", Bid one dollar it’s the best bet!, it’s all here I remember! I’m home from school I ’m sick and mom is taking care of me, and I just had the most horrible dream! I was grown up and I wasn’t anything like I thought I was going to be, I was cruel, I was reckless, I had no job, no future, I had no hope, no love, and more so I was sad, sooo incredibly sad and I knew that it had to be a dream because I was happy with all manner of beauty and goodness inside of me, the world had a special place for people like me. It doesn’t matter, I can do it all different oh thank god I can do it all…"
Then I move slightly and feel my body feel my length, feel the throbbing ache all over and it flipped on me, like I had sealed my self in a tiny glass bubble out of self defense. With a shatter and a crash it all came rushing back.
I cried. I hurt bad and I cried. I cried for all the things I did to bring me to this point, my body was broken, my heart was broken and I was right back where it all started; do not pass go, do not collect 100 dollars. I cried for a life I regretted, for the manifold of missed opportunities. I cried because I was being brought back to a world where the future was uncertain, where anything was possible. Brought back to a world where you could be riding high one minute and half dead on the pavement the next. I wasn’t any good at living life in this world and I knew it, so I did the only thing I possibly could. I resolved to get better. It was here bruised, beaten, unable to walk or think clearly that I closed the door on a dark and confused room in my life, and I began building the new room, the great work in progress that most of you are familiar with. Fighting Jack, the Dynamo, Boxcutter, Manpower,The Captain, and a myriad of others, in retrospect it didn’t take all that much, just getting the pride and despair knocked out of me by two tons of steel and finally going home, getting in bed and letting my mother and father take care of me until I could stand on my own again.
And that was it, my friends came around and cheered me up as best they could, I went to physical therapy and got a settlement from the insurance company (they never did find out how inebriated I was) and I moved back to the city to try again. Six months after the accident I won my first professional Mixed Martial arts match in a little over a minute, I was performing in bands like JEFF and Pirate Snakes with my mammoth broseph Amil and I met my first real love in the doe eyed artist Beth Brandon. It’s kind of a sick joke really, but it made feel like I owned my small time calamity, when I chose the name for my fancy new online journal. It made a lot of sense, about me, about my reckless nature and caution to the wind attitude, about my relentless pursuit of the extremes of experience that is perhaps both my greatest asset and failing. I’d like to think I learned a few things since then but the name is probably is still true. From girlfriends, to living situations, taking jobs to taking off across the country and lets not forget, while riding a bike with no hands, no brakes and two garbage bags full of day old bread. It’s my E-dentity, my general philosophy and my tragic flaw. So if you want to find me I’m here at
http:// Jackgoesfacefirst.blogspot.com.
The Indy Go! girls (cover your heart)
Everything I know about women, I learned from Indiana Jones.
The Indiana Jones films posit that there are three primary female archetypes:
The Marion, The Willie, and The Elsa. All woman are a combination of these three distinct personas, and the great quest for modern man is to find a women with a personality make up complementary to our own, in essence our "perfect" woman.
Let’s examine some of the essential traits comprising each archetypal model:
The Marion-
Well to these guys I have but one thing to say:
"you’re a bunch of pussies"
The Marion is more than ready to ride shotgun on your crazy high adventures, but you better be ready to back her up on adventures of her own or she will cut you loose like bi-plane from a dirigible.
The Willie-
The Elsa-
So in the end you have to choose for yourself, after all you’re going to have to live with each other, just be honest with yourself and what you’re into. There’s nothing wrong with having a Willy that has a Marion streak in her, in fact that would be pretty cool, I think all well kept girls want to get down and dirty and closed fist knock some teeth back every once and awhile. If you’re into getting stepped on and slapped around go and find an Elsa, go get your fascist dominatrix, but if you intend on living with this person you better hope there more than just the abuse, hopefully a little Marion or Willy to mellow the brew.
I personally can’t deal with a Willie, I just don’t want to put in the time and effort. I’m left with Marion and Elsa and while Marion is very pretty, Elsa is a grade A slice of Aryan wet dream, she’s got the lips, hips and finger tips, to make you a penitent man; but would you rather wake up in the morning with a knife in your back or next to a smiling natural beauty that is ready eat pancakes and get swept up in some serious world saving adventures? At the end of the day a Marion will not only lie on her back for you but watch yours while you’re drinking from the grail. Besides, how can you kiss Elsa and not think of how your old man had already blazed that trail? Gross.
Like the mythical quest for the grail, a young man’s search for his ideal counterpart is a long and possibly endless pursuit, a fools errand. However, I think you can find someone who fits your needs and whose needs you fulfill and together you can figure out how the adventure unfolds. You make sure she doesn’t step into the light and trigger the poison darts, she’ll make sure you don’t get your heart ripped out of your chest and thrown into molten pit of magma to please the black goddess Kali. That isn’t a quality that is easy to find in people, so if you find a special lady who is willing to jump out of an airplane on an inflatable raft, you better not hold it against her when she hits you with the mirror. No, just thank your lucky stars then sneak off the boat and onto the submarine so you can save her from the scary Jewish ghosts (close your eyes, dear) and rejoice that the opposing forces of darkness and tyranny will be puddles of their former selves. Take the highs with lows, be kind, considerate and caring and by all means Jones, let the lady buy you a drink.
Look Sidewalker
The streets are lined with birch trees, the sidewalks are slabs of granite. The large smooth stones are splotched black with old chewing gum scars and deep wounds of grime, but by and large they remain intact. The Trees vary in age and size and occupy little blanks in the puzzle piece walkway that follows the road almost endlessly as it wanders around the city. There are a few places where the trees have grown to a ripe old age, their trunks are thick and fat with maturity and health, their roots expressing their will by dislodging the large granite pieces wherever they see fit. It becomes like a landscape in and of itself, some of the slabs point skyward at incredible angles, displaced solely by the roots of the birch tree. It's a beautiful thing to wander this modernist terrain, created by natures refusal to bend toward mankind's aesthetic principals; a blatant rejection of cages and convenience. It's like a memo in the "Inbox" of the city reading:
"Dear Civilization, you can have your way for now, but once your not looking I'm going to do whatever the fuck I want. Remember who lets you live here, bitches."
Or something like that...if nature was an asshole. Which i don't really think it is. Uncompromising, yes; unemotional, always, but a jerk? I dunno, jerks don't grow awesome things for you like marijuana and apples. Not that I'm back on the wacky weed or anything...I'm just saying.
So it's while I'm gliding down Alvarado ave, being as much myself as possible with my paper back copy of "The Hobbit" in my back pocket and all infatuated with the trees and my own cleverness, that I come upon a person that I have never seen before. He was legless, rolling through the intersection on a motorized wheelchair. It appeared, as he went by, that his head and chest where balancing upon a large jello filled pilates ball stuffed underneath his over sized orange T-shirt. His abdominals were lax from disuse and his face drawn and gaunt, his bulbous gut was no doubt a product of his involuntarily sedentary lifestyle. It made me quickly remember myself and my relative strength and ability, and made me recall the low times when I would moodily remark (to myself) that my body was a prison keeping me from a truer form of expression. Seeing this man reminded me that I am a complete ass (correct), and that if anyone had a right to gripe about physical condition it was this man and even then I bet he didn't. I reminded myself of the "posi-jack" philosophy on physicality;
" My body is my favorite toy" (in more way than just THAT way, you sickos )
and promised to run and swim and climb more trees.
Around that time I passed by a Mexican restaurant called " Colima 20" and remarked (to myself, maybe Mr.D) on the trend of L.A. restaurant chains to include their number in the signage. I suppose to give each particular location a certain identity. Like
" Hey where did you guys get those Burritos?"
"Oh we got them at Colima!"
"Not Colima 12, right?"
"No Colima 20, why?"
"Colima 12 sucks eggs, but the others are really good"
or something like that. I dunno, I still think it's a little weird. Maybe the owner just gets off on advertising how many "Colimas" there are. Like if he has twenty burrito places it must mean he is incredibly virile, with a ham sized peen.
I guess it could be like a scavenger hunt too, like if you did the top twenty "Colima" countdown you would get a special prize. Like a clown to live in your sewer.
This is generally what it's like inside my head as I walk down the street, I'm sure it's like this for you too. Maybe not the same, but similar. I used to think we were really different from each other, that I was unusual, but i don't think thats true anymore.No sir, I think we're more alike than we are different. In fact I don't think we're that different at all. Come 'ere and give me hug.
Dreamtime
The Aboriginals of Australia speak of Dreamtime, an everywhen from which all things were created. When they speak of their lives, they speak of their "dreaming" their current lives as a subjective experience. This is in direct oppositions to western philosophical thought, which describes our linear waking consciousness as an experience of "objective" reality. Basically, we here in the west are brought to believe we exist in a reality and a universe that exists independent of our experience of it and if we did not exist it would continue without us. In opposition to that, we have the aboriginal concept of reality, which basically asserts that the universe and reality is a product of our consciousness. This radical and often heretical interpretation of reality finds a scientific foothold in the recent discoveries by quantum physicists relating to the nature of phenomena under observation ( that it alters the outcome of experiments), and the seemingly random behavior of subatomic particles and irrational composition and functioning of the universe at its most minute and detectable levels. This brings up many new associations, such as the influence that Taoism and other Asian mystical systems have had on the expression of these new ground breaking ideas in quantum physics, the seeming overlap of systems of thought that have existed for over three thousand years and the most recent efforts by the comparatively youthful western scientific inquiry is astounding, if not unnerving.
As we learn more about the "nuts and bolts" of our universe, experience , and reality, we come to see that isn't as objective as we once held it to be, and that we "the observers" have a much more important or at least influential role to play, at least from the vantage point of our own experience. I for one find it comforting, that we do not exist in the cold logical laboratory universe that the science of my father's generation had told me I did. To find that there is still a great deal unknown, and even more that is unknowable, gives me hope and in many ways a reason to keep exploring and keep searching this life for clues, answers, and experiences that may broaden my perceptions, deepen my knowledge ,and lead to a greater understanding of my own dreaming. It always rang true for me, the idea of Dreamtime, it always seemed right. Dreams are a wondrous and joyful thing, devoid of the anxiety and terror of nightmares, the word dream only conjures that fluid and boundless place, beyond rationality and logic, less substantial but more honest. If ever there was a place that such a thing as "this" could be imagined and born, the realm of dream, the Dreamtime would be such a place.
Supermarket Sweep
( one for Ms. Chloe Mandel)
Whenever I imagine what heaven would be like, I automatically cycle through all the Judeo-Christian artistic representations, you know, billowing cumulus clouds, pearly gates, choirs of white robed angels singing in glorious cacophony to the greatness of "He who is called I AM". That shit is all pretty stupid, and god awfully boring (sic!) so eventually I come back to what my personal idea of heaven is.
...and it looks a whole hell of a lot like the Stop n Shop at three in the morning.
I've done it a bunch of times, just rolled on up in the middle of the night, the place is still 100% lit up because its in the suburbs and nothing makes any sense out there. I grab a cart and start sliding down the isles, the one other person in the store is the night manager and he's in the back room drinking coffee and watching anime porn. I bust a big smile and ride the back of that shiny shopping cart down the fluorescent rainbow isles, crammed with sugary goodness and savory dreams. The bright whites reflect of the freshly waxed floor giving everything an ethereal glow and the lemony fresh scent of pine-sol reminds me of my Mom's kitchen floor. Fleetwood Mac is bringing that soft rock lullaby somewhere very high above me and drifting out of an old half blown out speaker. I think it's something about the abundance that I find comforting, and I suppose it says a lot about me that my idea of heaven is a warehouse full of food, but hey, I never claimed to be anything other than a basic unit. I just drag that back foot as I roll from the soft drinks to frozen foods, I think I'll get a pizza to go with this ginger ale, then maybe some ice cream...the kind with peanut butter cups in it.
I mean really...
What else is there?
Down comes sunshine and rain
Standing straight with my hands out I can catch it all. You should see me, thick black hood hiding the tired smile as i come down the dirt path in Elysian Park, where I walk weightless in a city filled with a million other names.I take slow steps like a beat dropped into a syrupy kick drum, and I breathe deep the poisons and passions pressed out of every inch of concrete stepped on, in this, the most desperate city on earth. I have few destinations, no appointments, only blessed purpose and divine motivation as I meet and make friends with people who move fast and make their way through the funny money maze that you find here. Overhead at night a cannon fire spotlight strafes the ground from the ever present ghetto birds, or points to the sky from the innocuous event thresholds, the lighted fingers mingle and clasp the sky until the rain comes and pushes everything indoors again. Waking up, the city is washed, but never clean, and hills are lush and green in this, their time on the far side of the summer scorch and the ravenous wild fires of fall. I can’t say that I love it here, or that I belong here, only that I have made my own version of the place that I am, like a richly imagined childhood pillow fort, I am possessed of a city of my own making and slip silently for now into a fortunate place for the strange naivety of the wandering pretender.
When I sleep, I dream of waves being born, far out in ocean by a storm that no one ever sees, every night they draw closer to shore gaining gravity and speed as they swell across the sea floor wanting, waiting, working for the exquisite moment they crash upon the beach, crushing castles in the sand, stealing shovels and pails, and propelling the revelers in it’s embrace, careening them into momentary bliss. When I wake up, there is rain coming down the window, and sunlight pressing the drops, shooting off at strange velocities and making a microverse of momentary rainbows as each color dies on my eye. I walk in my sore man’s street shuffle out to the park slope and up into the dirt path wonderland high above downtown. I look up into the misty morning as the sunshine and rain mix together in an unlikely way, falling down onto this unlikely face, that tucked beneath it’s thick black hood smiles and stretches out his hands.
Street Scholars
I can't be certain, but i am pretty sure homeless people are the most well read people in America. Think about it, the last time you went to the library downtown, who was haunting the reading room? Who was crashed outside in the garden with their plastic bags full of treasure? Who was holed up in the bathroom sweating, grunting, and working it out, just to leave their long luscious defecations unflushed in the commode? Yeah the fucking homeless peoples.
Now all of us city dwellers have been dealing with these mystical faerie folk since our first day on the block, but here in L.A. I feel that being homeless is elevated to a realm that surpasses even that of the NYC underground dwellers. Being homeless in L.A. is like being a fucking hobbitt in the Lord of the rings, this is their town, their world. Every inch of public space is manned by a derelict individual, all civic works are ultimately to their benefit. Because of the city's "hands off" policy they are free to inhabit every sidewalk, bush, crevice, underpass, "outhouse and doghouse" that they might find. The rest of us just walk around like we don't notice, it's the ultimate exercise in denial. There are thousands of zombies walking the streets, eating our brains, making stinkies in the lavatories, and we just act like nothings happening. Oh, it's happening it's a magical fucking faerie land out here and I'm on the bus. No seriously, I'm on the bus and it's full of crazies! I gotta pull the chain, I don't care where it stops JUST LET ME OFF THIS GODDAMN BUS!!!
So anyway, these secret geniuses are hiding out in the library all day everyday, reading all there is to know about everything, how smart are they really and what are they planning? Is it wise for us to allow these people to amass such minds of near infinite knowledge when all their time is spent idly? With their vastly superior intellect and their free weekdays they could easily rise up and subvert our entire civilization! Next thing you know we'll all be sleeping in the park and talking to ourselves as we look at the dog poo on the ground.
...okay hold on a sec
I'm in the library right now and I've got my eye on a real mastermind, it looks like he's letting his eyes rest while he recomputes all the information he's just garnered. I'm going to get a closer look, see what he's reading, see if i can gain an inkling on his devious plans for world sublimation.
okay...deep breathe...
one
two
three
GO!
...okay I'm back
That was intense
I felt like I was navigating a ornately crafted web of mental security just approaching him, but here's what I found out:
He was reading Dr. Seuss's "Horton Hears a Who?" and it looked as if he ejaculated a bit on the page then barely managed to stuff his greasy unit back into his filthy camo trousers before passing out in flatulent ecstasy. For the moment we may be safe from a homeless style revolution. Thank Jeebus.
Home boy
I landed in the dead of night, cold and grumpy, no one would sit next to me on the plane. Two consecutive jam packed flights, all the way from Los Angeles, California to Providence, Rhode Island, for a grand total of six hours and eleven minutes and the only empty seat in the house was right next to me. What am I, some kind of jerk? Well... maybe i shouldn't have worn the Zack Morris sunglasses the WHOLE time, and I guess I could have shaved, and combed my hair but whatever! Like it doesn't hurt my feelings when every single person on the plane looks at you and cringes before deciding to take seats next to screaming babies, morbidly obese recreational eaters, and the deathly ill. I mean COME ON, I'm a pretty cool guy, I mean you HAVE to be pretty cool to rock a pair of goofy sunglasses like you mean it, right? Furthermore, they totally missed out on my well rehearsed tirades about the benefits of rearing large crops of retarded children or how Arnold Schwarzenegger should be anointed emperor of America. Then again... maybe it's for the best.
Since I've been back, visiting my home town, I've been busy as a bee, running here and there all hippity bippidy trying to see all the friends I've left behind. I made the New England trifecta of Boston, Providence, and New York, I went to half a dozen New Year's and X-mas parties, and received all manner of daps, bro-hugs, kisses and sensualities from friends, acquaintances, teammates, long time superdudes, and assorted love interests. It's made me feel full, after a time of being very much on my own and a bit lonely, It's made me feel like I matter. Now I'm like the next guy who wrestles with his self loathing and self doubt on a regular basis, and I'm not one for giving into despair or getting all emo and crying to everybody I see, but when it seems like your walking invisible in an unfeeling world nothing quiets those sinister inner whisperings like the voice of friend. A lot of the time i regard myself as a bad person who is constantly striving for some kind redemption ( sue me, my mother raised me catholic) but the people in my my life are of such quality that I can't quite reconcile the guilt with reality. If all these magnificent people deem me worthy of their friendship, how bad can i really be? I must be okay at least, because i know I'm not fooling anyone, I suck dick at playing poker.
So as i get ready to go back to the front lines of my private war with the social structure, I take my strength from the people who hold me up, and my confidence is bolstered, because with a foundation this solid, i can't ever be broken down. So happy New Year friends, I'm going to miss you when I'm gone, but if everything goes according to plan, pretty soon we'll all be living our dreams in a castle built in the clouds.
Work Up part III: The Night Shift
Projects vs. Trailer parks
Which would you choose if you had to? Would you go for the cement social experiment, or the mobile destitution of the lower class? I bet you're having trouble deciding, it's quite a conundrum, a damed if you do, damned if you don't situation. On one hand you roll in, delivering delicious, hot, tasty, pizza treats, and you get yelled at "Gotcha rock, white boy?" and stared at, cased really, by large gangs of young men, sitting idly on the corners of their block... and you most certainly don't get tipped. On the other hand you go down into the warped pavement and cracked asphalt despair of trailer trash, but usually they would hit you with some cashback. Then again, if you got the right call you might end up in the smoked filled dampness of section eight housing, getting an obscene monetary gesture from a seventeen year old dope dealer excited by the sauces, veggies, and meats presented from your silver lined heat bag. Maybe you almost get your face ripped of by the pitbull/ rottweiler mashup from hell, as you stumble across the broken toy strewn cement slab that a double wide nightmare sleeps on. Where are you more likely to get flashed on? When you drift across the stark yet invisible color line, out of your place and obvious? Or when you sink to the bottom, to the level of perpetual mistake, where the bins are always full of bottles and the children's cries go unanswered? Do you really want to offer conjecture on such an obviously loaded question, to throw your hat in one ring or the other, defining yourself in the glaring light of your prejudices?
Well, let me offer my experience, anecdotal as it may be. I never got robbed, not in my thirty consecutive days and nights of duty, although I was constantly invited inside out of the cold, the wet, or just the night. I saw the private space of many different people and many times I was surprised by its honesty and the care people took with what they had. I got stiffed and I got paid, the biggest tip I ever got was from a beautiful, black, single mother who asked me to pick her up a bottle and some mixer at the liquor store so she could stay with her daughter until her mother arrived and she could go off to her Halloween party dressed as an angel. I never once wanted to go to those places, those wild, secretly malicious blocks where the fight for survival scrapes a little to close to the uncivilized realms within us, to the poverty stricken struggle to get by, to make it work, to get on top. But I did, and although I got nervous, I was never afraid, because I knew those people in a small way, because who was I and where was I at, the bespectacled white boy coming into the wrong neighborhood to bring them small comfort, what was I doing, if not whatever it took to get by, and what did I have worth taking? We were all working hard then, in our own way, whether we knew it or not. We were all poor in this country, eyes consistently bigger than our stomaches. The ramshackle lean-to of failure is a matter of relative disposition, could you ever squeeze a million dollar baby into a ten dollar pair of shoes?. Of course not, but if you were barefoot in the cold, you wouldn't care how much they had cost. What could anyone choose? Prison or Poverty? We all choose neither, but in the end it is places like these that we lay our head, in the end the poverty is in our hearts and the prison we call home.
Work up part II: The Revenge
So there we are, back on my favorite haunted country ranch of historical relevance and inherent creepiness when my boss Chris, Jeebus bless his heart, decides to regale me with more tales of woe akin to the previous woeful tales of woe in Work up part I.
You see I'm back at the corral, it's lunch time and I've brought a few extra carrots for my friends, Caballo grande, Dos Caballos pequenos, y Sr. Burro. I'm hanging out, giggling like a little girl and enjoying my horsey time with the horsies. Now remember folks, I'm pretty much standing on THE Trail of Tears out here, it's nuts AND there's the ghost of a little dead girl wandering around in her night gown...for real, just ask Chris, he'll tell you all about it. Perhaps sensing my relative ease and contentment, enter the bossman...
"You really like these horses huh John?" he asks
" Fuuuuck Yeah!" I exclaim " These mini-horses are the JAM! and have you seen Sr. Burro over there? He's so bummed out all the time! He's reminds me of my friend Jeremy."
If you're wondering if I actually say things like this to my employer, the answer is yes. I have been working with him for over a month, the secrets out, I'm a weirdo.
He responds "Yeah it's pretty cool how she (the lady of the house) adopts all these animals. They're all abused and neglected."
" How does one neglect a horse? I mean ...Why would mumble mumble mumble"
I just sort of trail of in my astonishment that someone could mistreat such a immense and noble creature, then again I have seen people do some terrible things to each other and themselves, why not to what they most certainly consider a lower life form? Also in the "abuse" catagory I am reminded of the Horse F*%ers, the sexual deviants who take pleasure in either handling some horsepower or getting handled by some horsepower. I even once heard of a guy dying because he got reamed by a horse and it destroyed is internal organs. Raw horse power. Yeah, guy needed to get there, he wasn't satisfied with the common pleasures of getting F-ed in the A, he needed more...a lot more, no six inch man piece would do, no novelty foot long double dong satiated his needs, he wanted a full ARM'S LENGTH of HORSE SWORD backed by the densely packed musculature of a TWO TON BEAST. Seriously, this happened, my friend Joey saw the video, although he never explained WHY he saw the video. But straight up, there was entry, a groan, and death. The mega-dick just plunged straight into his rectum, up into his colon, tearing past the lower intestines and piercing the man's lungs. Or so I imagine. (and i do Imagine...over and over...) which oddly enough is an appropriate segue into the rest of my story!
Chris starts talking about the neighbor across the pasture
" Yeah the lady next door raises Stallions, and she was supposed to have a full horse fence you know? Like with an electrified wire and stuff, but all she had was one of these split beams right here (points to the corral fence). Well she (owner of our property) had just rescued a little filly ,you know ? And in the spring this horse went into heat, and I guess the Stallion across the way could smell it and it drove him nuts"
"uh-oh" I said.
Not just uh-oh for the filly, but uh-oh for me, because Chris is about to disqualify another bucolic horsey day from the running of best day ever with another colossal bum-out story.[sic]
He continues
" The Stallion broke it's fence and came charging over here, it just smashed into the yard and then chased the filly around the corral for like an hour until it cornered her down by the road. A couple of bikers were riding by and saw it happen, they were trying to throw rocks at him to stop him but it didn't even phase him, man."
"You've got to be kidding me"
" No man, he just raped that poor horse and killed her."
"What the f%*"
"...and the worst part was, after she was laying on the ground bleeding to death, the Stallion just stood there kicking her."
" What the F%*???"
"Yeah, man, horse rape. She (the lady of the house) was devastated when she found out, it really broke her heart."
"I can imagine." I reply.
" Yeah so she got in this big court battle with the neighbors over negligence and this and that, and they ended up getting that Stallion destroyed."
I stand there dumbfounded at the conclusion of the story. It really only makes sense. Such a real ending...so fitting for our time and place, so human. Then I look at Chris and in all honesty say
" I really wish you wouldn't tell me these things."
These are some of the days I have at work. They're not always like this, or maybe I just stopped listening.
Work Up
I dropped out of the truck in one of my typical, awkward, spiderman-esque dismounts; it's a sort of game I play with myself in the moments between relaxing in the passenger seat, cruising down Old Natchez Trace in Tennessee, and firing up the weedeater and getting back to the mind numbing tedium that is my living wage.
We're out in the luxury farmlands, on the sort of property where people raise horses not as a livelihood but as an indication of status. The property we're on is sweet, not too ostentatous, a big main house and few smaller guest houses, none of them bigger than any upper middle class home. The acreage is modest, most of the land is rolling grasses thinly wooded and there is plenty of grazing lands for the animals. I kind of like it here, it's not so bad, at least it's got character. It sure beats the endless plats of Mcmansions in Brentwood. Houses so foreign and ill conceived they look like children's drawings from Playskool's my first architecture fun kit.
As I'm walking back to the bed of the truck I stop to stare at the horses. The corral is next to the driveway so the big filly is staring at me over the fence. I smile, I like horses, I like the idea that an animal of it's size and power will entertain my humanity. I bet if I hung around for a few days and fed her some carrots, told her some stories, and brushed her, she would take me for a ride. I've never ridden a horse, I used to climb on my dad's back when I was kid and demand "a horsey ride" and remember thinking that was pretty great, I can only imagine what an real horse could be like. While I'm making eyes at the pretty girl, a sad eyed burro saunters up to the split beam fence and sticks it's nose through. For some reason I speak to him in Spanish.
"Hola, Senor Burro, Me llamo Jaunito. Yo es tu Amigo, si? Come mas llierba porfavor."
I tear some of the longer wildgrass out of the ground and offer it to Sr. Burro, he backs away at first but then creeps closer, first sniffing my hand then taking a tentative bite. I reach down and pull up another handful of wildgrass, I feed the burro several times, all the while speaking a poor broken spanish in what is an undoubtedly offensive spanish accent. While I'm busy making friends with the only live action Eyeore I've ever met, my hat goes missing off to my left. I turn around to see if Chris, my employer, has noticed that i am wasting his time by hanging out with farm animals, but he doesn't, he's on the phone, as usual. I do however come face to face with a Shetland Pony, or a caballo peqeuno, as i call them in my head. There are two of them actually, and they are eager to taste that greener grass just out of their reach on the alien side of the corral. I hang out with the horse, two tiny ewok horses, and the burro until I hear Chris wrap up his conversation. So far this has been the best day ever.
He begins by bringing me around the property, showing me where I should put my attention, what I should ignore, the various in's and out's of the task at hand. While walking across the back yard, in between the barn and the pool, i notice the high voltage lines bisecting the property. " You'd figure people this rich would pay to have their lines buried." I wonder aloud.
Mistake.
"Oh yeah man, they tried..." Chris begins " But when they started digging in the yard here, the shovel on the back-hoe came up with a couple of skulls on it's teeth."
"What??!!" I exclaim, my mind racing with nefarious possibilities.
"Yeah, man" He continues " This whole yard is big Indian burial ground, the Smithsonian had to come down here and examine all the remains. I think some of them are on display up in D.C."
"Holy shit man, that is fucking intense!" I let my enlightened mind shine prominently.
"Yeah, this is Old Natchez Trace man, the Trail of Tears ran right through here." Chris reveals.
"Wait...THE Trail of Tears?" I ask
" Yeah, man, Andrew Jackson, the whole bit."
I stand there for a minute, and as is common in a cloudy head like mine, I begin to see things. Old things. Not the way they were, but the way i can best understand them. I see the long line of reddish brown skinned refugees slowly plodding through the well manicured lawn, some fall, cannot get up again and are thrown by their ankles into an unmarked hole in the ground. Some of the bodies in the pit are still, some are still moving. Blue coated soldiers begin throwing dirt in on top of them, and some courageous brown skinned men and women try to keep them from burying their loved ones alive, thunder cracks and they fall, the line of broken hearts marches on.
Chris is talking about the lawn again, he wraps it up and gives me the thumbs up "Okay?" he asks, seeking confirmation. I collect myself, shake the dreams away and ask him very dryly with the hint of disgust " We're going to mow the Trail of Tears?"
"Yeah, man, it's nuts ain't it?"
Somehow the morning cools and darkens, yet the sun remains shining and the temperature the same. I come from a different part of this country, a part whose blood soaked history has been very consciously and systematically erased, paved over, denied, forgotten and rewritten. A place that makes the past a different nation of different people who have left us no inherent debt to the ones we tortured and displaced, the ones we erased. Here in the south, things have been left raw and untouched. They don't lie about who they are and what they've done. I like the horses but i can do without the history lesson, but i guess even those two things are completely intertwined, brown skinned women and men never knew a horse till we brought them here. Just another token of supposed cultural superiority.
Before I'm half way through my job, Chris comes back to see how I'm doing. I'm just about out of gas and about to refuel, so he decided to ice the cake for me, so to speak.
" You haven't seen any spirits out here have you John?"
I think he's messing with me.
" Man I swear I saw a little girl up in that front balcony over there one day. I mean, it was getting late you know? So it could have been my eyes playin' tricks on me, but I know these folks ain't got no kids.
I have that "You've got to be kidding me" expression on my face. But he continued undeterred...
"And you know what I found out? Back when this house was built, like a hundred sumthin years ago, they all had a little girl who fell off that balcony and broke her neck. Yeah, and it was one of those winters that was too cold to dig in the ground, so they had to keep her in the cellar for three months till the ground thawed."
I stare at him blankly. I don't need this shit.
" Yeah, so that's why I like to do this place in the morning. It gets real creepy out here at night, man."
I make a mental note that this day is disqualified from the running for best day ever, I would say that this could be a really creepy friggin day, but all of my jobs seem to turn out like this, maybe it's just me, maybe I just look to close, fixate too much on my imagined stories of places, maybe I'm just really bored. Eitherway, at least i got to hang out with those mini horses, and in a month I can leave the heavy south and go to a part of California where people are too self absorbed to know the story of their town. All blessings and curses, these days.
WWMD? ( What would monkey's do?)
Good question. I'm locked up solo-style in the tight quarters of a socially packed servant's house, this place is thick as theives. I can't manage one night on the couch without some gang of fools waking me up with their late hour's carrousing. I got Joe Rogan over here, smoking DMT, sleeping in his salty isolation tank, and telling me how humans are bacteria and sentimentality is a coping mechanism, I'm just nodding and sing songing "truuuuuueeee". Then you have Howard Bloom, in pole position on the porch, telling me not to give into the God of War, while he makes eyes at Leslie Feist who is still wearing that blue sparkley number and getting all the misty wraiths under the floorboards to clap in time. Teenage hopes indeed.
This Confederate Colonel is on my ass for trying to date his 150 year old corpse daughter, ghost cat wants some whiskas, maniacal squirell is all hippedy bippedy on the tree over there and I'm sweating through my sleep sack like it's the summer of '68 and I'm back in "the shit". Let these poltergeists take a hike, I'm too dense for haunted Nashville, they're all trying to get some Yankee nerves riled up but man I got the sleep apnea, I haven't been the whole night through since grade school.
Next thing you know Lazy Magnet will be rolling into town to commiserate on the fate of the dolphins in their constant struggle with our hidden adversary (who's rising), then I'll have no choice but to stay up all night drinking Pabst, listening to Art Bell and screaming at the walls till the shadow people vector in from the Netherverse and do my fucking laundry.
So to answer the question, What would Monkeys do? I would have to say, probably much the same thing that Jesuses would do. Howl and screech, groom each other for snacks, furiously masturbate then throw their scat at each other... like good Catholics.
Morning Meal
The scrambled eggs were good, there were tomatoes and peppers mixed in, and the biscuits are (according to Val) Angela's award winning recipe. I believe it, they are tender, crisp and buttery good. The bacon is some kind of out of sight, local pig, that is salty and juicy and perfect. Wash that down with sweet organic vegetable juice and you'd smile the way I smiled as Val and Angela, my official Nashville welcoming committee, regaled me with tales of how haunted my house is and the general history of the neighborhood. I love it, I can't get enough, I stuff another biscuit in my face and plan the midnight seiza stance seance that i will hold in order to connect to the history and hollow time-space of my new home. I do funny things in my sleep, Beth or Nicki can tell you, so I'm sure that some twilight slumber dances with the fair southern belles of old will be no step out of line for me.
The drives have been long, and I have been by myself, but not so much alone. I have no music of my own so I have been diligently scanning and absorbing the radio since I left my home in new england. I have observed the stark changes in culture and taste from northeast to mid atlantic to mountain south, and have noted the similarities as well. Listening to pop radio is a good makeshift replacement for the company of freinds, and here in America it's a small comfort to know that no matter where I am I can probably turn on the radio and here Rhianna's "umbrella" song or some serious classic rock that brings me back to the days i smoked weed and zoned out to my father's record collection. Warmer, brighter, younger days, heart felt times...or maybe it was just the drugs, never the less, I have landed and will stick (the bulgarian judge give me a 8.85!) for a matter of months before I pack up what little material belongings I have, and do my best to cram my collected memories and emo-style sentiments into my speedy little black car and head further west, further into the setting sun and towards a different flavor of my blessed transient lifestyle.
Down Time
There have been times where I've walked with a swagger, times where I've beheld the entire world with contempt. I was a shark easily sliding through life, devouring it's challenges and quickly becoming the most feared animal in the ocean. Now is not one of those times. These aren't the "date three girls at once" days, these are the small and alone on the road days. These aren't the chest out, chin up, full stride, pride days, these are eyes on the road, jaw clenched, "we can do this" days. I feel fragile and exposed out here, I'm far away from everything and stuck with only myself to keep me company. Me and my memories...great. I remember the faces mostly, and the how their bodies felt next to mine and as always in times like these I wonder how I ever took such comfort for granted. This is it though, this is the next phase, I'm not going back so I'd better get used to it.
Maybe it's because I got most of my stuff stolen on my last night night in Philadelphia, maybe it's because I walked away from a pair of big brown eyes, a bigger heart, and the offer of a good life in order to chase down my demons, maybe it's because deep inside I know that in no way shape or form am I a man that a six year old me would be proud of, be excited about, or look forward to becoming. This is a time to ruminate and reflect, to lock doors and bleed silent tears, this is a time to reset, reorient, and reclaim who I want to be, point my heart in the right direction and move. I'm not done yet, I may be down but never out. Just wait, just wait and see, the best part is coming up, this is going to get good.
Wanderlust
Stuff my pockets full, strap my slick black bike to the back, and into the highway headwind I will press, onward and outward into the new and perpetually lonely. I left a good thing behind, a home, an extended family of friends, collaborators, and teammates, but I have to be willing to sacrifice these comforts to find any sort of meaning and purpose. I'm walking into the cold alone, to the places where no one knows me, cares to, or tries to hold me up. Statue time for Mr. Jack, hungry time, time to choose a war, to face west and watch the sun sink into the ocean. It's that small joy, in between towns, out on the road, that little freedom, what Robert Parker calls " All we have left." It's mine, I'm going to look at the land, ghost through cities and towns, and find that place where I make sense. It may actually lie somewhere along the way, I may have already left it behind, but I'm not afraid of losing it because if it's real, if it exists, we will find each other in time.
New Town Smell
So when you ride down the street in Philadelphia and try, like i do, to take in as much as possible, you can't help but be a little overwhelmed by all the new things, the things that didn't exist in your old town. Like for instance, you're following your lady down Arch street, both of you whizzing around late-night on your fancy "cool kid" road bikes, and you zip by a little place called
" The All-Night Pleasure Palace".
Whoa! Holy Fuck! Are you serious???!!!
You screech to a halt and go back because you can't believe it. She doesn't think its a big deal, but thats because she didn't sit through five consecutive summers of Shane P. Callahan regaling you with farcical tales of the unfortunately fictions A.N.P.P. or All Night Pussy Palace, the type of dreamy locale that only libidinous adolescent males could conjure up. Alas, this Palace is only a late night dirty bookstore and probably a bit too grimy for you or your special lady to endure, but it is smack dab in the middle of Downtown, on the main drag not some shadowy alleyway (thats where the Occult shop is). Don't believe me? Have a look, it's only a few blocks past the Federal Corrections Facility. OOP.
Yeah thats right, amongst hotel high rises, commercial skyscrapers, and other testaments to architectural engineering, there sits a a large tower made of glass, steel, mandatory abuses of authority and butt rape.
Right. Down. Town.
Why? Why the fuck is there a federal detainment center in the middle of downtown Philadelphia? Could you please pick a better location for the homicidal maniacs, child rapists, and pot smokers besides in my main commercial district? Thank you. I mean Jesus Fuck! it's right there in between the Ben Franklin Colonial Taekwondo Dojang and the GlaxoSmithKline Compound. Have some decency, at least put it between two Starbucks so if the butt rapers get out they can sodomize that section of the population most entitled to it...Make mine a grande'.
The other thing, besides the fresh out of the oven soft pretzels (from one of the many soft pretzel bakeries here in the greater Philadelphia area), this city stinks! No like seriously...for real. There is some kind of thing with garbage around here, like the sanitation engineers don't really like handling it even though it's their job. You always see bags of it hanging around in random places, outside the Art museum, on the sidewalk in front of your house for three weeks, in the bathrooms of the statehouse...though never around the Masonic temple...hmmmm. It's like the city is full of freaky-deak trash-o-philes who just love buttering themselves up with rotten vegetables and old baby-wipes before they get all nasty and start vomiting cheesesteak oil and old Wawa Sweet Tea onto one another, slapping their stinky asses, and calling each other Barry.
Not that i know..
So as you ride past such wondrous and historic sites, like the All Night Pleasure Palace, the Federal Fecal Impaction Institute, and the big fountain there ...the one where the turtles and frogs are spitting on the naked men, you'll catch these ghost vapors, these putrid phantom smells that almost pole-axe you off your ten speed. It's funk man, and you can't fake it. It just makes me wonder, how does Providence smell? I mean no one around here notices the stinkies any more, which is all the better for me, because my girlie has me eating more beans and vegetables which always leads to me slipping out steamy little secret messages during the course of the day...none of which you would care to decipher. So as I get ready to go back to my homepiece for a couple of days, I steel myself for the brutal reality that my hometown reeks of rancid quahogs and system wieners that have all been shat out by a lactard after a coffee cabinet drinking contest. Grosser than gross.
So in closing, I guess I wasn't ready for my new town smell, the unshowered, sweaty, pit-stink of my new home. Not that i mind really, it still smells better than pussy, and I voluntarily stick my face in that stuff all the time.
Way Out West
On the cold days here, I would hide my hands inside my coat and wonder what happened to the mittens My mom bought for me and why I never seemed to hang onto them for long. The sun would be low in the sky as I was on my way to school and I would amuse myself by blowing steam into the crisp clean air. I never liked the snow, the numbing pain from making bare handed snowballs and the throbbing burn that followed when you went inside and tried to warm them up. Every day I would watch the sun slide low across the sky and disappear somewhere warmer and far away.
Its cold here now, but soon enough the spring will return and the energy of the city and people will erupt much like the new life and colors of the season. This year, however, I will not be staying, I will not be grateful and celebrating, I've given up on my home and on the radical change that the seasons bring. When the rest of my friends will be breathing a sigh of relief and enjoying the good fortune that nature affords them, I will be packing my bags and heading west, stopping in every town that I have friends and slowly crawling my way towards the pacific coast and the warm and weird world that lies at the base of California. Its every Rhode Island boy's dream to go there and live in the sun and sand, amongst the myths and the mayhem, to walk amongst the plastic people with their sparkling veneers. So with love and sadness I say farewell to my beloved city, and all the wondrous people I call my friends, for they shall be missed, but they all understand. Itchy feet need to be scratched, and I need a little extra space and time, to see this wide land of mine, to stand in a different place, to swim in a different direction. Its gonna be a big WOW when I hit it, soon enough Ill be heading way out west.
Monsoon Season
It only gets bad when your feet are wet. When you're in danger of losing a boot to the mud pit you're trudging through. Bad enough you've got a 150lb beam on your shoulder, you might as well roll your ankle too. Even better, when you get three hours sleep the night before, and have been here since eight and haven't eaten at all.
Somewhere into that rain drenched 10th hour you decide to hulk the fuck out. You start picking up large pine blocks, which you would normally handle gingerly and with caution in order not to break yourself, and start overhead heaving them into the swelling current of the river, you probably appear to be "a little upset", shoulders tense, neck bulging, eyes wide and glowing underneath the filthy brim of your ball cap, stalking the grounds looking for more large objects large to throw. That's about when your co-worker suggests that you both take five underneath the beer tent.
That's right the fucking beer tent.
Someone's having a party in the rain. Well, actually no one is having a party because it's coming down like fucking bullets, but there is a beer tent, and a guy dispensing beer, so you bitch with him about the weather and you throw four or five back. It's amazing the affect alcohol has on the overworked body, you relax like you've been injected with liquid cool and your perspective immediately changes. You get warmer and you don't notice the squish in your boots, you a bit more amicable and decide to patronize all the other caterer's tents smiling at the damp teenagers handing out grilled foods, roasted peanuts and cookies. All the people are hiding under the available shelter and the rain starts coming in sideways. Now with a mouthful of food and a belly full of beer you walk around like a kid at a carnival, smiling, yelling, loudly retelling wildly inappropriate stories and generally having a good time, you watch the place completely flood and laugh at all the suits who are bumming out big time.
It's a nice day, they should come out and play with us.
Those prissy fucks in their Lands End chinos and Northface parkas. I'll stab them in their cold, black, yuppie, hearts with a hundred year old leather punch and be exalted by the ghosts of a thousand dead workers as I'm dragged off to the Electric Chair. No one is buying condos today boys, I'm going home.
I'm drenched, filthy, and beat tired. If it wasn't for the peanuts, It would have been a waste of a perfectly good saturday.