|
treacherous cunnin' declinin'
|
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Oct. 3rd, 2008|02:46 am] |
October 7th, 2008
7:10 UTC |
|
|
| i can't sleep/ the plan |
[Aug. 25th, 2007|05:18 am] |
There I was with my decoder ring from a box of Rice Krispies trying to make sense of some millenia-old story about a magical island. Maybe next week I'd take on love. Slept well, same tired. Not really where I wanted to be. By then i had lost my funding and grants since the only scientific discovery I'd reported to my advisor was that English muffins were absolutely delicious with cinnamon and honey toppings. It was grand laziness that would probably enrage your average taxpayer and his disappearing Protestant sensibilities.
My wife had left by now. She said I lived like a vampire, or maybe a hemophiliac afraid to go outside because of vampires and all the sharp edges modern life throws at you. She was half right though, since about a week ago a man had sent me a letter telling me where I could find Louis XVII's heart, pickly preserved in old alcohol somewhere in the Middle East. I obsessed over the handwriting and idea for days, made plans: maybe a quick drive over to Riyadh after I found it to sell it to some Saudi princes, since they collect so much goddamn shit. I heard they had huge underground auctions that would put a Sotheby's to shame, and they usually dissolved into nightmarish orgies too. But after a while the invitation started to reek of pyramid schemes and certain death. I knew a trap for what it was, thanks to Grandpa. When I was younger he would temptingly hold out a deck of cards, ask me if i wanted to play "'52 Pickup" and when I said okay he'd make me change the oil on his stupid Chevy. It was high times for gender role enforcement back then, beginning the moment you were born. If it was a girl everyone in the hospital room would be delighted if she sat there silently like a girl was supposed to do, and if a boy would start reaching out or jacking off all the men would nod their heads and grunt and shit because he was asserting his masculinity. Picasso was supposed to be a stillbirth but his uncle blew some cigar smoke in the kid's face to wake him up; that's what I wanted. Either way, I wasn't going. I remembered my army buddy Steve who'd been drugged by crazed nationalists when he tried to pull a similar stunt in Libya, and then they left him in the desert to die. He wandered for days until he came across the dreaded um-al-duwayce, who appeared to him outside the Oasis Crater as a beautiful woman with hooves. That last part didn't bother Steve too much since he was probably half-delirious at that time, and if I know anything about him from our time in Vietnam he'd fuck anything that moved anyway. Well, turns out her vagina had razor-sharp teeth in it just like medieval Europe warned you about and she castrated him for being adulterous. All I can hope is that he went out with a smile on his face. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Aug. 17th, 2007|03:47 pm] |
|
you know you can make some pretty cool tunes just tapping a bic lighter between your teeth or against your tibias |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Aug. 15th, 2007|05:18 pm] |
i've created a monster, a noise project of sorts, so check it out/friend me on myspace if you want to:
space trash |
|
|
| On The Necessity for A Psychedelic Experience, and What Society Thinks About It |
[Aug. 7th, 2007|02:01 pm] |
Life,for mostpeople,simply isn't. Take the socalled standardofliving. What do mostpeople mean by "living"? They don't mean living. They mean the latest and closest plural approximation to singular prenatal passivity which science,in its finite but unbounded wisdom,has suc-ceeded in selling their wives. If science could fail, a mountain's a mammal. Mostpeople's wives can spot a genuine delusion of embryonic omni-potence immediately and will accept no subsitutes.
luckily for us,a mountain is a mammal.
(e.e. cummings, New Poems)
( This is really long and probably doesn't make sense. ) |
|
|
| pas heurté (atteint) |
[Jul. 26th, 2007|04:07 pm] |
voici un simple soldat
qui lutte dans la guerre
ayant perdu sa jambe
pour une croix faite enfer
dégagé des OM --
et son beau compagnon:
pourrissant en bière,
il a perdu sa vie
comment taire, commentaire
pour l'amour d'autrui?
(dégagé des hommes --
autre jeune bête de somme)
tué pour un messie
qui annonce par le cor
d'histoire mondiale
sans fin où il dort
(au-dessus du dôme
dégagé par  ) |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Jul. 8th, 2007|09:56 pm] |
so here's to the armymajor who
played a cowboy in that film (but
for lack of real Tombstones in Hollywood
i saw, i heard a eulogy for its dead)
who was cowboys everywhere
before they had to change
here's to that saguaro, sasparilla sonofabitch
who wears the past on his face,
hides in it and on his legs -- he
just wants something to believe in
who knew that progress makes dreams of our
paths and wires
and talking solitude and
exile:
he left the desert with a bombshell in his arms,
following the second star to the right
which wrinkles know twinkles no
never land, to wit -- it's home |
|
|
| the justified, the absolved |
[Jun. 7th, 2007|01:39 pm] |
after the subduction of the barely-legal centuries, we were free to make mountains out of molehills (greeley said "go west" but he meant up, and america popped a star-spangled boner at the thought of homogenizing morality, progress, great intangible aspirations and skyscrapers: building the vast phallic frontier) and no man was too unimportant to take up, no case too daunting to take on. justice! that blind bucking bronco was now as relatively brilliant as einstein and his speed of light, so they put her in the cultural pantheon for the benefit of ooos and aaas and the indoctrination of children on field trips. as the latest proceedings unfolded, i was joined in the jury box by a tumbleweed from los alamos, a palm tree from the bikini atoll, a cherry blossom from japan, and henry fonda's steaming corpse. they were cross-examining an ideology, one of those formalities that don't expect any real answers (like when the cashier asks you how you're doing). and then i remember the prosecutor said he would show us fear in a handful of dust.
to be in nagasaki in august was to see the realization of the secret cause of death: the dead and the dying joined in nuclear hara-kiri, lying on their knees in (the ashen center of a four-cornered mat marked luke and john,) their own pride, laid low as well by excess, made examples, small benchmarks for the future to measure its missiles against. the surrender on the aircraft carrier was understanding nothing could ever happen, know and grow back home for a long, long time, and i floated across the land in the still air searching for something louder than the cemeteries. then i heard that old sarabande the wind mowed on the mead, a faint ticking that signaled life's end radiating in, from the ground, old men's hearts, and midnight. telegraphy by means of electric light -- interrupted conversations, lost messages, transpacific pain and sorrow, transitively specific, the rhythm (one two three, one two three). |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Apr. 27th, 2007|02:12 pm] |
so last night I was going to bed since I'd spent all night working, groaning on an essay about obscure african languages. hannah calls me "come down to the san lorenzo river we're drinking with a bum"
"ok give me ten minutes"
I meet them in front of the e3 playhouse wearing a women's coat and am dragged inside to:
1. some guy telling me to "relax"
(1a) some guys getting head in the bathroom
2. a room full of israeli rappers
3. killah priest of the wu-tang clan
now he's pretty drunk, spouting incoherent bullshit this side of jean-claude van damme about leopards, absolut, and and the pros and cons of matzo-ball soup. then he calls alex onstage, being the only other brother there, and affectionately nicknames him "turbo" which makes sense since he was dressed in neon orange and looked like a box of tide laundry detergent. so we invite killah priest to smoke with us after the show but then we realize, HOW ARE WE GOING TO FIT A LARGE BLACK MAN IN THE CAR so we run away and lauren almost gets hit by a truck. we smoke a roor nonstop for an hour and then they make me drive them home, and man, i was seein' some shit. |
|
|
| By none but a god shall a god be worshipped |
[Apr. 18th, 2007|03:10 am] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| |  sleepy | ] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | for airports | ] |
Joseph Campbell, commenting on Schopenhauer's "On an Apparent Intention in the Fate of the Individual":
"When you reach an advanced age and look back over your lifetime, it can seem to have had a consistent order and plan, as though composed by some novelist. Events that when they occurred had seemed accidental and of little moment turn out to have been indispensable factors in the composition of a consistent plot. So who composed that plot? Schopenhauer suggests that just as your dreams are composed by an aspect of yourself of which your consciousness is unaware, so, too, your whole life is composed by the will within you. And just as people whom you will have met apparently by mere chance became leading agents in the structuring of your life, so, too, will you have served unknowingly as an agent, giving meaning to the lives of others, The whole thing gears together like one big symphony, with everything unconsciously structuring everything else. And Schopenhauer concludes that it is as though our lives were the features of the one great dream of a single dreamer in which all the dream characters dream, too; so that everything links to everything else, moved by the one will to life which is the universal will in nature.
It’s a magnificent idea – an idea that appears in India in the mythic image of the Net of Indra, which is a net of gems, where at every crossing of one thread over another there is a gem reflecting all the other reflective gems. Everything arises in mutual relation to everything else, so you can’t blame anybody for anything. It is even as though there were a single intention behind it all, which always makes some kind of sense, though none of us knows what the sense might be, or has lived the life that he quite intended."
That single dreamer and his intention are Vishnu, couched upon Ananta (the serpent, the Ouroboros of Endlessness), floating upon a cosmic ocean of causal milk. It is because of this trinity (as seen through the colored filter of Hinduism) that everything as we do and do not know happens. When we dream it is a result and jumble of who we are, that is to say: our thoughts, our hopes, our experiences in life. But the nature of Vishnu and the only criterion which constitutes his dream, the only thing he "knows," driven by the milk, is his eternity, which we share with him as part of it. The nature of life and the life of nature is eternity, driven by cycles, which create the typical motifs in our dreams and the recurring motifs spanning across cultures for millenia. Jung said these similarities support the idea that dreams are a phylogenetically older mode of thought, a surviving trace of the mental processes of more primitive humans.
Have you heard of morphic resonance?
Rupert Sheldrake: "The idea is that there is a kind of memory in nature. Each kind of thing has a collective memory. So, take a squirrel living in New York now. That squirrel is being influenced by all past squirrels.
And how that influence moves across time, the collective squirrel-memory both for form and for instincts, is given by the process I call morphic resonance. It's a theory of collective memory throughout nature. What the memory is expressed through are the morphic fields, the fields within and around each organism. The memory processes are due to morphic resonance."
Basically, morphic fields are fields of habit, and they've been set up through habits of thought, through habits of activity, and through habits of speech. Most of our culture is habitual, I mean most of our personal life, and most of our cultural life is habitual. We don't invent the English language. We inherit the whole English language with all its habits, its turns of phrase, its usage of words, its structure, its grammar.
Occasionally people invent new words, but basically, once we've assimilated it, it happens automatically. I don't have to think when I'm speaking, reaching for the next word. It just happens, and the same is true about physical skills, like riding a bicycle, or swimming, or skiing if you can ski, these kinds of things. So I think the more often these things happen the easier they become for people to learn. Things like learning language have happened over- well, we don't know how long human language has been around, at least 50,000 years, so there's a tremendously well-established morphic field for language-speaking. Each particular language has its own field which is usually established over centuries at least.
The whole idea of morphic resonance is evolutionary, but morphic resonance only gives the repetitions. It doesn't give the creativity. So evolution must involve an interplay of creativity and repetition.
Creativity gives new forms, new patterns, new ideas, new art forms. And we don't know where creativity comes from. Is it inspired from above? Welling up from below? Picked up from the air? What? Creativity is a mystery wherever you encounter it, in the human realm, or in the realm of biological evolution, or of cosmic evolution.
We know creativity happens. And then what happens is a kind of Darwinian natural selection. Not every good idea survives. Not every new form of art is repeated. Not every new potential instinct is successful. Only the successful ones get repeated. By natural selection and then through repetition they become probable, more habitual.
Morphic fields organize self-organizing systems, things that organize themselves, like snowflakes, or molecules, or ecosystems, or animals, or plants, or societies, like flocks of birds.
In the entire process of cosmic evolution you see a spiritual process as well as a material process. You can't separate the two.
I think a lot of harm was done in the West by splitting apart science and religion in the 17th century. Science became very limited in its focus to mechanical, material things, and religion became very introverted; it became very concerned just with the human spirit and with morality and so forth, and so religion signed over the whole of the natural world including the cosmos to science and science signed over to religion human ethical questions and left this terribly limited domain as the sphere of religion.
In most traditional cultures, these are not separated in that way. For an American Indian looking at the sky, he's not looking at just a material collection of bodies moving in accordance with inanimate laws. The sky is a living being, the abode of the spirit.
The earth is a living mother; it's not just a collection of rocks with physical forces at work in them.
If you look at any traditional world view there isn't a separation between nature and spirit, and religion and science. The two go together. It's a much more holistic and integrated view of the world, and I think that, as science emerges from this narrow, mechanistic phase that it's been in and we move to a broader vision, a new kind of connection between the realms of science and spirituality becomes possible.
It must make a difference if someone is absolutely intensely involved with an idea and dwells on it with huge intensity ... If somebody in solitude works away in an extremely intense way it may indeed set up a morphic field. In fact, we know that something like that does seem to happen, because it's very common in art, in fashion design, in science and technology for different people to have similar inventions.
The mechanistic theory of nature is a theory of nature, and one that I think is wrong, or at least too limited. It's not an eternal truth. Even the constants of nature, as I've shown in my book, Seven Experiments That Could Change the World, the so-called absolute constants, like the speed of light, when you look at the actual data, don't appear to be constant at all.
I see spirit as the principle of change, of movement, of inspiration. In the physical world, spirit takes the form of what we call energy. The essence of spirit is to move, to flow, to change. So spirit moves through all living forms and its images are the wind, flames of the fire, light and the flight of birds. These are all moving images. and precisely because it's always moving and can take so many forms, it is so hard to define.
The soul was eliminated from science through the mechanistic revolution in the seventeenth century. Before that, everyone in Europe and America and everywhere else believed that plants had souls. It was the official doctrine of the medieval church. The very word "animal" comes from the Latin word "anima" which means "soul."
The elimination of souls from nature in the seventeenth century was succeeded in the nineteenth century by the introduction of fields--electrical and magnetic fields first, and then later gravitational fields, then quantum fields, and in biology, morphogenic fields. My own ideas are based on generalizing this field concept in biology to what I call "morphic" fields, which I think are the invisible patterns that underlie the growth of living organisms; the invisible patterns organizing the activity of nervous systems, underlying instincts in animals.
And they are the invisible connections that link together members of social groups. For example, a flock of birds can all turn together at practically the same time. I think this is because there is a field of the whole flock; they're all within a larger system, part of a larger whole. The morphic field of the flock is what links and coordinates them. They're turning far too fast to do it just by watching their neighbors or by responding to ordinary sensory information.
I think their movements are coordinated in the same way as the movements of iron filings around a magnet. When you move the whole magnet, the whole pattern of the filings changes because they're all responding to the field of which they are a part. This is as true for birds in a flock as it is for human members of social groups."
The mind can be reduced to smaller parts and structures, which can be further reduced to neurons. Yet the smaller parts have no idea of their role in composing the whole. For example, the neural network responsible for receiving visual information from the retina does not "know" what it is doing, but rather processes the information it receives mechanically. We are those neurons, very unaware of the puzzle, together composing a collective unconscious. This is Vishnu. It is from this unconscious that innumerable people have drawn their archetypes: things that have been with us forever and shaped our lives (i.e. the will to procreate), our empires (i.e. the will to possess). They channel them through the veils of their culture, geography, and ethnicity into easily recognizable manifestations. For example, why do we smoke? To quote Tom Robbins, "to identify with the primordial spark...we are performing a version of the fire dance, a ritual as ancient as lightning." Vishnu's dream will always manifest itself through the cultural veils (yet like our dreams, no matter how scrambled they are, there will always be an underlying symmetry within them), so when you look at certain art, festivals, rituals, etc, you are staring into the eyes of forever.
There is no reason to believe in a conscious, decision-making god, separate from you or them like most monotheistic religions would say. That is an insult to the potentiality and interconnection innate within every living thing. Whatever it is that causes the beautiful pattern of life (death is not separate from it) cannot possibly be conscious, for that is a state that has crippled all humans: something we completely forgot to shed during evolution but ironically in order to survive in base fashion as a species on this planet. Our consciousness is the reducing valve on our minds that Huxley mentioned, mother to the languages and signs that keep us apart, keep us here as those unaware neurons instead of understanding and being everything everywhere anywhere anytime beyond.
As of yet, what is it to be human? What is it to be living? To be confined in space, extended in time.
Jean Cocteau said that when he went to sleep it was as if he were rehearsing for the final act of death. I say you act the part of god, non-capitalized.
You are eternity and everlastingness. |
|
|
| I am a passenger |
[Feb. 27th, 2007|10:42 am] |
Last night Tyler and I took some amanita mushrooms...about 3 grams or so. I could feel them somewhat until we toked up in his car outside the camping store. I think the different drugs may have intensified each other, although to what extent I will never know. Tyler later said he never hallcuinated anything beyond the face we saw in some parking meter way at the beginning. It was not so much a visual trip (at least in the sense of magic mushrooms: wavy lines, glowing, streaks...more like bottomless, cold, shivering craziness that rises out of you like good acid) until we left town down Highway 9, at Tyler's suggestion to drive around, up to Ben Lomond and other foresty retreats for the hell of it.
They've been rainy, foggy, and dark days, they left a restless feeling before we gunned about fifty down that twenty mph snake. Driving a $15000 BMW does wonders for your sense of adventure, masculinity aaand invincibility. He was driving so fast and I was already tripping by now: the road signs were unfolding before me faster than my mind could process them: everything shining and pretty, whipping and arching, left and right, flat and two dimensional to me until we were actually in them past them going down them. It seemed very natural to drive onto the train tracks all of a sudden, not because we thought we were a train or had delusions of Back to the Future Part III, but because they looked so inviting in the headlights. Tyler later said he always drove over tracks in San Francisco, so why should it have been any different here? Either way we couldn't clear the rails despite our Dukes of Hazzard dreams and the car ended up poking over a drop, how steep I couldn't tell, full of our foiled death and twinkling gold lights. We looked at what could have happened very calmly, and yes, "We probably would have died under a tree" maybe broken glass and bones everywhere.
I was pretty useless, as I normally am in these situations. The chronic had flown out of my hands even though I think I had shoved it under a seat before & I worried: cops would arrive, tow truck would take car straight to insurance company, and Tyler loses all his compensation. A modern gentleman let us use his cellphone before the rubbernecks showed up. Towtruck comes, another driver almost makes same mistake we did, but doesn't go as far down as we did. Throughout course of night wondered how many people we helped, confused, directing with hand signals, luring drivers in as flashing incapacitated spiders do. Didn't even have sense to stamp out road flare. Hallucinating badly, swaying like drunk, seeing patches of things that couldn't be: the front of car undamaged, car emergency light gliding sideways in the otherwise darkness, trying to walk off tracks onto road not even comprehending where I am filled with fear...am I standing in the middle of the highway am I going to get run over? The towtruck man tells me to stand back, if the cable snaps it will decapitate me and I am filled with fear again. At least it's not raining now. Most emotions are slow in coming and I am having trouble relating. I am philosophizing, Tyler is rationalizing, his acceptance of fate and looking forward and a wholesome sunnysideup disposition I couldn't possibly think of then, barely even now. The fear something tried to kill us or the relief something tried to warn us. Fear, helplessness,
It is bad now. Confusing words, can barely get into truck. From here on time is horribly distorted. I fall on my bed, out of continuity, time is spooling both directions, time is shooting off into other places, I fall out of synchronization with myself/copies of myself. I fall hard. Think I have damaged, set something back much bigger than I am. I saw a picnic table with an apple tree over it. That's all I remember. I don't think I can explain it very well. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Feb. 20th, 2007|01:36 am] |
|
tonight: ran over own bike in front of entire jewish sorority, stumbled out of car/"I'm not drunk" |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Feb. 12th, 2007|03:23 am] |
after the nuclear fallout over our perpetual, irreconcilable differences: we will glow but! not from radiation. the distracting & worthless forms of entertainment will be dust and forgotten, and we will find again our most gratuitous perception, that old man roy g. biv, his ideas about color, taken for granted and always having been diluted by pharmaceuticals and daily routine, raped and subverted in the name of advertising.
ninety percent of deep-sea marine life is estimated to produce bioluminescence in one form or another. such an amazing thing should leave us soon enough unfortunately (general public reacts: "anyway") at the rate by which we kill our oceans (and there is only one bioluminescent bay left to us now). when it is our turn to live on a dark planet we'll shine like fireflies and glowworms did, we'll do it to eat, mate, and build like they did. like the bacteria we will glow to colonize and communicate and we'll wear our language on our bodies like the octopus knows how, hieroglyphs like the egyptians never knew. we'll send our language out (art behind it this time, not dis/information) among us, into outer space where it came from. we might be pretty to look at again in time. |
|
|
| à tes souhaits |
[Feb. 7th, 2007|11:22 pm] |
se penchant sur un versant
sans stimulant et seul maintenant:
le bien-pensant pensant aux
penchants perdus et les composants
dans son âme composant
ses amants ancients
jadis perdant, aimant les aimants
(en grandissant) ce brillant je ne sais
quoi enfin attirant
une lame, milles de billes
moulage en coquille
des clopinettes et pas aucune femme
surveillant discrètement
la cité et tous
ses habitants se frôlant:
et comme ils sont doux
les clignotants sous
les étoiles clignotant
les phares pharaoniques
en miettes, les prêtres pharisaïques
pas servants de dieu
(pas servant le mieux-être)
restaurant des gisants:
gisant sur un versant
"ci-gît mon mieux"
en versant des larmes |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Jan. 18th, 2007|10:32 am] |
parfois les pionniers deviennent solitaires entre la verité historique alors
m. d'arezzo
merci pour mifasolati et on sait do(ré)(navant)(C')est
le do du milieu du clavier
m. cage
merci pour montrer telle impossibilité paradoxale (d'une manière ou d'une autre):
le silence est do ré
et
m. washington
e merci pour lalapalissade et l
d pour notre mer(isier) a
a s s i l a p |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Aug. 21st, 2006|03:48 pm] |
Excerpt from the Advanced Funk Studies Sociological Journal, vol. 25, Oxford, England, August 21, 2006 :
Who is James Brown? Scientific committees have attempted to define him with shuffled papers, dry philosophy, hushed whispers, and other means and adjectives we could use to give that autumn-like feeling which is the white man's burden and outlook in life. Invariably, these committees end in frenzied dance and howling once they actually begin listening to the cultural artifacts he left behind.
Every album cover is a different marketing executive's way of seeing and presenting the man. Of course he is the veloured ladies' man, and Soul on Top is a sophisticated, debonair Brown, with no affronts and backed by a big band. Revolution of the Mind and In the Jungle Groove hint at a more accurate interpretation, that of a desperate man fighting societal and musical constraints with the only weapon available: hard funk. One is reminded of Funkadelic's objective in titling their 1971 record, from Wikipedia: "In the grand scheme of things, Maggot Brain is a mode of being, thinking and existing, in which one transcends the troubles of Earthly existence by revelling in the freedom of funk." Regardless of how much acid is mother to that claim, it stands strong to this day.
James Brown is the music world's Mohammed; he is filled with light and a cause in the legendary Please, Please, Please performance. He jerks around on soulful axes like a puppet, or vessel, to the soundwaves coming from his bandmates' instruments. When they become too much to bear the only thing that can console isn't the assistance from his backup singer, or the fact that he will get hot laid backstage afterward, but his microphone, his tool to communicate his message ("Everybody's got a right to the tree of life"), and his object of desire in an admirable addiction. Buried somewhere in history, Jung notes a remarkable case study from 1906, reporting: "The subject Mkandwire became extremely agitated and fell into religious spasms when confronted with 'action phrases' such as 'take it to the bridge' and 'can I count it off.' Despite all efforts, he was unable to be cured." Much like how the President of France declares himself godfather to every thirteenth child born into a family, the Roman Catholic Church condones Brown's self-appointment as the "Godfather of Soul."
It's all in the scream, a common theme between Brown and Francis Bacon. But whereas Bacon could never reconcile his portrait of Innocent X with Velazquez' original and thus left his scream a debasing, alienating one of a subject in conflict with his surroundings, Brown uses his to signal an orgasm onstage or perhaps in someone in the crowd who has really felt the bass, the thin funky wire connecting all our minds, and tapped into the groove if but for a second. Fresh. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Aug. 4th, 2006|09:41 am] |
'Twas on his deathbed
Poe thought it to pray
and lessen the dread
of his nigh Judgment Day:
'Twas not hellfire's court
nor eternal task
Just a panel of sorts
by which Jesus Christ asked:
"Did you mean what you wrote?"
"Every word, after all it's my suicide note." |
|
|
| what the hell is this? |
[Jul. 7th, 2006|11:07 am] |
A flock of Kansas gingham and crew cuts looked up from what they were doing, the lesser saints hazarding a curtained peek at the new arrival from a safer distance. For some of the younger ones this was their only unplanned visitor to date -- after all, why else would their parents live in a cul-de-sac? (16-year-old Jimmy Kerpowski already harbored resentment for having to live in such a stagnant, borderline Tennessee incestuous eddy cut off from the ocean of normal human life. He was to be a king among men among other things among other times, and the Sargasso Sea inside in the Pacific.) At any rate, a Martian. A Martian with blue jeans, and flowing blond hair which had cost thousands of chromosomes their livelihood. The ladies liked it very much and competed the next day with the dryers at the beauty salon for some loudest mindless droning.
The men meanwhile gawked at this Apollo, feeling twinges of jealousy in their otherwise limp cocks after so many years of being unable to satisfy their wives. One of them, recalling his father's shrewd business advice and habit from military service, decided to take the initiative.
Crossing over the lawn, and a sweaty game of bocce: "Hey there stranger! The name's Rick. Rick Griffey, but don't mind the honorifics, I can see you're busy moving in. But say, that U-Haul ain't your only car, is it?"
"'Fraid so. Thother one got busted comin' outta Nawlins."
"New Orleans, huh? That's no Louisiana accent you got there. What do they call you down there?"
The new kid offered his hand and a equally indifferent "I'm jus Dean, sir."
"Alright Dean, well, it's real nice to meet you...you should go down to my dealership on Western sometime and we'll talk cars. Find it at Griffey's -- we set you up in a jiffy!"
The man faded away into the echo of his own annoying voice.
The next morning the new kid had moved everything in and himself one over to the Edelson's. And all the neighborhood women were there making him welcome cookies and they were so curvy it made you motion-sick. When the doorbell rang they were very shrill and then quiet as panicked housewives and teakettles will be. While they were hiding behind various floral patterns, Mrs. Edelson of the Kiwanis Club and fantastic disposition answered the door.
"Why, hello Dean." It was sultry, born out of boredom and after four other children.
"Yes, hello ma'am, I didn't mean to be a bother already, but I was wondering if I could borrow your eggs and maybe a cookie sheet for the oven."
The woman was confused but relented, and felt lost to boot when he promptly left with the items. Her friends had heard everything and wailed like the firstborn plague, if an answered prayer could make every Egyptian sound like Jerry Lee Lewis. Well, what the fuck else were they going to do! He was their mysterious ticket out of this place!
"Had he not smelled our cookies?"
"Didn't he see what you were wearing?"
"Why would he make his own?"
And then, a thought came over them that he had not wanted, and did not want them or their cookies, and, well, that was too much.
Rick Griffey was always good on his jiffy. "Turns out a jiffy is really something like 1/100th of a second, Dean. I mean, you already know this Chevy can handle it."
"I wanna tes' drive it."
"Oh son, no, we can't do that for you, that's the only thing. Company policy, sorry."
The kid made his intentions known anyway and Griffey reluctantly acquiesced in the name of their new friendship.
"I'll give you 10 minutes -- be back here and be careful!"
The kid went home sometime later instead, only to be greeted by a livid Rick.
"What in the fuck! Why did you leave the car in a...Where is it?! Where is the motor?!" he spluttered.
"I took it for a project. I think I'll keep it for a bit."
"YOU--"
"Weren't gonna get a commission on it, don' you think? History lesson, Rick my man: Japanese have small dicks and hot cars. Nobody buys American anymore. 'Specially not from a guy without any balls."
"You're right." Rick agreed and followed the accusatory finger. Rick was very celibate. He sang that night to himself like a caged bird, but sounded like a lovely Italian soprano choirboy. They are castrato to keep their voices so pure.
Then it turned out that the Hotchkisses at the end of the street had a lily of a daughter. And they liked to show her off and pretend to find her suitors, so she was their everything. One day Dean the kid was strolling out and about when he saw her in the window getting some sunlight and her name was Katie. He thought he would like to take her out, so he played it Victorian and dressed up in such ascots and overblown airs that he absolutely charmed old Mr. Hotchkiss when he offered him a dowry.
"Alrrright good boy, but back by midnight!" he joshed.
And she was, and she was crying.
It was time for a neighborhood emergency meeting! But it could have been a block party, or barbecue, for all you'd know. Everyone sat around, deflated like old hot-air balloons, or used condoms, or maybe hot-air balloon condoms. So somebody put their foot down.
"We don't want him here! This man is a terrorist!"
"Don't lose your head. We don't have to get pitchforks and light everything on fire and chase him out of here like Frankenstein. I'm sure there's a reason he's keeping our stuff so let's just ask for it back."
They all got their kitchen utensils and Tiki Torches and went en masse to his doorstep. Their collective impatience and knocking woke him from a reverie about mangrove swamps and into a satin bathrobe by the foyer. Mr. Hotchkiss was the vanguard and spokesman of this movement and carried all their hopes and dreams for the moment.
"We want our things back now, sir, and lucky you we don't charge interest!" Mumbling: "or burn your house down."
"Oh, right. Gimme a minute."
And he went and got something that looked like white snot and put it in the old man's hand.
"What the hell is this?"
"That," explained Dean, "is your daughter's hymen." |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Jul. 3rd, 2006|02:51 pm] |
THIS DAMN COUNTRY IS FOUNDED ON INDIAN BURIAL GROUNDS AND RED TAPE
why won't they take my credit card |
|
|
| navigation |
| [ |
viewing |
| |
most recent entries |
] |
| [ |
go |
| |
earlier |
] |
| |
|
|
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
variety_show's journal
