The following was discovered written on coasters scattered on the floor amid a pile of broken bottles and dirty socks:
He was constricted to writing on coasters. He'd forgotten his journal, but at least he had his pen and his wits about him. So he wrote while sitting in the bar sipping his whiskey, afraid he would discover himself written down, captured in ink, unable, or unwilling to fight himself free. He could not escape the fetal stirrings of the Novel growing: an abort, fail, retry repeating itself in his head. The Novel would not limit itself to free-verse thought expressions. It went with him wherever he went. As long as he had his trusty writing instrument, which was stolen, and perhaps, beside the point, the finest pen he had ever owned, he wouldn't be able to escape.
And so the Novel continued in vaporous circles, churning in his brain as the smoke from his cigarette commingled with the air, dancing in tandem with laws of physics he could not fathom. His thoughts resembled certain books written in sand and purchased in dreams he desperately desired to own. He saw It swirling into fantastic hedonisms, Grendhalian gardens filled with sin and his greed, along with the Words, floated half-formed, as yet unborn in the sterile hollows of his mind. So, he sat and waited in the dark confines of the bar for a character to walk onto the stage, not needing to create them, but draw them up in the bucket of his pen. He waited. He watched. He listened. He drank.
"Oh, my God!" exclaimed a one-line, bit actor. He realized he could make of their comment what he wanted, choosing whether to foreshadow their declaration, lend it an air of prophetic import. Instead, he let it slide into the general background noise of the bar. Waited for something else. Drank.
It had been here where he had felt the pull of flesh and pen, mixed with alcohol, so many lives expounding the utter emptiness of their being. Here, where Life became nothing more than fetid desires and putrid purchases of souls traded for fleeting, empty rituals; here, he had felt most alive. Yet, it was here also he felt, and beared witness to the secret fear of mediocrity, the drab illusions draping his mind that he could not escape from.
And so, it was here, amid the scattered laughter and drunken conversations of two-dimensional non-entities on the periphery of his consciousness that he felt at home, anonymous. And it was here he returned day after day to witness the same tired visage from which he gazed upon the world. Here, he turned the mirrored eye back upon itself and let it look, for once, on something other than the self.
Another hack actor in his life proclaimed in proud insolence: "I've sucked dick for Jägermeister!" Good for him. I guess it gives meaning to his emptiness, but my own? What gives meaning to the emptiness inside me? How do you translate the utter despair, the nihilism, the wretched horror of the world into words? Your own and no one else's? Not some apt quote from some drunken fool now dead and famous; caught in the glare of envious, empty minds incapable of original thought. Not that.
Suddenly, he realized he was between worlds, between sobriety and the breaking point. He was at the point where the mind, no longer capable of holding itself and the liquor together, became stranded on an island of drunkenness and despair. He felt his mind giving up the ghost. He came to the point where the mind stops expounding the fabulous fictions we make of our lives. He decided he would not fabricate dialogue, never name characters after fruit, or turn the people he knew into truths. He would make of this life, and the next one, a play, a staging ground for his seasonal migration to hell.
He suddenly realized he didn't care any more. The cadence of his thoughts slurred and became a cross-eyed hackneyed drawl. He saw the words pouring out of his pen, knew they digressed from the words in his heart, but had no control over their existence. They existed, as Plato's forms had, in some supra reality, divorced from the truth, which had slowly become fiction.
...
He found himself, after many lost thoughts and actions, after the blurred moments of drunken stumbling, here, wide-eyed and wondering just how it was he had come to this place. Had he..? he wondered momentarily, before asking another question he had no answer for. What had happened? Where had he been? What had he done? sped through his impaired mind like wildfire, catching up snippets and fragments of thoughts and conversations. He couldn't remember whether he had simply thought those things, or quite possibly, done them. What had he done, he asked himself again; knowing, and fearing the answers.
21 February 2006
13 February 2006
Brautigans and Beers...
Sometimes,
When I can't bear the weight of my own thoughts I return to the classics. No, not Heminway or Fitzgerald; no Flaubert or Maupassant for these tired times. I mean the classics of pubescent, adle-brained, fourteen bean genes growing staulks out of tres pesos and un pocito lolita meat grinder machines.
Bukowski and Brautigan and even sir Jack, that rat-bastard, immature adult-child bleeding his dharma guts out into mama mia's toilet bowl, while young fool-philosophers sped their way his way to find some inner peace and instead received a fuck off and go to hell from some fat, bloated drunk who couldn't take it any more and just wanted death and drink and got both. Howl for him all you want to; he's dead and immortal now.
No, I come back to Brautigan these days and listen as he mocks reality with such reverence, turning even the mundane into mundane sublimity. Is it sad to think he wasted away like they all do? Like we will? Have we got the right stuff to shoot ourselves to the moon and come back down again? Will we ever find the eternal, golden bliss of a single moment? Who knows. Who cares? We all make it by hook or by crook down the pipes.
In the mean time, as the mean season grows stiff and the sun returns from sunnier climes, listen to these recordings of another immortal, dead to this earthly plane, but flying high anyways.
Wine and wishes.
When I can't bear the weight of my own thoughts I return to the classics. No, not Heminway or Fitzgerald; no Flaubert or Maupassant for these tired times. I mean the classics of pubescent, adle-brained, fourteen bean genes growing staulks out of tres pesos and un pocito lolita meat grinder machines.
Bukowski and Brautigan and even sir Jack, that rat-bastard, immature adult-child bleeding his dharma guts out into mama mia's toilet bowl, while young fool-philosophers sped their way his way to find some inner peace and instead received a fuck off and go to hell from some fat, bloated drunk who couldn't take it any more and just wanted death and drink and got both. Howl for him all you want to; he's dead and immortal now.
No, I come back to Brautigan these days and listen as he mocks reality with such reverence, turning even the mundane into mundane sublimity. Is it sad to think he wasted away like they all do? Like we will? Have we got the right stuff to shoot ourselves to the moon and come back down again? Will we ever find the eternal, golden bliss of a single moment? Who knows. Who cares? We all make it by hook or by crook down the pipes.
In the mean time, as the mean season grows stiff and the sun returns from sunnier climes, listen to these recordings of another immortal, dead to this earthly plane, but flying high anyways.
Wine and wishes.
06 February 2006
Fat Corpulent American Day Hangover
I have now experienced the truly American way. Super Bowl made me do it. It was nothing new for me, though the people and the game made the experience all the better. Its only when you wake up at six in the morning, drunk and shivering that you realize what has happpened. Poor gods of football! The Seahawks blew it, but they made it to the game; that's what's important.
And here I am waiting for the hangover to start. Dear God! Of all the things to do, I get drunk to celebrate Fat Corpulent American Day. What else?
There are pen marks on my fingers,
emptiness leaking out of my soul
and a strong desire to say...
I AM A FAT, CORPULENT AMERICAN AND...
and, and,
stilll drunk, loving it (fuck McDonald's).
And here I am waiting for the hangover to start. Dear God! Of all the things to do, I get drunk to celebrate Fat Corpulent American Day. What else?
There are pen marks on my fingers,
emptiness leaking out of my soul
and a strong desire to say...
I AM A FAT, CORPULENT AMERICAN AND...
and, and,
stilll drunk, loving it (fuck McDonald's).
26 January 2006
While We Have Little In Common...
Dear Sir,
While we have little in common I must salute you for your bravery. Only a complete idiot, or a rather brave fool would dare to insult me in the ways you have. Nevertheless, I salute you. You have made a mockery and a mimicry of me constantly for many years now, yet I have refused to raise a hand or utter a curse.
All this will change soon. I will no longer tolerate your behavior. Nor will I sit idly by and watch you pantomime my suffering. Your days are numbered. Consider yourself met and well received. The game is on and I will track you down and send you on into the clearing.
And yet you ask, "What have I ever done to offend you, sir?" I will tell you, your list of infamies is long.
You have repeatedly mocked my existence, denied my intelligence, squandered my goodwill, made a fool of me in the dribble you call "writing." You have offered burnt toast to me, though you knew me to be thirsty, given me spoiled milk to ease my stomach ache, pissed in my shoes, rolled and smoked my goddamn pot, layed siege to my sand castles and imitated Godzilla in destroying them, which I might add has also landed you on the big green's shit list. Be warned, he has horrible whisky breath.
You have drank from my well without asking, smoked my cigarettes, eaten my food, slept in my bed, stolen every girl I have ever loved, spent all my money, dogeared my books, and walked off without so much as a "thank you" or "sorry about that, old chap."
Nothing, nothing you do or say will cause me to relent in my quest for vengeance. You are met, sir. You are met. Would that I were not you when next we meet in the mirror.
Sincerely,
Me
While we have little in common I must salute you for your bravery. Only a complete idiot, or a rather brave fool would dare to insult me in the ways you have. Nevertheless, I salute you. You have made a mockery and a mimicry of me constantly for many years now, yet I have refused to raise a hand or utter a curse.
All this will change soon. I will no longer tolerate your behavior. Nor will I sit idly by and watch you pantomime my suffering. Your days are numbered. Consider yourself met and well received. The game is on and I will track you down and send you on into the clearing.
And yet you ask, "What have I ever done to offend you, sir?" I will tell you, your list of infamies is long.
You have repeatedly mocked my existence, denied my intelligence, squandered my goodwill, made a fool of me in the dribble you call "writing." You have offered burnt toast to me, though you knew me to be thirsty, given me spoiled milk to ease my stomach ache, pissed in my shoes, rolled and smoked my goddamn pot, layed siege to my sand castles and imitated Godzilla in destroying them, which I might add has also landed you on the big green's shit list. Be warned, he has horrible whisky breath.
You have drank from my well without asking, smoked my cigarettes, eaten my food, slept in my bed, stolen every girl I have ever loved, spent all my money, dogeared my books, and walked off without so much as a "thank you" or "sorry about that, old chap."
Nothing, nothing you do or say will cause me to relent in my quest for vengeance. You are met, sir. You are met. Would that I were not you when next we meet in the mirror.
Sincerely,
Me
23 January 2006
Half Moon Bay
They'd driven down through the winding hills, zipping along the road's trajectory past La Honda and hidden houses. The sun lit up the trees with fading, golden embers, while the ground swelled in anticipation of the coming dark. They still had hours and minutes and days together, though they knew it would end quickly, and sooner than either expected. Their words were hushed and rushed in fear of silent moments when one or the other's thoughts would turn again to the impending end of their shared journeys. They never meant to hurt each other, though each had in their own, careless way. They made an odd couple, dysfunctional and difficult, yet both had made many conciliations and retreats in order to arrive at this moment.
He loved her, though he felt trapped at times, unable to concentrate long enough on what else he loved. Words would always be his other mistress, and he would never leave her. At times, mostly drunken these days, he felt her warmth and sensed her willingness to give herself to him. But he could not, or would not pull himself away from his other love, the girl who now drove them on into the foothills and finally the wind-swept shores. He looked at her from the corner of his eye and saw again the beautiful, troubled girl who now owned his heart, at least a piece of it.
She really was beautiful, not only in physical terms. She had a light within her that shined out through her eyes and in her smile every time he looked at her. He saw it in the dead of night as they lay together in their bed, while she fluttered about on her broken wings tasting every color of life. She frightened him in her startling beauty, blinding him to all her faults. He could only wonder what light, if any, she saw in him to forgive him his drinking and his silences. What could she possibly love about him?
And like others, he could not see the light he radiated just as surely as she could not see the light she cast. Together, blinded by each other, they rode on in the moment's feared silence. Just before the silence became an oppression, they came upon the place she had wanted to show him. She parked the car and they walked a ways towards the shore before finding a place to climb down over the rustic fence adorning the edges of the park.
As they descended the sloping dunes, he looked back at the moon glistening through the clouds and thought thoughts of passed lives and lost chances. He did not want to repeat himself, but felt the inevitability of fate crashing down upon him as surely as he heard the waves crashing on the surf some hundred yards away. The silver light of the moon cast the world in somber expressions, lacing the edges of reality with magic. They walked along towards the distant lights across the bay holding hands.
After a while they stopped along a steep, sloping dune and lay down together. For a while they simply lay there listening to the wind and the waves. The wind pushed them closer together and sighed as it so often does when two lovers become one. They made love there on the beach while the ocean sang her song and the clouds danced in front of the moon. Sand trickled between their toes as she gently rocked back and forth against him, bringing herself and him to orgasm.
She shuddered and fell breathing hard against him as he stared up at the stars twinkling through the vast darkness. How like stars people are, he thought to himself feeling her warmth still embracing him. How like stars, he thought, burning in the darkness as if trying to attract each other with a flash and a twinkle, a smile and a laugh.
They lay there feeling each other close, knowing the hours and the minutes and the days were counting down against them. They knew this would be one of the last times they would have to bask in each other's naked glory, assuage the aching emptinesses inside of the other and take comfort, for once, in the silence presiding over them.
RRR 2:04 AM
He loved her, though he felt trapped at times, unable to concentrate long enough on what else he loved. Words would always be his other mistress, and he would never leave her. At times, mostly drunken these days, he felt her warmth and sensed her willingness to give herself to him. But he could not, or would not pull himself away from his other love, the girl who now drove them on into the foothills and finally the wind-swept shores. He looked at her from the corner of his eye and saw again the beautiful, troubled girl who now owned his heart, at least a piece of it.
She really was beautiful, not only in physical terms. She had a light within her that shined out through her eyes and in her smile every time he looked at her. He saw it in the dead of night as they lay together in their bed, while she fluttered about on her broken wings tasting every color of life. She frightened him in her startling beauty, blinding him to all her faults. He could only wonder what light, if any, she saw in him to forgive him his drinking and his silences. What could she possibly love about him?
And like others, he could not see the light he radiated just as surely as she could not see the light she cast. Together, blinded by each other, they rode on in the moment's feared silence. Just before the silence became an oppression, they came upon the place she had wanted to show him. She parked the car and they walked a ways towards the shore before finding a place to climb down over the rustic fence adorning the edges of the park.
As they descended the sloping dunes, he looked back at the moon glistening through the clouds and thought thoughts of passed lives and lost chances. He did not want to repeat himself, but felt the inevitability of fate crashing down upon him as surely as he heard the waves crashing on the surf some hundred yards away. The silver light of the moon cast the world in somber expressions, lacing the edges of reality with magic. They walked along towards the distant lights across the bay holding hands.
After a while they stopped along a steep, sloping dune and lay down together. For a while they simply lay there listening to the wind and the waves. The wind pushed them closer together and sighed as it so often does when two lovers become one. They made love there on the beach while the ocean sang her song and the clouds danced in front of the moon. Sand trickled between their toes as she gently rocked back and forth against him, bringing herself and him to orgasm.
She shuddered and fell breathing hard against him as he stared up at the stars twinkling through the vast darkness. How like stars people are, he thought to himself feeling her warmth still embracing him. How like stars, he thought, burning in the darkness as if trying to attract each other with a flash and a twinkle, a smile and a laugh.
They lay there feeling each other close, knowing the hours and the minutes and the days were counting down against them. They knew this would be one of the last times they would have to bask in each other's naked glory, assuage the aching emptinesses inside of the other and take comfort, for once, in the silence presiding over them.
RRR 2:04 AM
The wily words of Wilbur the wasted wambat.
The years, the days, the hours,
the minutes, the seconds, the milliseconds,
the...the...all the wasted moments
of life spent dreaming someone
else's dreams-
only to wake up and find there are no hearthfires
burning, no soft sounds
of breakfast cooking.
Waking up to find loneliness greeting you,
wanting a minute, or an hour
of your time.
Were it we could find solace
after the flood,
but Noah cooked the pigeon
and Moses drank the wine.
------
Moses is a historical fiction written by Alexander Graham Bell upon his coronation to the throne of Mediacrity. No, no my boy, we didn't spell that one wrong, we only just now created the word. But as we were saying, the need arises when the time of day must be dispelled. Call a priest; I think I have a second trapped in the bathroom and she's hungry.
Back to Moses. Now, I suppose some of you will find it offensive if I tell lies about the great Moses, but I will. I am. Moses was born in the third year of the first period of the last age of Men-before-the-modern-era (they didn't have internet) and lived to be 991 years of age. At that time, he could still circumcise a small male child and bless the honey wine at the same time.
The only reason he gave up the ghost was an increasing sense of ennui waiting for the chosen One to appear and take over for him. Little did he know as he was descending the seven deadly ladders of utter death, his replacement was coming along quite nicely. Alas, there are no happy endings in the Old Testament. This one ends the same way: hellfire and damnation, the end of the world, flooding, booze, etc.
But back to the replacement. He was coming along nicely, but was still something of a vague notion in the author's (not god's mind you) head that he had not quite materialized on the page yet. Be patient, dear reader. The end is nigh. With the end so far away and the beginning so near, let us give thanks to all new beginnings and a jolly cheer to all endings. The end.
------
Wait a minute! Is that it? Is that the end of the fucking story?! Tell me about the fucking golf shoes!!!
RRR
the minutes, the seconds, the milliseconds,
the...the...all the wasted moments
of life spent dreaming someone
else's dreams-
only to wake up and find there are no hearthfires
burning, no soft sounds
of breakfast cooking.
Waking up to find loneliness greeting you,
wanting a minute, or an hour
of your time.
Were it we could find solace
after the flood,
but Noah cooked the pigeon
and Moses drank the wine.
------
Moses is a historical fiction written by Alexander Graham Bell upon his coronation to the throne of Mediacrity. No, no my boy, we didn't spell that one wrong, we only just now created the word. But as we were saying, the need arises when the time of day must be dispelled. Call a priest; I think I have a second trapped in the bathroom and she's hungry.
Back to Moses. Now, I suppose some of you will find it offensive if I tell lies about the great Moses, but I will. I am. Moses was born in the third year of the first period of the last age of Men-before-the-modern-era (they didn't have internet) and lived to be 991 years of age. At that time, he could still circumcise a small male child and bless the honey wine at the same time.
The only reason he gave up the ghost was an increasing sense of ennui waiting for the chosen One to appear and take over for him. Little did he know as he was descending the seven deadly ladders of utter death, his replacement was coming along quite nicely. Alas, there are no happy endings in the Old Testament. This one ends the same way: hellfire and damnation, the end of the world, flooding, booze, etc.
But back to the replacement. He was coming along nicely, but was still something of a vague notion in the author's (not god's mind you) head that he had not quite materialized on the page yet. Be patient, dear reader. The end is nigh. With the end so far away and the beginning so near, let us give thanks to all new beginnings and a jolly cheer to all endings. The end.
------
Wait a minute! Is that it? Is that the end of the fucking story?! Tell me about the fucking golf shoes!!!
RRR
10 December 2005
Random thoughts and notes to myself...
The fat, corpulent bastards had eaten through my eyes, begun there and then on my brain. They were making quick work. Already I could feel my soul burning in its cocoon, dying to be set free, not wanting any of this destruction. I made sneaky-like to grab the nearest, sharpest thing and stab into my left palm, thereby releasing my soul and exorcising the evil spirits as they passed up through my left foot and on into my groin, but suddenly I saw the error of my ways. I had an erection, bulging against the seams of my pants. I was painfully aware of its presence, felt the blood rushing from my head to accomodate for the sudden engorging of my member. The pen fell from my hands, clattering on the floor.
My plans had failed; my thoughts betrayed me. I had thought these plans of escape, of freedom for my soul, and they were now reading my thoughts. Before long, I would be unable to control even those few unoriginal notions I had left. Soon, I would be nothing, automatron. By thinking I could defeat them so easily, I had inadvertenly walked into their trap.
I realized, in growing horror, that not even my soul would be able to escape, but would be emprisoned in this body, even after the flesh had begun to rot. I gathered the last of my strength and hurled myself against my captors, only to come up against my own skin. I was caught. Retreat was the only option; retreat into the center of my head where, with any luck, I could fend them off. At least for a little while.
My plans had failed; my thoughts betrayed me. I had thought these plans of escape, of freedom for my soul, and they were now reading my thoughts. Before long, I would be unable to control even those few unoriginal notions I had left. Soon, I would be nothing, automatron. By thinking I could defeat them so easily, I had inadvertenly walked into their trap.
I realized, in growing horror, that not even my soul would be able to escape, but would be emprisoned in this body, even after the flesh had begun to rot. I gathered the last of my strength and hurled myself against my captors, only to come up against my own skin. I was caught. Retreat was the only option; retreat into the center of my head where, with any luck, I could fend them off. At least for a little while.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)