At exactly 10:05 am my sub-conscious took over my conscious. I was
staring at the carcasses of the waffles that I had for breakfast. Their
syrupy juices swirling together like a raging torrent. Then it happened.
I stared at the bottle of maple syrup. A Canadian maple leaf was on the
bottle. I froze. What's this? Is this what it is to be Canadian?
Drinking beer and maple syrup while having five o'clock shadow, chopping
trees with my red checked shirt on? I pondered this for some time. I
couldn't grasp it. The sub-conscious had a grip on me. I was losing it.
Then tearing my eyes off the bottle I glued them to my plate. I saw
him. Nixon. His face, smeared and sticky, gazing up at me. I had to get
away. I couldn't allow him to get me. So I slowly backed away, trying to
appear calm in front of maple Nixon. I went around the room and decided
my only chance was the window. I slowly, slowly, slowly began gather
the provisions I would need for such a daring, and risky endeavor. I
grabbed my shoes, no sense in running out in the cold without them.
Wearing my leather jacket that I had slept in the night before I moved
like smoke across the room gathering my needs. Two tins of beans, a
lamp, three socks (not pairs), and my red checked shirt. I scrambled
away out the window onto the fire escape, looking for any Nixon agents
that were trying to halt my sudden discovery of the maple goodness of
Canada.
I slowly went down my feet ringing like the bells of Notre
Dame against the rusted metal. Every window could be the last I see. I
crept with great care down, down, down like I was descending into the
bowels of hell. Maybe I was, trying to escape Nixon, going to go to the
very edges of reality. Or perhaps just mine. Finally after what seemed
like minutes I reached the parking garage. I leaped and slid among the
parked cars. Blatant shows of opulent wealth all around me. Or the inane
desire to show ones superiority to another being. I finally reached my
own chariot. I got the keys out trying not to make a jangling noise
alerting my pursuers that I had taken the lamb. Opening the door which
creaked in groaned in protest I threw my provisions for the trip in the
back. I put the key in the ignition and turned it.
"Traitor" I
exclaimed as the car roared to life, like a dragon woken by a vengeful
knight. I couldn't stop now. I had to get out and fast. Pressing my 10
dollar sneaker against the pedal I screeched out of the parking lot
leaving only smoke and a memory behind. I was free. For now.
Driving
along the road I began to question my motives and wondering why all the
trouble. But my sub-conscious was in control. I had no logic, no
reason. My conscious self was locked in a metaphysical cage deep within
me, powerless to help me. So I drove on. White lines were shooting
across the blackened sky at me. Then I adjusted my head. The blue sky
was now above with the sanguine darkness below. The white lines, like
white lies were being hurled at me. Shot by the agents of Nixon in an
attempt to stop me. But no one could. Green, yellow, red. Colours I
should have known but didn't. At least not then. Red. Communists. Nixons'
communists trying to put an end to my adventure. All around me people
were braking in a uniform, proletariat way. I sped through. Cars yelled
at me as I flew by. I paid no heed. Nixon can't win this round. I won't
allow it.
On and on I drove. I couldn't turn on the radio for fear
of the Nixon communists blaring propaganda ads at me. I knew my name
would be on the news. Headline news. That's just what they wanted. They
wanted me to turn on the radio, lose that second of concentration and
crash my freedom ride into an unthinking tree. I could see the headline,
"Man loses life on road, Nixon to make winning death". No, they
wouldn't get me. I kept driving. The sky turned a communist gray. As if
sensing the very thing that was keeping me moving. I knew my destination
now. But saying ti would ruin it all. When I got there there would be agents waiting to grab me, hold me, take me to a 6-by-4 cell. So I stayed quiet. Just so they couldn't crack me.
Finally,
at exactly 6:43pm I arrived at my sanctuary. Carefully listening to the
gravel that cracked like bones beneath the balding wheels of my
capitalist pride. I parked not in the driveway but a ways into the
woods. The woods. Safe, primal, remote. No man could ever find me at
this cabin, this castle. I procured my items from the back and rolled
and dived to the door of the house of refuge. Can't let them get a clean
shot. Nixon communist snipers waiting in the ancient ents
around my fortress. I got the key to open the door to salvation. Then a
thought oozed through my frantic mind. That's just what they wanted. To
go through the door. In my mind I imagined Sergei and Boris Smith, two
burly Nixon communists, waiting for that handle to turn and seeing my
limp lifeless form fall to the cold earth. No, I couldn't go that way.
So stealthily I slithered to the back door. Always got to go through the
back door. I put the key in the lock preparing myself for either
sanctification or salvation. The door creaked open.
Silence.
Unyielding silence. I peered through with my peepers until I saw all of
the one room shack. I hit the floor. Crawling on my belly like some Darwinistic
fantasy until I was in the dead centre of the room. Leaving my
belongings there I did a thorough sweep of the hut. No listening devices
or agents of death I could see. So I had a few moments to collect and
sort my thoughts like so many stamps. Wearily, I sank down into a
vintage sofa. Then my sub-conscious pulled me again. I had to make it
appear as if Nixon was here. So I got up, talking to myself in a most
genteel sort of way, making it appear to all the world as if not a thing
was worried about. When in my ramble and babble I got to the window I
began to sketch the face I saw so long ago in that mess on my plate.
Nixon. I drew him as I saw him. A leader of the pack. A mover and
shaker. A bright star among dead worlds. I put his visage on every pane
in that room. Satisfied at my clever ruse I went to sit on that
chesterfield. Chesterfield. How distinctly Canadian. Where did
that word come from. For a moment I was petrified. How could that word
come into being? What was I becoming? Was I becoming a being?
Then
I saw him. Nixon. He was everywhere. Snarling and laughing at me. I
slowly bent down to the wooden floor and popped the top of a can of
beans. Drinking and eating with Nixon all around me I felt the fear of a
generation. A generator of fear was in my chest. When I had finished
consuming the cold, slimy meal. I realized one thing. I was too late. My
sub-conscious was pumping ideas and fears through my head like a
heart. I left the cabin through the front door. Never use the back door
for escapes. Their expecting that. I ran, ran, ran up a hill by the
cabin, fleeing the caricature of Nixon. When my body gave out. I felt
like a hundred and four. Wheezing and choking on my own ineptitude. I
lay upon the summit. But still I heard him. A rumble from up in the
clouds alerted me to his presence.
"Damn you!" I cried towards the
heavens. My fears were reality. Or at least as reality can be when ones
sub-conscious controls himself. I heard his laughter up in the
stratosphere. Chuckling at my failure, guffawing at my lack of will,
snickering at my hopelessness. I laid, spread-eagle up that hill when
the spit from his sick jest came upon me. Slowly at first, then more and
more until a torrent of saliva was on me. My jacket, leathery and
cracked resisted the water but my red checked shirt sucked it up like
it was dying in the desert. Wet, drenched, sodden, I scrambled like eggs
down the mound. I couldn't believe it. He had won. Followed me to my
place of dreams and now had invaded my state of mind. My sub-conscious
strove to find a breadcrumb to the problem. Like a sledgehammer to a
watermelon it hit me.
My conscious self was back in control. The
raging maelstrom of ideas and thoughts were silenced to a trickle. My
sub-conscious was tied and bind, chained and locked back within the
dormant part of myself. I realized Nixon was dead. He and his Reds
couldn't do anything to me or mine. I was free. I drove back reflective
upon my sub-conscious expedition into the realm of the unknown. Was it
worth it? I believe it was. To unleash the torrent of mad-cap insanity
one must be willing to let go of ones perceptions. Now, I had returned
to where it all began, but with apologies to Nixon.
FIN
Sunday, February 15, 2015
Sesame Seeds
I sit in the old, tattered booth at a Denny's. Yes, Denny's. Cheap,
on the slide food for seniors and poor folk. A gourmets joke. A horrible
bastard offspring of well-to-do parents. Yet, here I sit. Listening to
the masses around me as the gorge themselves on $9.95 eggs with some
sort of shredded newspaper. Quietly, I watch the people. The old couple
in the corner sipping coffee and not looking at one another. A young man
looking like he either just woke up or hasn't even begun to yet. A
harried woman trying to coral 3 young blurs, which I assume are
children. All mingling and mixing around me. A cacophony of small talk.
I sit with my five dollar coffee. Its 12:12 pm. This moment only
happens twice a day.
A brazen waitress with a smile as plastic as the menu covers asked me if I'm ready. Ready? Am I ready? What's going on? Is there some sort of execution going on? Fearful of my response I stall for time by pushing my chipped and almost disinfected cup towards her. She slowly tips the vintage 1972 classic coffee pot and pours a large gallon of what could be warm dishwater or bad diesel. Then finally she leaves me in peace as I croak "Just a few more minutes...please". Please? Why do I have to be polite to her? She's in the service industry. Should she not be treated like a washing machine or coffee maker? Just tell her what you want and instantaneously she returns with steaming piles of "food"? These questions run trough my head.
I stare at the menu for the first time. Amazing delights that would tantalize the palate of any patron. Strange adjectives float off the page to me. "Sizzling", "Fresh", "Spicy", "Delicious", "Bold". My hands hold the greasy cover. What are they protecting anyway? The amazing paper menu of a lower class diner? It startles me. Then there are the pictures. Blown-up photos of food that looks like Zeus himself eats here. Too good to be true. I finally decide on a burger. It doesn't matter to relate what kind because they all end up tasting the same. It just matters what kind of mammal, reptile or invertebrate they used for the meat.
"Decided yet?", the suddenly appearing waitress asks. My eyes gaze up at her. Feeling like a minion in the presence of the Overlord. I look at her beige uniform. Its almost like a sack but a feminine sack. Her age range anywhere from 20-45. Hard to tell with the peroxide hair and make-up. She could be a goddess who merely has this form to ridicule us mortals. In either case, my time was up. I order. A risky way to go to be sure. What if I chose wrong? What if the highly skilled chef in the back is also my assassin? Poisoning every other burger in a sick attempt at world domination. In a Denny's. But there's no time to worry about that now. I can't stall anymore. I don't want to appear as the tripped-out, jean clad, red checked shirt wearing psycho who worries about the CIA. Although I'm sure they have a hand in this.
I forge ahead ordering my almost meal. She snatches the menu away and trots off to whatever hell they get the substance they give us groveling peasants. I sit waiting for my meal. Giving up on finishing the Che Guevara specialty coffee I start listening. I close my eyes and try to feel the sounds around me. Safe, quiet and work productive radio plays in the background. So PC that no one would even dream of complaining. Heartache, heartbreak, happiness, hairspray. The music washes over me like slimy pond water. I need a shower. I open my eyes. T
The old couple has toddled out. They'll be back. Every week until they die. They're just speeding the process by coming to Denny's. The young man is staring at me. Why? Is he so tired that he's asleep without knowing it? Or is it something malicious? I stare back. Neither of us breaks contact, knowing the first one who blinks knows the game is up. For what seems an eternity we stare. Then "WHAM!".
Startled out of my self-willed mind game a burger lays before me. The waitress looks down her imperious nose and asks if theres anything else. No, i say with confidence, begone wench, I think. My meal looks nothing like the picture. Disappointed? No, just saddened by the lies this world has told me. Then I see them. The seeds. Sitting atop my sandwich . Laying almost perfectly like a synchronized swimmer. I knew that at this time that the young man was trying to kill me. What are the purpose of sesame seeds? Decoration? Digestion? Disintegration? I had to act fast. I turn in my booth to look behind me. A trucker is sitting there. Wearing his traditional garb of jean jacket and namesake hat. He leaves to go to the washroom or the kitchen, I can't say which I stealthily place my poisoned food on his table. Hanging precariously over the booth seat trying not to disturb the plastic plant I slink back to the booth and make my way to the door, duck walking.
The young man is now trying to shovel eggs into his gaping maw so he's distracted. I reach the altar of the great hostess while remaining hidden from view. I reach into my pocket and place some bills upon the altar as an offering to the Denny's god. I scuttle like a crab out the door. Safe and sound. Sound as a pound. For now. For there will always be Denny's like cockroaches they will survive. I just can't wait to return to where my madness began. Medication be damned.
FIN
A brazen waitress with a smile as plastic as the menu covers asked me if I'm ready. Ready? Am I ready? What's going on? Is there some sort of execution going on? Fearful of my response I stall for time by pushing my chipped and almost disinfected cup towards her. She slowly tips the vintage 1972 classic coffee pot and pours a large gallon of what could be warm dishwater or bad diesel. Then finally she leaves me in peace as I croak "Just a few more minutes...please". Please? Why do I have to be polite to her? She's in the service industry. Should she not be treated like a washing machine or coffee maker? Just tell her what you want and instantaneously she returns with steaming piles of "food"? These questions run trough my head.
I stare at the menu for the first time. Amazing delights that would tantalize the palate of any patron. Strange adjectives float off the page to me. "Sizzling", "Fresh", "Spicy", "Delicious", "Bold". My hands hold the greasy cover. What are they protecting anyway? The amazing paper menu of a lower class diner? It startles me. Then there are the pictures. Blown-up photos of food that looks like Zeus himself eats here. Too good to be true. I finally decide on a burger. It doesn't matter to relate what kind because they all end up tasting the same. It just matters what kind of mammal, reptile or invertebrate they used for the meat.
"Decided yet?", the suddenly appearing waitress asks. My eyes gaze up at her. Feeling like a minion in the presence of the Overlord. I look at her beige uniform. Its almost like a sack but a feminine sack. Her age range anywhere from 20-45. Hard to tell with the peroxide hair and make-up. She could be a goddess who merely has this form to ridicule us mortals. In either case, my time was up. I order. A risky way to go to be sure. What if I chose wrong? What if the highly skilled chef in the back is also my assassin? Poisoning every other burger in a sick attempt at world domination. In a Denny's. But there's no time to worry about that now. I can't stall anymore. I don't want to appear as the tripped-out, jean clad, red checked shirt wearing psycho who worries about the CIA. Although I'm sure they have a hand in this.
I forge ahead ordering my almost meal. She snatches the menu away and trots off to whatever hell they get the substance they give us groveling peasants. I sit waiting for my meal. Giving up on finishing the Che Guevara specialty coffee I start listening. I close my eyes and try to feel the sounds around me. Safe, quiet and work productive radio plays in the background. So PC that no one would even dream of complaining. Heartache, heartbreak, happiness, hairspray. The music washes over me like slimy pond water. I need a shower. I open my eyes. T
The old couple has toddled out. They'll be back. Every week until they die. They're just speeding the process by coming to Denny's. The young man is staring at me. Why? Is he so tired that he's asleep without knowing it? Or is it something malicious? I stare back. Neither of us breaks contact, knowing the first one who blinks knows the game is up. For what seems an eternity we stare. Then "WHAM!".
Startled out of my self-willed mind game a burger lays before me. The waitress looks down her imperious nose and asks if theres anything else. No, i say with confidence, begone wench, I think. My meal looks nothing like the picture. Disappointed? No, just saddened by the lies this world has told me. Then I see them. The seeds. Sitting atop my sandwich . Laying almost perfectly like a synchronized swimmer. I knew that at this time that the young man was trying to kill me. What are the purpose of sesame seeds? Decoration? Digestion? Disintegration? I had to act fast. I turn in my booth to look behind me. A trucker is sitting there. Wearing his traditional garb of jean jacket and namesake hat. He leaves to go to the washroom or the kitchen, I can't say which I stealthily place my poisoned food on his table. Hanging precariously over the booth seat trying not to disturb the plastic plant I slink back to the booth and make my way to the door, duck walking.
The young man is now trying to shovel eggs into his gaping maw so he's distracted. I reach the altar of the great hostess while remaining hidden from view. I reach into my pocket and place some bills upon the altar as an offering to the Denny's god. I scuttle like a crab out the door. Safe and sound. Sound as a pound. For now. For there will always be Denny's like cockroaches they will survive. I just can't wait to return to where my madness began. Medication be damned.
FIN
Sandman
I went to sleep at exactly 1:25 am. Well, I went to my mattress at
1:25 am. In my shoe box apartment I wandered in from an unsuccessful
success. I wandered the streets with my cracked leather jacket pulled
tight around my frame. Staring at the cloud gray cement while the cement
gray clouds poured liquid on me. I was like a barge ship. Every
passer-by gave me a wide berth, for reasons I can't fathom. Maybe it was
the growth on my face or the dirt on my twelve dollar jeans or the fact
that I was mumbling about government Nazis. Such a rat race life we
lead.
I got into my shoe-box apartment at 1:02 am. I pealed off my shiny, damp leather jacket and carefully hurled it to the floor. I then stumbled into my living room. Strange. I live in an apartment not a room. I lay my aching and weary body upon a couch that I found. I eat some mustard and apple sauce. The staples of my diet. After stepping into my biological experiment/shower, I rinse off the day and reflect. This has been a good day. I got nothing of worth accomplished. Such is my way.
I then bring my carcass into the bedroom. A stack of cement blocks serve as a nightstand and my mattress is my princely bed. I lay my weary head down and...
I am instantly thinking thoughts. My mind is whirring with endless possibilities. I get up and pace my darkened apartment. I can't sleep. The sandman has been lay-wayed or killed. I try to think of old wives remedies. Although, I myself have no wife. Old or otherwise. I drink warm cream. Does pass due milk heated in a can count? It's all coming together. My little mendula is now too much in the wind. Thoughts, ideas and conundrums collide like an Los Angeles free-way.
Perhaps its my apartment. I decide to go out into the hallway for a brief time. Maybe that will cure my insomnia or insanity. I walk out in my twelve dollar jeans and red-checked shirt. I run a hand through my long, greasy hair. Best to look presentable before one goes out. I open the door and step out into the dreary, barely lit corridor. I then slouch down right outside my door. I close my eyes and try to get my head straight. If it is indeed crooked.
The young couple are arguing again next door. A TV in a another apartment flares up in response. A baby squalls in the distance. A slamming door, a rushing footstep and the thumping of a fist against a wall. Is this what people dream of? I look up to a sudden creak in front of me. Its old Mrs. Leave-me-be. She peers out with a look of terror and/or anger. She sees me slouching by my door. Thinking I'm either too drunk or high to get into my apartment, she snorts like a bull and slams the door. That's not what I am. That was yesterday.
So this isn't working I decide. So I get up on my evolutionary advantage and walk back into my dark apartment. I quickly cross the dirty floor to the window. It takes a few tries but I finally manage to open it enough to crawl through onto the fourth floor fire escape. Good thing the Nixon commies aren't after me today. I go out into the cool night. I sit with my red checked pulled tight around me as I exhale fog from my mouth. I sit on the rusted metal and just listen to the sounds of the city.
A distant siren screams of danger, hurt, or death. The constant roar of traffic is like sitting near the ocean. The orange streetlights give somewhat illumination to the street. An airplane flies unseen in the raining clouds. This is my world. I fear silence. I need to be constantly assaulted by noise. Noise pollution some call it. I call it safety and sanctity. Being out in the woods alone with no noise but the wind frightens me. As a modern man I have been bred over the last two hundred years to avoid the wild frontier and enjoy the civilization around me. I don't want to get away. This is my vacation.
Suddenly as the thought came, weariness hit me like the butt of a pistol. I heaved myself slowly up and crawled back into my shoe box. I close the window without the same amount of effort as before. Strange. Damn Nazis. Always have to fix everything. I then tumble into my room which has a bed in it. I lay my head down and close my poor dead lights. I almost fear falling asleep. Will I wake up? What if some historic event happens during the time of rest? If I close my eyes will they be stuck like that forever?
This is no time for paranoia, I tell my brain. We can worry about that tomorrow. As for now, I need to recharge, re-energize, re-misfit. For tomorrow is a new day. I have two hours to sleep before I need to be up and in that alley. The early bird gets the worm. Worms do not have protein. It is exactly 3:12 am. I cannot sleep.
I got into my shoe-box apartment at 1:02 am. I pealed off my shiny, damp leather jacket and carefully hurled it to the floor. I then stumbled into my living room. Strange. I live in an apartment not a room. I lay my aching and weary body upon a couch that I found. I eat some mustard and apple sauce. The staples of my diet. After stepping into my biological experiment/shower, I rinse off the day and reflect. This has been a good day. I got nothing of worth accomplished. Such is my way.
I then bring my carcass into the bedroom. A stack of cement blocks serve as a nightstand and my mattress is my princely bed. I lay my weary head down and...
I am instantly thinking thoughts. My mind is whirring with endless possibilities. I get up and pace my darkened apartment. I can't sleep. The sandman has been lay-wayed or killed. I try to think of old wives remedies. Although, I myself have no wife. Old or otherwise. I drink warm cream. Does pass due milk heated in a can count? It's all coming together. My little mendula is now too much in the wind. Thoughts, ideas and conundrums collide like an Los Angeles free-way.
Perhaps its my apartment. I decide to go out into the hallway for a brief time. Maybe that will cure my insomnia or insanity. I walk out in my twelve dollar jeans and red-checked shirt. I run a hand through my long, greasy hair. Best to look presentable before one goes out. I open the door and step out into the dreary, barely lit corridor. I then slouch down right outside my door. I close my eyes and try to get my head straight. If it is indeed crooked.
The young couple are arguing again next door. A TV in a another apartment flares up in response. A baby squalls in the distance. A slamming door, a rushing footstep and the thumping of a fist against a wall. Is this what people dream of? I look up to a sudden creak in front of me. Its old Mrs. Leave-me-be. She peers out with a look of terror and/or anger. She sees me slouching by my door. Thinking I'm either too drunk or high to get into my apartment, she snorts like a bull and slams the door. That's not what I am. That was yesterday.
So this isn't working I decide. So I get up on my evolutionary advantage and walk back into my dark apartment. I quickly cross the dirty floor to the window. It takes a few tries but I finally manage to open it enough to crawl through onto the fourth floor fire escape. Good thing the Nixon commies aren't after me today. I go out into the cool night. I sit with my red checked pulled tight around me as I exhale fog from my mouth. I sit on the rusted metal and just listen to the sounds of the city.
A distant siren screams of danger, hurt, or death. The constant roar of traffic is like sitting near the ocean. The orange streetlights give somewhat illumination to the street. An airplane flies unseen in the raining clouds. This is my world. I fear silence. I need to be constantly assaulted by noise. Noise pollution some call it. I call it safety and sanctity. Being out in the woods alone with no noise but the wind frightens me. As a modern man I have been bred over the last two hundred years to avoid the wild frontier and enjoy the civilization around me. I don't want to get away. This is my vacation.
Suddenly as the thought came, weariness hit me like the butt of a pistol. I heaved myself slowly up and crawled back into my shoe box. I close the window without the same amount of effort as before. Strange. Damn Nazis. Always have to fix everything. I then tumble into my room which has a bed in it. I lay my head down and close my poor dead lights. I almost fear falling asleep. Will I wake up? What if some historic event happens during the time of rest? If I close my eyes will they be stuck like that forever?
This is no time for paranoia, I tell my brain. We can worry about that tomorrow. As for now, I need to recharge, re-energize, re-misfit. For tomorrow is a new day. I have two hours to sleep before I need to be up and in that alley. The early bird gets the worm. Worms do not have protein. It is exactly 3:12 am. I cannot sleep.
Mall World
I escape the downpour outside. I have wandered the streets again in
my quest. In an almost Taoist way, I look at the world. It comes and
goes. Rebirth and a spin of the wheel. Poverty and riches gone like an
egg frying on the sidewalk. Yet I cannot find a place of warmth. Of
dryness and of dairy products. I must flee the rain. Everyone knows
that the agents of evil lace rainwater with PCPs. I hurry along, my head
covered by my cracked and worn leather jacket. I find a doorway. I open
it.
Sound. Like a thousand angry lions or an army of ancient warriors waiting to fight their accursed foes, the sound washes over me. I still feel dirty. I lower my head out of my jacket and stare in wonder. Lights and shiny things draw your eye like a pencil. I can almost taste the neon coming off the signs. I say to myself, "Yet, this is only the beginning". Could more adventure be found. Or would I crumple under the pressure. Just lay on the soft mat until the security guards hall me away with their unfathomable power.
No, I decide, I must trudge onward. People around me are moving and jostling like cattle. Wheres the man with the prod? As that thought slinks across my brain I begin to panic. So many people. Who's real? Who's fake? Then I remember it's a mall. Everyones fake. I go toward the kaaba of the mall. The directory. Surely this would guide me like a Merlin to my quest. Whatever that may be. YOU ARE HERE, declares a angry red dot. I'm here? Who the bloody flux is watching me? I peer around and see the dark globes of Big Brother. I must stay calm. Mustn't let them know I'm on to them.
I randomly choose a place to run to. Where or what it is is of no matter. I move my lower appendages towards the destination. Cautiously I look back to see if the brown shirts are following me. Theres many brown shirts. Damn, I declare, why can't they wear a new colour? In any event I arrive in a clothing store. I will be cursed by Jupiter himself if I wasn't in the bowels of hell. Teenie boppers shopping for the latest fads wander the store. People that look like their in the Special Services patrol and fold clothes. I am so very frightened.
"Hi there!" exclaims a small overly-happy minimum wage thrall. I just mumble something. It might have been a greeting or a Tibetan curse. Who's to say? I continue deeper into the jungle of tight jeans and low-cut tops. Music is pounding through the speakers. A blend of pseudo-punk with so much sugar I feel a need to go to the dentist. I finally find my way to a brown leather sofa. I join the poor boyfriends dragged here by their shopaholic girlfriends. As I sit and try to get centered I am suddenly hit by a thought. These people are all insane. Granted I have had this thought numerous times and merely laugh about it, this time I can't laugh. Generally people tend to look at you odd when you laugh at nothing. Wierdos.
I decide it's time to leave before I kill someone or wrestle a manikin. That got me kicked out of a different store. I wander back out into the highway of people. The throng moves with experienced mall walkers racing like their shoes are on a fire to the little old couple who've been there since 9 AM and damned if they don't get their 10 mile walk. I walk with my head down staring at the squared, scuffed tiles. I need to get out of here.
In the ten thousand year history of man this is the only time that we have been completely cut off from nature. We can shop, eat, sleep and relieve ourselves at our leisure. All within the comforts of a room temperature box. Foods from a thousand nations are there for you to order and indulge. Peoples from all cultures and classes come together in this capitalist utopia. The mere fact that you can buy anything blows my mind. I think I even saw a human slave store. I digress.
I continue my meandering path towards one of the twenty thousand exits for those who can't go twelve paces without sucking tar. I head out one doors almost bowling over a old man. He glares at me. I don't care. I need to smoke tar. I light up a cigarette and finally get a clear thought. Traffic rumbles in the distance. The voices have finally stopped. I run a hand through my long, greasy hair. A truck backs up its warning sound getting all but the deaf and dead out of the way. I take a last pull from my joy-stick. I flick the butt to the ground. I'll need to steal another pack tomorrow.
I have no idea where I am or what I'm doing but I know one thing. I hate shopping centres. The idea of people following trends hurts my soul. Bored salesclerks peddle their wares like snake oil salesmen. I have no time for this. I have places not to be. I hitch up my coat and begin to walk away from the gargantuan maw of a mall. It begins to rain. Hard. I don't try to avoid it.
FIN
Sound. Like a thousand angry lions or an army of ancient warriors waiting to fight their accursed foes, the sound washes over me. I still feel dirty. I lower my head out of my jacket and stare in wonder. Lights and shiny things draw your eye like a pencil. I can almost taste the neon coming off the signs. I say to myself, "Yet, this is only the beginning". Could more adventure be found. Or would I crumple under the pressure. Just lay on the soft mat until the security guards hall me away with their unfathomable power.
No, I decide, I must trudge onward. People around me are moving and jostling like cattle. Wheres the man with the prod? As that thought slinks across my brain I begin to panic. So many people. Who's real? Who's fake? Then I remember it's a mall. Everyones fake. I go toward the kaaba of the mall. The directory. Surely this would guide me like a Merlin to my quest. Whatever that may be. YOU ARE HERE, declares a angry red dot. I'm here? Who the bloody flux is watching me? I peer around and see the dark globes of Big Brother. I must stay calm. Mustn't let them know I'm on to them.
I randomly choose a place to run to. Where or what it is is of no matter. I move my lower appendages towards the destination. Cautiously I look back to see if the brown shirts are following me. Theres many brown shirts. Damn, I declare, why can't they wear a new colour? In any event I arrive in a clothing store. I will be cursed by Jupiter himself if I wasn't in the bowels of hell. Teenie boppers shopping for the latest fads wander the store. People that look like their in the Special Services patrol and fold clothes. I am so very frightened.
"Hi there!" exclaims a small overly-happy minimum wage thrall. I just mumble something. It might have been a greeting or a Tibetan curse. Who's to say? I continue deeper into the jungle of tight jeans and low-cut tops. Music is pounding through the speakers. A blend of pseudo-punk with so much sugar I feel a need to go to the dentist. I finally find my way to a brown leather sofa. I join the poor boyfriends dragged here by their shopaholic girlfriends. As I sit and try to get centered I am suddenly hit by a thought. These people are all insane. Granted I have had this thought numerous times and merely laugh about it, this time I can't laugh. Generally people tend to look at you odd when you laugh at nothing. Wierdos.
I decide it's time to leave before I kill someone or wrestle a manikin. That got me kicked out of a different store. I wander back out into the highway of people. The throng moves with experienced mall walkers racing like their shoes are on a fire to the little old couple who've been there since 9 AM and damned if they don't get their 10 mile walk. I walk with my head down staring at the squared, scuffed tiles. I need to get out of here.
In the ten thousand year history of man this is the only time that we have been completely cut off from nature. We can shop, eat, sleep and relieve ourselves at our leisure. All within the comforts of a room temperature box. Foods from a thousand nations are there for you to order and indulge. Peoples from all cultures and classes come together in this capitalist utopia. The mere fact that you can buy anything blows my mind. I think I even saw a human slave store. I digress.
I continue my meandering path towards one of the twenty thousand exits for those who can't go twelve paces without sucking tar. I head out one doors almost bowling over a old man. He glares at me. I don't care. I need to smoke tar. I light up a cigarette and finally get a clear thought. Traffic rumbles in the distance. The voices have finally stopped. I run a hand through my long, greasy hair. A truck backs up its warning sound getting all but the deaf and dead out of the way. I take a last pull from my joy-stick. I flick the butt to the ground. I'll need to steal another pack tomorrow.
I have no idea where I am or what I'm doing but I know one thing. I hate shopping centres. The idea of people following trends hurts my soul. Bored salesclerks peddle their wares like snake oil salesmen. I have no time for this. I have places not to be. I hitch up my coat and begin to walk away from the gargantuan maw of a mall. It begins to rain. Hard. I don't try to avoid it.
FIN
Untouchable
I am a pariah. I came to this conclusion last night while being
outside a local coffee shop. Not one of those smooth jazz-playing, $6.95
soy latte with hazelnut drink places. I'm talking about a dark, beneath
the city street, dimly lit, throw-back from the Beatnik era coffee
shop. The place literally smells of history. The coying smell of
tobacco smoke waifs through the air like an unhappy spirit. The shop is
where I spend some days to escape the pain of civilized society. A
underground resistance to the corporations and drones the work above us.
This is where I met Ellie.
I had just finished walking on a cloudy day. It doesn't matter which day. They're all the same to me. I kept thinking that day that I am one of those people who aren't "mold-able". I don't want to be a working man. A bygone relic of the Nuclear Family. I am me. With that statement I realized I need to fill my body with something cheap and legal that can keep me in this frame of mine. Not necessarily nihilistic in my views but more apathetic. So I discovered a small hole in the wall shop.
"Asmodeus". A perfect name to this place. Who knows how many secrets have the walls listened into. I walk down the cement steps worn by the feet of the anti-culture. I move my ten-dollar sneakers down to the cracked, faded brown door. I open it and am brought into a room of silence and quiet anger. A cracked wooden bar painted black lies against the right-side of the room. The shop seems to devour the feeble light. Everything is dark. Moody. My kind of joint. Perfect for the frame of mind that I had painted for myself. I move my legs towards the bar. A blackboard with white chalk lettering tells me my 6 choices. I order a coffee.
I move to the back of the shop to a nice secluded corner. All the corners are secluded. I wrap my hands like a prayer around my cup. Staring intensely at the scratched, graffiti-ed table top. Does RG still love DW? Is Korn the best music? Doubtful to both. I try and think my way out of my box when she came in.
She was neither gorgeous or plain, neither fat nor skinny. She was classical beauty. Her hairy, a dirty blond, was like the after flash of lightning in the thunderstorm of the room. I won't go into more detail. It's best to let you imagine the rest. I couldn't help but stare. Maybe it was the lack of sleep or the coffee buzz hitting me but I knew I had to talk to her. She turned to walk towards me. I froze. Could she be an FBI agent finally tracking me down? She didn't look like one. Her hair was uncombed and unkempt. Her gray sweatshirt was frayed at the collar. Even her blue jeans had tears and rips. She came right over to me. Sat down and started drinking my coffee!
Now, I had seen many things. Monkeys coming out of lampposts. Colors and scents that I can't describe, yet nothing in my world had competed with this...this brazen act of desecration to a mans coffee.
"Excuse me," I politely rasp. Last night must have broken my larynx. "Thats my cup".
"How very capitalist of you" she retorts. I think I am in love.
She reaches across the table. "Names Eleanor Horst, everyone calls me Ellie"
I gave her my hand and my name. This woman was amazing. We spent most of the daylight speaking of philosophy and humanity. Her grassroots ways mirrored my own. We were kindred spirits. If we had a sweat tent we would pass the peace pipe and speak of dreams that the Great Spirit gave us. Instead we talked in hush tones in a downtown, rundown coffee shop. We were on a wavelength that I never dreamed possible. This was my summer of '69.
Over the next weeks Ellie and I became closer. Nights laying on my mattress staring up at the ceiling while watching the smoke curl upwards. Nothing would be said at those points. We were back in the womb. Two people in such semblance that our words would probably shatter this moment. I have felt things in my life but this beats them all. I think I'm happy.
After two months our relationship ended. She became more optimistic. She even got a job. She wanted things out of this life. Me? I want to wander, to search for a higher meaning. To be like a Shaolin monk trying to reach enlightenment. We had to go our separate ways. For about three days after, I maintained a level of buzz that would've killed a lesser man. Then I realized that this was karma at play.
Was this a sign from above that I should make something of myself? Get a job? A wife? A car thats not older then myself? A white picket fence, 2.3 children, and a dog? NO! I refuse. I am a pariah. I need none of these things. I intend to wander this place searching for something that I can't search for. I need to be away from people. That is of course if Nixon doesn't get his grubby hands all over it.
Perhaps she really was a government agent. Sent by the Nixon commies to break me and make me become a lumping socialist. Well, it didn't work. I saw Ellie once and a while after that. Meaningless idle chatter about inane things. We could never get back those months of nirvana. Maybe she was a communist. Or a optimist. Same thing really.
I lurch back to this time period and space. My cup is empty in front of me. Like Ellie and I were. Once filled with steaming energy, now nothing is left but the lingering taste and the dregs at the bottom. I shake my long greasy hair. No, I don't think I will ever find someone like her. She's a good spirit. I am on a different path. Running away from Commies and other agencies that probably want to keep my brain in a stasis pod to be put into a robot in the year 2346 when the world is using cyborgs to take over the last remnants of free society.
I throw a few bills on the table and shuffle out. The place hasn't changed, but it seems my memories have given the black room a whitewash. I leave through the door and enter the brightness.
FIN
I had just finished walking on a cloudy day. It doesn't matter which day. They're all the same to me. I kept thinking that day that I am one of those people who aren't "mold-able". I don't want to be a working man. A bygone relic of the Nuclear Family. I am me. With that statement I realized I need to fill my body with something cheap and legal that can keep me in this frame of mine. Not necessarily nihilistic in my views but more apathetic. So I discovered a small hole in the wall shop.
"Asmodeus". A perfect name to this place. Who knows how many secrets have the walls listened into. I walk down the cement steps worn by the feet of the anti-culture. I move my ten-dollar sneakers down to the cracked, faded brown door. I open it and am brought into a room of silence and quiet anger. A cracked wooden bar painted black lies against the right-side of the room. The shop seems to devour the feeble light. Everything is dark. Moody. My kind of joint. Perfect for the frame of mind that I had painted for myself. I move my legs towards the bar. A blackboard with white chalk lettering tells me my 6 choices. I order a coffee.
I move to the back of the shop to a nice secluded corner. All the corners are secluded. I wrap my hands like a prayer around my cup. Staring intensely at the scratched, graffiti-ed table top. Does RG still love DW? Is Korn the best music? Doubtful to both. I try and think my way out of my box when she came in.
She was neither gorgeous or plain, neither fat nor skinny. She was classical beauty. Her hairy, a dirty blond, was like the after flash of lightning in the thunderstorm of the room. I won't go into more detail. It's best to let you imagine the rest. I couldn't help but stare. Maybe it was the lack of sleep or the coffee buzz hitting me but I knew I had to talk to her. She turned to walk towards me. I froze. Could she be an FBI agent finally tracking me down? She didn't look like one. Her hair was uncombed and unkempt. Her gray sweatshirt was frayed at the collar. Even her blue jeans had tears and rips. She came right over to me. Sat down and started drinking my coffee!
Now, I had seen many things. Monkeys coming out of lampposts. Colors and scents that I can't describe, yet nothing in my world had competed with this...this brazen act of desecration to a mans coffee.
"Excuse me," I politely rasp. Last night must have broken my larynx. "Thats my cup".
"How very capitalist of you" she retorts. I think I am in love.
She reaches across the table. "Names Eleanor Horst, everyone calls me Ellie"
I gave her my hand and my name. This woman was amazing. We spent most of the daylight speaking of philosophy and humanity. Her grassroots ways mirrored my own. We were kindred spirits. If we had a sweat tent we would pass the peace pipe and speak of dreams that the Great Spirit gave us. Instead we talked in hush tones in a downtown, rundown coffee shop. We were on a wavelength that I never dreamed possible. This was my summer of '69.
Over the next weeks Ellie and I became closer. Nights laying on my mattress staring up at the ceiling while watching the smoke curl upwards. Nothing would be said at those points. We were back in the womb. Two people in such semblance that our words would probably shatter this moment. I have felt things in my life but this beats them all. I think I'm happy.
After two months our relationship ended. She became more optimistic. She even got a job. She wanted things out of this life. Me? I want to wander, to search for a higher meaning. To be like a Shaolin monk trying to reach enlightenment. We had to go our separate ways. For about three days after, I maintained a level of buzz that would've killed a lesser man. Then I realized that this was karma at play.
Was this a sign from above that I should make something of myself? Get a job? A wife? A car thats not older then myself? A white picket fence, 2.3 children, and a dog? NO! I refuse. I am a pariah. I need none of these things. I intend to wander this place searching for something that I can't search for. I need to be away from people. That is of course if Nixon doesn't get his grubby hands all over it.
Perhaps she really was a government agent. Sent by the Nixon commies to break me and make me become a lumping socialist. Well, it didn't work. I saw Ellie once and a while after that. Meaningless idle chatter about inane things. We could never get back those months of nirvana. Maybe she was a communist. Or a optimist. Same thing really.
I lurch back to this time period and space. My cup is empty in front of me. Like Ellie and I were. Once filled with steaming energy, now nothing is left but the lingering taste and the dregs at the bottom. I shake my long greasy hair. No, I don't think I will ever find someone like her. She's a good spirit. I am on a different path. Running away from Commies and other agencies that probably want to keep my brain in a stasis pod to be put into a robot in the year 2346 when the world is using cyborgs to take over the last remnants of free society.
I throw a few bills on the table and shuffle out. The place hasn't changed, but it seems my memories have given the black room a whitewash. I leave through the door and enter the brightness.
FIN
Saturday, February 14, 2015
Night
I was walking at 11:15pm. No direction or purpose. Much like all of
life. I had just had an argument with a spoon. Since I live in my
dingy apartment by myself I needed to fight with someone. So a spoon is
my choice. That bastard had it coming. The spoon is merely a focal
point for my irritation at my sudden dissipation of an elevation of
self.
I walk slowly in my ten dollar sneakers. Hands thrust into my cracked leather jacket. I embrace the chill wraiths of night. My head is fogged and bewildered. Street lights deny me the right answer. Buzzing and busying themselves with lighting my darkened path. I go up to one such impudent whelp and begin to harangue it. It has no right to deem me not right. I then raise my left sneaker at a thirty degree angle and give it a sound kick which results in the adjective itself.
I limp slowly down the street. Cars are but a memory. The pavement has long since gone frigid without the grind and groan of mechanical beasts of burden and luxury. My head looks up and the barely seen stars. I was told that outside the city they are seen better. But since I am outside myself and simply cannot find my way home at this point and time then It'll have to do. It's 11:24pm.
This is the night that I have chosen to wander the earth. Like the undead I roam the earth. Not in search of my soul or an unsuspecting mortal. Although both would be entertaining. Heartened by this fact I look for someone.
Sounds fill my head. Whoops and hollers. Teens. Youths in the prime of adolescence. Free in their controlled freedom. Celebrating the night. Like a hero of old on a quest, they look to slay the night. To own it and make it theirs.
I see them with my dilated pupils. There's only 4 of them. Now six. Now 21,594. I shake my head before the numbers can latch on. Clever bastards. They must be in league with the spoon. The spoon. I hid that bastard where he can never get out. My fridge. I wonder if there's any mustard.
Again, I shake my head. Getting distracted from the rail of thought. The pupils are far up the street. I follow the yellow line road. Towards the Emerald City? If their a scarecrow, a lion and a wardrobe I'm out of here. I slowly weave like a rug towards them. What thoughts must run through their heads? What unspeakable horrors must they think I am? Will I scar them for life with my dishevelled looks and rictus smile? I gleefully and gladly think these thoughts when I realize I should've taken a left at Albuquerque. Avenue that is.
I wander slowly down the street. A park off to my left. Night makes everything frightful. Wishing I had a knight in shining armor to protect me from the sanguine darkness. I'm running out of time. Why is time in such a rush? I close of red eyes and breath in the night. It's cold and delightful in my throat. Clearing. There's a clearing up ahead. Deciding a decision I go towards it.
As I lay on this bed of grass full of warmth and chemical enhancers I look up to the satellites. This is my night. This night will remain forever in my mind. I am one with universe or perhaps an ace. The universe always has a card up it's sleeve. Like that bastard spoon. My smile remains fixed while my head is broken, my body swollen and my soul fractured. But I am well. Now I must think of an argument with that conniving fork.
I walk slowly in my ten dollar sneakers. Hands thrust into my cracked leather jacket. I embrace the chill wraiths of night. My head is fogged and bewildered. Street lights deny me the right answer. Buzzing and busying themselves with lighting my darkened path. I go up to one such impudent whelp and begin to harangue it. It has no right to deem me not right. I then raise my left sneaker at a thirty degree angle and give it a sound kick which results in the adjective itself.
I limp slowly down the street. Cars are but a memory. The pavement has long since gone frigid without the grind and groan of mechanical beasts of burden and luxury. My head looks up and the barely seen stars. I was told that outside the city they are seen better. But since I am outside myself and simply cannot find my way home at this point and time then It'll have to do. It's 11:24pm.
This is the night that I have chosen to wander the earth. Like the undead I roam the earth. Not in search of my soul or an unsuspecting mortal. Although both would be entertaining. Heartened by this fact I look for someone.
Sounds fill my head. Whoops and hollers. Teens. Youths in the prime of adolescence. Free in their controlled freedom. Celebrating the night. Like a hero of old on a quest, they look to slay the night. To own it and make it theirs.
I see them with my dilated pupils. There's only 4 of them. Now six. Now 21,594. I shake my head before the numbers can latch on. Clever bastards. They must be in league with the spoon. The spoon. I hid that bastard where he can never get out. My fridge. I wonder if there's any mustard.
Again, I shake my head. Getting distracted from the rail of thought. The pupils are far up the street. I follow the yellow line road. Towards the Emerald City? If their a scarecrow, a lion and a wardrobe I'm out of here. I slowly weave like a rug towards them. What thoughts must run through their heads? What unspeakable horrors must they think I am? Will I scar them for life with my dishevelled looks and rictus smile? I gleefully and gladly think these thoughts when I realize I should've taken a left at Albuquerque. Avenue that is.
I wander slowly down the street. A park off to my left. Night makes everything frightful. Wishing I had a knight in shining armor to protect me from the sanguine darkness. I'm running out of time. Why is time in such a rush? I close of red eyes and breath in the night. It's cold and delightful in my throat. Clearing. There's a clearing up ahead. Deciding a decision I go towards it.
As I lay on this bed of grass full of warmth and chemical enhancers I look up to the satellites. This is my night. This night will remain forever in my mind. I am one with universe or perhaps an ace. The universe always has a card up it's sleeve. Like that bastard spoon. My smile remains fixed while my head is broken, my body swollen and my soul fractured. But I am well. Now I must think of an argument with that conniving fork.
A Moment, Movement, Improvement
I sat in the park. Alone, unwanted and ostracized. Happily I gazed about
me in wonder. The rain was pouring, people were scurrying quickly, and
cars were making the water yell in anger. I stood up. My life up until
this moment was leading up to this moment. I walked slowly, letting the
water wash me of all my impurities. I filtered it all through my eyes
but more my soul. I felt the water but I did not take notice of it.
Most of the world is like that. Feeling but unaware.
These
thoughts frightened me. Could I be coming to a logical conclusion? What
is logic? The absence of chaos? The object of reason? If reason has an
object then is insanity a verb? Yes, it is. That though unleashed a
whole new perspective upon me. No longer was I weighed down upon by the
laws made up. No longer was I weighed by the eyes of authority to do
what is deemed right in their logical eyes. The park was now mine. I
decided. Its a public park, I am the state. Gleefully, I ran through my
drenched kingdom. This is where I shall build my throne, that tree must
be gone. Who's statue is this anyway? I run up to it. An uncared for and
little known green statue of a man wearing odd clothes looking what the
artist deemed "heroic". I deem it not."Be free!" I bellow, uncaring if the unwashed, wet masses hear me. My mind is my own. No Big Brother camera to look at me. The rain blurs my vision and for a moment, a second and a breath, I see the statue nod. Amazing, I declare. The statue of the sailor/general/explorer/tradesman agrees with me. Emboldened by this I begin to climb his pedestal so I may join him. Forever to be green and a roost for flying rats.
The rock is hard at the base but the useless copper plauqe makes a foothold. I slip and slid my ten dollar sneaker onto it gripping with all my strength. I finally reach the top. The summit. Its a maginificent view from 3 feet off the ground. All I see is mine. The rain continues to pour and pool around me. I am happy sitting with my comrade in arms. He doesn't seem to be inclind to sit but thats all right.
I begin to watch the world outside my own. This small nature mecca surrounded by commerce, guilds, business. Millions of dollars flow like the water around these Babel towers. 10,000 languages all meaning the same word for money. Capitalism and and smaller world. I don't want this. I now have decreed no business is to be taken place in my realm. Then everything slows down.
I am unsure the cause at this point. Perhaps I've had an aneurysm perhaps something has kicked in. Perhaps I have reached a Buddha-like level of understanding. I could see every individual drop of rain. Every breath of wind. Every reflection of light on the wet world. This was my moment.I could take up the flag. Start the revolution. Flower Power, Gun Power, Socialism, Fascism anything was possible right at this moment.
Just as quickly as it stared, the world sped up again. An old time movie reel minus the squeal started it. Clips and disjointed images floated around me. Faster and faster more hectic and when it felt as if I would be sick or perhaps just lose myself they all seemed to make themselves unique and make it all work in a glorious symphony of sight, sound, smell and touch.
I was rear-ended back into my mind. The captain was staring down at me. Elitist fuck. I hopped off the pedestal. My body and clothes were trying to do an impression of a puddle. Squelching and slithering like I emerged from the primordial soup itself I stumbled off into the rain. My destination, unknown. One lone moment to make up for billions lost.
FIN
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