This as good a page as any, I reckon:
The Nepalese. They do know it, Peace. Have to, given what’s around ‘em, and they still live here. Might be the gin talkin’…you think you come to a place, ‘specially place like Nepal, and think these are the things that are expected or cliché, but it’s true. Something there, some force, it won't let you miss it. Consider:
I woke at 1 am. I’m not used to the time, and I’m trekking the southern Himalayas, which ain’t necessarily easy, so my clock’s a bit off. So I’m up and I’m thinking ‘bout the regrets of my life, mostly girls I never told I loved, particularly the one got the better of me before all the others, as much as it shouldn’t mean so much to a man, but it is and was to me…still itches me today…I should call her, if she’s still around somewhere. But that’s not what this is about. It’s one o’clock in the morning.
I’m staring at the window. The window thinks, “Goddamn, it’s one o’clock in the morning, and I’m staring at a man. Well, maybe a man, maybe a kid. What the hell am I doing?” But the man-kid, he’s equaling the intensity of the stare. Mostly, I’m taken by a flash from the glass. The window, it’s blinkin’ at me. Not lightning, goddamnit, and certainly not the alcohol, that thing is blinkin’ at me like I’m a high skirt, and it’s 1955 again. Of course, I’m not buyin’ it, not buyin’ it for…well, not buyin’ it past the first or second, but I’ll admit that I am the impressionable type…
I regret a little more while that window’s still playing his game, and the thunder cracks…and the regret hurts a little more. I don’t know what she’ll say, but I hope I laid on thick enough back then. I hope I love her- 18 years old and then gave her, her and everyone else, years to think I wasn’t human- I hope I am now. Hope.
I can’t stare at the window anymore, and I try to use my legs and do something about it. I have two big and old enough to take me outside, but they shrink up quick. Stepping from nice, warm, soft wood inside to the cold, bare stone outside- there’s gotta be miles between the two…but probably not. Whatever the case is, that’s the one biggest step I’ll ever take.
The new moonlight feels cold, much colder than the American brand. Way I’m feeling tonight, coldest I’ll probably ever feel. It’s funny, though, right there in the midst of it- it takes a second to rule out yellow, and I don’t think anyone’s ever decided on blue, white, or any conceivable mixture of the colors, but you’re bathing in it, looking at it, perceiving something right in front of you that you don’t understand. And somehow you keep your wits about you. It’s filling your lungs, invading your pores, telling sweet, eerie lies to those peepers of yours, and, all the while, you’re the most irresistible mannequin ever to venture into the Nepalese night. Peculiar, wearing a color you perceive and don’t recognize; maybe a little like first meeting your mother at age 50…feeling the relief of quenching an unknown thirst after so long.
God, heave-ho, I hope she gives one one-thousandth the thought to me as I’m givin’ her this evening. That would be more than enough for what I’ve still got to do…why is this attacking now? It must have to be, commanded by the specters going about in this light…the color of the light might drive me batty- the color of ghosts, it must be. I hope I love her, or anything even. It’s been a long time, and, as strange as I am, I think it’s mostly to her now, that I seem strange, that is. Jesus, that’s really not me. Really, heave-ho, heave-ho, and tell me you love me. But I don’t know who I’m talking to anymore.
The glow of the night- scary as hell, but I’ve never seen this before, and I can’t step away from novelty so easily. I guess I’m the impressionable type. It’s weird, doing it, this travelin’. I ate food, talked to people- that ain’t the new part, travelin’, not like this. I’m scared here, and probably reasonably so. The sky, deep gray-blue, like the kind of water nobody ever comes back out of, blinks some macabre blink, like something bigger’n me’s warnin’ me of something. “Go back, this isn’t your hour, old man, go back,” somethin’ like that. Scary, but exciting, even for a man feelin’ cold in his skivvies in front of the lodge. Old man, he came out for the rain, but he felt it on his face, and, now, well, now, he’s just sober and scared. Something touched me on the face, changed things. Old man, he don’t know where the hell he is.
The opposite wall of the valley is lit up with 12 lights, yes, electric lights, but electricity’s normal, and he doesn’t believe much in the symbolism of things, just that coincidence occurs arbitrarily, even if there is a 13th way high up off to his right that his conscious wants him to doubt. Was it there? Yeah, probably it was, but can’t say for sure. Hell, it might even been lit by real flame, which makes it the first of its kind, not the 13th. Old man, he can’t take his eyes off it though, even if the goddamn sky won’t stop warning him to go back inside.
I shivered and walked inside at my own pace, clouds be damned- old man, he ain’t that scared. Even if he is spineless, cold, and unsure.
It’s going to rain tomorrow.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
The Air
The air, that’s what it is, the real stuff. Something about it, I’m not sure- it blinks now and again. That beat, that flicker, it goes in and out, man, it’s a pulsing vision- black on the outside, a blinding globe in the center. It’s gotta be what tells me what to think, to know. I know what this is, and I think I believe it. I do, I do believe it. I have to. It’s all different, and whatever it seems, it IS. It isn’t, but only because you’re different as you read this, but that’s the point. Every consciousness is a different person, personality, and reality, but it’s all valid. Accept it, the intelligence, or, at least, what seems to be intelligence, is equally the drop of the ocean as that which seems not to be is. It’s more, it’s bigger, and that’s okay. Just don’t pretend to know, and the doors will open. Although it may be our grandchildren that finally pick the locks…but who knows if we aren’t those grandchildren themselves?
The Colors of Blood
They had a history, those two.
He once took her to a play, the kid did, ironed his shirt and drove her to the theater. He didn’t really know what he was doing, he just went and did it. Seemed like a good idea. And it should have been.
It was terrible, though. The play, not the idea, it really was something awful. Blanche, the misguided anti-heroine, floundered about the stage in her role; her delivery was awkward and phony, and her demeanor, well, it was hardly fitting of the dame from Belle Reve. In reality, Blanche wasn’t on the stage, but, rather, she was sitting in the fifth row next to the girl, wearing an uncomfortably starched oxford shirt and trying desperately to salvage the date. Of course, though, the pair would later learn that Blanche wasn’t the soft and victimized Southern Belle she claimed to be, was she? And neither was the kid who he was trying to be. But we all are deceived by the devil of loneliness sometimes, even if we won’t admit it.
The theatrical travesty continued, so he simply pushed more gumption into his efforts to salvage things, but she was stoic. He didn’t exactly accept the world with that sort of stoicism included, though, and he was confused for awhile, confounded by missing the right question. He asked himself, “What should I do,” never realizing, or perhaps refusing to realize, the better question was “What am I doing?”. Or, more specifically, “What am I doing here?” He just wanted it, just wanted something there. For God’s sake, he was hurting so bad, he couldn’t even recognize that he had a wound.
The play was really laughable, a staged drama turned into a live farce, and he quickly felt embarrassed for having chosen it. Really though, the situation should have been great, better than expected, due totally to the production’s shortcomings. Anyone could have, and really should have, seen the humor in the situation, seeing a well-hyped but eventually lousy show as an alternative date, but she didn’t. She had other ideas, though he’d never know what those were. She never saw the play, maybe never even noticed the rest of the audience. It was funny, it really was. They were all older, much older, some even elderly, and, as the pair would soon discover, the cast had all likewise seen a great number of years. And the house was full of them, these ancient theater-goers, which he thought would indicate the great quality of the play; they were still thinking people, after all, right? They’d seen humanity, and they’d seen its impostor, they must have in all their collective years; he missed the fact that they weren’t gathered here to see that, that raw humanity splayed out in front of their wide eyes. He missed that that wasn’t something one flippantly seeks as entertainment. Everyone present but the kid knew the harsh abrasion left by contacting unadulterated humanity; no, they’d much rather watch these poor charlatans put on their droll display than toy with the truths of their existence. If he had only looked down, if he had only recognized the scarlet fountains erupting from his veins, he would have understood so much of his predicament, his wanting it real and raw and suppressing the truth; the truth that it, the root of it all, tried to engage him every day. He really hunkered in fear of it, this attempted engagement; he just chose to believe that his voice could prove his eyes wrong. Really, if she had just seen them, his spurting veins, maybe she’d have avoided it, too.
They were 40 years the junior of the next youngest onlooker in the theater, he and she, and they bore the brunt of many inquisitive eyes. And here they were, packed in with 150 eager grandparents, all tittering back and forth about the young love in their midst, to watch a pathetic display of theater. Why was that not the least bit funny to her? He missed so much that night, but he really missed it all in general.
After that night, they forgot each other. He went on about his life and what was normal, just bleeding all over everything. He bled for a long time, but he never accepted the pain. He’d go about his normal business, just mindlessly bleeding away, ignoring the excruciating agony of the exercise. He’d bleed on his favorite things, but they could be put out the window or hidden in forgotten drawers, just so long as they were out of sight. If he couldn’t see the blood, then he really wasn’t bleeding. And he always had the damned smile, always. What was that, that damned, churlish grin? Sure, he had things to be happy about, but only the most foolish of stooges sacrifices his head to keep his body. Him, the stooge. He kept on smiling until he met her again.
She went black that night, after the play, just boiled straight up and into the black vapor of nothing. Sure, she was somewhere, she had to be somewhere, but even nothing is somewhere. See, she just had to dwell in nothingness so that she could become the perfect nothing that she sought. Do you see it now? She didn’t want him, because he required her to be a tangible something- his desperate prattle kept her existence there, in the musty theater with the musty old people and the musty performance. In spite of impossibility, she tried, really pushed, to boil herself straight up into the blackness above their heads in the darkness of the lofted theater ceiling, but he couldn’t shut it, couldn’t shut his infernal hinge that incessantly condensed every drop that floated off her; her every black bubble just barely floated up before going drip-drop back into her seat. So she waited and went black just after, when she was away from him- she walked from the car straight to her building and bubbled right into the black of the night as he drove away. And she mingled in amongst her beloved black. It was more aqueous than ten thousand oceans, she found; she could bounce and glide, float and bob here like had never been done before, and she easily fell in love with the watery shadow. Smooth, viscous, and lovely, she drank it in and felt the swelling of paradise in her deep and dark insides. But she had to surface for air, and that bastard, that sinister devil, drained the black sea from under her. It wasn’t her fault, really, but it wasn’t her place, either. It wasn’t anyone’s place. She was barely dry again when she saw him, the boy, once more.
There was a new interest. His babble no longer anchored her in reality; it didn’t seem to pain her anymore. She encouraged it, inhaled to force his exhale, craved the rambling. It wasn’t for her ears, it was for her brain, that spongy, spotted pile; it pulsed and rolled and cowered at her command, and it became increasingly more and more consumed by the spotted disease as she forced herself into the role. God, but what pain she truly must have endured, as the blood poured out of her every orifice and all over everything. Strange though, really, it wasn’t just red, but blue, yellow, and green gushed from her, too. The green escaped in a frothy flood from between her pursed lips, while watery blue cascaded from her eyes. The yellow, that sickly suspension squirted straight upward from her navel in great pulses as her loins raised and fell, and it covered her stomach no matter what she did. The black no longer wanted anything to do with her, and its rejection was painted in living color all over her from that point forward. She walked in a colored rain of her own life’s water. He ignored it though, didn’t concern himself with the prior dark and amorphous object of her esteem or the hues that constantly stained her skin and clothing; the words streamed from him at her, making a thick soupy cloud of noise about her, but he wasn’t really talking to her anyway- he was chatting with the devil, trying to buy his way back in. He thought maybe he could bleed his ailment out, he wasn’t sure, but he thought he could, and thus he thought his words could make his veins flow.
But they didn’t. They wouldn’t. He knew he lacked her colors; he had his own, but they weren’t hers, not so stark or lasting as her own. As he slowly accepted this, he could no longer bear the sight of her yellow belly or the glassy azure that dripped from the corners of her eyes and covered her face, no matter how much he wanted to loose his own essence. It stirred and twisted his innards; his guts churned with disgust, and he cringed to hold back his aversion of her. He turned from her, and he tensely looked himself over for a scab, searching for even the most minuscule of punctures for one last hope, which he knew would be a false one, although he wouldn’t admit it, but there were simply no wounds to be found. He’d have broken open any abrasion he might have found, no matter the pain involved, and he didn’t have a doubt he’d find more than a few opportunities to do so when he’d first begun; he simply had to make sure he wasn’t like her, had to prove his was still deep garnet red, but there was nothing at which to claw. His skin didn’t seem so tough, but he couldn’t bring himself to break it, much preferring to open some old injury, but, despite the many bruises and blemishes across its moist and pulsing plane, nowhere was the skin any longer broken. His disappointment was strange, as he first seethed in anger at the astonishing discovery that he was, for the most part, healed, as if the healing was never something he had wanted or asked for. This feeling passed, though, and he accepted his new wholeness, although it did not come without a profound sadness, one that was somehow foreign and new to him. He rose up again from his search, and his face showed this different melancholy, which seemed a totally unique emotion, but still a form of sadness all the same. Something about it, though, it seemed a purer sorrow, like he carried a new, quiet reverence for it. The devil just watched, leaving his blade inexplicably sheathed. Something about the boy, some intangible, struck stony fear into the great demon. The boy had learned what he would have to do.
When he turned back, she stabbed him. The jagged blade drove straight into his chest, and his mouth stood agape. He didn’t think it would come to this; it wasn’t her place to expose him like that. Her eyes welled with big blue bloody tears, but her face never twitched while they shared the moment. The world went white, white as the Gods’ Truth, and she slowly pulled back the blade. The two waited with conflicting anticipation. He was afraid, for the doom of the hopeless might have spilled upon the spotless ground at any second. He felt no pain, but he could hardly breathe, although he no longer much wanted to as he endured the moment.
Her expression was expectant, and her breath rattled nervously in and out of her as she waited for her wish to be fulfilled. She expected it, wanted to see it, the sign that her affliction was shared; she wanted to see the vivid colors pour from him, greens, yellows, blues, maybe even a little black, hoping the new shades might just ever so slightly obscure her own. Time froze for the whole of the evening, and, when it resumed again, their eyes remained locked on the deep gash on his chest. His skin, thinner than he had thought it was, particularly across the chest, clung to the sinewy muscle underneath like old peeling wallpaper, begging the blood to come and fill the void and bring life back into its dead, dry form. Alas, though, it did not come; she understood then, was actually forced to see, that she could no longer beckon it, even with her blade, sharper than most. He saw it, too, and he sighed a great and long sigh of gloomy relief as he cast her one last look of recognition. The boy then turned on his heels and began taking long, tired steps away from her, each a little longer than the last. She just stood, a forlorn figure, taking her time to understand her error.
As he walked, he resigned himself to keeping dry awhile, accepting that he could bleed again when the time was right. The devil, shrunken to the size of a mere imp by the change in the boy, hopped and skipped alongside the boy’s steady stride, incessantly poking and jabbing his tiny sword into the boy’s ankles. Although not granting any blood to the demon’s tireless effort, the boy could finally feel the marvelous shots of pain through his feet and legs. The pain was not unique to him, but it was something he knew he had to feel alone, and every pang was real and invigorating. It was a funny little smile, the one that just barely curled upward anew on his face, different from the juvenile smirk of former days; it was a wholesome expression, like his sadness finally had some substance and filled in some missing piece inside him. He lifted his eyes to the space in front of him as he set off in search of a new blade, one which might again spur the glorious crimson showers to erupt from his veins. Red, the living color; the boy laughed contentedly as he considered its possibility.
He once took her to a play, the kid did, ironed his shirt and drove her to the theater. He didn’t really know what he was doing, he just went and did it. Seemed like a good idea. And it should have been.
It was terrible, though. The play, not the idea, it really was something awful. Blanche, the misguided anti-heroine, floundered about the stage in her role; her delivery was awkward and phony, and her demeanor, well, it was hardly fitting of the dame from Belle Reve. In reality, Blanche wasn’t on the stage, but, rather, she was sitting in the fifth row next to the girl, wearing an uncomfortably starched oxford shirt and trying desperately to salvage the date. Of course, though, the pair would later learn that Blanche wasn’t the soft and victimized Southern Belle she claimed to be, was she? And neither was the kid who he was trying to be. But we all are deceived by the devil of loneliness sometimes, even if we won’t admit it.
The theatrical travesty continued, so he simply pushed more gumption into his efforts to salvage things, but she was stoic. He didn’t exactly accept the world with that sort of stoicism included, though, and he was confused for awhile, confounded by missing the right question. He asked himself, “What should I do,” never realizing, or perhaps refusing to realize, the better question was “What am I doing?”. Or, more specifically, “What am I doing here?” He just wanted it, just wanted something there. For God’s sake, he was hurting so bad, he couldn’t even recognize that he had a wound.
The play was really laughable, a staged drama turned into a live farce, and he quickly felt embarrassed for having chosen it. Really though, the situation should have been great, better than expected, due totally to the production’s shortcomings. Anyone could have, and really should have, seen the humor in the situation, seeing a well-hyped but eventually lousy show as an alternative date, but she didn’t. She had other ideas, though he’d never know what those were. She never saw the play, maybe never even noticed the rest of the audience. It was funny, it really was. They were all older, much older, some even elderly, and, as the pair would soon discover, the cast had all likewise seen a great number of years. And the house was full of them, these ancient theater-goers, which he thought would indicate the great quality of the play; they were still thinking people, after all, right? They’d seen humanity, and they’d seen its impostor, they must have in all their collective years; he missed the fact that they weren’t gathered here to see that, that raw humanity splayed out in front of their wide eyes. He missed that that wasn’t something one flippantly seeks as entertainment. Everyone present but the kid knew the harsh abrasion left by contacting unadulterated humanity; no, they’d much rather watch these poor charlatans put on their droll display than toy with the truths of their existence. If he had only looked down, if he had only recognized the scarlet fountains erupting from his veins, he would have understood so much of his predicament, his wanting it real and raw and suppressing the truth; the truth that it, the root of it all, tried to engage him every day. He really hunkered in fear of it, this attempted engagement; he just chose to believe that his voice could prove his eyes wrong. Really, if she had just seen them, his spurting veins, maybe she’d have avoided it, too.
They were 40 years the junior of the next youngest onlooker in the theater, he and she, and they bore the brunt of many inquisitive eyes. And here they were, packed in with 150 eager grandparents, all tittering back and forth about the young love in their midst, to watch a pathetic display of theater. Why was that not the least bit funny to her? He missed so much that night, but he really missed it all in general.
After that night, they forgot each other. He went on about his life and what was normal, just bleeding all over everything. He bled for a long time, but he never accepted the pain. He’d go about his normal business, just mindlessly bleeding away, ignoring the excruciating agony of the exercise. He’d bleed on his favorite things, but they could be put out the window or hidden in forgotten drawers, just so long as they were out of sight. If he couldn’t see the blood, then he really wasn’t bleeding. And he always had the damned smile, always. What was that, that damned, churlish grin? Sure, he had things to be happy about, but only the most foolish of stooges sacrifices his head to keep his body. Him, the stooge. He kept on smiling until he met her again.
She went black that night, after the play, just boiled straight up and into the black vapor of nothing. Sure, she was somewhere, she had to be somewhere, but even nothing is somewhere. See, she just had to dwell in nothingness so that she could become the perfect nothing that she sought. Do you see it now? She didn’t want him, because he required her to be a tangible something- his desperate prattle kept her existence there, in the musty theater with the musty old people and the musty performance. In spite of impossibility, she tried, really pushed, to boil herself straight up into the blackness above their heads in the darkness of the lofted theater ceiling, but he couldn’t shut it, couldn’t shut his infernal hinge that incessantly condensed every drop that floated off her; her every black bubble just barely floated up before going drip-drop back into her seat. So she waited and went black just after, when she was away from him- she walked from the car straight to her building and bubbled right into the black of the night as he drove away. And she mingled in amongst her beloved black. It was more aqueous than ten thousand oceans, she found; she could bounce and glide, float and bob here like had never been done before, and she easily fell in love with the watery shadow. Smooth, viscous, and lovely, she drank it in and felt the swelling of paradise in her deep and dark insides. But she had to surface for air, and that bastard, that sinister devil, drained the black sea from under her. It wasn’t her fault, really, but it wasn’t her place, either. It wasn’t anyone’s place. She was barely dry again when she saw him, the boy, once more.
There was a new interest. His babble no longer anchored her in reality; it didn’t seem to pain her anymore. She encouraged it, inhaled to force his exhale, craved the rambling. It wasn’t for her ears, it was for her brain, that spongy, spotted pile; it pulsed and rolled and cowered at her command, and it became increasingly more and more consumed by the spotted disease as she forced herself into the role. God, but what pain she truly must have endured, as the blood poured out of her every orifice and all over everything. Strange though, really, it wasn’t just red, but blue, yellow, and green gushed from her, too. The green escaped in a frothy flood from between her pursed lips, while watery blue cascaded from her eyes. The yellow, that sickly suspension squirted straight upward from her navel in great pulses as her loins raised and fell, and it covered her stomach no matter what she did. The black no longer wanted anything to do with her, and its rejection was painted in living color all over her from that point forward. She walked in a colored rain of her own life’s water. He ignored it though, didn’t concern himself with the prior dark and amorphous object of her esteem or the hues that constantly stained her skin and clothing; the words streamed from him at her, making a thick soupy cloud of noise about her, but he wasn’t really talking to her anyway- he was chatting with the devil, trying to buy his way back in. He thought maybe he could bleed his ailment out, he wasn’t sure, but he thought he could, and thus he thought his words could make his veins flow.
But they didn’t. They wouldn’t. He knew he lacked her colors; he had his own, but they weren’t hers, not so stark or lasting as her own. As he slowly accepted this, he could no longer bear the sight of her yellow belly or the glassy azure that dripped from the corners of her eyes and covered her face, no matter how much he wanted to loose his own essence. It stirred and twisted his innards; his guts churned with disgust, and he cringed to hold back his aversion of her. He turned from her, and he tensely looked himself over for a scab, searching for even the most minuscule of punctures for one last hope, which he knew would be a false one, although he wouldn’t admit it, but there were simply no wounds to be found. He’d have broken open any abrasion he might have found, no matter the pain involved, and he didn’t have a doubt he’d find more than a few opportunities to do so when he’d first begun; he simply had to make sure he wasn’t like her, had to prove his was still deep garnet red, but there was nothing at which to claw. His skin didn’t seem so tough, but he couldn’t bring himself to break it, much preferring to open some old injury, but, despite the many bruises and blemishes across its moist and pulsing plane, nowhere was the skin any longer broken. His disappointment was strange, as he first seethed in anger at the astonishing discovery that he was, for the most part, healed, as if the healing was never something he had wanted or asked for. This feeling passed, though, and he accepted his new wholeness, although it did not come without a profound sadness, one that was somehow foreign and new to him. He rose up again from his search, and his face showed this different melancholy, which seemed a totally unique emotion, but still a form of sadness all the same. Something about it, though, it seemed a purer sorrow, like he carried a new, quiet reverence for it. The devil just watched, leaving his blade inexplicably sheathed. Something about the boy, some intangible, struck stony fear into the great demon. The boy had learned what he would have to do.
When he turned back, she stabbed him. The jagged blade drove straight into his chest, and his mouth stood agape. He didn’t think it would come to this; it wasn’t her place to expose him like that. Her eyes welled with big blue bloody tears, but her face never twitched while they shared the moment. The world went white, white as the Gods’ Truth, and she slowly pulled back the blade. The two waited with conflicting anticipation. He was afraid, for the doom of the hopeless might have spilled upon the spotless ground at any second. He felt no pain, but he could hardly breathe, although he no longer much wanted to as he endured the moment.
Her expression was expectant, and her breath rattled nervously in and out of her as she waited for her wish to be fulfilled. She expected it, wanted to see it, the sign that her affliction was shared; she wanted to see the vivid colors pour from him, greens, yellows, blues, maybe even a little black, hoping the new shades might just ever so slightly obscure her own. Time froze for the whole of the evening, and, when it resumed again, their eyes remained locked on the deep gash on his chest. His skin, thinner than he had thought it was, particularly across the chest, clung to the sinewy muscle underneath like old peeling wallpaper, begging the blood to come and fill the void and bring life back into its dead, dry form. Alas, though, it did not come; she understood then, was actually forced to see, that she could no longer beckon it, even with her blade, sharper than most. He saw it, too, and he sighed a great and long sigh of gloomy relief as he cast her one last look of recognition. The boy then turned on his heels and began taking long, tired steps away from her, each a little longer than the last. She just stood, a forlorn figure, taking her time to understand her error.
As he walked, he resigned himself to keeping dry awhile, accepting that he could bleed again when the time was right. The devil, shrunken to the size of a mere imp by the change in the boy, hopped and skipped alongside the boy’s steady stride, incessantly poking and jabbing his tiny sword into the boy’s ankles. Although not granting any blood to the demon’s tireless effort, the boy could finally feel the marvelous shots of pain through his feet and legs. The pain was not unique to him, but it was something he knew he had to feel alone, and every pang was real and invigorating. It was a funny little smile, the one that just barely curled upward anew on his face, different from the juvenile smirk of former days; it was a wholesome expression, like his sadness finally had some substance and filled in some missing piece inside him. He lifted his eyes to the space in front of him as he set off in search of a new blade, one which might again spur the glorious crimson showers to erupt from his veins. Red, the living color; the boy laughed contentedly as he considered its possibility.
Considering Consciousness
Dying in a puddle of his own juices, the frog felt strangely relaxed, much like lazily floating about on one’s back. He floundered a bit with his gangly limbs, but it was simply not to be, and his subsequent stillness signaled his acceptance of this fact. The cool dew on the grass collected about him in his last throes of life, mixing with the fluids of his own body to provide him one last bath. His green-yellow eyes, wide open with incredulity, stared blankly upward into the overcast twilight sky, searching even in his last moments for some sort of understanding, never realizing the ground that a frog’s intelligence would have to cover to achieve such a feat in the most transient of moments. Such would be the plight of a frog.
The pool grew deeper about the frog; his body, still self-aware, spun about as the fat rain drops impacted it. As the frog took in his last breaths, the reddish brown water came in with it. One, two, three….and his existence was no more. Into the arms of death croaked the frog, leaving his spare bits to become the fuel of his former world.
Just moments before, the frog was still hopping along, moving with an ample hippity-hop across the pasture. Things had been well with the frog; he'd spent his morning ably satisfying his appetite for insects, which would keep him going for days if he so needed, and he was just then on his way for a well-deserved afternoon nap. But, of course, “good” is a very frog-centric value judgment to make. Consider:
Dying in a puddle of the frog’s stomach juices, a rather large cricket had not even the first idea what had happened to him, a confusion much akin to being pushed into a pool while blindfolded. He would have floundered a bit with his limbs, if only the frog hadn't chewed them off. In fact, the cricket was dead long before his last throes would have been able to set in. Alas, such would be the plight of a cricket.
Making his way back to his pond, the frog didn’t much think about anything. It had been a hard day, and, of course, he was a frog, and frogs really don’t have too much to think about. Frogs mostly hop, swim, eat crickets, croak, and try to avoid croaking, in the human colloquial sense, that is. Currently, the frog was doing the first of these activities.
An ominous hum began a-humming in the distance behind the frog. At least, distance as a frog conceives of distance; it really wasn’t too far away, but it’s important that the frog tell the story. After all, it is his last to tell, even if he is just a frog.
Hummmmmmmm. The frog took no notice; after all, if he slept each night through the riotous roar of the woodland cicadas, how could he worry with one distant hum?
HUMMMMMMM.
HUMMMMMMMM.
HUMMMMMMMMMM.
And then there lay the frog, all but in two pieces.
“Well,” thought the frog, so beyond his own mortality that he had not the time to accept or reject his doom, “I must have fucked with the wrong cicada.”
The hum continued a short moment before sputtering into silence. Looking up ahead of his broken body, the frog witnessed a man kicking a large green and yellow machine, and, had he known English, he would have undoubtedly heard the man’s profane sentiments toward his green and yellow machine. But I doubt the frog would have much objected to the graphic and explicit in his most graphic and explicit of moments. It was his last; why reserve the profane for a later time?
And here, just as the clouds were beginning to totally darken over the late afternoon sky, is how we originally found our frog, breast-stroking about in the waters of his own loins, hopelessly fading into the unknown. Not scared, not particularly excited, not lamenting his wasted life, he’s just frogging his way into the afterlife. But, then, I must be projecting; he was probably just content with the knowledge that he had populated his home with a few more tadpoles before it was all over.
Meanwhile, one yellow and green grass-cutting apparatus was receiving some stern physical abuse from an overly angry operator. Thud, one kick. Thud thud, two kicks. The lawnmower could do nothing but simply sit still and accept the beating; had it been alive, it probably would have had the same response anyway, given the common habit of this rotund grass-cutter to become violent. The girth that propelled the blows into their target was truly impressive; a belly to rival its size must truly have been rare, especially in these parts. The sheer number of buttons on the poor shirt assigned the task of covering such rotundity would equal that of four or five shirts of any normal sized man, and it certainly would not have been pleasurable to receive such poor treatment from the hulking figure. But again, I am not a lawnmower; perhaps taking the brutal beating was easier on the engine than was bearing the load. I cannot say that I would disagree with the logic…were I to be a lawnmower, of course.
As the storm became more and more imminent, the viciousness of the man’s tantrum did too crescendo. After all, should the rain begin, the job of cutting grass would no longer be possible, and our frog would then have died in vain. Not that the man cursed his machine on the frog’s behalf, it’s simply something I am compelled to consider, even if the frog would not himself do so. A darker shade of gray covered the sky throughout the man’s tantrum, which only fed his anger; the man’s face grew redder and redder, he cursed louder and louder, and he spat more and more and more and more….until his face, being unable to grow any redder, his cursing, unable to grow any louder, and his spit, now completely dry between his jaws, the man keeled over, feeling acute pains in his left side. Now on his back and at a level of distress he had never felt before, the man turned his head and vomited a great reddish brown vomit onto the lush, green grass he had been attempting to cut. He shivered as the rain fell and he waited for the pain to subside, but it was simply not to be for the man.
Dying in a puddle of his own juices, the man only exacerbated his situation with his panic. His eyes were wide open and glazed over with fear as he struggled to accept his demise. His clothing soaked in the heavy rainfall that began to pour, thus cooling him on the hot summer afternoon, although he paid no attention to the timely soothing Nature was attempting to deliver. A much underappreciated bath he was given, even at the time he needed it most. The man attempted to pick himself up with his right arm, but when his left leg was called to action, it gave no response, and he fell back into the watery, vomit-filled puddle. The man understood then and there that he would die where he was, as he could not move. What he could not understand though, was how he would then pass. The clouds were dark as he stared at them, not bright like he had thought they would be. But, then, perhaps that would come later; why not save the best for the very, very last, thought the man. The thought did not much help, though; the very, very last would teach him definitively the true length of a moment. The final throes upon him, the man was still deep in panic from things not being as he was told they would be. Had he been dry, his pants then would have turned a darker shade of blue around the front of his pants, just below the waistline. His breathing quickened to an all-time fastest rate, and he slowly closed his eyes without ever ceasing to fear the end. Such would be the plight of a man, a glutton, a rage-filled representative of human excess.
With the passing consciousness of our final character, is the story then finished? Wait, and consider once more:
Dying in a bath of cerebral juices, the brain was begging for more oxygen. What the brain was forgetting was that the man rarely listened to what it said, but, then, that is not exactly a reason not to try, especially in these circumstances. It must be frustrating, being a human brain, what with being subject to the subtle whims of a human. Deep into its death throes, the brain then erred itself, releasing as much adrenaline as it could muster, making the man panic. Maybe this was simply a last attempt to spite the heart for its weakness; after all, where is the equity in such organs being forced to cooperate, one having infinite potential for knowledge and judgment and the other being totally soft and sedentary from a continual regimen of cholesterol and laziness? The conditions of an existence can just never be ideal, thought the brain, if I’m forced to exist at all. Just before shutting down for a deep and perpetual trip into forever, the brain had one last thought: such would be the plight of a brain.
The pool grew deeper about the frog; his body, still self-aware, spun about as the fat rain drops impacted it. As the frog took in his last breaths, the reddish brown water came in with it. One, two, three….and his existence was no more. Into the arms of death croaked the frog, leaving his spare bits to become the fuel of his former world.
Just moments before, the frog was still hopping along, moving with an ample hippity-hop across the pasture. Things had been well with the frog; he'd spent his morning ably satisfying his appetite for insects, which would keep him going for days if he so needed, and he was just then on his way for a well-deserved afternoon nap. But, of course, “good” is a very frog-centric value judgment to make. Consider:
Dying in a puddle of the frog’s stomach juices, a rather large cricket had not even the first idea what had happened to him, a confusion much akin to being pushed into a pool while blindfolded. He would have floundered a bit with his limbs, if only the frog hadn't chewed them off. In fact, the cricket was dead long before his last throes would have been able to set in. Alas, such would be the plight of a cricket.
Making his way back to his pond, the frog didn’t much think about anything. It had been a hard day, and, of course, he was a frog, and frogs really don’t have too much to think about. Frogs mostly hop, swim, eat crickets, croak, and try to avoid croaking, in the human colloquial sense, that is. Currently, the frog was doing the first of these activities.
An ominous hum began a-humming in the distance behind the frog. At least, distance as a frog conceives of distance; it really wasn’t too far away, but it’s important that the frog tell the story. After all, it is his last to tell, even if he is just a frog.
Hummmmmmmm. The frog took no notice; after all, if he slept each night through the riotous roar of the woodland cicadas, how could he worry with one distant hum?
HUMMMMMMM.
HUMMMMMMMM.
HUMMMMMMMMMM.
And then there lay the frog, all but in two pieces.
“Well,” thought the frog, so beyond his own mortality that he had not the time to accept or reject his doom, “I must have fucked with the wrong cicada.”
The hum continued a short moment before sputtering into silence. Looking up ahead of his broken body, the frog witnessed a man kicking a large green and yellow machine, and, had he known English, he would have undoubtedly heard the man’s profane sentiments toward his green and yellow machine. But I doubt the frog would have much objected to the graphic and explicit in his most graphic and explicit of moments. It was his last; why reserve the profane for a later time?
And here, just as the clouds were beginning to totally darken over the late afternoon sky, is how we originally found our frog, breast-stroking about in the waters of his own loins, hopelessly fading into the unknown. Not scared, not particularly excited, not lamenting his wasted life, he’s just frogging his way into the afterlife. But, then, I must be projecting; he was probably just content with the knowledge that he had populated his home with a few more tadpoles before it was all over.
Meanwhile, one yellow and green grass-cutting apparatus was receiving some stern physical abuse from an overly angry operator. Thud, one kick. Thud thud, two kicks. The lawnmower could do nothing but simply sit still and accept the beating; had it been alive, it probably would have had the same response anyway, given the common habit of this rotund grass-cutter to become violent. The girth that propelled the blows into their target was truly impressive; a belly to rival its size must truly have been rare, especially in these parts. The sheer number of buttons on the poor shirt assigned the task of covering such rotundity would equal that of four or five shirts of any normal sized man, and it certainly would not have been pleasurable to receive such poor treatment from the hulking figure. But again, I am not a lawnmower; perhaps taking the brutal beating was easier on the engine than was bearing the load. I cannot say that I would disagree with the logic…were I to be a lawnmower, of course.
As the storm became more and more imminent, the viciousness of the man’s tantrum did too crescendo. After all, should the rain begin, the job of cutting grass would no longer be possible, and our frog would then have died in vain. Not that the man cursed his machine on the frog’s behalf, it’s simply something I am compelled to consider, even if the frog would not himself do so. A darker shade of gray covered the sky throughout the man’s tantrum, which only fed his anger; the man’s face grew redder and redder, he cursed louder and louder, and he spat more and more and more and more….until his face, being unable to grow any redder, his cursing, unable to grow any louder, and his spit, now completely dry between his jaws, the man keeled over, feeling acute pains in his left side. Now on his back and at a level of distress he had never felt before, the man turned his head and vomited a great reddish brown vomit onto the lush, green grass he had been attempting to cut. He shivered as the rain fell and he waited for the pain to subside, but it was simply not to be for the man.
Dying in a puddle of his own juices, the man only exacerbated his situation with his panic. His eyes were wide open and glazed over with fear as he struggled to accept his demise. His clothing soaked in the heavy rainfall that began to pour, thus cooling him on the hot summer afternoon, although he paid no attention to the timely soothing Nature was attempting to deliver. A much underappreciated bath he was given, even at the time he needed it most. The man attempted to pick himself up with his right arm, but when his left leg was called to action, it gave no response, and he fell back into the watery, vomit-filled puddle. The man understood then and there that he would die where he was, as he could not move. What he could not understand though, was how he would then pass. The clouds were dark as he stared at them, not bright like he had thought they would be. But, then, perhaps that would come later; why not save the best for the very, very last, thought the man. The thought did not much help, though; the very, very last would teach him definitively the true length of a moment. The final throes upon him, the man was still deep in panic from things not being as he was told they would be. Had he been dry, his pants then would have turned a darker shade of blue around the front of his pants, just below the waistline. His breathing quickened to an all-time fastest rate, and he slowly closed his eyes without ever ceasing to fear the end. Such would be the plight of a man, a glutton, a rage-filled representative of human excess.
With the passing consciousness of our final character, is the story then finished? Wait, and consider once more:
Dying in a bath of cerebral juices, the brain was begging for more oxygen. What the brain was forgetting was that the man rarely listened to what it said, but, then, that is not exactly a reason not to try, especially in these circumstances. It must be frustrating, being a human brain, what with being subject to the subtle whims of a human. Deep into its death throes, the brain then erred itself, releasing as much adrenaline as it could muster, making the man panic. Maybe this was simply a last attempt to spite the heart for its weakness; after all, where is the equity in such organs being forced to cooperate, one having infinite potential for knowledge and judgment and the other being totally soft and sedentary from a continual regimen of cholesterol and laziness? The conditions of an existence can just never be ideal, thought the brain, if I’m forced to exist at all. Just before shutting down for a deep and perpetual trip into forever, the brain had one last thought: such would be the plight of a brain.
Golden Years
All the air was sound and vision…but well really, it was filled with that aura that you can’t really define, but…here’s the picture: I look over at Bill: he’s driving, but he really shouldn’t be. Bobbing the head like that can’t lead to proficient motoring, but at least he’s playing the part he’s cast himself. His face is covered by just enough stubble for the world to believe he’s sporting a beard, and not enough for me to be entirely convinced he’s not going to shave anytime soon. The hair on his face though is hardly the worst thing about him, although I’m not entirely without blame. But I’m talking about Bill. What IS this look? The Faulkner reader tucked under his thigh on the driver’s seat is probably just show, but that’s the one secret that’s never getting out. Otherwise, he’s wearing a tight printless v-neck, the kind that says, “I’m interesting,” but he’s wearing it really just because the collar points directly to what’s he’s really thinking about- y’know, the part of him which is given no room for ambiguity in the particularly skinny pair of denims hugging his bottom half. Maybe he says he’s avoiding being the establishment kid who will someday work for his dad, but he’s doing everything else we’re all doing. Hell, the kid’s drinking a beer behind the wheel of a car, still refusing to take off his plastic novelty sunglasses, despite the fact that it’s 11:30 pm. Anyway, although I am being a cynical prick, I don’t really care at the moment. Bill’s pumping Bowie, which gives me that cool, slinky feeling, like I can just slither into any spot in the world, and no matter what, I will fit the niche- anywhere I go, I’ll be the most interesting man on the planet, something like that. Shit, in reality, I can speak a foreign language, I paid attention in high school lit, and probably I can make shit up with the best of them, so why not? Perhaps a vision of grandeur, but anywhere I go tonight, I can see it: I’m wearing vintage suit slacks, 1940s leather jacket, and mirrored sunglasses. Ok, maybe in my fantasies I look like some kind of 70s Greenwich-villager, but that’s just the cool I want. I didn’t get to go to any of it; y’know, places like those early 80s Hall and Oates shows, you know, the kind where you could only get in if you were a clean shaven coke addict, so I’m allowed. Maybe I also look a little like Jack White in my vision, but just his interesting parts. I wouldn’t have to do this bullshit if I had just taken those goddamn piano lessons. Who takes a 6 year old’s refusal to play piano seriously? Fuck.
It’s Wednesday, but Bill “doesn’t know” that, by his own design of course, and I’ve decided I’m not making work tomorrow. Nevermind that I’ve taken my sick days already, those assholes should have given me more than a whopping two for a whole goddamn summer. I think my resume gives me another day if I want it. Or not, whatever. I’m not even making minimum wage, and I don’t have the balls necessary forego law school, so what the hell is an internship at a goddamn consulate anyway. “Hello, Mr. Yale, yes, I have a college degree, and I can make coffee and pick up faxes in 9 languages.” Assholes.
Drippity-drippity-drop goes the Bowie. Downright brilliant, just brilliant. Ziggy played guitar, eh? Well, David, I don’t know what a screwed down hair-do is, I’ve never used a rotary phone, and I’m not sure who originally wrote “Dancing in the Streets,” but, Jesus, I wish I could have done that whole 70s thing. Or any other decade really…but who’s ever satisfied in the first place?
Jesus, Bill, keep your goddamn eyes open. “Still rockin’ the shades at this hour, eh?”
“Just till we get there, it’d be more trouble to take ‘em off and then I’ll lose ‘em and you’ll step on them…whatever, we’ll get there. You’re hassling me.”
“Sure, man, whatever. You sure you can drink and drive?”
“Yeah, it’s cool. I’m 21.”
Yes, yes, Bill, that is cool. Chilly, actually. And chilly ain’t never been cool. Sometimes you gotta pioneer slang. If I could just adopt the vocabulary of Sammy Davis, Jr., I think I could fix the problem. Whether Sammy actually used “chilly” is pure speculation, but I doubt anyone will argue. All the world’s a stage, it really is. Look, watch this, it really is:
Me (with condescension; don’t forget sense though- having some keeps you going)
“So being 21 allows you to drink and drive? Can’t wait.”
Bill (hiply):
“It’s not the age, man, that’s just a line in the sand. C’mon, it’s a sign of your maturity, as accepted by the society which you tacitly consent to join everyday by not skedaddling on out of it, which, as a descendent of the Greatest Generation, you are programmed never to do. Yeah, 21 took forever, but you were in the trenches, fighting for it, just like I was. So now, I have matured, and I’ve put to rest those sharpest of bayonets, and now I’ll water myself to drown. I’ll quench my thirst until I damn well burst, and the location therefore holdeth nil for me. Wheels, pedals, and flashing lights are no longer my concern in this United States of America, friend-o. Badmouth, curse, and spit, I’ll take the liberty. And that, sir, is truly the kindest cut of them all.”
Me (again, condescension)
“You’re a moron.”
See, it’s just like a stage. Hell, it’s not just like, it’s exactly the same damn thing. Just that we can’t ever get down. We grow up on it, which I hope I’m still in the process of; it’s either that, or we’re growing down…until we’re all the way down.
A weird feeling for sure. We’re college kids, and I look at my parents, who scare the living shit out of me, and I sometimes question their existence. There are simply things that must happen in the management of a household that I just know they don’t do, so it’s entirely possible that my psyche has created this whole fantasy of them, just so I can continue to believe that, someday, I will wash my whites with bleach. I sometimes examine my own habits, and I must ask myself, “Does everyone do this?” The answer is met with more incredulity; “there’s NO WAY everyone does this, but even if they don’t, we’re all screwed (up) anyway, so why not?”. Like when Hank put his Hot Pocket in the trash half eaten. And I ate it. I’m not going to go through my logic; it’s really unjustifiable. Laundry list of other illegitimate parts of my life: I spent over a week battling one hell of a rat out of my house (only to find that it was actually two), I actually have attempted to obtain cocaine from a stripper (my opinion of the strip joint as “classy” probably also qualifies for the list), I rarely see a reason to wash my sheets, and I have cleaned my dishes with bleach. There it is, it’s out there; meanwhile, I know enough about ancient Germanic peoples to practice their religion, I understand One Hundred Years of Solitude, and I keep “The Economist” sitting next to my toilet. Thanks higher education- I can invest wisely real estate, just not in laundry detergent.
It’s dark, and we’re driving in circles.
“Jesus Christ, man, do you know where we are?”
“Yes, God, chill,” he replies.
“So by yes…do you actually mean no?”
“It’s all good, homes.”
Homes. Where the hell has clever slang gone? If someone would just call me “daddy-o” or refer to another person as a “cat,” I would, just that once, pretend that I didn’t disapprove, just for the gallant effort.
“So if I drink a little more, you’re not going to need my coherent consultation of a map?”
“Sweet Jesus, yes, do it. Think about it, the closer you get to blacking out, the faster it’ll seem we get there.”
“Mmmm, time-travelin’, eh?” Poor joke, but it wouldn’t be fair to him not to try. At least fish for something else. It’s only polite.
“Um, yeah, but if I take this goddamn thing to 88, I’ll probably barf. And hit a large group of people, who are all single parents and somehow all have children under the age of five. Who all have a soccer game in an hour. In which they all collectively will score the winning goal, which will launch their professional soccer careers. Whose great and collective success will all be based upon the loss of their parents to my drunken-“
“I don’t mean to be rude…but shut the fuck up.”
“driving skills.”
Even though we’re probably the most typical duo ever, I still can’t take myself seriously, and I probably believe that others shouldn’t. Sure, I’m worth a shit. Probably even two shits. Maybe most of the people I know are just somehow more than the sum of their parts. Actually, a large percentage of them are probably less. Really, hardly anyone is just the sum of their parts. I can’t think of anything quite as boring as being exactly the sum of your parts. Vices are cool; continued success in spite of them is better. Maybe that’s why everyone is trying so damn hard to get some. They’re everywhere- the 18 year old male who somehow appreciates expensive beer and won’t drink it without the proper glass, the 16 year old girl who has a credit card for every dress boutique she’s ever heard of, the want-away business student who thinks drugs will legitimize the alternative image he wants to front. Vices, man. I haven’t seen ‘em for keeps yet, but my hand’s on the lever. Those fingers, though, they’re slippery, those fickle bastards, they’ll get between the jaws sometimes. But it’s not just like that; sometimes those jaws go snap, and you get your nails clipped, to say the least- it was what you were really looking for in the first place. And if you weren’t, it’s probably better that it happened anyway.
Mmm, the air is sparkling, this night is fantastic. It’s going to be just excellent when you’re still in the car, and you can watch the air pop, pop, pop. That disc, did my best with her. I’ve got copies- the Martha Stewart voice is reminding me that mix CDs made for (lady)friends is a great way to seem somewhat interesting, and how many times can you listen to something without thinking about where it came from? No, I don’t have a person that this was made especially for, but that’s later. Right now, if she’s got good taste in the right places, it’ll work. Looking at Bill, and the skinny jeans he wears deliberately an inch short at the ankles (“Dude, nobody likes cankles- you gotta let people know you’re all ankles, man. Think about it, it’s only human, y’know?”), I’m reminded that this may be sad, but still a less objectionable alternative. Name of the game: play the cards you’re dealt, and buying Urban Outfitters off eBay just ain’t in my deck.
Outside, the rain begins to mist, turning to spit here and there. It’s one of those summer nights where the sky appears reddish gray; I don’t feel like this gets noticed enough. You read, “the sky is red” somewhere, you’re thinking, “Jesus, that’s creepy.” But it’s not, it’s essence of what we want, especially when it’s there to be seen, felt. Or at least what I want. This vine I’m swinging on, this guy, I’m not sure how long it is, but going down by one hand every now and then never really bothered me. Don’t misunderstand, I don’t wanna fall. Hell, I don’t even want to slip; I don’t wanna dangle, slide, tumble, or stutter. But, by God, I’ve taken my fair share of deliberate steps downward, and it’s a helluva feeling. I’ve swung it around a little, I’ve even done some of those things I don’t really wanna do, but I’m clinging still. And I like that. Controlled demise. It’s…it’s the diggity, and the diggity’s in my pocket. Jingle fuckin’ jangle. It’s like when kids play tag, and they’ll let the tagger come in real close, just to taunt him. They can’t be sure he won’t get them as a direct result of their bravado, but that’s not the point. I just gotta see him, mine, the tagger, see his eyes. I think I’ve seen him, his outline or something. Alright, so it was the cartoon version of him, but that’s valid- that’s a whole goddamn mess of validity, my friend. Laughing your way out is still going out, and if he shows you his eyes, well, you’re still the one laughing.
“Nothing ever can touch you in these Golden Years.” David Bowie.
Twisting off the cap now; in the words of Sitting Bull and all his native brethren, this is the modern day Big Medicine. One form at least; I like to build all sorts of Big Medicines into my life; they’re everywhere, you just gotta see ‘em. Big Medicine heals just like the regular medicine does, you just gotta see it for what it is. And don’t dare tell me what the hell healing is. That’s one thing I got, I can heal. And fucking Big Medicine is everywhere. Healing’s just not a conventional thing, man. It’s…heavier than they say. That’s how come I’ve seen two times my own manliness drop dead at 19. That was a kid, and that was a kid that did your “healing,” ok? It’s not black and white, and everything’s connected. The six and the one are still on the same die, ok, and this world is much bigger than one of those damn things. That story later; it’s not exactly what I’m driving at. But it’s related, and that’s probably the point.
Bill looks at me as if I’m not going to let him have any. Which I’m not. I’m in no need to have my vine cut this evening, and I already hacked it a little when I sat down in the car. It’s still out there, and not coming anytime soon; no need to rendezvous before I figure him out. I’ll wait it out, but in the mean, mean, meantime…
“Whaddaya doin’? You gonna buy it dinner or what?”
I take a sip, but hold it at a lesser angle so that it looks like I’m taking a gulp. The beautiful amber liquid sears my throat, but she’s a beauty sitting there in the bottle. That eerie light coming off the wine-colored sky; it looks like a fire’s been lit, really something colossal, just between us and the moon, and the smoke, it’s billowing toward us, so thick that only the most vigilant of the fire’s red light peeks through. And God, I’m talking to you, although I can only assume you listen as much as I do…thank You for the strange, wafting light through the liquid- without it, the beauty would be shrouded. I can see a few bubbles bounce up through it from the shock of the pour, and their gilded smoothness cools my throat, and maybe I’ll just believe the flowing water in my eyes secretes for beauty’s sake. John, not Jack, my whiskey-making friend, as I’ll take the cliché and leave your nickname for those less acquainted, you’ve seen him, found It…Him, It, Life’s dearest truth that lasts until the end of it all, any man’s last hurrah, big sleep, you’ve seen It, bathed in that amber light that I see, illuminating it all. You must have; it wouldn’t have lasted so long otherwise. Beautiful, black label.
What do these people, people like Mr. Daniels, get from it? Everything? God, I hope not; I’d have to feel stupid if they do. I mean, dying without understanding...I can’t imagine it. It’s too much: it’s sorta like how nobody knew Bruce Willis was dead in that movie, nobody. It wasn’t meant to be possible. But 40,000 people everyday take the leap- do they all know? Cause I’m doing nothing but watching…
Black’s really a hell of a color- might be something there. Deep…deep black.
It’s Wednesday, but Bill “doesn’t know” that, by his own design of course, and I’ve decided I’m not making work tomorrow. Nevermind that I’ve taken my sick days already, those assholes should have given me more than a whopping two for a whole goddamn summer. I think my resume gives me another day if I want it. Or not, whatever. I’m not even making minimum wage, and I don’t have the balls necessary forego law school, so what the hell is an internship at a goddamn consulate anyway. “Hello, Mr. Yale, yes, I have a college degree, and I can make coffee and pick up faxes in 9 languages.” Assholes.
Drippity-drippity-drop goes the Bowie. Downright brilliant, just brilliant. Ziggy played guitar, eh? Well, David, I don’t know what a screwed down hair-do is, I’ve never used a rotary phone, and I’m not sure who originally wrote “Dancing in the Streets,” but, Jesus, I wish I could have done that whole 70s thing. Or any other decade really…but who’s ever satisfied in the first place?
Jesus, Bill, keep your goddamn eyes open. “Still rockin’ the shades at this hour, eh?”
“Just till we get there, it’d be more trouble to take ‘em off and then I’ll lose ‘em and you’ll step on them…whatever, we’ll get there. You’re hassling me.”
“Sure, man, whatever. You sure you can drink and drive?”
“Yeah, it’s cool. I’m 21.”
Yes, yes, Bill, that is cool. Chilly, actually. And chilly ain’t never been cool. Sometimes you gotta pioneer slang. If I could just adopt the vocabulary of Sammy Davis, Jr., I think I could fix the problem. Whether Sammy actually used “chilly” is pure speculation, but I doubt anyone will argue. All the world’s a stage, it really is. Look, watch this, it really is:
Me (with condescension; don’t forget sense though- having some keeps you going)
“So being 21 allows you to drink and drive? Can’t wait.”
Bill (hiply):
“It’s not the age, man, that’s just a line in the sand. C’mon, it’s a sign of your maturity, as accepted by the society which you tacitly consent to join everyday by not skedaddling on out of it, which, as a descendent of the Greatest Generation, you are programmed never to do. Yeah, 21 took forever, but you were in the trenches, fighting for it, just like I was. So now, I have matured, and I’ve put to rest those sharpest of bayonets, and now I’ll water myself to drown. I’ll quench my thirst until I damn well burst, and the location therefore holdeth nil for me. Wheels, pedals, and flashing lights are no longer my concern in this United States of America, friend-o. Badmouth, curse, and spit, I’ll take the liberty. And that, sir, is truly the kindest cut of them all.”
Me (again, condescension)
“You’re a moron.”
See, it’s just like a stage. Hell, it’s not just like, it’s exactly the same damn thing. Just that we can’t ever get down. We grow up on it, which I hope I’m still in the process of; it’s either that, or we’re growing down…until we’re all the way down.
A weird feeling for sure. We’re college kids, and I look at my parents, who scare the living shit out of me, and I sometimes question their existence. There are simply things that must happen in the management of a household that I just know they don’t do, so it’s entirely possible that my psyche has created this whole fantasy of them, just so I can continue to believe that, someday, I will wash my whites with bleach. I sometimes examine my own habits, and I must ask myself, “Does everyone do this?” The answer is met with more incredulity; “there’s NO WAY everyone does this, but even if they don’t, we’re all screwed (up) anyway, so why not?”. Like when Hank put his Hot Pocket in the trash half eaten. And I ate it. I’m not going to go through my logic; it’s really unjustifiable. Laundry list of other illegitimate parts of my life: I spent over a week battling one hell of a rat out of my house (only to find that it was actually two), I actually have attempted to obtain cocaine from a stripper (my opinion of the strip joint as “classy” probably also qualifies for the list), I rarely see a reason to wash my sheets, and I have cleaned my dishes with bleach. There it is, it’s out there; meanwhile, I know enough about ancient Germanic peoples to practice their religion, I understand One Hundred Years of Solitude, and I keep “The Economist” sitting next to my toilet. Thanks higher education- I can invest wisely real estate, just not in laundry detergent.
It’s dark, and we’re driving in circles.
“Jesus Christ, man, do you know where we are?”
“Yes, God, chill,” he replies.
“So by yes…do you actually mean no?”
“It’s all good, homes.”
Homes. Where the hell has clever slang gone? If someone would just call me “daddy-o” or refer to another person as a “cat,” I would, just that once, pretend that I didn’t disapprove, just for the gallant effort.
“So if I drink a little more, you’re not going to need my coherent consultation of a map?”
“Sweet Jesus, yes, do it. Think about it, the closer you get to blacking out, the faster it’ll seem we get there.”
“Mmmm, time-travelin’, eh?” Poor joke, but it wouldn’t be fair to him not to try. At least fish for something else. It’s only polite.
“Um, yeah, but if I take this goddamn thing to 88, I’ll probably barf. And hit a large group of people, who are all single parents and somehow all have children under the age of five. Who all have a soccer game in an hour. In which they all collectively will score the winning goal, which will launch their professional soccer careers. Whose great and collective success will all be based upon the loss of their parents to my drunken-“
“I don’t mean to be rude…but shut the fuck up.”
“driving skills.”
Even though we’re probably the most typical duo ever, I still can’t take myself seriously, and I probably believe that others shouldn’t. Sure, I’m worth a shit. Probably even two shits. Maybe most of the people I know are just somehow more than the sum of their parts. Actually, a large percentage of them are probably less. Really, hardly anyone is just the sum of their parts. I can’t think of anything quite as boring as being exactly the sum of your parts. Vices are cool; continued success in spite of them is better. Maybe that’s why everyone is trying so damn hard to get some. They’re everywhere- the 18 year old male who somehow appreciates expensive beer and won’t drink it without the proper glass, the 16 year old girl who has a credit card for every dress boutique she’s ever heard of, the want-away business student who thinks drugs will legitimize the alternative image he wants to front. Vices, man. I haven’t seen ‘em for keeps yet, but my hand’s on the lever. Those fingers, though, they’re slippery, those fickle bastards, they’ll get between the jaws sometimes. But it’s not just like that; sometimes those jaws go snap, and you get your nails clipped, to say the least- it was what you were really looking for in the first place. And if you weren’t, it’s probably better that it happened anyway.
Mmm, the air is sparkling, this night is fantastic. It’s going to be just excellent when you’re still in the car, and you can watch the air pop, pop, pop. That disc, did my best with her. I’ve got copies- the Martha Stewart voice is reminding me that mix CDs made for (lady)friends is a great way to seem somewhat interesting, and how many times can you listen to something without thinking about where it came from? No, I don’t have a person that this was made especially for, but that’s later. Right now, if she’s got good taste in the right places, it’ll work. Looking at Bill, and the skinny jeans he wears deliberately an inch short at the ankles (“Dude, nobody likes cankles- you gotta let people know you’re all ankles, man. Think about it, it’s only human, y’know?”), I’m reminded that this may be sad, but still a less objectionable alternative. Name of the game: play the cards you’re dealt, and buying Urban Outfitters off eBay just ain’t in my deck.
Outside, the rain begins to mist, turning to spit here and there. It’s one of those summer nights where the sky appears reddish gray; I don’t feel like this gets noticed enough. You read, “the sky is red” somewhere, you’re thinking, “Jesus, that’s creepy.” But it’s not, it’s essence of what we want, especially when it’s there to be seen, felt. Or at least what I want. This vine I’m swinging on, this guy, I’m not sure how long it is, but going down by one hand every now and then never really bothered me. Don’t misunderstand, I don’t wanna fall. Hell, I don’t even want to slip; I don’t wanna dangle, slide, tumble, or stutter. But, by God, I’ve taken my fair share of deliberate steps downward, and it’s a helluva feeling. I’ve swung it around a little, I’ve even done some of those things I don’t really wanna do, but I’m clinging still. And I like that. Controlled demise. It’s…it’s the diggity, and the diggity’s in my pocket. Jingle fuckin’ jangle. It’s like when kids play tag, and they’ll let the tagger come in real close, just to taunt him. They can’t be sure he won’t get them as a direct result of their bravado, but that’s not the point. I just gotta see him, mine, the tagger, see his eyes. I think I’ve seen him, his outline or something. Alright, so it was the cartoon version of him, but that’s valid- that’s a whole goddamn mess of validity, my friend. Laughing your way out is still going out, and if he shows you his eyes, well, you’re still the one laughing.
“Nothing ever can touch you in these Golden Years.” David Bowie.
Twisting off the cap now; in the words of Sitting Bull and all his native brethren, this is the modern day Big Medicine. One form at least; I like to build all sorts of Big Medicines into my life; they’re everywhere, you just gotta see ‘em. Big Medicine heals just like the regular medicine does, you just gotta see it for what it is. And don’t dare tell me what the hell healing is. That’s one thing I got, I can heal. And fucking Big Medicine is everywhere. Healing’s just not a conventional thing, man. It’s…heavier than they say. That’s how come I’ve seen two times my own manliness drop dead at 19. That was a kid, and that was a kid that did your “healing,” ok? It’s not black and white, and everything’s connected. The six and the one are still on the same die, ok, and this world is much bigger than one of those damn things. That story later; it’s not exactly what I’m driving at. But it’s related, and that’s probably the point.
Bill looks at me as if I’m not going to let him have any. Which I’m not. I’m in no need to have my vine cut this evening, and I already hacked it a little when I sat down in the car. It’s still out there, and not coming anytime soon; no need to rendezvous before I figure him out. I’ll wait it out, but in the mean, mean, meantime…
“Whaddaya doin’? You gonna buy it dinner or what?”
I take a sip, but hold it at a lesser angle so that it looks like I’m taking a gulp. The beautiful amber liquid sears my throat, but she’s a beauty sitting there in the bottle. That eerie light coming off the wine-colored sky; it looks like a fire’s been lit, really something colossal, just between us and the moon, and the smoke, it’s billowing toward us, so thick that only the most vigilant of the fire’s red light peeks through. And God, I’m talking to you, although I can only assume you listen as much as I do…thank You for the strange, wafting light through the liquid- without it, the beauty would be shrouded. I can see a few bubbles bounce up through it from the shock of the pour, and their gilded smoothness cools my throat, and maybe I’ll just believe the flowing water in my eyes secretes for beauty’s sake. John, not Jack, my whiskey-making friend, as I’ll take the cliché and leave your nickname for those less acquainted, you’ve seen him, found It…Him, It, Life’s dearest truth that lasts until the end of it all, any man’s last hurrah, big sleep, you’ve seen It, bathed in that amber light that I see, illuminating it all. You must have; it wouldn’t have lasted so long otherwise. Beautiful, black label.
What do these people, people like Mr. Daniels, get from it? Everything? God, I hope not; I’d have to feel stupid if they do. I mean, dying without understanding...I can’t imagine it. It’s too much: it’s sorta like how nobody knew Bruce Willis was dead in that movie, nobody. It wasn’t meant to be possible. But 40,000 people everyday take the leap- do they all know? Cause I’m doing nothing but watching…
Black’s really a hell of a color- might be something there. Deep…deep black.
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