Don’t you know?

April 24, 2008 at 10:42 pm (Drafts, Freestylings, Nonfiction)

“Know what?,” you might ask. I’d prefer that you didn’t though because then it shows that I don’t know if you know what I know you should know, you know? Exactly my point, assuming a point was to be had, or made. And I’d much rather make one than have it, and after that give it up freely like some uncaged bird, wrapped up in sea-weed, for all to observe (ya heard!)… Why not.

Simply silly is my mind state of today, a most meteorologically pleasing day, spring came before the first of may, and managed to wipe away a good portion of those gloomy thoughts of yonder years that plagued this silly mind to the point of tears on not one but maybe 10 occasions plus or minus a smidgen and a heavy head placedon some train tracks, just waiting… But enough of that, the sunlight breaks through the raindrops and the trees have come to full bloom, the youth are actively preparing for the coming months’ many celebrations, and my soul is vibrating with the pangs of passion and elation.Maybe I am describing mania? Maybe not. If this is what they call being high on life, It’s enjoyable even if trite. So, lets get high tonight.

Upon reading something strange I realized that 4/20 passed and was not even noticed, hell I wasn’t even vaguely reminded of the supposed significance of the day up until right now. And this despite the calendars, cellphones and computers to prompt me along the way. I guess the reason is that it’s about as significant as St. Patric’s day and for the same basic reason(ok).

More bullshit I pile.

–2207
“Stunning, a stunning specimen. The finest of its class, where’d you get it at?”
“Nowhere special. But why do you say that? What are the distinguishing features?”
“Well, you see this here engraving?”
“Mmhuh.”
“Well, upon closer observation through this looking glass, you can see that there is actually an engraving within the engraving. You have to see it at an angle. Go ahead.”
[Fumbling, unsure what he's looking at.]
“Well, I think make out something, but really I can’t see what you are seeing. Are you sure about this?”
“Yes, of course, completely. Just turn the pen a little bit and you should see the reflection come off from within the grooves, but keep in mind that these are very small, and scattered.”
“I see something. I think it’s the letter A. Em, no, its an electrical tower, or oil rig, or something like that.”
“Maybe you should see an optometrist, you might be having a hard time getting that thing in focus, here try this one. You know, I do have a good one’s number that I can give you…”
[Gives it some thought. Looks at the shape again.]
“Ah. It’s a Tee Pee. How bizarre.”
“Yes, truly odd. They used to call ‘em the Indian special. Only 12 ever made. Capone had one. I think so did Nixon.” Terrible president…” [he mumbled] “And unless its a really good fake, then so do you.”
“Truly amazing. This is a strain on the eyes, but I think I make out another one. A buffalo.”
“Yes, not incredibly imaginative, but quite intricate, not to mention expensive.”
[rubs on eyes]
“Oh, really, here you go.” [hands him the optometrist's business card] “this guy can really help you out. A real professional.”
[puts card in shirt pocket]
“What kind of money are we talking about?” [looks back into the glass intently]
“You could probably find buyers who would dish out 5 figures for this sort of thing, but of course you’d have to know how to advertise it. Otherwise the worthless becomes simply priceless.”
“Yes, well what sort of five figures. 20, 50, 90?”
“It really depends. There won’t be immediate demand, and it would have to be vouched for, and ultimately it is the buyer’s market but if I was you I wouldn’t settle for less than 30.”
“Thanks a lot. I gotta go, I guess.”
“Yeah, no problem. Let me get you my business card. If you ever need someone to vouch for it, or if you want me to talk to some people with taste, we can have something arranged.”
[reaches for the card before the man pulls it back]
“Oh, I forgot and here’s my cell phone on the back.” [passes the card back. takes it, puts it in his shirt pocket]
“Thanks again for everything but I really have to get going. Pressing matters.”
“Of course, good bye.”
[The bell on the door chimes. The door closes.]
2242–

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Clear Head.

April 20, 2008 at 7:01 pm (Drafts, Nonfiction)

Healthy as can be again, ain’t it swell. Well, it ain’t swollen, and that’s for sure. My head, you silly mammal, my head is clear again. These three days of half-conscious recuperation have been refreshing, if strange. Naturally nothing productive has been done save the reading of a book and some new music downloaded off those tempting torrents, if we accept consumption as negative production and wink mathematically, that is. Other than that, sleep and medication has been the vibration in this here nation. Looking back I must laugh.

Scene 7

Andre is crossing the intersectons with increased speed as the traffic seems to dwindle at each intersection. In fact, it seems as though the population density is dwindling in terms of both pedestrians and motor vehicles. The change in horseback traffic is zero, but then again what horse-riding occured in —–, probably died out around 1967 in some bizarre incident involving large amounts of blotter acid, a flower-pot, a motorcycle and two unaquianted midgets where, of course, that combination is just highly probable and not certain. That said, the population present, in whatever mode of transport, seems to be headed _away_ from Andre’s current direction. All the better, he thinks, as he does a rolling stop through O street and jets off towards the N street intersection.

The wind sweeps away what small portion of the grime it can, and in enough time it will all vanish. Nature keeps working in its cosmic frame of mind, wiping us away one at a time, a molecule at a time if it deems it necessary, but never giving up, never sedentary in its habits ingrained all throughout its mighty frame, Nature takes care of all that we call fame. No street washing machine could compete with that, but on this morning, and at this time, on this our L street, one is attempting to do just that. Surrounded by four police cars, two in the front, and two in the rear, this vehicle brings the power of many street sweepers to the fore. What Andre would have noticed, had he read the news, was Mayor Verrazzano’s new campaign against crime. The noble Mayor’s late night flash of genius was the idea that should the inner city be scrubbed more often it would not be so awful, and that the correlated increase of police presense, firepower and vigilance and not to mention soap might result in a correlated increase in office presense for the mayor, possibly spilling into a new term or two. Verrazzano was hardly clear of suspicion when it came to connections with various criminal outfits, but other than those rumors he had a clean media image, and his policies were certainly cleanly.

Despite the fact that Andre didn’t read the papers, most of his age-peers living in —– were by now well aware of the situation and would vanish from the apropriate street when they heard the roaring sound of the machine, or else face the swift arm of the law, or water hose as it were. Occasionally a highly delusional or intoxicated indivdual, always the the sickest and the weakest of the tribe, would stay on the street and get promptly booked and bagged off to the county jail for the appropriately imaginative charge that awaits such derelicts. Soon after the noise vanishes, the wiser, fitter ones reapear, and the grime in all it’s street splendor follows quickly. A minor and expensive nuisance it may be for the population living grimily but that’s democracy, baby.

The N-street intersection features a stoplight and four empty crosswalks with shining little green and red men who clearly intend to do their signaling duty even when no one could possibly notice. It is in moments like these that the law is at it’s most just. The intersection is also empty and Andre waits, looking through his rearview mirror, only to see his last neighbor from the back vanish into the last intersection. Andre is all alone and waits for the change of lights. He looks at his watch and his heart sinks deeper as each second winds by. The wind blows throught the empty streets with that special whine and whistle that only wind can make. Had there been anyone out there, they surely would have been chilly. Inside the vehicle, its hard for Andre to keep his cool and soon the cigarettes, foot tapping and lip-biting resume at their now automatic pace. Andre plays with the radio some more, and finds that he can no longer stand any of his minimal choices and starts rumaging through the glove compartment to find a CD. He locates one only to realize it’s an empty case and turns the radio off again. Surrounded by a cloud of smoke, shielded from the elements, he awaits the light, in silence.

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Sick

April 18, 2008 at 7:32 pm (Uncategorized)

I’m feeling sick, and am fairly certain it’s some sort of virus. I blacked out repeatedly last night. Can’t post much more, good night.

-Mr. Kadaffi

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stressed style

April 12, 2008 at 6:39 pm (Freestylings, Nonfiction)
Tags: , , ,

Hello, dear reader.

Read dearly, for I welcomed you to do so sincerely. I’m under stress, but quite above the weather if such a thing makes metaphorical sense to you. Its that time when things just keep adding up and despite the lack of time you let it touch you not. Some people call it every day, but for my lucky self its just this and the next couple of months, assuming I prevail. I’ve given the short story some passing thoughts and decided to continue it after all, but it’ll have to be done some time during/after next weekend. This weekend I’ll attempt to lay down anything on the page before returning to my work. Muses, kick it to me.

–1732
Walking in a stilted pose, my thoughts are in repose, and though I’m tired I suppose that if pressed I’ll have to oppose your flowing prose with the heftiest of dose of lines ripped off from poe’s
anthology of verse, or worse I’ll make some comments on your tone so terse and your humor–cursed like a man comatose sleeping in a hearse, waiting to wake up–six feet under, wishing he never woke–illusions torn asunder.

You still think you have it all together, and though my thoughts are compacting under pressure, in comparison your style is still lacking in that precious measure, and that is a theft of the highest treasure known as trust between yourself and those you lust, a lack of honesty was the first and will be the final touch; of Death if you will, or as have you, or as you DON”T, I’ve had enough of hate, and I admit that in that I’m wont, it’s my undoing, my spate of reason, a hypocrisy, and hypocrisy is bloody treason.
–1752

1754–
So many years, and so few in comparison to a equal infinite of things temporal, it seems as though my and all ages are equally reared in ignorance, though unequally endowed with intelligence and though this seeming paradox at times smarts it also reassures an equal infinity of times. I hold no proof of the matters here so quaintly laid out, but I just as haughtily sing to you that such a proof would be meaningless to all but a few lost logicians. And for much the same reason I’d much rather hang with musicians even if their trade is more difficult and straining it produces more joyous mental (d)effects though its training, and can be appreciated by all save the deaf.

To say something positive of both, the deaf and the dumb are still better than blind, for one should not perceive the light only through the mind’s eye, its vision so easily disturbed by the slightest perturbations of emotions or so restricted in its ability for comprehension by excessive concentration. So what can I say about the blind except that they are in a sense dead to the world-at-large, lacking both preconceptions and the capacity for circumlocution they simply change their presuppositions and posit their positions through oh so many pokes and prods as to receive all our respectful nods. May she rest in peace, our lady of Justice, the same one who somehow rests on principles invisible, though quite sensible and arbitrary.

-1836

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Buggin’ Out

April 8, 2008 at 7:47 pm (Freestylings, Nonfiction)

Currently Listening
The Low End Theory
By A Tribe Called Quest
Buggin Out
Currently Reading
Don Juan
By Lord George Gordon Byron

The above suggests a hefty combination of the highest amorous intentions of the romantics with the funkiest intentions of the Tribe. Of course it could all be a lie, but then again, why bother, I assume its a typical enough combination among bloggers my age, or at least not atypical enough to merit attention. But what about the character who lies about that which merits no attention? Well, I guess that’s a fairly strange fellow. I won’t lie, I’ve been that type of strange before but I’m a different type of strange right now. A constant of course remains. Some might even say “Yo shorty back here buggin’ out” to quote the tribe. And constantly at that.

So maybe puberty comes late for a cultie. I hope so, I hope this shit ends one of these days. I can’t take hormones fucking with me, I’m too linear a dude.

As far as scene 7 goes, I’m guessing it just wont come right now. I’m not feeling it, and though I could pull some shit out my ass right now, it just doesn’t align with my original intention (the same one I’m not feeling) and so it would be messing with me which, I guess, is another way of saying I’m being slothful about this story. Then again I suspect I’m going to hell. The classic catholic fears worry me not and I will pay what I need to pay to afford this lifestyle of laziness.

And so…

Greetings, people.

My mind is blank and yet I feel the pressure building in my chest, which normally means I need to vent in one way or another on this forum, so pay no mind to my lack of mind, and keep on reading, assuming you exist and all, dear reader.
If you are just some Russian/Chinese Casino/Viagra/Valium/Real Estate bot trying to spam the comment sections of this website, keep on spamming, for that literal one in a million might just be the one in a couple of billion reader on this little piece of internet farmland. This blog _is_ the American Dream. Imagine us plugged in, tubes tightly tucked in, and blissful. Currently my position is horizontal, my state-slightly inebriated, my intentions- good enough to write with, and my patience–dwindling.

Stick to what you trust, and you will trust what you stick to.

The opener:

–2147
Can’t vibe to the rhythm, feel strange sitting, spitting on the floor, blasting blood on the marble surface with my head wrapped up in a worry– what a circus, and the time is running out and the animals are coming out their cages, and are hungry. Tell me what can I do to soothe their nerves? Save for music, maybe so, but who will save me? Who will make the effort to reach out for his brother and if not help then at least not hurt me, and accept that this brother will probably remain thankless doing nothing of value, except if he somehow becomes moved by the whole thing, which I not only highly doubt, I doubt, collecting doubt from multiple sources and trading my better angels for it, with doubt I gloat, and hang that medal on my god damned coat.
–2152
–2008
And so I’m standing high, as in stoned, and am staring into a friend’s eyes and in between us is a scene straight out of some soap opera, a guy yelling at a gal over some thing not worth our time, and we don’t hear it anyway, though the scene is real–we are abstracted from it. She’s yelling back and I give my buddy a nod and he seems to be in the same space and all of this is amusing to us and I don’t know what to say or do except to plug in my headphones and nod to the beat while witnessing this melodrama. The funny part about it is that the actors really seem to enjoy having an audience, even one as messed up as us and so the show must go on. And what can you say to that, really? I say nothing and keep on nodding as the actors start overdoing it a bit, not even sure themselves if they are pissed at each other or want their drama exported to the greater audience now available. Me and my buddy are joined by some onlookers, seemingly sober, even though we are at some sort of afterparty, in observing this bathetic scene. The additional audience also register some level of dissatisfaction within themselves with the scene, but have not the gall to ignore it altogether. This being their inner state, they exchange glances among themselves and take the time to acclimate themselves to the hectic climate, one so at odds with the dance floor where they came from. Me and my comrade in smoke decide the scene is conventional enough to depart and enter the darker room where the bass rules and make our voices heard, within our heads at least, yelling at the top of our lungs in our separate spaces, drawing ever farther as the crowd swallows us. I nod and he responds, and then there is nothing more. A scene from our time and nothing more, youthes in our daily situations, a little puzzle and a little more.

–2241

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