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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Scene 6

March 29, 2008 at 4:03 pm (Drafts, Nonfiction)
Tags:

Back to the scene of the crime. Eh, who am I kidding, _crimes_ is more like it. Crimes against literacy in the free world, wherever that is. Everywhere, right? The young criminologist in us all wonders why? And more to the point, why now? Looking back is what kills you in these sorts of enterprises, I guess. I looked back. Bang. Dead. It happens just like that. Just like that… Peace, love and harmony to all those hippies in the hills of Humboldt. Trees and grass, the only industries out there. Lumber and marijuana, major building supply and major cash crop… 20 year old arts supply stores with decaying paper-machete walls still operating despite completely insufficient clientèle… And what clientèle there is, drives new black Mercedeses and rocks torn jeans and Def Leppard Tshirts with puke-stains– all at the same time… Peace, love and harmony keep on lowering IQ’s and making money. God bless the revolution, Marx would be oh so proud. The following is not exactly what I wanted to deliver but more will follow. Life goes on until it doesn’t.

–Scene 6.

He walks out of Sing Sing’s–worried. It’s probably 941 for all we know and Andre is in the deepest shit he’s been since that one time that he got arrested for protesting the war. Yes, deep is the river his horse must trot through. Andre is glad that his car is still where he left it. This city makes him extra suspicious. He presses the button on his car key, and *shoom* the thing is ready for forward or rear operations. Andre jumps right in and fires up the engine. Stutter, cough and we are off. Radio, cigarettes and window, check, safety belt, check, doors locked, check. Andre is also ready for operations. The current operation has him driving down the same road that he turned right on for about two miles, then getting on the I 673E and then getting back on the the way to work reentering, shamefaced if need be, the freeway he so carelessly abandoned.

Andre is looking back, his right hand resting on the back side of the passenger headrest going through that back-up motion. Having gone through this motion, Andre dodges some passers-by that he barely even notices and re-enters the raging river in a hurry, leaving some of yester-year’s papers and street trash airborne as he jets out. His unconscious mind, whatever that thing is, is about to push him into agreeing with some sweeping statements vis a vis Dom’s Soap when Andre’s better judgment tunes the radio to that station that’s all about killing people.

“Boom, boom, boom.”- goes the rowdy boy Bass, and Andre quickly lowers the volume.

Maybe now is the time for me to reveal something that I’ve been holding back up until this point. If my conscience would permit me, I’ll share with you the developments on L street. Perpendicular distance to L street is two miles north along our present bearing. The street Andre is on will lead him right on it, unless he does something stupid like turn left and take that shortcut he doesn’t yet know about. But then again, why would I tell you about L street if he did some thing like that? Maybe I should just talk about major economic developments in Poland 1910-1914 instead. Maybe the pope gets his kicks wearing a yarmulke at official functions. Don’t ask me, I don’t know. What I do know is that L street is hotter than usual. L street is usually hot enough to vaporize steel on a lunar night, but today, something has happened and hell itself is absolute zero in comparison. OK, so maybe I lie sometimes. But for this here second maybe you should believe take my word for it and accept that its not just the regulars out there this morning. In fact the regular cats have fled the corners and a strange quiet sweeps across the land. Something smells crooked. Water that is about to boil also shows signs of the impending change, bubbles start to rise as if from nowhere, the steam starts to rise and everything is getting primed for the change, but when it occurs it occurs all at once. The rats are hiding in their holes, the birds are flying low, the stray dogs are whimpering and looking for shelter, even the dope fiends have chosen other streets in search of product.

–

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Scene 5

March 12, 2008 at 7:46 pm (Drafts)

Andre puts the gas to the floor and slowly lets off the pedal s the Honda accelerates. He is in the lead of the one way pack. The bunch that is now behind him is headed towards the same place as him, downtown —–.

 

The city is most known for its terrific views of the —– river. The river itself is unfamilirar to Andre, but I’ll mention it anyway. Story has it, people’s bodies get dumped there. Story has it, that not only do they get dumped but that occasionally they get found and the sight isn’t pretty, Other wise, story wouldn’t have had it. So ugly, in fact, that it could make an SS officer wince, black blood and all.

Black blood, black river, black hole, black fortune… “Black is back I guess,” should have been Andre’s reaction, assuming that he had made the connection, which he clearly hadn’t. Instead he hit the gas like there is no tomorrow. When the light reflected and refracted off and through his front window it was hard for him to see the scene. The light would only occasionally do this and the rest of the timehe got to see open bars, closed stores, liquor stores, the well-guarded car dealerships, sleepy strip-clubs, alleys and the human fauna that runs, operates or requents these facilites, oh yeah, and a 50cent laundromat on the next corner.

 

Andre made this stop sign with no problems. He sees the pack approaching through his rear-view window. Figuring he’s lost and needs directions, Andre hits the right turn signal, and moves to the rightmost part of the road and starts looking for that opening that we all wait for—assuming we wish to act legally and all. The opening comes and Andre turns right and notices that thre’s a parkin lot that materializes in between Sing Sing’s Laundromat and the newly visible McDonalds. Noticing this, Andre pulls into it and parks next to a tattered minivan.

 

He reaches into the glove compartment. No gloves there, but a map is waiting. Andre turns off the radio, glances at the window of Sing Sing’s and returns back to the map only to notiice that —– isn’t present on the map.

“Great..”—Fat luck, eh.

Andre folds up the map and returns it back to the glove compartment. He inhales a big cigga-breath into his lungs and thinks about the situation. While he’s doing this a lound noise catches his attention.  A jeep rolls into the parking spot to the right of him.

Everything about these guys speaks of recklessness. First, no license plate. Second, the passenger right to the driver is smoking something that looks like marijuana. Third, children are in the back seat. Fourth—

“Is he looking at me?” thinks Andre. There’s something more. They _are_ looking at Andre. No stupid grins, just cocaine teeth and eyes, paranoid because of that third strike, and if it’s their first, who’s counting, right? Both youthes look at Andre, measure him up and within two seconds decide that it’s no big deal. The driver walks out and closes the door gently as a little bit of smoke escapes. He opens the trunk and grabs a laundy bag, and having closed that door, heads towards Sing Sing’s entrance. Andre looks back at the Jeep and notices the kids in the back again, playing with plastic dinasaurs as the smoke diffuses through the car. The driver and his passenger are these kid’s cousins, more responsible than their parents, cocaine and all. The passenger hits the weed one time and gives Andre a  bad look. Andre looks away and decides to get out of the car and into the laundromat so that he can get to work.

He gets out, locks the vehicle and looks a little paranoid as he walks the ten steps to the laundromat and enters this funny place. Creatures of the night need to wash their clothes just like anyone else, I guess, and Andre just happens to have found them all at once in this little alcove of soap and scum.

The main clerk, the one that handles the register and the coins, checks the machines, replaces the detergent in the dispeser, cleans the bathroom and signs whatever papers come in. She’s called Carla, or at least that is what the nametag says. The nametag on her shirt is facing us backwards, maybe so that she can read it and remind herself of what her slave name is. .. Chumps feed machines change.

 

He glances at their faces, faces occupied with thoughts: worried, blank, sleepy,  and suspicously alert. Fellows, lords and ladies lined up and tapping their feet, waiting for the machines to get their job done. There goes one now, headed out, his black bag filled with dried ones. Lucky bastard. Andre is almost at the counter and recognizes his friend from the parking lot. He wonders obsessively about whether he locked the car. The compulsion to look back is difficult to resist but Andre is too selfcounscious  to allow for this to happen. The other guy doesn’teven notice him and seems to be eyeing the somehwat overweight Mexican girl two rows down. Andre feels more relieved than disapointed and steps in front of Carla. Carla is also overweight, is chewing gum at the moment and is watching, quite intently some good ol’ TV. Had it been another day and time and she’d have rolls in her hair, would be smoking in her own establishment,  and would have given Andre a shitty look. In this day and age however, and certainly in this time, Carla gives no look whatsoever. Something about Jerry Springer has her entranced.

 

Andre is waiting politely and is even sort of getting into the show—transvestives and all. His ears are occupied, however his eyes are busy with some preconscious worry. They cruise around the facility in search of something

 

“9:40!” He screames under his breath, loud enough to gather some gazes from the people around him. The clock is in front of his swollen eyes and the tv suddenly goes silent.

“Do you need something?” Carla wonders.

 

“Yes ma’am. I actually need some directions” Pause “How do I get to I765, northbound, starting from here?”

Carla gives him her best “you youngster” look and then slowly explains how to get to the freeway.

“Ahh. Thanks a lot, seriously. You’re a life-saver, I’m real late for work.”

“No problem, hon.”

The t.v. starts to boom again, almost drowning the drolling sound of the machines.

Andre turns around with a semi-satisfied smile.

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Scene 4

March 8, 2008 at 6:51 pm (Drafts)

The only things in life that matter are the quantifiable. The other ones are not really matter, at least not as I and Andre understand it. Vehicles matter on many levels–they are not only symbols of status but that status is attainable only through possession of the appropriate quantities. If those quantities are not material, then you clearly attach too much relevance to those hard, cold or hot factual variables of physics and chemistry. What is effective is actual and what is actual is factual. Whether its a soft or hard fact is up to the individual to decide. I guess.

Right this moment the window of opportunity opens and Andre turns left, turn signal and all. The homeless grit their teeth, scratch wounds, stink up squeaking wheelchairs, push carts or sleep in drug comas, drenched in the fluids of the night-sticking to the concrete and cardboard. Exhaust comes out of the Honda’s tailpipe. Andre got to owning this heap after his first real job started paying. Prior to this, he was privy to a nice middle-class vehicle, the family sedan, a far superior beauty. Poor, poor Andre, living a far superior life.

He gladly admits to this as the axle makes that creaking sound that he’s been wondering about for so long. The buildings that surround him in _this_ reality remind him of nothing, except Hollywood depictions. Life is only somewhat imitating art. Chills of fear run up his spine as he goes deeper down this street. The buildings seem surrounded by a halo-like optical effect, in Andre’s eyes. His speed is slightly higher than what he would have been doing had he simply gone down the freeway but considering the angle that he’s taken in the maze, he’s headed off track and making far worse time as it is.

The sights, sounds, smells and situations of the street are either present, vanishing or developing as the night’s fractured quiet turns to constant buzz, the dim light turns to murderous swelter and the struggle continues.

“How logical.” Andre’s fingers feel dangerously warm. He jettisons his cigarette on the warming street, dusts the ash off his shirt.

The radio is gently pressed back on, the fingers–distracted, fumble at first. Andre tries to get his mood back to normal. Strangely, the stations he usually catches cannot be reached. So naked now.

“No laws in this urban decay,” thinks Andre. Apparently not even those of PHYSICS. Picture our queen, robed, crowned, flaky, forever frozen, and now freed of her dignity. I lie occasionally, as you might have noticed.

Andre is trying to figure out whether he prefers loud pseudo-fascist rants coming out of a blue or red diaper station or whether he wants to pump music for present, past or future prison dwellers. A third option materializes and the choice is made, the ALLTraffic traffic report. Boring but safe. Oh, how the times change, ey Andre?

“The congestion of the I-765 northbound has cleared. Southbound is experiencing congestion. Don’t forget to visit SafeLands superstore for all your Sally’s Salmon needs.”

“Congestion… they talk about it like its a disease or something.” Andre has heard the joke before, and is in no mood. He rolls up his window, elbow, fist or finger safely tucked into the cocoon. He starts to notice a bit too intensely and his reactions get to be a bit mechanical and energized by another chemical, that adrenaline cocktail of nervousness. Fight or flight, right. Battle stations ready, our courageous revolutionary is loo–

“Where is the fucking freeway?!” his free foot starts tapping. He’s been looking for it for some minutes now. He looks for his cigarettes, but physics is acting up in this car as well. Magic cigarettes in a magic land.

“STOP” says the sign. And he barely manages to, tires screech, bad looks are launched. The cigarettes appear from under the seat. Andre bends to pick them up, entering the area below the light. He lights one as he gets up. A sewer is steaming in the right corner of his field of view. From behind it people emerge, zombies from the underground railroad station, emerging as if from nowhere. Call it subway if you must, and towards freedom, as if work is a right given freely. They cross the street in front of Andre’s protruding vehicle, passing him with derision. He attempts to back up, only to realize that some intimidating-looking black dude behind him has pulled up real close to his bumper and is chewing on gum with his practiced stare on meaner-than-you.

“Who is your enemy?” –is Andre’s SUBCONSCIOUS question, “God damn it! Nine twenty.” is his verbal mumbling.
“Weather for today is partially sunny, partially cloudy, with some chance of rain and some possibility of lightning and …” drolls the radio.

–>scene five later

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0.1 Scene 3

March 8, 2008 at 10:15 am (Drafts)

Scene 3
The exit lane is a lonely, wid swept sight to witness. Andre is another sight to witness, entirely reckless. His tries screech as slides through three and barely makes two out of the five turns that, among other things, were meant to slow him down. His heart is still pumping wild but his mind, that wondrous thing, was not in the same situation. The anger, that rebel, is now fearing his assassination, and naturally tense is the situation.

“Where the fuck am I?” Haha…

Andrew Krieg, you don’t know a damn thing, do you?

“Ah, shit.” Thoughts went off, thinking that maybe he should just get right back on the freeway. The rebels are getting too old, doubtlessly thinking about children. RUNNING OUT OF CHEMICALS… Rebels they never listen, and it isn’t like you hadn’t repeated if before.

Hey, as long as you are taking up a new existence, Andre, why not do it all at once, why not change it all? Fuck the herd, man. You _are_ a man, right?

And what a man at that. You saw past the bullshit. You see miles down the road. Your capabilities are far beyond those of the average sucker. You are man, you are blessed with wisdom, you are the precious percentage, the cream of the crop, the totp of the top. The one God’s own special choice. And it anin’y likeyou haven’t thought about it before. So naturally, you have a choice to make now don’t you?

Hard right turn, no turn signal. The guillotine falls. Dissenters vanish, extreme prejudice is the choice.

“I made a strong statement, did I not? I mean, those people really saw that. that was me, and not some other fool.” That was you indeed.

These streets are strange and are strange because they are different. Different than the assumed average. The other half, more like the other 80% man. Cream of the crop indeed.

Andfrew looks up at the sky and witnesses nothing but nature’s profundity. In the clouds he bears witness to heaven’s grandness much like the people of those ages of priests and prophets now long past dead and immortal. A choir of angels sings and the sun peaks behind those nebulous apparitions. Flowers bloom on the treetops, at least potentially. Moving at far reduced speeds, Andre is witnessing the reality he often ignores, now in the throat, heading towards the belly of the beast.

The cigarette has burned to the butt and Andre hasn’t taken a puff on it ever since he lighted it. Gray is the color of the morning. trash heeps everywhere, people walking– with distrust. Andre wakes up.

Yet another revolution is in the air, mama don’t despair.

The light dims as the buildings increase in size, and Andre stops at a stoplight. Industry, now miniature, exported and still is the cure. The angels are singing out of tune. People of all backgrounds, ruled by their need for a dollar are heading to work. Carpenter, steelworker, cashier, electrical engineer, the day is Tuesday, and they all know the deal.

Andre checks his watch, the time is 0901 o’clock and he is nowhere near where he needs to be. Counter-revolutionaries storm the palace, that greedy fortune, that hubris–unforgiving, it now arrives at its natural end. And now what, Andre?

“Where the fuck am I?” Indeed, Andre.

The light turns green and Andre creeps up, looking to turn left out the intersection, waiting for the other side to pass. Faces full of emotion reside inside that glass on wheels. Subdued emotion, the changes occurring in their lives pile into undermanaged heaps. White hair, make-up covered messes, pockmarked faces, lip-biting, nail-chewing, cool cats and guys all about their business, there isn’t much to witness…

“Damn it. There isn’t much time left.” Indeed, Andre. Make your choices wisely folks.

–>>end scene 3
<<–await scene 4

_Something other-than:_
making thoughts matter,
said nothing when the glass shatter’d
now they came for my neighbors
now they came for my papers
now they askin questions
now they acting reckless
tell what do I say, man?
tell me what to sell, man?
I need peace, and protection from one.

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Scene 2

March 6, 2008 at 8:09 pm (Drafts)
Tags: ,

Scene two
–
Andre is thoroughly ticked, stewing, if we are to be on point. He turns the radio off as violently as a radio can be turned off, employing that almost instantaneous flick of a thumb–showing it who pays the insurance.

It doesn’t take particularly long for the calm before to turn into the storm. If you were to clock it, the salient portion could probably fit in a microsecond. Andre felt it building up all morning. He’d always thought about it, and when asked to vote, voted “nay.” Today that microsecond was being overcome by other sentiments. Rebels caught his consciousness unprepared. Rebels inside his mind were making increasingly convincing points. “Just do it man.” “Nah, man, it wouldn’t be right.” “Fuck it. Plus, you _would_ be late. And you know Gina wouldn’t like that.” “Fuck it, indeed. But nah, man.” The daily street agitation had made its inroads in Andre’s mind. CHEMICALS ASSOCIATED WITH ANGER started flooding his bloodstream and lodging themselves in his muscles and mind, working their precious magic. Nay.

“No, no, no, no.” No?

“AH FUCK.” That’s right.

Hard right turn, no turn signal. Shocked faces and angry thoughts, Andre is off.

“I’m out, hahahaha.”- a smile accents the mania.

The comrades of the commute are experiencing panic. The herd feels threatened. Andre is driving recklessly. He wants out of this slow pace.

“Eat shit, fuckers!!@”

He is no longer concerned with making it on time. He just wants out. This DAILY grind has him bugging. Why can’t things go his way, just once? I don’t know. Do you? Do you, you POSSIBLE INFORMANT?

“Every fucking day, every fucking day! Build another lane or two hundred, you corrupt fucks. I PAY TAXES, you corrupt fucks.” Those politicians, those fascists, those animals, less than human, they will pay, wont they, Andre?

“Damn right.” Andre concurs. The engine revs. Sweat builds up on Andre’s forehead. The elbow is no longer sticking out. His FIST is out. All that is missing is a finger.

The Honda stays within the lane, barelly. It looks like a oxygen atom in a compacting chamber, bouncing off the walls.

Andre switches lanes again. He looks like a nutcase to even the sleepiest of morning eyes. The road gets a gift of hot rubber. Cops drink coffee just miles away. Andre is feeling like a little god, protected by all that glass and steel and bone and thoughts. Something is lifting off his chest. Adre feels drunk. Its as if he has arrived at the point of union with his destiny and even if that isn’t the case, fear is no issue. Fuck em.

Rightmost lane, the exit approaches–rapidly. Or is it that the car approaches? Choose a frame of reference, buddy. All I know is that Andre’s must be the moon, since these things called rules of conduct seem so little and trite. Responsible Rebeccas and Serious Sam’s out there concentrate on the back bumper of their fellow commuter vehicle.
“Bunch of horses with blinders…” Don’t forget single track minds, Andre.

Andre misses the exit, but before the point of failed opportunity materializes, he circumvents its necessity.

Hard right turn, no turn signal. Heart palpitations and cold sweats, Andre has logged off and jets into the real world.

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Things that have been said.

March 5, 2008 at 7:22 pm (Drafts, Freestylings, Nonfiction)

It has been said that I write too much for the reader to cope with. I have taken it upon myself to assume that I should therefore write more. It has been suggested that I compose my thoughts more, possibly into some sort of short story. I figure I already include a fictional section in each of my posts, so I might as well compose my otherwise as freely-as-possible-associated thoughts.(at least from time to time) Before I get to the fictional, however, I’ll mention some of the happenings in my internal and external life in as cryptic a manner as possible.(if only to keep to the requirements of minimal online anonymity)

I’ve had this monologue running through my head the whole day. I revisited it at different times, and in different moods, simply to experiment with how it would sound. Its audience is a special torturer of mine, a colleague of mine I see on the daily. Its narrator is the almighty and quite sickly I. Its subject is the disease that links us. I will not reproduce the monologue since you, generally speaking at least, are not the audience. I will share a recurring theme, however.

The painfully beautiful.

Picture eyes. Rather dark ones, shades of brown, if you are still picturing. Picture them however you prefer to imagine your eyes, with one requirement. Make them awfully striking. And yes, I mean awfully. Evade all cliches, though you could certainly apply most of them with the appropriate intent, evade them nonetheless because they are not what you feel as you look into these curious things. I don’t really know about you, but I feel that curious feeling of wretched pain coupled with a wantless need. One does not outshine the other, and neither outshine the eyes themselves. Lively things, those eyes. Maybe they should be part of a face. Maybe not. I wonder what causes the fixation. I call it a disease, and innapropriate attraction is its main symptom. More than distracting when trying to act normal, whatever that means.

And here I was–planning, time-managing and being a responsible citizen. This is just two weeks ago, and I thought that I had finally gotten it all collected and then this damn disease hits me. Mission impossible, indeed.

Pathetic. A world of choice, and I chose the one that will get me sick. Fucking masochist. Enough of that.

Short Story-Draft

Scene 1- The Traffic Jam
–
The day is running along and Andre is late for fork. Stuck in traffic, Andre is shifting between radio stations nervously, his upper teeth are pinching against his lips in between his lower teeth, and his eyes are desperately searching for a way out of this slow death. The seeking program on the radio finally locates a station that he can stand. The freeway is multiple hundreds of miles of concrete, and in Andre’s section consists of a five lanes that at night allow street racers to perform daring maneuvers to the sound of blasting techno music. Andre’s gaze has turned towards tire marks, the remains of some vicious race undoubtedly, and his body is momentarily feeling the rhythm of the funk station. The mirrors vibrate off of the baseline. Andre rolls down his window. He extends his elbow out and so announces his manhood, which signal makes the airflow into the car approved, but his situation no better. Sweat rolls down his temple. His fingers start tapping out of tune.

“Why the fuck does everyone have to pile on the same damn road at the same f——- time. F—, f— f—…. It’s the third time… This just is _not_ going to look good. F—”

Andre lowers the volume and lights his cigarette as the commercials roll. His free foot starts tapping, and he signals to switch lanes. He does so swiftly, slightly cutting off a sleepy engineer. He presses the gas. Then he stops. He presses the gas, and then slows down. Then he stops. And he presses the gas. And then he speeds up, and then he stops. And then he waits.

“What about salmon, mommy? Can’t we get more salmon!? Its so rich in –” Asks little Johny, the soccer champion on KXYZ, “The Chamelion!” before Andre cuts him off with his seek button.

The lane that he had just been in speeds up.

Part 2– later.
–

15 min freestyle:
–2115
The lion’s fur is waving in the air. The wind seperate each individual hair and gives it life. THe lion stands erect and proudly gazes, chest forward, into the great pasture. The sun is setting, and the lion’s retina is changing its size. The night is a time much awaited. All day spent lying down lazily and thinking of nothing special, just observing the scene. The wind signals change, and the fur does its duty.
–2122

Too tired to continue, sorry. Turned out quite short this time.

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some more.

February 19, 2008 at 9:49 pm (Drafts)
Tags: ,

More of the same I am afraid. Calculate the milliliters on your own. I got teh alpha und teh omegah.

The start was signaled by a single shot. Muscles that had been loosened in preparation for the burst so long awaited suddenly went into action. The espresso was not only necessary but was also sufficient. Nothing beats it, millions agree and that must mean its true. I see plenty people in this mode of action throughout the day. Machines need their fuel, humans need their coffee. When technology becomes developed enough to support brain implants, we’ll need electricity.
I suspect around the same time wool shirts will become the source of elaborate nano-tech static electricity jokes. Of course only children will make these jokes. Adults will take them seriously since up to 2% their older model chips can still be wrecked havoc on by woolen shirts. But children could care less. They always proceed so simply, back to first principles as it were, ready to rediscover the wheel, or a traumatic experience in this case. But of course that would be deep in the future and I have gotten off track as usual.

Sitting in the coffee shop I look around and notice certain details. The middle class, yesterday’s newspaper, two pens, one useless, a queue of people waiting for coffee, tired zombie-like expressions on the coffee crew, a red dress coming out of the bathroom, and some cookie crumbs on a napkin. What a pathetic scene, honestly. I should split with it, but I hear things. Interesting things.

“The mentality is strikingly foreign to me. Its like I’m stuck in the twilight zone.” says one.
“Yeah?”, the other.
“I mean, for you this probably isn’t the case, but for me, it could be nothing but the case.”
“What do you mean?” – puzzled.
“Well, you wanna hear the long or the short version?”
“I wanna hear the long one, but…”
“But you only got time for the short one, right?”
“Well, yeah, my lunch break is turning into dinner, if you know what I mean.”
“Yeah. Sorry, well, basically the short and skinny of it can be summed up in a quote by some hopeless philosopher whose name I no longer remember. ‘Those who don’t figure out love at an early age, will never figure it out.’ Or something like that. But the jist of it obvious, I think. I never figured out love in school, and I still don’t get it. Its like some strange spectacle where two people become their own favorite illusions and…”
“Ah, yeah, I see where you’re going with this. Man, look… Look- Maan. All I gotta say is that quote is basically bullshit. Love may be bullshit, so call it what it is if that is what it is. But I challenge you to find something better.”
“Yeah, I guess. But you gotta find it.”
“Yes, you do. And I gotta go to work. And you can give me the long version under the whiskey, on the rocks-later. Later!”

“Peace.” he says “I guess.” I suspect he thinks.

I turn my attention to the newspaper headline. It speaks of the latest juicy tits uncovered by soon to be anonymous, now immortal Idols. Under the shadow of the mammories is a more respectable article written by Washir S. Landon of the St. Augustine Gazette. My newly spotted friend is about to miss it himself, lead by common sense no doubt.

“Striking New Evidence in Mase Case”

While our buddy didn’t read the article, from his scan he detected the key words, “AP reports…” “…SA Police followed up on a lead from senator’s aide…,” “…search of Senator’s premises found bank transcripts with withdrawals from O.L.P. linked overseas accounts…,” “no case can be made at this point…,” “Abdul Al-Harizi” “…not a suspect…,” “…a person of interest.” A sufficient scan. My own scan revealed nothing more substantial. The jist of it is that for one reason or another the police thinks its a better idea to release the OLP scenario, and have this Al-Harizi cat associated with Sen. Verrazzano. But the transcripts are significant.

I have to admit, on some background level a part of me already wanted both of them publicly executed in St. Augustine park. Nooses and everything, hot dog salesmen making big bucks, and old ladies discussing the gruesome details with respectable glee. The sheer joy and responsibility of having that mafia motherfucker and that towel-head bastard expeditedly shipped to hell, for eternal damnation, will have to fall on the conspiracy minded local vigilante. The rest of us will have the admittedly less enjoyable task of objectively potentially sending them to purely temporal hell through a jury of their peers, suspected mafia figures and terrorists, of course.

If our buddy thought the same thing, he must have thought it in a microsecond, because he quickly folded up the paper, and started fidgeting with his watch, looking for an excuse to leave the joint.

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