Behind computer screens and boredom. I sit somewhere and listen to yearns of my son and the things he says are louder than anything else. I wonder what Kenneth Patchen would say. -t
What happened to the Alchemist? He did not become the chemist. He became the industrialist.
It’s the bad things that keep us going. Since I’m connected (by parents) to the previous generation I’m amazed at how the body survives when everything else dies. Thought. Soul. Ambition. (At least ambition to do go what’s right and not just what’s profitable. Wait. Is that the only thing that drives?). A generation ago, before the health craze, people did “wow” things to their bodies and yet they lived to ripe old age. Or maybe the contrast I’m seeing is exemplified by extremes.
Take a step back Tommi. Breath. You are nothing special. Say it. Take another breath. Say it again. Breath. Stop now.
Renunciation. Have no idear what that means. Would like it to mean something opposite of what it already means if it means anything and mean… what? Nonsense. Perhaps. Or that German word that carries with it connotations of meaning that are beyond anything human. Like… something about the devil, Lucipher, tired of competing with God and giving up on man…. There it is! What if the devil were to give up on man? What motivates Satan, btw? He obviously failed in the 20th century. His last ditch effort the freeing of women. Imagine him thinking: I can’t get these men to do anything right so let me try it with the women. I wonder if he might have succeeded. Look at these women today. Misogyny magnets. They are everything the world needs. Yet they are somehow hated as much as loved. That’s where equality breaks down, I’d say. They’ve achieved it all in a period of history so short–comparatively worst-writing.
Where is Satan in the bible? Is he some place we can easily find him? Or… is he behind ones ears because that’s where the dirt-smell best hides from the nose when we don’t wash them?
The recent BS on CIA leak is a story. Something along the line of whacky exec gets into oval office and tries to rule/over-take government by taking advantage of fucked up (American) democracy. But. Ironically. After the govt. executive branch gets practically every branch of government under its belt the only remaining agency is the CIA. Which isn’t really a branch of government. It’s a private company financed by government money. The CIA has to be a biblical agency. Right. I mean. Compared to current republican krapp.
Thought about becoming an importer of Jura coffee machine to US. Made a few contact.
What was/is the first terrorist tactic I learned about? They set off one bomb only to be followed by another in order to cause more casualties from the onlookers and helpers and passersby.
Now go look up renunciation.
You will learn to resolve personal issues with out using guns, lawyers or therapists. The fact that you need so many lawyers and therapists shows that you are not adult enough to be independent. Guns should only be handled by adults. If you’re not adult enough to sort things out without suing someone or speaking to a therapist then you’re not grown up enough to handle a gun. -John Cleese, Declaration of Revocation
Crossed a few time zones. Waiting on the baggage, luggage–why so many words for one thing? Siting next to homeland security IT geek. Probably ten years older than me. Got a fancy pocket PC and a ’99 Mustang GT. Nice guy and I will not ask him for a job. But I was talking about customer service and my brain. Or was it something else? Something else. The anger I laid on my sister the other day. She and I didn’t even say proper goodbye. It was caused by my frustration about not being able to achieve anything. I did not let it all out on her because of my lack of success. Oh. What if I were successful? Also. More it was about my inability to comprehend my situation. Sister has everything and more and all she can talk about is what’s her next doctor appointment or shrink visit. I had heard enough of it and blew a fuse. Just like I do with women. On my last day there all she can talk about is an MRI. Should I now be concerned that she’ll have a brain tumor? So I needed these months to have it once again drilled in my head. I am all alone. I am a failed writer but I will keep on keeping on. To nowhere. Rosy as it is. And what of my “family”? I hate them. They are all worth hating. But I love them. And they are not worth loving. Can hate be a term without all the negative? Like this man a few seats away who can’t stop searching for the perfect sleeping position. Can you imagine such a thing? Talk, think of family. Think of those who only care about themselves. Will (my better half) be the only person to appreciate my true want? Of course not. Such a thing is simply asking too much. Of anybody. Heard in my head today that there are simply those who were not meant for their own dreams. Of course I believe it. But I am not giving up. I have now accepted that I will be unsuccessful (in this life). I don’t really know what I expected (when I started on this journey). All I know is that there are people I’ve left behind and they are much better off. That must say something. Something. Trinkets are something. Trinkets aren’t it. Trinkets of guilt. (Paraphrased from Sam Shepard “tokens of guilt”.) So let’s kill a philanthropist. But don’t know one. Don’t have the bravery. Only have something. Only have trinkets. I am confused about their motivations. The voices in my head. Are they smart enough to have some kind of other motivation? My marriage, for example. Or my son. I will never know because my oldest nephew said it best. “We have a really fucked up family.” I should never write a word in these notebooks and I cannot recall doing so about or of my stepfather. Why do my parents disgust me? Not them personally. But the generation. The generation that has ruined everything. Is it because we brought the world to this? A person three seats away from me has a portable DVD player. Next to me the government worker with his pocket PC. The devices/gadgets of entertainment. Oh my, the world is Sandra Bullock. Family. Pain. No hate. The world wants to be like Sandra. Or is America my sister? You know, I thought the whole time I would wear out my welcome with my friend (who put this old middle aged geezer loser up). But. It was my sister. My parents don’t even count. They should move to another place. They picked a horrible place to retire. Fitting for that generation. The generation that made you clean your dinner plate because otherwise the world was starving. What a lie. And their greed. Shall we get into their greed? And now they live in a place where it won’t be pretty in a few years. Decrepit. Weak. Ailing. The forgetting that comes with age is the perfect quilt and comforter for your sins. Old sins are so much better than new sins, eh? Yes. They should wallow while they can. And I should write about the room from last night.
It was a Motel 6 on the outskirts of some distant, close, serene metropolis. Where the workers reside and spit their tobacco. I was shocked as I made the bend of the off-ramp, the highway had a special smell that day. Not the grand smell of victory but that of napalm alone. Lonely napalm. No one to splash and burn onto. I could see the logo of the krapp motel through the trees. My only hope was that it would have been a bit closer to Metropolis. It was obvious that the facility was once an “inn” of whatever brand. It was bought (overtaken) by a corporation. The cost of tearing it down would have been worth it. Built something cheaper in its place. The office was occupied with the same girl I phoned. She was an adorable black girl. She gave me the plastic room card and I drove around to the other side and was surprised to learn there was a pool. It was occupied by poor bastard vacationers–lust like me. But I was afraid to go in the water. I kept thinking of the fungus and infection I would get if I dared take a quick, soothing swim that seemed to do the trick for those kids. I quickly forgot such nonsense. There was work to be done. The room was #140. The door was jammed. Why? Did someone sit on it and deform it, deform its frame? I gave it a kick at the bottom and it swung open. “Cheap room.” The title of my life? An unknown uncles cheap wisdom followed: “you get what you pay for.” Then the smell hit me; I barely broke the threshold. I pulled my stuff into the smell and shut the door. The smell immediately began to grow on me. I started to pick each of them out. The little smells in the air. Like the parts of molecules that I also can pick apart. Two atoms of this, one of those. Eightch two oh, my ass. But there was a TV. The perfection of avoidance. Being drawn away. You gotta see the TV. it was so picturesque and whole … apot … shelving. Part of the room. Part of the everything I was. The bathroom area was fine but by the time I got there the smell of fungus and baby-powder about to turn, yes, baby powder. It was worse than I initially thought. And it was getting worser. Worser. Then I began to feel the moisture trapped everywhere. Human moisture. The sweat. It had all become, from every person ever there, part of the room. The sweat room. The a/c unit was in the lowered ceiling, above the wash area was dripping of moisture. The best part of the room was the shower stall. It was pure plastic and showed no sign of wear & tear from cleaning. But it was clean. Spotless. Plastic. The water nozzle was positioned below the entry way to the stall. So it was like walking into it backwards. Make sense? I got the other bag from my rental. Hung up my suits and changed into running shorts. Stretch, stretch. I had no clue where to run to. Like my travels. Where to? Toward the freeway seemed full of too many cars, and the traffic? Around the corner was a sidewalk that looked like it would lead to a neighborhood. But did I want to go there? Another sidewalk down past the small but overwhelming strip mall. The neighborhood was bad. Wanted nothing to do with it. I could see the poor bastards hanging out with their seventies bottles. Which could be a good sign. I’m of the seventies. Right? Down the freeway I went. There wasn’t much to it. Except the traffic which would slow as the light approached and could feel people staring at the stranger jogging. The sidewalk ended after about one hundred and fifty yards. Bad for my left ankle, an old sport wound that would never heal correctly, to run on uneven ground. Could I afford a twist? I kept jogging along the poor bastard freeway which was starting to turn into a pathway that had been carved out of the wild grass that had never seen or heard a cutting blade. I went for about thirty or so minutes (but could have been ten) and turned around. Not enough free space to run. Can you believe it? Roads and you can’t run on them. (Just askin’.) On the way back ran around a huge, empty bank parking lot four times adding another ten minutes to my run and then headed to the motel. Stop to walk it off and checked out a seven-eleven where I would buy a six-pack. Went to room and showered. I tried desperately to dirty the plastic shower but could get nowhere. Was the room occupied by the cleanest humans ever? They only smelled but carried no dirt. I had also bought a few apples along with the beer. I drank and beer and ate an apple as the shower poured over me. I had it has hot as I could tolerate. To better the moment I jumped soaking out of the shower and turned on the TV. Dripping on the floor I searched for the news. Found a channel and jumped back in the plastic stall. The floor was soaking wet. The strain made me gulp down the beer and then finish the apple. I washed my balls and thought about jerking it a bit. But desire was lost. There was no desire in me. Where had it gone? Jogged across the room to get another can. CNN on TV. Enjoyed the second beer more than the first. Jogged across the room again, this time spilling some beer, and grabbed the TV remote. Then back to the shower with it. Switched to TLC–and wondered what the hell that stood for. Then HBO and a show about a brothel. Would that bring some desire to help me jerk it. If I opened and drank a third beer then I would never be able to jerk it off. That’s when a real women is needed. But this TV program was saucy, steamy. It was soft porn of some sort and I couldn’t help but hear the poor bastard kids out in the pool even more. The TV program talked about whores who loved their work. That seemed to be it. There would be no desire for jerking after that. It was time for another beer. Gulped it down faster than the first two. Thought for a second about leaving the the last two beers for the cleaning help–I hated leaving tips on pillows. But I whipped them down, too. So much for discipline. It helped deal/cope with the stink of the room. Watched a little late night TV and fell asleep without difficulty. Woke at six a.m. Got out of bed at seven a.m. Was checked out, on the road, yearning for coffee (another story) by eight a.m.
For Bela Kaan. Use Flashback. Like Sam Shepard in the Late Henry Moss. is there some Buried Child in there, too? The broken, decrepit American family. Bela Kaan.
The Bela Kaan family. A lawyer is there to settle open issues of Will. Or what seem to be open issues. What the parents (Adam & Eve) have left behind they left to all their children. Which is mankind? The children try to fight this. Then they realize that they never really knew their parents. They certainly never knew they had amassed such a huge fortune. The lawyer has a problem with the docuements in the will because they are thoudands of years old. But there fortune was amassed in a (sinful) last act using their (years) of experience (thousands) they were the single source of investments that ended with the DotCom boom. When they cashed out the boom bust set in.
So many questions AND so many answers with the birth of my son. I know the birth of any chid now. It is amazing mankind has made it this far. (But) I must have written that last line a few times before. A waste of pencil? So who is bad? Who is good?
What complexity will be the solution to (the) future societies? Will it be some kind of politic? A (good) king? Religion? Why not just a bit of sharing. SHARING.
What I was trying to say in my outburst to/about my sister (post 19.07.05). She has so much. She squandered everything and now has nothing to show for it. And with so much opportunity over the last twenty years she still does nothing. When I was there she wouldn’t listen to me or ask me for any advice. How about a story about my leaving the family and while gone for a so many years having forgotten why or at least misplaced the reason why I left returning only to be rudely reminded of (that) why. I just can’t believe it. Sister has everything and nothing. For real. So unhappy but so stuffed full of herself. Krapp.
Participle. Just like writing it. In linquistics a participle is adjective derived from a verb. Present participle. Past participle. Tom will develop first future participle in English language. Or?
Watching “Poker” championship (don’t know why). A Stevie Ray Vaughn look-alike battling for the championship. This guy looks like Dr. Bad Ass. But then it is learned he is, like all other players, a swing dance instructor with a degree in mathematics.
Do I have my phone turned off? When is, if ever, such a sentence appropriate? At times like this, just before take-off, I regret everything. But can never remember what I have done. It just feels like everything (done) is (has been) wrong. If only there were a customer service department in my brain to service all the requests (for service). I wonder thought if I would manage such a department (or would it be managed by someone, something else) like most corporations manage theirs. The outsourcing of everything has to fail. Efficiency. College grads are trying to implement cannot continue in this capacity. What capacity? Are we/am I in the discussion once again of content and context? Content=rock, context=Mt. Rushmore. Is such an analogy correct, does it work? How far off am I now? Perhaps as far as I have always been. Far away from everything. In the middle of nowhere I have been these past four months. Four months that I had only hoped would never come to an end. It hasn’t really begun as we taxi away in an Airbus. The flight brings me to my other home–it makes me think, briefly, a quick thought, about how things would be if my father were (the) German.
When you return, though, you must put more effort into title and ownership to clear up that stuff.
Lydia Fairchild. Woman with three children on welfare. In mixed marriage with black husband. Another example is Karen Keegan. These women, under whatever circumstances, were DNA tested and it was found that their children had no DNA commonality, which is usually at least fifty percent. Now. These women were the mothers of their children. The fathers tested DNA positive. Karen Keegan also had three kids. She needed blood for operation. How can one argue this? Can the/a woman have, for example, in vitro fertilization and then fool the tests? What is it? Chimeras. Part goat, part lion, part snake. There was a child born in two parts, split down the middle. Hermaphrodite. Chimera. The DNA for a woman and the DNA for a man. Two embryos fuse together. There are people with checkered board skin. Light and dark. The woman on welfare can#t win a case because prosecutors cannot win against DNA proof. Lydia gave birth with state/court people watching. Is that proof? This also means that certain pars of the body, e.g. hiar, thyroid, could ahve two different DNA. Two people in one. Look this up more. Fusion of two fertilized eggs. Chimeraism (sp). What do people go through in this situation? Blood testing only the first test. Testing of internal organs.
Def Poetry – HBO?
How am I gonna write about this room. Motel 6. It stinks. It reeks of sweat and rotten dew. The best thing about it is the TV. Almost perfect it rests on something between plastic and wood. Talk about/thinking about Chimera this day.
M’Rage. Find her in “love”.
Amazing Tears Listening.
(Good) Brothels also serve woman. The (new) trend.
Nuff. Fly soon.
Start with this (thought). For a play/story? Not sure.
Before WW2 the GAB organized large gatherings in US promoting Nazism. They even had a gathering at Madison Square Garden (I think). Who were the speakers? McCarthyism was childs play compared to the roundup of German, Italian adn japanese people.
Fritz Kuhn – head of GAB.
George Lincoln Rockwell was the Nazi counter to ML King. Rockwell was killed by fellow nazi who was angry about Rockwell’s belief that lighter skinned whites were superior.
Skokie, Il., outside of Chicago–most jews who survived German concentration camps.
Turner Diaries by William Pierce, pseudonym Andrew MacDonald.
A racist named Robert Jay Matthews read Diaries and took action to make it (the Turner Diaries) happen. He was founder of The Order. Allen Bern, radio host, Jew, was murdered by David Lane. See info about life in jail of Matthews. Also see:
- Ruby Ridge
- Davidians, Waco
- Tim McVieh – obsessed with Turner Diaries, Oklahoma bombing, exhibit 1 in his trial
Break. Nuff. Move on to self and other forms of loathings.
Have grievances. Only a pride blocked up with arrogance. Is there a plumber to fix it? My diarrhea. I return in two days from this farce of a soul-searching. What a useless endeavor/trip. Return to what? To a woman that loves me? She says and I believe her that she believes in me. But what is there really to believe in? Failure. Should have never married in the first place. At least not until I knew what I wanted. But why didn’t wife1 know what I wanted. Coward. What will I take away from this trip, though? The visit. The knowledge that I can’t stop living in my past? Is that why I am unable to heed? The advice of my American brethren and just “do what it takes”. Sounds and feels like the nike swoosh. How superficial. What a turn off. It’s all too late. Everyone here is so indifferent–as though America were a battered divorcee who might still look good on the outside but inside is one big fucked up emotional mess. Some fellow last night yelled across the bar that politics was taboo. That has really become engrained in the psyche here. We live an swim in that taboo. We eat it. It is/has become us. And we can’t talk of it/about it. Indifference is the easiest way out. But is my imagination running wild when it thinks there is a solution? Truth, wisdom & passion (see previous post, by date). Is that the solution? All the people in their cars, he sheople mobiles. Nothing left to say. Just survive. But how can one do that if one can’t consume? Annoying how that all works out. But I was trying to talk about me. As always. This is my place to do it. The fact that I’ve been here for more than four months and am not the better for it. Just more wasting of time. Times wastes after a certain age, after certain qualifications run out. Does this feeling I have drive me back (to the old country) to my (new) dear or is it the offer of love and vacation? Silly trinkets are certainly not my motivation. If only I could write. And.
Why would such a woman
Sometimes during this stretch of life I feel as though there is only one man I can turn to for answers. Reading his essays provides answers to questions I asked months prior. So I suppose HM and patience are my two good bed fellows(?). It is not possible for him to tell me who I am but it/he sure comes close enough. I must quote him anew. Three words struck me as relevant today.
Truth, Wisdom & Passion.
The context HM creates and uses the words is only slightly different and this slightness has allowed moi to make a connection or find an answer to a question I recall asking. The question? “What is wrong with the way contemporary conservatives talk?” And. “Why is it that America (2005) is so rude and arrogant?” America has lost all touch with truth, wisdom and passion. The conservatives of today cannot comprehend this. The American has become ugly but I see no nation-state alternative to its ugliness. So is it ALL ugly or uglier? Does this mean that American ugliness I grew up with and so many generations left behind with their deaths could potentially become the opposite of ugly? The antithesis? I grew up HM’s generation–well, the generation that could have benefitted from him. But that is neither here nor there. HM say? According to his writings he would still laugh and shake his head. It really is unbelievable what man is unable to do. But he is perfecting the ability, perhaps incarnating it and causing the inorganic to become organic, making something intuitive. Is not our great land making untruth truth?
Truth, Wisdom & Passion.
Where is it? Truth is not enough. That’s like saying the truth about an iceberg is in what you see above the water. Or? Oh, Tbone, find a more compelling
I never see two equally beautiful women together. Why is that? Is this a polarization issue? Is this a secret among women? Is this something women realize as something they must do when they are young? What goes through a woman’s/girls mind when she is rejected for the first time.
What is a sure sign of a country being rich but doing nothing? The(ir) fat people. Is America the prime example–or are there other countries with, but not in the news, fat people? Why is it there have never been trophy-men? You know the girls who stand next to race winners? What’s up with that?
Hosebag Bonnie. The Ocean City town slut from Bull on the Beach. Find her. Make her. Redo the restaurant.
Chick comes up with the idear of entertaining via taking people to bars. She subsequently orders and takes/delivers drinks/food to HER clientele and pays restaurant or bar. The restaurant manager tries to stop her–because she charges prices above those displayed in menu. Now there’s another wasted activity.
What’s the greatest thing about money? The fact that you can hide it.
The problem with playing so much is that you can’t
What else can you hide? A woman can bide. Reality can hide. A woman’s reality is the most elusive thing in all of physical science. Even more elusive the unified theory.
What elusive? How do I become elusive? Falling behind some bar. Just in front of the bartender. The girls, almost twins, find their way, teasing me for writing and not flirting, the fear of revealing what I am actually writing, revealing. Should I make mention of the loneliness? The loneliness of the ocean? The ocean, I say, is just in front of me and if I concentrate enough, if I focus enough, I can make a tear drop from my eye either into my nose or my mouth and taste a diluted version of the ocean. Want to become that ocean. The ocean is me.
For whatever reason I feel these bars growing on me. If I don’t leave them soon, if I don’t depart from this place that I already left so many years ago, then I will become that American nightmare–I am never to be that nightmare because I am not brave enough. I am to o weak. Just like the meatloaf. The bartenders name is probably Corey. Yes, Corey, wears an orange t-shirt with a small logo iron-glued, that read: “Team USA Something 2003 Olympics”. I wonder if he’s the owner. Corey the bartender is also the owner of yet another new business idear, the result of so much entrepreneur run amok and/with nowhere to go.
There is a brand, yes, another brand, beer, Yuengling, (small boy?) that resembles, when spoke, the ocean. Why the ocean? Because the ocean is the most beautiful earthly color when it is not reflecting the light from elsewhere. And although I should vodus on the light from elsewhere, instead I see and hear the life of everything. That everything is a female(?). With short or long hair I cannot tell best if I don#t write something about her soon I will lose my compassion for all other things and be carried away to places long since left behind and lose my temper in a folly of gibberish only decipherable by aliens born of our ocean. They drink, you know, they drink of my mother’s milk and when she runs out they bitch for more. Our Pauls and Peters bellow some kind of rule.
They will tell me. These people. They will tell me, eventually that the picture I draw with these words will fall upon heavy paper. Lead paper I would think. It is so easy to turn off a woman even if you play her game. Because her games are so… just tell them you live in another country. A country you have no idear about. A country they have no idear about. If they become confused they will all eventually ask what you are writing. The writing becomes something that transcends thought–as if there were physical proof of a precursor to a thought. You will waste your thought then because… if you cannot bring a Dan Brown thought you will never sell two million copies of anything. What is the secret of success? To say and do anything you like.
Is she obsessed or is it I ? I looked to my left and only saw the upper thighs barely clad and she noticed–oh did she notice–and made me feel as though–I had already seen too much.
It’s sloppy. That girl is sloppy. The things we do are sloppy. Our arguments are so sloppy. So he wants two shots. Sloppy shots. The other guy things he can order so drunk. And he said “thanksweatheart”. She didn’t even smile only left the tip. And that was that. If it weren’t for the checker-brand at the end of the bar. She’s not black or white but instead white and green. And suddenly… a woman (who else) interupted me and asked what I am doing. I responded with: do you want to fuck me? She was rightfully appalled. She stomped off. I hadn’t take two drinks/sips from my cheap draft when…
(Back to) The three things.
Truth, Wisdom & Passion.
I see it in the bars. I can feel it in the persons. The confusion in which they live, and all the girls lost at their bar stools. If it wasn’t all about about…? Imagine what they would think. Imagine what they would imagine if given the chance. Theirs is the yours of things already past. Beyond the stuff of which we are made. Beyond the bierdeckel that covers her eyes. She exists in a world of righteous because, well, her pussy allows it. And if the bartender allowed more… what would come of it? The things they all question. A small tin can that once housed a breadth mint sucked on by children but never finished. You know, Jude, if I were famous I could play this irreverent spiel and no one would think twice about it. They would as soon forget my existance, allow me to be flinged into some form, some crevice–cleavage–and be lost beyond all human form.
What matters is the big picture. That’s why so many things look best when viewed from afar. Paintings, for example. Or large orchestrated gatherings such as those from the Soviet Union, China, North Korea.
What I hate about women (hate being the wrong word), especially girls. Wait. Just because you read-up on the meaning of misogyny…
It’s about the chemical. Like life itself. It’s about the chemical. In the case of life it’s about the chemical reaction. What would the female be like if she had a different chemical? I know it’s not all chemical, certainly a lot of it is social, but still…
Get away from the hate. It’s not hate. Is it admiration. They can be everything you can’t.
Why are they the brunt of so much, why do they carry so little? Is it the weaker thing? I ask you what is the difference between the ovary and the womb? (Assuming there is a difference.) Is it the same? (Including the same difference?) Is it the same between testicles and penis? The confusion.
Polyester = Polly Esther. (???)
That’s why they ask so many questions–because burried very deep within is the wrath of their future to be played out and they do so. Really. Just like Billy Bob Thornton. What did I read in the paper given me by mother? That silly but oh so profound declaration/statement. Like something funky out of the seventies. We all miss those days, eh? Well not all. “You can love it–but it won’t necassarily love you back–just like dating a German chick.” (Thanks Billy Bob!)
-Du bist ein Schwein.
-Guck nur wie du dich verhältst.
-Nicht wie ein Schwein. Hast du schon mal ein Schwein gesehen.
-Natürlich. Und zieh mal her…
-Nein. Du sollst ein Schwein sehen. Wieso hat es so ein Ruf? Du muss nur ein sehen. Die kümmern sich mehr um einander als Menschen.
-Was soll das Heißen? Du willst nur immer das Theme wechseln. Aber du bist ein Schwein–das kannst du nicht ändern.
(Pan out to messy room.)
Friends father died yesterday. Friend left in his emotional rush in his cheap Toyota-made new car with his ear piece mic attached to his ear. Was it a picture of loneliness or one of organised loneliness? “I could write a book on my son,” his mother kept saying. Yes, this friend left me with his mother and she spilled her guts. I can’t believe she spilled her guts. Between “I’m not a racist” and the story of her/the rape and subsequent matrimonial bondage to the father of her three children. It’s not at all like revealing something that is and should be very private. People of all ages have discovered the fascination of revealing everything at the bottom of their soul at the tip-nip of a button pressed too hard by some lost inner sacrificial lamb-thing on the edge of a volcano during the never before reached year of the goose-swallow for Maya unfound calendars. It’s as though I was put in front of her movie that she had to re-run because of the death of the father of her children. What does it take to bring that out of a human? That which should be secret? To bring the old/the past celluloid that should be lost. Somehow. Her way of dealing with it? Is it the answers we seek or the question we (wish we could) ask? Nomatter. Either way we are opening up human parts that should remain closed. Thank goodness for armchair psycho-therapy, eh! The terrible things that happen the past. Some of them are brought out because of current events. Like the death of a father. “The asshole,” some would say. Others would defend that he is no such (a) thing. Ah, the reality of divorce. Or is the rape? And then then the ex-wife will start to tell all, drawn out by the loss of not just the man in death but also of the rapist who terrorised her. I have had epiphanies before but this one was quite (the difference). The epiphany became feminine. Feminine’s epiphany.
She had huge boobs and blonde hair. It made no sense. She was stupid but that was Ok. Her beauty was in the simplicity, just like a succulent rock formed on the seafloor or shore. I tried to fight her away but eventually gave in. She is simply too strong and beautiful. Wait. What about those tits? I gave in after only a short battle. For there is no war to be fought here. She went on and she went on and my epiphany faded. COME BACK. I barked. How he raped her and she was only seventeen. (Or did he say nineteen? Not older than that.) She finally admitted to the ignorance of it all–how stupid she could have been. If she were more than imagination. The detail about how sick she was and how the tyrant made her wear a garter because she couldn’t show she was prey… pregnant. OMG, there are more in this world. For the life of me I cannot figure out where they come from. Which has a consequence: I have no idear where I come from.
They say if I can make it there than I can make it anywhere. What’s the problem with that?
Charlie Daniels‘ The Devils Song–or whatever it’s called. Some young bloke just explained to me in rough English that Charlie Daniels always wrote country songs that told a story. Somebody’s god help me.
Uh Oh. Drunken stupor. Listening to The Beatles–hold me, love me, eight days a week… Is this song about getting chicks?
They are the Donna’s from hell. Oh so afraid to become the dikes they should become. But when they say “like” so much… and their eyes move so fluently with their every gesture. They are eighteen.
His name was Norm. My last bartender. Across from him was… I don’t know his name… will call him… Hank… I ended up buying Hank a beer. He worked their. He spoke of Charlie Daniels.
It’s as though they’re all made to melt. Beyond some kind of song. Some rock song from nineteen… whatever and the kids all think that the writing in this book is some kind of… enigma. But I’m only drunk, I say in my defence. And. Little to they know. This is worst-writing at its best. Indeed. In a drunk stupor. The know so little. I have to give my (new) friend Norm a hat–take my hat off to norm.
There’s a bartendress with a slight belly who/that
wants to makes me ask the question if she is pregnant. But don’t ask it, Tom. Don’t. I did. Could she, should she? The innocent look she has. Not so innocent underneath, eh? But where will it take her and the one to my left has the cartoon look of an Elvis progeny. The peaches song is on. All the young men are trying so hard. Talking of the places they will be. My belly is starting to sour, though. From the drink or this spectacle? And the girl that was twice on my left has halved, the second part is now on my right.
Between this and that they all ramble with their mobile phone. Mobile phones are everywhere. And I don’t care what the eyes see–they all stare so intensely at me with greedy eyes–proof that humanity wants wisdom–even the girls. My old favourite. John Cougar sings about chili days and Jack and Diane. Bobby Brookes. Those jeans that contain the thrill of life.
Closing time. The last effort. The guys are all trying. I looked at Joylanda and told her what I thought she looked like. “You look like Elvis,” I said. She was utterly devastated. She went her own way. I tried to tell her that it meant nothing. Like I cared, really. The words, “You look like Elvis,” should be compliment to anyone. Maybe anyone not of this earth but have listened to earthly radio airwaves. The words sprang from me as though she were made from teflon. And all I can add is that I’m glad I have no daughter. Would or could she be in such a place? Joylanda? Like those chicks left or right–one and the same, split in two. So desperate. And when
asked given a good and honest truth fiight it as though it were an ugly beast.
He wasn’t just inside me. He was in me. So s/he said/proclaimed.
Have to stop reading that stuff.
To make a purchase of any value you have to take a loan. So how do you feed the consumer hunger when they can no longer afford the loans?
Story: person about to run amok. He’s obese. Unemployed. Wife left him. Wants to be father to his son but doesn’t know how. Calculates it all and buys a gun from Wal-Mart.
What if we lived in a world where the fruit is the protectorate of the seed?
Had a bottle or two. Found one in the middle of night soaking in the hotel tub still full of bath water. The label was floating next to suds. A bottle of bubbly in the tub among suds.
It’s these women and these images of corruption. Just see below. If only my uncle (or any other unknown relative) were at the least this generous. Oh, what life must be like. The They consume. Like little pieces of Disney (world not land). Imagine that your furniture could take on the form and image of this little stamp. Like some thing out of Star Trek. Buy a piece of the sun while your at it. Allow some wise and well-off girl control your destiny. Oh, how the pussy is so expensive–especially when it’s buying. Speaking of which. How many pussies have I seen only to conclude, in general terms, that they are all the same. I mean, detail is where the devil does his best work. Or? If only Mel Gibson would realise that. In general terms the believers have not spent enough time investigating pussy and they maybe correct because such detail can and will either ruin you or the ideas you wish to leave behind.
Calculate the women. I counted twenty-three women over the last ten years. Can that be true? If so, you are a slut or you are dysfunctional in love. It’s a conservative estimate. I’m conservative not because of (the) bragging rights but because I said ten years ago, or, better put, realised ten years ago that I had a problem with women. I gave into the idea that the only purpose for a man to be with a woman was love. Prior to such a realisation, I fought it. Hence my (pseudo) explanation why men are so promiscuous. It simply takes too many men too long to realise what love is. It is a far-off assumption to think that I now know what love is. Certainly it has enhanced the experience over the last ten years.
The twenty-four women I have concluded were all in detail different. Some had looks to die for. They crossed all t’s and dotted all i’s in their pearly books of beauty. Others had bodies that teased my cock to irreverence. and caused my mind(lessness) to wonder too often into pits of ecstasy where coals burn forever but give off no heat. Two of them had faces that caused some men to mock and jest and those men missed out on a strangle that could make a statue shoot a load. There were a few more who were completely stupid when it came to remembering anything, even where the cock goes but I thought my role as teacher (in that case) finally had its calling. There were short legs and long legs. There were breast feeders and mama-girls, swallowers and spitters. There were conversationalists who could talk their way to the US presidency and others who I couldn’t wait to talk to afterwards–only so that it would finally end. This burn. This injection. The French pain. The confrontationists demanded all of my debate skills and the silent ones who graciously whispered
they to do it to them again. Of all the differences and (eclectic?) the differences and the paradoxes and dichotomy one thing made them (all) the same. Their pussies. Along with the confusion of love I also stopped trying to examine (empirically) their pussies.
Immediately after my first time I thought it was my holy-grail–like a quest to find and document the differences. I know I drove women crazy with that. it pushed some away and attracted others
like a steel past, magnet, gravity, etc. I spent hours down there–only to be brought up for a breadth because of Her want of something concrete. It usually took a few months, once even two years, till I realised I had discovered everything. It was then time to move on.
Was it then time to move on?
And so… I put some effort into it–always with the next one in a start gate. It was a winter day when I finally realised my fortieth year had come and gone and I was still thinking about silly things. There was snow everywhere and the Germanins couldn’t for a moment put down their individual self declaration of a RIGHT to high speed on their beautiful autobahns and one rammed the rear of my MBW at about seventy eight mph. I was in a hospital for four days with a broken collar-bone, a pinched nerve on my left elbow and two toes amputated. I suppose that was my moment of truth but I was wrong. For about four months after that accident my then girlfriend ceased to see my cock. At first it was fine. She asked what had changed me and I told her I just wanted to make her happy. After the first month of fingering and licking her, a period she said after we broke up with a big smile, she would never forget, she asked me why I no longer penetrated her. I told her to ease the inquiry. I was having some problems. You know. Erection problems. She bought it for about three weeks. Then she said, apologetically, I was making her very happy, that she had never orgasmed so much with a man before, but
she I probably didn’t love her any more. I told her that it wasn’t true and for the first time in my life I tried, from the bottom of my soul to say those three words. The word I had to say to a woman because she can’t see through what is today only a transaction. So much for the generations born of the lie and uselessness of romantic love industrialised. Yet I did say them. For the voice can be no different than a recording. Edison you genius.
- Loss after car wreck
- Self induced pain
- Ecstasy thereof
- Vagina as ersatz
- Love as elixir
- Failure to find it is another example of reciprocity
- Love is a transaction
- Romantic love can only be a hoax (played on who?)
Still jet-lagging? Can’t be. Been long enough. But this west coast thing…
It’s the last day of so many. But/And the many always win. Off to the theater.
Last night I saw “The Goat” from Albee. The tradition of absurdity is still alive. Perhaps even reinvigorated–but the final judgement has yet to emerge. Nonetheless I said that it is good that such a play is (can be) performed. But then again, I’m in SF. The house was full and the audience responded well. The dialog was spicy, bit in the right places, acting was weak, female better than male. Yes, such a play in such a venue is inspirational but would the play do so well if Albee’s name wasn’t attached? The play has left me stranded. Absurdity is alive and that is good. But… there is something Martha & George in this play. I can’t put my finger on it (yet). The disturbing thing to me is that without the Goat and/or beastiality the play is a bore. Yet Albee is addressing something else. What? The fact that under circumstances man can and will do anything. But why in the context of the American dream? Is it because the American dream is really about finding happiness via an epiphany to fuck a goat? Yes, Albee is pushing the envelope of dark humour here. Not about playwriting, mind you, but where this dream is taking us. We in this great land are ruined. There is no mistake about it. Because, as Albee puts it, at least as I hear this morning after, what/where do you do/go when you’ve reached the dream? There is something traditional in this play, a thread-common perhaps, like so many plays of the absurd-theater. Is it the threat of questions unanswerable? Yes… what does Albee want to say? He is the great interpreter of the American Dream, right? How did he do it–is the more relevant question. In thinking of illusions. Illusions of truth. WMD. Be on it long enough and it will become part of you–how a lie becomes truth. But if the lie doesn’t matter? If the lie doesn’t matter then one must understand what drives the teller to lie.
In The best example of this is woman. The next best example is consumption. And what about this slight lie? Timothy Leary worked for the CIA. Full stop. Redact.
Change previous chapter about Stone’s (that name again! Stop it!) commenting on SF visit.
SF at night is beautiful. Long walk back to hotel.