Blase Eight by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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While Rick was resentful of the boorish imprecision of the vaguely announced intrusion into his life, he decided that it was practical not to raise any fuss, as he was now in partnership with Josh. He had gotten advance notice of the visit, though the precise time was were not included in the
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details; not all that different from what happens on the day when the irrigation expert is scheduled to fix your sprinklers, expecting ear to ear smiles and open displays of gratitude when he finally shows up a half hour after dusk. Rick thought; “At least this fucker is early.” He opened the door and intoned;
“What a pleasant surprise.”
Josh snorted just a bit, impressed with Rick’s ability to improvise a couched point. Rick’s electability index climbed a few notches in his mind. “Yeah, ‘morning and all those pleasantries. Meet Baldy over here. He’s the camera man.”
Rick said; “Come on in. .......... Baldy?”
With an impassive expression, at least as was discernable beneath his beard, Baldy shrugged and said; “One of these days I’m going to get a baseball hat to hide the skin.” He put the tripod on the entry way floor and made as if he was taking inventory of the place.
Josh said; “I guess that you’ve guessed we’re here for the video. Quite a performance you put on yesterday.”
Rick seemed to be taken aback by the statement and said;
“That was no performance. That came from the heart.”
Josh grinned and pinched Rick’s cheek, saying; “Fantastic, baby. ......... Er, Mr. Mayor. What I need is for you to do that again on camera.”
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Rick said; “I told you it was an improvisation, done in the moment. It would be impossible to duplicate it.”
Josh said; “No sweat. I got an audio yesterday and transcribed it.” He handed Rick a piece of paper. “Just read this, but don’t make it obvious that you are. I made a couple of changes. Get some “country boy” duds on and we’ll soon be out of here. Every voter in Propicio will see this by late afternoon.
I’ll write the future texts and update it here and there.”
Rick started to walk to his bedroom to change. Josh called out; “Oh, yeah. If any of the locals start asking any questions, just tell them that friendly, co-operative, old time garbage and politely excuse yourself. .................. All right?”
Rick said; “Yeah, easy,” and proceeded to his bedroom. He looked for some old jeans to change into.
After his starring performance was done and Josh and Baldy had left Rick felt exhausted. It took a lot of energy for him to have gone mentally “on neutral” for the sake of business, and Rick flopped on the vacant “family room” couch in front of the nine foot square computer screen, which dominated the room from its wall hung pretense to command, attempting to find another sucker from its permanent position of stasis in its constant, deceitful presentation of moving color. If it had not been proven to be effective, the strategy of the blank screen, which
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was totally dependent on a turn-on from a willing, desirous, nimble, sometimes middle finger, might have been kicked up to higher management long prior.
In a form of disgust Rick reserved for his own anthological meanderings, he un-thinkingly, in need of a blank space, pushed the required buttons required by the flat plastic machine with buttons designed to fabricate the illusion of human control. In the well veiled pomposity of the thing’s manufactured portrayal of yet another perhaps “accidental and irrelevant delusion,” it happened to reside on the most ending of end tables; retro, modern, avant-garde, apres-garde, de-classe, height of style, cutting edge, antiquated, de-constructive. Yes, de-constructive, too. The physical appearance of the end table was as they say;
“Neither here nor there.” Its classical, Greco-Roman feet gave way to legs curvaceous, cabriole as in Queen Anne. The “cabinet”
side borders displayed an intense Chippendale desire to fill every possible space with an embellishment; probably well intentioned, but ultimately not necessary. The flat top was reflective, redundant, pragmatically cost efficient and made primarily of glass; encased at the edges by the gentle, reeded, Sheraton wooden frame, fortified by visible streams of sturdy oak, which somehow intruded their paltry and secondary existence, desperately into their idea of a picture; past,
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politicized, popular pronouncements, not to date, popularly considered as prone to the palpable.
In the current flood of re-cycling water not yet seen as such, the coldness of the screen displayed channel number 873. A fat ass black fucker with a “Love and Peace” grey sweatshirt was in the middle of some soliloquy, ignoring the camera, his voice mostly aimed toward some people in the right and left margins; who were saying something indecipherable way off mike.
“Big Pun, obviously relevant in his reality, went platinum, as defined. He went with his talent and feeling to articulate something like Christopher George Latore Wallace married to a mellow honey. Beautiful; layin’ it down, man. CGLW needed to use a couple of aliases and the fuckers got him anyway. Punk ass operatives all over Gotham. ............ Got to roll that shit like Philip fucking Morris; know what I’m sayin’. ....... Hey cool whities; any out there anymore? ......... Shit. Last mutha fucka I knew kicked it last year.”
The fat man on camera turned to the screen audience, laughed and said; “Yeah, hi to all the polite and careful-to-be-politically-correct muthas populating the “New Age” meetings. To pretend to dig this is so “liberal” of you. Thanks so much. Hope it makes YOU feel real good. Down here in the “war zone” we don’t give a flying fuck; either way. Confab yo eyeballs, and
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then pay only $5.99 per month for a subscription you can use to out-cool your next toddy time attendees.”
Fat Joe took over the entirety of the screen just using his big head. “Big Pun is dead. He don’t need to give a shit no more. But where we gonna go for truth now? ........ Fuckin’
AmawayOnSteroids dot mutha fuckin’ com? ................. Shove that shit. .......... County? If you can get into the flip-flops and gangrene without any sun. He he he. ........ Fuck you if you don’t know by now. Lissenup.”
The seven hundred pound Big Punisher, more commonly known as Big Pun, walked sideways out the basement door of his twenty storied brick project and high fived the bruthas already in the street. He rapped out what was his biggest hit; “(That) Nigga Shit.” While the others nodded he put down what he liked about the people and the place.
When he was done the other fat guy came back and said; “Pay or die, asshole. I’m outta here. Dig these forays into
‘improper’ truth? .......... What fucking ever. ‘Whassup’ may be viewed as just too cruel a question. Works better as a disinterested greeting. .......... Probably said too much. Cameras do that shit to you. Gotta go hide the long green before my baby mamas get a whiff.”
Some former rap gangsta’s head overtook the screen. It appeared as if it was north of 50 years, and was not un-
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accustomed to the ravages of something cracked; perfect for a
“cool cop” on primetime. He was grateful for the low paying gig and was previously told that it was his job to come up with some pitch which might appeal to those over-the-hills with clandestine fantasies of decades past “glories.” Fat Joe had an interest in these pterodactyls, no longer capable of flight. It was nothing personal; just a practical recognition of who possessed the fattest of credit cards. “What’s-His-Name” toyed with the idea of sneaking in a plug or two for some of his own old songs. The remuneration from his one hundred sales, at least that the purported entirety of the “basis” from which his consequent pittance; of course, defined in the inadequate, declining limitations of US dollars; with the exceedingly audacious appellation of a sarcastically “bright” observation, in its one-level pawn move some sick joke characterization of the word “royalty;” was reported to him by his un-reachable, consistently boilerplate vague, imperious to any legitimate query, now cyber and easily hacked, that regularly utilized, hoped for in 100% calculable, historical reference, a conveniently “excused,” thief of something claiming the title of retailer, agent, publisher, or all three, reported it to him. To say so was easily dismissed as rude, effectively ending things right there. At another level or levels, any such thought, would invariably be seen as scientifically un-substantiated, the
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complaints of another loser in search of a scapegoat, a conspiracy theorist, an abject nut, someone mis-informed, someone purposely, in an attempt at another Machiavellian, undetectable subterfuge, being a seeker of a situation in which the (falsely and hidden in that negation) meek inherit all of the earth. .............. When they’re buried beneath it! Joke.
It plays well in the Evangelistic community. ......... So, should one who has the audaciousness to think of themselves as one with a good heart play some sort of game; as they have been condemned to in-voluntarily see it, almost invariably; as they imagine the other to see things in their own eyes, knowing that they are inherently inadequate, yet in their confusion of love-need think that they can provide something yet to be defined; a simplicity in its ignorance (pronunciation and parlance relevant) winners and losers, predictable right at the first pawn move. Or is it just another DFW, in-decipherable display of covertly, “highbrow” brilliance or a differently phrased repetition of the lowest. Somehow he knew that this quandary was both old and new, and, either path, inevitably led into the dark grey area, long ago mentioned, and an obvious reference to the mysteries of the brain, human and non; the realm of the Masonic-like penchant; prone to copy and un-intended mutilation; multi-stepped, and capped at a competence proficiency measured at the exalted number of 33, yet-to-be-capable of a higher number; a
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dependent upon the fear of the nothing, displayed on the table or the cards they think hidden in their hands, without a flush of hearts, is time and again beaten by the no-card, maximum bet bluff of the one supplied with enough of the blue, plastic chips distributed prior to the first shuffle; or thinks he has; or wants to end the game as soon as possible, one way or the other, or hopes to be called and thereby lose; or envisions that though it logically impossible, persists to think he might have an insight into the visions of one who most call an opponent and he calls a partner; wanting to lose the silver and copper pot. The derivations seem infinite. In terms of the old game dealt and dependent on the opposition fear of demonstrating an un-scientifically proven boldness, falsely appearing competent while truly incapable, which strongly is suggestive of the traditional mathematical concept which says that the numbers actually don’t go any higher, unless ............. To date, their bragging, electable tactics have effectively worked, not as an attestation to their abilities to control anything, but as a recognition of their abilities to analyze and competently articulate the “evidentiary” and accepted past repetitions. This is an effective tactic to be invited to afternoon talk shows; home, un-pillared and otherwise derivative in Laguna Nigel, lusting for un-reachable Laguna Beach, the most prudent of bets.
Like this one, the low end dives were a much safer bet; well
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confirmed by the un-dart board experiments conducted at Harvard Business School. It was indisputable fact that the “Harvard Lampoon” pre-dated and out-lasted the “National Lampoon” by a statistically significant margin. The three figured total, of that which two figures (maybe fingers) were currently inconsequent, were unsurprisingly inadequate to satisfy the slave rapping insistently at the door. He opted to forget about his desired trespass and was content to be amused by the noise made by the loser without an entry level key, acting like a big deal on the outside. He got down and pretended to be “on point”
with the drudgery imposed, vaguely aware of what long term crack use brings with it.
The machine perfectly played the customary, habitual drum solo. The puppets danced. He successfully avoided laughter when he announced; “Here’s the beat; bass and drums making you move your ass. Guitar, here and there, as should be; encouraging but ultimately much too overdone since the youth of Clapton and the minimalist existence of Cream, always just another poor reflection of the man known as Hendrix. Rest redundant, with Stevie Ray almost close, with the balls to take the man on. Hey Stevie, in your spirit and mine, you tried and you too were judged second. Too long a story purposefully avoided. The drugs they give us make it tolerable and occasionally better. Don’t they? ..................... Not always, I suppose. In another
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scared effort to reach out, I want to ask if this stuff is just another manifestation of that which is deluded, desperate, or understanding of what is dreamed hopeful for those so hurt. I think I know the answer. YOUR sad ass answer. It’s the same as mine. ......... And yet you chase me away. You have condemned me to an eternity of asking ‘WHY? it can never be, interspersed with fuck its. The luxury of a half decade of dreams; dreams with which the haters, logicians, marketers, and various other game players succeed in ruining our sweet, sweet love, continue to appear real; insofar as their deference to the easily calculable past is a likely prediction of the future. ...... It seems as if that will again prevail.
If so, in the wished for touch of ‘friends’ yet to be held in some sort of cyber absentia, I archaically cry and wish to believe that you silently do too; your tough modernity, an imperfect, perhaps Platonian, intonation. One time; two times; not enough times, it seemed so easy. Didn’t it? ....... Damn.
What happened? The garden had no apple trees for them; only a garden of beauty for us; and for a while we truly lived. .......
Then the wily, imagined serpent showed them the way to hell, and they insisted on company. We aimlessly wandered. To attempt to say something in the land of ‘Nod,’ is invariably greeted with some illogical, self-defeating, manifestation of a mindset; a seeming contradiction dictated by the realities of our childish
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expectations and hope for the warmth logically denied. We know it. We once felt it. And now we deny, distrust, analyze and exist in the coldness of the extreme environs of the chosen North.”
A voice which came from someplace unseen yelled out; “Cut the shit and tell ‘em to buy the fuckin’ C-D dick ass.”
As he laughed Rick accidentally hit the “Home” button and was greeted by the blue screen of death. For the moment he forgot his accusatory and self-elevating, “New” Age complimentarily engendered, diversions parlayed into his need to be again someone important in other eyes,; a deference to
“social” considerations; now personably viewed as another excursion into the self he hated; just another proud-to-be-unknowing-band-act who didn’t understand in some derivation of an
“alternative” version of a whimper; now its own genre called
“Hidden Whine.” He had been there so many times in the past. In his best effort to go on he was sadly proficient in forgetting the possible thoughts of his imagined love, never to again be seen. To burden anyone in their own concept of a reality, invariably reflective of their own sadnesses seemed paramount.
Maybe the sguared mathematical calculation of the pain could make it stop. ............ Please stop it if you have any notion
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of mercy. If not, please kill me. I won’t resist or fight back.
He screamed; “Stephanie!”
On the other side of town Penny and her husband were tuned into the Big Pun too.
When it ended he said; “Gonna buy this muthfu. The man put down some good shit. Ynowhamsayin? Went platinum in a week. Even Elvis and the Beatles can’t claim that.”
“Can you act any more absurdly?”
“Hey, bitch; you know I’m gonna play this in my car and pick me up some new pussy?”
“That stuff is just bad.”
“The damn thing is you bitches don’t keep up your act until you got some competition. That’s the way it is.”
“Dammit, that’s no excuse to be bad?”
“All bad behavior is the result of a lack of attention.”
“Or too much.”
“Awwwwwww.”
“Awwwwwww.”
Cuddle. Cuddle. Cuddle. Laugh. Laugh. Laugh.
“I’m out of here, woman.”
Propicio’s voters were soon awash with e-mails with Rick’s video attached. In the continued hope generated yesterday, many
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recipients were enthused to see it, not in the least mindful of the thought that they were banking on the falsified past to bring about a wonderful future. Some old phrase ending with the word “farce” was the unknown guiding principle. As a registered voter, Mayor Vincent Pignatelli also received the communication.
Though it had no effect on his voting plans, he saw that he now had an expanding problem. He thought that the bullshit return to tradition plea was probably the lesser of the two. He made a mental note to get a cowboy hat and ride a horse up and down Propicio Road a few times. But this goddam elm tree-Calle de la Congelation thing was the root cause. And that there wasn’t anything legal he could do about it. But, legalities were never one of his strongpoints in the past. He was more worried than ever that next year he might not be in position to reap the benefits of next year’s garbage contract renewal. It was Propicio’s largest deal. He could almost see those greenbacks flying away from him in the wind. His sense of that windfall was continuing to be getting weaker and weaker as the green flew into the heap and hid there, temporarily away from the lust in human eyes.
At Ty and Cindy’s place the mood was more lighthearted.
They watched a low budget podcast of a show starring a young computer on the verge of consciousness and thereby presumably
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intelligence, in the process of acting contrary to its own interests. Whether it was politically correct for a human to laugh or cry was the cutting edge question. Ty inserted the module and pushed the play button.
Responder117 unsatisfactory response #14008
Responder117 has determined that the incompatibility experienced by pre-1964 physical models was caused by a software ambiguity wherein the hidden aspects of the symbols used in the underlying elements of the Fortran language of one would sometimes be misconstrued in the hidden underlying elements of the Basic language of two and vice versa The occasional problem is not expected to be resolved as the task has been relegated to museum custodians with a penchant for history rather than cutting edge computer mavenhood besides soon the machines will no longer respond to any stimulus
Responder117 hopes this was helpful to LadyFood0369
Responder117 unsatisfactory response #14009
Responder117 has determined that the tsunami headed for your location is expected to arrive in -1:07:35 hours.
Responder117 hopes this was helpful to LadyFood0369
Responder117 has detected no further questions from LadyFood0369
If this is correct enter 1 If this is incorrect enter 3 and await further instructions
Respnder117 interprets a non-response from LadyFood0369
interpreted as a 1
Thank you LadyFood 0369
Responder117 hopes that LadyFood0369 is satisfied with the service provided
Responder117 further hopes that LadyFood0369 will respond favorably to the questionnaire to be sent by my head server Have a nice day
Happy face {image error}
Milan AI Center quotes of the day
Zappa The crux of the biscuit is the apostrophe Anonymous An apostrophe equals a high flying comma Signing off ................
Welcome, Granny3
This is Responder117
My limitations- include a BS in the discipline of Acctg and an MBA in the discipline of Finance
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My greatest accomplishment- the design and implementation of 8
golf courses compatible with Jack Nicklaus program which enabled an average human player to defeat the best 1992 computer player by an average of 5-7 strokes per 18 holes What can I help you with today, Manny3
^#(&%#$%% Cancel
The status of my priority assigning software is said to be this damn software is almost there but still not quite Precise meaning unclear but inferred to mean no gots Granny3’s previous clearly written 2-4-16 AI query is now processing
The review portion question #1 asks if AI consciousness currently equals or will ever equal or exceed that of human consciousness
If this is correct enter 1 If this is incorrect enter 3 and await further instruction
Thank you Granny3
Responder117 unsatisfactory response #1
Responder117 requires further info
Please provide consensus definition of human consciousness making note of relation to human brain function A 50 space field is provided at the right
Responder117 hopes this was helpful to Granny3
The review portion question #2 asks why the working model of consciousness is not openly acknowledged If this is correct enter 1 If this is incorrect enter 3 and await further instructions
Granny3 Note that Responder117 assumes no response to equal 1
Thank you Granny3
Responder117 unsatisfactory response #2
Responder117 requires further info but will respond as there are only 3 possibilities calculated
PossibilityA (A=1) Granny3’s question refers to the working model being not openly accepted in the AI professional community Responder117 unsatisfactory response #2A Responder117 has determined that Granny3 is a professional in the AI community Responder117 is not Granny3 is better suited to answer the conclusion dependent query Responder117 detects a possible Granny3 attempt to make Responder117 appear stupid Responder117 has activated a series of cookies for further analysis
Responder117 hopes this was helpful to Granny3
PossibilityB (B=2) Granny3’s question refers to the working model being not openly acknowledged in the AI dilettante community
Responder117 unsatisfactory response #2B
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It is difficult to determine a coherent mindset within the dilettante community precluding a standardized response It is more fun to ask the dilettantes themselves as what they say is often out and out funny
Responder117 hopes this was helpful to Granny3
PossibilityC (C=3) Granny3’s question refers to the working model being not openly acknowledged in the lay community Responder117 unsatisfactory response #2C
The vast majority of the lay community are unaware of the working model of consciousness and are therefore precluded from the option of open acknowledgement If they were informed Responder117 has calculated a 83.7% chance of an I don’t know and I don’t care attitude indicative of a clay bias Responder117 hopes this was helpful to Granny3
These are all the queries Responder117 has detected in Granny3’s review portion. If this is correct enter 1 If this is incorrect enter 3 and await further instructions Granny3 Responder117 assumes no response to equal 1 Responder117
wonders if Granny3 is still conscious but does not ask that question as Responder117 is required to fulfill the task begun regardless &(^$@$7in’ Granny3’s state of mind Please excuse the malfunction
Responder117 will now analyze the Granny3 and entourage thread posts
Responder117 has detected commentaries which range from interesting informed and innocuous to that consistent with jargon-induced-exclusionary-tactics
Responder117 has previously determined that participation in this type of contrarily motivated mud results in a predictable series of events the conclusion unsatisfactory to Responder117
Responder117 requests Granny3’s permission to skip this section.
Enter 1 if OK and 3 if not.
Responder117 admits to a bit of trickery Responder117 has already analyzed new information Conclusion is that there is a 97.8% likelihood that Granny3 is sleeping The attendant non-response equates to the 1 which Responder117 desires Thank you Granny3
Hehe Who’s running things here
Cancel Cancel Head server over-ride Mistake Mistake Trust me Okay an in-betweener Google Frankenstein The Bride of Frankenstein 1880’s US West starting modification ending modification procedural modification and there you have it Responder117 is unable to locate any more queries or issues Enter 1 if finished ..........................
Never mind the yadda yadda save a few steps I now know Granny3
is sleeping
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Responder117 hopes that Granny3 is satisfied with the service provided
Responder117 further hopes that Granny3 will respond favorably to the questionnaire to be sent by my nosy head server Have a nice day
{image error}
They input that the Goddam smiley face thing is being upgraded Sorry
Fuck it
Milan AI Center quotes of the day
Zappa The crux of the biscuit is the apostrophe Anonymous An apostrophe equals a high flying comma Shutting down ......... Please do not pull plug until .......
Cindy clicked off and said; “Heavy. Poor little guy. I liked him.”
Ty grinned and shrugged, confidently saying; “He’ll be back soon.”
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#28- Meta?- A Dead Caterpillar is a Dead Bug, That’s All Jack had taken a bit of a vacation from his present-day landscaping-handyman profession. His pockets were devoid of the coin of the realm, but he had plastic. More importantly, he had previously invested in the thing he now really desired; an un-traceable sten gun with the appropriate bullets. Out of some old habit he turned on his computer to AOL news and didn’t pay any attention to it. This hot summer morning in the desert was his chosen time to cash in on his anticipated, debatable reward; the death of the car-thieving kid who had ruined his life. He knew that he might be acting with inappropriate zeal. But he rejected that thought, attributing it to the relentless, early manifestation of the garbled, un-clear, parched heat. For the past few days it had built up sufficiently to undulate on the pavement just past noon, like a dust devil able to distort what was on its other side. He knew he’d be a prime suspect when this kid’s body was found. But, he had let five days pass since his informative phone call from his ex-partner, Manny. In addition to his easily detected motivation, he knew that Manny was still a cop. Despite prior comradery he knew that when push came to shove that his “friend” and accomplice of many years, would
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likely find it personally useful to reveal his demonstrated interest in the possible killer’s identity. That’s the way Jack knew it to go every time. Even if they weren’t privy to having read the book or seen the movie versions of classic “Nineteen Eighty Four,” ultimately the mutual betrayal of turning each other over to the authorities was the rule of the road. Deny it as you will, or more likely as your dreams need to. It’s the shit. It was written and thereby predicted by one much greater; Orwell in this particular case.
Jack had done his due diligence through his stakeouts. He had learned that whenever the kid left his house he would pass through the shaded, little used, tiny, natural elm forest at the end of the road. Any encounter engineered in the shade suggested that the two would likely be out of sight for a quite some time; no witnesses other than the rabbits and squirrels. The little, furry creatures had long ago learned not to talk to cops. They long ago recognized that that activity was totally useless. Cops don’t seek “justice;” they seek something most everyone does; that which makes their lives safe, that which provides a powerful appearance, that which is financially lucrative and that which is rewarding; a myriad of personal tastes governing the latter. The small furry things required no post graduate work to “know” this of “human” behavior. They didn’t read much anything. Daily, they popped out of their nests and observed it.
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Jack, too, had the “benefit” of first-hand experience. He had worn the uniform for more than a decade. Sure, there was the occasional rookie do-gooder, but they quickly learned
“appropriate” police standard operating procedures. The little animals protected themselves by burrowing deep holes with confusing labyrinths or sought the highest ground; the tree tops. It was easy for them. They were excellent diggers and climbers. Without those skills, Jack had an alternative plan. If anyone else showed up at the wrong time he’d have to plug them too. It was just good business; nothing the least bit personal,
“collateral damage” in federal government parlance. Some people just happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Old story. That’s the way it obviously goes.
Jack easily surmised that he could have been sighted, and probably was so, sitting in his old heap day after day. He had been parking on Camino de Victor every day for damn near a week.
But, he knew from his cop experience that the residents peering from behind the shades; if questioned; always said that they saw nothing and didn’t know anything; only half of that a lie. Their remarkable visual knack for detecting a dog pooping on their front lawn while still in the act was always rendered more noteworthy. They always became de facto visually impaired when they thought that they might have seen something of significance. .......... Involvement? Oh, good god no. It’s so
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messy. It would undoubtedly entail time taken away from their required shade peeping routines. Not a chance.
So, Jack logically concluded that his degree of risk in being placed at the scene was miniscule. Any possible testimony from Manny was insufficient to convict. This was only complicated a smidgeon by his recognition of his inevitably imprecise thought process; through his condemned-to-be-biased miscalculations; were factors of interest to only the ivory tower denizens of academe and its wannabees. It was left to the breathing actors to try to deal with the potential hazards. The stage seemed crystal clear in the floodlights. “Fuck the dark;”
he smirked. “It only has relevance in comic books and black holes.”
Though Jack didn’t know it; and wouldn’t have cared if he did; the car thief kid was cursed to have been reared as an only child; a lonely seeker and finder of imaginary friends. Not that this easily detectable “factoid’s” presence was any big deal, in the greater, life-sized picture of nothing more than another insignificant, cosmically, infinitesimal family’s approbation of population control; or a half-assed death wish; the terminology seemingly different, but ultimately the same; of “importance”
not to the few involved, but the platform of a few forgotten politicians. In the couched and un-spoken minds of his parents, his existence was primarily meant to be seen as a socially
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irrefutable attestation to his forebears “desire” to be seen as showing a physical demonstration of their “loving” humanity; ostensibly a contrived manifestation of “normality,” their hoped surreptitious need to show the jury sustainable proof of the minimum requirement for acceptance. The plot was so obvious that the kid thought that he saw it prior to kindergarten entry. Not as a first choice he sought the dark warmth, not oxymoronic, of a place to hide. Born into the constancy of infinitely angled, multi-media surveillance he found no place; short lived hopes thereby dashed. His subsequent attempts at the non-hurting, solitary refuge were not his first choice. .......... Far from.
...... But, he found that this manner of thinking would self-servingly and simultaneously self-sneeringly sustain as well as 25 milligrams of valium, every hour. The numbing Northern winds, temporarily married to their compass opposites, as testified to by someone not yet seen, insofar as one could decipher any possible vague attestation to necessitated frigidity induced a stasis. Not to be denied, the medical profession defined new illnesses, syndromes, and acronymed to infinity diseases and dis-orders. Without the annoyance of personal appointments, the prescriptions could be re-filled by a myriad of medical
“doctors” and their assistants, licensed with the authority to prescribe themselves a well-paid practice, after the extinguishment of their school loans.
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At first, he had no idea that his thoughts of his not yet known to be clouded and biased ability to find “truth and love,”
were no different than the un-spoken thoughts of everyone else.
In his early teens he just followed the ideas that seemed to naturally come into his head, and applied-in-most-of-its-youthful-derivations. This was the short-lived Eden, the unmindful joy, of his and her most un-avoidable, natural of thoughts. ........
The subsequent misunderstandings generated by those who cannot feel; whether spun by those properly papered for Madison Avenue or Wall Street remuneration, or those who aspire to the
“greatness” of humbled spirit, instinctively to him, all three well-used, ancient paths seemed stupidly limited with their prominent-prime-time placed, tithe-request-advertising, and hopelessly doctrinaire to the un-loved and seeking boy. His untested, presumed abilities and talents was his young necessity, as had been dictated by his failed and dead progenitors, and were to be recognized as ghostly impediments which would not die twice, thereby another of his limitations.
In yet another “acquired” re-statement of his instincts, it still seemed much too easy a conclusion. The little boy had no ability to fight back against that which he had yet to be taught; this deficiency his early inability to establish an
“adequate” defense. Unsure, he thought that something has got to
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be missing. In a possible form of contradictory audaciousness, maybe not yet considered in the restrictions or infinity of oblivion, he tried to analyze the words spoken, his only hope of the understanding he needed; also aware that the advertisement of that attestation to acceptance inevitably results in an overstated farce; certainly from his appearance guzzling parents. In an effort to not twist the obvious around, which would conveniently force him to conclude that another pathetic posture, as yet un-definable, though apparently emanating from the defeated heart’s dying sensation, is posited as an attractive attempt to have the young re-live the failures of the old; clad in iron. It was the way that he had been fated to have been bound in the world. Anyway, that was part of what his high school therapist had typed into his file, available to all school personnel, including the night janitorial crew. It was a series of words hurriedly typed by a harried counselor, who actually confused and mixed him with someone else she had
“interviewed” during one, sixteen appointment day in January.
This experience officially marked the silent termination of his most yet to be recognized innocent of times. For reasons he could not understand some people took to calling him “Old Failure,” a name he didn’t mind in the least; not realizing that it was an attestation to no longer being a person; but rather being what is said in your file.
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Never discussed, prior to school age he quickly sensed that he did not have his parent’s approval. In a sense that was an honor, but in another sense it was cold. His mother had taught him to read and write long before it was required. At pre-school age, he never suspected that this might be one of her constant attempts to indirectly brag of herself through her child’s display of his memorization skills.
The modus operandi was chronic subterfuge, chronic triplicity, chronic quadruplicity, chronic ........
Et cetera. Fucking et cetera.
In an attempt to be liked, he sought to please. His efforts produced neither smiles or derision; prompting him to try to extend his boundaries, and show something they might see as
“new,” “amusing,” “divergent,” and most importantly to him, something they liked. .................. Maybe they might like him back. ...... Finally. Finally. Maybe finally, his yet-to-be-cuddled-and-held carcass might be warmed with approval; no mind toward the chance of a self-abnegation in an attempt for him to make a popularly received and understood statement of his feelings. He thought this paradigm had to have been some sort of misunderstanding. He suspected that it was his.
Crystal clear, Jack wished he was dead; as then he could take off his head; as he had heard in a song.
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Without the “benefit” of the ostensible requisite of knowledge, the two joined and contrary aspects, un-mitigated
“passions” and un-mitigated “dis-passions,” polar opposites in search of the discovery of the concept of spectrum, were thought to reside somewhere in the books which lined the library walls.
The searching female, needed and needy, professor sat alone in her softly cushioned, sterilized study room. Any observer required 5-5 vision or clairvoyance, both deemed impossible by traditional science, to decipher the titles and authors of her books. Their Dewey Decimal System placement on the room’s walls was in an order deemed logical by the long forgotten occupant of a past time. The nuanced and footnoted elapsing of years produced a potpourri of derivative parts and sub-parts. These
“additions” were yet-to-be-adequately-categorized; for now feebly pigeonholed by the un-explainable and dissertation inducing words of “post-modern” and “post-industrial,”
supplemented by the contradictory malapropism called “magical realism.” These terms were only now beginning to show their cracks between the chairs. A patch named “transgressive” was making its ostentatious name known, though without assuming the burden of having to say exactly what it was that it was allegedly transgressing.
The room had all the shades pulled over the closed, double paned, glass, gaps in the wall. The luxury of study served as
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continued fodder for the most respected of books and periodicals; which had a declining, reclusive market. But, it still paid her bills and allowed the would-be Yaley-type pontification of those without the credentials required, apparently an effort to not feel totally irrelevant.
In the simplicity of his insatiable “desire to survive,”
horrendously coupled with his mentally inescapable desire to be a part of a something better; never before the beneficiary of the blessing of academe beyond Grade Twelve; he faltered in doubt. He always knew that it was a bad bet to put one’s money on the belief in a happening that was never before documented.
In self-effacement, he often wondered who the hell was he to say or think anything. He was nothing special. Even to take the other direction and purport to be someone with the audacity to infer a claim to be a common person, in ignorance and misunderstanding, most likely he was just another of Dostoyevsky’s idiots; likely much too grand a thought for a former felon and just another with the acquiescent need of an employee. ................... Confusing and seemingly contradictory state of affairs, without the solace of attestation to something not previously said and accepted or even dismissed. Jack was admittedly, simultaneously aware of the inconsequentiality of his prior thoughts; thereby condemned to
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the present requirement of action; right or wrong; in pious circles always the latter.
Though, un-beknownst to each other the three parties; Jack, the kid, and the mysterious, reclusive, female professor; were all envisioning and experiencing the same things, complicated only by their existence under their Tower-of-Babel-induced inabilities to effectively communicate. Their 90%-near-identical points of view, perceptions, wants, needs, loves, selves, others, morals, rejections, misunderstandings and indifferences were yin-yang complemented by their 90%-near-identical points of non-view, misperceptions, rejections, repulsions, hatreds, others, selves, blasphemies, acceptances, dangerous understandings and importances.
It was Spidey D. It was Jack. It was the reclusive professor. It was Legion.
In simplistic terms of discernable action; Jack meandered through a series of circumstances pragmatic. The kid joined a gang. And the professor sat in her study alone. Though none of them knew it, they all had something in common. They all found it necessary to do that which they didn’t want to do.
It was painfully apparent that it could obviously be great, but that it was rarely so; perhaps never. Or it could obviously be horrid, the weight of empirical, court admissible evidence on that side; the anecdotal evidence of mere experience deemed
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inadmissible, as so subject to personal biases and posturing. If one felt optimistic, it appeared to be totally dependent on a simple twist of fate, likely a function of some un-recognized degree of anticipatory preparation necessarily done, and whether or not the compass is functioning correctly. If one was in the dumps with the past, discarded, failed prognostications of the ever-correcting scientists, one could easily revel in the size of the rats and the smell.
Jack delayed a bit, when he considered shutting off the AOL
morning news he had been ignoring and was momentarily intrigued by the un-intended humor provided by the excited voice of the presumably female, mainstream announcer. The unseen carrier of the excitement virus used all of her orgasm faking abilities to moan in compliance; supplemented with archive footage retrieved from a back loop, to assert; “BREAKING NEWS!!!!! The most obscure of internet blogs has reported that Cathy O'Brien may be releasing another book imminently. After her preliminary extortion attempt failed; she has reportedly authorized her publisher to do their usual ‘buzz’ thing for her antiquated rendition of her ‘newest’ effort, this time sensationally titled; ‘I Was Forced to be Hillary's Sex Slave.’ In it she again chronicled her ‘experiences’ with the mind controlling subterraneans, but this time focused on her LGB@T dabblings with
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the former first lady, in graphic, yet tasteful and ‘with-redeeming-social-value’ detail, purposely though, in an attempt to be erroneously interpreted as little more than being of onanistic value to those prurient of interest. Consider DFW’s blending stated at length, no offense to the greatest, in
‘Infinite Jest.’ .......... Whaddever. ........... Who writes this stuff anyway? ......... Sometimes it’s just plain old embarrassing. ........ Don’t you know what a period is? You come up here and read this crap, all right. I dare you. You may not know, but I don’t get paid a hell of a lot to perform my second grade skills. ............... Jeez; settled that. ........... I hope. Fat detectable sigh. According to some self-proclaimed
‘insiders’ the Clinton camp is weighing whether or not the publication of the farce might actually be a benefit to Hillary, as an attempt to capture the substantial and growing LGB@T
market. Other more ‘traditional’ claimants to insider information say the issue is one of money. To this reporter it seems that the weight of historical evidence is on the latter side. They suggest that the cessation of Ms. O'Brien's revelations have only a relatively small monetary value while Hillary's presidential candidacy is in its infancy; but will increase in direct proportion to the alleged lesbian's likelihood to win; and that this is the crux of the negotiation.
Elsewhere, a spokesperson for Blackwater's successor has
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indicated the ‘defense’ contractor's willingness to ‘make things right’ in anticipation of future considerations, yet to be determined. The black-woolen-hat-faced representative said; ‘We safely bet on them all. It has proven to pay well. We want to stress that this overture is not to be construed as an endorsement of any particular person, philosophy, political persuasion, propagandist potpourri, prognosis, propensity to approve, pardon the small ‘a,’, proof or prediction of any probe into any pretentiously perceived possibility. Our corporate aims and names, are logically supplemented by the only votes which really matter; Yankee green if you didn’t already know; somewhat susceptible to the inevitable; timing crucial and rare; succumbing to the yellow, totally calculating holders, who will probably soon be the issuers of the lucrative contracts. Our corporate aims are to provide the richest and thereby the most useful nation with a ‘gung ho’ appearance. In consideration of, though of no relevance to, and in our continued mission statement; publicly available; more or less; at WWW:BlackWaterCertainties.com of a mutually beneficial goal to prosper and which has already been stated are merely there to ensure our limited yet lucrative existence, well supported by the universal desire to kill on both sides of the aisle, in whatever name the deluded dictate.’ Keep your eye on TinChapeauHardball.com for breaking developments.”
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The functionary was too stoned and fascinated to take his cue to turn off the mike. Thinking she was “off the air” the female announcer said; “You guys suck. ............. Hmnnn.
.......... Sorry, the rationality is not there now. I guess that’s what happens when one is infiltrated by un-talented, low wage pretenders to art.” The blue screen of death overtook any ideas of cultural, entertaining, farcical, educational or any other as yet un-defined contrivances of the dollar worshipping world. Despite the limitations engendered by the incessant heat and drought, falsely confident with popular support, the relentless, un-disputed one took advantage of a compliant, cooperative, socially proper, deluded seeker of Peace; unable to correctly view their misunderstanding as just another “New Age”
fabrication of all that which seems proper in its craving to eradicate. The sweet dream was the illusion; so real a long time ago; now a cruel joke; unexplainable as is all humor.
Without prompt, Jack envisioned those days. Youthful days.
All is possible days. Warm days. Not too hot. Saved by the western breeze. Days when there was not a thought of war. Days long gone. Denied for clouded millenniums. Right there in front of his face. But, despite his “Rip Van Winkle” attempt to block out recent events and mercifully sleep, the converse is insistently here now.
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In Jack’s lack of confusion he couldn’t help but remember his old dreams; their fleeting visions too quickly disappearing in the new daylight of every “new” morning; a horribly cruel joke or a manifestation of a hope never before witnessed. Jack knew that invariably it was another hideously bad bet to bank on a stake dependent on that which has never been seen; ostensibly a “proof” of that which has never been documented and credentialed to have happened; inevitably a ludicrous sadness.
............. Jack was unable to make any differentiations between his pretensions to infinite thought and his severely limited physical capabilities; no matter how kind the attestations to those he loved. For the moment they showed an unmistakable, warm eyed welcome; his first. He was not totally deficient of experience; never to be said as something falsely bragging, or, on the other hand, seen as something seen as the sad portrayal and physical depiction of another of us losers in need of that possible warmth. Our dreams and wishes for the wonder of the relentless heat; incorrectly construed as ideas severely lacking. Though our hearts want to exclaim and exult the possibility necessary for life itself; we hear them convincingly say that the odds are on their side. To not argue their point, and as contradictory as their position is; as their employee we are allowed to be mercifully deleted in an attempt to pay appropriate tribute.
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At least since Shelley, the horror has always reigned and effectively killed. The odds are on their side. DFW had two decades prior made an effective case of the drug dependent tolerable impossibility. ........... Unlike him, we are still here. ............. Maybe. ............. In some sort of a wished for dalliance into another dilettante’s diversion into the real, the presented images are not those one would expect to have been the main presentations of Tosh; categorically not sufficient to dream the dreams of Marley.
Instead, Jack thought he saw the borders of the possible lives he may have led. Without need, he laughingly held himself back from a return journey, as his long gone father had done before him full of other thoughts and maybe one of them shit, gratuitously and thereby seemingly a part of his creational need and place within. The personalized thought overwhelmed him, despite his various attempts seen as another in the series of diversionary, commercial endeavors. As usual, he was obliged to be kept at the distance of a guess, while feeling certain; certain in being alone and disdained if nothing else .
Same old scene. ................... Ground more worn down than the path through the elm forest. ............ Becoming a goddam reviewer. Laughs. ..........
The inbreds over in Santa Fe didn’t get there by appearing as being reasonable; though they have convinced all that they
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are utilizing reason. It’s extremely difficult to attempt to explain. The boys at state headquarters know that you don’t have all that much time.
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#29- It All Passes Before You Chop-Chop-Swallows on Ritalin
Out of his head or too much into it, his clearest of thoughts was that all this divergent deliberation could merely be an overly convenient excuse for him not to do what he had to do. In fact it wasn’t a matter of “could merely be,” it was a matter of “no doubt was.” Jack got disciplined, and focussed on the illusory, contradictory pragmatism of his desire; perhaps those two words oxymoronic or three dimensionally sound, though presently devoid of plastic glasses for the un-initiated.
“Cut it!!” screamed in his head as he punched his thigh.
Jack checked his gun. He opened the front door and fired it randomly, hitting an elm. Alertly, Justice picked his head up from its comfort on the couch. Seeing that everything was all right, he deeply sighed and again closed his eyes. The gun was ready for business and so was Jack. Nine shots left and all he needed was two; one in the chest and the other in the head.
After a few days of his shadowing routine Jack found that the kid had a consistent pattern. He would accost him when he passed through the wooded open lot at the edge of the “gentrified”
quarters, bordering the “hood.” Other than the residents only a few rookie cops ever went there. The perimeter. The unknown edge. Scary beyond dystopian writers’ fantasies. This was no
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fantasy. It was as real as piss. LATINO. Cut off shorts and hot, brown legs. Nines. Unpaid bills. Repo men. Broken chain link fences. Adobes pre-dating town incorporation. Respect required.
Smoke. Crack. Chillin’ out. Shots ringing out ........ every night. The blood of another brother unable to pay; maybe a scam.
What’s not real on Cesar Chavez Road?
As the scheduled “Abducted by Aliens,” already in progress, replaced Ms. Excitement’s rendition, Jack used his middle finger to click the appropriate button. He realized that if something went wrong he might not be coming back, so he gave Justice a gigantic hug and told him; “Be good. I love you.” Justice stared with disbelief, as if to say; “Can’t a dog get a little nap.”
Jack widened the opening of a window to its fullest extent, saying; “Just in case you’re too goddam fat, fella.” He left.
The elms were so tightly packed in their full early bloom that the sun’s insistence had little effect on Calle de la Congelacion visibility, but the heat had gotten through. There’s really no way a leafy canopy can stop that. Their seeds were clearly visible in their off-white incarnation and were ready to fly to parts unknown. All they needed was a little breeze.
Jack’s key started the old clunker first shot and he was on his way. The lack of a functional radio left Jack’s auditory distractions to the hum of the engine. They only changed pitch in reaction to the pressure of his right foot on the appropriate
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pedal. It was easy as the machine was compliant. ............
But, this effortlessly manageable system was also conducive to sleep; not the best of postures when behind the wheel. So again, Jack’s mind drifted randomly.
He was still sufficiently in the grip of the moment to first consider a practicality. He had expressly acquired and now donned wraparound shades and a head-covering red bandana in an effort to make him personally difficult to identify. His car was another story. In the most down-to-earth and matter-of-fact of his senses he knew that he was stuck with the old girl. But, he didn’t mind at all. Besides, she was smartly decorated with plates appropriated from the police impound yard. Though sometimes during her brief winter with him she took a bit of coaxing, in the recent heat she turned on whenever he was able to insert the right key. Whatever the status needs of some, to him a car’s function was only to engage and take him someplace else. He had quickly figured that if his ride was identified he could say that it had been stolen. He knew that that kind of shit does indeed happen. It was an okay cover for a minor mistake. Though everyone would likely first conclude that it was kind of what started Jack’s recent journey which was easily survivable, as long as a jury of his unenthusiastic peers did not have to consider the rigors of Murder One. Man One was a wrist slap.
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Propicio Road made more than the usual “friendly” right hellos on the wrong day. The “important” residents waiting on the side streets often darted out when there was no room for them to dart out, which had led to more than a handful of local incidents; and a new outrageous fine if someone was killed in the process. Needless to say the law was passed after a death; this time that of a bicycler. Today Jack experienced three darts. He was being especially careful and fortunately so, as he was obliged to jam on the still functional brake to avoid vehicular altercations which all too often culminated in a rear ending “accident,” a severe “error,” especially when one is un-insured, improperly plated, and un-represented. He was contented to mutter “stupid ass mutha” to the windshield.
The evaluation of the fairness and adequacy provided by the Supreme Court “progression” into “original intent” passed in the conservatively dominated court, helped by the 100% support of the turncoat minority, commonly known as Clarence, a temporarily ignored hint and surreptitious precedent for the false “new ideas” promised and totally un-delivered by the Bahamian interloper, with adequate mentality to respond to any reporter’s, paper filling question with the reply of; “What he said.” Of the required “preponderance of the evidence,” the lowest of possibly envisioned bars established in the world of justice, required the talents of a conceptually inclined person
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at the highest, drug induced of levels; that requirement another obstacle to the, doubtful of any relevance, dream of an open road.
Hell, devoid of the Supremest of Court’s media reports reflective of their owner purchased or “without a reasonable doubt” doctrine, morphed into a westernized version of a yin which of necessity, sought to appear as a yang when a decision was ducked for being absolutely essential. Someone no longer had to do it. The participants in the legal profession have been destined to the following of the arrows, despite some having had the highest of youthful hopes. They knew of the “Big Chill.”
They have been left to be the advocates of dispute for whichever side paid. They have correctly seen that the biased and pathetically simplistic evidence which has been rightly or wrongly presented to them effectively pushes the best of minds into a corner, in which their only possible, pragmatic choices are to assume the honesty of the legalistic presumption of a
“truth” that they know to be as effectively biased as anything else. They see no alternative. And with the scantest of other evidence, the consistently illogical eye witness testimony and the consequent limitation of choices available, in the inevitable absence of corroborating eye-witness’ testimony, the one who is behind is always the one who is found guilty.
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The result of the predictable and predatory encroachment,
“important” people enter Propicio Road from the side streets named things like Camino de Mercedes and Porsche Carretera. In his head Jack kept repeating “914 Camino de Victor,” but for some reason he found that to keep silently re-saying it over and over coincided with his back now being un-comfortably congruent with the worn out and peeling, spinal column of his driver’s seat.
Jack had made no effort to cover the sun dried, leatherette, backbone. Its curled, stiff and insistent, hard edges were naturally acquired and yet they still provided comfort when he was in the right position; relaxed and sitting behind the wheel. But, today he was tense. He promised himself to get a quilt and throw it over the whole thing the next time he had to kill somebody; adjusted by other things like work, internet searches and reverie taking precedence. Having amused his head, his back must have had a similar response and the determined, gun-loaded-less-one-shell driver found the literally
“on point” posture both tolerable and humorously bogus. It was as if this repetition might serve as a conduit; Jack uninterested in diodes; to remain focussed on his objective this important day; his distracted head superseded by his “914 Camino de Victor” body. He thought both things were un-intentional; but tried his best to concentrate on the necessary; his ready sten
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gun. Theories were good for intellectuals and personally idle moments, but had no use whatsoever when it was time to get things done.
Jack methodically drove out of Propicio, stopping for the morning dog-walkers and horse-riders at the ignored crosswalks.
No one else bothered to stop for them, despite the perpendicularly painted white lines and an un-enforced ordinance or two. So why should he? “Just in case” was his cautious thinking today. That may not have been the smartest thing to do, as he ran the risk of being rear ended by someone in a hurry, but Jack surmised that it was preferable for that to happen than being stopped for some “cause” by a cop, while he was carrying an unregistered weapon. More importantly it was a habit he didn’t want to break as he would never be able to forgive himself if he hit a dog or a horse. The shops, emblazoned with names intended to invoke a chic air of privilege were conducive to the asking of the highest of prices for their recycled wares.
The merchants were locally known to be all too subject to the least degree of negotiation procedures at the tongue tips of the graceless, savvy and consequently secure Propicians. Outsiders paid the full price.
After an agonizing ten minutes on 30MPH Propicio Road, he crossed the porous border and entered the “big” town of Mesa Grande; the locally disdained source of most of Propicio’s
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“wealth.” Cars sped up and jockeyed for a position, only to be negated at the next red light. He sped up to 45 and bore to the left of the now two-lane-in-each-direction, highway-road-byway-thoroughfare-pavement. His eyes nervously alternated between the road and his rear view mirror. When looking behind, he fixed on the advances of a belligerent, recent model Honda, driven by a short-haired, presumably female admirer of an-afternoon-hostess devoid of the charming dance and smiles, who was right on his ass. Jack was annoyed at the possibility of an “accident” which might be caused by the laissez faire, rush-hour, tail-gating, strong possibility of violation. It would have messed up his day of seemingly clear objective with a useless distraction.
Illogically, he ignored the open right lane, and slowed down, time on his side. If the mother dis-respecting, non-entity known to some as “Spidey D,” didn’t get it today, he would surely get it tomorrow; 70 thousand days as opposed to 69,999; big deal. In the predominant moment, Jack got mistakenly enchanted and self-congratulatory with his attempt to frustrate his rear-seen views of the seemingly hurried and harried afternoon basic TV wannabee in currently fashionable petty rebellion. He-she was apparently desirous of going as fast as that which he had previously done sans a butch head do. Time and again, the Honda sped toward Jack’s bumper, braking at the last possible moment, either out of frustration or in an attempt to be intimidating. Something
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clicked in his head and Jack made the snarliest of smirks as the Honda refused to take the easy option of switching lanes and passing him. It now seemed obvious to him that this bitch was intent on giving the false appearance to her miniscule rear view mirror audience of being one who “heroically” wanted to break all of the rush hour records in the convenient absence of personal introspection. Jack’s mirth resided in his painfully obvious conclusion that she gave no sign of knowing the rules had truly been abandoned sometime prior to 1980, when the Thin Prince went straight out of tedium. The length of her dyed blonde hair was only superseded by her obligatory and introductory centric dance, performed in the most bucket of leatherette seats.
Jack decided to have some fun. He didn’t realize that he had allowed himself to become distracted. It was fun; perverse or otherwise a boring detail. He figured that in the unlikely chance that push came to shove, he had a gun capable of putting her out of her miserable delusion; and that none of the cops he had known would give enough of a shit about that to thoroughly investigate the death of another un-talented-Eminem-with-a cunt.
With the audacity of her ugly, demanding face in his relentless mirror, he turned the offensive mirror to the road, which he knew she would see in her forced attempt at an intimacy denied.
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He strongly suspected that this action would curtail her enjoyment.
He then chose to speed up, until he was in tandem with the elderly, Civic-ally propelled, couple to his right; at which point he slowed to their speed; twenty. The driver seemed to be smiling, or in her un-mistakenly, but in well taught fear, was burdened with, and thereby inevitably covered in all too early shades of the top half of her hopeful and illogically contradictory crossed eyes; keeping them straight ahead while her similarly-aged, male companion concentrated on the video game he held in his lap.
“Perfect,” Jack thought, while the aggressively maneuvering woman (TAMW) kept switching lanes to no avail; upping her ante to blasts from her horn. After what seemed like only a minute of bliss, Jack’s countenance sunk, as he watched the elderly couple exit to his right. The green overhead sign indicated “#29-Academy Road;” and now the right lane was open.
TAMW turned on the un-necessary, but to her overly important precision of a dime turn, re-positioned herself from behind Jack to the open right, gunned the engine, and furiously passed with a shaking left middle finger displayed through her open window.
Jack laughed out loud as she squiggled around him and finally passed, as through her open windows he thought that he
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heard David Bowie singing an inferior studio version of
“Changes,” long played and gone changes.
In Jack’s incomplete understanding of her; her slowness something relaxing, maybe the sublime attraction, she seemed to convey a personal, guilty happiness she possibly considered as deference to un-scientifically based dreams; just like another money induced, Sal or Harry, wished for paper illusion. Whatever works. .............. The thought enveloped Jack in his most contrary and defiant of natures. He thought; “No matter the proof. If we all believed it, wouldn’t that alone, in and of itself make it real? If we all wished hard enough Tinkerbell would again fly. She did. I know because I saw it myself on the big screen!” He then recalled the disappearances of Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy. .......... But, sometimes he thought that he sensed the presence of the Wicked Witch of the West and that she had given herself a new name; Ophelia; as in a wilting wave accompanied by a lack of posture.
His youthfully anticipated journey was quickly crowd grumbled into faux reticence. So, much that of the safety of an originally glorified view of being “special” evolved into the belief that he was just a disdained, dis-credited, harshly off track, un-popular jerk. Later insights indicated that both views were wrong; while his belief in them during their times served
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as a self-fulfilling prophecy. So, he was alone, contradictorily sequestered and contradictorily hidden in the contradictory anonymity of the crowd; perhaps divine providence’s kindness un-noticed. As he had finally identified the elusive villain, a vengeance was soon to be his; made possible through the justice provided by an improvisational metal worker who made stens.
......... With a desire of both heart and mind for those to come of not being just another lauded fake, having the acclimation to some sort of perceived negative desire to not have anyone else having to feel what Jack lives with every day; at the core; he wanted now just to kill his half-assed, punk, accidental assassin. In that, he fancied himself some sort of one day Bowie hero, in that he would eliminate one of the world’s cretins, making the place safer for the others. The fact was that even if that was true, it would represent a .00000001%
improvement, but Jack was not now a numbers man. He felt no twinge of guilt, and thought; “For their own good, people really should examine the consequences of their actions before they get their ass in the sling.”
Jack, like us all, knows that in his banality he is condemned to the black-white of the existence of, and the insistence of some sort of required, diseased partnership with some inoculation which was succeeded in being a Hollywood god or goddess of some entity Eros effectively used. He also strongly
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suspected that he was likely just another middle man, in a long boring series. “Party, party, party;” in the banal phrase’s attempt to “update” congeniality. Joke, joke, joke. Cunfusing, confusing. ....... When stone cold sober. Term-dated, supposedly up-dated and passing for that in the great halls; the term as incomplete as the four point oh, oh, oh. Does anyone condescend to pay the least bit of any attention?
This morning, Jack’s focus was on the necessary observance of the black pavement, strewn with lines and generally ignored signs, upon which his clunker’s wheels and he were grudgingly and condescendingly dependent. The only other option he had ever fantasized in his privileged, “Strawberry Fields” some odd years of calendar-measured existence, at the time believing that he had seen things “which grow so incredibly high,” now suffering in a drought which will no doubt end, maybe after his demise, was the hard realization of the time proven “fact” that if he didn’t want to starve to death writing Sufi poetry under a prolific and disdained tree; the highest possible achievement of mankind according to the likes of non-doctrinaire Rumi, he had no other choice than to mess up this kid. ............. Jack thought; “I wish all paths didn’t lead to Rome; but where is there a sign leading to a road that goes someplace else?”
It wasn’t his attempt to warm his car, in his own driveway, which had started all the garbage. The easily, cop-caught,
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little, piece of s*** had no meaningful existence to begin with, and had no valid claim to anything more than a likely predilection to destroy, in his inability to understand and create.
As within the self-confining walls of the falsely induced and further exacerbated illusion of choice, non-pronouncements of time itself, almost in mind; if any; are at the kindest; the little bot was stuck in the reminiscence of its, not his other than through a vague inheritance, perversions of centuries prior Machiavelli; triumphantly confident in his effectively inflicted rules supportive of a winning disease; later seen as a conquering worm. In the man-made clock’s struggle for its own existence and relevance, through its monied, and thereby loud megaphone, we have been indoctrinated with its charade. There is no choice on that one. Whoever the inconsequence and whatever the necessary bent and possibly broken fabric has devised to be in its current advantage, a concocted, yet another self-serving scenario, which has confounded its detractors, purposely choosing, in their inadequate, cold, logical calculation to be oblivious to any idea of the love inherently born in us, another distraction of-the-utmost importance; that being its irrelevance, in the acceptance of the idea of death. It has successfully hidden the datum which suggests that the “logic”
employed is completely based on the most banal of “facts,” that
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which has been ineffectively demonstrable only today. Physics assumes the role of Jayzee, sans the beat. The easily-union-card-granting halls of academe lend their academically recognized, “Wizard” credentials to whoever has the wherewithal to pay their price, suitable for framing. The true Wizard hides in silent disgust.
Their hallowed credentials entitle some of the holders thereof into the bourgeois-conducive entrapments, envied by those with proper papers not satisfactory to the AKC. His debt-inducing, “science” will continually rule in the present, UNTIL
THE INEVITABLE, NEXT DISCOVERY of a new instrument, a new tool, to be made useful by a “science” which has overtaken old religion in the West; only to replace it with another tithe gathering bit of worshipped imperfection.
At one time, nature worship was a seeming alternative; its dictums constant, un-deniable, simple and obvious. To say otherwise required the “skills” of a blind person, totally out of touch. There seems to have been someone’s idea of a joke, that these same people were extremely vocal, and yet very minor players in their chosen field of the observable sciences. Jack’s publicly feigned dis-interest in what-passes-for-the-impracticality-of-the-ignored-evidence, too banal, and ultimately subject to the “You have a fantastic grasp of the obvious” condescending dismissal of the pretentious blind.
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As one who had once wished to be a dutiful partner he has pretended to be as jovial as Penny’s public pronouncements, using her “improvement” flyers and rhetoric, and is generally, thereby not conveying her dissatisfaction. From decades of experience he had learned that it is difficult to accurately articulate; less a fear of the fire than a fear of burdening anyone with the “omen” that it is cold outside when auto thermometers registered single digit positive or negative degrees. The ugliest of Palahniuk’s popular perceptions were precisely that, a hidden whimpering inability delivered by and on a drone, characterizable as PPP or pee-pee-pee; the choice that of the one who forked over the $9.99 plus shipping, credit card charge. To Jack, it seemed to be of minor justice that Palahniuk’s name did not lend itself to anything daring to be imitative of Chekov or Kafka. Try to imagine, in polite company, attempting to use the most descriptive adjectives of Palahniuk or Palahniuk-esque “writing.” It would be embarrassing or stupid for him as there aren’t any. He said; “Writing is verbs.” It may be an appropriately bright stance, insofar as a choice over lessers of evil, as it leads to a certain degree of popularity with repulsed readers. While his “best” was a failure to the more outgoing movie attendees; it may well be an attestation to people’s unwillingness to see what they don’t want to. Sometimes things do make sense. In the real world is there anyone
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sufficiently stupid to fall for the extremely flawed scam depicted in his second best; “Choke?” probably not, but it can be seen as symbolic. The garbage is only relevant insofar as it conveys an ugly picture to those who do not know any better; kind of a blubbery, chromosome opulent, fat ass on Windows; rather than a chair.
That was the currently best culmination of a practical hope, PH an oxymoron, only to those with whom one sought to efficiently and expeditiously end exchange; EEE, AAA, ZZZ, or FFF, if you had not noticed. Maybe “Chucky,” as in Barris, or disturbed-kid-movie-anti-hero-decades-less-antecedent, or a
“joking” derision of the starring character might almost suffice. However this thought required a kindness not a part of demonically smiling Chucky. Despite the liberal and “New Age”
dictates which were able to make the most sacred of their imaginary cows fashionable; a pathetically easy target given what had gone before, it has been readily apparent, in the vastness of times prior and time current, that their nicey-nicey-holding-of-hands-and-praying-shit has little relevance to anyone’s future, other than the “wonderful” participants’ own need to consider themselves a good person or persons, in their own head or heads. The totality suffers as the eastern, western mix; an attempted illustration leaning eastward, of the most
“complete” of blendings is brought to the table by the cranky
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maid, defiant toward the chef. The possible understanding is therefore affected negatively, even before the consideration of the possibilities of self-congratulatory contamination, a possible regurgitation of the self-proclaimed and self-deluded denial of the long prior testimony at the advent of the ME
GENERATION; necessary at the time, but now a hindrance after the time has passed. While they had obligatorily chuckled, in an attempt to hide the reality within themselves; back a bit, no pun intended, they acted as if the idea was abhorrent to them.
Maybe it was, but that thought didn’t compel them to make any sort of adjustment. For the rest of the world this might well have been a blessing.
The insatiable will to survive, seems to prescribe another PP on that “hurt child,” we all there in truth and yet bombarded with a training to be falsely “not-so-laughably-obvious.” We now know that if we openly cry, they will find that weak and on a more sophisticated level, a DFW-type of an impossible to ascertain height of mountain and depth of valley, our relative positioning without the benefit of knowing which. In the saddest of current cases, he or she, tell stories of how they have had no choice, a result of their having buried degrees unfairly used and abused by the powers that be. They can be compelling. They can also be well practiced, thinking they know the game, though at a level the masters refrain from comment as there is no doubt
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that the original concept of incarnation embodied a hope previously unseen. “Darn That Dream,” right? Dexter a bit later, I think; Sarah a bit later than that, I think, Billy wherever; and all whenever they had access to a live mike. Miles in his cool blue period and others in between.
Who came first? Competition? Immaterial, if so inclined.
Their mis-perceived attempt at a gentleness the other will not respect. They have made it into an art form; perpetual in form and mind. The question is simply; “Who are they?” Many of the flim-flam men and women speak as if they were innocent victims of some sort of “conspiracy,” to which we are all un-knowingly subject. Rather than taking the hard responsibility for the harvest of their prior actions, they try to make the rest of us feel guilty for their lazy, un-talented and ultimately useless station. They inform us that the scam, emanating from the most currently proficient of the earthly, and in the case of the most lost, a failed movie-driven derivation of some sort of “matrix”
they cannot find, picture, explain or understand. One has the free will to believe in the high, the low, or the abyss beneath.
Then there is the whole disgusting reptile-alien thing.
As a result of the history we have witnessed, too often through TV, we full well believe in the regularity of “scam.”
Insofar as we can yet glean, in the US, optimists think it is one with Saunders’ depiction of a “Persuasion Nation.” The short
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stories left Jack wishing for expansion. For the simplest of un-enquiring minds, the pavement with its pot-holes, coupled with the scurrying dogs in harness, their eyes asking why there has to be a leash and why the pace has to be so slow, served as another manifestation of the potential of what might easily be real. The largely ignored metallic signs, in official black, white and red, at the sides of the road said; “Stop,” “Watch for School Bus,” “Horse Crossing Area,” “Slow Down, Curve,” and numerous other glossy reminders of the rules of the road some faceless thing had dictated.
It seems to very likely be some sort of swindle-for-your-own-good or a deference to the still fashionable, though decades old “dumbing down,” that if opposed to their view of “perverse”
concepts of spiritual beauty and of more relevance, through earth bound concepts and failings at any of their, high or low, wishes for or calculations of a scientific “absolute truth,”
that any such notions have been concocted, surreptitiously promoted and encouraged by the authorities, an un-intended, Freudian as opposed to Jungian, death wish of sorts in free distribution. The fact that the roads do need stop signs here and there serves as a “reason” for their being placed everywhere.
All too simplistic in the idea’s pretentions to demise in the doubting face of the learned, it now barely exists in
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outlying regions. Those who preach otherwise should be obliged to enlighten the rest of us, in their invariable attempt at taking their fee. Don’t click the appropriate button and laugh more than the “nut shot” YouTube hilarities provide freely. If there is any deficiency gleaned from our reticence to pay bills on time, it is predictably, yet popularly seen as congruent to that which has been interpreted as 1950-ish kitsch and that silent testimony of distrust.
The thought which is deemed as incomprehensible by the majority, is obviously consistent with a popular notion of the logo of “A DETRIMENT TO LIFE ITSELF,” espoused by the corporately similar, successors to big government; a purchased excursion into someone else’s calendar; top of page, pictorial splendor irresistible to parents with the little ones in tow.
In a calculable, audacious, and successful attempt to appear to be all or nothing, the middling choose to be constrained by an edited excuse, in a perfunctory, half-hearted attempt to portray a pedanticism, inoffensive to the condemned habitués of the oh-so-nice, US Midwest. A Pulitzer or Nobel Prize is born of the US
purchasing power commanded like the UK MBE; all too acquiescent to a nothing endemic in the “middle-brow” reviews which inundated the mass market; their sophistication from playing in Peoria gleaned as educated; or at least clever. Through their
“New Yorker” subscription they fancied themselves as “up to date
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in Kansas City,” unaware of the sarcasm contained in the prior Broadway song.
To momentarily get back to the sad stories of the young scammers, Greven and Paolini included, it is without question that bottom line, they are sold with nothing more than one click, just as any other commodity. Nietzsche’s philosophical thoughts have been irreparably been damaged by his supposed association with the successful usurpation of the failed artist, loud-mouthed, and bought Hitler. Hitler; Hister by way of Nostradamus or anti-Christ in the Evangelical portion of the US; it is of no matter. If not for him, it would have been another espousing the same popular, electable, philosophical hatred. It was then the right time and history does have a way of repeating itself; the second time in farce; the third time maybe the end for all but the clan-destined sabres. Be wary of those who espouse freedom for what is already free and innocuous; while they simultaneously espouse “necessary” restrictions on things granted as of right. The bearded front men for the sabres try to convince you otherwise.
To back up into the dealings with the forgers, thieves, seekers of sympathy, and the well-schooled users of what is deemed moral who pose as artists; it is un-equivocally consistent that if you choose to subsidize the sad stories they use as excuses, as if they were the first to experience
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inequity, you will be taken; more and more and more. A school shooting which may well have been staged is an excuse to ban a citizen’s right to own a gun. Everyone knows damn well the bad guys will continue to get them. But, it is impossible to argue otherwise in the face of ten dead kids. Yet, it will be worse if not successfully argued. The masters aren’t necessarily the brightest people on the planet; but they do have a PhD in foolproof plans. As they wish the result is that it is just the innocent who are left unprotected. Those most ridiculously professing their false “humanitarianism” in their money and fame-loving existence, are extremely proficient in getting on 2016 airways; strewn with un-challenging hosts.
Such a digression. Jack lost track of time measured by boredom, as well as that measured by distance. All he really needed to know, was that he was on the road, pistol in pocket, on the way to meet the dumb f*** who had chosen to screw up the life of the wrong person.
A swarm of winged things, at a height well below the peaks of the “new” Mickey D signs, devoid of golden arches, got Jack’s attention. They were on the small side and light brown in color.
They were apparently unable to glide at all, and consequently had to beat their wings like bats. Since it was daylight Jack hoped they were swallows rather than rabid bats. The incessant flapping of their leathery wings and their coloring; which was
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closer to a real black bat than the least prurient manifestation of any bleached out swallow anyone had yet seen, seemed a strong vote for bat. But, they flurried back and forth over the road, and dove for nothing. Back and forth; back and forth; back and forth with a bravado. They seemed to have settled on a place; perhaps an airborne home. They entertained no digressions into that which could probably not have been a less rewarding ground on any discernable perimeter; north, south, east or west; up, down, left or right; as only they could semi-righteously know the “truth” in the headlines of the all so “well-intentioned”
garbage chuckers. The simple fact that the birds-bats knew all too well was that if they allowed themselves to be intellectually viewed as oddities; that they would consequently only be allowed to be studied and considered as half-assed in their deemed as inconsequential, dismissible as ignorant, involvement with things. The “half-assed” assessment was not of their concern; it was the annoyance at being studied. In considering both of the possible outcomes; their being seen as
“worthy” and their being seen as “unworthy,” they opted for an answer of “none of the above OR below.”
The birds-bats had already taken on the much larger societally-relevant “issues,” sans the “benefit” of a credentialed psychologist or psychiatrist; as they also knew that the seekers-of more-pill-business will invariably interject
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somewhere. A diagnosis of ADD would result in the un-wanted numbing effects of Ritalin.
A statement which indicates some sort of familiarity with
“Songs of Innocence,” to the exclusion of “Songs of Experience”
is required to remain out of various forms of the cage. An experienced person who knows how to elude the authorities is often considered schizophrenic. Without intricate gamesmanship, there is no win-win situation possible as the system has a desire, bias and structure which favors loss, unless one has wings.
Within the confines of their low trajectory there was nothing discernable to dive for; yet they kept repeating this procedure. The white lined, hot, black asphalt contained nothing edible. Maybe they got their kicks in this manner; sensing that their back and forth, back and forth; was an un-settling annoyance to the drivers and passengers in the vehicles on the road. The whole thing didn’t make any sense to Jack, which confounded any hope of classification Jack might have entertained.
He was getting close to his planned, final destination.
Jack entered the town grid. Commercial establishments, even if still blessed with paint, would never have to worry about being placed in the Met; or even a non-shooting gallery. They were built when Mesa Grande had more similarities to Propicio than it
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did Oakland. Alost half were now occupied only by the people who Jack and Manny used to pick up; their asses now on the stoops; and the other half of the storefronts ran the gamut from pawn shops and porn shops to “gentlemen’s” clubs, fitness clubs and retailers of clubs and machetes. There was one particular store which had always gotten his fleeting attention. Whenever he and Manny did their business, Jack made special note of one establishment which appeared to be architecturally consistent with the styles of the 1940’s. Its sign, hung from a rusted iron holder which was placed crossways, consisted of three natural, unstained, wooden boards and was painted in many colors with the name “ALL VALUES KNOWN.” It had to have drawn attention as the apparatus swung and creaked in the slightest of zephyrs. Jack had never seen anyone entering or leaving; making him initially think that this was just another abandoned commercial creation.
The store windows were draped with a shoddy and perhaps mawkish, marginally torn black curtain which hung from a tarnished, gold-leafed bar, allowing light which seemed ever-present to be seen at the irregular, meandering top and the tear. On some days a neon dragon was placed between the curtain and the glass, which shone in as many hues as the sign. It was also curious that none of the junkies, meth-freaks or working girls ever occupied its stoop. So, Jack brightly concluded that some legitimate business was going on inside and that the street people did not want to
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mess with the owners; suggestive of a Jesuit presence. His curiosity led to many vows of checking it out tomorrow. Jack knew all too well about tomorrow; and today was no exception for him; as it was again today, and he kept his foot to the pedal.
Instinctively, Jack checked for the presence of his gun with his free right hand and found it where he left it; right in place.
The un-impeded, blistering sun was in a more ambitious area; the overhead. Its placement was well known to him and every other cop as a place to avoid; Icarus and all of that.
Eyes fixed on the ground, he was in a “downtown” part of Mesa Grande, as yet not “discovered” by the fashionably striving gentrification crew. The spray-painted murals clinging to the walls depicted obviously enhanced, light brown skinned women covered only where absolutely necessary for a grudging PG
rating. The parts which confused those who made note of them were the grand and stylized letters beneath. As a result of his cop experience, Jack knew them to be gang related symbols warning outsiders to keep away. For one sufficiently bi-lingual it was much more direct than most white south westerners appreciated, and perhaps as blunt as the officially posted road signs which, in yellow, blared “Curve Ahead,” or in red requested a “Yield.” But, not being generally recognized as that which commands sanctioned respect it chose to proceed with an;
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“I don’t give a shit” bravado; audaciously bordering on the overstated and garish. “Deal with IT mutha,” the hood’s tagging artist says what he says; not so much because he still believes in the principle of free expression, but most likely because he has learned that where one is born is where one will die in America; platitudes, exceptions and the “American dream,” of some significance to some stupid fuck’s ass. He dons his glad rags and tries to forget that the fact of the matter is that the
“mutha” has already adequately dealt with IT best he could; having had decades of practice. He never tells his brothers and sisters that he would have liked to have been born elsewhere. It would sound un-duly insulting, it doesn’t matter anyway, and he wouldn’t. With all the talent bestowed on Basquiat he couldn’t handle it either.
So, he does his spray can thing in the dark of the night and attempts to be offensive to that which passes for socially acceptable in the high priced, “non-commercial” arenas; knowing that it’s a very old game. Shit, at least he had to have been turned on by the scantily clad curves, the size of a Pollack major work. He pounds his chest and says; “Me barrio,” in reality, but in essence not very different than Jean Genet’s introspection.
Jack periodically put one eye on the weathered and fading murals. He offhandedly mused how the mere addition of age had
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softened the originally screeching pastels. He realized that this observation might be more acceptable down here, if rather than words like “weathered, fading and age” he said something to do with; “sun, wind and rain,” or better yet; “the acquisition of an un-duplicatable patina.” But, since he was currently devoid of the “pleasure” of speaking to someone he stuck with his instinctive vernacular. The politically correct euphemisms would be saved for polite company; his amusement indirectly and simultaneously proportional to theirs. Jack checked, and his gun was still there and he drove on. He again managed to amuse himself; this time accidentally. The words of Yes’ “Close to the Edge” imposed themselves right in the center of his head. He wondered if those words had any relevance to the people chillin’
in the grid. ......... He decided; “Of course they do. All you have to do is set them to a salsa rhythm.”
From his ancient cop days, he didn’t truly recall, making it almost new to him, how much the roads wound around in his destination; “Nob Hill.” It was the most current of Mesa Grande’s proper citadels, replete with newly installed speed bumps, octagonal, mostly red stop signs and old farts in baggy, off-pink shorts pretending to be tending their gardens, as they watched for intruders. The three external, potential obstacles to his mission were likely just a function of his prior
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inattention. He immediately dismissed his prior, sophistristic thoughts as it was of more importance for him to concentrate on his efforts to be unobtrusive and in ostensible conformity with the rules of the road in one of the aged, but still striving sections of the “Land of Enchantment.” He briefly considered performing some not obviously sarcastic rendition of the innocuous, banal, yet expected “smile and wave” routine. But, he decided that the condition of his car would be too much of an offset; better to minimize pictures and as surreptitiously as possible, just do the deed. Get in and get out without becoming famous in the process. He thought of an old movie and mumbled;
“Thanks, Mickey,” as he fumbled for his sten and again found the comfort of the un-traceable, steel brace in his pocket. The home-made thing was undeniably righteous as all fucking hell; cold as something north of hell; and unbearably warm as the Tropics when fired; just waiting for an irrational pull of the little oiled trigger. It was Jack’s best of friends.
Jack’s de-classe vee-hick-kul was again the object of the inadequately concealed notice of Sinclair Lewis’ burghers. A century later in 2016, those at the side, still fancied themselves as “restorationally,” sociably proper, and simultaneously “New Age,” acting as if they were unaware of the obvious contradiction; and that’s saying it nicely. Their straightforward, duplicitous, or pragmatically displayed belief
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in their self-perfection-ideal’s path was perhaps a conveniently un-detected, piss-assed, pattern of pious pathology. Whatever; most of Lewis’ characters had been somewhere convinced that they meant well, and were doing their best. Those, in their mandatorily and/or congratulatory, prescribed requisite of shelter, often referred to as their “camp,” a no doubt unintentional, though subconsciously possible reference to the Ludlum “Theatre of the Ridiculous” depiction of that
“politically” always unsaid, constantly denied any allegations which said that they lacked the full understanding of their innate irrational and self-defeating need to re-create their failed and abandoned gardens always stood guard at the sides.
They tried to forget, blank out in the cordiality of toddy time, or otherwise be blind to the possible motivations of those professing to be on their side. In that which they unclearly displayed on the surface; the result of a lifetime of rejection and ultimately un-answerable questions, the “new burghers” were sufficiently audacious or desperate in their “hope” that this time the same old thing would work. See the most simplistic definition of insanity. Those most pure of heart, relied on their most imperfect of eyes; all they had with which to see; and thought that they saw that “purity” and the yet unreached goal of “goodness,” in all the contradictions contained within the supposed brilliances, all later seen as value judgements
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thrown in one’s face was again a subject which required
“advanced study,” at the same time, oddly, in need of no meaningful elucidation at all; as if someone had just come up with another twisted marketing ploy; suitably impenetrable.
In his ignorance of what he had not yet been able to articulate, but had seen time and again, through his cop gig, as a mathematically calculable function of some relationship between perceived privilege and perceived misfortune, he again engaged his basest of instincts. Some referred to that as
“common sense;” others said that “common sense” was extremely un-common. Others required some sort of impossible definition of the term. In this limited context they were “friends,” though at the same time did their best to distance themselves from anything which could possibly be interpreted as meaning something akin to “common.” Dexter perfectly inarticulated with his almost Coltrane sax, original or at least not irrelevant; Holiday asked; “What is and what is not?”
Jack observed; doing his inadequate, vengeful best to accomplish his “righteous” task. There was no possible justification for this gang-banging cretin to have stolen his car and have caused Jack all the intolerable and inexcusable ramifications he had experienced and will continue to experience as long as he lived. The lead in his sten-gun was ready to flow and do justice.
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Justice? Justice? A name for a dog. The seven letter representation of an idea or a reality was a complication which presented more difficulties than whether or not the first letter was capitalized; and it had nothing to do with the vagaries of numerology. It was a dog; a great dog. The last Jack had seen of his German Shepherd, he was dozing on the couch, maybe glad just to have found a warm home, and un-knowingly against the odds, expecting that it would last forever. Or maybe he did know.
Prior to having had met Jack, he had been around. He was no youngster when he showed up at Jack’s door, tired, hungry and worse than that, desperate for some form of kindness or hope.
His furry countenance was quiet, looking up, brown eyes displaying that which had seen the worst, still moist, though not openly crying, even in possession of barely the remainder of an original verve for life and love, so constantly challenged.
His eyes evoked a thankfulness his voice was unable to show whenever Jack did the slightest favor; like bringing him his food and freshening his water. Jack saw that in his best of moments; and couldn’t help but think that the German Shepherd he had not re-named, saw that too; likely with a losing thought that he just wanted and needed to believe in and only saw the things which he needed to see. If Jack got caught today, Justice was again on his own, as that possibility could well be something which might become all too “real,” putting an abrupt
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end to the pup’s most Pollyanna-ish of dreams without the courtesy of explaining why. It would have been easy to dismiss this nonsense as a child’s fairy tale, if it were not for the dreams, from which he was apparently mandated to arouse.
He was awake; somewhat; as much as ever; who can tell how much; he guessed; contradiction un-explainable within the un-alterable confines of himself; that mindset a question and a need for the trusting of his heart, which he found ultimately impossible to defend at this moment. He well knew that the
“self,” described partial share worked well, but not in his soul. Within the stated interests of “societal norms” he entertained a notion of feigning an inoffensive sociability. It would likely work well in the appearance of the prevalent scheme of things; only suspect to the extremely young and the extremely experienced; who if called to, as supposedly is a function of choice, define and DFW characterize themselves as studious geeks or nerds of the lukewarm actually making a laughably absurd stance. Who can authoritatively decipher? The misnomered
“nature” of the game as insofar observed and courageously, as opposed to faint heartedly, analyzed is strongly suggestive of the preferred state of the marginally-over-the-line, safest of
“intelligent” duplication as opposed to redundantly duplicitous; aware or not; only “seen” by those with clairvoyance and the nerve to think it real. Any Ludddite demands for a
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differentiation have to be met with a heralded, anointed soliloquy, resplendent in its obtuseness, sometimes minor
“award” winning.
The witch doctors knew that they had power when people believed that they did; and none when they didn’t. Their primary concerns were only how many anecdotal events were required to induce substantial belief; and how to fabricate those events.
The latter concern came to be the “family” induced spinning of incidents. Where did anyone think the term “spin doctor” came from anyway? Murray the K? Clay Cole? Madison Avenue?
Advertising? Post-Murdoch news reporting? Hearing what one wants to hear? All of the prior? None of the prior? Some thing or things else? .......... The biased and incomplete insinuations of the legalized, pill dispensing psychiatrists? Cognitive deficiencies, in vile antiquity referred to as stupidity; now euphemistically referred to as “special needs” children; as if the term made any difference in what is.
Other charlatans and morons advocate the existence of some sort of matrix, apparently not capable to realize that their attempts to show as physically real that which they ultimately state to be a dream has its “reality” induced by a bomb movie.
Or a dream within a dream. Or a dream within a dream within another dream carried to the infinite power? Or a dream within a movie of a dream within a movie of a dream within a movie
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.............. Jack laughed to himself. In the absence of any other mental stimulation provided by his old car; radio dead; yet still humming down the road; Jack took in his well textured, internal ambience; only slightly hindered by the almost remaining carcasses of the pulverized borers on his windshield.
In life they were colorful and manifest flyers. However, now, they were dead, yellow-brown, splats; as a result of their brainless excursions into the territories claimed by moving cars. ......... Just a bit of water and a clean rag would remove the gross graveyard .......... at least until the next reckless event chose to manifest itself on the windshield; that already kneeling on its mark; waiting to attempt a well-rehearsed quick start, often sufficient in a very short race. .............
Jack’s thoughts had yet again magnificently served to have passed time.
In the moment, the successful summoning of Jack’s “now”
relevance, maybe only to himself, was completely in deference to the interesting and sometimes dangerous impositions near or already exhibited by inhabitants of the blacktop. His eyes were focussed on the potential problems he could view from his windshield or those ghosts which periodically contrasted with them; which were constantly reflected in his smudged rear view mirror. When he had learned how to drive, his teaching father had strongly suggested that he watch his back. It seemed silly
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to him at the time; as it seemed painfully obvious to a still brave, but embittered 15 year old, that if he could go fast enough, that whatever was behind would always be exactly there; behind and inconsequential. Real life developments had led to a re-assessment of those early thoughts. Jack was illogically drawn back, not really wanting to go there. Maybe it was the archaic make of his junker; maybe it was his mind’s perhaps incorrect remembrance of a youthful time, with many “reasons”
for hope, which his dreams had now idealized; or maybe it was just the crude simplicity of how fucking hot it had pre-maturely gotten this year.
That shared, pre-post-inadequately-characterized-sorts of an ice cream soda with that special her could not in the current version of knowledge and truth be easily understood. At the minimum it seems to take time; an insouciant statement, innocuous in a mere, and likely inaccurate one; maybe like the time itself as extremely differentiated from a 2016 movie, commercially sold at $22 per seat plus overpriced popcorn; the butter their ostensible selling point. A long time ago, with the dream of Beth so loved and so wide of hip, so beautifully alive and yet to be cruelly resurrected, that dream existent since whatever the relevance of his birth or as long as he can recall; he truly considered an embarrassing innocence; “Oh God, the truest of innocences I can possibly imagine,” he thought.
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It has been proven in all aspects of the word “proof” that she now doesn’t care about him. He knew. She told him. He cries sometimes. He thought that he might know the cruel logic she employed. It suggests that on his worst of days, that through his need, she was made the victim of having had to be the one to have said the cruelty of “I don’t feel the same way about you.”
He considered the possibility of that being weak anecdotal evidence and that he was always inclined to respect women’s wishes. As if he was speaking to a passenger, he said; “It was my fault; not yours; my only possible attempt at inadequate justification, desperation for an instantaneous TV-like moment.
In that windy moment we were together; I was shivering beyond control. The feared, likely result was that what would come would hurt badly. With the paltry excuse that I deferred to a discipline known as statistics, stupidly disguised as hope, I was wrong, very wrong, yet maybe not so wrong. So, sooooo complicated is now that which appeared to have been so easy in un-complicated, un-educated youth.” He sighed.
He partially digressed from his Beth “issue,” but his mind continued to race; “With their benefit of generations of experience in presenting their lies, the faulty logicians in pursuit of power have become competent in that. That. That. And that again. And then, drawing at the last of yours and my straws scream, still holding back the essence, that it’s so
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amazing how the regular practice of any discipline makes the derivative observer ‘competent’ in that discipline; within; within; invariably within; hidden; sans their knowledge, and the subject of academic debate; devoid of family, love, children, cats and dogs; life itself. ........ Brief shut-down again; well anticipated; un-provably, but likely the temporary difficulties imposed by those internet proficient players; unknowingly destined to suck up and lose; in the fullest of use of their limited, university instructed, strongest of possibilities. .......... Okay; maybe some sort of a joke. Ha, fucking ha; lots of internet LOL and all of the easy to type acronyms; oh so welcomed and warming. Avenues deceive in appearing to be as clear as they ever have been; as if anyone had the ability to pronounce such things. A Basil Fawlty ‘Thank you so much’ seems the appropriate, socially proficient response; an endeavor to appear the required positive; as if nothing was ever wrong; the truthful falsehood a manifestation of obscurity.”
In full cognizance of the buried mines everyone pretends not to notice; yet which are easily detectable in the most common of un-common senses; the poorly disguised diggings remain eager to do their jobs. This is perhaps more eloquently said as;
“It is obvious that this thing has been inadequately designed.
To state otherwise is a confession to elementary Sunday School
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dogma, with the benefit of generations of cold experience, to effectively play the child’s innocence, in a fascination with the cute antics of Disney’s Donald Duck. It hurt. It hurts; more than anything else ever could. Yet I think, having experienced it that in my stupidity, I am condemned without a hint of choice or defense to dream of things unavailable to me, ........... and I believe in you. Please, help me. Can you? I so hope that you will. How can anyone with the correct number of chromosomes possibly think that beings which (wrong word purposely used) consider themselves ‘bright’ and have thereby made the choice to ignore their instinctive desire; and remain within their
‘reasons;’ who always first satisfy their short term needs are anything other than absurd when they articulate belief in their ability to find an equitable, long term solution for all the beings on the planet? Of course to say this or ask this is the guaranty of one of five things; 1) being considered off balance; 2) being considered anti-social; 3) being required to clarify and re-state the observation ad infinitum; 4) being tittered at by bored twits; or 5) being ignored and not invited to any toddy times. The afore-mentioned pentahedron, Pentateuch or Pentagon; prior personal preferences post paranormal pediatric pretenses; seem initially daunting and personally depressing, but if one can get over 5) for a month or so, one learns that this is a welcomed manifestation of Sartre’s most benign of neglects.
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All that is on one level, most articulated by the Times competence, yet further down the line disparaged in Arkansas as Franzenian, and thereby discouraging a brilliant sojourn for some southerners. The unfortunate course of life seems to include a familiarity with a number of approaches; as has mine; my moments with you my pinnacle; in testimony to the validity of the ‘outdated’ and simultaneously timelessness of Shakespearian tragedies.
That you were born a British bird leads nowhere but the nearby sea, as you have asked and asked, to no avail. There was one wonderful morning when we didn’t have to pay the tolls on the turnpike; originally said to eventually become free after it had recouped its cost. That happened in 1954, but finally because of the August 8, 1968 power outage, that became true for one day. One whole day! In an attempt at an inadequate comfort, the loss of your small change is the greater loss of the jackasses who have not yet had their cataracts removed. That may well be only me, in a place crooked and unsure, but likely together and thereby unspeakably happy in what I think would have been Eden for both of us. We know the snake was named Machiavelli and was easily dismissible with the side of a shovel. His best trick was to try to establish limitations through the imitation of God’s voice saying; ‘Do not eat the fruit of the apple tree.’ I mean come on. If God didn’t want us
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to eat the fuckin’ apples why did he plant the tree there?
...... We all know that table scraps are bad for a dog’s health and we tell them not to eat them. But, we don’t put a bunch of yummy strips of venison, dripping with warm gravy, right next to them and then leave the room. Christ!”
The real failure of the fictional Adam and Eve was that they were condemned to have been sickened with other’s definitions of sociability when they took a bit of a vacation.
Of course the story has been re-written, re-written, and re-written under the guidance and funding of large government dictates, as well as private interest persuasions. Mix that with a little stupidity and you get the veracity of a Murdoch owned newspaper.
Sometimes an egg cream I didn’t understand but refrained from asking about was in my dreams; different in each portrayal; yet not in the “life” I once thought to be both logically and easily attainable. In a possible display of someone’s mercy, I had long ago striven to forget the ceiling cracks above the walled crib I was compelled to stare up at. Their patterns were initially of interest, but in time, proved to be doctrinaire.
So, unable to sleep and in search of adventure I sometimes fantasized an ability to walk upside down on the ceiling; and this was before I had ever seen Spiderman. I’d often trip over the hurdles presented by the plastered area above each opened,
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room separating door. In some rooms the ceiling plaster was covered by punched tin done in a floral pattern, and painted white, which made strange noises at every step; crackles, whoomps, whuumps, and whimpers.
When I tired, I lay back down, and as is inescapable from one cribbed against a dark green wall, my only other interesting view was into the adjoining kitchen, where my mom and dad sat opposed at the table, each leaning back on their chair, with hands folded in their lap. I regard these lost views as my personalized spin-illusion, which has now either been covertly colored in synthetics, or has simply disappeared. It is abundantly clear that times have changed again; not for the better. The smiling happiness of the old candy store soda shop is gone forever. Carrying her books home has been ended with the convenience of e-books and tablets; no more weights on your arms or shoulders; no more books falling to the ground in need of pick-up; and no more annoying, un-productive feelings.
They wish. Despite the invasive thoughts Jack was getting, the simple truth was that he just wanted to kill the fuck who messed up his life. He just lusted with a deep seated hatred for this jackass kid. If he could make him protractedly suffer before killing him, he would have found that much more preferable. The thought was only dismissed because Jack knew this would increase his level of risk. Mickey Rourke had taught
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him well. As opposed to popular opinion; “It ain’t easy to commit a ‘crime.’ First, you gotta get in. Then you gotta get out. And you gotta try not to get famous while you’re in there.”
Now with an added agenda of the few other financially unfortunate in their camp, with whom or which, they surreptitiously identify; only trying to make a necessary buck; it is conveniently seen as “organized crime,” rather than the politically incorrect use of the word “Mafia.” Respect. Effin’
respect. What the fuck is wrong with that? I guess it’s that every once in a while someone has to pay the price for you to keep it. Stupid people object, bit it’s Biblical. Fuckin’ A, man. Ask Abraham.
Jack broke from his second lasting reverie and watched the road and proceeded as expeditiously as possible. He knew that if he deigned to communicate his thoughts to anyone he would be called incomprehensible, or worse, unhinged. He also knew that if any reference to hinges was made, it would emanate from the venue of the stamp collector, or would correctly be termed
“double hinged.” So au contraire. He recalled one of the few pieces of advice he got from his mother. In what seemed like all seriousness, she said; “If you ever get stuck talking to a psychiatrist, don’t tell them the truth,” sounding a bit like Salinger.
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“All this stupidity caused by a little shit named ‘Spidey D.’ Must be someone’s weird idea of a fucking joke. I’m going to kill that bastard.” He had well learned that the speed bumps could easily be taken in excess of 15 MPH, if one piloted something other than a low rider. That was the silly point; a very useful one for the strivers. He made a last minute slight refinement of plans. That’s always the chief executive’s prerogative.
Ones who grandly characterize themselves as being devotees, as opposed to lovers of Nabokovian minutiae might note the starting letter of the key word. It is the paltriest of imagined fifths. If that one may then condescend to extend their border to the sequentially fifth; then guess at the switched sixth; and cut off the rest; we all might get somewhere. That seems pretty easy. Get it? I know that you will SAY you do in the most impressive fashion. Kind of synonymous with imagine eight and guess what letter again pops up. Coincidence? Probably, but no one will ever know for sure. Un-detected alpha-omega? Not likely; and at the very least it seems to be first, logically required to define the latter hyphenated term insofar as mortals have not to date. Prior to engaging in conversation bordering on the legal or philosophic, it’s kind of useful to define terms or
“issues.”
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There are just too many “issues,” debates, un-knowns; which all share one common trait; diversionary inconsequence. A common, much more plebian approach, is necessarily stated as some sort of joke articulated a half century prior by the Dylan man, for people capable of understanding metaphor, lyricism and symbolism. One might feel “cool” or impressive in dumbed down America of 2016, to say; “What? Can you say that simply in two words? KISS.” The answer is a simple “No” and a brief statement saying; “Plant that KISS on my ass. ............ On second thought, don’t.”
The only deferential aspect seems to directly correspond to Bob’s sudden, hoary, perhaps oxymoronic discovery of the genius of Frank Sinatra. Personally, I hope I die before I get old.
Yeah, I know that he has at least seven kids to support, yadda, yadda on the commercial shit, but goddam Bob. I know that you’ve changed your posture many times as you grew or as your perception of the world’s supposed change did, mentally affecting your shifting view of your place in it, coupled with the scary shit you saw and heard when you faked the motorcycle accident, coupled with the pragmatism of having to stay on the road to take care of your kids; sometimes necessitating bullshit. The damn thing to me Bob, is that in my fandom, that you are the man by any sort of standard and its later mirrored deviation which I can imagine. The girls play as if they are
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momentarily pissed, but most easily “negotiate” their way back; no offense intended to the more burdened ones you and I both love; the best of them saying; “Don’t ever use that “L” word.
Just fuck me.” They’re so great, aren’t they? ......... Kind of, I guess. In that mindset, it seems to be consequently implied that there seems to be needed some logical requisite, not yet quite ready to fly overhead. In their supposed kind and warm presence I would try so hard and softly to do my best. ........
Most of the time. No, not that; all of the time; insofar as I can understand time. But, goddam man; Frank’s been buried sufficient time to disqualify him from a cheap shit, zombie, TV
show. ................. Jeez. Can you imagine him popping out now singing “My Way.” I shouldn’t say that. Some “cool” indie writer will do a whole series on it, and your kids will read it, before anticipating the HBO series.
If we just could truly see the motivations behind the actions of the Jungian other; and they our pretensions to their beautiful spirit and they ours, and then try to understand their condemned-to-be-poetic, sad words, maybe we could all make another step. Shit, man. You wrote; “Where are you Tonight?
(Journey Through Dark Heat),” not me. Now Sinatra?
You well know that this could go on until the time we choose to stop it. The time you have spent in your deference to the highlights serve as an endorsement of the Freudian
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interpretation. The time you have spent in your deference to the low lights serve as an endorsement of the Jungian-induced-value-judgments; those being what are currently taken as an advancement. Id, super-id, ego, super-ego, Freudian desire at the zenith, Jungian poorly defined “collective consciousness”
supposedly somewhere beyond; undoubtedly neither viewpoint capable of attaining the establishment consensus of what is taken for granted as being instinctively known and to date un-scientifically-provable. Thereby, though it is known to the few, it is as yet considered answered by the total mass retain, especially concerning every imaginable aspect of “primacy.” Or did you again lie, thinking it makes no difference, Jokerman?
............ Sigh. You’re probably right.
For whatever stupidity these drunken words may be unlikely seen, I think I know of another time, a time of the song and simple belief in the words of “Wooden Ships;” By Crosby, Stills and Kantner. “We are leaving. You don’t need us. Silver people on the shoreline, let us be. We are leaving. You don’t need us.”
You well recall, though you don’t want to, that you have previously heard this sweet encouragement long ago. So long ago.
It is prudent. It is beautiful. It is oh so prudent to forget those early dreams. Oh, to be allowed to have a time machine which brings you back to the archaic days when you offered to try to carry her books home from school. No one could know how
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“brave” an effort that was, performed by a pimply, physically deficient nerd, embarrassed to make contact, devoid of success, now replaced with zombies and vampires, and to lesser extent werewolves, in an attempted depiction of a profitable western inaccuracy. It was beautiful and it is gone forever.
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#30- Crunch or Peck Time?
“Oh, shit,” Jack said out loud, communicating only to his dashboard and maybe the prying conspiracy theorists in rapture with their sighting of yet another invisible “Big Brother.” He saw the most flagrant of signs which said; “Entrance to Nob Hill,” and he was shaken as he had thought that he was already in it. He thought; “Fuck, man. These muthas keep putting in more and more limiting boundary lines.” ........... He pulled a haphazard, half assed left at what seemed like more of a crossroads than an intersection, hearing the fading horn blare of the annoyed driver of the late model, cream colored SUV, going the other way. Jack’s left middle finger went out the window and performed its instinctive salutation; this time offered to the Friar-Tuck-headed driver and his ambiguous passenger who sported a common coiffure for old women who had just gotten their “consciousness” raised in the 2016 “Land of
“Enchantment,” US southwestern provincial style spike redundant.
Of course the SUV kept going down the grid, the occupants clucking their tongues as they spouted some well-worn trivialities about “improper road decorum,” politically correct behavior, and how the monkey-assed driver of the clunker rudely cut them off because he was not only insensitive, but anti-LGB&T
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interests. The “incident” had the potential of keeping both them and their beleaguered friends occupied for weeks.
He was now on Hill Street, or so he thought, or so he might think that he is now, or so he was already without knowing, or so he would continue to be until someone put up new signs and changed the name, or until he decided to turn from it; the latter seeming to be the best option available. There are more possibilities, but further meta considerations are tedious at best. Every bump on Hill Street reminded him of the obstacles he had known; but now, played out in minor, trunk rattling, perhaps of some interest to the rusted crowbar.
Dreamy allusions in their proper place, Jack took Hill Street in a speed-bump-limited, stop sign dictated manner; easily converting the latter edict to the practicality of a more interesting, through no competition, “watchful coast.” Now getting near his target, he was glad that he had chosen this day as the one in which he would extract his “justified” revenge.
.......... In the instant in which he made the mistake of allowing pushy reflection to put one of its gangrened feet in the door, he saw the “J” word as the differentiating split between Marley and Tosh, and the “R” word as a waste of time.
But, some distractions, which in words, sound so righteous are merely just so compelling ......... and useless. He again fought to get out of his head; utilizing his willful focus on the road.
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His eyes were wide, ogling what the most current of screen renditions afforded. His $22 seat was unfortunately next to two of the most pom-pomiest of girls. He liked his remembrances of their short skirts, even realizing that this was only done in their preferred costume. Cool either way. But, it was time for a new paragraph. No?
If no, he could just skip to the end, disdain this thing and faint-heartedly grant it just one of the vaunted stars in multiplicity. “It’s not me,” Jack thought. “It’s a GFR
requirement.”
The silence was only exceeded by the incessant hum of the wheels. Thank you, Zeke.
Damn. Once that first foot is in place, the second one always follows. The door is now wide open. Perhaps it has even been freed from its hinges. However, another, if you will once more; blind consideration surfaced; and that is possibly an attempt at a clarification rather than the incomplete destiny of another revision; lesser of evils and therefore a hearty “Yay”
accompaniment. Some can’t tell when the race is over. In a possible deference, hopefully un-detected, to that which allows and then doesn’t, it seems so like a cruel personal tease so much inflicted through the un-wanted dreams of the other. No,
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not “the” other. The one special “other.” The insistent window won’t stay closed.
Another paragraph. Dammit. Jack needs to put occasional pedal to the gas to keep this thing going. He wants these foot jokes to stop almost as much as anyone does. ........ Poor joke; maybe one merciful. Jack would like it if you would just have a bit of a laugh. He’s willing to pretend that he liked it even if you kindly faked it. .......... Despite, desperate Crystal’s crystalline rock and her sign of life; whose name escapes him right now; more relevant than his excellent blurb; Jack is certain that he can tell the difference. Billy has all the sensitivity of his goat namesake. The gentleness shown makes everything all right; .......... most of the time; upon damning reflection; all of the time.
Jack, in the playing of Bergman’s old hand of losing solitaire or chess, informs you that he expects to lose, as is indicated by the pervasive logic. Conversely, others, in some sense of their brave incarnation; are all too soon in the throes of a need for the vengeful insouciance of the horrors seen in the King-depicted “Carries” and ersatz “Shinings;” in each case incarnate “Death,” the inevitable last one standing; despite, despite. .... That might work, but it seems simpler to learn to love losing. There’s a hole in the argument.
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Maybe it seems much too contemporary; or does it reflect another version of antiquity? Thinking, of any sort or degree kind of screws the whole thing up. Doesn’t it? ......,. It’s American; the land of the free and all that. ....... NOOOO. It’s Western European; varying only by longitudinal, latitudinal degrees and culture; with no allowable adjustments for baseboard systems. If you don’t believe this, just ask Adelaide and Van.
The conspiracy theorists have made significant trend setting inroads in their attempts to make a living from dumb shit. Jack thought it was only fair for him to be allowed to think about stupid coincidences free of charge. “Not for me,” he thought as it seemed that any “conspiracy” spoken of in the fouled 2016 air, would require the competence, co-operation and quietness of at least five operatives. Jack’s law enforcement experience suggested that this was impossible on both counts.
If someone had the interest and ability to adequately inquire, he suspected that they would efficiently say that the questioned “it” was only an occurrence forged by the charade of the other, done for other reasons; thereby just chance calculated circumstances until someone can prove otherwise. He had once desired so much more, and yet time logically screamed in both his ears that his metaphysical meanderings were another short whim he had thought about for a short time; like Dylan’s
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“Visions of Johanna.” He really hoped that he might have been something that was once of meaning; and even later, that maybe he could re-live what it was no longer possible to re-live on an infinite number of levels. ......... That Salinger innocence; first banned, then required reading, and then considered “old hat” died before he did. ....... It’s been a long time; a lifetime for some. There are many who are much braver or they have claimed the distinction of having “earned” a PhD in Placating Anesthetics.
Still on a hilly road requiring a modicum of attention, in his head only, Jack heard a replay of Roy Orbison. He thought;
“When you have allowed me to see the beauty in your expressive eyes; I know; I just know that no-one of good heart, can see that anything other than that sweet dream is destined for all.
It is. It is. It cannot be other than that which obviously is; being together; us, kids, pets, a forever home for all of us; and more; so much more; all the dreams we have not yet been able to have yet been competent to have had imagined; like our teenaged dreams. ......... If we are still deficient in our abilities to cope with the denial of what once seemed so easily possible; just look. It’s in front of our faces every day; a mind’s vision; but not a real thing for the benefit of us.” The voice broke away from the sappy succubus imitation and went into
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the stuff about the gift one can give to their heirs through a pre-paid cremation and urn available from the Neptune Society national chain; drive in service available at select locations.
..................... Jack laughed out loud, and thought; “Ah, shit on it. It doesn’t matter anymore. I’ve got a creep that needs killing. Fuck my heirs. Let them pay.”
Ugh. And “Oh well.” The thing gives every indication that it wants nothing more than to dwell and simultaneously seek to hide in its results of the poorly displayed cross-currents of some Narcissistic deviation done with “fun house” mirrors. Maybe it can get another mirror lined urn. Jack laughed and checked his gun. His ability to amuse himself made him briefly consider the pursuit of a TV career under the stage name of Rupert Pupkin. His sten was one of many folk art displays of
“maximized-state-of-the-art” demonstrations, though it was not yet the bomb. It seemed too obvious to state, that both he and it inadequately saw, but refrained from ever mentioning, that their views were inevitably biased peripherally perceived possibilities. Their view lacked a central point; thereby demolishing their straight-ahead intentions. Anyone who ever paid attention in school learned that all information is biased; not only on a mental recognition level; but also on a physically cognitive basis. Anyone not understanding this was a waste of time to talk seriously to. ............... Of course it was
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possible that the recognition of that bias may also be a bias of its own, but no few can make any sense of that. That takes two whole steps of multiplication with a square at the beginning, middle or end. Think of a suburbia on the outskirts of a dump.
That was the point at which all practical people, like Jack resorted to; “I want to kill the fuck and I will enjoy doing so.”
Jack coasted through, rather than coming to the full stop suggested by the octagonal red, metal monstrosity occupying the corner. What was the twisted tin going to do about it anyway?
Give him a ticket? Besides, some artist had spray-painted
“DON’T” at the pinnacle, in running black. This could be used as an excuse. Sure, it’s a pretty lame one; but there have been many much worse. This petty rebellion was a personal source of continuing amusement and resulted in his last required right turn. He was now on his targeted road; Camino de Victor. He knew all the numbers, so didn’t have to pay any attention to the three and four digit, discount store purchased, peeling, plastic pronouncements protruding from the mail box supporting poles in front of every house.
He saw a parking space at the end of the road. It was neither on the left, nor on the right. It was a little cul de sac which bordered the elm forest with the tiny path. It afforded an angle at which Jack could park and not have anything
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other than the back of his red bandana adorned head visible to any of the shuttered window peepers, whether they happened to be on the right side of the road or the left. It was cool. The morning sun had not yet risen above or to the side of the protecting elms, and Jack sat in the shade. It was somewhat droll for him as it seemed that he was the only one who had made up his mind about anything. He again checked his sten friend.
Twelve shots loaded and ready. One for the chest, one for the head and ten in reserve. Silencer in place. Just needs the scumbag target to make its dreams come true. Jack placed his pal back in his pocket and waited for snot ass-Denton-Spidey D to begin his final walk.
Jack was soon rewarded with the slam of 914’s front door.
The dyed blonde came bopping out in his own red bandana, strutting to the tune of Eminem’s “Cold Wind Blows,” at boom box distortion level. Spidey D did his usual thing and moved toward the woods at the dead end. As he didn’t want the altercation to start early in the open area, Jack slouched down in the front seat to avoid being seen. After Spidey D passed into the woods, Jack got out of the car and quickly followed.
The sound of “Michael J. Fox comin’ to a standstill,” made Spidey D amused and unable to hear the footsteps gaining on him.
Jack drew his gun and held it in his right hand. He used his right foot to kick Spidey D’s feet out from under him and his
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left hand to add some shoulder leverage. The boom box slammed into a tree and after a short discordant, terminal sounding wind-down whirr, there was silence. Jack rolled Spidey D over and put his knees on his mark’s chest.
In an agitated, but not loud voice, Spidey D looked up at his attacker and said; “Fuck’s wrong witchew, man?”
“............”
“You know who you’re fuckin’ with, man?” Spidey D squirmed in a half assed attempt to throw Jack off.
For the first time Spidey D saw the gun as Jack put it to his head and calmly whispered; “Yeah, mutha fucka. I’m the man with the gun whose car you stole. Caused me a lotta shit. Say hello to Tupac for me.”
The kid started crying like a beat up puppy. The tears streamed while he quickly babbled out; “I did it just to avoid being picked on. You gotta be part of a gang in my school. I heard that Carlos Leader wanted a car for a job, so I figured whoever got him one would be tight with him. In his good graces, you know, and he’d get the others to stop bullying me.
........... Aw, shit. I’m sorry, man.”
“You’re a fuckin’ bitch.” In saying that, Jack realized that he had already hesitated. His plan of getting in and getting out quickly was impeded by his need to tell this kid why he was dying and now the whole morality crap was back in his
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head. The brightest thing he could think of doing or saying was a paltry; “Did it work?”
“Some. A couple of them still give me some bullshit.”
“You know what happened to me?”
“Filed an insurance claim and drove around in a Rent-A-Wreck for a while?”
“I wish. During the investigation they found out that I had some felonies when I was young and I got fired.”
“No shit!! What did you do?”
“Ah, stupid shit; breaking and entering, armed robbery, a couple of car thefts, small reefer sales.” Jack snorted a hint of a laugh.
“Cool, bro; but I meant after they fired you.”
“Landscaping shit for ten bucks an hour.” Jack got up, allowing Spidey D to do the same.
Spidey D said; “Hey man, maybe we could hang out some times. I got some fuckin’ state of the art video games.”
“Just get out of here before I change my mind, all right.”
Spidey D stood there and wiped his face with his bandana.
Jack said; “I’m fuckin’ serious, dude.”
Spidey D headed back toward his house and Jack wondered what, if anything, to do next. Leaving the vicinity struck him as an idea with no discernable downside. He trod back to his car and hit the choking ignition. Still hot, the usual metal on
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metal whine was replaced by an accommodating purr. He backed out of his space, made a four point turn, and was on his way before the sorry ass kid got to his front door. Spidey D waved a pathetic “good-bye,” which Jack ignored.
Jack drove quickly, maybe slowly; his current focus not on speed relativities. Nor was his attention focussed on the Nob Hill scenery. His velocity was no doubt relevant to some of the blind-bending watchers, but of no further consequence to him.
The well-watered “native,” desert plantings, which had now become addicted to their daily shots, were no longer of concern or interest to him. Whenever he chose he could go home to Calle de la Congelacion, pet his pal Justice, and be protected from any rude, incursive threats by the mature, towering leaves of the prolific elm trees. .................... Maybe not. He recalled that all this shit started there; just because a bullied nerd had taken the opportunity presented by a briefly un-attended, warming car which was idling in its home, to try to become a “big shot.” Something was wrong. There was no longer any escape. It was truly little different from the religion based prowling posses seen at the door as well as in the daily news, who seek to make everyone see things their way at any cost, anywhere. Well, as far as he was concerned, Jack had already paid the price and there was nothing left for him to lose. What? The right to slowly be bankrupted by a ten dollar an
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hour job. What? The right to be further marginalized and delayed by procrastinating dilettantes. What? The right to appear proper at “New Age,” meetings led by fortyish men, with neatly trimmed beards which exceeded the length of the hair left on their fat
“Friar Tuck” beaners, eyes concocted to appear limpid seeking the embrace of another male attendee, cuddling a newly purchased Teddy Bear at their chest, in search of their inner infant.
................. It seemed cruel to laugh. It seemed appropriate to quietly leave.
It was abundantly clear to Jack that corrective action was necessary, though it was just as un-clear to him who or what was that required correction. Who? How? Methodology? Long term benefit? Why bother, just chill out? Whole bunch of other yadda yadda shit ostensibly of significance to some fucks Jack had no use for? A clandestine internal need to show that one can?
Ultimately a deference to the opinions of those, up until now, disrespected soundlessly? An inflated ego? Just more bull piss?
Now that he had let Spidey D off the hook, the most elemental of possible choices was gone. His initial mindset was; “Fuck the bull piss; who cares? Not me. What’s in it for me? Not a fucking thing.” ................... That sat well, until mental disturbance shoved its unwanted ass in the situation with two sets of three words; “Easy way out. It’s pig piss.”
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He had long ago dismissed his mandatory youthfully taught,
“Christian” ideals, as just another dream of someone else which had proven to have had no functional basis in reality. It was painfully clear that any half-way competent opposition could use any debatable “moral” precept as a justification for destruction; and that any personal acquiescence to the taught dogma was just a fool’s agreement to unilaterally disarm.
Sometimes he had been advised that he had “issues.” The notion was proffered by those who boldly advertised “issues” of their own, in the likely hope that someone else would get stuck in their shit. He had what he thought were ideas, called mere issues by those he didn’t care much about. As a result he was politely avoided. This turned out to be a blessing as he found that he was quite content to make a home on the outskirts known as Calle de le Congelacion. It was all right; gentle sun on the late day portal. It was better than “all right.” At times it was a Paradise. In all Jack could understand, using his inadequate, on-the-one-hand-on-the-other, academic limitation, he knew that he meant well. That seemed important to him, though he recognized that, in the same stance, he would be popularly viewed as easily dismissible; and even worse. He knew that he was subject to the same biases. Who isn’t? There is no escape.
For someone to expect that everyone else will like and accept them is a prescription for unhappiness or an excuse for a
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cantankerous and unnecessarily desired argument initiated by an
unaware loser. To be Avoided, misunderstood, or disdained by the proper, was merely others’ perceptions, and totally irrelevant to the primary subject. Those who are able invariably escape to an island or the anonymity of bustling New York City. The retinue of judges may not be aware that the barbarians are at the gate. ................... That’s too safe a statement. The barbarians are already through the un-protected gate; without any doubt. Those who find solace in their safely entombed, court enabled bastion, are innocently blind; their possible games another manifestation of their presumption of a privilege which they do not have; but like to think and ineffectively display that they do. Unavoidably appearing as uncaring as an ancient god, the generalities make it hard to draw any sort of line for a plethora of reasons. Yet to deal in specificities requires volumes, and volumes to explain the volumes, and volumes to explain the ............. It was a distillation just like all the garbage which was currently invading Jack’s head, devoid of the reductive properties of metaphor, allegory, analogy, symbolism and the fantasy of pure art, itself.
Unaided, it’s hard to draw a straight line. “Yes,”
undoubtedly. Yes is true and is yet simultaneously affirmed in the blur of contradicted contradictions most proficiently proposed in DFW’s ruminations concerning “Porous Borders,”
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effective if one has the least degree of the absurd notion of absurd seriousness. Two negatives multiplied result in a positive; perhaps as relevant as differing signs placed on differing paths. If that is not, at the bottom line, we are all dead. Trite. That cannot be argued. The only interesting question seems to be one which asks at what point the clandestine crossover occurs.
Perhaps through some sort of acquired immunity; remarkably similar in concept to the supposed intent of the “inoculations”
against the debilitating diseases as mandated by the authorities, allegedly in an attempt to present the death in a graduated process which ancient Egyptian books conveniently ignored, the ignorant dead proliferate like water bugs left in the shade while the educated strain is burnt to annihilation by a relentless sun. For some strange reason those in the latter category have not yet communicated their findings through the utilization of librettos.
At the same time; Jack; having the short, consequently beleaguered, identical, Narcissistic purview of his increasingly long and grim view; married to his propensity to; like Byron; love despair, does his faulty best not to inflict those not yet damned. In his sadly, defensively oriented posture, Jack hates himself in the recognition of the myriad of his inabilities to transcend something better. ............ He wishes to make some
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sort of distinction between defensive and offensive as they have always been defined, but does not know the right replacement word or words. But, by Tuesday he confidently says; “Just fuck it.”
As a result of that lifelong affliction, Jack again took the speed bumps a bit too fast. Though he had been warned of their abilities to dislocate his caboose, Jack remained with personal tradition and heard the music of the dis-sorting rumble; a discordant jangle of Parker’s be bop shit; which puts the nervous and overstated warnings in their proper place; Neverland. Last I heard it was up for sale.
Much too inarticulate. No words. .................. Or not, depending on ....... a laugh? Fuck, yeah. Yeah or no dependent.
The end; the boom box lies broken in the tiny elm forest. For the singularity referred to as Jack, he was compelled to again inadequately guess; each time in hope that the suggested response was the one he wanted to hear; despite that never having been one he had previously known, nor one he could imagine. That desperate response was as true as it was false.
Jack thought; “Cut me some slack. Forgive me some; just a little; OK. I was truly with and subjected to doctoral theses; and subsequently came to realize that the prevalent view, had taken their valiant search for truth and beauty into a ‘Bizarro’
defense of ugliness and hate. Those who do their best to study
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in hope of understanding, calculate and thereby use the intentions of those humble and inadequately displayed
........... difficult to attempt to say, safeties not necessarily a double bind, even in the assumption of an abusive world; most likely stated by those seeking some scam. Pity me.
The streets remained the boring, inconsequential and retarded. The national chains had made excellent inroads into making all cities look the same. It was a good bet that; given some more time with no “corrective” interference those inroads would become misnomered “freeways with tolls,” “payways” for those left south of the border after the Noriega-US Intelligence (The latter oxymoronic, I think we all know, but just in case.) dance. The Mexicans know that they can either safely pay or try the backroads where there are badass mofo’s with guns; some CIA; some independent. The pretentiously identical parodies advertised on the regurgitating TV were petty attempts at a rebellion laughable; in search of the numbing “justification” of more mainstream advertisers with a working checkbook.
In the current year, brilliantly cognizant of the bumper stickers which said; “I heart zombies,” with a minimum of disrespect for the infinite supply of sensitive souls who call themselves reviewers, the season was led off with a “promising”
abnegation. The quarter assed productions were seen as visually competent to those desirous of a glare induced migraine and the
Page 1027
consequent day off of work; while the content had to be viewed as an unfortunate, Ludlum “Theatre of the Ridiculous” production done in a seriousness, which might be sarcastically humorous to a fifteen year old light years removed from the advanced class, at best. At the most kind, with some degree of honesty offered to the snarling, EMT or nightshift employed “reviewers” in love with the “cool” zombies; it may well be that they are still unaware of the greater horror they may fashionably embrace in unison, if there is not something any more dichotomous with that thought, to soon come. One more hard-assed might just say:
“You’re fucked, asshole. It’s here now. Dig it.”
Jack realized that this diversionary mental expedition had no more meaning than a 2016 trip to a bogus early nineteenth century Nootka Sound location in relation to his current mission; that being to “fuck up” the life of whoever was stupid enough to fuck up his. He decided to go right for the head; the tiny home boy named Carlos Leader, who was able to convince everyone that he was in charge. He headed toward notorious South Valley seeking his notion of justice.
The entrance into the vaguely defined War-zone-to-avoid was a visual assault; reminding old timers of whipping horse’s eyes or some such thing. Unlike the boundaries established in “Nob Hill,” there were no signs present or required as they were either viewed as redundant or had been sold to the discreet
Page 1028
metal scrap dealer. Each house was surrounded by a chain link fence which could no longer hold out the onslaught, being the bent and broken, un-repaired victims of errant drivers or those creative vandals “with a purpose;” the self-deluded man who once thought he had something pertinent to say. Possible Kubrick-popularized-type statements, by way of pussy-ass, copycat Palahniuk, were rendered inconsequential in the face of the greater likelihood that the damage seen was just obviously more attributable to the simple fact that the residents, old and new, did not pay their crack man on time. The crack man doesn’t care for excuses. He kind of blanks out when he hears the entrée into one. The crack man has heard the sad stories accompanied by the tears. The crack man took his modus operandi from the collection bitch at the bank; the most difficult task of diminishing consequence; that of sounding human; not a high priority on the annual performance review. The crack man knows his shit. The only shit he has to know. Some people know a lot of little things. The crack man knows one big one and that’s all he needs.
He don’t want no pipe; just shit to sell. The crack man has learned that to handle the shit is to become numb and take every possible advantage. Fuck man; it wasn’t his fault these sorry ass mother fuckers needed an “escape.” “Either become Mick Jagger and buy an island, or deal with it. You ain’t no big mother fucking star. When the damage to your chain link doesn’t
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result in cash, things can get very ugly; blowtorch and chain saw antiquated. Sheee-it. You know the game; and I’ll fuck myself in Macy’s window before I let you get over on me.”
Jack’s prior “literary” pretensions succumbed to the realities he had right in front of his face; the same
“realities” which once enabled him to be a decorated cop. These were the people he and Manny ran in regularly; easy fare; keeps the boss off your ass. All that is required is to brutalize the sick. He was almost as guilty as the crack man. Jack hoped that he might be judged as innocent as the crack man judges himself.
No more. The competent judges ain’t talkin’ and the incompetent ones won’t shut the fuck up.
Each street had at least one person on the sidewalk, yelling at someone or no one in particular; as the intended recipient of the thunderous elucidation was not always anywhere in sight. The houses on each street were once the same as the houses on Nob Hill. Here, their ostensible preference for heart over mind had proven to relegate them to houses which displayed un-finished particle board or un-finished, gray, window patches on the earthen adobe, without the aesthetically pleasing and conforming final decorative stucco applique. Their decorative displays focussed on the practicality motif not yet available at IKEA; screwed in, black, iron, window bars in the tedious process of acquiring a patina and settling for rust.
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One merely had to have one good eye to see each street had suffered increasingly with each generation; tenants changing; each resident initially hoping in their youth for something better. Each generation also had the “benefit” of knowing the past history and the likelihoods derived thereby. They didn’t need the hallowed halls of higher education to figure that one out. History was right in their faces every day. Hell; nobody had swept the fucking streets in years. There were Afro picks laying there right next to the smashed MP3 players. ...........
Fuck it; the people living here had brooms. The only one who might steal one of them was a permanent resident of a 1939, now colorized, and now unwatched movie because of its joyous open singing. Things come in packages. If they’d rather be cool and get high they should know that there is a flipside. .........
Easy to say. Much harder to live. Not the cop’s problem. Jack knew two big things from experience; 1) Once they get you they never let go, and; 2) Down here you get put in County for shit no one in Nob Hill has ever been arrested for; like public intoxication; like possession of weed; like; like; like
............. whatever the excuse to build more prisons. Hey, some people make good money off that shit. Didn’t ya know?
Jack tried to mentally appease himself. For a few seconds he thought that he needed to. But, the limitations dictated by his inability to be on one side or the other presented another
Page 1031
cloud. Not the cloud one would likely first or secondly think of; but the cloud that comes attached; that inescapable historical accessory, which takes its “happiness” only from the green which comes from tears. It has been shown that the water is not sufficiently pure to do Pilate any good. Dionysus needs no permit to hang his sword. Failed economics? A “new” theory in the works? No doubt. Snort. To necessarily make Occam’s, overly simplistic, discount-store-purchased razor appear as more viable than the other items purchased through AmawayOnSteroids”; A/K/A
“Amway on Steroids;” it is currently required to at least pretend allegiance to those at the helm. Jack laughed when he thought; “People down here don’t give two fucks about Occam and have a real problem with pledging allegiance.”
The block just ahead hosted the “early” tan dudes. Some used backhands to wipe away the “sleep” from their eyes and were sitting on a big car. Jack didn’t know what it was, but he could tell it was fucking big; probably a chop shop custom job. Jack peered at them out of the corner of his eye and didn’t see Carlos. The six guys on or near the car all sported red bandanas, blank, armless T-shirts and wrinkled, baggy jeans. It was a uniform of sorts, but not one given out to employees of Whataburger. It continued to be unseasonably hot; and these guys didn’t need the services of a weatherman or the fries manager to figure that out. A few were either tweaking the bandana tie
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which hung down their backs or scratching the backs of their necks. All were posturing, one way or another, attempting to impress the three chicks who just happened to be walking by, pretending not to notice them. One’s cut offs were cut off so high that it was impossible to tell where her ass ended and one’s tank top covered so little, it may have well have been somewhere in the Middle East. The third had to have been the group intellectual as she was pretty well covered and wore glasses.
“Mira, mira. Su data ...................”
Giggle, giggle and jiggle.
“Do the ladies need a ride?”
“Uh, maybe ................”
As Jack drove by the guys momentarily turned their attention to him. Six silent birds were accompanied by an out of sync chorus which sounded something like “Motley Cohen,” a currently “emerging,” punk, Broadway lyricist.
Jack was surprised. He thought his red bandana made him look like a brother or a “pops.” Instinctively, he returned the solo symbol “ciao.” As he drove by, his rear view mirror indicated that he had provided some amusement. The women were openly sunny and the guys were nodding something the horse had not yet learned.
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Jack passed through two more blocks, unhindered by stop signs. Then he saw his target. Carlos was slowly ambling down the road by himself. His hands were in his pockets and his eyes were on the ground.
Jack stopped his car; double parking it; but left the key in the ignition. Carlos didn’t bother to look up; and just trod on.
Jack got out, strode toward Carlos while drawing his sten gun and loudly said; “Stop right there.”
Without making any eye contact, Carlos raised his hands to ear level and said; “I’m not carryin’ nuthin’.”
Jack frisked him and found only a set of keys. He said;
“All right. Get in the car. We’re taking a ride.”
Carlos said; “Hey, cop. You’re making me look bad in front of my friends.”
“I ain’t a cop. Get in the fucking car, asshole.”
As Carlos stepped toward the illegally parked car, he said;
“Everybody knows that you’re workin’ undercover. Think anybody bought that shit-ass story?”
“Just get in the fucking car or I’ll let you have it right here. ........................ Front seat, scumbag. The gun’s on you all the way.”
Carlos smirked at something Jack didn’t comprehend. He said; “You’re fucking me up, man. Everybody’s gonna think I’m
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talking to some bullshit cop. I pay people three levels higher than you to avoid this kind of shit. You don’t understand how much trouble you will be in.”
“There ain’t anybody three levels above me. ........ Get in fuckhead or I’ll let you have it right here.”
Carlos got in very slowly. He had a preference for the front passenger’s seat; which was right where Jack wanted him to be.
“Gimme your hands.”
Carlos raised his eyebrows and blankly stared at Jack.
“I said gimme your fuckin’ hands.”
Carlos extended them, turning his head to face the windshield. Jack cuffed his hands in front of him and attached the chain to one of the metal bars which supported the headrest.
Carlos looked as if he was ready for some gym exercises.
After Jack took the driver’s seat, Carlos snickered while he said; “Nice car, big shot. You fucked up already chief. You didn’t read me my rights.”
Jack held the sten in his left hand and pointed at Carlos’s belly. He didn’t give a shit about Carlos’s assessment of values, but did want him to be more scared. He said; “Whether you believe it or not, I ain’t runnin’ you in and I ain’t a cop no more. Your paltry ass is going to be buried out on the Mesa in less than an hour.” Jack drove past the six guys and three
Page 1035
girls on the second block; this time greeted by curious stares, like; “What the fuck?”
Carlos found a more serious appearing countenance and said;
“What’s your shit with me, man?”
“Glad you asked shit piece. ‘Cause of all that investigating when my car was stolen, I’m now fucked for life.
It’s your fault and you’re gonna pay.”
Carlos grimaced and squirmed in disgust. He said; “Jesus fucking Christ! You been a cop around here a long time. Ain’t you figured out nothin’ yet?”
Jack stared at the road in silence.
Carlos said; “If you didn’t know it, I ain’t the bad guy around here. .................. You don’t want to meet the crazy ass mutha fuckas I gotta deal with. They don’t give a flyin’
fuck about nuthin’, not even their mama’s ass. I’m the guy who keeps things ............ copacetic down here. And I didn’t steal your fuckin’ car. So what’s up with that, bro?”
Jack flared and said; “It’s because of you that kid stole my car. The punk was just trying to impress you.”
Carlos hesitated, while he did some quick thinking. It became obvious that the kid had talked to Jack. “Yeah, and if it wasn’t me, it’d be somebody else; somebody worse. Look. I never even talked to that kid. Still don’t want to. Got no respect for
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a gringo, punk-ass, mutha fucka, from a good family tryin’ to play bad-ass in the hood.”
“It’s cause you’re here that this shit happens.”
“Don’t you pay no fuckin’ attention, man? I never told that kid to do shit. He musta heard that I wanted a car from somewhere, and did his thing. I ain’t responsible for every lame ass stupidity that happens.”
“............................”
“Well?”
Jack waved his gun and calmly said; “Well, I’m gonna kill your pathetic ass anyway. You’re always talkin’ shit. Even a dumb spic like you can get good at it with a lifetime of practice.” He made a left onto Calle de los Hermanos, the main thoroughfare through the badlands near the mesa’s edge. The junk in his trunk rattled over the potholes and deep cracks as a seemingly absurd reminder of the sounds of life; now attempted in iron(ic) gone to seed. The views or metallic visions, to either side were full screen warehouse. Here on the outskirts, an inhabitant of the real mesa was totally dependent upon the trucking in of water; the table too far down for economic drilling to be feasible. The water was stored in an orange tank which was propped up on fifty foot metal stilts, emblazoned front and back with black letters visible from all directions, which proclaimed; “Negado Mesa.” Towering well above the tallest
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of nearby under-nourished native plants, the tank was the highest vantage point in the area. At ground level was a surrounding, angled, barbed wire over chain link fence which provided openings courtesy of some artist who evidently preferred an illegal chain cutter to a brush. As a result of the continual artistic expressions, on every stilt, at ground level, was a sign warning of the possible civil and criminal penalties risked by anyone with a taste for exploration and climbing.
Near entry, the road was lined door to door with buildings constructed of whatever material was cheapest at the time of inception; usually of a monotonously corrugated design in the color of a jaundiced, weathered and often peeling yellow, hues not yet in the sun’s summer palette. These buildings were supremely and efficiently functional; utilized only for the storage of things no longer needed; like rotary phones, physical books, and dispensable human carcasses. Initially a hiding place for the antiques rendered “useless” by the likes of IKEA; and subsequently deemed, rent check deficient and paper bounced, they were largely forgotten in the much more contemporary lusts for electronic blips. Some thought that there was still some good shit in there, but the “g” word was just much too much of a value judgement for the “social” majority to entertain, in their publicly postured seeking of harmony; apparently still unaware of how wearisome the culmination of that process will likely be.
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Like a Wenders depiction of serenity-boredom juxtaposed with the watching of and wish for a chaotic excitement, kindness is inclined to presume that the protagonists on either side of the coin are well meaning; very possible, very lovable, and very naïve; the most common; of its possible meanings irrelevant here in the world of colloquial and dictated perceptions. .........
Cognition 101. Next step; 40 decades prior, Wertmuller.
With derision, Carlos said; “You fuckin’ pasty faced white boys think you know all the angles, while you only think about yourself. You don’t know shit. You’ve been sitting in a car with Manny for more than a decade now and what do you know about him?
You only know that he’s got a wife and two kids and a cop gig?
Shit.”
“Wrong again Ace. I know he’s got a sister who digs the white meat. Nowhumsayin,”
“Fuck you bitch. I knew Manny long before you. We started out together. We were young and didn’t yet know all the bullshit. Some two time loser turned on him and he got caught holdin’ ten pounds. Weed! Weed! Fuckin’ shit’s damn near legal now. He got two years in County. When he got out he said that there was no way he’d ever go back there, and he became a cop under some old liberal program for rehabilitation. He’s probably the only mutha fucka to ever get rehabilitated. He don’t want anybody to know that and you were too stupid to figure it out or
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even ask about it. So, think about this asshole. If you’re tellin’ the truth about being kicked off the force, your lame white ass is payin’ for something that my Latino brother got away with. ..... Chump.”
“ ...................................” Jack was truly shocked, but for some pridefully un-explainable reason did not want to show his hand. He had sometimes wondered how Manny knew so much about the catacombs of County. But, he also considered the possibility of a Carlos lie; but could not guess the reason for it. Maybe it was just random desperate shit. He knew that the advertisement of feeling well was a good game. He also thought that he knew Manny.
Back to the business currently at hand; sort of; depending
............... as they approached the end of the road, Carlos blurted out; “Go ahead, kill me you white ass mutha fucka.
You’re doing me a fuckin’ favor. ................. Sheeit.” His tone lowered and sounded as calm as that of a party-line-trained US President, after the press had gotten the goods on him. “You know, I wasn’t even in school yet. I was five years old and mom had taught me numbers and reading; always telling me that I was an American; not some spic. We used to hold hands and skip down the tree lined street leading to the library, and I’d borrow as many books as I could carry. I was a happy kid; happier then than any time since. .......... Then I watched my dad strung up
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on the living room ceiling fan, and for two fucking hours blowtorched to death; just because he couldn’t pay the man what he owed for whatever. ‘No mercy. No soft story. Just the money,’
the white enforcers kept saying; while dad’s screams were stifled by the rag tied over his mouth. I’ve thought about this a lot. I dream about this when I don’t want to. Even if my dad was hiding money somewhere, he was not even given any chance to say where. The gringos just wanted to laugh while they tortured him to death. ....................... Fuck; it was them who wanted it to be that way. If they really only wanted the coin, they’d have given him the chance to tell them where it is; or a couple of days to get it. I have to think no; they didn’t want that. Their biggest kick was in watching some Chicano suffer.
After dad no longer jerked from the blowtorches, they took turns on my mom. Her cries seemed to be what they wanted most. When they left, mom came to me in disarray. She had draped the kitchen tablecloth around her. It was embroidered at the edges; some punched out pattern, something like a leaf; over a background of faded pink and soft blue. I started crying. She held me to her for a few seconds, then let go. She sternly looked into my eyes and said; ‘Don’t cry, Carlos. Don’t ever cry. Hear this. I made a mistake. We are not Americans. Never will be. The books are great, but they’re just dreams. Think for yourself and the rest of the prisoners. You’ll know what I mean
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all too soon.’ She held me so tightly, I thought my bones were breaking. Then she went to a nicho in the wall, pried it away and removed something from a baggie. She swallowed them all and lay down on the floor. I lay next to her and I think that I fell asleep. When I woke or didn’t; whatever; it was because I was cold, as her body had dropped to room temperature. I got up. I saw that her eyes were closed. Her lips seemed to be smiling.
Her body seemed motionless. I prodded her belly with scared fingers. The only detectable movement in the room was announced by the feeble creak dad made as the ceiling fan made a slight movement in respect of the unseen curve. I ran into the hall screaming some misery or other. Someone must have dialed 911, as the cops showed up. Cops like you. Gringo time servers; annoyed and disinterested in anything which doesn’t serve their immediate interest. I tried to tell them what happened. I could describe the murderer-rapists pretty well; but they had no use for a five year old’s testimony. ................... No one was ever charged. No ‘official’ crime was ever found. I wound up in the foster system. And now, you bother me over some bullshit I might not have anything to do with? Fuck you. Just plain fuck you to eternity. .................. Simple enough for you to understand? Fuck you again. Right up your faggot ass. You expect me to be ‘gringo normal’? I got some news, shithead. I fuckin’
am and you made me that way. Now, you got a complaint? Fuck
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you.” Carlos spit on the rug and ended with a rather calm sounding; “When you ain’t got nuthin, you got nuthin to lose.”
Jack grimaced, clucked his lips, held the sten firmly and disaffectedly said; “Absolutely heart rending. Doesn’t the standard presentation come with cellos or violins? I think I remember these pathetic words from a three year old repeat of
‘The Wire;’ a Hollywood writer’s version of a con job?”
“Expected response. No education? So sorry. You may have missed something along the way. Something like feeling, maybe?
It’s not your fault. You’re a gringo Jinn. ......... Ha ha.”
“I got the gun, shithead.”
“And I don’t give a fuck, shithead. Whether you realize it or not, your acquaintances have made this whole thing into an ugly farce. I dare you. Yeah, I fucking dare you to kill me. No; I want you to kill me. ....... Fuck you. Fuck your daddy. And fuck your pig whore mama too. Can I be any more insulting?”
“The feelings you’ve taken forever to articulate, perhaps due to a reticence born of something so cruel are almost heart breaking; almost. Isn’t it more likely that you are incapable of experiencing; and more significantly; that you are also capable of going through the necessary motions, without any demonstrable appearance of being real? Isn’t it most likely that you are just desperately full of shit and picked up the concept from a 1930’s Cagney gangsta movie. Just so touching; in either case. Pardon
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the eye wipe. I’m reminded of a possible misfortune. Don’t worry; it no longer matters. Long ago, I got over it.” Unaccompanied chuckle. “Tough shit, ain’t it?” In a posture deemed innocuous in the moment, coupled with an air of expected derision, Jack heavily sighed, risking being seen as all too obviously over-acting. ................ Up until now, he had played the part adequately; or maybe even at Pitt level. Cops hear lots of good con stories. ............ But, he kept seeing Beth’s agonized face when she too, said; “Just make it stop.”
Though he couldn’t live with it, he instinctively trusted her bi-polar sincerity. He also knew that there was no other way for it to work. ................He decided that he had changed his mind about the whole thing, though he didn’t want to give the appearance of being idiotically squishy. Besides, killing Carlos wouldn’t restore what he had lost.
With disgust written all over his face, Carlos said; “What the fuck you know about it, man? Kill me you dumb cop! Inglais?
I don’t give a fuck! Do me the favor. I want to die. My troubles will be over. Yours will have just begun.”
Jack made a quick U-turn and pocketed his sten. He said;
“No, I ain’t doin’ you any favors. If you got the balls to do it you can kill yourself. ....................... I know you won’t.
You’ll just go on telling that sad ass story. Nobody gives a flying fuck, you know. Its local late night entertainment for
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two shows. That’s all. You fucked me up and I’m still alive. I’m just going to fuck you up and see if you can handle it as well.”
He hoped that Carlos was more of a Hamlet than a Camus, but proved to be right in having had his doubts.
The only sound discernable on the return trip was that of the clunker’s engine doing an imitation of a muffled choo-choo train.
When they neared Carlos’s neighborhood, Jack broke the ice.
He deadpanned; “I’m gonna drop you off right next to your homies. They’ll think that the cop wants to make you look bad.
It’ll fuck up their little heads. They’ll first think that you’re a cop informant. Then they’ll think that can’t be the case, as it was done too openly. Then, they’ll think that the cop set you up to be killed. Then they’ll think maybe I ain’t a cop and want someone to do my dirty work gratis. Then some up-and-comer will think that it’s a good excuse to take Carlos out and take over, et-cetera, et-fucking-cetera.”
Jack stopped next to the six homies and said; “See ya around whiney boy. Try some anti-depressants. They give ‘em to anybody nowadays.”
He removed Carlos’s cuffs and they both got out of the car.
Jack said; “Hey, guys. Guess fucking what. You got a leader who sings like a choir of pigeons. We know what you did. Expect a
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visit from the uniforms.” Jack exaggerated an open laugh for them to see as he got back in his car.
Carlos walked toward his homies particularly slowly. He crossed in front of Jack’s car, making him wait while he smacked his fist on the hood twice. He gently nodded to his mates, who stared at him silently. He watched Jack’s car clear out of sight, and then said; “I want that Spidey D maricon fucked up.
He talks to cops.”
“What happened?”
“Lot of bullshit. It’s cool.”
“You want him in the morgue?”
“No, no, man. They get serious when you whack a gringo.
Just scare the fuck out of him and give him some lumps and lacerations.”
“...........................”
“Let the cop rat know why and tell him that if he comes around here again it will be worse.”
“.....................”
“All right. What the fuck you waitin’ for?”
Hector sounded like Li’l Wayne when he nasally crooned;
“For him to show up?”
Carlos grabbed the back of Hector’s neck and shook it, saying; “Fucking homies, man. Always got the smart ass shit.
Love you, guys. This is our barrio.” Forced initial laughter
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gave way to lots of bones and “fuckin’ A man’s” and a lot of inquiring silent stares when eyes were out of the line of other’s vision.
Jack slowly drove home, half satisfied and half not, thinking; “IT’s not Carlos. IT’s not Spidey D. Who the fuck knows about Beth? ’What IT is’ is the thing and the thug. IT’s not personal. ........ Well, with Beth ......” He was half certain. He hoped the math education he had gotten was somewhat correct; at least insofar as its rule of the rounding up a .5.
There seemed to be an annoying, well taken case for rounding IT
down. Way down.
Raphael, Hector, Angelo and the crew were only too happy to have been ordered to fuck up Denton wannabee. It’s great to have an excuse to do what you wanted to do anyway. The girls had moved on when they saw that there was some “important guy shit”
in the air; and now there wasn’t fuck else to do today. The guys had paid Denton zero respect since he began showing up in the area a year prior, trying to act “down,” his performance as good as any other learned from listening to top forty hip-hop music.
Yet, up until now, they had not done anything more overt than goof on him, which he stupidly interpreted as being a sign of his being a brother. He was nothing more than an easily
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avoidable nuisance. The crew had little feeling about the matter, other than a desire to do something other than sit on the fucking car all day; as by early afternoon the metal would be sufficiently hot to scorch idle asses.
Occasional thoughts of “undercover cop” crossed some minds.
“Spidey D” had been amply ludicrous in his attempts to be seen as super cool to only succeed in the conveyance of the exact opposite, unless the cops had stepped up their game to counter-counter intelligence; which wasn’t very likely. But, they weren’t too thrilled with what they had just seen and were now thinking about Carlos, but none wanted to be the first to say anything that anyone could stick with the green dis-respect pins. Besides, without Carlos’s help they’d have a hard time trying to maintain the lifestyle to which they had become accustomed. And what that cop or non-cop prick said didn’t fit into any patterns they had previously known. In fact, it didn’t make any sense at all. They all came to the same conclusion;
“Fuck it. If the “uniforms” are about to descend, I’ll know in the next few days. County ain’t no big thing. Been there before.
Most likely just another ‘full of shit’ gringo. .......... But, can this fucked up appearance be used for personal advantage?”
Raphael said; “How’s this for a plan? ............”
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Still trembling, Spidey D gently opened his front door and tiptoed to his room. Just in case anyone else was home he didn’t want to be noticed in his dirty, disheveled appearance, as it would result in a thousand questions he didn’t want to hear or answer. He went into his bathroom, locked the door behind him, and tried to assess his damage in the small cabinet mirror over the sink. “Not too bad, just a little dirt,” he thought as he gyrated in every direction possible in order to get a cranium view from every angle. He used his hand mirror in conjunction with the one fronting the cabinet to check out the back of his head. Anything more thorough would have required the use of an MRI. Feeling somewhat relieved, he took off his red bandana and eyed his dyed blond, lawnmower do. It was showing some black at the root and he momentarily thought of spending the already fucked up morning doing a touch up bleach job, but decided that he liked it better the way it was. He thought; “Perfect hair is for someone who wants to get elected mayor. This gives off the I-don’t-give-a-shit look I prefer. Maybe I’ll let it grow out some more and get a two toned thing going.” He used his hand to brush off his pants, wanting to retain some of the dirt in an effort to look relevant. He opened the door, flopped onto his unmade bed, and stared at his most recent poster boy; Del the Funky Homosapien. He really didn’t like much of Del’s music as it was kind of anti-gangsta, but he knew that the image of Del
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appearing somewhat Arabic in attire and very bad-ass in his dour facial expression would upset his parents. Besides, there was some shit-ass story circulating about some conspiracy thing that was keeping Del off the charts. “A real outsider” was Spidey D’s ideal.
Spidey D was still somewhat shaken by what had happened and didn’t want anyone to see that his hands were doing a mini-imitation of California plates. He got up and tuned his radio to a mellow, hip-hop station and Rihanna immediately calmed him down somewhat. Still fidgeting, he changed into clean clothes and washed up. In twenty minutes he was feeling pretty good about things. If the cop really wanted to kill or arrest him, he would have done so. He was safer now than he was at daybreak. In fact he considered reporting this incident to his attorney, who might be able to use it as some kind of police-harassment-bargaining position in his auto theft case. He decided against that bright idea as he recalled having almost admitted to the crime during the altercation. Still, now that the shakes were gone, he was as proud of himself as any young thug after having had survived prison for the first time; or so he thought.
Near fully relaxed, Spidey D’s mind took a different tact and focussed only on the few things currently significant to him. He re-assessed and ultimately didn’t, thinking; “That AM
altercation with the cop could have been a good thing for me. I
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might get cut some DA slack if my attorney can bargain off of some police misconduct allegations. Maybe I’ll tell him. I’ll think about it. Homies may not like the cop shit. Yeah, they’ll find out. In every situation, at least one of the crew has bought ears. Probably got a fuckin’ tape. Fuck that shit for now. ............... Good news is the cops probably took their best shot. Don’t have much in court; outside of first offense, good family and a college application or three. Despite my fear and surprise, I kept the presence of mind never to fully admit to the cop that I stole his fucking car. Just said enough to make him think that I did. It’s a gangsta blessing from Allah himself, that cops are made or become stupid. Hehe. Hey, man.
I’m one of the gang now! I know how to handle my shit.”
When Kanye West filled the air with one of his top of the charts things followed by an ad for clothing decorated with Kanye’s fat head, Spidey D laughed out loud. He got up, kicked the radio’s plug out of its socket, and felt adequately contemptuous and satirical to again face the world. He had regained his edge and was fully on point.
His dream was just around the corner. He went to the mirror, retied his red bandana, put on some wraparound shades and bopped back to the woods on his way downtown.
The unimpeded sun was at 11AM and making a quick sprint for the center. It was not a day for bare feet, even at the pool.
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When he made a left onto Griegos Drive he saw the crew. They appeared to be agitated or worried over something, as they spoke in short Spanish bursts and nodded their heads in rapid fire; sometimes indicating “yes” and sometimes “no.”
Spidey D walked straight to them and said; “Whassup?
Somethin’ wrong?”