Blase Eight by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Raphael continued to shake his head sideways. As he looked at the concrete beneath him he said; “Oh, yeah, man. We don’t know what the fuck to do. Some Crips from across town are over here taggin’ over our signs and shit; and fuckin’ with the ladies.”
Spidey D said; “Break their fuckin’ asses, man. What else?”
With an air of derision Hector nasally and slowly said;
“Easy to say, bro. Thing is Chapo, Torres, Armando and Fat Joe are all current residents at maricon, fuckin’ County. We kind of shorthanded.”
“Sorry to sound so smart. I just fucked up some off duty cop and I’m feelin’ pretty good. Crips probably know that and that’s why they showed up today.”
Hector said; “No shit. You’re not only a bad dude, you’re a mufuggin genius.”
Spidey D knew he said something stupid and was embarrassed.
But, he was undeterred, as he saw this as an opportunity to become a real part of the gang. He said; “Hey, you know I’m down
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with you guys. Consider me with you to the death. I can help out some.”
Raphael put his arm around Spidey D’s shoulder and said;
“All right, man.” He looked to his friends and said; “I think this’ll do it. The man can fight and that evens things out some.
Fuck else we gonna do; get Granny Rodriguez with her fuckin’
cane?”
Spidey D heard a general grunt of agreement emanating from the five and was absolutely thrilled.
Hector said; “Okay. They’re in the alley behind Montano.”
He looked at Spidey D and asked; “You carryin’ anything?”
Spidey D thought quickly and replied; “No. No. I got my shit hid until this car theft thing blows over.”
Hector said; “Good. We don’t want no heavy duty shit yet.
We just wanna fuck ‘em up a little and teach ‘em how to read a map. Let me do the talkin’.”
This was the best day Spidey D had had since the time he punked out little Alan Baumstein at a birthday party, and slapped him in the back of the head for good measure. He sometimes wondered why the kids stopped having birthday parties, but not today. As the group silently walked toward the alley, Spidey D’s biggest problem was that although he knew he was supposed to look mean and pissed, he was so glad to have finally become a gang member his natural inclination was to make a
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beaming smile. It was his second battle of the hot, speeding day, and would prove to be the least injurious one.
Spidey D fully understood that he might get hurt or arrested today; and maybe get involved in a gun battle sometime in the future. But, many people were in the same boat. For US
citizens like him it was largely a matter of a decision of whether or not to join the military or take your chances with some bombed and hooded freak, but elsewhere all sorts of things happened. Point is, they all handle what they have to without crying about it. This brief thought passed in a flash as Spidey D couldn’t feel his feet hit the ground; Raphael to his left and Hector to his right. It was as if he was walking on a cloud; a cloud which he had wanted and wanted and wanted. It was too good to be true. His dream had finally come true.
The six turned into the alley and Spidey D was both surprised and relieved as the only thing there was some garbage on the ground sufficiently aged to no longer give any hint as to what it once was and open tin cans which one would think might have been once there to hold it. Spidey D said; “They’re mot here.”
Hector said; “I knew that you were a mufuggin genius,” and sucker punched Spidey D in the stomach. Spidey D doubled over, but didn’t understand what was going on. He saw the continuation of the punches. When he hit the dirt he saw the kicks, but
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didn’t feel them. It was as if the reality was nowhere near as dreadful as its legend had made it sound. Maybe he had gone into shock, that maybe a half-assed blessing of numbness, disbelief, and the feeling that the whole thing was a nightmare, and that he would shortly awaken in a comfortable bed, warm and cozy, with a velveteen rabbit well in hand.
Spidey D’s surprise induced an internal dialogue, which initially suggested that this day had to be a dream and, primarily because he felt nothing, that he was a somnambulist within it. Confusion reared its insistent head when it instructed its best man, Fawlty Towers, to intervene in the non-dialogue. Fawlty used his left middle finger to poke the somnambulist’s chest, saying; “Wake up, like me. This can hurt.”
The somnambulist was amused as he thought that anyone with the audacity to claim to be fully awake had to be an idiot; and further, that if being awake results in hurt it would be preferable to remain asleep. He telepathed the Fawlty man; “Fuck off.” Fawlty gave up easily as he really didn’t want to be bothered to begin with. He walked toward his Confusion boss, arms outstretched and shrugging his shoulders as if to say; “I tried,” the minimum requirement of an employee, in the hope that Confusion would take his shot as an indication of “best efforts.” Confusion showed no emotion. He knew that Fawlty was completely full of shit, but that there was nothing he could do
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about it, outside of putting out a want ad in a very tight labor market and bearing the possible expense of a wrongful dismissal lawsuit. He thought; “Fucking liberals.” He acknowledged Fawlty with a perfunctory grin and pragmatically said; “Good job.”
However, after a bit more observation his spirit lifted, as he thought that Fawlty may have accomplished his task without really trying.
Spidey D was thinking; “First, for no particular reason, I had gotten cut loose by a cop with a vengeance. Second, I had gotten accepted by the gang which had been ignoring or belittling me. Third, I now was being beaten by that same gang which moments prior had accepted me for the first time, which had now turned on me because the reason they had accepted him was no longer in the alley. What the flyin’ fuck happened?”
He actually showed the hint of a smile until Hector covered his mouth with gray duct tape. He was held down by the weight of various knees as the tape was then used to bind his hands and feet. He was rudely lifted and thrown into the trunk of an older model, maroon car which Raphael had just brought around; tailpipe intermittently spitting a malodorous, ashen exhaust.
The trunk lid slammed and clicked shut, putting Spidey D in complete darkness. It was when the car started to move that Spidey D first was certain that he was wrong. This was no dream; no nightmare. This was as real as the cold, greasy jack, which
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was now in his face. He realized that he was completely out of control and that these people could do whatever they wanted with him. He was now more scared than when he was arrested and thrown into County that dark night for alleged Grand Theft Auto I.
After thirty seconds, the ride seemed interminable. The further he imagined being from home the more his mind conjured up frightening versions of rather banal, guaranteed-happily-ending, George Martin fabrications of old stories. He soon had more to fear than his imagination, as the burning sun had heated up his metal roofed enclosure. The sweat poured off him like the discharge from a lawn sprayer. He thought; “Dehydration. Heat prostration. Dogs die in the passenger compartment of cars.”
Every time the car stopped he prayed that it had reached its destination, only to discover that the source was a red light, a stop sign, a 7-11, or just some other kind of random delay not yet imagined. For the first time, he recognized the exquisite fragility of his existence, when he realized that a car breakdown could prove fatal.
He probably passed out for a while, as the next thing Spidey D saw was the sun backlighting five heads which gave the presumed facial features of those heads minimal detailing. He felt the cooling accomplished by the steaming, over-heated summer air and knew that he had survived.
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“Hey, you still alive?” said one of the heads, apparently providing topnotch comical entertainment for the other four.
Another voice said; “That’s too bad for him. Now we’re going to have to bury him alive.” The audience displayed almost as much mirth over this ironic observation as they did over the first. Perhaps this had something to do with the timing or delivery.
One of the heads used its tentacles to grab Spidey D under his arms and another set of appendages grabbed his feet. They pulled him from the trunk and set him on those same feet. They didn’t hold. Raphael and Hector held him up, somewhat reminiscent of a time that now seemed to Spidey D to have happened decades prior.
He now recognized all of them as they were no longer between him and the sun. He felt as foolish as he felt scared to see the Loco crew he had just been convinced was finally accepting him, now causing and amused with, his demise. The terrain was entirely new to him. It was rather desolate and decorated with the tell-tale signs of human partying with discarded cigarette butts, scrunched beer cans, and bicycle tracks. He scanned the skies for the mountains. When previously lost in unknown territory, he had used the highest peak as a guide to the direction he had to go. But, he saw no mountains from here, indicating that he was either on low lying land in
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south Mesa Grande or that he had passed out sufficient time to have reached another state. Spidey D also saw a hole in the earth. Like a real big one. Like body sized. It was shaded by the few elms in full bloom. He screamed into the duct tape stuck to his mouth and managed to be as erudite as a firmly muzzled mongrel A/K/A an “outrageous, transgressive indie writer.” He trembled as he knew what was coming next.
In continuation of the improvised humor, Hector said; “We gonna do you a favor and cool you off, bitch.”
Spidey D thought he felt clamps attached to his head and feet, as he was lifted up and then placed gently into the hole.
He was on his back with his weight uncomfortably sitting on the hands bound behind his back. He squiggled around to relieve the pressure and came to a stop on his side, facing one section of his four sided, earthen wall. That accomplished he wondered why they had not just thrown him in. He was placed much as one would set an expensive, fragile, frosted glass, Lalique car mascot. He thought this to be very strange behavior as if they truly intended to kill him why would they be so concerned about a few possible broken bones in the process? He dismissed the thought as a dying man’s desperate effort to grab at coincidental, hope inducing straws.
Out of the corner of one eye he saw the figures above him.
Their details were again obscured as they were again between him
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and the sun. Further visionary details were un-necessary at the moment as Spidey D focused on the main points. They were in total control. They were ominous. They intended him no good. He was stuck.
Dirt smashed against his face. Then more. Then more. He couldn’t open his eyes and had difficulty breathing. He heard one of the dirt mongers say; “Faggots who talk to cops get buried alive.” To Spidey D, it seemed somewhat unclearly redundant in activity, but simultaneously enlightening in stated motivation. His ears still unimpeded, he heard the obligatory, canned laughter endemic to struggling sit-coms and petit bourgeois toddy times. The unseen voice continued; “If your fingernails can get you out of this shit, don’t come around our territory anymore, or it will be worse. Ever see someone torched after being doused?” The canned devotees of canine cuisine again obliged.
Spidey D surprised himself, as he was no longer afraid.
Instead, he had again become numb; this time accompanied by an attendant revulsion. It was a nauseating disgust, not caused by the heaps of dirt thrown on his face, but one born of a total disrespect for the “cool” morons he once worshipped, and aspired to be. Now, they seemed slightly less “cool” than a resurrected invisible man, obviously cloaked in worn out, 1930’s Cagney imitation duds, and talking a stupid, incompetent version of the
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decades old rap shit pioneered by “inner city” blacks who have now moved on; the Locos a “funny” and exasperating segment of
“South Park” at best. Spidey D undetectably laughed when he realized that the duct tape covering his mouth had its advantages. If not there he might have been inclined to tell the
“big deals” what he thought of them.
He was also disgusted with himself for having been so stupid. It was now so simple. They didn’t want him and he returned the favor with interest at the risk free rate. Since his dream was over, he concluded that it was time to go to sleep and have another one.
More piles of dirt were dumped on him. The giggling dumpers got better with practice as they hit their victim’s eyes every time. Spidey D closed them. After a few more eye shots, things got still and quiet. He thought that he might be dead as he could no longer see, hear or feel anything. Then he heard a big, loud, old car start up and pull away.
His first thought was; “What the fuck?” His second thought was; “What the fuck?” His third ................ He then thought; “This has to be some kind of psychological torture.
They’re trying to make me think that I’ve been spared; and then they’ll come back and finish the job.” ....................
Time went by. In the absence of a handy sundial he didn’t know how much. Out of some ingrained habit, he again thought;
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“What the fuck?” The reality which he had done his best to obliterate became obstinate and boorishly intervened without invitation and suggested that a much less prideful approach toward being buried alive was the order of the day.
As a result, Spidey D was both confused and scared, though he was well into the process of building up an immunity to the confused aspect. If left here bound, he could die a horrible death of starvation; one small painful degree after another small painful degree. He could well appreciate Gogol doing his thing; but felt no obligation to follow suit.
He feared that he could be eaten by coyotes, or much worse ants; those black, red and mixed, relentless armies armed with eight billion sharp teeth, a well fed indifference and creatures of opportunity. Bear. Cougars were sighted by one person likely lying in an attempt to obtain the least semblance of privacy, now a consideration to those devoid of options. Thousands of thoughts raced through his mind. Each concluded with a politely furtive variation of; “fuck you” or “fuck me,” making way for the next to line up for the same ending.
Spidey D heard tires disturbing the stalwart pebbles in the dirt. In somewhat of a sense of release, he thought; “They’re back to properly finish the job.” As he breathed a heavy sigh of relief, the dirt which had morphed into mud inside his nose, found an alternative resting place; his chin.
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He looked up and saw a face. Though it was as unclear as the other sun-backlit faces now departed, Spidey D was sure that this one was different. It seemed to be tiny and blonde haired.
Then there was another; and another; and ................
In a child-like manner of annunciation, the first face said; “Are you okay, mister?”
Spidey D’s voice sounded like that of Frankenstein’s monster, as through the constraints of the duct tape covering his mouth, he attempted to say; “Does it look like I’m fucking okay,” which was heard as; “Grrrmnnfft.” He followed that with a lagging thought; “Are they serious or are they here to playfully torment me?”
Two of the kids carefully lowered themselves into the hole.
They appeared to be about eight years of age. The one who seemed the braver of the two had actually done a bit of thinking, which concluded with; “This person probably needs help. There’s little risk in undoing his mouth gag as long as his hands and feet remain bound. This would be a very poor ruse for a pedophile, but we’ll go slow.” With the epidemic proportion of child abuse in 2016, it was necessary for kids to spend time learning such lessons, at the expense of dalliances with Winnie the Pooh.
He pulled off the mouth tape slowly in an attempt to be gentle, succeeding in making it hurt Spidey D more and protractedly. When he first was able to speak, Spidey D said;
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“No, I’m not all right. Some people are trying to kill me and they might be back any second. What’re you doin’ down here? It’s a dangerous place.”
One of them asked; “You mean down in this hole that you’re in?”
“No. No. I mean in this whole area.”
“If you want to know the truth, we’re being bad. Don’t tell anybody. We’ve ridden our bikes all over the place a million times. We just wanted to see something different today.”
The little boy and girl were undoing Spidey D’s foot and hand shackles as Spidey D verbally chastised them with; “This is desolation here. Dangerous desolation. You shouldn’t be here.”
The little girl said; “If we didn’t come here, you’d be coyote meat. That better?”
If he had tried to articulate his thoughts, Spidey D knew that they would likely come out confusing due to his flaws; too complicated for children, too point of view dependent, or just plain wrong. Instead, he shakily stood as the last of the grabby grey manacles were removed from his feet, and said; “No. Thank you. I owe you my life. ............ But, please be careful.”
Other little hands were extended from above to assist the three from the pit. The two kids took them and went up. Spidey D
feared that his size would just pull the offering kids down with
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him, maybe causing an injury in the process. He placed his hands on the level ground and kind of jumped while his hands pulled.
He scrambled to his feet. He remembered the little girl’s
“coyote meat” commentary which was suggestive of his ingratitude. The first thing he did was to get on one knee in front of the little boy and girl so that they were alternatively face to face, messed up his silken hair a bit, and said;
“Thanks, little man. If you were triple the size, I’d have gladly taken the offer.” He then took the girl’s hand, and said;
“Thanks little girl. Sometimes things get so confusing, it’s best to just shut up. Thank you.” He kissed her hand.
Spidey D stood and couldn’t fathom why the little boy and girl had found this so hysterically funny. He looked around and saw six kids and six closely parked bicycles; pastel pinks and pastel blues interspersed with an off white. Some still had training wheels.
One of the boys retrieved a smart phone from his pocket and said; “I’ll call the cops.” Spidey D insisted a loud; “No,” and pulled the phone away from the kid before he could hit the third number. All the kids looked startled and took a few steps back; away from the filth encrusted man. Spidey D understood their response. He returned the kid’s smart phone and said; “This probably doesn’t make any sense to you and I can’t explain it.
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Maybe someday it will. But if you made that call it would cause me more trouble than I am already in. So, please don’t.”
One of the boys deadpanned; “You committed a crime.”
“No. ............ Well, yes. But, the cops won’t arrest me for it. ..................... Well, they already have. But, it has nothing to do with this. ............ Well, in a way
.......... It gets pretty complicated. For me but not you. It’s like ‘Don’t ever tell anybody about anything. If you do, you lose everybody.’ No, it’s not exactly that. ..... That probably makes no sense at all.”
A little girl said; “We had to read that book for school last year. And you didn’t get the quote exactly right.” Everyone laughed, including Spidey D.
Spidey D was surprised when the kids mounted their bikes and seemed to be preparing to leave. He didn’t really know why he was surprised. He supposed that it was because he expected them to ask for something in return for the favor. Whatever the reason, he didn’t want to see them leave. He said; “Wait, wait.
I can’t thank you enough, but I need another favor. I’m kind of lost. How do you get out of this place?”
One of the boys replied; “There are lots of ways.” He used his left thumb to point behind him; “You can go this way. It’s a little tricky as the road winds around some. But, eventually it will bring you out to Mesa Grande Road.” He used his right
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forefinger to point ahead and said; “We’re going this way. It’s a straight shot out to Camino del Sol.” They drove past him on their way and said; “Good bye.”
Spidey D mumbled; “B-bye. .... and thanks.” He eyed the ground around him. He saw many more tire tracks behind him than in front. He thought that would help him follow his path more easily. He headed back toward Mesa Grande Road.
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#31- Natty Dread- Meetings at a Very Little Bighorn Placidly content to make a passable, attempted imitation of an untreated and festering knife gash, the Propician atmospheric pattern continued to be the same for the next few days; sunny, seasonally sizzling and no precipitation. Gardeners clucked as they ran their sprinkler systems three fold. The week’s forecast was for more of the same. When the sun was in the east; the clouds were in the west. To make those discomforted by the obstructed Brisas induced point of view, in what could not be analyzed as anything other than some sort of willful, counter contrarian mindset; when the sun gravitated to the west; the clouds demonstrated a strong preference for the east. It seemed to require only a slight deference to logic that there had to have been a few moments of an obligatory criss-cross. This possibility was never seen by the vast majority, perhaps due to the Propicio and Mesa Grande residents’ penchant for self-absorption. The short lived “eclipsing” phenomenon was only noticed by the few artists, idlers and dreamers, who had already pragmatically learned to keep their visions to themselves, under the previously discovered threats of further derision, dismissal, discipline and worst of all, faux genteel, deadening condescension.
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Of even more significance than the mindsets of the current celestial occupants and their lower garden excluding manifestations, whose primary understanding was at the root a function of their assumed “pride” in being at the top of the food chain, the earth itself was scorched. While the “human”
residents went about their busy days with an alacrity more grand than hogs wallowing in the defecatory materials provided by their masters, the new greenery registered its own silent opinion. The early tree buds imitated a third world public utility by performing a noticeable brown out. The bushes hardened their branch ends, establishing a non-porous border, more secure than the boundaries provided by Homeland Security at a cost of trillions of trillions. The aggressive, initial shoots of grass withered and died. The Propicio, one acre, land
“tycoons” welcomed the absence of incursions into their gravel driveways; seemingly unaware, or pretending to be, of what damage was concurrently being done to their gardens.
It was finally the contemporary, post-industrial, post-modern, un-defined day; the eighth; the one the politically motivated or mentally deficient, perhaps oxymoronic; and compilers of the holy books had chosen to ignore. It was the new
“surprise” revealed in antiquity by the prophets who did not make Constantine’s final cut. It was the nightmare. It was the dream. It was the monotheistic needed reverence for the
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inevitable polytheistic progression and righteous takeover. It was a choice of nature or a denial of the obviously beautiful.
It was something feared. It was something hoped. It was the unknown. It was of the sky ............ and at the same time, of the earth. It was the thing avoided at light, cheery toddy time.
It was the thing not suitable for “polite” conversation. It was the thing publicly shunned. It was the thing sought in reverent prayer and in the epithets of damnation. It was the over-heated steam pot equipped with a silencer. It was Abraham’s doing. It was Abel being framed by Cain. IT was the THING which had perfected the art of slouching. It was a DFW joke. It was a Dante fantasy. And it was as hot as the grumbling ground. The bottom line point ignored is that “IT” was and “IT” is and that
“IT” is now irreversible.
In what we have guessed at being some sort of reality, it was un-deniably the result of the lust for the fruits of a lucrative, renewable garbage contract mistakenly coupled with a disdain for the few remaining, prolific trees. In the recognition of all the advanced learning in all of its proffered thirty-three degrees, is it the least bit possible that someone made a mistake? In the on-line educated and informed world of 2016, no one admits to a mistake. Everything had its good reasons with Wiki backup if challenged. The mere suggestion of the possibility of a mistake made by the well credentialed
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specialists in their area of expertise is anathema in its possible “witty” pubic dismissal or worse, serves as an opening for a considerably boring, lengthy speech covering all conceivable sides known by the one who performs the pedantic pontification. To them the important things are only known in late, late hindsight. Much too late late. If corralled, through experience of the diatribes already endured, it is most logical and self-serving to avoid the discussion and say something trite which the orator can accept as an acceptance of their need to appear brilliant. To attempt anything other puts one in the mud with the pigs; oh so socially and politically correct; another oxymoron. Such is one source of the still silence. It is not an emotion of any sort. It’s just two fans, two giggles, and two shrugs. ..................... Then it’s gone.
“Cut it,” the observers observed, ostensibly oblivious of their punning perspicacity. “We didn’t start the fire. Our fathers did. Surely we would have killed him were he not already dead. This is not truly our times.” No vocal response is deemed necessary; just another giggle.
Bravely, Oedipally, or half assed Freudian simplistic; the motivation is immaterial in an existential sense, as the material result is an Alpha-Omega re-defined, not by the immense, fleeting popularity of another pop star; Madonna. This has no name and no fame name; just another business-as-usual day
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at the secretive base of Mount Zion. For those in need of definition or point of convenient reference; wrongly call it Swayday in honor of the young Stones. How the fuck could anyone be sure? Maybe we, in our self-importance, have forgotten the primal, wondrous simplicity of the sun and its interplay with the white, cumulous clouds. Or, have the artificial chemtrails, obvious and simultaneously denied or ignored, been able to make a contribution un-requested and un-tithed? .......... A resounding, desperate and current “yes,” is yin and yanged with a quiet, un-caring and pre-destined “no.”
It was evident that the hot, preceding stillness provided the perfect setting for languid reflection; too sticky to move, but no impediment to the lounging luxury of deliberation.
Ty and Cindy stared at the river they had finally succeeded in being near together. They wondered where the line of demarcation might be hiding in the ripples caused by the hidden, worn, rocky bed. They knew that their question was superfluous and a function of the abundance of dead time. Just as shown by the most fickle of winds, it was assuredly down there somewhere.
The irrefutable effects which they could always clearly see in the tiny waves mimicked the loose leaves blowing madly in the gusting squalls and were more than enough substantiation for them.
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They were silent as they instinctively knew that the other was thinking of the exact same thing. Their minds rotated between their memories of Renoir’s, black and white, “Grand Illusion” line of demarcation, absurdly invisible somewhere in an unspoiled field of snow; Wallace’s mental suggestion of the existence of porous borders; Joyce and Nabokov’s concepts of
“art for art’s sake;” and Patti Smith’s songs of the dreams of the combining libido within dreams of themselves, which were themselves within paintings of sleeping and guarded world rulers, painted in Italy that day in 1492 when the artist died, which reflected one dreaming of sailing ships, which were real and also past, while the ship inhabitants dreamed of the inevitability of putting their feet on the virgin American soil; while the virgin American soil .............. . In heavier moments they wondered what degree of socialization was required to avoid the slings and arrows, and if that degree would allow satisfactory access to their most desired, private moments.
Rick-Richard-Richard III thought about the future. He sought a plan in which, after becoming mayor, he could secretly keep the lion’s share of the garbage contract kickback, thereby screwing his opportunistic and informationally plugged in
“benefactor.” He strongly suspected that the funds would be sufficient to repurchase his family farm and restore it to its
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former glory. After the details of that endeavor were worked out, he could then return to being the “nice” guy he truly was.
Josh had his customarily many indiscernible irons in the fire. Regarding Rick-Richard-Richard III’s iron, from day one he had anticipated the double cross; just as he would have with any of the other weaker candidates he might have supported. He had no better plan than to conduct constant surveillance in the hope of his film crew’s recording of something Rick-Richard-Richard III found sufficiently embarrassing as to become an easy blackmail target. The follow up, if necessary, was the standard reversal of roles. Josh would pay the part of the offended party, and seek retribution in the dollars attached to the other small stuff, previously left vague. It wasn’t a good option, but if Richard stiffed him completely, he knew an honest torch who owed him a favor and he knew where Richie lived.
In very broad concept, something akin to the Ty and Cindy telepathic phenomenon, on an operational basis at any rate, Propicio Mayor Vincenzo and his wife did not communicate while on the same wavelength. If the concept is unclear perhaps this humble offering might clarify. If not, fuck it. It is a sad testimony to the observer’s limited participation in the reading of a magazine which is, sarcastic, loving, dis-interested, erroneous, and with a dearth of creativity is entitled “Life.”
Vinny and his family needed a big cash fix; and no legal options
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presented themselves. His wife knew that without having to have been plagued with the monotonous, dreary details.
Penny fretted over her garden. She made a regimen of flooding it three times daily, but in the extreme heat and lack of natural precipitation, her ersatz native plants struggled in their tended beds, while their neighboring elms thrived. The aggressive young “weeds” exhibited six inches of top growth, while they were continually nourished by roots which extended three feet down into the water table. Penny and her husband had previously been pulling them out to no avail, as no matter what they did part of the root remained and defiantly re-surfaced, growing new leaves on an increased number of branches. Penny needed another plan. It seemed that the only way she could possibly get rid of the baby elms was to dig up the entire garden, thereby destroying the plants she wanted to cultivate.
And even if she took that drastic measure, the gigantic elm forest, just one hundred feet away, would again extend its eminent domain. Her thoughts were back tracking, changeable, and confused; but she was clear on two things. Richard Lawson had to become the next mayor and that her husband had developed more of an interest in hip-hop music than he had in having a proper garden. Her most petit bourgeois of instincts suggested that she pretend not to have been aware of her tragedy and, while stuck with proper company, to put the best positive face possible on
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the whole wilting affair; while being careful not to cast any aspersions on the best face demonstrations of those who put the best positive face possible .......... Yadda. And in no case should she make reference to her husband’s new red Corvette or the seventeen year old dark Mexican divorcee in it and the unusually large withdrawals from his and hers joint checking account.
Manny was Manny. After some explanations of the facts of life, he and his new young partner continued the award winning legacy he had established with Jack; and Mesa Grande remained minimally harassed by the recidivist drug addicts. Because of that and increased competition from other cops desirous of awards and capable of copying, the number of County Jail residents continued to show a steadily increasing trend. Because of that and typical government-business politics, private contractors had been engaged, both to expand the facility and to provide more security staff. Manny was also Manny in his periodic, hand-wrenching, moral crises, regarding what he and his colleague were doing. But, this time his agonies were vented at a young Latino firebrand partner, who always retorted with something like; “What the fuck you talkin’ about man? You’re the one taught me to do this shit.” Manny also continued to try to find a boyfriend for his sister, but the younger man was good with math and figured out that she would have to be at least old
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enough to be his mama; and something about that didn’t sit well with him.
Spidey D was as fucked up as ever, this time for different reasons. While he was home recovering from his injuries he had to keep explaining to his parents what had happened to him and why he didn’t want police involvement. He got increasingly pissed by the hour. He decided that when he could again go outside without being a magnet for sideways glances and commentaries he would “set things right.”
The downtown Locos kind of missed Spidey D. It was fun to pick on a white nerd, but orders is orders. In the meantime they kept their eyes and ears open for any “surprises” that might be consistent with Carlos having cut a deal. Outside of him being a bit more friendly than usual, comforting personal monotony reigned; while at the original Nine Mile, this one in Saint Ann Parish, Jamaica the people heard Bob Marley and the Wailers wail
“Concrete Jungle.”
Beth continued to stay at the Dietrich place and walked her dogs on Calle de La Congelacion twice daily. If she saw Jack coming, she’d double time it back to her accommodations. With her back turned it was not likely that she saw that Jack was following the same modus operandi.
Jack was on an even keel now that he had played out and lost his obsession with vengeance. With minimal interest in his
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electronic marvels and no wishes to impress anybody, he figured he’d make a few bucks by taking some landscaping jobs, sometimes being allowed to take Justice with him. Rather than further wearing out his already worn out clunker, he often walked to his place of work.
Justice was tired from all the walking. He now enjoyed his cushy couch spot more than he did his sliced beef feast in gravy. He thought; “The next time I consider gracing someone’s house with my presence I’m going to first check to see if they have a late model SUV.”
The Sand Duners were enjoying the quiet until it reminded them of something which wore masks. They were glad that the town had a mayoral candidate as that did away with the need for the marches on City Hall with a scary agenda. They were not particularly comfortable with that candidate being a “good old boy,” southern farmer from a long line of “good old boy”
southern farmers. They considered putting up their own candidate, but ran into a number of problems. The most significant of those was that none of them felt very comfortable downtown; and therefore the prize for winning was the necessity of going there alone at least once every week.
Given, the myriad of well-wishing and self-serving, “New Age” consistent set of thoughts and plans with backups A, B, C, and D, the finale appeared to be overly obvious on both a “high
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art” level as well as its lower gaffe; a charge of predestination inevitable, but false; perhaps some masochist’s subject of another tedious immersion into the reductive pit of popular ennui.
On a day when Justice put all four paws down in an absolute refusal to take the long walk to Jack’s job, he made some indecipherable mumbles into the seat of the couch and made a point of settling in. Jack was disappointed as he liked walking with and talking to his generally agreeable companion. But he said; “All right. All right. Have it your way. I know that this heat is tougher for you with a coat on. You know how to get out when you need to. You also know that once you’re out you’re stuck in the heat until I get back and open the door. Right?”
Justice again mumbled into the couch seat, and re-positioned himself even more securely, seeming to be annoyed at the condescending question. If humans could understand dogspeak, Jack would have heard; “Think I’m stupid or something? I know better than you dickhead. I live in the same place as you and I don’t have to lift a paw to do that. He he he.”
Jack slowly walked the mile to Mr. Ron Rayburn’s house over on Roadrunner Lane. Seems Mr. Ron had been in a rattle over the state of his apple trees. About seventeen of them had been left on the acre lot which came with his now two year old
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Mediterranean styled house. It was once part of the forty acre apple tree farm sold off by “Crazy Horse” Abeque. When ‘Crazy Horse’ owned it there was one straight dirt road going through the middle of the property and irrigation ditches throughout.
The road didn’t have any street sign and not many people knew that anyone was there, except the mailman. Crazy Horse liked it precisely that way. But then he got surrounded by “friendly”
suburban newcomers and sold out.
Rattling Ron liked the pavement which kept the entrails of his late model gray on gray SUV “clean” on precipitative days.
The recent hot and dry weather worked well for “the gentleman farmer’s” auto, but he didn’t quite fathom that this was a detriment to the last remaining farm objects, which he thought served as justification for his “down-home-farm-boy” fantasy farce. Jack had previously chain sawed some dead branches on a day when Rattling Ron couldn’t locate his checkbook. Since the more professional landscapers knew well of Ron’s convenient disabilities and consequently avoided him in a harsh display of indifference, it was easy for Jack to get a second gig, and he figured he might be able to get the cheap, phony asshole to give him some cash up front.
Already drenched Jack walked the Roadrunner line. His eyes were drawn to the browned out grass attempts situated on the otherwise barren front lawns. He tried to conceal it, but
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couldn’t help openly laughing at the sprinkler systems which were furiously running, the heads spinning in modern gimmicks which must have been aesthetically impressive to someone, while the water evaporated when it hit its destination at the tops of the dying grass. He realized that his laughter might be construed by some New Agey types as being insensitive to the demise of the nice, struggling shoots of green. He said; “Hey little guys. Don’t say anything to the New Age bullshit artists and the politically correct, okay? I’m not here to obtain their blessings, and would be certain that I had made some fundamental error if I ever had to refuse their plastic awards. I really sympathize with you guys, but am not able to give any help. So, I’ll be as kind as I possibly can by not boring you with some goody-goody platitudes. Hey, at my most evil, I didn’t cause the problem; so it ain’t my job to fix it. You’re just going to have to find a way to tell those self-absorbed, poor excuses for
‘caretakers’ inside the air-conditioned, ticky-tacky mansion that if they had any desire to be useful, it would be much better to run the sprinkler system in the dark. Try not to follow that with; ‘Duh!!!!’ Their escaped kids might have told them what that means. And try not to say ‘asshole’ too loudly.
It gives the criminals a surreptitious way of avoiding the real issue. ................... I’m not saying it’s right; I’m just
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saying I know these fucks and that’s what they’re like. Good luck, little ones.”
Jack slowly moved further down the road. Ron was in his one act, reductive rattle, pacing and chain smoking in the proximity of the rusted gate he had recently purchased as it were. It’s nationally franchised retailer specialized in the fabrication of age, in the realization that this was considered as useful to those who sought an appearance of authenticity; ostensibly in some sort of attempt to fool someone else into thinking that his contrived appearance was real. The absurd obviousness was never pointed out, and may have well been a foreign concept in the Propicio-fashionable meaning of the term “real.” In its closest approach to having stood the test of time; the charade was not much different from an inadequate paint job on a new barn.
After Jack stood in front of it for a few seconds, the gate creaked inwardly open and Ron Rattle greeted Jack with a slurred and disinterested version of; “mornin’”, the “favor” returned in kind. Jack added; “You got some special problem to show me?”
Ron sounded as challenging as a cop one step from making the arrest when he replied; “The apples out back. There are more dead branches. Must be bugs. Why didn’t you spray them last time?”
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Jack scratched the back of his sweating neck and looked at the ground saying; “Yaayuh. Reminds me. Pesticide costs money and you didn’t give me any last time.”
“Don’t worry about it. You’ll get covered today. Now get on those apples.”
“I’d like to do that Ron. I really would. You see, problem is my daddy told me somethin’ many years ago, and I’m sure you’ll appreciate how you can’t get stuff like that out of your head. See, he told me; ‘Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.’ So, I’m gonna need some upfront money.”
Jack thought that he could sense Ron’s rattle.
Ron said; “All right. All right. I got my checkbook right here. How much for last time?”
“A hundred twenty, Ronny; but hold on a second. It’ll be another hundred twenty today; so I’ll be needin’ two forty.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. People get paid AFTER they do the work.”
“Ronny, Ronny, Ronny. We both know that just ain’t true all the time. See, the way I figure it, if you pay me for only last time, and then don’t pay me for today, I’ll be back where I started. Know what I mean?”
Ronny Rayburn was getting a little frustrated and was thinking about his apple trees suffering in the heat, but there was still a bit left in him which objected to what he saw as a loss of control. He decided to give Jack a check for two forty,
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then drive to the bank and stop payment on it; thereby getting two days’ work free. He started to write.
Jack said; “No, Ronny. I’m gonna need cash. Tax man and all that. See, if I hadda give the government a cut, I’d hafta charge you more. I’m savin’ you money. Sides, I’m sure a rich man like you got more than that layin’ around.”
“Come on, Jack. You’re getting’ ridiculous.”
“I’d like to he’p ya out Ron. I really would. You see, problem is my daddy told me somethin’ many years ago, and I’m sure you’ll appreciate how you can’t get stuff like that out of your head. When I was just four years old, daddy took me on his knee and .......................”
Imitating an automatic weapon with a stuck trigger, Ron said; “Allrightallrightallright. Spare me what your daddy said.”
He reached into his pocket, retrieved his wallet, peeled off two forty in twenties, and handed them to Jack. “Now, will you please attend to those apples?”
“Yes sir, Mr. Rayburn;” Jack said as he pocketed the Jacksons. But, you know it’s kinda rude to cut off my daddy like that. Oh gee, excuse me. Cell just went off.” It actually didn’t, but Ron had no way of knowing that. Jack retrieved it, glanced at it and said; “Sorry, gotta take this one.” He put it to his ear and said; “Hi, ma. I’m at work right now, standing
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here with the boss man, and it’s a little rude. No emergency, I hope.”
“ .......................................... “
“Aha.”
“ ................................... “
“Yeah, I’m listening.”
“ ......................................... “
“No, it didn’t.”
“ ....................................... “
“He said that? How can he be so sure?”
“ ............................. “
“Yeah. I guess so.”
“ ..................................... “
“All right. All right. I promise. I’ll be right there.”
Jack put the phone back in his pocket, and slowly shook his head side to side, while eyeing the ground. He said; “Sorry, Ron. Gotta go. Mom’s got an emergency.”
Jack was somewhat surprised that Ron had the audacity to utilize a commanding tone when he asked; “What kind of emergency?”
“Plumbing.” As he started to walk away he said; “I’ll try to get here tomorrow.”
“Try? What about my apples?”
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“Tell you what, Ronny. Get out your shovel and dig a five inch deep well around each of them. Flood it with water twice a day. That’ll probably take care of most of the problem.”
“How about my money?”
“We’ll settle up when I get here next. Trust me.”
Jack had no intention of ever coming back. He was pleased with himself. As he walked down Roadrunner Road, he thought;
“This is fun,” and waved goodbye to the tiny, green, brown strugglers.
Jack walked back down and further down the direct and easy Propicio Road route. He was feeling pretty good with his left pocket full of the cash he had extracted from Rattling Ron, in repayment for the stiff he had gotten at the last visit. Justice was only sometimes a dog. Sometimes Justice was an un-preached lesson. Jack was so satisfied with himself and his two-week-wad of plenty. He was going home. Like a baby-kissing politician, he started to wave to the disinterested cars which sped by. Perhaps personally insulted by the non-return he flipped the laughing bird.
When he remembered that this derisively intended display was somewhat flattering to those he wanted to counter punch, in that it was a flagrant indication that someone still recognized their disdained and useless existence, he turned his eyes from
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the road, put his hands in his pockets, and looked at the Manzanos. As gazillions of distant parallel past performances predicted, out of the corner of his eye, he saw that as soon as he turned from them, their eyes turned toward him, blaring their horns as if their presumed and often mis-remembered one time acquaintance was now some sort of long lost friend; obligating a wave. If not for the ear splitting cacophony it would have been as amusing as the requisite polite grin at a very old unfunny joke. He also knew their “advanced” step two; that this was only a surface attempt to appear friendly, which really said a commanding; “You better look at me.” ....... Which quickly fell to a neutral; “Look at me.” ....... which always culminated in the pathetic, unanswered prayer-plea of; “Please look at me.”
Step three was to tell the teacher. Step four was who cares, shifting point of view. At this stage Jack’s mental and physical attributes were on neutral; neither interested nor disinterested; a distinct improvement over the tedious mindsets dependent on a laundry list of specifics he no longer wanted to clog up his head; posing as entertainment or social proprieties.
He had succeeded in becoming a Franzen short story; or two of them; or a whole book; or, or, or .............. He was all right. Finally all right. He was tired; and looking forward to getting home and napping with Justice. The cars plodded by.
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About a half mile from home he saw the red sky down in the valley ahead of him. He stared, first thinking it a manifestation of the early evening pink horizon, common to the southwest. Then he saw the dissipation of the gray, pink obscuring, smoke and realized that he was either locked into a long, bad dream or that he was looking at flames; as real as piss. Worse, from his reasonably close vantage point, he could tell with a 95% degree of accuracy that what was burning were not the properties or the proprieties of the recent pest infestation. He thought; “Hell. Should have known that. There was nothing there capable of burning this high.” The blaze was likely centered on Calle de la Congelacion. He worried about Justice and picked up speed. He worried about the other residents, even the ones he had not yet met and broke into a trot. He worried about Beth, or didn’t, or did, or didn’t, or did .............. and started running.
His worst fears became increasingly visualized with each stride. Jack got to the Propicio Road entrance to Calle de la Congelacion and was turned back by the waves of heat and burning embers. He frantically thought; “The whole place is gone.
There’s no way in. .................... Wouldn’t matter anymore if there was.” Unwanted thoughts of Justice’s long hair and its susceptibility to flame entered his mind. Wanted images of Beth’s long hair and her susceptibility to flame flip flopped
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with that of Jack’s current canine companion. He couldn’t stand the first, but had illogical feelings about the second, centered around his unaccepted definition of libido; the overly simple blending of body and soul. These useless thoughts mercifully ended when his mind became preoccupied with the burning embers desperate to escape the conflagration, trying to appear dangerous for one last second of imagined flight, as they fell falsely threatening on and around him and on his clothes and all too obviously in an innocuous fashion on the hard, black, asphalt road. His bare hands appeared to display a propensity for caution as they took the trouble to brush the dying embers off his hair, shirt and trousers. In fact they did not fear any burn, but merely had a disdain for the aesthetics of gray ash, and didn’t give a damn about any watcher’s thoughts. He walked back toward Camino de las Brisas in search of an indirect entry into his old home.
Jack entered Brisas, but was initially distracted away from the contrast displayed by the raging fire on the left side of the road and the seeming serenity on the right by the roar of auto engines. He thought that he must have walked into some sort of parade.
The most likely suspect was second in the entourage; alone in his car following the one driven by his front running wife.
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Each was on the exact wavelength of their mate. Based on previous conversations Vinny thought that his wife had started the blaze for his benefit. His wife thought that Vinny had started it for hers. They both thought that it was done for mutual benefit and they both thought it best to get the other out of there before some cop showed up.
Trailing them were the autos of Patricia Primstation and her husband. He thought that she got pissed and started the thing, and she thought that he did as a conciliatory gift for her. While stated first, these thoughts were secondary to their intention to load up all the small valuables and get the cars to a safe place before the fire jumped the road.
After they hurried away Spidey D soon drove his vehicle in.
Jack grinned as he thought; “Fuckin’ little punk always has to be contrary.” He figured the kid wanted “to hang out with him”
and diverted his attention to the fire. It was his worst imagined scenario. The fire lined this side of the road just as thoroughly as it lined the other; the color a bit different as the smoke was more orange where it consumed the newer wood. Jack hoped that Justice and the other residents of Calle de la Congelacion had made it to safety in any way possible, maybe even through the open gate and path on the Dietrich property. He was happy when he saw that beyond the end of the road that Justice was in the river, soaked and swimming with the current.
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He called out; “Justice,” and the Shepard must have heard him over the shallow, rock climbing flow of the Rio Grande and the felis leo-like roar of the flames, as the pooch sided to the persistent current; only insignificantly impeded in his straight path toward shore.
Jack’s visual occupation was interrupted when he heard Spidey D’s voice as if it was “enhanced” by the screech of a broken antique Rudy Vallee megaphone. Jack turned to the sound while thinking; “Multi-tasking is sometimes a bitch.” He saw Spidey D and said; “What the fuck you want punk? I got other shit to do.”
Spidey D laughed out loud in a reasonably affected imitation of Igor, looked at the gun he caressed with his left hand and said; “I’m going to put you out of your misery once and for all, mutha fucka.”
If he had sufficient time to plan Jack might have lunged at the punk, but in the moment was overwhelmed by his surprise and just said an almost imploring; “I let you go, man.”
Still sporting a grin, the kid tersely said; “Sucker,” and pulled the trigger. The bullet lodged in Jack’s chest and the red geyser first bubbled then exploded onto the punk’s face.
Spidey D paid it no mind, as all he could see was Jack making an unwanted appearance on the asphalt; and all he could think of was that he knew that he would now legitimately be able to
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qualify for the highest status bad mofo tattoo; the one with the blue and red shoulder to shoulder wings which meant; “I shot a cop,” in a poetry well known on the street. It was something that none of the Locos could wear in truth.
At the far end of the road Ty and Cindy were on their front lawn, circling just as well as a couple of monarch butterflies.
Cindy finally said; “Come on, Ty. Let’s get out of here like everybody else except that dumb dog.”
“No, babe. We were working for this much too long for me to give up this easy.”
“THIS EASY? The goddam blaze is gigantic and it’s going to head this way. We’ve got insurance.”
“Yeah, I know, and the nice insurance adjuster will find all sorts of contractual ‘reasons’ to give us half of what it’s worth.”
“At least we’ll be alive.”
“Look. I figure it this way. Fires need fuel and there’s nothing much to burn on this side of the road except the house.
............... Don’t laugh. Adobe doesn’t burn. If I can just keep the embers off the roof, we’ll be all right.”
“I don’t know, Ty.”
“Look. If you want to leave okay. No bad feelings. I understand. Be safe.” He held her a second and then let go. He said; “I’ve got to get this garden hose running full strength.
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Just meet me back here after the fireworks are over.” He started toward one of the external house spigots.
Cindy said; “NO. NO. NO. I’m not leaving you here alone. I belong here with you. I can do some watering too.”
Ty gave her a quick hug, saying; “Great, great, great. Luv
‘ya, girl. Do what you can?”
Ty picked up the hose and continued toward the spigot.
Cindy’s eyes surveyed the surroundings in search of an idea.
Finding none, she went inside. Her first stop was the kitchen.
She opened the pantry door and was elated to see the pink spray can she had bought, with the intention of using it in her garden. It had gone forgotten; what with all the social obligations induced by the Camino de las Brisas Gardening Society and their meetings. She had found it more efficient to use the hose on the plantings near the house. She filled it with kitchen sink water and rushed back outside.
Ty was already on the ladder, spraying the still un-threatened roof in a preparatory operation. Cindy called out;
“We’re in business, baby. I got the ground covered and you got the cover grounded.”
“What?”
“Never mind. Maybe we’ll discuss it at a more leisurely time.” She drenched the flowers first.
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Dressed in a strapped, white painter’s outfit and sporting a white cap turned to the side, ala Flavor Fav. The former member of Public Enemy shook up a few things when he continually sported that big clock. Beth exited the woods; as if in the shadow of a sarcastic King radiance. Her outfit was so freshly pressed and clean it was obvious she had never painted anything.
Her bucket housed a blowtorch and an accelerant. She did a double take when she saw Spidey D standing over Jack, gun in hand. Spidey D called out; “What are you doing here, Rosie?”
Rosie shrugged and pointed to the flames with her thumb.
“Et tu, Spy-Day?”
“Offed this pig rat. Now I can get one of those high status
‘I shot a cop’ tattoos.” He took an exaggerated cowboy posture; bent at the hip, left hand much lower than the right, and drawled; “Only sonofabitch can rightly wear one in these here parts.”
Rosie laughed as she removed her blond wig, revealing her closely cropped black hair. She briskly brushed it with her free left hand and said; “Sure he’s dead? Don’t want to leave any witnesses. This fart cop has been bothering me for weeks.”
“First time. I’m really not sure.”
“Gets easier each time. I just love seeing these rich fucks get it. They think it’ll never happen to them.”
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Jack couldn’t move his arms or legs, but the audio and video was still on. He tried to speak and no words came out.
Rosie said; “It’s still almost alive. I see you got him in the chest. You always have to put another one in the head to make sure. Gimme.”
She took the nine from Spidey D’s hand, pointed it at Jack’s head, saying; “Here’s some love from Beth,” and pulled the trigger.
Jack shut his eyes. When he didn’t feel anything he opened them again.
Spidey D said; “Piece of shit doesn’t always work right.
Bought it off of one of Carlos’ assholes. Give it another try.”
Rosie curled her lips disdainfully and said; “Got to stop hangin’ around with the low lifes. Ain’t worth the effort.” She pulled the trigger again and it left a small hole in Jack’s forehead.
Spidey D reached for the pistol and Rosie put it behind her back. He was a bit uncomfortable, but wanted to appear totally cool. He said; “Not much blood.”
“Most of it comes out the back. Give it a second.”
A chunky red tide spread out in all directions, forming a flowing corona around Jack’s head.
“Ooh,” she said; “Now I can get one of those tattoos too.”
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Spidey D was satisfied and glad for the company. He said;
“Let’s get the fuck out of here. We can take this car I re-appropriated.”
Rosie kept looking back as she trailed Spidey D to the dark green Volvo. She said; “God, that’s the bad thing about this job. You have to make your getaway so soon; and I so much like to watch the flames.”
Spidey D got into the driver’s seat and had the ignition turned on while Rosie shied away from the passenger’s seat.
Sensing her last second complying reticence, he said; “Why don’t you get yourself a video camera or some shit?”
Rosie seemed a trifle amused with the nine well in hand, and said: “My little boy. Haven’t you yet learned that some things are better experienced in person? Since this is your first time you’re probably still nervous. Let me drive.”
They exchanged positions. Spidey D did that easily and willingly. He never considered things from Rosie’s viewpoint.
And it was so simple. Rosie didn’t like witnesses. There were three people who knew the truth. One was already dead. Soon another would be. And Rosie had no plans to be stopping by the confessional.
On his back and unable to move, Jack saw the red sky, enormous, to his left and above. He mentally chuckled as he knew
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that he had successfully fooled them once again. Sure, part of his brain was blown out, but he never used 90% of it anyway. He was still alive and expected that soon some people paid to do so would show up in a convoy of blaring panel trucks.
In one sense, it was devastating to him; like an unanswered riddle from Vladimir which wasn’t really there, filtered through the careful inarticulation of the assuming straw men with papers, and their copy contrivance connoisseur counterparts, rendering any possible response presumptuous and subject to an immediate charge of gauche behavior, disguised as an untrained and untalented, condescending duplication with a heartless ho ho ho. In another it was funny. That sense was David’s. In another it was banal and quite boring, ala Henry, overlapping the D
man’s porous border. In another it was as easily predictable as a contemporary, literary best seller by Jonathan. In another it was as poorly carried out as an indie illiterate, posturing that the ineptitude was done purposely and is just so, so cool. In another it was the “radical” posture affected by the likes of Willy the Skeletal. In another it was the trilogy fantasists sucking up to the other juvenile minds in lucrative confusion.
In another ............ In another ......... In another
......... In another it was those not worth mentioning; like
........ Another was the past. There would be no others for Jack.
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But, he wasn’t worrying about that. To Jack, the duplication of antecedents conveyed that previously it had never been anything more than a blue-black-indigo manifestation characteristic of Gogol’s colorful suicide or some 1950’s, black and white, highly derivative B-movie, so horizon dependent, and worshipped for its unintentional campsite.
Though his immobile head sought his metaphysically western view toward his old friends; Charlotte, Jane, Tom, Charlie, Honore, and LOL Tom B, instinctively, his eyes reversed to the east, where the promise of the heavens’ natural blue still prevailed. On the ground, under it, at the end of Camino De Las Brisas, he saw the last humans he ever would; Ty with his tiny spouting hose and Cindy with her watering pot; she scampering around like a rabbit in danger; the flames overwhelming and closing in.
He saw Justice exit the shallow, muddy river, sideways to the tide. Jack was overwhelmed with warm feelings as he watched his German Shepherd shake off and run full tilt down the road right at him. He attempted a smile and tried to hold out his paralyzed upper limbs. Justice was confounded as Jack wasn’t moving or talking anymore.
Someone must have pushed the stop button and maybe coupled that with a pull of the plug. The blinding and ending jump cuts
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caused Jack’s screen to quickly go from colorful to blue to a yet to be adequately defined, restful and desired blankness.
Jack was now blind to the dustpan full of snow ineffectually dropped from the oppressive, blistering sky. It really didn’t matter; as the descent of the pure, white, inimitable ones was hastily wasted over the flames. With ease, confidence and a sense of sanctuary, two red tailed hawks effortlessly circled above the flames; their extended, rounded wings keeping them aloft through the support of the presently warm, inspiring and unseen draft.
Languid Peace, the Second Death or Just Another Redundancy?
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#32- Infinite Disguises- Shedding One More Layer of Skin Not much un-like any given day on stage as well as in the audience, differing thoughts were the rule. Yet somehow this day’s discreet conceptions seemed more essential and thereby even more un-pronounced. That’s not any more ironic than a calming after the storm. In ITs obvious esotericism only the currently composed wind could conceivably know for certain; and the wind wasn’t talking; thinking that it had effectively hidden its name. It was perfectly still. What can one do when the fans are turned off?
Those prone to irrational leaps of faith abandoned the sounds which they usually heard in their fine-tuned ears in favor of that which they saw with faulty eyes. The signs were everywhere.
The rabbits, squirrels and other little animals, once long term residents of the torched forest of today, raced to find new holes, hoping them not already occupied by snakes. Or else they’d have to dig all over again in “new” territory. They found the process much more invigorating in the first reality and less so in the second thought.
The screeching cranes which once flew the sky in V
patterns, took to irregular hodge-podges of all sorts. The
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number in each group was formerly always even. Now it was always odd and in need of a Fellini-esque reprise on wires.
In the center, the treetops which were charred black bravely stood until the fire consumed every bit of moisture in them. No human ears heard the crash as they fell.
It would require one’s being severely autistic or for one to be in jest, to say that something was not clearly awry; the Heller induced complication well recognized, for its limited and copied diversions; not yet raised to a higher power.
On the most contrived of “Great Value Brand” or brandless stages, the heap of single issue voters played their roles to an audience desperate for cheap entertainment, at least until they would again be allowed to renew the comfortable blindness provided by their overused Xanax prescription; courtesy of their friendly doctor.
Not previously seen, the dark suited announcer walked to the still open mike. He either pretended not to notice the
“Nightmare Alley,” red, white and blue banner which re-named the EXIT sign, was blinded by the tan bangs dancing across his eyes, or didn’t give a shit about the whole thing. It was hard to tell when the announcer himself wasn’t certain. With an alacrity born in the middling professionalism of a secondary soap opera
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performer with aspirations, he chirped; “So, can we have a hand for our hard working actors? Quite a show, wasn’t it?”
The audience was occupied. They explored their pockets and purses for their car keys and a place to shove the program. A bit of a considerate, low grunt emanated from a few.
“Next Saturday, right here, the Propicio Department of Performing Arts will be bringing you an updated version of Samuel Beckett’s ‘Malone Dies.’ If you were not aware, this bedroom comedy is considered the writer’s zenith of insightful reality. Hope I see you all here again.”
Innocently mimicking an off colored, Apollo derivative crossed with an Ares wannabe, a cantankerous sounding man in the audience called out; “Ain’t there sumpthin’ entertaining on later? Jeez. I don’t work all week to see some kinda Maharishi meditation on the weekend.” He achieved sufficient audience laughter in that moment to earn the first seeded position in the evening’s belly whopper category. It was indeterminate whether that demonstration of mirth was with Mr. Cant or at him; and it was further indeterminate if such a consideration mattered at all.
The announcer held his hands out to his sides, palms up, looking for help from the unseen workers off-stage. .......
“Thank you, H.G.” He turned back to the audience and with a hint of humor in his voice said; “I’m unaware of the current time and
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that makes any concept of ‘later’ a bit of a conjecture. On a conceptual level one is always rewarded to come back later, as there is always another show.” His merriment unrequited, his turned up corners evened out and he sarcastically said; “But, maybe not this time. ................ But, seriously folks, I’m told that there may be another show in the adjoining auditorium later, but no one seems certain when that might be. Save your ticket stubs. They will be honored there. You might do well to use your peripheral devices and google; ‘The Resurgence of Nebertcher.’ Something might pop up, but the odds are against it. Barring that, there may be something on the bulletin board in the lobby. .......... No, I have no idea what it’s all about.
Someone told me that it was sadly one sided, but I don’t know what she was referring to.
Right now, I think you’d all like to meet and show your appreciation for this week’s cast. First, here is the man you’ve come to know and love as Mayor Vincent Pignatelli ........”
A low grumble, approximating something like the way the hot-water-baseboard heating system sounds when it has zero competition for air space emanated from the direction of the audience.
“Well, you should know by now that it’s just a scam, another gig. In his small, but significant role he effectively captured the dark side of the enterprising western dream. More
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than that, he quietly thought that his wife was responsible for the destruction and nevertheless loyalty compelled him to view that as the help given by a loving, brave and needy spouse. Who can fault that? All right here’s Val Motival.”
Predominately, light, obligatory applause was heard; though it was periodically coupled with some over-riding loud catcalls, unclear in intended message if any, which sprang from the vulgar section.
As he would do with all guests, the announcer put an arm on the actor’s shoulder and said; “Great to see you, Val. Awesome.
What’s next, buddy?”
“Got this dinner theatre thing right here in town. ‘They Shoot Horses, Don’t They.’ Classic love story kind of entertainment with singing and dancing.”
“Going to be a dancer?”
“Tried, but no. I’ll be one of the horses. Cool. Don’t have to memorize lines.” Val half waved to the torpid audience as he walked off.
“Here’s Geraldine Pignatelli, or rather the brave, dark complexioned spouse of Vinny-Val. ......... Whoops, on the cusp of a couple of politically incorrect pronouncements. Sincere apologies to the Italo-American and feminist communities, especially those who may be from Jersey. ........... What jackass writes this crap anyway? ........”
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Mumblings off.
“Yeah, yeah; I know its low budget, but didn’t anyone ever see what Hitchcock could do with a low budget? A little talent married to a little common sense goes a long way. Besides, think of it from your own point of view. Someone important honcho with deep pockets might be watching. You never know. ......... In a bit part, our firstest of Propicio ladies was played by up and coming, Eva Steele. She returned the casting favor and then some. Come on and give it up for our vision of Lupe; Eva.”
Vigorous applause and foot stomping came from 60% of the audience, while audible “boo’s” came intermittently from the other 40%. The voting seemed to follow crotch allocations taking into account a 20% minority of half-cocked crossovers.
Eva took two steps out, waved, and returned to the back stage. She was sensitive to the possibility of being asked what was next for her as that involved little other than an empty, corroded cage in some stupid, un-titled, un-explainable and unspeaking “art” thing; an elaboration copied from Sia’s music videos. Worse, Eva was going to have to do it in thermal underwear; color yet to be determined.
“Won’t you come closer, Eva? It’s all right. ........ Damn.
I know that many of you always think that, whatever the story, it ended much too abruptly for your taste. Hence, the popularity of trilogies. Believe it or not, I once asked a woman what kinds
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of books she read and was answered with; ‘Trilogies.’ I wondered if it might have made any difference to her whether or not the books were about cowboys, eastern religions, romance or adventure, if that is not redundant. My inquiry derailed, I tried to formulate a question which could not be construed as insulting and came up with one I no longer recall; to which I again got the ‘Trilogies’ reply; this time accompanied by a look which seemed to say; ‘How many times do I have to tell you, dummy?’ Needless to say I refrained from a follow up. Having made that lengthy, Pynchon-proud, hopefully somewhat contained intro, I regret to inform you that the writer of ‘Blasé Eight’
has not even done a secondary; never mind a tertiary effort; and any possible watcher who wishes to hear of further developments should be forewarned that to bet the farm on a possible follow up is the height of prosecutable, financial imprudence. In my role of non-participating announcer; non-participating moderator, if you will; I fancy it my possible responsibility as not one who merely greets the ‘fictitious’ characters in this particular story as well as one who greets the ‘real’ actors responsible. My perhaps grandiose nature compels me to attempt to please the audience’s indicated preference to know what happens next.
Back at the ranch, so to speak, and back to the continuation of the presented bogus story; within the confines
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of what passes for reality in Propicio, as the fire raged on Calle de la Congelacion, most of the residents of Camino De Las Brisas and their followers gathered at the Propicio Senior Citizen’s Center, adjacent to the Propicio Fire Department and Police Department, and did their best imitation of a Hopi rain dance; as articulated and drawn in Penny’s autographed copy of Alan Gottlieb’s best-selling book; ‘Native American Wisdom for Dummies.’ They can’t come on stage as they’re still at the Senior Center. Their museum-book-learned movements were found to be a source of amusement for the cops stationed in that adjacent building. The thick, blue uniformed badge holders periodically asked the dancers if they had obtained a permit to demonstrate or congregate on that spot. They provided themselves with amusement when they threatened ‘codger arrest.’”
Totally ignoring senior sensitivities and rights, this was found visibly amusing by the dancers, and as challenging as a zero can be for the stage announcer’s difficulty in making any sense of the cards he was supposed to have been reading, necessitating a winged improvisation, at the same time seeking to keep some semblance of sense for the seated spectators, but not endeavoring to make that the highest of priorities, as they were merely paying asses in seats, and this show was over. The whole pre-printed thing got so damn confusing and irrelevant that he flipped the next few cards to the stage floor, in overt
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recognition and disdain for and of the farce, but simultaneously thinking that, in this room, he might be the only one to know that his ancestors were suicidal advisors to the Prince.
On a hot streak, the announcer deftly followed with; “For those of you righteously insistent on having even more concise information, here goes. Ty and Cindy cannot be found. Some say they have absconded with the fart machine. Josh is now working on Rick’s state congressional campaign. Rick’s previously owned land becomes a squatter’s camp for Syrian refugees. Hovnanian doesn’t mind as their tax counsel advised them that there is precedent for making this a charitable deduction at an inflated valuation. Vinny is easily re-elected as the voters suspect that he bravely acted in their interest through setting the fire. The new big issues Vinny has to deal with are 1); the voters insistence, once again headed by Penny, that because of all the bad publicity, Propicio should change its name to Newburgh; and 2) a growing movement which says that Propicio should establish a public park for its residents. They believe that this subterfuge will allow them to maintain their tolerant appearing status, while they know that the only sizable tract remaining in town is the Hovnanian parcel and that the building of the park will require that the park resident Syrians will again have to
‘take it on the arches’ and conduct their migrations elsewhere.
Abandoning his goody-goody-two-shoes, patented diatribes, Vinny
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supports this as he sees the potential to ‘broker’ the deal.
Disenfranchised and opportunistic elements find a localized cottage industry in the ‘conspiracy’ aspect of the fire; the stand-down, the mysterious phone call from ‘town hall’ the Chief says he received, and how it all relates to the missing fart machine. Manny continues to pick up the usual suspects, win awards, and have occasional crises of consciousness. He’d still like to find a mate for his sister, but she’s fifteen years older than his new partner, and isn’t into pedophilia. The kids in the woods haven’t yet learned to fake giving a damn about the whole thing. Audience approval ain’t required personally. They know that they’ll eventually be offered affordable life insurance through AARP. Today, their main, most important of thingies is that it was a day off school. They split right after their hetero, stoner suggestion and are partying; if there is such a word; at the mental institution right outside of town.
The facility has been closed since about 1968, and affords more privacy than that treed road with the cop continually walking his scary, unleashed dog. The kids have requested that I tell you that they have started an environmental movement as they are getting weary of being cut by all the broken glass at the mental institution. Let’s give them a gloved hand with at least five fingers in attendance.”
Applause, applause.
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Basking in a glory comparable to a Dedalus imitator, with a recently hidden bravado the announcer yelled out; “Give Patricia-Pat-Penny a hand. As much as some might say that she was an ass pain of the highest order, she was of consequence, and got things moving. In saddened absentia, say hello, goodbye and thanks to the actress who has now taken the ‘stage name’ of Ophelia Waits.”
Those with un-trained eyes did not “see” the person who the announcer was hugging when he said; “Yeah, tough act to follow.
Maybe some kind of French Absurd Theatre. ......... Come on and give it up for Ophelia.”
There was a sideways eye glancing routine performed by most of the holders of programs, as they still had not figured out where to stick the damn things, which resulted in an initial, grudgingly, soft clap. Possibly prompted by the miniscule, Medicare assisted, diehard, Blue Oyster Cult, “Astronomy”
aficionados the thunder became cacophonous, as each seated ass used their hands to show that they were well aware of what had transpired. It’s a social thing.
“See where the quality often goes when you do follow ups.
John City. If it wasn’t for the shitty money ............... Ah, you know. Pat thought Harry and Harry thought Pat set the fire.
Ain’t that what it’s all about folks? Whatever the direction, so heart-warming. I know you had a small part this time, but you
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played it as well as any pro might have. Bigger roles are definitely coming. Here’s Harry, more commonly known as Romeo
‘West Side’ Babbit in a Vet.”
Perfunctory, polite praise was proffered which “Romeo”
gladly accepted as he knew that his role was merely so in and out.
“Next, my man?”
“Next? Next? Next I’m calling my agent. Jerk signs me up for anything offered. ‘It’s good for the exposure;’ he says.
Exposure, my ass. I ain’t doin’ no more charity work.” He purposefully strode off, well aware of the generally desired impression which that made; hoping it would be specifically seen as the attitude of a modified young Brando. He dialed his cell.
After a few seconds he spoke into it saying; “Hi, its Romeo; two oh six three four four one seven oh eight. That’s two oh six three four four one seven oh eight. Sid, it was a smash over here in ‘Blasé Eight.’ Good choice. What’s next? I’m kind of un-cluttered right now. ........ Give me a call. That’s Romeo at two oh six three four four one seven oh eight. Thanks.” He clicked the button as he slid the smart phone into an unoccupied pants pocket, and he mumbled; “Fuck.”
On center stage, the announcer announced; “And who will ever forget Justice. Even condemned to unintelligible speech, who can truly say that he did not convey tons of meaning in a
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bit part? How about a hand for the Spanish Shepherd you know in real life as Hay Soose.” Unleashed like Hercules, he came running out and put his front paws up on the announcer then quickly ran back off. “I guess he doesn’t believe in hanging around too long. Leave ‘em wanting more and all of that stuff.”
The strong silent types in the audience were joined by their chromosome abundant, wannabee admirers in clapping with the one hand not attached to their crotches.
“He didn’t tell you, but the big guy’s up for leads in ‘Rin Tin Tin’ and ‘Lassie.’ ......... Hey. Hey. You didn’t mean that.
It’s 2016. If you don’t believe me check your laptop. Christ, I thought this stuff was settled back in Greece and Rome; and even if one was not a history major or minor, I would think that they at least would have to have been aware of Armistead, Harvey and Jonathan. Jody? Ellen? Probably Oprah. Yeah. And I’ve got some news for ya fat boy. Tolerant does not equal participant. Look that one up in your Funk and Wagnall’s. In set theory the terms overlap, but are not identical. Over your head, I know. .......
Okay, come on up here fat ass. If I don’t put you away first, Justice will tear you up.”
The Shepherd made a second stage appearance; this time showing his salivating teeth.
”Thought so, fat boy. Maybe the macho man doth protest too much. .......... Tall finger right back atcha, pops. Shit.”
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The announcer knelt and put his arms around Justice.
“Thanks, man. I knew you’d be there.” When the announcer elevated Justice nodded and walked off, thinking something akin to a dog’s understanding of “The show must go on.”
The announcer returned to the mike. “His handlers don’t want this known, but Hay Soose has about eight baby mommas and a main squeeze carrying her third. He’s been workin’ hard. You know what I’m sayin’? With all that child support to pay he has to be.
All right. We can’t get them on stage now, folks. Stealthy devils have a way of making themselves scarce even during the show. I am advised that a half mile away the firemen are still
‘standing down’ near their trucks, after having been given that order by their Chief. ............. Just a second. ..........
Sorry for the delay. You are already aware of that. Sorry.
...... Are you sure? Okay, I’ll take your word. Refreshments here get into your head; you know? Yeah. But, I bet that you didn’t yet hear this breaking news. The ad-hoc investigative reporter for the Propicio Monthly Remark is unavailable for comment as he and his family is currently vacationing on the Greek Island of Hydra, and is being hosted by someone, said to be just three levels below George the Trader (sic?). .........
Oh, excuse me. Breaking news. He’s now been sighted in Tel Aviv doing a very poor imitation of a sabre. He’s not yet that long
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in the tooth. Well, I guess here goes another conspiracy theory for that Brit who took too many feet to the head and insufficient bones to the wallet; and that chubby, wannabe Texas good old boy panhandler with semi-eastern conceits to attempt to spin into the greenest of hays, sans any derivative of souse.
.......... Oh whatever. ......... I’m overwhelmed with the silence of the gods. ........ My apologies for the information underload. I figured that after having been subjected to decades of internet, social media or anti, ‘revelations’ you have come to expect a thick serving of detail. It’s unverified existence is available on various websites; if you still give a missing fart machine. Oh, detail, detail, detail. Byron did indeed love despair. Did he not?”
The announcer looked off-stage left. “All right. News breaking like the wind. I’ve just been informed that working solo, five unemployed Propicians have found uncompensated vocation in a ‘specialized’ conspiracy theory cottage industry.
They’ll be looking into the fireman stand down and the mysterious call reported to have come from somewhere in City Hall. I suspect you’ll be hearing preliminary reports shortly and follow ups for decades. Good luck to them. Hope it comes out better than ‘Habitat for Humanity.’ ........ Oh, you’ve heard that one too? All of it? Most. Damn. Would someone please refresh my water. You’ll find the good stuff in that bottle with
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the label which erroneously says Smirnoff. .......... Thanks, babe. Do you need someone to carry your books home from college?
........ It’s all in your Kindle? ....... No kidding? Believe it or not, my anticipation of that reply was kind of why I asked.
What’s your major?”
The announcer half smirked as he said; “You’ll forgive me.
This is getting a bit out of order, as I’ve donated my cue cards to those wonderful folks who collect dead trees mixed with tin cans over at the Recycling Center.”
Swig, swig, swig.
“Everything comes in a package. Right? I mean like the coin has a head and it has a tail. Yeah, yeah, everyone thinks that they know that one; and everyone does; on differing levels. The wanted, elusive coin flipping man thinks he got it down, unowutimsayin. He thinks he owns the joint; for whatever that’s worth. To some others it clearly means that if they spend eight hours a day doing garbage, the ones they love will always have a roof over their heads and an abundance of food to eat. Though they don’t know it, these are the ones who have been blessed.
They can keep their tired old asses going by picturing how this makes the lives of their loved ones better; and that the loved ones appreciate their effort; though they can never be fully aware of exactly what is entailed. I guess that at the core it is a trust; a silly trust; which is impervious to all of the
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doubting questions; some willfully mistaking that imperviousness for ignorance in any of its meanings.
Somewhere else, much more entangled in flowering growths, which on the surface appear to be the attractive ideal, the residents are much less fortunate. Without any particular effort all their considerations are examined with a potent deconstructionism which always separates the recognition of the inter-connectivity of the parts from the blind non-detection of the overall view. Yet the misunderstood ‘D’ word is popularly seen as something reminiscent of Picasso’s genius; in its imperfect socialized understanding, in effect maximizing the most fallacious and malicious of separations. They suggest that the perceived beauty of the flowering vine will often kill its host. However, that is not to say that most and certainly not that all vines are fatal. The most cursed of humans are those who seek sophisticated or sophistristic answers, yet do not yet recognize the simplicity of the fact that some vines are content to just be pretty. ................ Ah, who cares? It’s someone else’s problem disguised as input tending toward solution. It’s a very old diversionary game played with newly contrived instruments.”
Swig, swig, swig. “Good water here. Right out of the well?
Pure stuff. Where was I? Off topic is a safe statement. Pure as a kid’s Teddy Bear, Winnie, Pooh. Just forget that the bear has
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been stolen by ‘New Age’ seekers of their selves in their inner infant-hood. That’s material for some kind of Nabokovian parody.
Yeah, I know that he’s dead, genius. Just sayin’. Concept? If you insist on reality; Altman. ................ He’s dead too?
All right, then we’re all fucked. Happy now?
We got Rick-Richard-Richard III or whatever the whoops he wants to call himself right now. He did a great job in a difficult part entailing the most unstable of internal narrations in the most common two of its many characteristics.
Sorry for the limitations, man; but I didn’t write this shit. I should get off the clichéd and mindless banalities. In simplicity the sumbitch couldn’t make up his mind until one unpoetic day; a couple before it didn’t matter anymore. But, give him some credit. He had the nerve to play a part which is destined to be seen as the po-mo prototype of deficiently cerebral. ........ Big deal, right? Stardom on Goofreads, no doubt. Its best to appear kind and you never know. To his credit, please keep firmly in mind that he risked being forever type cast as a rich American facsimile of one of Dostoyevsky’s poor fools. It is my distinct pleasure to give you the plucky man known offstage as JR Gadget.”
Jeremy-Rick-Richard-Richard III bounded out and proceeded to go off into some point-challenged reverie about his diminished mayoral chances, how this affects his overall life,
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its place in the doubly binded conundrum; formerly and still known to some as yin-yang, heritage, familial responsibilities and the difficulties one has in changing their pants. If Joseph Campbell was there he would have stuffed it all into his blender and whirr away on an old horse. The audience stared until he was escorted off the stage and put in the company of Blanche Du Bois, likely to be the most interesting next act as yet anticipated by the incoherent, babbling man.
At an unforgivable loss-of-words point, in desperation, the announcer heralded; “Josh. Josh.” As the man entered the stage, for some inexplicable reason the announcer was compelled to do an Ed McMahon imitation and said; “Heeeeere’s Carlos.”
Of course this was a source of confusion to the two men who played Josh the devil wannabe and Carlos the gangsta don’t-wannabee in the finished production. Carlos took a few steps out and Josh halted in his tracks. They looked at each other and simultaneously shrugged shoulders, raised eyebrows, and contorted their cheeks in the most un-attractive of fashions.
Josh mumbled; “Is it him or them, or you or me, or any other thing? He didn’t say.”
Carlos made no reply to Josh, but turned to the announcer and yelled; “You talkin’ to me, bro?”
The announcer seemed visibly shaken when he stuttered the reply of; “N-n-n-no. S-s-sorry. You’re n-n-next. P-p-promise.”
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He did have undisclosed acting experience. As Carlos walked back off, mumbling something which sounded a bit like; “Motty cone poon yetta gata la boke ah,” possibly a corruption of the name of an old death metal group, the poon part particularly plain to the partiality of part of the predisposed patronage. Josh resumed his trek. The announcer faced the audience, winked and smiled, with the brevity of George C. Scott’s Patton, and hoped that he wasn’t viewed as a Charles Farrell type of ham. In his egalitarianism, he had been researching other methods, but found that his interest died at the point where abstract theory first encountered form, producing a personal parry which may perhaps be prudently or outspokenly pigeon-holed as “Yuck” or “Puck.”
“Hey, Josh. Sorry for the brief confusion.”
“No sweat. All in a day’s work. Party, party, party.”
“For the benefit of the few audience members who may not be aware; Josh was played by veteran actor; excuse me, experienced actor; excuse me, well-traveled actor .........”
“The word you’re probably searching for is ‘skilled.’ But, never mind. No big thing. The make-up people can do miracles nowadays.” Josh faced the audience when he added; “I’m Abaddo DeMonde. You’ve probably seen me before and didn’t realize it.
Thanks for coming. Hope to see you all again. Real soon.”
“Tell us all, Abaddo. What’s next?”
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“I’d have to have the abilities of Nostradamus to answer that accurately. I’m finishing my Doctorate in Medicine, which is likely the most practical long term project for me. Many of my friends are doctors. I am entertaining the possibility of doing a number of small movie roles. I’m leaning toward the one in which I don’t have much time on screen, but my character’s name is in the title. They tell me this is good for exposure.”
Abaddo smirked before adding; “I’m not sure if I want any more exposure. You know, it’s like these Young Adult ‘horror stories’
in which the ‘horror’ is provided by the man in the absurd mask, when in truth, a real life face can be a lot more scary.”
“Not into it, I guess.”
“I guess. We’ll see. In the meantime if you need some medicine, I’m the man. Got some private supply stashed back stage, but for the right fee might be persuaded.” Abbado strutted off stage, his eyes fixed on the patrons in the front row.
Carlos didn’t wait for another introduction. When he got near Abbado he put his fist in the Do-man’s chest and said;
“Hey, man. This turf is mine.”
Abbado calmly replied; “Chill out, bro. Let’s talk. I got a way of tripling your turf.”
Carlos winced in disgust as he said; “I already got a deal two levels over your head, bitch.” As he kicked a shrugging
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Abbado right in his ass, he said; “Just get the fuck outta here.
Comprende?” He walked to center stage and the man who was walking funny walked off in that manner.
The announcer said; “Carlos. Carlos Leader! Let’s hear it for this brave man.”
The audience reaction was as mixed as it could have gotten.
The composite result sounded as if a new super group was formed making use of the Insane Clown Posse, Simon and Garfunkel, Snoop Dog, Ice T and Andy Kaufman.
The announcer put his left arm around Carlos’ shoulders and said; “Sorry. The card with your real name must have gotten lost. What is it?”
“What the fuck? You some kinda cop or some shit?”
“It’s all right. It’s all right. The show’s over. Nice going. DeNiro’s the best you know.”
“Hey, man. I don’t know where you come off with all this shit. First you diss me and bring out punk ass Abbado first, but I’m figurin’ like uh, maybe you made a mistake or somethin’ and I cut ya some slack. But, now you’re comin’ on with all this other shit, and I gotta tell ya straight up, I ain’t no happy camper. Like I said, I’m a good guy, but I don’t take no shit.
So watch it.”
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“Okay. Sorry for the misunderstanding. Maybe you’d like to tell the audience about yourself, what you’ll be doing next and that kind of thing.”
“All right. Hey, I’m Carlos Leader. That’s pronounced Lee-ah-day. Like you can all see, I’m French. .......... I was part of a reggae group called the Caribbean All Stars with Carlos Santana. I split when he did; and now I’ve been talking with Kanye about writing and acting in the definitive version of ‘The Great Gatsby.’ Maybe I’ll catch up with you on the big screen.”
Carlos shook the announcer’s hand and walked off. The audience was stranger than at Carlos’ entry. As he exited they stared motionlessly, like many do when Franzen is through speaking.
The announcer said; “Who else we got back there?”
Stephanie sauntered to the mike, smiled at her own private joke and said; “Good evening, fans, fellow thespians, artistes, commentators, production officials, makeup magicians and anyone else within earshot. I sincerely thank you all for a job extremely well done. It made mine easy. I’m up here now only because I’d like to demonstrate that my acting abilities are not limited to the portrayal of nagging wives. Early in my career, if you will, I did ‘Shakespeare in the Park,’ and received many fine notices.”
“That she did, ladies and gentlemen. That she indeed did.
Some of you know her well and have appreciated her work. For
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those of you who haven’t had the pleasure, this is Posie Paragonia. Make her feel appreciated. As Posie skipped off with her head to the ground there was a measured quantity of applause which seemed to emanate from the back rows and more ebullient applause from the front and sides, the overlap muffled.
The announcer howled; “Here’s Beth-Rosie and Denton-Spidey D.”
Beth-Rosie walked out alone. She scratched her short black hair and walked slowly, with her eyes on the “Nightmare Alley”
banner, which obliterated the exit sign. She was seemingly indifferent to the goings on, either acting in a sense of noblesse oblige or noblessely obliged sensed.
The announcer hesitated a few seconds, taking a long look off stage.
He asked; “Is Denton back there?”
With an air of mock defensiveness, Beth said; “If you’re talking to me, I don’t know. What are you askin’ me for? The boy’s got a lot of enemies.”
The announcer failed at his primary job as he was speechless while his lips formed an imperfect and involuntary circle.
With a broad smile on his pumpkin sized head Spidey D
strutted out and said; “You believe everything you hear? What
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century are you from? There was no corpus dilecti; no Death Certificate.”
Rosie snickered when she added; “Man can’t tell the difference between real life and art.”
The announcer grimaced and responded with; “Well, I can safely say that I didn’t like the roles that you two played, whether in artifice or in ‘reality.’ So, at least in my personal case, I had hoped that one was not a reflection of the other.”
He put his arm around Beth-Rosie and said; “Frankly, I was kind of hoping that you offed the pathetic wannabe, but didn’t start the fire.”
Rosie shrugged and said; “Days not yet over. Besides, if you were paying any attention you’d have learned that everything comes in packages.”
Spidey D calmly added; “That gun you think you have is a stage prop, dummy.”
Agitated, Rosie said; “You think I need a gun to clean your clock, sissy?”
The announcer said; “Hokay.” He then put his arms over each’s shoulder and escorted them offstage while the couple went verbally tit for tat and used various hand gestures. The audience was unable to discern the verbal aspect as the couple was off mike.
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Back on the mike, the announcer said; “Whew. Between you and me, ladies and gentlemen, I don’t really care if they want to kill each other. In fact I wish they would cut the banter and simply do it. I’d just prefer not having to watch; or God forbid, have any involvement. ............... Professional considerations compel me to tell you that Beth-Rosie was played by Rivka Baumstein and that Denton-Spidey D was portrayed by Li’l Wayne Gatesy. I have no idea what they will be doing next.
I just hope that my agents have not committed me to be associated with the project.”
A loud ovation inclusive of some whistles emanated from 55%
of the audience. Upon withering consternation from the other 45%; the exuberance faded into a pale, uneasy, featherlike applause from a minority, as the message and purpose of their enthusiasm became unclear to them.
“And who can forget Manny? Only me, it seems. Come on out and take a bow.”
A short swarthy man walked out with his eyes planted firmly on the ceiling. He wasn’t smiling when he said; “Fucking gringos got a short memory.”
“Well, you have to admit that you dropped out halfway through. By the way, ladies and gentlemen, for the few of you who are unaware, this is Michaelangelo Antivido Cavaliaredi di Gran Croce, OMRI. You probably saw him recently with Gwynneth
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Cronthunk in the re-make of “Sleeping Beauty,” which had that famous ending where he was filmed for twenty minutes while snoozing. I don’t think anyone will ever improve over that degree of equilibrium.”
“Dove sei stato? The American albino from Pittsburgh did a half century ago.”
“I had no idea that Michael Bowman was that old. What the plastic surgeons can do these days is absolutely amazing.”
“Wanna meet my siesta?”
“Thanks but no. I’m kind of involved in this relationship right now. I really don’t know if I should call it a relationship, but she keeps telling me that; ‘Threes are always tricky,’ and I think she means that ..............”
Michaelangelo turned away and walked out with his eyes planted firmly on the floor. He wasn’t smiling when he said;
“Fucking gringos are so goddam stupid.”
The audience appeared to be in the state of stasis.
The announcer shrugged and said; “What do you expect? He thinks that he’s an artist.
The announcer looked off stage, winced and turned back to the audience. He shook his head in seeming concern and said;
“I’m advised that Ty and Cindy are occupied with something they consider more important; the continuation of their water supply.
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.............. I don’t know. That’s what they said folks. I’m just the messenger.”
Boos were heard.
“No, no. Don’t be mad. They’re still pretty young. Tyrus Woodson was played by Primo Manning. Yes, he’s got an Irish father and a Spanish mother. As a matter of fact they live right here in Propicio, but declined to attend tonight’s performance.
You see, this was Primo’s first gig and they didn’t want to bear witness to him conceivably fucking up. Cindy Woodson was well-performed by Lily Principal, also in her first part. They did a great job and I believe we’ll be hearing a lot more from them in the future. Let’s have a hand for Primo and Lily.”
The trifling sound of six hands clapping was soon overwhelmed by the sound of hundreds of low grumbles. Feeling out of place, those biased to applause ceased and desisted their activities.
In a low tone, the announcer said; “I’m sorry to report that none of the elusive ‘Sand Duners’ are hanging around either. It seems that over the course of the show they have come to the conclusion that it’s better to stay away from the crazy goings on and are considering the establishment of arm guarded checkpoints at every entrance to their community. ............
They plan not to dawdle in the ‘green’ area, and are reportedly in the process of circulating a petition to annex their area to
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Rio Rancho. ......... No, don’t say that. After all this shit, who can blame them?”
Silence was interspaced with private mumblings in the audience.
The young girl who had previously replenished the announcer’s “water” bounced back out and handed him a card, saying it was from Ty and Cindy. She then turned red and said;
“I mean Primo and Lily,” before she ran back off.
The announcer said; “Shake it. Don’t break it ....... What we have here, ladies and gentlemen, is a greeting card. You all can’t see it, but the cover has the cutest tabby kitten face and an insistent instruction which says; ‘PULL my chin.’ All right here goes.”
He held the card to the mike and pulled. “Braaaaack, braaaaack and phllffft,” filled the room. The announcer opened the card and said; “We have a further message. ‘Wet farts are infinitely preferable. Signed, Primo and Lily.’ ......... While we ponder that, let’s be grateful that we have gotten our fart machine returned.” He closed his eyes as he mock genuflected. He then yelled; “Jack, come on out here and take a bow.”
Jack slowly walked out, a rag in his hands, wiping away the remainder of the red dyed goop from his face and hair.
“Glad to see that you got your head fixed up.”
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“Yeah, my compliments to those wonderful costume and makeup ladies you have back stage.”
“For those of you who have not yet seen your programs, this is Francis Holliman. Give him a hand. .................”
“That’s Frank, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. So, Frank, how did you like doing this production? We all know you’re accustomed to larger venues.”
“Glad you asked. I enjoyed it immensely. You know that after a while they typecast you and I wanted to do something out of character for a change.”
“What’s next for you?”
“I really don’t know. I’ve been talking to some people about a few things. My agent is trying to push me toward a remake of Oliver Stones’ ‘Natural Born Killers.’ Back to the stereotype again.”
“Which part?”
“Woody.”
“I think you might mean Mickey.”
“Oh, yeah, yeah. Sorry. I often confuse the actor with the role. I might do it. Jennifer Velez is so hot to play Mallory that she says that she’ll do it for nothing. It’d be great to work with someone so artistically multi-talented.” Frank walked off to a seemingly equal amount of yays and boos. He made no eye
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contact with the audience. He looked straight ahead. Straight toward the water-card girl.
“Well, there you have it. I understand that the writer is in the audience. He uses so many different pen names that nobody knows his real one. He’s listed for this one as .........”
Noises offstage caused another lull on it. “I’m told the author left an hour ago. He said that the entire production sucks and stormed out. ........... Oh, well .........” Someone backstage activated the sound system and the Beatles sang; “Let It Be.”
The announcer evinced no visible display of surprise as the scrub iron at the base of the garnet, creased curtain triggered its descent. The scrub iron, which was crudely stitched into its base, clanged twice on the swayed floor as it hit the wooden bottom. The thud preceded the insatiable hush.
A few of the attendants pulled the appropriate cords and the shades attached to the picture windows rose, producing a boisterous flapping when they reached the top. The tired audience slithered from their seats with the apparent difficulty one associates with old age and began to silently and slowly file out. One man remained seated. His standing wife gently took his hand and said; “Come on babe. It’s time to go.”
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The man remained seated and replied; “Let all the traffic clear out first. Besides, we’ve not yet seen the customary stage announcements. I’d like to see Mountain take a bow.”
Their eyes locked in limpid looks which showed a combination of mirth, surprise, questions and trust. She sat back down. Eyes still locked and hands still interwoven they waited.
If one is still so inclined, it might be mildly amusing to insert a faux anti-pretentiousness, pretentious commentary here.
One might also give consideration to an everyday set of four letter words. It’s perfectly safe, as nobody cares and it doesn’t matter anymore anyway.
The Author Sincerely Thanks
You For the Anticipated
Nothing.
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#33- Stade de Sortir a Gauche Quand Vous Voudrez A dirge which followed a cheerful melancholy which followed a blast which followed a silence made its unhurried and measured way across the across of the horizon as King Crimson condescended to plod through “In the Court of the Crimson King”
once again.
In 2016, it’s somewhat amazing to recall that in its time the album which this song closed reached number six on the charts. That could never happen again. Maybe that’s one of the reasons why the group split up after doing just this one, but I doubt it.
“Philosophers obtain the dubious pleasure of being alone, through outliving all their friends. They have not yet figured out that this situation occurs because they bore the others to death.”
Unattributed
All over but the shouting. Waste of time. But unable to yet come to a stop. “A-O! A-O! Aaaay-fucking-oh.” “A.” “O.” Sounds like the beginning of a calypso song tuned in on the banana boat. Day delight and I want to go home. Whatever form the black and white spelling inadequately conveys, it is probably attempting to pin-point Plato’s perpetual problem with a penny-
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pinching portrayal of pondered perpetuity. In fairness to his possible underestimation, it has been well-noted that the perennially noir aspect of Chandler was too many centuries late to be of consideration in his group. Time passes. It takes a genius to point that out. Right? “Hi, Vladimir.” ...... Ah, gone, I guess. Southern France seems something of a paradise; though; with a small note; there are more butterflies in Jersey; when the newspapers are kept out. That which is popularly seen as your riddles have been fancied as solved, though the evidence of that has been conveniently withheld; or have been now ignored by all but the pretentious; or have said to have been solved by those with the knowledge of the primary colors; or ...... . I can’t help but be needy and therefore curious. Did you have to insist that the banal would be unending, David? Conversely that suggests that the excitement will end. You should really have gotten on your porous borders horse and left an alternative.
Yeah, you said the alternative is absorbed, becoming another commodity available from the same beast. Anti-TV is popular on TV. Thanks for the information. It’s done wonders.
“A-O. A-O,” again; sans exclamation points. For want of a more defining word, the rigors induced by the Post-modernism or post-industrialization has rendered us immune to any potential scorn not personally generated. This most often ignored phrase is continually screamed every spring, in the most-clever of
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accidental butterfly trespasses in yet another attempted deliverance of an overwhelming, inflamed rendition of primal red with a black center; small but attention getting. They are the wondrous sparks which at their best challenge the red to try to be the rainbow his father is said to have forbidden. Funny that he never heard it directly from Dad. The youthful execution of red, now partially sequestered in its own notions, “educated”
with the sadness of the logic of greed cannot understand how an attempt to do otherwise can be anything other than a ploy; licking at the most base of bases imaginable. To die thinking one is loved, in fear that that one really is; is at the base; the base of the earth itself.
Okay, you don’t buy that. Probably almost understood in desolation. Safety required. OK. Forget “A-O” and spring. How about the winter of SLM? The plagiarizing of Patti Smith’s
“Higher Learning” might be dangerously detectable.
What is imagined to come next is, without doubt, the most innocuous of possible jolts. It is likely limited to those predictable and therefore boring failures which have previously transpired; another ballyhooed non-event to fill dead airspace.
As the somnolent attempt at “sociability” infers, it is a devastating case for easy, cordial acquiescence. Thank you, snubbed poets of the early twentieth century. Sucks, but it’s the twenty first now.
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The event necessary to induce a plausible second act is for a split second inhibited by the preliminary lackluster reviews, chastisable violations of properly euphemistic speech patterns, and miniscule box office; hoping against hope for DVD sales, the plastic container containing “added attractions.” The undefined event is playing an inferior Narcissus, its head under the water, rather than utilizing the fullest of senses available; or at least the fullest of senses one limited by the expectation of mortality can imagine.
What in an inspired variability does come has a predilection for being something only anticipated by the silence of pure chance and the stillness of its “human” perpetrators.
Much more frightening is the banal variety of shock. In fact it is far from physically shocking; nothing more than a minor annoyance when it is building up. One would risk being viewed as socially incorrect or stupid to voice any objection to the sticky little white thing the old guy found in the woods.
However, just as in the game of chess, after some bland pawn, knight and bishop moves, the Rook, King and Queen, this time become a bit atypical, in that both black and white, are soon simultaneously under attack.
There exists a significant fear that our technology will replace humanity. Notations of human similarities to the plastic and metal popularly abound, not solely in the halls of academe.
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It seems much scarier that humanity views that as distinctly possible. It’s like the “tell” a card player easily sees. The fearful are no longer confined to the ranks of sci-fi writers and readers. This concept is very well portrayed in the brilliant Ridley Scott film, “Blade Runner.” That’s entertainment. In reality, no such machines are anywhere near existence. If one was forced to bet, it would seem 50-50 to bet that they never will, as their builders have unknowingly quit the job right after the frame went up. It would also seem a 50-50 bet that within a decade they will, as the best machines can now choose how to educate themselves without human interference.
Lee Sedol may well have been the last human hero.
At the current state of the “art,” to do any damage, the electrically prodded machines are still unable to act unilaterally. Armed with the addicting “entertainment”
programmed into all of its bits and bytes they are totally dependent on a human conspirator capable of inserting a plug and pushing the appropriate buttons. If one seeks some semblance of reality; that which is; and temporarily ignores the science fiction-fantasy genre, it is obvious that the machines’
abilities are a lesser form of existence; still with more similarities to a television than Robby the Robot.
We have seen seventy years of generally profitable, boob tube presence. We have seen continual promises of better things
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to come, issued splendidly by the “human” merchants. The message differs little between those commercially oriented and those government grant dependent. McLuhan summed it up long ago. “The medium is the message.” For many, the progress has resulted in watching deceptively commercialized programming on a small flat screen, rather than watching obviously commercialized programming on a larger, curved one.
To my knowledge, not one of the devices has physically attacked a human. Some people do become addicted; but some people will get addicted to most anything. We have become expectant of being constantly “entertained.”
Trust what you need to. If you’re fortunate, don’t trust anything emanating from the un-silky web. Stick with Charlotte.
The good news is that after a human near average lifetime has elapsed the best of the electronic machines cannot yet pick up a glass and fill it with water without breaking the glass and causing a flood; a substandard completion for an un-schooled two year old child.
Yes, I know there are drones, in every sense of the word.
Amusant faux pas; no. I’ve met a few. Those buzzes, which have attained the capability to be temporarily air born, remind me of the remotely controlled flying and swimming machines of the 1950’s. In the public park, the Dads held the controllers while their kids marveled at the air and water show, until the crash;
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until the submergence. However, “improvements” have been made over the last seventy years. Those employed in the Middle East have had their sizes multiplied, carry “payloads” delivered based on their all too convenient “intelligence,” or lack thereof, and are not controlled by any heart possessing being.
The “strikes” of the drones all too often hit hospitals and personal dwellings, with women and their children all too often the mutilated victims.
If called to task, those surreptitiously in charge have, to date, successfully dodged any aspect of possible wrongdoing, primarily through the “proof” of their having been the offended party. They have become sympathetic figures by way of having usurped the sympathy which was earned by those who others now incorrectly identify them with. The animal which has been commonly called a sabre toothed tiger is actually a sabre toothed cat and has no known bloodline which would put it in the tiger family, though that is where it popularly resides in the collective consciousness of the world. It benefits from the sad fact that tigers have been mercilessly hunted, though it has never been anything other than the hunter. The sabre toothed tiger also benefits from the fact that it is thought to be extinct; but there are rumors ....................
Smiley, smiley, required, well-rehearsed, public statements. Their regurgitation of the dreadfully worn, but
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somehow still useful yellow, happy face, has now been
“enhanced,” primarily through the neglect of all “responsible”
(Murdoch owned to the “radical.”) forms of media including a myriad of other books, internet posts and your bored local cashier. Alice Cooper wants to be elected.
Observe the train’s protracted trip through the hail, waterworks on the left and the right. There’s a .......... Never mind; gets touchy. Somebody else said that, didn’t they?
Something like that? A long time ago. I think. “True” memories and False Memory Syndrome indicate no predilection for prejudice and simultaneously and impartially fade. Things kind of merge and fade after the third humanitarian glass of Red Mercy. For some strange reason I’m somehow not compelled to ask some derivation of “Don’t they?” after that one, perhaps throwing an un-intended spitball at social proprieties. I can’t read the label from my ten foot distance, though I can easily tell that the promoter’s name is at the top in outsized and stylized letters. The marketing agency’s attempt at lucrative self-importance is somewhat reminiscent of a standardized signature.
Though it is professionally bent into a pattern not yet easily duplicated by the average computer maven, it seems easily discernable that its attempt to appear random is suggestive of another failed attempt at commercial “art.” Captcha or capture?
Weary veterans know that after the third morning taste you can’t
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tell one from another. ............... Hmnnnn. Not entirely true. But, we’re not here to discuss fine wine. ......... Aren’t we? .......... You tell me. I don’t know.
So let me attempt to dutifully go back to being as “on topic” as End Notes possible. ............ Hmnnnn, again. In some sense this viewed-as-diversionary, irrelevant rambling is indeed as “on topic” as one can be. However, any attempt to try to explain that statement requires mind reading, telepathy, colors, thought-forms or subliminal understanding. ......... Get off this at the peril of being called pretentious, stupid, redundant or being granted the privilege of being totally ignored. Don’t make the mistake of a reply, other than; “Who cares?” Get back to due diligence where a nap is more desired, refreshing, and totally chilled out, dudes and dudettes.
This book was just another attempt at a “contemporary”
rendition of the truth-joke-tragedy we all know. Fuckin’ writer merely got long winded. Hey, it wasn’t his fault. He just picked up a few clams for penning the last ten pages, before the insects got them. No shit. Gotta pay the man some fuckin’ how.
Don’t like that or it? Drop dead. That’s kind of a tautology.
Snicker, snicker.
This book may well have been, and at various times had indeed been titled; “The Un-Named Eighth Day,” “Un-Comfortably Numb,” and an extremely unfortunate “Joking on Bleak House.” The
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writer has flip-flopped; one might conclude to be possibly indicative of an inability to make up his mind. This accurately may be seen as the usual state of events. However, in fairness to the writer, it would be accurate to point out that that possible evaluation is likely a deference to appearance as opposed to any semblance of the Platonian idea of a corrupt and imperfect “reality” reflected for at least the second time in the ripples of the Narcissus’ pond, now updated with high tech mirrors, perhaps the third aspect, set on opposing walls, reflecting each other into infinity or oblivion. What’s in a name? The writer sits there in the silence and uses the battery operated controller to turn on the television set. The audio has long prior been positioned at merciful “mute” and the video is locked on one of the tough, intense, and vigorous Spanish stations. ............... Whoooo. The absence of words don’t matter. No Twiggies here. These people got their shit together; you know what I’m sayin’. I know you do. Holy ..... If she gets any lower she is going to pop right out of that thing. WOW!!! To recall an ancient, often Astaire dancing with Ginger, compilation; “That’s Entertainment.”
Okay; the writer will attempt a distracted continuation.
I suppose that in the writer’s third or fourth effort of the morning to attempt to get back to the subject at hand; he thinks it worthwhile to mention that “The Un-Named Eighth Day”
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possible label, TUNED, an acronym originally unintentional, which through an acquired taste evolved to being intentional, was a reference to that day yet to be spoken about. It may or may not have been mentioned in the found and esoterically revealed parchments; purposely ignored or forgotten Lilith at the beautiful helm. Or it may have not met the requirements of the misunderstanding translators, purposeful or not; the builders of money-spinning hierarchies on crusade disguised as missionary sacrifice; the Machiavellian calculations of the yellow, jaundiced heads, thinking they are numerous chess moves ahead of their incorrectly termed “opponent,” in an effort to appear on the other side; those whose personal, psychological inadequacies give them an “excuse” to multiply the pain with automatic weapons. It will not “entertain” those sufficiently beaten to just settle for an un-granted solace at home. It certainly will not meet the demands of those capable of confusing a tiger with a cat. And it will certainly not appeal to those of the ruling class, fueled only by the obsequiousness of their monetarily replete, yet truly Benedict Arnold state, Judas, uncompensated traitor, the suck ups choice; unless someone explains it to them ass backward. These are the worst of the worst; the servants with only a lie or a convenient delusion as opposed to a dream; the “kindest” and ultimately deadest of us “gloriously” preaching co-operation, as if it were not a mere
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prelude, and prognostication of the annihilating storm. There is no doubt that there are others who will continue to say; “Huh.
Can you repeat that in English?” The writer doesn’t know or want to extoll; “Fight Game” another flash in the pop pan; burnt and cheesy corn personally preferred. The writer answers; “Inglais?”
The allowed, by the cruel masters, to be revealed of the ancient esoteric texts leaves us without any scientifically provable point meeting the standards of the Science PhD. Their
“learned” postings in the most prestigious of publications, only open to the most influential, those with the Ivy League entrapment, supposed higher authority credentials effectively censor those “untrained to question,” unaware of the shorthand parlance of the privileged in their attestations of
“scholarship;” their common sense non-existent and laughable at toddy time; only requiring the ability to laugh at their own zero. End of game as they know it. But, “Fuck ‘em; who cares if they bury each other? Improves the view.
Without any of us having a chance of access to the un-edited possibility of the source document, whatever that truth, beauty, reality, obscuration or non-existence; the lay of the land has long dictated that any attempt to survive, to live, after it’s Eden-like beginning, now entails the apple, the cat or the tiger out of the bag, maybe capitalized, though really insignificant in its programmatic, predictable follow up in Nod.
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We diligently read our e-mail daily and are always disappointed that today was not our day; casket and cremation bargains readily available. To look back to a kinder and more joyous time is ultimately a personal self-hatred, a joyous masochism; sadly disdained and reviled; contemptuously, in the comfort of the crowd something which kills the love once fancied. The NY Times and National Enquirer run the gamut of opinions, each seeking increased market share and “headline” the gamut of opinions, easily negated and retracted in obscure, back page, contradictory parlance.
Their disparate views range from Revelation’s alpha-omega aspects to utter nonsense. Somewhere in between, it is more likely that this refers to how people have always gone about the business of their daily lives, doing the “good” and practical things people have always done. The tale is now set in twenty-first century America, a puzzled, un-happy time of a difficult economy, electable conspiracy beliefs and draining wars combined with personal observations difficult to articulate and therefore attempt to share and further define and refine. Any particular point of view is highly subjective and a function of one’s position, intelligence level, ego equations, common sense and most importantly an ability to empathize, despite an infinite variety of other considerations. The time and place serve as
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conduits necessary for verbal or written communication. They are ultimately irrelevant, incidental, and futile diversions.
So much or so little for TUNED.
“Un-Comfortably Numb,” UCN or UN, acronym again intentional, is the reversal of a 1970’s Pink Floyd song.
“Comfortably Numb” was written in an optimistic time of celebration and reflected a depressed attitude toward that. With the predictable 180 degree twist we now experience the requirement of an optimistic attitude in a pessimistic time of fashionable misery. Or so the merchants of death would have us believe. It might have something to do with tasting the sweet and the sour. If one has not experienced the sour, how could one differentiate the sweet? Or vice-versa, twisted a few times through the mirror; exacerbated and analyzed to death in post-modern or post-industrial times; while offering the contrived appearance of sophistication which has been attached to another genre; another market share. Or it might be a wish for something new; that being the opposite of life as currently defined.
The idea of the possible title “Joke on Bleak House,” is an embarrassment short lived. It may have been nothing more than the pretentious author’s brief attempt to make some association with his half century wife’s love of Dickens; his hilarious and poignant genius, away from the unsurpassable “Tale of Two Cities” to “Bleak House,” hilarious and eternal, thanks to the
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ideas portrayed and the phrasing. In an un-intentional innocence the author has recently settled on yet another possible subtitle.
“Joking on Bleak House,” was an extremely fleeting moniker; at first glance seemingly too cruel; a possible acceptance of the 2016 penchant to not only laugh at cripples, but for contemporaneous society to set them aflame and achieve another false mirror vision; a temporary ecstasy spoken of while the disinterested psychiatrist nods where he can, and collects his fee. In truth, JOB has the potential to be yet another easily memorable, banal acronym; at the same time the one which has the most relevance in the “freedom” outsiders’ vision of America. Once thought easily escapable, this genre suggestive limitation keeps popping up at an alarming rate. Dammit. No elaboration is required, as we all know too well and agree as to what those three capital letters involve; “Our lives, our limiting definitions, daily displayed in comedic or tragic, now cleverly called tragicomic in an attempt at a display of hard sophistication.
Yet, it can be the opposite. Bleak House was a reflection of the time of 1852-1853, and we are still here in 2016. If such pessimism was overcome once, it can be overcome again. However, Yeats has informed us that the beast has been slouching toward Bethlehem since 1919-1920; and if one scans popular contemporary
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literature, it seems that the majority are rooting for him or don’t care. Criminals respond very well to encouragement and the absence of police. Chastisements aside, in truth, I don’t care either. The only reason I’ve not bet any money on the demise is that it is an impractical bet, as if I win, there will be no one to collect my money from.
Eyes determinant of lives, privileged, in a better-than–
the-average approximation of the “free,” which are capable of elevation to the top of the page may break out of the established pattern and incorrectly think something “new,” as if they knew what “new” is unless purchased at the super mall. The brightest blink tired, half closed eyes and say everything has already been done. They don’t find it the least bit amusing if one points out that they said that in 1AD, 300AD, 1000AD, 1500AD
and 2001AD. It can get one ostracized at the cocktail party if one further added that they just might be what is not new. If other eyes can induce the attached brain to believe it, maybe
...................... Maybe, maybe, maybe. .............. Sleep and hoped for dreams are not necessarily the best thing we can
“live,” but the bookies put the odds at 40-1 in its favor. Not a bad bet on credit.
No one should ever have been condemned to feel the otherwise. The stars know that they have been fortunate in their bone structure, birthplace and have had a bit of serendipitous,
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un-planned luck. Things go their way because they are attractive and that they expect that they will. The rest of us learn to try to not whine and complain. Yet the loneliness, the feelings of inadequacy, the feelings of ugliness “kindly” said again and again and the contempt we experience alone bog us down; as we are unaware that the stars feel it even more. The horrible contempt for a love no one wants suggests the kindness of the quick pain of a dog doused and doomed with lighter fluid. He or she cannot understand the flame. He or she trusts, and seeks friends, so logical in his innocent need to be held; and denied by a cold mother. His stupidity and need is greeted with laughter, everyone pointing; reminiscent of the tears he shed many years prior in Quasimodo, Opera Phantom, Elephant Man and other costumes. Sanctuary in the chiming bells!
No one. Not ever again; your and my prayers, tears on our pillows, are more than enough; yet I see your responsive face and you mine. Your kind and beautiful eyes kill me unintentionally in silence. In our desirous needs, we endeavor to hold back and try to forget the past, in essence breaking out of the long line to the edge. It is obvious that they do not approve. It is more obvious that they mean us no good and would better be avoided and ignored. I sense in your gone eyes that you know that too. It’s just overzealous sociability speaking at
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the podium. The brain filled exactitudes of consistent previous rejections overwhelm.
As you, now afraid and unable to communicate feeling, like me, I still try to further peer into your soul. Within the space of a heartbeat you sense this and block the needy, pathetic attempt. I want to truly say that I’m in desperate love; however you have chosen to think of that undefinable word as a “reason”
to find fault with the inadequacies of my physicality. I assure you that if your goal was to have hurt me, you could not have done better; simultaneously hurting yourself. ........ Yet, no matter what I may erroneously think, I am sure that my greatest accomplishment in this life is to never have once considered trying to hurt you back. As you know by now, I’m proud to be an idiot, especially after everyone has become world-wide-web
“brilliant.”
In possible consideration of what he may have seen as both pompous and fatuous predecession; a fantastic marketing opportunity for those devoid of talent, Johnny once again made use of his prominently displayed half tooth to strike up the band. He had hoped that Sid would cause some sort of ruckus which would fill the media with objectionable, shocking news.
But, he was to learn that by now Sid was so fucked up on heroin, that his biggest concern was his inability to take a good shit.
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So, they toured the American south and west, in hopes of offending somebody. They probably accomplished that. But, the heartland’s kids had heard that the Pistols were the ultimate bad asses, and when they saw them, they just looked and sounded like typical, pussy-assed British twits. Compounding that, the fact that they couldn’t adequately play their instruments made the audiences wish for Johnny Cash or at least Waylon Jennings.
Yeah, one time Sid got his ass almost kicked in the parking lot, but the kicker stopped when he saw how pathetic Vicious really was.
Out of abject boredom, the audiences, especially the female contingent, found the whole thing amusing.
Trying to take one more step up from their detractors the Sex Pistols invoked a song which attested to old time values, mixed with an Irish fight song beat. Ridiculously over the top, they closed with “The Great Rock ‘n’ Roll Swindle.” .........
Far fuckin’ out.
After the uninspired act was finally over, in a last ditch attempt to appear “super cool,” Johnny apparently felt the need to make certain that it was he who had uttered the last words.
As the audience turned away and walked out, without the benefit of a mike, he said; “Did you ever get the feeling that you’ve
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been cheated?” He may not have known that he was talking to himself.
In a time damaged venue Cream blasted “Deserted Cities of the Heart” in what was a duplicitous celebration of the inevitability of failure. However, to have that perception one is required to hear the words in addition to Clapton’s guitar.
Bob Dylan, pushed aside by the eloquence of Punk and Disco, was stubborn in his overlapping rendition of “Where Are You Tonight? (Journey through Dark Heat).” His un-promoted song contained a bit of an insult to the “cool,” post-celebratory audience in the hinted meaning of the sub-title, but no-one noticed either. The concepts of counter-clockwise moving timepieces and she turning back pages of an un-writeable book were just too obvious to attract much “learned” attention.
Obscure exploding truth was a particular target of the calculators. To his credit, Bob made no reply, or perhaps a mumbled; “Fuck ‘em, I’m almost all right.”
And then along came Patti Smith, still carrying the torch.
She said that if the philo-logic-math guys required the long story she’d attempt to give it to them. Combining her dream, a trip to Italy, St. Francis, a painting of sleeping Constantine, his dream within that painting, the painter, America, brushes, battles, crosses, art, dissolving ..................... and
Page 1151
loads more, Patti did it as well as it can be done.
“Constantine’s Dream.” It is possible that her rendition was well received in NYC and Western Europe, the latter more difficult to gauge.
For the sake of simplicity, Patti followed that with a song she called a lullaby, titled; “Seneca,” a winged child. Good night.
It is expected that the papered scarecrows will say something like; “Same old story.” Odds are. It would be unkind to say that if anyone thinks they can do anything better; the challenge remaining for those so content and self-congratulatory is to get off their asses and do it; so it would be improper to say such a rude thing. It might well be noted that appropriate lyricism receives extra credit. The world patiently awaits.
Otherwise, just shut up and go away.
You can leave if you want to. We’re just jammin’. That’s all. You can leave right now. Thanks.
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#34- In Dripping Black Calligraphy The Door’s “Shaman’s Blues” screamed from 1222, WPOT-FM, programmed by Sidney on the Skids, for Texas Radio and the Big Beat. It didn’t matter as all ears were either deaf or otherwise shut, including those of dead Sidney.
Blending the logic with the thoughts, dreams, plans and visions, the truth finally appeared. “Tuesday’s Witch Never Bothers About Orangutans Left. whY?”
The Players Took a Well-Earned and
Welcomed Final Rest
Page 1153
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