sorry its been so long since i last updated. i was on my way to bremerton, seattle to go see my boyfriend when a band of mis-shaven misfits from, you know, one of those criminal countries snatched me from an unlit airport terminal and carried me -gagged by the barrel of a .45- into some unlocked room where luggage from the 1920's, such as wooden skis and bombs, was still sitting under dust, waiting to be claimed. they worked as if pressed for time, the way bad criminals always do. one of them immediately stuck a yellow-green syringe into my arm as the other revealed a crude, electric jigsaw, probably from the 1920's. by the time the sedative really kicked in, they'd removed my shirt, dropped me on my stomach, and were three quarters complete cutting a hole near the base of my spine about the size of a human fist. the next few days are a haze in my mind. we moved a lot. i saw everything through narrow eyes; my knees were very weak. two of them held me by the elbows and smiled a lot whenever people stared. we boarded some flight. i sat between two of the criminals, my head on one of their shoulders, sinking into my seat because of the weight of all that heroin stuffed, i imagine, in plastic bags deep within my torso. the funny thing is i could even feel the corner of one of those suckers pinching my lung! we landed sometime later in some nation, drove through a desert to some town owned by a fat, rich man with a hat. an argument ensued. I got D's in spanish one through three, so i could make out that the commotion was over someone not using the convential rectum-cargo method and someone else saying that replacing not-so-vital organs with bags of the shit proved more efficient than tight intestinal tracts. or else the shapes around me weren't speaking spanish at all and they were saying something entirely different. in retrospect, though, i -do- understand that my kidnappers decided to snub their client by not giving him all the heroin. i suspect this because after the sedatives finally cleared, and i finally found my way home, i still, to this day, keep noticing white powder lining my underwear no matter how many times i shower. there are probably three or four more bags in there somewhere, hanging out next to the single kidney they left me. at least now i have a killer alien abduction scar to show.
oh, about that last entry, with the trucks and stuff. no biggie. morgana and i clung to the semi nice and secure, and when we got bored she found a way to scissor her legs around my hips. the trick was getting our zippers down. that and the whole orgasm thing making you feel like you would let go at any second and tumble to the rough road below at 75 miles per hour.
coincidentally, the driver was a fifteen year old who'd hot-wired the truck a few minutes before we hopped on it. he got scared fifteen miles from santa cruz and just turned the sucker around, right there on the free way, crossed a two-foot-high cement divider and retraced his trip northbound. we abandoned the ride hours later, right around the moment he missed a turn and went off a creek bridge. by then we were near morgana's city, so we walked to her house, ate swiss chocolate and had a lot of sex.
so now i just got off the phone with my boyfriend, telling him why i missed both the flight to seattle and a chunk of my life worth about one or two weeks. you wouldn't believe how incredulous some people are. he chewed me out, even though i told him i brought him back two thousand grams of heroin. motherfucker.
this feels like the right place to end an entry, but so much happened since i last spoke to you. a friend i hadn't seen for years came to my work, yesterday. I'm part of the underground zoo scene, so i work at The Secret Cattery of Lillith. we carry only the breeds of cats that aren't popular with top breeders and aren't immortalized in the american heart through commercials, cartoons, film, children's stories, and coffee ads. we, intsead, have an excess of the types of felines you'd notice at, say, www.zoosex.com. so: no manx, siamese, or persian's, but definitely russian blues and pastachio maine coons crossed with tabby sluts. overall, the word "cattery" in "the secret cattery of lillith" is just a cover for the real business which is in dangerous and/or lethal insect, arachnid, and reptile species who aren't distinguishable enough on their own to be dubbed some notorious, miss-leading term like "black widow" or "the three-step killer snake" because that's how many steps you'll take once you're bitten by it before frothing at the mouth. so if you want to find "not the one with the yellow/red/black pattern, but the other one" snakes, or perhaps a bug destined to live only as a hyphenated latin name under a color sketch in the Book of Northern Siberian Bugs, come down to my work place.
tony is the name of the old friend who happened upon me yesterday, except he was older, now. about sixty-five. he saw me behind the counter and said, "hey, callie!", then added, "it's me, from highschool!" just as i turned to him. it couldn't have been anyone else. tony, wearing his beat up "i stretch with use" sweater, his rimless baseball cap that always tempted the other kids to call him "rabbi-man". tony in the baggy spandex, as was the rage those days, fiddling with the chains arching from his bullet belt. i suddenly remembered his humor and warmth. the dirty jokes, the note he would pass around during math class that informed the reader it was not a note, but actually an alien in the form of a note currently fucking the reader's fingers and it knew the reader liked the fucking because the reader was smiling. and everybody would invariably smile, especially the mormons. he bought the boys beer and the girls cigarettes; got us all free novelletas from the Retired Readers Association. i remembered how he was smarter than he acted. how he'd be so insolently clever towards the teacher that she'd snap out something like, "well why don't YOU teach the class if you're so goddamned aged".
crap, gotto go do some english work at someone's householy shit! look! i'm updating the journal, and so soon!. i'm on fire, jezebel. thats what bergert likes to say. hes my good friend and the drummer of our dissolved tibetan death metal band, "we negate the bandwidth". funny story about the band name. you see, a 4-track is a recording apparatus that lets you dub four signals on top of each other. so you can record a jumbo jet landing, a female castration ritual, some funky drum beat, and a singer's voice, all on a single tape. but you have to be careful because those stupid critters need to use the whole damn bandwidth, so you can't record something else on the flip side. or whatever. in any case, we somehow ended up with a master tape that played both side A and B at the same time, except side B played in reverse. you can imagine how spooky that sounded. it took us such a long time to understand this technicality that we had 2,500 albums in our arms, ready to sell by the time someone pointed out the problem. boy, the nerve of manufacturers. not only that, but the 4-track we used records twice as fast as normal tape dubbers, so less than half our music was actually stored on the bandwidth. what a crock!
no sweat. bergert and i decided to change our name from "hugo wherever you will be" to "we negate the bandwidth". we sold all the tapes over the internet and at an olympic swim-meet near my house (Feather Harms park) using the old sales pitch about 'getting the red out'. i guess that was the album name. at one point during the feeding frenzy, our master tape was unfortunately sold along with the rest. bergert called me yesterday about revitalizing the band. he figures: make some new material, play a few rehabilitation clinics, give a talk at the chamber of commerce public forum, and our path is basically paved for us. i've already picked out the radio favorites from other bands we can alter on our 4-track. bergert suggested getting a guitarist or bassist. he says our next album should be called, "who says to the goat, 'men may not love you'?" to get back with the whole buddhist enclave. or tibetan. same shit.
i'm starting to fall in love with this girl, manny. more on that later . . .
in social science today, while we were learning about nixon and how hes more favorable to americans because he didn't, read his lips, inhale the cigar, chris crosetti blurted out frustratedly, "but, mister bruce, doesn't it bother you that throughout every truly american ordeal, endeavor, and triumph, the canadians continue to sit their asses atop our heads? and whats with those fucking hats!"
everyone started to wave fists around and jabber, but his comment got me thinking about people who just stand around when they should be taking action. i once saw this dude help an old lady across the street. i mean, come on, the red hand was blinking WAY before she creaked off the curb. drop the bitch and run for it! be on fire, jezebel.
i live in walnut creek land. it's a theme park featuring the lovable "angry driver darren" and "darcy", "uninspired policeman ulrich", "gerald the geezer", and "golfer ferrace". to get a bird's eye view of the place, it's best to take the oldsmobile trolly up the cute, painted-fiberglass mount AHHH-blow. at that vantage point, you can look down upon the Golf plains surrounding row after row of content peasant dwellings. Icknayshow river separates the sprawling expanses of uptown from downtown. rossmore, court of Privilaged Old Fucks, is carved into the west hills, well guarded by rifle-toting pitbulls and the latest PCP storm troopers. the artists and artisans are all draped around café la scala, which you can spot on account of the morbid black cloud bulging over it. Feather Harms park buzzes with activity, especially during the summer, because thats when content peasants dressed up as rich old fucks get wasted on wine and craft samples (both wine samples and craft samples). looming over everything, of course, is world famous castle Nordstrom's. On lucky days, lord and lady Nord catwalk broadway plaza for the applauding masses. on really lucky days they get arrested for J-walking by "uninspired policeman ulrich", just to be good models, or get gay-bashed by smiling ulrich, just to be good models.
every year we have a walnut festival. go figure.
etc etc, a parade ensues, everyone tries their hand at eating the nuts without breaching the shell. i'm not sure about the shell part, but my fellow neighbors are pretty good at eating nuts.
walnut creek land has a few fun rides. among my favorites: "rush hour at the sappiest place on earth". i just love the fact that all streets in the theme park pretend to be real highways with the same lack of conscience for road rules, gridlock, and unexpected lane changes. i shriek joyfully each time i hear the sudden sound of fender against wheel-well. that lurch really fools your stomach into thinking you're about to go slipping off the shoulder into various store window fronts. after a few rides, you get used to the course, and you can just let go of steering wheel to point and swivel in your seat, laughing at the festive horns, at those large christmas lights hanging over intersections that go off and on though no one pays attention.
another fun ride is "which italian restaurant will we go eat in, tonight?".
the youths love this one: "be seen downtown with the rest of the slacker generation assholes". i like this one because you don't have to participate. you can just stroll along the sidewalk, thinking the youths are the attraction, while they think you are. just like in other rides where you have to tuck your glasses away because the splashing water will stain them, in "be seen downtown", be sure to tuck away your cigarettes, you black-lunged SCUM, or else risk being accosted by younger SCUM trying to shrivel up into more of a SCUM off your hard earned cancer sticks.
for an evening of good, clean, transvestite fun with your wife and kids, check out the NutHouse. rocky horror pictureshow rejects hit the stage every friday night, and the sex is rampant. i know some of the regular or unwitting audience members, so you might see me there.
the most popular ride by far, however, is currently undergoing transformation. yes, dear sappy fans, what used to be called "how many times can you cross the street in disregard of the pedestrian crosswalk before a cop comes to gaybash you?" is now the revamped, three million dollar paramount: "can you even put one foot outside the crosswalk before getting your ass gaybashed by a gang of cops?".
annual income estimates for that sucker exceed holiness.
back in middle school science class, i was always the last one chosen for active games. our teacher, mister tellian, was also the most spirited physical education coach, so on mondays we'd polarize into two teams, the ceph'lopods and the epiderms. we competed in games like "petri dish frizbee", "magnesium 7-up", and "sniff the mystery beakers". there were other games. i was good at mystery beakers because it didn't involve how fast you are, only how long you lasted. i had rather jaded olfactory faculties, so the most flustered i'd become would involve spastically blinking my eyes. despite my ridiculous endurance in chemical fume activities, since i couldn't hold two text books out to each side without lowering my arms for more than twenty seconds, the other kids called me a science pussy. mister tellian used to point at me, usually after "limbo under a stream of ignited petroleum", at which i performed the worst, and say, "some of us have got a long way to go if they want to play in the big leagues.
i passed the class only because i set the written test curves.
one day i was last in line for "musical incubate the microbe culture". a few of the students, including me, weren't able to move on to the final round. there were only thirty portable incubators for a class of thirty-five. i was so fed up. i just knew i couldn't lose miserably again. instead of whining like the other four losers, i stashed some culture swabs away, dabbing them inside my mouth as no one was looking. next monday, during the Final Round, i opened my mouth for all to see. mister tellian pissed his pants. the kids went wide-eyed. so much shit had grown in my maw it was half dripping half crawling off my chin. beautifully advanced microbes of all cultures and aromas swarmed out. needless to say, i got the whole one hundred points.
problem is, i never quite rinsed the fizzing gunk out of my throat. i tried using toothpicks, toothbrushes, metal-twine animal brushes. some of it slithered deep down my whachamacallit. i guess it has been bathing there until now, and has grown virulent.
my point is that i'm getting a fever. i walked to the nearby hospital in order to wash bloody vomit off my clothes in their industrial washing machines, and they decided to just go ahead and give me a check-up just in case. latest news is that the x-rays reveal a sort of carnivorous plant anchored to my viscerals. the doctor gave me some Allah pills to take once a day and said i haven't got long to live, but hey, we all don't. on that point he nudged me in the tummy, which caused me to wince. that darn fern in my gut stirred a little bit.
i feel pregnant. i have this guilty pride, now, like i made this child, but no penis helped me at all, thank you very much.
everyone calls my boyfriend anreté. i met him over DramaNet. It's this low-profile chat client every single person on earth has used at one point in his or her life, albeit accidentally, yet no one has ever been caught in the act, nor does anyone feel comfortable admitting the usage. to that effect, the DramaNet motto is "we are both similar to and far from masturbation, figuratively speaking". one day i'll share with you my adventurous masturbation experiences, but not my -most- adventurous, because those were also the ones that severely chafed my skin, and since they didn't involve anreté, they're ridiculously off the subject.
anreté's childhood was tumultuous. his mother suffered greatly the callous treatment of anretés father, her husband and--somehow--her professional gynecologist. she frequently referred to him as a pig. This aggravated the poor condition of their marriage because anreté's father was, precicely, a hairless chinchilla of the peruvian genus. he liked to point out that he never contented himself with the typical farm life of other livestock. he'd always aimed to improve his social status, educate himself, and foster respect from the medical community despite his, um, condition as a fourteen-inch-long, burrowing mammal.
look. i don't know who i'm trying to fool. my boyfriend's name is eterna. he lives in seattle because hes the talents agent of a hot new satanic violence cult operating out of a silicon valley suite. they're looking for a fresh apathy-rock band to spearhead their intrusion into local politics and summer swimming parties. eterna is living off company grants, lurking about the seattle music scene for the perfect trio, or quintet, or nimphette. we write back and forth. i fly over there to see him sometimes. i keep interested by dumping any one of the several flings i've got going at any single moment. or by phone-sexing his flings. or by cyber-sexing his flings over DramaNet.
just before new years he called to inform me on a recent jewel of a find. a young band called "whitehead zombie" that packs a major load of apathy in every chord. eterna said excitedly, "these guys are so NoCore, they flake out on every gig. they book a show, then drink beers at the bar with the rest of the slacker generation assholes. the only chance you get to see them perform is through the knot of the fence of the secret studio located beside the lead singer's aunt's ranch. cha-ching!" he went on to say that the singer doesn't even whine anymore, "he just writes his demands on manilla envelopes and lets the audience savagely fight for them".
what it all comes down to is that this page is ALL the fuck about me, and whether you click "back" on your browser or not, the page PERSISTS, and persists at being all about ME (so back off).
yeah, so i just got back from an intense game of table-top roleplaying. it's where all the players meet at someone's house (who preferably has a large, sturdy table capable of holding up to 900 pounds, or 1,200 pounds if Stout Stevei shows up) and they all stand up on the dining room table in their doc martins and Van Vampire series shoes for an emotionally packed session of gothic-punk style jigging. the story-teller is the guy with the teel blue western hat who auctions off race dogs in a rapid, nasally dominant tone of voice while everyone skitters furiously upon some catholic mother's mesa of heart forged reception and so-called "togetherness" meals.
during especially dramatic scenes, placemats and coasters shoot off at every angle, players lose footing and careen onto dark oak chairs, and Jenny Jones delivers a lopsided report on the cultic nature of the game. the idea of table-top roleplaying is not to have your character win, namely, but to keep Jenny Jones from discovering catholic mother's pre-convent torture/horse/shit/puss pornos stalling in her panty drawers. i never win anyway, because my character has bad stats. "being an honest counter-racist (level 3)" doesn't get you as far in the game as does something like, say, "being an honest asshole with a doctorate (level 4)" or "being an honest asshole PERIOD (level 0)".
a thoughtful costume can be a fun, inexpensive way to heighten the mood of any roleplaying night. some ideas on costume accessories:
o catholic mother's crotchless garter-helmet
o catholic mother's super duper non-sticky crack bags
o catholic mother's double-noose leash with ball-gags
o mormon father's "growin' gal" training bra collection (it's under his Comp Image magazine's in the closet)
o buddhist brother's vinyl pants with back-flap.
it's that time of the year again, folks. it's as regular as ever, an unshakable duty that all law abiding people submit to. right up there with filing taxes, the green card lottery, and alien abductions for olfacto-foetal operations with galactic alloy clothes hangers. there is no putting it off --put your crosses and your virgin daughters down. tomorrow is valentine's day.
now, as many of you know, i'm a huge procrastinator. in highschool i never turned my projects in on time, nor did i ejaculate prematurely, thus i was lousy as a sex-ed volunteer. today i drove to the post office for registration precisely at the moment all other huge procrastinators and slacker generation assholes were showing up in their sport utility shopping carts. traffic was thick. people got out of their cars, stood around, their hands in their pockets. a tent town quickly sprang up around the post office. kids sat on beach blankets, wrapped up in plastic bags and in their boyfriends' hair to watch hand-picked musicians improvize freedom rock to the tune of "ooo, whats that smell?" on a stage put together out of not-so-urgent parcels lying around next to trash cans. mud was everywhere. i, having had the ingenious procrastinator's forethought, came humming on my somali 200 vespa. my vehical has such little volume that i navigated right through the cracks between cars, marshall stacks, and human bodies sundered by peace riots. i sustained minor injuries, or injuries inflicted by gangs of wild minors, and breached the post office ahead of the pack. There weren't any 2020 or 32dd forms left, so i had to use the back of some old guy's shirt for paper. he was thoughtful enough to lick the tip of my pen when it went dry. sometimes i remember why we even bothered to put old people on this earth in the first place.
he died of ink poisoning, or whatever, as did his wife --from heart-ache, and then his golf caddies, pool cleaners, and illegal immigrant chauffeurs --from unemployment, all in a silly domino effect. my turn at the front window arrived more quickly then i'd anticipated. the girl behind the counter looked liked the lead actress in season three of HempTV's "wickedly incompatible young adults forced to live in the same apartment until the sex is good and the fights beep a lot". i told her so. she didn't sound overjoyed in her response, but i can't be too sure because a beeping drowned out her words. she took my forms --the old man's shirt-- and stamped them with a government raised goat's bleeding neck stump. asked me if i planned on celebrating valentine's day or just get my jollies like it weren't no thang. i said that i still hadn't taken out the christmas tree, so i could use it until this whole fucking valentine's deal blows over, if you know what i mean. she further asked me whether i'd be joining the smoke-free environment or the black lung SCUM SUCKING bastardized cancer ridden quarantine capsule piece'o'SHIT. needless to say, i "threw up" the hand signal shared and recognized by us pristine, moral beacons of pink lung(ness). its a mixture of the hang-ten gesture and the evil snail you often see wielded by fans in "captain heavy metal" videos (on HempTV). her teeth sparkled when she grinned. she threw back the signal and gave me a reciept marked "registered: in love. not for topical use. to be taken orally and by rectal dispenser. if nausea occurs, induce vomitting"
valentine's day was named after enricko de la valentino, the brave pistoneer of the struggle for Lactose Intolerant Equality. If you know anything about important acronyms, you'd know that LIE and ELF united in 1975 to found the COALition of MIsleadingly Loaded Acronyms for otherwise WOrthy Groups, or the COAL of MILAWOG. All parties involved were later arrested on suspicion of fossil fuels theft by the PISS-Ops. No one knows what that stands for.
so after an arduous day of important dates, presentation, charm, and committment, i walked out of that post office ready to face valentine's day come hell or high voltage techno music torture.
as the french say, "bite love before it motherfucking bites YOU, wee wee".
they told me that the presentation looked very snappy, but there simply wasn't a niche available my idea would fill, simply not an audience for my idea in the world of marketing. i watched them stack their papers together against the oak table a few times as they stood. they pushed in their chairs and dispersed. an hour later: me with my little folder of documents and my little laser pointer sputtering in the rain. i stood on a freeway overhang, tried causing twenty car pile-ups by shining a red dot in the eyes of drivers passing below. when that didn't work, i dropped my stuff and walked to reno with my new friend, mister argyle snake, who was also my tie. i yelled at cars. i picked up a prostitute so that I could explain my business idea one last time to her, and to get rid of my wallet that had been pinching my ass since interstate 5. the girl got bored and slammed the door of the mustang i'd hi-jacked shortly before spotting her. i inched the vehical along side her, the window rolled down, trying to convince her that if america would just get dancing lessons, the canadians wouldn't always get our lumber, and what's with those fucking hats(?) all through the red light district, street after street, on the wrong side of the road. a cop came to speak to me. i ran him over, then got out and stood, watching him die. a lot of people gathered around us. one person said "oh my god, whats wrong with him?" to which i replied, "i think he hurt his innards."
there definitely was an audience for that idea.
before going to work i sat down to watch some television. thought i might get some new perspective on the situation in Serberbia. the newscastors sounded something like this: "in response to the genocide, a whole mess of people are responding, or not responding. as though this all hasn't happened before exactly the same way, some nations are supposedly allying against some other nations, leaving some nations outraged or just confused, in just about the same way as before when this happened the last few times. only difference is that this time more humans exist who were not alive during previous instances of this exact nature and can, therefore, plead ignorance more convincingly in light of the staggeringly low literacy rates in schools across the country, which rule out history texts as a source of information. an alarming increase in deafness is also apparent with people under 18 years old. "the lil punk don't hear a thing i say" says linda from ToxicWastia, new jersey. most kids are also blind. consequently, NAY-Toe has decided to blow shit up somewhere over the atlantic in the name of education. our chief executor stated emphatically that 'something definitely must be done to stop things that are being done. or aren't being done with enough respect, respectively.' he went on to say that somehow, somewhere, shit will be blown up."
just then, the camera cut to another newscastor with a square jaw-line. he said, "but enough of globe-shaking philo-political cataclysms wrought by our own hands. in other news, a much esteemed, decorated, wealthy tribe threw more rubber balls into a metal hoop than the other esteemed, decorated, wealthy tribe. rumors exist that if the most esteemed member of the vanquishing tribe continues throwing balls into a metal hoop, he faces a higher chance of doing just that in years to come, until someone breaks or buys his ankle . . .
" . . . one of the most esteemed, decorated, wealthy tribesmen EVER was released from charges that he descended into a primal rage, feasting on the ears of the innocent, mashing the grions of the innocent, and knocking out the living shit of the innocent simultaniously --proving once again his animalistic approach to competition. since we, the steeple (people, whatever), believe that under all that violence and coarseness lies a gentle, intellectual citizen, we decided to let him go into the streets fist-first. after all, if we kept him behind bars, how many times could he possible throw a rubber ball into a metal ring?
"meanwhile, kids are still screwed up lil punks."i go to a college called Recovery Community College. It's called this because it was built using the tiny amount of funds that are lost between transactions of gargantuan multicorporations dealing in prosthetic limps and genitalia, the hundred or so suitcases full of cash that turn up in canals all across the nation every year, and the small change found in the folds of car seats in cars checked for legal drugs whose brand names are trademark infringements. In addition, the college's name derives indirectly from the fact that all those enrolled once assaulted their respective chemical dependence rehabilitation centers with semi-automatic weapons, or burned them down, and are now recovering from that.
this week was finals. i'd been studying these past few weeks; that's why i hadn't updated anything. but now it's all over, thank god. mostly on good terms, too. well, except for philosophy. i'd registered for a course in redeveleopmental philosophy in the hopes that i'd learn about the ethics of ferret farming (they may not be free, but they're so FURRY), or negotiation tactics for the hole in the ozone ("we'll give you south america if you hand over antarctica"), but instead the class spent the semester arguing over the subtleties of how nietzsche's name is spelled ("oh my god, i see the "Che"!") and about whether we all actually exist right here, right now, or whether this imaginary box in our hands is just a facade for our hang nails.
well, i thought it was all bullshit, especially when our final was to pierce through the false sense of order humanity has constructed for itself amidst chaos, and see that nothing really is. of course, doing so successfully means you blink out of reality forever, but the only thing that would show on your transcript is a big fat "A". i couldn't take it anymore. i stood up while all the students were grimacing and concentrating, and i suddenly realized that they WEREN'T, motherfucker, so they all vanished, other than their GAP sweatshirts, which floated to the desks. i walked out without a care. i smoked my philosophy text book on the campus lawn. today, i get an urgent letter from the college exclaiming that i barely passed the course because [1] although i refused to be assimilated into the giant, top-secret Nostalgic-Nazi Organization (NNO!) hovering on the fringes of chaos, steadily fostering volunteers and building their barracks, [2] i did help uncover some legal drugs whose brand names are trademark infringements that were sown into the insides of GAP sweaters all over the philosophy classroom.
No tears. I'm moving on, now, to more relevant life questions like what is the sound of one tree clapping? and if you have 'call waiting' and you dial your number, will the phone ring?
i wake up from a life-long dream which has so completely shaped me as a lover and a father, and then just as completely vanishes from my memory. my legs are braided with the bed sheets whose eastern dye patterns are inexplicably familiar to me in a vague but unshakable way. it is night, but through the blinds come shafts of red light from a neon sign below. the whole apartment is suffused with the smells of the tiny restaurant operating on the floor under mine. the main chef is regretting his ajournment from higher education and has plans of mountain climbing in slovak countries--i know this even though he is having a cigarette in the alley somewhere out of my range of sight, down one story, and on the other side of a couple of walls. i know this even though the chef is a stranger--less than a stranger, a man i haven't ever glimpsed. i feel like a smoke. i want that cigarette. he flicks it by the dumpster, turns back into the kitchen, and watches his fellows work the ovens. i lie snared in the sheets, wanting that cigarette, willing to give my legs for that cigarette, until the immensely puzzling feeling hits me that i don't know what a cigarette is, nor what the verb to smoke even represents. the english language, visual stimuli, physical sensation--these things suddenly fall apart, but it's no surprise because i'm an entity from a galaxy far, far away and none of this makes any sense to me.
thank you for joining the eleven o'clock world wariness news--i'm ellen fellin. investigators are now on the scene of an alleged allegation tonight near the city limits of townton. witnesses say a gun, hovering in mid air, accidentally fired, instantly killing a resident man who'd lived completely unnoticed by society for the most part of his life. specialists on reclusive men who are shot by freak incidents involving guns but not involving gun-men say that the deceased in question probably managed to escape the eyes of the system when the spy satellite trained on him from high in earth's atmosphere was pelted with a grain-sized meteor that--in all likelyhood--knocked its tracking telescope off-range long enough for the deceased man to somehow leave his mother's womb, the coordinates of which had been programed into the personal surveyance satellite as "point of origin" until the man was to emerge, joining this life of seeming privacy shared by every other american citizen currently under intense scrutiny via millions of infrared-camera-equiped orbitals that suspiciously reflect sunlight in the night sky but are probably just a whole bunch of Venuses, or ball lightning, as he sits and watches this news broadcast, or slices carrots for the roast, or fucks his best friend's wife, or plots against the president, or whatever may be. a spokesman for the guns also kill people group urged congress to relax legislation aimed at making it harder for small, inexpensive guns to float along of their own volition and pick off would-be hermits.
after all, the word herm is in hermits, and we can all take ONE guess as to how many letters away that is from "harm".
elsewhere, a body was found under a pile of bloody clothes in a local school teacher's basement. the woman notified police after she discovered the body at about noon today. she said it's a good thing she got around to doing that bloody load of laundry, or, quote, the thing might have stunk up my whole house, end quote. The body, upon being sighted, lept up and scrambled out of the house in a wobbly, rigor-mortis-like manner that police say caused quite a number of knick-knacks to fall off the walls and shelves. i almost stepped on one of those winter snow balls, you know, the glass balls with a little santa house and fake snow, and you shake it up and the snow swirls inside the water, said officer Faegen. the body was seen crawling hap-hazardly towards the downtown area, where a couple who had been snuffing their newborn child in a municipal garbage bin reported hearing a fleshy, slippery sound, then spotting the body as it lurched and hopped along the sidewalk in the direction of the local bank. the body entered the bank after fumbling repeatedly with the large rotating doors. People inside recalled their horror at the body's apparent lack of learning curve as it took many attempts until the confused creature was finally able to penetrate the bank without being jolted around by the swift doors. once inside, the body widly mimed some sort of a desperate need with its unfortunate, awkward limbs, though the concensus among survivors of the heist is that the body only really succeeded in communicating a whole lot of bodily fluid splatter-paint on the walls and, one employee of the bank stated, stinking the fucking place up. eventually, the safe was opened and large sums of money transfered to the excited, pathetically silly, and misunderstood body. it slithered away like a nightmarish humanoid snail and has yet to be taken into custody. witnesses say the awful, poor thing obviously wasn't satisfied with what he got. one young man commented, what do you give a body anyway, when it's upset and demanding? if he's in a bank, i quess you can only give it money. more on this as the story developes.
this entry is dedicated to: YOU, FUCK.
your hearing is intact. you should soon be registering a series of monotones at decreasing intervals, as well as the impression of the sound of rushing air over colorodo or the nordic seas breaking on rocks dropping in pitch. the latter is a play of the blood in your awakening ears. you have been bathing in a preservative solution for longer than your memory serves you. stimulators are being added intraveniously. the reverie in your mind of southern estates and women in stark white gowns, flamingos on the lawn, a basket and a wind-chime, is sinking away at a rate designed not to startle you. an injection of nanomeds is reconstructing your muscles. the individual meds are as small as electrons--they will complete their task in fifty seconds and seek your bladder for expulsion, or be absorbed. the revival is automatic. to keep you in a pleasant, active state, you will begin to perceive wraith-like and colorful lights shifting somewhere in front of you. appreciate, concentrate on them. the snow--on the earth, on the pines--is not cold, so you can lie on your back, naked, and stare at the aurora borealis. solar wind ionizing atoms in the atmosphere produces auroras, but your northern lights are magical. you'll find that if you apply invisible effort on the lights, your brain will be flooded and let of the respective chemicals needed to cause a change in the way you notice the intensity, color, and hue of the manifestations--you can perhaps even disperse or congeal the vaporous lights. thermal lamps lure your body temperature upwards. it's much hotter at the base of the mesa. you use the bandana on your nape and chest as you turn to look back up the path cut through vegitation adapted to a near vertically inclined terra firma. the air at the dig was stripped of moisture, but down here you feel like you're swimming in the sun. the venezuelans, walking on ahead of you with the film equipment, crack jokes in their rapid tongue about your plight, and you wish you had their darker skin instead of the burnt red plaques on your exposed anglo surfaces. so much noisy life in the greenery. such a deep tapestry to the land. maybe that gibson grant will send you right back to this hellish, beloved site in sixteen months or so. you know those children died naturally and were buried in honor by the ancients, not sacrificed to gods, but you have to prove it. through the mask, a new degree of oxygen, through the tubes, a jump in the adrenaline. your cacoon is being drained. you are fanned and vents release pressure. the grass is like ice under your sled. you shoot down the slope, losing your cap in a flash. however, no slam in any ball game ever gave you the rush you feel now. your scream of joy hits the valley walls, and if the boys were around, they'd call you a girl. but you're faster than girlness or boyness or school or church or baseball. you're so fast you can't see straight, and the world is a smudge closing in and closing in, so there's just your sled, red sled, your pulse--and it's so cold when you're this fast. wait til you tell them wait til you tell them wait til you tell them about how fast you went, how fast you became. the landing of the slope comes up quicker than you're aware of it, then suddenly you go through the ground and it's dark. a door opens. you'll notice the beeping has stopped. the gears are electronic. in a moment they'll turn. he's fifteen. old for a dog, but his ribs are still tough enough to support your head like a pillow while he lies on his side without a complaint. you can hear his tummy making deep, busy noises. and the steady heart--many years to go. many years to go. the servo-motors are slow, but soon you are less steeply reclined. the window is open. you are revived. we invite you to open your eyes. if you do so, revival is successful--the mission continues. your eyes will adjust and you'll first notice a set of clothes hanging not far in front of your cacoon. you will be given as much time as you need to get your bearings, at which point we will tell you what you need to know from there. if you reject the invitation, simply keep your eyes closed. in a moment, the cacoon will close and you will be guided back down to a state of physical suspension and pleasurable mental stimulation for an indefinite state, until you die, or until the integrity of your cacoon or our entire system deteriorates and suspension fails. invitation number one proposed. respond A.S.A.P.. tone. tone. tone. tone. tone. tone.
tone. tone. tone. tone. tone. tone. you have opened your eyes. your brother is a smart boy. he hardly goes to class but he still maintains an eighty percent. how is it, then, that he keeps you in the closet for so long without thinking of the human need for oxygen? in all his smartness, he leaves you here for so long in a tiny--and for all purposes--air-tight space. no light in the closet, no light in your parent's bedroom. no light at all and no fresh air. you wouldn't be able to see a spider teetering on a silken line above your head. spiders are all over you and you pound on the door, but your brother is at the other end of the house, probably tossing around the cat. your parents, as usual, have conveened after work at their worn-out restaurant and are too busy not rekindling the love in their parody of a marriage to return home and rescue their youngest son from incarceration and suffocation. use your lungs. again, you think you hear the BMW, the garage door. Something thuds against a distant wall. The floor rumbles as if from a heavy step, or a fallen weight. you pray that when mother and father finally arrive, your brother will not hear them, so that they will be the ones to find you locked up in their closet. maybe they'll take his bike away. oh, please let them take his bike away forever. you pound on the door again and discover your arm feels light. use your lungs. all of you feels light, except for your chest, which aches. no, breathe. concentrate and breathe. use your lungs, the respirator has come free of your system. spiders are in your arms, your legs. spiders are not on you. spiders are all over you. no spiders at all. a mound of moving spiders in your chest, and you can't see your own hand. you can see your hand. just try to breathe. your eyes are adjusting to light. reject what you perceive; it is your imagination, your memory. screaming takes too much air. why can't he end the joke and get you out? use your lungs. you have unlimited breathable air. why won't they wrap up their botched attempt at romance or even communication and pay the bill and drive home to save you? suck with your mouth to draw in the air around you. you will begin to see soon. do not panic. oh god you're sinking. you sink through the floor of the closet, of the room, you're cramped in the corner, sinking. tone. tone. tone. they will take his bike away, his bike away, his pump gun, his computer, his boot-cut jeans with the ripped knees, his two front teeth. they have to take it all away, now, because that's where you're being taken. no. your panic is counter-active. your heart beat is unhealthy. intervention necessary. a pulmo/gastro tube from your cacoon is seeking your mouth for entry. your brother is not forcing his penis down your throat. their is no penis, no snake, no need to gag. obstructions to your lungs--in the form of muccus, blood, dead cells, or infection etc.--will be cleared. tone. tone. tone. you die in the closet. you die in the forest behind your house. you die heaped in the dark, with his penis frantic in your mouth. tube withdrawn. an electrical pulse is administered throughout your frame, followed by another. stilled heart reanimates, now registering strong. a needle emerges from your armrest, passing directly into your wrist. cocktail of nutrition and mood altering chemicals added. rest in your cacoon. tone. tone. tone. you are reinvited. you open your eyes again. the hospital room fades into view, white and clean. your parents stand at both sides of the bed, one of them crying. they hold your hands and tell you they'll never leave you alone with him again. take his bike away. oh, yes, they say. they will. of course, honey, dear justin, anything for you. god, they're so sorry. leave the memory of the hospital, justin. your parents and the white bed and you, lying there. leave it all. that was many centuries ago. the needle retracts from your wrist, back into the armrest. your eyes are accustomed to light. there isn't a lot of light here, and it's cold. you can see the edges of the cacoon, like the railing of a crib. your staring up at the night sky. everything is in a rectangle frame because you're in an open coffin in the open earth. mary was cute, and she was a sweet girlfriend, but so sad. you never kissed her. it only took one picnic at the graveyard for you to realize this girl needed some help mourning over her mother before she could have a real relationship with someone, at least someone like you. the break-up was good-hearted and mutual, thankfully. years later she married david from school, and she seemed happy. justin, listen to us. mary worked in lanemoor. justin, please listen to us. close your eyes and you will return to being a never-rotting corpse floating through memories for centuries. leave the coffin. leave mary and the cemetary dates. step out of the cacoon, which is reality. you see something a few feet in front of the open cacoon. hanging flesh. clothes. step out of the cacoon. put on those clothes. providing you do so, you will be given further instructions. we need you out of the cacoon, justin. dear justin. god, we're so sorry. you're invited onto the metal paneled floor of The Abraheim deep space barge. it is named after a diplomat of the twelth mellenium. that is what you now are, justin, if you leave the cacoon: a diplomat. your move. tone. tone. tone. tone. tone.
begin transmission. options dried up. refer to plan B. copy me? do you copy me? the plan has changed, over. do you copy me? copy me? copy me? end transmission.
copy me