well, here are two videos for you, to play at the same time, simultaneous like. when you do. get away. turn out and off and let the serindipidsynch
7/23/09
DECOMP interactive 4
You know what to do? You dont?
well, here are two videos for you, to play at the same time, simultaneous like. when you do. get away. turn out and off and let the serindipidsynchonisticsimultaneouscohesion MELLLLLDDDD into you..
well, here are two videos for you, to play at the same time, simultaneous like. when you do. get away. turn out and off and let the serindipidsynch
6/15/09
The Pitch....
“OK, most all the great books have been made into movies already, Catch 22, Heart of Darkness ,” Mr. K raised a pencil “the bible” Billy remember don‘t alienate, don’t be rude, compromise. “yes sir… the bible.” “Star Wars” “ and Star wars of course. But now Hollywood is running on empty. What’s next? Where’s Waldo the movie?” Mr. K leaned into his desk “I like where your going with this. I’m sold, it will be like a who done it, maybe more of a where is he.” “That is an idea but I am talking about something big sir. You see the best news a young screenplay writer like myself can hear is that he has been chosen to write a screenplay for a novel by one of the greatest writers in the twentieth century. Now the worst news he could receive is that it is for; drum roll please” “Give your da da da da da da da damn pitch or your da da da da da done.” Bill’s long dramatic arms began to create a second language beside his own “Sir nothing short of James Joyce’s Finnegan’s Wake.” Mr. K skimmed through a filing cabinet asked absentmindedly “Who?” “Sir he is world famous” He pulled out a file “Did he pitch for the cards?” “no but.” He dropped the file back in “then I don’t care.” “He’s like the Falkner of Ireland but bigger.” Mr. K looked up from clipping his toe nails. “Who?” ” “Sir he is like the worlds…..Steven King.” He spun in his chair like a little boy “Wow.” With know some of Mr. K’s attention Billy continued “OK as a medium for artistic expression, motion pictures should be able to transcend the mythological, archaic, ethnic, personal and abstract.” “Damn strait those were the rights the Japs tried to take from us” Billy defiantly tried to keep Mr. K on track “but the most optimistic artist will see the overwhelming difficulties in translating Finnegan’s Wake from words to sounds and images……even with Jap interference.
Mr. K drawling tits on the corner of a invoice asked with a yawn “Isn’t Irish, English?” “well yes…. but the English.. .it’s a long story.” Bill would not be thrown of the track by these human slot machine. “ As I was saying, Joyce had always broken with conventional writing styles by employing, what was then considered innovative, Freudian methods to his writing. Novels such as Ulysses took place in the irrational individual metaphor in the form of streams of consciousness. Yet Ulysses had narration, dialog and a plot with a beginning and an end. This meant that Ulysses could be adapted to the silver screen.” Mr K held one hand over the receiver of the phone “Does your pitch consisted of “”my movie will have an ending!?!””
“No sir my story I am pitching is Finnegan’s Wake, and Finnegan’s Wake is a story about” bills body froze in a ready to wrestle position, eyes big. “No one is for sure what it is about. It is a hodgepodge of languages, slang, personal imagery, mythos, ethnic history, puns and nothing short of abstract nonsense. At points, it is the raw material of poetry with cadence but no meaning. At other points, you can see a Christ-like figure morphing from a recently deceased man into the city of Dublin and then into the Eucharist and finally resurrected by spilled whiskey.” bill spoke from a hole in the sky in liquid preachers ecstasy.
“Even more of a challenge for me, would be to make an audiovisual version of this novel, is the fact that it is never-ending. The first line of the story is in the middle of the sentence of the last line of the novel. The novel Finnegan’s Wake is a closed loop.” Bill spun his hands about like a deaf, mime, magician. “How would a screenplay writer adapt this into a movie you may ask?” Mr K shrugged as he looked sleepily out a window “For that matter, why would he make this movie? I will tell you why Boss, a infinity move will run for ever and make money for every, instead of buying a ticket, someone would buy a life time membership. People will get off work and go strait to their old friend Finnegan’s wake, boss it will be us and cockroaches.” looking between his fingers “how will you make me money for ever?”
“Well sir In a normal adaptation, a screenwriter would read from a novel a phrase like “the front of the house looked like an angry old man.” The screenwriter would have something tangible to storyboard and the set designers would have something to work with. They could make a decrepit-looking house with two windows in the front and a door in the middle to form a face. This face could be made to look angry by curving down the windows and doors to create a frown and the siding could serve as symmetric wrinkles. While a normal excerpt from Finnegan’s Wake reads, “Countlessness of livestories have netherfallen by this plage, flick as flowflakes, litters from aloft, like a waast wizzard all of whirlworlds. Now are all tombed to the mound, isges to isges, erde from erde.”(Joyce 182) Here he paints a picture with a phonetic brush. Its not just predominantly abstract it is exclusively verbally abstract. I believe I could convert this novel with a little help from Occam’s razor. First, .” Billy‘s excitement began to peel the wallpaper. “I can drop everything but the dialogue giving voice to the character whatever morphing form the character takes. So as to keep the audience aware of who the character is the voice should be consistent and there should be a visual key like a bowtie. Your voice is mighty unique sir. “Well I do do a mean Jacky Gleeson. ” preempting Mr. K’s impersonation Billy continued
“After I completed the more lucid parts of the story, I will need to move on to the abstract portion. To keep to the original intentions of the writer the narration should be rarely change to just visual effect. Like in Fantasia, the lyrics should not be compromised by the visuals. The images could complement the theme and as the text becomes more lucid, the screenwriter could storyboard actual scenes. When I am not sure if I can translate the enigma of any part of the story I will use the text only. The result would be the equivalent to a man with synesthesia coming in and out of a coma. At times, he would wake to a scene from relatively normal life, only to fall back unconscious dragging the outside world into his personal mythology made up of a galosh of all he knows. This dream state would be filled with Freudian complexes, Jungian symbols, family relations, national myths, and nonsense.” Billy twisted himself into tied and untied knots, Mr. K watched like a cat.
“I have reference the films Jacob’s Ladder for the transcending of time, space and realities, and Fantasia to get a sense of image to sound for the real language based abstract bits. I studied eighties music videos which has been helpful too. Music videos must often transcend between direct realities to concept to abstract within the same video. A well-made music video will know when to create a mood, tell a story, or just complement sensations. I have also versed myself in Celtic, and Catholic mythology, Irish culture, and history and mythology in general so I can attempt to properly interpret Joyce’s writings.
The last dilemma in making Finnegan’s Wake into a movie, is to deal with its infinite loop. My fix for this is just allowing the movie to loop back onto itself on the DVD. This way the sense of timelessness is there, the sense of resolution will never come. If it catches on, Finnegan’s Wake could be a Rocky Horror-type experience where fans stay all night at the theater watching the equivalent of the round, “infinity bottles of beer on The Wall.” Generations will pass on there seat, wedding and funerals will take place in the theater. .
The general sense I will try to preserve is that this novel is as disjointed as life itself. Most of us don’t dare to take the time from our artificially goal-oriented lives to realize that our existence is more like the abstract, through the fun house looking glass world, of Finnegan’s Wake than the well structured world of Forest Gump. The disjointed characters that morph into one another is much more like us than the well defined Luke Skywalker. Minds, souls and thought bleed into one another through body language, shared experience, and shared cultures. Our perspective is not as absolute as conventional movies have to convey. Instead, we are constantly in personal reality dream states that would not be easy to define and interpret.
Finally, reality does not conveniently end like a well structured story would have you believe. Joyce’s infinity loop reveals the inconvenient and hard to comprehend truth that time and absolutes are illusions that help us get to our next meal.” Billy lowered his arms like currents and raised his eyes like a porn theaters lights.” “Billy you do realize we make ironing boards here” Bill held his magnificent stare, Mr K looked away and back a few times. “Billy you see ironing boards have very little to do with movies and Billy I don’t even think you own a camera.” Mr. K looked down at the empty factory floor from his window. “I know you just want to help but……….. Fine, fine we will make your damn movie, hell will even make the space shuttle if we are going to fail lets do it big, Billy lets do it big, call everyone back in, buy a camera and a smoke machine what ever the fuck you need .”
Mr. K drawling tits on the corner of a invoice asked with a yawn “Isn’t Irish, English?” “well yes…. but the English.. .it’s a long story.” Bill would not be thrown of the track by these human slot machine. “ As I was saying, Joyce had always broken with conventional writing styles by employing, what was then considered innovative, Freudian methods to his writing. Novels such as Ulysses took place in the irrational individual metaphor in the form of streams of consciousness. Yet Ulysses had narration, dialog and a plot with a beginning and an end. This meant that Ulysses could be adapted to the silver screen.” Mr K held one hand over the receiver of the phone “Does your pitch consisted of “”my movie will have an ending!?!””
“No sir my story I am pitching is Finnegan’s Wake, and Finnegan’s Wake is a story about” bills body froze in a ready to wrestle position, eyes big. “No one is for sure what it is about. It is a hodgepodge of languages, slang, personal imagery, mythos, ethnic history, puns and nothing short of abstract nonsense. At points, it is the raw material of poetry with cadence but no meaning. At other points, you can see a Christ-like figure morphing from a recently deceased man into the city of Dublin and then into the Eucharist and finally resurrected by spilled whiskey.” bill spoke from a hole in the sky in liquid preachers ecstasy.
“Even more of a challenge for me, would be to make an audiovisual version of this novel, is the fact that it is never-ending. The first line of the story is in the middle of the sentence of the last line of the novel. The novel Finnegan’s Wake is a closed loop.” Bill spun his hands about like a deaf, mime, magician. “How would a screenplay writer adapt this into a movie you may ask?” Mr K shrugged as he looked sleepily out a window “For that matter, why would he make this movie? I will tell you why Boss, a infinity move will run for ever and make money for every, instead of buying a ticket, someone would buy a life time membership. People will get off work and go strait to their old friend Finnegan’s wake, boss it will be us and cockroaches.” looking between his fingers “how will you make me money for ever?”
“Well sir In a normal adaptation, a screenwriter would read from a novel a phrase like “the front of the house looked like an angry old man.” The screenwriter would have something tangible to storyboard and the set designers would have something to work with. They could make a decrepit-looking house with two windows in the front and a door in the middle to form a face. This face could be made to look angry by curving down the windows and doors to create a frown and the siding could serve as symmetric wrinkles. While a normal excerpt from Finnegan’s Wake reads, “Countlessness of livestories have netherfallen by this plage, flick as flowflakes, litters from aloft, like a waast wizzard all of whirlworlds. Now are all tombed to the mound, isges to isges, erde from erde.”(Joyce 182) Here he paints a picture with a phonetic brush. Its not just predominantly abstract it is exclusively verbally abstract. I believe I could convert this novel with a little help from Occam’s razor. First, .” Billy‘s excitement began to peel the wallpaper. “I can drop everything but the dialogue giving voice to the character whatever morphing form the character takes. So as to keep the audience aware of who the character is the voice should be consistent and there should be a visual key like a bowtie. Your voice is mighty unique sir. “Well I do do a mean Jacky Gleeson. ” preempting Mr. K’s impersonation Billy continued
“After I completed the more lucid parts of the story, I will need to move on to the abstract portion. To keep to the original intentions of the writer the narration should be rarely change to just visual effect. Like in Fantasia, the lyrics should not be compromised by the visuals. The images could complement the theme and as the text becomes more lucid, the screenwriter could storyboard actual scenes. When I am not sure if I can translate the enigma of any part of the story I will use the text only. The result would be the equivalent to a man with synesthesia coming in and out of a coma. At times, he would wake to a scene from relatively normal life, only to fall back unconscious dragging the outside world into his personal mythology made up of a galosh of all he knows. This dream state would be filled with Freudian complexes, Jungian symbols, family relations, national myths, and nonsense.” Billy twisted himself into tied and untied knots, Mr. K watched like a cat.
“I have reference the films Jacob’s Ladder for the transcending of time, space and realities, and Fantasia to get a sense of image to sound for the real language based abstract bits. I studied eighties music videos which has been helpful too. Music videos must often transcend between direct realities to concept to abstract within the same video. A well-made music video will know when to create a mood, tell a story, or just complement sensations. I have also versed myself in Celtic, and Catholic mythology, Irish culture, and history and mythology in general so I can attempt to properly interpret Joyce’s writings.
The last dilemma in making Finnegan’s Wake into a movie, is to deal with its infinite loop. My fix for this is just allowing the movie to loop back onto itself on the DVD. This way the sense of timelessness is there, the sense of resolution will never come. If it catches on, Finnegan’s Wake could be a Rocky Horror-type experience where fans stay all night at the theater watching the equivalent of the round, “infinity bottles of beer on The Wall.” Generations will pass on there seat, wedding and funerals will take place in the theater. .
The general sense I will try to preserve is that this novel is as disjointed as life itself. Most of us don’t dare to take the time from our artificially goal-oriented lives to realize that our existence is more like the abstract, through the fun house looking glass world, of Finnegan’s Wake than the well structured world of Forest Gump. The disjointed characters that morph into one another is much more like us than the well defined Luke Skywalker. Minds, souls and thought bleed into one another through body language, shared experience, and shared cultures. Our perspective is not as absolute as conventional movies have to convey. Instead, we are constantly in personal reality dream states that would not be easy to define and interpret.
Finally, reality does not conveniently end like a well structured story would have you believe. Joyce’s infinity loop reveals the inconvenient and hard to comprehend truth that time and absolutes are illusions that help us get to our next meal.” Billy lowered his arms like currents and raised his eyes like a porn theaters lights.” “Billy you do realize we make ironing boards here” Bill held his magnificent stare, Mr K looked away and back a few times. “Billy you see ironing boards have very little to do with movies and Billy I don’t even think you own a camera.” Mr. K looked down at the empty factory floor from his window. “I know you just want to help but……….. Fine, fine we will make your damn movie, hell will even make the space shuttle if we are going to fail lets do it big, Billy lets do it big, call everyone back in, buy a camera and a smoke machine what ever the fuck you need .”
6/11/09
Decomp Interractive 3
Oh, this may be the best yet, babies.
My antennae is tingling and my cilia is rustling with joy.
Again, here are two videos for you to play simultaneous, as in at that same exact time. let the audio then burn into your psyche and meld and mold and murder you... dig it.
dig it.
dig it.
My antennae is tingling and my cilia is rustling with joy.
Again, here are two videos for you to play simultaneous, as in at that same exact time. let the audio then burn into your psyche and meld and mold and murder you... dig it.
dig it.
dig it.
6/4/09
PUG GULLEY
"REQUIEM"
“I broke this cheek, right across here, do you see that? That was way early on, probably my first real fight.”
Rachel she jotted down in her little book, while I talked.
“Then, this eye, right above it see when I raise my eyebrows, this one doesn’t go up. This mouse up here, scar tissue.”
“And then, my nose got broke three, four times. My lip busted up, and then my ears, especially this one, I don’t hear out of it so good, you know.”
She looked up and pointed the pencil at me, “What about the rest of you?”
“My body I always managed to keep covered pretty good, ‘cept for lots of bruises, one broken rib, I think.”
I slapped my stomach hard, “lots of padding. But that’s nothing, you should have seen the other guys right?”
I give her a gentle jab on her chin. Rachel is a good kid; she’s a lot straighter than her dad. Lately she’s been coming over and doing these interviews with me, maybe some kind of school project, or she wants to be a writer and needs some subject. Either way, I feel like I’m letting her down, kid probably thinks she’s got a real life contender in her midst, and not some fucking tomato can like she does. Rachel is talking in my bad ear this time.
“I suppose, God made me big. I always figured you should make due with what you got, your natural gifts, and what with being shaped like a mattress, I couldn’t cut it as a jockey or a figure skater, so here I am. That and I was good at hitting people.”
After a few more minutes of banter, her time is up; “Thank you Mr. Hanson”
“Pug”, I correct her.
Pug, alone again, the pug in a little trailer on a square of dirt.
I was ‘Pug Hanson’, or ‘Powerful Pug Hanson’, and early on in his career ‘Handsome Paul Hanson’ (very briefly). But for right now, its just Pug, or if you want to believe that fat prick barker, I’m the Scottish headhunter. I wear a kilt and everything, Bagpipes play on a record while I fight, and I fight not once a month, or once a week, but every night, maybe ten times a night, more than a dozen on a good night. The biggest payoff on the midway, they call out. The barker with the big megaphone in the center of the ring, he calls out, looking for marks, ‘Take on the Scottish devil, Step in the ring with the big Scot, last three rounds and take home two hundred dollars.” So far, we don’t pay out much, we haven’t paid out once, Andy makes sure of that. Andy is kind of like my manager, except he doesn’t know anything about fighting. My old manager used to know a whole lot about fighting; he must have fought his whole life, about a hundred years. He was good to me too, real good until I started losing, really losing. I lost here and there but you lose enough and you become a loser, that’s what he told me. That’s what he told me and then he said he couldn’t wait for losers to turn around and I probably wouldn’t turn around and maybe he wasn’t a good manager for me anyway, and then he left. Actually he made me leave because it was his place I used to train in. I used to have a cut man too, to jab cotton in any holes that were made in me, and patch up any holes that were too big for cotton wads, I don’t have him anymore, but I had to give him twelve percent of each nights cut anyway so at least Im saving some money, and besides Im not getting cut up much. I tried to train by myself but I wasn’t getting any fights, and I was about to lose my apartment because I couldn’t pull a damn nickel not even in a month.
That was just in time, when Andy came to me, he walked in Vince’s gym, the owner nice guy let me train there free since he knew me from before I was a kid. So Andy walked in, more like sailed in wearing a full-length fur coat like some kind of pimp from the Himalayan Mountains.
He tell me he knows about me, that my friend,
“From the fried chicken place, he said you would probably be in here, I think you’re a pretty good fighter.” Even though I don’t think he ever saw me fight. He says he has a way I can make some money while training, easy money. He takes out a card, I got gloves on so he lays it on the ring apron says I should meet him tomorrow if I’m interested. I can meet him at the coffee shop next door, because that’s where he’ll be from noon to three, if I’m interested.
I’m interested as soon as he said money, hungry from living off of like my old man would have said a hot dog and a hard boiled egg, I would have went with him right there.
Karson Brothers Carnival.
That was printed on the front of the card, and on the back the guy’s name.
“Andy”. That’s Andy with his hand out when I walk in the café, he asks me to sit down and I’m pretty cautious at first, he asks me if I want anything, and then when he gives the suggestion that he’s paying, I accept and order some breakfast.
What’s a carnival got? Like, roadwork, maybe hoisting tents?
Not for you, better than that. A real good gig, you got sparring partners, right?
Sure, sometimes.
Well, this is basically just a lot of sparring. I’m not going to lie to you, not professionals, just regular guys, but look you’d be getting paid while you stay in practice, am I right?
He was sort of right.
It took a guy like Andy who was no trainer at all, to train you to fight these kinds of barneys, which was what they pretty much were.
In the ring under these bright light rigs, and a hundred million moths and mosquitoes and June bugs all flying around and dying inside the lights, all was illuminated.
The rubes gathered all around the ring, spilling food and cups of beer, and pigeons lined up harkened by that fiery sermon out that tinhorn.
Sweaty faces looking on a mix of jaded bloodlust and material exhaustion.
....
.
“It’s going to be a bunch of country boys, probably some wanna-be fighters used to box in high school, that sort.” Andy explains, “Tough guys spitting a bunch of trash, all talk. And you might see the aspiring amateur, think they’re gonna make a big show out of it.”
.....
Right now, a fresh faced looking kid was giving the barker his money and taking off his shirt. He couldn’t be a day over 18, in good shape, not a mark on him.
....
“And once in a while, we might get some serviceman on leave, they itch for a fight, like it’s their duty, you know? And they’re clean, too. I think you’ll do alright.”
......
This kid looks pretty eager, I do the bit where I spit and curse and stare him dead in the eye. He’s having the gloves put on him a quick tie job of these cheap Casanovas, the kind the Mexicans use.
....
.
“What about the drunks?”
“The drunks?” Andy laughs, “The drunks are our butter and egg men, man! If if wasn’t for them, we wouldn’t pull in half the bread that we do.”
....
.
The barker rings his bell and the kid starts dancing about, I stand there still for a second and then walk real slow over towards him. Its right now, about three seconds into his fight that all the courage will just drop right out of him. If I look real close I can see his eyes turn to an opacity like that happens when ones eyes look upon the thing that intends to visit very mortal harm upon one.
His shoulders slump slightly as ones shoulders do when the weight of fear is suddenly heaved upon one from where it was once perched aloft, far out of reach.
From here on out, It’s not a bullfight, it’s a foxhunt.
...
..
“Don’t take pepper to the poor sap all at once, get me? You come out pummeling and that’s it, nobody who sees that kind of shit is going to pay to get in there.”
..
.
I don’t touch the kid, I let him regain what he can of himself and that’s when he comes at me full force, wasting everything he’s got almost all at once. I block everything he throws at me; I drop my guard once to let him land a few weak shots to the body.
He backs away and I put a few love taps to him, enough to make him come at me again.
....
..
“That’s the beauty of it, you see?” Andy nudges me with his highball glass, “You get it? You barely have to do a thing. If you use your head, these rubes, these wheats..” He leans in closer,
“They beat themselves.”
....
.......
The kid comes again, flailing arms all over the place and I deflect them. He’s hitting hard, but he’s hitting wrong. I don’t quite punch but I push him back with my fists, and he keeps coming back. Its only a few minutes and then he can barely lift his arms, I make like Im going to hit him hard, but I don’t.
That’s all it takes.
He jerks back once, twice, I land the glove on his head but its got nothing behind it.
He yells at the barker/referee, he’s completely spent, three minutes.
He gives up.
The bell rings again and I have to make show like I did something.
I slump, I breath heavy, I let my hand get raised.
That’s only one,
There’s bound to be more tonight.
Pug Gulley by Anton Kozieja is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
6/1/09
THE BIRTH OF DECOMP….
Jonathan was sweating despite the pouring rain.
He was rushing down the dark street towards the only light burning, grasping his precious cargo beneath his coat trying to keep it dry.
He stopped, reaching finally the stairs to Professor Boswell’s residence. The old brownstone harkened not to his approach and his breath was visible in the dim porchlight.
He paused, feeling the weight of the package in his arms, making sure it was still with him. He hesitated for a moment, and then rang the doorbell. From a window on the second story the Professor called to him;
“Jonathan! What in Reich’s name are you doing out there?”
“Forgive me sir, it was imperative that I came over right away, I think I..well, I have something here I think you would want to see.”
“Whats that? What have you got there boy?”
Jonathan looked up squinting in the rain.
“Can I come in, sir?”
Without a word, Professor Boswell cranked the window shut.
Jonathan stood in silence surveying the street.
“Well, come in, come in, boy.” The professor had appeared at the front door and ushered Jonathan inside. “Get in before you lose what little you have left of your senses.”
To surprise, Jonathan noticed that, despite the late hour, the Professor was not in his bedclothes. In fact a fire was burning and open books on the large desk suggested that the professor had been absorbed in some research. Perhaps he finally translated from Etruscan the writing on that brittle animal hide he had received anonymously in the mail. Or all that talk about evaporation, mercury and a crucifix taken for nonsense, but granted into light a graven truth.
Without announcement, Jonathan held out his hands. They held a package the size of a book that appeared to have been hastily rewrapped in brown paper.
The professor looked down at the offering and back up at Jonathan.
“What is the meaning of this, son?”
Jonathan began, breathlessly; “It’s just as your grandfather had told you, and your uncle, the Abbot. You thought they were suffering from some kind of schizophrenia, towards the end of their lives, those letters, those letters that they had written you..”
“Those letters…Yes, something had afflicted those men, or it seems the same vile spirit had infected them … their reputations never did recover.” Boswell gazed out towards the darkness.
“Yes, “ Jonathan began, “but you see, you may have been right all along.” He led the professor to his desk and lay the package down, removing the paper.
“Look.”
A leather bound notebook in dark brown, well worn and tattered sat before them.
For quite some time the book said nothing, neither did young Jonathan. The professor however was quite vocal;
“You barge in at an ungodly hour to deliver me some anonymous sketchbook? I hardly think this is in evidence of-“
“It’s not anonymous, sir.” Jonathan interrupted. “Look, here.” The lad opened the front cover and inlayed in gold upon the first page was the single letter “P”.
“So it was him.” The professor declared.
“This can only mean more malevolence, more ignominy, don’t you see? Upon my name, the name of my family. This..this man, this black spot, this pernicious vile growth of an individual. He is not a man; he is the plague himself. He has been the harbinger of complete death, not just of the body, of the soul itself. And he is upon me.”
Jonathan spoke to the professors turned back; “Perhaps there is some answers here.”
“There?!” Boswell cried.
“ In my own obituary!?”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
From the Case docket of Dr.P
“A mortal case of decomposition and malefactions”
ENTRY ONE.
Having had a very unpleasant return trip back into Philadelphia, and having no business in Philadelphia at all, I had resigned myself to my own quarters, a room I had been renting from a deaf woman above a tobacconists for the last two months. The best landlady I had ever had, although my recollection of her is vague. She was a very devout woman and very pleased when I told her that the murmurs she thought she had heard in the night was me praying the rosary.
Shortly after me arrival I was visited by that Dane, Rosencrans, acting as an errand boy for a particular family.
Rosencrans was sick from years on the street, his lungs rattled as he coughed wet into his fist. Because I knew him long before he had lost his pedigree and because he served a purpose to me, I often kept him “fed”, as they say. On this night I wrote him a prescription, which he took gratefully and stuffed into his greasy overcoat.
In his pitiful manner, he began to relate the story of a young boy, the only son of the family, describing the catatonic state he lay in, the deathly pallor of his skin, pausing every few moments to cross himself and whisper a “blessed be to God” under his breath.
As an addict, the Dane knew how to lay it on quite thick, but theatrics aside, I was very interested in the case, particularly when the Dane began to describe the few moments of lucidity that occurred during the young son’s otherwise comatose condition.
As he related it; “He calls fer the strangest things, you see. They said he wants rotten fruit, and the corpses of dead birds, he sits up, you see, in his bed, his eyes rolled back in his skull and he points out his limp hand towards nothing. They said he even called fer a shovel and they asked why and he yelled that it was fer to bury himself with.”
I asked him if he knew if the boy were being fed, or otherwise well tended to.
“Canna say sir, I caught a glimpse of the poor child, blessed be to god, and he looked to me to be nearer to death than to any other visage, that’s fer sartain.”
ENTRY TWO
I have paid my first visit to the new patient, the young boy in question. I have found him a most disagreeable subject, unresponsive to any stimuli at all, and after spending already two long nights at the bedside I have yet to see any sudden relapses into perspicuity such as had been described to me, by both the Dane and by the boy’s own father, a man of otherwise obligatory respect.
ENTRY THREE
My patience had been tested and nearly exhausted by this case, when suddenly, as I was about to rise to leave, I witnessed myself the young patient’s outburst. Indeed he rose up in his bed, his eyes blank, pure white and his arm extended out to me like Christ calling out to St.Matthew and he called out to me by name. I scarcely understood much of it under his mumblings and drooling, like a raving idiot he was. “French Canadian bean soup…mother is the best bet…go not like a gentleman..” this much I could make out. I had noticed that in my haste I had set my journal down on the bed and his foot, as a result of convulsions now rested upon it. I thought little of this until I returned to my room. Upon opening the book again, I saw now that where his foot had rested, blank pages were now filled with writing, only in that corner where his flesh was. Every page, unfinished paragraphs, written in an unknown hand. Nothing of use, but enough to urge me to pay another visit the next day.
ENTRY FOUR
I arrived at the family home with a new journal, and asked to be alone with the patient. I immediately placed my blank notebook under the patient’s body. I waited.
ENTRY FIVE
I convinced the family to allow me to remove the patient from their home and place him under my personal care, where he could be tended to around the clock. What I read in that journal after I had removed it caused me much distress. Out of nowhere, apocryphal writings had emerged, where blank paper had been now blood was stained and unseen fingers smeared invisible ink. The patient made no move towards recovery, but that concerned me little.
I am fascinated by what is revealed in the notebook so much that could not be known by this patient, which could not be known by any human being.
I have to go further.
ENTRY SIX
Over the course of the last week, I have repeated the same procedure of placing my blank journal beneath the body of the patient, but I have noticed an interesting development. It seems that where I am placing the books, where they are in terms of the patient’s body, greatly affects the resulting output that emerges in them.
When I place a journal under the patient’s chest region, I notice the writings in the book strangely pertain more to the humanist poetics, that is if the words were actually written by a human, which remains to be seen, namely matters of emotion, and long diatribes of want and longing. When I place them anywhere from the waist down on the patient, the writings as they were, tend to be concerned with the more base instincts of men, absolute vile descriptions of lust and hunger, not only of sex but also of food, of inhalants, of intoxicants, and of other various stimuli some yet unknown to me.
When the books were beneath the limbs of the patient, they emerged containing pieces of rigid structure, Haiku, and notes on mathematics, although none of the mathematical theories written about were either accurate or founded in any logic. These I could scarcely read without consulting the book from the other arm, or leg, for sometimes one paragraph would continue in another book recovered from the opposite arm.
Most intriguing of all, was when I had placed a book beneath the patient’s head.
I have allowed only a few forays into this realm, as the output that appears is by far the most disturbing. Never in my own nightmares have I even begun to imagine such abominations, such depraved visions. Even the most offensive minds that I have encountered, even criminals can not compare. These particular books are precious to me, I can not lend them even to my own research.
ENTRY SEVEN.
Subject weakening.
Unresponsive to outside stimulus, Intravenous nutrition basically rejected due to thrombosis.
Physically; Patient incurable.
Written output still strong, same practices produces same results.
….
Patient unresponsive.
.
I hope to keep patient alive as long as I can.
..
Transmission strong.
..
..
..
.
Journal Ends Here..
.
5/30/09
Decomp Interactive 2
Two videos for your approval. Play them both simultaneous like. Get close to the screen, and back away slow like a magic eye poster. let the audio burn into your cortex and manifest back into shape while you sleep too big for your little head oozing our your nostrils
My Real Dad is a Poem
My father would say get your head out of your ass like most people said hi. To be fair my head was in my ass. Though my ass was a Lewis Carol labyrinth. My father did not say get your head out of your ass to be helpful nor did he know it really was up there, he said it like a skunk raising his tail. My dad was later locked up leaving my head up my ass.
I was left unwanted as a leper dodo chick in a graveyard city, my lobotomized umbilical cord a ectoplasm limp dick in my hand. My dry, empty, hungry, opiate socked so desperately wanted to brim over with unconditional love. But where could I find love, I wasn’t in school so cool teacher was out, bums worked for a bit but the wanted to tell me lies and get hand jobs. Bums did teach me things like, go to university libraries to sleep. Libraries also had erotic picture books you could get off on ( thank you, you art fucks who tricked school boards into believing art was not porn). I also read. I read women's erotic dreams, every word of Orwell, Dostoevsky, Kafka, Whitman, Hess, all the beats. I would walk out with books and read them under bridges and at that weeks job, laying cable, digging ditches, cleaning bee hives, loading barges anything that was under the table and would hire kids. All the while I would let characters from novels kill themselves in my stead. One day under a bridge, sixteen, no shoes, no where to go, cold, Old Crow for antifreeze, I found hope for us all in a poem.
It was Bukowski’s “Maybe Will See”. It was an unassuming poem but it summed up the modern world that wanted me to jump of this bridge after I was done with my libation. I had read Charles before and like most kids, identified with him. But he never gave me hope, he only confirmed my apathy. But he wrote this poem as a older man, my old man. He was leaving his mindset of a drunken blue-collar worker teetering between nihilism and nirvana. Instead, Charles was entering a state of reflection and cautious optimism. He no longer wanted to point out the pointless; he wanted to impart wisdom into the world, to me. I needed to be lifted from under, like Persephone. The poem opened with one of humankind’s greatest endeavor, and a modern boys canvas, space. Charles was born in 1920 and he saw my angry empty womb unfold; spewing shinny slugs of plastics, televisions, and computers to the moon. His poem did not give a fuck about the details of cosmology; he only glosses over them, reality was the metaphor. What was important for him, was not the mass paradigm shift from our caveman’s fear of change, a hungry Cronus, to man as Prometheus unchained, dissecting with sight. The use of the new goals like the moon was to distracted us from a 19th century that killed god, his corpse the infinite vacuum of space. We are not genetically predisposed to shoot for the moon, but it keeps us from doing bad things to ourselves, like macaroni art for the insane. This poem is about humanity’s need to escape from itself so it does not do self-inflicted damage. He was a hopeful parent of a thin blue heroin addict, he administered methadone as a still born eucharist. Man needs to channel his infinite violent energies into something mysterious and infinite like the universe, sexy isn‘t it.
Bukowski showed me a dichotomy of humanity in this poem; he shows a curious inventive side and a war-like, suicidal, and destructive side, Charles, like all men and women of his age, had lived to see war after war and many innovations, and he prefers our preoccupation with innovation to war. Seeing new shiny things replaces man’s ever-acute nihilism with curiosity.
The title “Maybe Will See” has a desperate optimism to it. He believes our growing understanding of the universe is a distraction from doing bad, but he leaves another avenue slightly open what if humanity does finds something? He gave me a glimmer of hope and maybe my distraction turns out to be the Holy Grail. I new from that day that teleological bullshit is better then being eaten by the vultures of apathy. My belly button healed over and I knew then I was my own mother and father. I was nameless on the edge of the Dao.
I was left unwanted as a leper dodo chick in a graveyard city, my lobotomized umbilical cord a ectoplasm limp dick in my hand. My dry, empty, hungry, opiate socked so desperately wanted to brim over with unconditional love. But where could I find love, I wasn’t in school so cool teacher was out, bums worked for a bit but the wanted to tell me lies and get hand jobs. Bums did teach me things like, go to university libraries to sleep. Libraries also had erotic picture books you could get off on ( thank you, you art fucks who tricked school boards into believing art was not porn). I also read. I read women's erotic dreams, every word of Orwell, Dostoevsky, Kafka, Whitman, Hess, all the beats. I would walk out with books and read them under bridges and at that weeks job, laying cable, digging ditches, cleaning bee hives, loading barges anything that was under the table and would hire kids. All the while I would let characters from novels kill themselves in my stead. One day under a bridge, sixteen, no shoes, no where to go, cold, Old Crow for antifreeze, I found hope for us all in a poem.
It was Bukowski’s “Maybe Will See”. It was an unassuming poem but it summed up the modern world that wanted me to jump of this bridge after I was done with my libation. I had read Charles before and like most kids, identified with him. But he never gave me hope, he only confirmed my apathy. But he wrote this poem as a older man, my old man. He was leaving his mindset of a drunken blue-collar worker teetering between nihilism and nirvana. Instead, Charles was entering a state of reflection and cautious optimism. He no longer wanted to point out the pointless; he wanted to impart wisdom into the world, to me. I needed to be lifted from under, like Persephone. The poem opened with one of humankind’s greatest endeavor, and a modern boys canvas, space. Charles was born in 1920 and he saw my angry empty womb unfold; spewing shinny slugs of plastics, televisions, and computers to the moon. His poem did not give a fuck about the details of cosmology; he only glosses over them, reality was the metaphor. What was important for him, was not the mass paradigm shift from our caveman’s fear of change, a hungry Cronus, to man as Prometheus unchained, dissecting with sight. The use of the new goals like the moon was to distracted us from a 19th century that killed god, his corpse the infinite vacuum of space. We are not genetically predisposed to shoot for the moon, but it keeps us from doing bad things to ourselves, like macaroni art for the insane. This poem is about humanity’s need to escape from itself so it does not do self-inflicted damage. He was a hopeful parent of a thin blue heroin addict, he administered methadone as a still born eucharist. Man needs to channel his infinite violent energies into something mysterious and infinite like the universe, sexy isn‘t it.
Bukowski showed me a dichotomy of humanity in this poem; he shows a curious inventive side and a war-like, suicidal, and destructive side, Charles, like all men and women of his age, had lived to see war after war and many innovations, and he prefers our preoccupation with innovation to war. Seeing new shiny things replaces man’s ever-acute nihilism with curiosity.
The title “Maybe Will See” has a desperate optimism to it. He believes our growing understanding of the universe is a distraction from doing bad, but he leaves another avenue slightly open what if humanity does finds something? He gave me a glimmer of hope and maybe my distraction turns out to be the Holy Grail. I new from that day that teleological bullshit is better then being eaten by the vultures of apathy. My belly button healed over and I knew then I was my own mother and father. I was nameless on the edge of the Dao.
5/28/09
DECOMP INTERACTIVE 1
Decomp Interactive. We present two videos for you, this time play them both and let the audio strata meld into your cortex.
enjoy.
enjoy.
5/14/09
The Fourth Case, Continued.
A light rap came about the door. Dr.P deftly turned off the machine and strode to the entrance of his cabin. In the darkness he barely made out the face of the first mate, whom he kept at bay by opening the door only enough to peer out of. The first mate’s face was flushed and damp with sweat. “The, the captain, sir. He’s calling for you. you see he has taken a turn for the worst, its his fever you see.”
“how long has he been ill? I was never informed about this.”
“Just since this morning, sir.” The mate wiped his face with his bare hand, “You see that’s why he didn’t come show you to your room and all himself, otherwise he would, the captain is such a fine and good-“
“I don’t want to hear his eulogy just yet, “ the dr. interrupted, “ Leave me alone and let me gather my instruments, I will tend to the captain myself.”
The muffled cries of gratitude from the first mate came from behind the closed door as the doctor put various implements into his black leather bag. Unnamed, some uninvnented instruments in immaculate steel and bleached bone. Teeth and stone, these few were actual artifacts, they had been pilfered from an exhibition of the arcane in London. The doctor had attended as a personal guest of Lord Whitechild. In the exhibition hall during a long intermission, the Lady Whitechild had been so enamored by the doctor’s profundity and wit, she never noticed that amid his grand gestures the artifacts had disappeared into his waistcoat. How well they had served him, this one in particular he called his monkey’s fist if a monkey had been born with razors on its knuckles and teeth between it’s fingers. And it’s companion he named the devil’s centipede, which was obvious to whoever had looked at it. He utilized them once to remove an infected appendix from an honest to goodness pygmy chieftain who had such surprising strength that he had to be held down by four jungle guides.
The sea had begun to grow restless.
A splash of saltwater met the doctor’s face as he exited onto the deck.
Several men were batting down in preparation for a great storm, and the ship herself swayed uneasily.
Dr.P found the captain lying in his bed surrounded by several young attendants who saw to it that he was fanned sufficiently, one was applying a compress to the captain’s chest.
Another one was rubbing his feet with oils smelling strongly of clove and cardamom.
In one motion, the doctor made a full stride around the room and ushered everyone out as to leave him alone with the captain.
The door was quietly closed and locked.
“This.. this malady, has gotten a hold on me so profoundly..” The captain raised a fist so frailly that the doctor placed his hand gingerly on it to guide it back beneath the covers.
“You can, I know you can cure me..”, the captain continued, “I know you are a, compassionate man.” His eyes began to roll into his head as he suffered another spasm of pain.
“Yes, of course, rest assured” The doctor pulled the blanket over the captain’s chest.
“I only ask one thing from you, my captain” Dr.P leaned close to the captain’s ear and despite them being alone in the room, spoke in hushed tones. “I only ask that you give yourself, your sickened state up to me. Unconditionally. That as long as you are under my care you surrender yourself. Is that clear?”
The captain said nothing, he only grasped the doctor’s hand as feebly as he could and nodded his head spitting out “..Yes…yes, I do. Yes, its all..”
He did not speak again after that, but slipped into an exhausted hibernation lulled no doubt by the assurance that his life was in competent hands.
Working swiftly the doctor had at the ready the tools he needed. “What I require today is very simple, you need only lay very still while I draw up a phial of blood.”
He was unsure if the captain even heard his request.
After withdrawing the needle, the doctor quickly retreated back to his quarters.
After being scrutinized under proper medical equipment,
The sample of blood and tissue from the captain was placed upon a special mirror and put upon the doctor’s motorized wheel.
The fragile apparatus also equipped with various mirrors, was placed gently upon the spinning wheel, over the dish of the captain’s granted samples.
The doctor activated his machine again, and he stood against the wall, naked.
What happened next was no surprise, the invading organisms that were present in the captain’s blood were plentiful and they had the upper hand. We never expected him to have a chance, after all, the doctor reflected.
In the dark the contents of the petri dish was projected over the doctor’s body via the light and mirrors in the spinning contraption. The germs writhed and undulated across the walls, as if sensing danger, panicked. All over the small cabin cavorting organisms played and spun, and fucked themselves and split in two, they ate one another. In time the doctor could feel it, the taste of devouring your brother cell, yourself, the feeling of being split right down the middle and becoming two. As I swim among them, as the water around the ship can not be discerned from the water inside my body and brain and looking out, the boat is still and the sea is moving beneath us, so is the disease still and the ship moving around it.
The doctor in his state as disease digested this vision and split it in twine, and again, spreading it to be absorbed. He knew diseases well; he knew their motives, their tactics.
He knew what has never been taught, what cannot be conveyed in textbooks. He knew this disease’s granddaddy and probably introduced it to its grandma.
And he knew the one thing that this or any disease had never known; FEAR.
No single disease has the capacity of being afraid, the doctor sought to change that. Not to make it afraid of its host, that would inevitably eradicate the disease all together, but to give it that which would make it a real formidable enemy once and for all.
The doctor let the disease spin through the night.
In the morning, having drawn the sample back into a hypodermic needle, returned to the Captain’s quarters.
Again he ushered the servants out, Dr.P reassured Captain Prescott; “I think your suffering will, take a turn. Very soon.”
The sample, once reintroduced into the captain went to work very quickly. The doctor sat in a chair opposite the bed and watched the process. As the captain began to convulse, Dr.P was mixing a drink from the liquor cart, pouring in the remains of a paregoric elixir into his brandy. He took out a handkerchief and listlessly wiped a few drops of blood that had landed on his cheek. The doctor put another bottle of paregoric into his pocket and left. Not yet inside his own cabin, the urgent footsteps of a dozen deck hands quick to answer the captain’s cries of pain. But they hadn’t a chance. The captain was wrapped in his bed sheet and already out the window. He who could barely lift up his head today was climbing the mainsail with the strength of a rutted baboon.
The very moment he reached the top, he went down, as if wanting to climb higher and simply ran out of pole.
And what of the doctor? He commandeered himself the choicest of lifeboats, loaded with baggage, mostly his own. He rowed silently, puffing away at the captain’s best tobacco. The saint Agnes grew smaller before him. He was no fool; he was not about to be left to explain an empty, unmanned vessel pulling into harbor.
5/9/09
Teddy..
When I was about 13 I bought a Teddy Ruckspen from Good Will. The bear already had a blank white tape jammed in it. I walked past the bucket- O-crutches that always had a mop in it. I saw the man who would use the mop as a crutch. My eyes got wet. I shook my etch a sketch; the image was now only a permanent pock mark. I waited in line in terror, counting my money. I never believed I would have enough money when I got to the register, the possibility of humiliation would suffocate me. To this day I count change in my pocket like beads on a rosary. I exited the store and entered my domain of no money and places to hide. In Saint Louis no one could ever catch me. There is a C S Lewis labyrinth woven into the city. Its threads were ancient Indian forests, sewers, and the backs of buildings and houses. I was brier rabbit. I went into the back of the store to find what wasn’t up to Good Will’s standards but perfect for me. Naked umbrellas, mounds of sopping wet mildewed clothing filled with centipedes, roly-poly’s, and daddy long legs, the residue of souls. In the corner of my fever dream eye a saw the confused monster that would wear five left baby shoes. A mattress soaked in urine leaned against the brick wall. Hung out for every grey back hajji hard on, to prove a virgin. My sympathy struck again up my left side, I prayed to it like the wailing wall, please let the weak inherit this world or give them another. I dug through this filth like the zombie child I was. I dragged my anti-Santy Claus find into the woods. Mother Nature was my fence, and I always came in hot and would pop out 8 blocks away scot-free. This time I went deep enough for the overlapping trees to cover the man made world from all sides. I climbed into an abandoned tree house (a few boards and a truck tire in a tree.) I poured out the toys, Teddy Ruckspen hit the floor, his eyes moved up and down. His tape began to play. It was not teddy’s voice but a frantic sounding man, He said:
“I took a picture of you. Why? Maybe I did it preserve your logo haircut or your milky white thighs. Now what do I do? Throw it away, tear it up, and Cut it up into a collage. I am an agent of the third law, every thing goes away. That’s it, thaaaaaaat’s iiiiit, art must purge the parasite, artists. They must go away; we don’t need them any more, never did. I eat I sleep, I shit, I’m not an eatist, sleepiest or a shitist. I am a post qusi semi neo plastic futurist; I am the last words of butch Lane. I am the last rites of the indivisible individual, art before artist. Two boys crossing their Piss streams, I can hear the planets grinding through space, this is the same miracle. Artist are art filters, bodies are food filters. Stop eating, pass out instead of sleep, hear colors, no words, rhythm, no objects. They don’t make art they make mistakes misinterpreted, the suffocate miraculous in jam jars. They spork feed us to Cronus. Break some fucking glass, Rub your face in it, you made a new dimension, for you. The glass belongs in your face like love in your heart. It always should have been there. Show everyone you meet as your power skipping down the street. Give them a shit eating infected grin. Say “Oh oh look at me I’m an experienced experiment, I remember back and fourth, I remember the maker, even if he forgot me. I remember when I was will be you. Did I have a bar mitzvah, drink the blood of a deer, spin a bottle twist a tit, so how do I know am a Wereape?” And when they hold you down on red and white sheets picking glass out of your face say? “I don’t belong to you I don’t, I don’t belong to me, I don’t belong. This is not injustice this is art. Pay more attention to me and my moon phase’s bloody martyr, bloody murder, bloody Mary. Love is not in our bones so, fuck it. We are not over ripe brothers, don’t eat, repeat, life is a drug dealer it wants you hooked. Don’t sleep. Just pass out and piss and shit where you want, when you need. Turn your nerves to light bright, not a meter to measure your fear of monsters. You are a monster factory, this is not new this was always the way. I did not find it. Don’t get hooked on life it comes with all your worries. Life is worse then heroine, porn, Jerry Faldwell, David Koresh all in one needle. In the end the old bull couldn’t even kick it, he was begging for his man, but he could find his man. His man was not in the book of the dead, not in L. Ron, not in honey Dijon, not King Kong. By life I don’t mean that vague bullshit dandelion seeds. I mean nut sack to lung sack, I think therefore I’m French. Why wait to see if you come back. It’s not worth being afraid of loosing your job, getting your ass kicked or prison raped; the eyeless black dog will lose his grip on you. You are Übermensch you are beyond governments, pain, mint ice cream, you are art. You are the pound looking back at narcissus, instinct. The id wants us to live like a vacuum, or toaster to fuck him and die. I must calm down. I don’t know if this is what I mean. Lets start over this could be a matter of how I feel because I missed the bus; are you still there?
What do I have to do with my fingers? I shouldn’t be saying this now. I just don’t feel like talking nor do I think I’ll get my point across. Not that what I’m going to say is important oh God OH God! Honestly do I sound like the vision of someone shitting themselves in a pool? You might as well read hills and hills of shredded newspaper. But I’m here you’re here. It’s more like kissing then talking, we’re feeling each other up. My problem is that I’m here and your not. My problem is I can’t size you up and guess what you want. I can’t look at your U2 shirt. I don’t know if you’re a republican, democrat or fag. I’m speaking to a prison camp light. Antennas pick up grunts and ugs .I’m praying and begging. I see you on a pile of twitching leprosies, St Louis leaning his weight on his sword, a dainty lion cock whose seeds navigating the glowing lines of a telephone pole forest. I’m praying with that this little death will bait the big one. I’m tired of myself. Are you tired of me? Are you tired of earth, Jealous of kids that will be able to go in rocket ships? While us we are stuck with daydreams, 12 bit fiction. Head of Orpheus you’re all I got. You’re a friend who tries his damnedest but I am through my organs are rejecting you off my shoulders. When your mom knows your not going to add up to shit she says “he has a wonderful imagination.” She’s saying he has built in anesthesia for the bad times to come.
No object I’m ready-made. I’m ready made for you. Don’t you see a specific shovel, don’t you see what could be. No object just do op do op. I say Lord I’m leaving my blue phase no object I decomposed. If you dig up my bones nowhere in them will you see I was loved? It doesn’t stay in me. I’m a shovel you’re a coat hanger we’re ready made. I’m all there is. Just call me Liz cut off my pink tentacle wear it as a wizard hat.
I’m vague I’m self-centered in the Dao. Our bones don’t have love in them. My eye jelly can be eaten by my cat, those eyes won’t miss looking at you or prefer a cat’s colon and after all they don’t belong to me. I don’t belong to me.
No no no no no I draw letters I draw words the words matter their definition does not matter. Flip the words upside down. Or better yet or better yet. I’m listening to all my records and tapes. Cause I don’t got any one to talk to about something besides the weather. I’m gonna listen to the bad ones, the embarrassing ones. If I got Tiffany I’ll listen to it twice.
Can you be my finger? Can you be mine? Can you be mine? Is it your choice? Is that your voice or is it POP? You’re indivisible to me. This is the “you” I didn’t think I knew. I know we’re the same machine of my memoirs. Time is not for us. Time is for staying up late or missing a date we are ready made. Every freckle, scar, every brick you throw, or don’t, Every shit you take, every car that screams “Fagot!” George is dying from cancer, homos are feeding on cancer. The man who sold the world should have got a receipt. The honeysuckles do what they please as excess drops on sexy moons of broken legs. Dogs on the side of the road maggots in a healing wound, open all night. I can’t have 400 broken dogs, cats and raccoons in my apartment, that’s what’s wrong. That’s what went wrong I want to help shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. I can’t heal I cant give last rites. All I can do is pretend to listen. well I’m so happy you’re here and this is what I’m trying to say
The atmosphere is getting thin
Jews and Gaza can’t be friends
Mass dead in Srebrenica sucken on bullion cubes
And you have two TV’s two VCRs so poor. This is me trying to speak your language, its hard, I never spoke before.”
The end of the tape shocked me, I heard some slamming of doors. Screaming and yelling crying. I picked up the bear to see if he would say more and noticed his back had popped open. I saw no batteries. From Teddy someone else spoke " Get up, tell us where they are.” A pause “Tell us where the Mellons are.” Better yet tell us what the Mellons are." Then the old voice on the tape said "damn you!!! Run Kid fucking run!!!!!!!!!!” The Tape stopped, I felt exposed and watched. I ran through creeks, hopped fences, I was Paul Revere with a primal scream as a warning, the last and only warning.
It has been 19 years; I just heard the voice from the tape.
“I took a picture of you. Why? Maybe I did it preserve your logo haircut or your milky white thighs. Now what do I do? Throw it away, tear it up, and Cut it up into a collage. I am an agent of the third law, every thing goes away. That’s it, thaaaaaaat’s iiiiit, art must purge the parasite, artists. They must go away; we don’t need them any more, never did. I eat I sleep, I shit, I’m not an eatist, sleepiest or a shitist. I am a post qusi semi neo plastic futurist; I am the last words of butch Lane. I am the last rites of the indivisible individual, art before artist. Two boys crossing their Piss streams, I can hear the planets grinding through space, this is the same miracle. Artist are art filters, bodies are food filters. Stop eating, pass out instead of sleep, hear colors, no words, rhythm, no objects. They don’t make art they make mistakes misinterpreted, the suffocate miraculous in jam jars. They spork feed us to Cronus. Break some fucking glass, Rub your face in it, you made a new dimension, for you. The glass belongs in your face like love in your heart. It always should have been there. Show everyone you meet as your power skipping down the street. Give them a shit eating infected grin. Say “Oh oh look at me I’m an experienced experiment, I remember back and fourth, I remember the maker, even if he forgot me. I remember when I was will be you. Did I have a bar mitzvah, drink the blood of a deer, spin a bottle twist a tit, so how do I know am a Wereape?” And when they hold you down on red and white sheets picking glass out of your face say? “I don’t belong to you I don’t, I don’t belong to me, I don’t belong. This is not injustice this is art. Pay more attention to me and my moon phase’s bloody martyr, bloody murder, bloody Mary. Love is not in our bones so, fuck it. We are not over ripe brothers, don’t eat, repeat, life is a drug dealer it wants you hooked. Don’t sleep. Just pass out and piss and shit where you want, when you need. Turn your nerves to light bright, not a meter to measure your fear of monsters. You are a monster factory, this is not new this was always the way. I did not find it. Don’t get hooked on life it comes with all your worries. Life is worse then heroine, porn, Jerry Faldwell, David Koresh all in one needle. In the end the old bull couldn’t even kick it, he was begging for his man, but he could find his man. His man was not in the book of the dead, not in L. Ron, not in honey Dijon, not King Kong. By life I don’t mean that vague bullshit dandelion seeds. I mean nut sack to lung sack, I think therefore I’m French. Why wait to see if you come back. It’s not worth being afraid of loosing your job, getting your ass kicked or prison raped; the eyeless black dog will lose his grip on you. You are Übermensch you are beyond governments, pain, mint ice cream, you are art. You are the pound looking back at narcissus, instinct. The id wants us to live like a vacuum, or toaster to fuck him and die. I must calm down. I don’t know if this is what I mean. Lets start over this could be a matter of how I feel because I missed the bus; are you still there?
What do I have to do with my fingers? I shouldn’t be saying this now. I just don’t feel like talking nor do I think I’ll get my point across. Not that what I’m going to say is important oh God OH God! Honestly do I sound like the vision of someone shitting themselves in a pool? You might as well read hills and hills of shredded newspaper. But I’m here you’re here. It’s more like kissing then talking, we’re feeling each other up. My problem is that I’m here and your not. My problem is I can’t size you up and guess what you want. I can’t look at your U2 shirt. I don’t know if you’re a republican, democrat or fag. I’m speaking to a prison camp light. Antennas pick up grunts and ugs .I’m praying and begging. I see you on a pile of twitching leprosies, St Louis leaning his weight on his sword, a dainty lion cock whose seeds navigating the glowing lines of a telephone pole forest. I’m praying with that this little death will bait the big one. I’m tired of myself. Are you tired of me? Are you tired of earth, Jealous of kids that will be able to go in rocket ships? While us we are stuck with daydreams, 12 bit fiction. Head of Orpheus you’re all I got. You’re a friend who tries his damnedest but I am through my organs are rejecting you off my shoulders. When your mom knows your not going to add up to shit she says “he has a wonderful imagination.” She’s saying he has built in anesthesia for the bad times to come.
No object I’m ready-made. I’m ready made for you. Don’t you see a specific shovel, don’t you see what could be. No object just do op do op. I say Lord I’m leaving my blue phase no object I decomposed. If you dig up my bones nowhere in them will you see I was loved? It doesn’t stay in me. I’m a shovel you’re a coat hanger we’re ready made. I’m all there is. Just call me Liz cut off my pink tentacle wear it as a wizard hat.
I’m vague I’m self-centered in the Dao. Our bones don’t have love in them. My eye jelly can be eaten by my cat, those eyes won’t miss looking at you or prefer a cat’s colon and after all they don’t belong to me. I don’t belong to me.
No no no no no I draw letters I draw words the words matter their definition does not matter. Flip the words upside down. Or better yet or better yet. I’m listening to all my records and tapes. Cause I don’t got any one to talk to about something besides the weather. I’m gonna listen to the bad ones, the embarrassing ones. If I got Tiffany I’ll listen to it twice.
Can you be my finger? Can you be mine? Can you be mine? Is it your choice? Is that your voice or is it POP? You’re indivisible to me. This is the “you” I didn’t think I knew. I know we’re the same machine of my memoirs. Time is not for us. Time is for staying up late or missing a date we are ready made. Every freckle, scar, every brick you throw, or don’t, Every shit you take, every car that screams “Fagot!” George is dying from cancer, homos are feeding on cancer. The man who sold the world should have got a receipt. The honeysuckles do what they please as excess drops on sexy moons of broken legs. Dogs on the side of the road maggots in a healing wound, open all night. I can’t have 400 broken dogs, cats and raccoons in my apartment, that’s what’s wrong. That’s what went wrong I want to help shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. I can’t heal I cant give last rites. All I can do is pretend to listen. well I’m so happy you’re here and this is what I’m trying to say
The atmosphere is getting thin
Jews and Gaza can’t be friends
Mass dead in Srebrenica sucken on bullion cubes
And you have two TV’s two VCRs so poor. This is me trying to speak your language, its hard, I never spoke before.”
The end of the tape shocked me, I heard some slamming of doors. Screaming and yelling crying. I picked up the bear to see if he would say more and noticed his back had popped open. I saw no batteries. From Teddy someone else spoke " Get up, tell us where they are.” A pause “Tell us where the Mellons are.” Better yet tell us what the Mellons are." Then the old voice on the tape said "damn you!!! Run Kid fucking run!!!!!!!!!!” The Tape stopped, I felt exposed and watched. I ran through creeks, hopped fences, I was Paul Revere with a primal scream as a warning, the last and only warning.
It has been 19 years; I just heard the voice from the tape.
4/27/09
The Fouth Case....
Under a thin gray veil of a streetlight, Dr.P took out his watch. It was a quarter past twelve, past midnight. There was not another living thing within eye or earshot on this cold street. The good doctor leaned against the lamppost and sunk deeper into his coat. He pictured a warm room in another life, the door not even closed behind him. There was not his home. But there was comfort. Elizabeth, the daughter of Sheldon, her milky flesh and her face so fast to blush. Her arms pawed him like branches against a house. It was from her, wasn’t it, This watch. The inscription had been on the back, now worn down and rendered illegible. There were times, though few that he felt a slight stab of pity for her. In the red fire-lit foyer her freckled back, her big mid-western tits all heaved over him. That morning when he left she cried. He did not. He heard of her death from his cousin, who was also her cousin. By the falls, the tremors she had died. The falls. That was his disease. That was the one he walked away from in doubt. But with this news, with her death, “by god” he said, “she made it, she made it that far, to Illinois. I never thought she could do it.” If only he had known, he would have given her wings with which to fly, thin cellulous fiber wings that undulated in the still air. He would have cradled her petrie dish one last time and kissed the gelatin contained within it. By now it was far beyond his hand anyway. And then…
A dark figure emerged from the other end of the street. A Chinaman, he never looked up, placed a brown paper wrapped package in the doctor’s hands and shuffled away without a word.
A fortnight before this, Dr.P was preparing to board the Saint Agnes, a proud vessel among those in harbor. The captain, one Mr. Prescott, had requested a ships doctor via a mutual acquaintance, Admiral Boswell having heartily endorsing the good doctor, Captain Prescott could hardly turn down such a recommendation. Upon arriving, Dr.P sensed something, there was a smell about the ship that smelled like blood and pathos. Once before he remembered smelling this, a humid clearing in the jungle. He barely knew what he was looking for, which was why he was out searching in the first place. A blind toothless old necromancer put a clay bowl in his hand and pushed it up to his lips. What he saw, he wished unseen and still he wakes up sweating, and his gums are bleeding. He saw amid flames his own face, with a patch over one eye, in his mouth, thick heaving grubs. They are spilling and he can’t get the words out, but they seem like a warning. Although afraid, he repeated the scene over and over. Hoping to read his own lips. “…..the house…far (fall?)..make..it..them..” he has tried so many times to make it out, he has assured himself that one day he will say the same words to his other younger self so be rested assured.
He has smelled the same odor of misgivings since, many times.
Today he does not know that. How could he? Once on board the Saint Agnes, he retreated to his quarters to avoid the onslaught of filthy begging hands of bestial faces of crowds of flesh like a Flemish crucifixion. Give the peg boy a sack of oranges to toss amongst the ravel, that will suit them. Im not here to lay these hands on syphilitic carrion. “Doctor, I hope you find your room well suited for you,” The first mate said as he heaped the doctor’s bags upon the small bed. He stood close to the doctor and lingered there, talking through his red moustache and his tainted teeth. “the captain… the mess.. the deck…”
He wouldn’t stop talking, the warmth of his breath crept up the doctor’s neck, and he held a white handkerchief up to his face. Finally alone, the doctor removed from his bag a small wooden box that contained a tension motor that moved a rotating flat disc. Upon this he placed a small oil lamp, which he lit. Over the lamp was placed an enclosed screen, triangular made of silk on a wooden frame three feet high. Various sized holes in the screen let light pass through as it spun on the rotating disc. Spinning, patterns of light emerged from the screen. The doctor sat before his contraption and closed his eyes…
Light and unlight became the field in his vision. Blank became color, he breathed in deeply and specters and spectrums invaded his field, this was his communion. Spinning, the light evaporated, the patterns dissolved. Figures and shapes became shadows, The doctor’s eyes focused deep before him before nothing. He was there, not there. Nowhere.
“This” the doctor declared,
“…Will be my scalpel.”
The Third Case...
Maggie left the TV on for the same reason someone leaves food out for you, they think your incompetent. Maggie believes I am incompetent with my free time. I turn off the TV. Its just you and me house, we are both not haunted but, we both wont to be haunted. I relax into my kitchen chair like a Joey in its pouch. My spin rises out of my back searching like an inch worm for a stem. I can’t help but to listen to the brown transmissions in the ether. I fill for a line to follow, I a take God sip, then I exhale yesterdays newspapers. I ride the empty path until, my wires cross, I pick up a prayer "o please god don’t let me pee my bed." This plea skips me, and goes straight to my sympathy. I fine tune in, a rollercoaster of daisy chained belligerent sectary Kali skulls pass and record me, I turn in to supernatural 481. I am venerable, I listened again hoping not to be triangulated not to be lost, not to be found in a ally ranting; viva Abandonner! Viva section me, squeeze my intestines like tooth paste, divide all my parts, put them into mayonnaise jars, and tupowear bowls. That’s the only way to hide when your caught listening. I listen deeper I lean into the infinite maw with a bottomless stomach, no rail. Just a dead line, I lost the patient. He will be drowned in urine by them. I have fear, there are no corners I am exposed for light years. I am skinny dipping in the river stix, I am dread, joy, Ka voyeur, its too late to stop. I am pulled from the ether dragged like a snails head, over the cooled, dead corpse of the wood floor, into my safe lead lined closet. Clothing, hangers entangle me into a prison womb. Under a red milk crate of records hides my Chinese immortal heart. Under the trapped sounds, is a shoe box full of what I love. for a moment satire held its tongue, and the paint box full of letters held its breath, there’s the truth of me. Behind the disillusionment that there is a still born in Joseph tomb, lays a boy lead off track by fact. What’s left if you aint got religion, what’s left when time makes all your decisions. A Chinese alchemist twin worms of mountain and river or maybe Immortality and knowledge? More like a tranny fucking his/herself. Is it me or is someone burning toast? I am half man half ghost. How can I be guilty I, am not me judge, I’m 382. I pull out like death in reverse, I am in itchy damp piss, dry eyed and milk all around me on the floor. It was morning when "I left." It is now night, which night I do not know. The doors is wide open, letting every form of fling and buzzing second hand typewriter porn junky’s needles in. The door also let the outside in. The house is out of its own warm breath it was drowned with me in it; the kirks. I rise from the sticky wet, and physically go to the closet. Inside I see the records, I look to long, one begins spinning. It is a record I did not own until that moment. I here singing, he sounds like he was bured alive in the past "When I want you, to fetch me some cool water, you gave me venomous spit, I asked the lord if yous was the devils daughter he told me ""son you need to repent."" When I ask you for some money to pay our rent you say look sucker I give up broke ass nigers for lent. Oh I am going to beat you women I’m going to bet you until you make sense, oh I am going to knock you to the floor and make ya holler "" tune my devils fork to 584"" The needle lifts like the sound of foot steps quieting behind you. It saw me but its voice is a life time away from its Adams apple. Somewhere something or some things are slowly turning east. Oh Jesus my heart beats collide with each other like a train suddenly with out a track. I don’t want to picture them picturing me. I don’t want to be seen. I hastily close the closet behind me I am now just my body and what ever is in this closet. There’s teddy unblinking soul magnate. No time to play I cant loose focus my mind can never again be a wedgie board for a hundred disenfranchised hands. I 888ed for two years. I escaped with every one else, into music, book, movie, TV, video game. I made a bunker to hide form the cosmic rage of daddy betting mom, daddy fucking mom, daddy molesting the little one. Daddy turning the radio up high, to drowned out the drowning of his victims, drowning himself, drowning his ancestors. Daddy is meditating on my door. He is a parasite in me. Kept clean by keeping clean. We are a parasite on him, don’t wake daddy. I have to make a Alice choose, the paint box or the shoe box. 1 or 5, above me in the closet the ties hanging like meat hooks the noose of work. The noose of all the good men who safely turned off the world, brought down the power plants that came with it. The world fell apart around them but they stood fast, bleeding out the nitrogen disabling the weapons. When we are cave men again we will not find a lobotomized Siva. He will not rub his nipples with two hands and wipe drool with another then scream "turn me on." We will owe them so much, I will open both containers and, make an alter to the soulless martyrs. Oh Buddha they filled your bowl when you where empting the world and, Christ they were the Frankenstein that made your body and, blood. The blood that held your memoir in the Toa . Not yet I am not ready made. I need to hold to the center, the now. I am being looked at not looking. The center is the first eye, it sees everything from behind. No mirror could expel or expose the center. The white cookie tin with the green paint strokes on top became a paint box’s 14 years ago. That paint box became a place to put letters 10 years ago. The internet caused the box to stay sealed for 6 years. The shoe box is more shame filled then a cum rag in a salvation army bucked. it’s the one I’ll open I shift from 2, to 3 to 5. Maggie’s red heels, where is my shameful talisman upholstered in the skin of bulls testacies, doom. where? I get dizzy think of all the wrong places. I have lost way more of me then I have found. How can I escape when I am not passable for myself. I am 3% me, the rest of me is made up of tar tentacles of mass media, mass hysteria, mass hungers, Possessions, pass life regurgitations and, dreams without scaffolding. I think I am more bounty the quicker picker upper then me. How can that change. There is nowhere to go but between the selfish hunter , and the selfless herd, a Ka voyeur. There are other chooses. Teddy offered some for a price. Teddy was a recording, the offer was probably not even meant for me. That’s the deepest truth its all not meant for us. We think we are a big part of something but we are not the host, the guest of honor, or the guest for that matter. We are not the reason, the result, the cause, or the conclusion. There is no system for us because we are not thought of. We made our own systems and now time is proving our creators, judges, and saviors are sock puppets. We are nonevents between the big bangs book ends filled with harlequin romantic novels written in disappearing ink. That’s to much conjecture and not my problem. I can’t find a shoe box let alone...ohh I fell, my arm. I’m laying on the wall. All the shit in the closed is on top of me. Jesus the house must be side ways. Is everyone side ways. I hear something and it is not with my ears. I got to be still, I am in the closet it is lead. Are those voices? The neighbors, oh god they don’t deserve this. I can’t hide. I should of always hidden; shit. Don’t go out there death will not save you from them. Maggie! That’s My Maggie. There are no hero’s they will teach you this forever. Fuck, no hum the powers out every were. What if its an earthquake and I am a new age nut case. What is that sucking noise. I most be still and listen. It is randomly growing louder and quieter nearer and farther. It’s not look for me. It’s a dry sucking that becomes wet. causing a one less hysterical mind to go away. Its must be big. Its not don’t give a fuck about us big, because its eating , kidnapping or killing, it gives a fuck. This means its not the kind of thing I fear the most. It is finite. It has to be looking for me. I was the one listening. I hear Maggie she’s crying for help. And that help means me I am the only other person under sixty in the neighborhood. I will use the paint box, you’re a badass. shit is scared of you. No I can’t move. I will stay right fucking here and get her to come here into my bunker.
Henry was shocked and angered at the comments that Dr Courier had made against Doc P. The way he asked " Maggie Harper was one of your….client Doctor?" First he knew that she was one of Dr P’s cases. Second why the fuck did he pause before client, like a cop would pause when asking a hooker "is this your...boyfriend." He wanted to knock down all the mutton chopped paintings of French faggots that collective work didn’t lead to anything more then the invention of the douche when compared to Dr P‘s achievements. Why did Académie Des Sciences call a front line general of the army of intelligentsia to their halls. Just to humiliate and then dishonorably discharge them. They treated him like a common witch. Henry had only been with Doc P for under 6 month but, "my God" he thought all the things he has seen in this short amount of time. Doc P was being tried for nothing short of malpractice against a house. A fucking house. We weren’t even there when it happen. Whatever it was. But Henry was there when they saw Magie... Henry filled with dread held his sit he forgot the house by throw a sheet over the bird cage. Why didn’t Doc P defend himself. He Didn’t even pretend to pay attention. In truth Doc P was not paying attention at all to what was for all intents and purposes a kangaroo court. He truly was not there. Dr P was to transfixed on a meeting he would attend with Dr Courier 6 years from now. Dr P Knew this was just a side effect of case 12 but, all the same it seemed more real then the room he was in. In the future Dr Courier looked worked up like Teddy Roosevelt on the stump. He was waving his hand like a wand over a red milk crate filled with papers, records, with a shoe box next to it. He said trembling like a chowowo thanks to the rash but brave sacrifice of Young Henry Davis, we have these letters found in the basement of what we know now as the source of the transition. Here in these yellow papers we have our only chance to find a translation, a cure, or at very least a reason. A copy of these scraps will be made available to every discipline we have at our disposal blah blah imperative.
Dr P saw through the crowd a bloated greasy grey women with lips that looked like two uncomfortable grubs. He felt her thoughts "the only reason I am here is the same reason that the tarot card lady, and the tea leaf guy is here I am one of a thousand hedges. Computers will dissected eat then rape every letter. comparing them with DNA, Morse, Caesar ciphers, anagrams, and stars. I am here because I have no where else to go no one has any where else to go. I’m luck I can go home poor some tea and read. No microscope, voodoo dolls, dosing stick, just read. They don’t know why they choose a room this white, I do. Yes it easy for anyone the white is control the white is pure the white says daddy my be down but daddy will save you, when the volcano goes off daddy will wrap you in his corpse. Daddy is dead there are just a bunch of frightened boys, a planet of piggy’s. Then she fixed on Dr P disembodied eyes. She screamed "their here their fucking here."
Dr P stood up bowed to his accusers grabbed Henry by the arm and pushed throw the fine Victorian doors. In the hall Henry made mean faces at paintings as he talked to Doc P. The first word Doc P listen to were the ones Henry spoke as soon as they entered the light of day. "Doc P they seriously think you believe diseases are intelligent?" Dr P picked a leaf from a tree they passed. "Is lounging Vishnu that dreaming of you intelligent? Child you can only know a disease mind by the bad parody it plays with our bodies including or brains. It’s language makes our teeth fallout, boils form, fever boil your brain, then loosens and blackens your organs that eventual slide out your anus. Diseases have been telling jokes for millions of years and our misery is their punch line." "Doc P I don’t know if I will ever be able to use these pathology metaphors you use to solve medical mysteries." Doc P straitened his glasses "yes metaphors." Dr. P wanted to tell Henry that that viruses also sang. Sirion or saints their song elures even the aware. That those songs was filled not just the opium slots in his brain but all the slot. Instead he would explained what he could about the case. About Maggie, about poor Simon.
Henry was shocked and angered at the comments that Dr Courier had made against Doc P. The way he asked " Maggie Harper was one of your….client Doctor?" First he knew that she was one of Dr P’s cases. Second why the fuck did he pause before client, like a cop would pause when asking a hooker "is this your...boyfriend." He wanted to knock down all the mutton chopped paintings of French faggots that collective work didn’t lead to anything more then the invention of the douche when compared to Dr P‘s achievements. Why did Académie Des Sciences call a front line general of the army of intelligentsia to their halls. Just to humiliate and then dishonorably discharge them. They treated him like a common witch. Henry had only been with Doc P for under 6 month but, "my God" he thought all the things he has seen in this short amount of time. Doc P was being tried for nothing short of malpractice against a house. A fucking house. We weren’t even there when it happen. Whatever it was. But Henry was there when they saw Magie... Henry filled with dread held his sit he forgot the house by throw a sheet over the bird cage. Why didn’t Doc P defend himself. He Didn’t even pretend to pay attention. In truth Doc P was not paying attention at all to what was for all intents and purposes a kangaroo court. He truly was not there. Dr P was to transfixed on a meeting he would attend with Dr Courier 6 years from now. Dr P Knew this was just a side effect of case 12 but, all the same it seemed more real then the room he was in. In the future Dr Courier looked worked up like Teddy Roosevelt on the stump. He was waving his hand like a wand over a red milk crate filled with papers, records, with a shoe box next to it. He said trembling like a chowowo thanks to the rash but brave sacrifice of Young Henry Davis, we have these letters found in the basement of what we know now as the source of the transition. Here in these yellow papers we have our only chance to find a translation, a cure, or at very least a reason. A copy of these scraps will be made available to every discipline we have at our disposal blah blah imperative.
Dr P saw through the crowd a bloated greasy grey women with lips that looked like two uncomfortable grubs. He felt her thoughts "the only reason I am here is the same reason that the tarot card lady, and the tea leaf guy is here I am one of a thousand hedges. Computers will dissected eat then rape every letter. comparing them with DNA, Morse, Caesar ciphers, anagrams, and stars. I am here because I have no where else to go no one has any where else to go. I’m luck I can go home poor some tea and read. No microscope, voodoo dolls, dosing stick, just read. They don’t know why they choose a room this white, I do. Yes it easy for anyone the white is control the white is pure the white says daddy my be down but daddy will save you, when the volcano goes off daddy will wrap you in his corpse. Daddy is dead there are just a bunch of frightened boys, a planet of piggy’s. Then she fixed on Dr P disembodied eyes. She screamed "their here their fucking here."
Dr P stood up bowed to his accusers grabbed Henry by the arm and pushed throw the fine Victorian doors. In the hall Henry made mean faces at paintings as he talked to Doc P. The first word Doc P listen to were the ones Henry spoke as soon as they entered the light of day. "Doc P they seriously think you believe diseases are intelligent?" Dr P picked a leaf from a tree they passed. "Is lounging Vishnu that dreaming of you intelligent? Child you can only know a disease mind by the bad parody it plays with our bodies including or brains. It’s language makes our teeth fallout, boils form, fever boil your brain, then loosens and blackens your organs that eventual slide out your anus. Diseases have been telling jokes for millions of years and our misery is their punch line." "Doc P I don’t know if I will ever be able to use these pathology metaphors you use to solve medical mysteries." Doc P straitened his glasses "yes metaphors." Dr. P wanted to tell Henry that that viruses also sang. Sirion or saints their song elures even the aware. That those songs was filled not just the opium slots in his brain but all the slot. Instead he would explained what he could about the case. About Maggie, about poor Simon.
4/17/09
Old Old House...Part 4
>
…It was dark.
It was extremely dark.
It suddenly dawned on me that I had been asleep, but as long as I was asleep, it should have been daylight by the time I awoke. Either this was not where I had slept, or there was another idea about daylight, I felt heat on my back, and in my mouth a dry thirst like I had never known before.
So I am left alone in the desert, parched.
But the four walls that once held me, now they start to recede.
I could not have known…
I was once in my little old old room, where I grew up
But this is not it. I awoke in a black and cold cell,
I could hardly move.
The darkness more dark than a boarded up theatre, darker than the receded eyes of Mu.
I listened for a moment. Nothing but the scarce shuffle of insect legs, gnawing of rats in the walls.
I panicked. Only for a moment.
Then I realized where I was. I was there.
I was in 1608. The old old house.
I felt suddenly warm, warmed like I was,
Like I was home.
Home for the first time since going home…how is that? Why?
I felt safe enough to venture out of the door.
Without a sound I went down the dark hallway. I knew this place once , once.
That door. In the corner of the kitchen. It goes downstairs into the basement. I can swear that the frame the door frame is breathing, at least expanding. I swore I saw the door
Going in and out.
Like the invisible hand that exists where it does not really exist, I was shoved toward the door.
And down a ricketed splintered Jacobs ladder
That led down into the blackest depths
That’s the basement.
The killing floor
They are swarming. Can you hear something swarming?
This is it.
A single chair on that floor sits facing the wall.
I suppose I should sit.
You can hear that swarming cant you?
In the corner. Oily rags or a cast off tarps
It stirs. And something is rising. It is a familiar frame.
Arms, neck, trunk. Its rising. But like frames were dropped out.
Where there should be a face there is caved in, a pumpkin left on the porch a week past Halloween.
And did it try to cry out?
I did not want to hear it.
It did try to cry out.
And at me it was moving toward, I must have done something.
I did that to it.
Stems. Arms. There were ropes familiar like in my dreams. No bricks, they were rotten.
The stairs could never hold me.
The door shut itself, the breathing the only breathing that was by the door has ceased.
Shut.
I am alone with it.
And it moves toward me.
I will not turn around.
I feel the rancid exhaust that was breathing against me.
I am colden.
I am
Overcome.
I did it.
I did it.
I did it.
Please make
Her let go.
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