pre-rain shower, post-rapture

22 May 2011 § Leave a comment

Sometimes it takes a bit of fun to realize that it takes dedicated work to survive in this world and prosper. We make real the events we participate in, simply by existing and choosing to say something, by directing our energy into a community, however small, that we invent out of interactions and mutual understanding, instead of saying nothing, and letting the moment die, as would an untouched child.

And it’s funny that we find strange connections between us and the nouns we hate. As if the universe is saying hey, now that you’re gone, I just wanted to say that this place isn’t so bad. There are good people there with good energy. You just couldn’t find them.

I’m always writing the things in between what I think I should be writing. When am I going to sit down and write something I can legitimately say I’m proud of? Or rather, something that I’ve put some thought into, some wonder, some organization – work, if you will. There’s always an excuse to not. I don’t have enough stories, or enough plot. Enough time. Focus. And what the hell would I write about?

So I’ll stick with my ramblings here, which sometimes take the form of fictional accounts of real life, or dreams, occasionally a true story with poetic exaggerations (which have exclusively noble intentions) and line here and there about what I think of the business that surrounds me. All in good time, you’ll have the real story. I’ll disappear, and someone will be sharp enough to fit the puzzle together, to find whatever’s missing. Man, I would love that. Just like in the movies. Detective noir extraordinaire. Dick Tracy. He was too good for his own good.

We need a little turbulence to shake us up when we’re content, something to make us wonder why we’re still doing this. And you’ll have your answer on the day you stand on top of the desk instead of hide under it. You can’t see anything from under there – get out. You don’t deserve blindness. Some of us don’t deserve sight.

Tell that to the kid whose deficient eyes will keep him from flying jets. That’s going to cause a mess. Get out the gauze and tourniquet. Watch his silence screaming louder than his words do. They’re in the air, across the desert, in the dry, heaving wind which carries plastic bags in such grace that the sound waves do not bother them. Such was his fate.

No, no it wasn’t. Forget that garbage. What does that garble even mean? I’m just here to tell a story. Like the time we met in Iceland. I was reading the Tommyknockers and it was starting to get creepy, and there you were in front of me, and said something about the book, that you’d read it or not finished it, and I told the truth and said that was the first time I’d read it.

And there you were again. And again.

The more time that passes, the less I remember about those conversations. Perhaps because we have communicated so many ideas since then, we have speculated so heavily on the context of happy monkeys in the worlds of philosophy and literature that I take what I learned from you as inherent knowledge, and put it away, to be used when necessary and cited as needed.

I read lava rocks in London and it didn’t hit me until after I left, when I rode that bus through the English countryside feeling like I was going to visit the set of Wuthering Heights, that I’d become the change I wanted to see in the world.

Heavy, right? But that’s all I wanted – just to know someone is capable of understanding. I didn’t need you to understand, per se, but that you might anyway thrilled me.

And here we are, post-rapture, and who is left? All of us. Doesn’t that say something profound? It’s certainly not proof that God doesn’t exist (though it might imply the fanaticism of one 89-year-old California man who tightens the bible belt of America when he gets up in the morning and spouts off the latest evangelical, modern-day hellfire sermons from the 17th century mixed in with a modern twist of being vague and never quite to-the-point), but he could well just be ignoring us. Like, do they really think I want anything to do with them after the Yankees lost the World Series like that? I’ve got other worlds to lord over, and they appreciate me with gifts of chocolate instead of shame.

See, God’s just a regular guy with a regular job: to regulate and direct all of the energy in the known universe into tangible forms of the things we want to be familiar with. Nothing else.

Anyway, on TV, it seems like they go on and on, reading various scriptures and trying to earn another AMEN from the crowd. The picture is always bad, and there’s always a woman in the congregation crying. I mean, bawling. But getting their attention isn’t so hard. All he has to do is say JESUS or LORD or some other word to which they are debilitatingly subservient like SIN or FEAR and he’s sure to get some sort of emotional reaction from his flock of willing sheep standing in the pews of a multi-million dollar church complex they are slowing paying the church back for, like a weekly mortgage with variable interest. Just in case Aunt Suzie’s not feeling well this Sunday. It’s okay, she’ll make good next week. Because if she doesn’t, we’ll break her legs, make her say four thousand Hail Marys, and turn her crucifix upside down. Who’s to stop the church from this asexual nonsense? Isn’t that what they do?

I’m sorry, I’m getting a little off track here. This old Slipknot album still plays – I’m surprised. Heeth took horrid care of his CDs, and for that reason had two copies of most of those he owned. I talked him into this after he asked me to steal a second copy of Mer de Noms for him from Fred Meyer. He knew he’d fuck up the first one, but what had I become? Thief for hire? But I couldn’t charge more than the disc cost, for he might as well buy it. But fourteen dollars was not nearly enough to cover insurance for getting caught by the over-doughnutted police academy failure that flashed his badge out front when you had something in your pocket you didn’t pay for.

Usually we ran. Always into oncoming traffic. He wouldn’t follow a couple of kids running into the nose of a Mack truck because he thought he was smarter than them. But the driver of the truck was my uncle, and we had planned the whole thing. We got away every time. His office smelled like Old Spice, and no one wanted to go in there a second time.

we learned to not get caught.


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