Category Archives: rhetoric

Hughman Flaws

At times, I feel like a convict. It is difficult for to participate in the daily push and grind like I used to. Well, back then when I was younger, with a better metabolism and boundless curiosity, I felt I had my future in front of me. Of course there is no exception that I was to have taken those years for granted, as is the charge for most people. Now that I’m older, the word cholesterol incorporated into my universe, and most of my questions answered -I have to live. Life now feels like a sentence I must serve from a fraudulent conviction.

I’m not angry nor am I depressed. I wish I were sometimes because of the fun pills they give you. But like most citizens of my country, I don’t have health insurance. There’s always the odd Mary Jane facility scattered around Los Angeles, but Mary Jane was never good to me. It was never an enjoyable experience when we were together, so I split. Then there’s the street pharmacist that’s got the upper hands. They’re dealings are more frowned upon because movies made them out to be villains almost all the time. Funny thing is most of the actors in those movies usually had the upper hand. Until the 1920’s that stuff was more like cognac and caviar.

I know what it is. It’s the masses that bother me. They really stress my sentence more than necessary. These days everyone’s goal is to get a degree, doesn’t matter which, to convey that they can take orders and think inside their specific box of expertise -just so they can enlist in the army of managers, as Huxley once quipped. The taste of power is begets an even worse addiction than any pharmaceutical debaucheries. They steal the best years of everyone’s lives, and that’s somehow okay. Okay. They call it capitalism or something and say it’s a right. Or was it a privilege, I forget.

I really don’t mind, though. A life is only worth something if it is lived for someone else. To the enslaved workforce they’re worth something to the managers, but to the slave they’re worth something for their wives, or husbands, or kin. Just for the right to live. I don’t think it has to be that way, but I didn’t enlist anywhere, so my words have no clout. So they say, at least. I don’t mind because I don’t really have someone to live for. Not even some thing, like a cause or whatever. It wasn’t a choice for me. Then again, it really isn’t a choice for most. Until I find someone, or some thing, I will live with decadence until death because it truly is the only way to respect one’s own livelihood. Who knows, maybe decadence was the intention for humanity all along.

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Shake me, Skyscraper

before I start. I don’t usually have dreams. In fact I haven’t had a dream in a long time. Years. I suppose it’s safe to state I don’t have dreams. Sounds a bit grim, but it is what it is. Lately, I’ve been able to have these lucid dreams.  The interesting thing about that is… I’ve never had lucid dreams before. They’re the dreams where you can control your own body instead of watching it unfold like a movie. I was surprised when I’d learnt there was even an option like lucid dreams. All of my previous dreams felt like a rip-off only I knew I couldn’t get a refund. But alas, dreams are just dreams. I knew of a guy who had a dream once. He was killed because of it. So I guess that inducts dreams into having a hand in reality. Go figure.

So in my dream, I’m a homeless man. A bum. The sort that traveled from place to place. A real bum is a traveler, but a bum is a homeless person that still hangs onto the hope of a home so he sets up a cardboard makeshift shack of some sort with most of the features of a home, and is strangely territorial about it. A tourist in his own life. A traveler is not a tourist. I digress.

I found myself in a metropolis of sorts. It’s night. It looked and felt like LA. It probably was. Light to mild traffic, so I’d say about 10-ish. There’s very little foot-traffic so it must be a feared area. You know those areas a seemingly normal person is afraid of walking trough? Homeless persons and bums congregate these areas. You can identify them if there’s a bus stop or a bench you feel you shouldn’t touch with your bare skin or nice clothes. I was about to go to sleep on one of these said benches. I know, I know -who dreams that they’re about to go to sleep? This guy. It was a nice cool night, I’d been walking a long distance and there was an empty bench. I figured I could catch a wink or two before a cop car rolled up, shine a flashlight on me to see who I was, then tell me I couldn’t sleep there and to go home. People do exist who are terrible judges. Most are. So I closed my eyes.

Not more than a moment later, the sound of clicking boot-heels come tick-tockin’ up the sidewalk. ‘Here we go,’ I thought. I sit up. I had the bum uniform fully on; the dirty white sneakers and cologne of hard knocks, if the copper was mildly perceptive it should be a quick shooing. I direct my eyes straight ahead refusing to acknowledge the officer with them. It’s not that I’m a disrespectful person by nature, but let’s face it; he was gonna kick me off a street because I already looked guilty. I smelled guilty. The heels stopped. He said nothing. A power play. A tough guy. It never matters.

To cut the shit I decided to turn towards this tough guy. This tough guy turned out to be a girl. That was a strange development. She looked to be about my age. Minus her dark, thick eyebrows she had an attractive face. She was almost as tall as I was, and almost as gangly. She looked healthier. Probably was, compared to my state. She was probably teased when she was grade school. She looked nervous. But that could also have been due to the fact I was a smelly hobo which made me wonder what she wanted from me. So I asked her,

‘What do you want?’

‘Sorry to bother you, but can you tell me how to get to Union Station?’

‘I’m not bothered, I wasn’t doing much anyway. You have two options. One, you walk straight down this street for 9 or 10 blocks then cut a right about 2 or 3 more blocks.’

‘Wow, that’s a long walk.’ She said un-enthused.

‘Which brings us to option two. Take the Civic Station Metro on 1st and Hill to Union Station.’

‘Okay, where’s 1st and Hill?’

You see this corner we’re both on here?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well, it’s on the opposite corner of this block, but two blocks that way.’

‘I’m sorry. What?’

‘Umm… let me think. Okay, got it. Go two blocks that way, and go one block to the left. There should be a bunch of Mexicans gathered around the entrance. They’re nice, don’t worry. They’re all getting off of work and just waiting for the buses.’

‘Okay…’

‘Hope that helps.’

‘It does. You almost lost me with the whole opposite corner of the block, two blocks over thing.’

‘Yeah… I don’t know why I said it like that. I may have been out trying to impress you. Subconsciously, I mean.’ I admitted. She gave a courtesy laugh.

‘Well, thank you.’

‘Anytime you can find me.’

She started a few steps toward 1st and Hill and then stopped. I’m a sucker for legs and will say I could watch her walk forever. Then she started towards me again and almost caught me looking, but my quick thinking shot my eyes forward again before she noticed.

‘Excuse me, sorry to bother you again.’

‘Still un-bothered and still not doing much.’

‘Well, I was wondering if you could use a few bucks.’ she said nervously. It’s a sight people don’t see often on the streets. Someone nervously offering a few bucks to a bum. In bills.

‘Sure I could. I could use some soap.’ I said. She laughed again but stopped herself and started digging into her pockets. They never can tell when I was cracking a joke. I don’t believe elephants belong in a room.

‘I meant, for like, food or other stuff.’

‘I was joking. Well, I was serious, but it’s a joke too, see?’

‘A serious joke, really?’ she mused.

‘Oh I take nothing more serious than joking. And what do you mean, other stuff?’

She ummed in search of the least narrow-minded answer.

‘What? Like booze and drugs?’

‘Well… if that’s the kind of stuff you’re into…’ she conceded forgetting my oath to oracular humor.

‘I’m joking again,’ I relieved, ‘I was actually serious about the soap. I don’t know if you can tell, but I’m incredibly filthy.’

‘And pungent.’

‘And pungent.’ we both laughed.

What sort of dream consists of a bum talking to a tall girl? This one. Don’t make that face, this was only the beginning. Sometimes a good conversation is an adventure in and of itself. If you don’t know what I’m talking about then you haven’t had a good conversation. Think on the times you spoke with your loved ones. Now subtract the arguments and the trivial trifles and you’ve got a good conversation. Full of laughter and chuckles because of an absence of ego. An ego lacking of both sides with nothing to gain but the connection to another person. Another mind. Honest. Honest because I knew I was a bum, and she wasn’t. It’s sad what the segregation of classes can do. Can still do. This is the world we’re forced to live in. Well, in the USA, at least.

It turned out she was on her way to North Hollywood to stay with some friends. She found herself closer to friends than she did parents. Her parents made her uneasy. She disagreed with them on different aspects of life. We all do. It’s like there’s a shield that divides better ways of thinking from the old presumably proven ways which time still has yet to prove i.e. separation of class. Old money vs. all else, that kind of thing. Then again, what do I know? I was just a bum who couldn’t even dream. She and her friends just wanted to have fun and enjoy themselves. They were mostly jobless, but jobless because the job market is a tough place to enjoy yourself in. Those with the jobs were actually the ones who were more miserable. They were mindless jobs that paid like a warm hungover turd. Satisfying, yet still shit. But they bought the drinks anyway because there was nothing else they could do. She had dropped out of school because she couldn’t afford it. Instead of asking for gas and food money like she did when she was 15, she asked for bus fare and beer money at 25. Omitting the beer part because hardworking voters feel directionless youth don’t deserve to drown worries they have no right to have. Of course, I’m not an expert. I never read any government studies or anything. Again, I’m just a bum in the dream. Before I knew it, I was walking with her to the train station. I made up something about making sure she got there in one piece. Which isn’t fully a lie because it isn’t safe in any city for a woman to be walking the street alone. Not all homeless people are as easygoing as me. Some still have wants and desires.

I stopped her from purchasing a train ticket to get on the train because I knew the patrols change at night. The coppers won’t be at the stops checking tickets at night because there are more crazy people at night. The crazy people seem to target cops or other uniformed authorities over ordinary people. If the option was there. We walked straight through toward the platform. There weren’t any cops as I’d predicted. And there weren’t crazy people either. Now this is the part of my dream that became a weird dream. In my lucid dreams I could control my entire body, but I don’t realize it’s a dream. I hear you’re supposed to know it was a dream, but everything seemed normal to me. That’s why I said it was probably LA. It was a bit more scifi-y.

Union Station wasn’t like Union Station where the platforms were off to either side down this long wide hall. This Union Station towered towards the heavens. There were about 3 or 4 platforms on each level up the cylindrical tower. I wasn’t sure because I didn’t count. I didn’t count because it seemed normal to me. She and I were going to the 11th floor, platform 3. Orange line, I think… Or was it platform 4’s blue line? It doesn’t matter.

We decided to take the stairs because the elevators had lines. But we’d gotten into one of them, they’d seem to elevate over the city from the outside of the building because the lifts have only a pane of glass separating you from being in the view. It was gorgeous at night as I’m sure it would have been on a sunny day as well. We still got to see the view going up the stairs. But we got to feel the wind too, which I thought was better. I also think we both secretly enjoyed each other’s company and the best way to optimize the short amount of we had was to hike a flight of stairs.

It seemed hard to believe at the time that this woman would hike 11 flights of stairs with me, a bum. I’m not going to use the excuse of this being just a dream, because of my aforementioned friend who was martyred for his. But I believe that there are some people out there that are genuinely appreciative of another person with a good heart because a good heart is only the mask to an even greater soul. What moron doesn’t want to be in the company of someone of that caliber even just for a moment. Knowing both our situations I can safely say we believed we would never see each other again. The only thing that seemed unrealistic were the floating trains full of potentially great people I hadn’t met yet that flew to and fro in all directions of this tower that was Union Station. Unrealistic, so far, at least.

‘What made you homeless?’ she asked.

‘You say it like I was forced into it by something else.’

‘It was by choice?’

‘I was forced into it.’ I mused.

‘What was it? If you don’t mind me asking.’

‘I don’t mind. It’s because of people like you.’

‘What do you mean?’ she sounded shocked.

‘Not in the way that context sounded. A better way to say it would be, “for people like you.” I gave up everything I had because they drove me to push on in life.’

‘You don’t mean you’re just waiting around to die, are you?’

‘Nope, not at all.’

‘Then, what do you mean?’

‘You’ll think I’m crazy if I told you.’

‘I told you about the crazy shit in my life.’

‘True, but some of my closest friends even thought I was insane, and I don’t even know you.’

‘You care what they think?’

‘At first I did, they were my friends. But now, not so much.’

‘Then what makes you think you’ll care what I think?’

‘Hmm… touche, young lady. I won’t and don’t.’

‘So… tell me.’

After some thought, I conceded, ‘Alright. I didn’t want to push on in a life that I didn’t agree to living. I don’t mean to say that I wish I was never born. Quite the opposite, actually. I’m glad I was born. I didn’t see why some people seem to have authority over other people. We’re all so dependent on these people to govern our lives.’

‘Everybody has to work.’

‘Everybody does have to work. But nobody has the right to work everybody over.’

‘So your homelessness is a form of anarchy?’

‘Nothing so idealistic as that. I don’t think at least, I mean I never liked punk bands. Or anything.’

‘Punk music isn’t the same as punk sounds.’

‘Touche again. Jonathan Richman was the Godfather of punk. I love that guy.’

‘I love Jonathan Richman!’

‘No way.’ I stated skeptically.

‘Roadrunner.’

‘Everyone’s heard Roadrunner.’

‘The soundtrack to There’s Something About Mary. The Berserkley Years. And I love Jonathan Goes Country, which was pretty dark despite sounding to uppity. Filled with heroin references like most of his songs.’

‘Holy shit, you’re really a Richman fan.’

‘Of course. I can tell what good music is on my own, thank you. Half the Modern Lovers that started with Jonathan split and joined The Cars. The other half joined… what was it…’

‘…Talking Heads!’

‘Yeah!’

I’d always hated talking to people about music because whenever I’d tried to I would find myself stuck listening to someone tell me about what the members of the band did instead of the music itself. Those conversations just made it apparent that they wasted time finding out what the lyrics meant to the person that wrote it instead of finding out what a song means to the listener personally. A real artists creates for others rather than themselves. Good songs are fundamentally the same, because it’s the same message throughout history. What that message is, is for each person to discover on their own because no one’d believe it if you told them. Once you get it, you get the poetry, which we’ve all lost somewhere down the line. There are people who listen to music, there are people that write and or play music, and then there are people who believe in music. Now I had no idea whether or not this woman felt that way I did about music, but there she was proclaiming her enjoyment of one of my favorite creators no one has heard of. Get back to the dream! Alright, alright, sheesh.

‘See? You’re a little punk. An unorthodox punk.’ she established

‘Shit does happens that way, I guess.’

‘haha, it really does.’

‘Alright, so now that we’ve established I don’t want to firebomb society, I just saw a more simpler way of dealing with it.’

‘Becoming a bum.’

‘No. Well, yes. Passivity. Instead of arguing with the people in charge about our rights, I figured it was easier to just ignore them.’

‘You think the government would go away if you ignored them?’

‘Me? Not really. But if we all just stopped working for one day, they’d be hit very hard. They need the people in order to have authority. If we all just turned our heads and said fuck this instead of fuck you, they’d crawl right back to us.’

‘People shouldn’t fear the government, the government should fear the people.’

‘Yeah, that thing. Philosophy was the people’s plan B since the beginning. But some of us are too hotheaded to see it.’

‘I see your point. You’re saying if we all just stopped giving a fuck, we’d stop getting fucked.’

‘Not immediately, but that’ll at least force them to finally listen to the hotheaded ones. They’ll naturally take charge because they’re too pissed to not do anything.’

‘Saving the Economy, by anonymous bum of America.’ she joked.

‘Pretty much, but i’m not assertive. I don’t handle resistance very well.’

‘Haha, that’s so like you intellectuals. Always thinking but never having the balls to do anything.’

‘If you see it that way. But I had the balls to give everything up to become a bum and to cease condoning the grip they’d had on us since birth. You yourself can’t afford school, yet I can tell you’re not an idiot. I’m not too foolish but I can’t exactly land a job, along with your other friends. Your friends who hate their jobs, want to kill themselves until they get off of work. And your friends that are happy with a job, well they’re emotional states go up and down just as quickly as these elevators, ready to snap at any moment like a paperclip. I’m not doing anything about it? I shit the system out of my life which is the best thing any of us can do. The best part is, I step over no one to do it.’

That struck her silent.

‘You can say so if you think I’m a crazy homeless man. You were warned.’

‘Well… I’ve never spoken to another homeless man before. So… I don’t know where they stand.’

‘Me neither… some smell worse than I do.’

‘Yeah, you do smell pretty bad.’

‘Yeah, pungent, was the word I believe.’

‘But, there’s a lot of sense in your what your saying, but I don’t know if it’s because I’m tired of these fucking stairs.’

‘I was hoping you’d say something about that, I’m completely beat.’

‘My thighs are on fire. How many floors did we make it up?’

‘Um… 5, I think.’

‘Really? That’s it? Fuck.’

‘You want to take a break?’

‘If you don’t mind.’

‘Mind? Of course I don’t mind. I’d have been sleeping by now. I didn’t even have to come here.’ I joked while over-exaggerating my hyperventilation. We both sat on the steps.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude but could you sit a little farther away?’

‘Oh yeah, of course. That was inconsiderate of me.’ I moved two steps up.

We sat there breathing and rubbing our own thighs. She offered me a cigarette but apparently, I wasn’t a smoker in my dream. And I also wasn’t any tougher of a person in my dreams because she and I heard footsteps coming up the stairs from one of the platforms below us, and I got scared. We looked at each other as the footsteps neared, and I gave her a look that reminded her that I wasn’t a crazy PCP-smoking hobo. Then the shoes came around the corner and planted in those shoes were the feet of another homeless man. He was black and older, and… mangy was the best way to describe him.

‘Hi!’ I said surprisingly afraid.

‘Well, hello there,’ said the black homeless man, ‘and to you, young lady.’

‘Hello.’

‘Lemme axe you a question.’

‘Uh, okay.’ she said.

‘Would you like to buy some tape? Each roll you buy comes with a tape gun.’

‘Oh, no thank you.’

‘Now hold on a minute, you ain’t seen my tape yet. It’s good tape.’

‘That’s alright, I’m not really um, in need of any tape right now.’

‘You’ll change your mind when you see the tape, just give it a chance.’

‘Alright. Let me see your tape, I guess.’

‘There we go!’ the black homeless man pulled out a ratty used cardboard box full of tape guns from behind his back. ‘There’s two rows, twelve tape guns total, you can even have the box.’

‘Those are nice tape guns but I don’t really need them.’

‘What? Which one you don’t need?’

‘Well, sir, I don’t need all or any of them.’

‘Come on, I’ll tell you what, I will give you all twelve for the price of one.’

‘I really don’t need tape right now.’

‘How do you know you won’t need tape later? Now this is a really good deal, young lady.’ he look to me, ‘tell her how good a deal twelve for one is.’

‘Uh… well statistically, that is a good deal.’ I stated. She then shot a look at me. The one with the eye.

‘Alright, how much for one?’

‘Ten dollars.’

‘Are you kid… I’m not paying you ten dollars for twelve tape guns I don’t need now! Or later! Probably.’

‘Now hold on, that’s just for the one tape. but if you buy that one, I’ll give you the gun that it comes with, along with the other 11 tapes, with the guns for those. For free. That’s a good deal right there, see, I’m the one that’s lost money,’ he looked at me again, ‘tell her I lose profit.’

‘Uhhh… well technically…’

”Shut up! Alright, I’ll take it, but I’m only giving you 2 dollars.’ she yelled.

‘Are you playing me?’

she glared at him. ‘2 dollars.’

‘Make it 5 at least.’

‘If i give you 5, will you stop talking and just leave us alone?’

‘Sure!’

They made the transaction. Then the black homeless man insisted he wrap it for her. She was too haggled for more debate so she gestured for him to do so speedily. He took a tape gun, with the roll of tape attached, and began taping the entire box shut. She gave it one look and shrugged her shoulder as though this couldn’t be happening. But I was watching. The guy looked like he was enjoying it too. Then he gave her the box and purported the resistance the box now had of the rain and other doings o’ nature. Then he left. She then glared at me, the other homeless man. I tried to look in any other direction than in the direction of her eyes.

‘Look at me.’

‘No.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you’re armed with twelve fully loaded tape guns.’

We found ourselves bursting with laughter a moment later. We started upward again leaving behind a pair of tape trails spiraling up the stairs.

‘Do you believe in God?’ I asked.

‘In a way. I believe in our intellect to decide whether or not we want to believe in things.’

‘Well, I mean like Jesus Christ and his old man and things like that.’

‘You mean whether I’m a Christian or whatever?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Then no.’ she stated

‘But you believe in him in another way?’

‘I don’t believe in their idea of hell and Satan or anything like that.’

‘You don’t believe in the eternal abyss of despair of Dante’s Inferno?’

‘Ha, no. Dante wrote that because he was imprisoned for not believing it. So he wrote the book personifying the 9 circles of hell that was the church. That was his revenge, and his skill comes from mocking his captors right under their noses. But I don’t think he ever intended for the church to begin using the 9 circles to scare people into converting. So he sort of screwed it up for the world too. But I like Jesus, he seems like a really nice guy.’

‘Hold on, is that stuff true?’

‘Of course it is. I like history, and I always do my own research now that I can’t afford schooling. I think it’s always why he named it the Divine Comedy. He never did anything wrong but have his own beliefs.

‘Wow, I never thought of it that way before. You know, I’ve always thought that. But with the bible. I think they took it seriously like the bible was a non-fiction book.’

‘That’s exactly what they did with it.’ she confirmed. ‘I hope I didn’t convert you into the dark lord’s army.’

‘Oh no. I don’t believe in the dark lord. If anything, I feel for the guy. It seemed like he was punished for having his own beliefs too. He never had horns or red skin and goat legs or anything. He was a regular dude with wings who thought for himself. Everyone called him crazy.’

‘Everyone calls you crazy! You’re the devil!’

‘Yeah, right. I’m the homeless devil that supports non-violent anarchy and reads Thoreau.’

‘Haha. Well it’s hard to believe when we find out the Romans just rewrote the Greek pantheon.’

‘Find out?’

‘My own research again.’

‘Touche, I do my own research too. Call me crazy, but does Prometheus sound a bit like Satan to you?’

‘I’ve always thought that too! Call me crazy!’ she exclaimed with genuine excitement.

‘Hey crazy, I need a need another gun, this one’s out.’ she tossed me a new gun.

‘Do you believe in God?’

‘I guess you could say that, but plural.’

‘Ooooh, a polytheist?’

‘Stop that. Nothing like that.’

‘You believe in many gods, right? Like the eastern religions.’

‘Well, sort of. I don’t think the stories are meant to be taken literally is all.’

‘So what do your Gods do?’

‘Umm… some of them sleep I guess. Until they wake up.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well people like Ghandi for example.’

‘You think Ghandi is a God?’

‘Stop using the word God! It’s really a silly word to use.’

‘What would you rather?’

‘I don’t know, a Lover. not in a sexual way, but a lover and believer in mankind. Like Ghandi and whoever else that was really for the people.’

‘Alright, alright, you call your Gods, Lovers, is what you’re saying.’

‘Okay, now you’re twisting my words and making me sound like a weirdo.’

‘You already are a weirdo! and those were your words.’

‘Okay, fine. FINE. People like Ghandi and Jesus and Martin Luther King Jr and Nikola Tesla, loved mankind people. I think every century, people like these come along and get snuffed out by some jackass. But it’s not that they loved mankind and said a few words, but they believed in mankind to the point where their deaths were seen as martyrdom. In the olden days, they would saint their asses or deify them almost immediately. We’ve sort of done that to them to, but we cut out the sainting shit a while ago. But they were still great human beings. I can’t rally people like they can cause I like a good rum and coke now and then, but I live their words everyday. Before the saints became saints themselves, they were the Greek gods. They didn’t have superpowers or anything, they were just regular dudes and ladies like you and me but they weren’t afraid of doing great things that another person would be afraid of. I don’t know, but it just seems infinitely more logical than what the cloth has done in the last 500 years.’

‘Oh that’s those New Age weirdo things isn’t it?’

‘In a way, yes. But I’ve never met one that didn’t sound pompous or didn’t channel some dude from the bible. Maybe they can, I don’t know. I’ve done some weird shit too I guess.’

‘Like what?’

‘Oh, come on.’

‘Tell me!’

‘No way, I’m already sounding like I’ll drink the kool-aid.’

‘So you guys DO drink the kool-aid!’

‘What? No! we don’t even meet. I’ve just read some of the shit they post on forums. What am I saying, They’re not assholes or anything, they’re actually very kind people. It’s just to an awakened person, that’s what they call it when you’ve seen the light or whatever, it’s easy to spot out which are still sleeping and which aren’t. And people have been waking up in droves these last few decades.’

‘Are you awake?’ she asked

‘I’d rather not say.’

‘Oh why not?’

‘Because I know there’s nothing to be sure about with things like religion. I just want to be the most neutral guy ever.’

‘Haha, can you channel Jesus or Noah or Apollo?’

‘This isn’t funny.’

‘Liar!’ she shouted. Some of her saliva hit my eyeball, ‘oh my god, gods! I didn’t mean to spit in your eye!’

‘Haha, it’s alright. You’re right though. It is kinda funny. I don’t know if I’ve channeled those guys.’

‘Whoa, hold on. What do you mean, those guys.?

‘…Nothing.’

‘Oh no you don’t! Tell me! Are you awake?!’

‘Calm down! Sheesh! I am, I am. Why else would I go full throttle and bum it on the streets talking about love? I’m not crazy you know.’

‘Um… I plead the fifth right now about what you just said.’ she joked.

‘Okay, okay.’

‘…So?’

‘So, what?’

‘Who can you summon up with your little seances?’

‘You’re really enjoying this aren’t you?’

‘Would it really matter?’

‘If you’re happy, I’m happy.’

‘Then tell me, you filthy lovebum.’

‘Haha! Lovebum! That’s funny. Alright. He or she goes by the name G.’

‘What? G? Just G?’

”Just G’

‘Okay… and what does G say to you?’

‘Um… what I need to hear I guess. G’s sort of like my personal… er… whatever G is.’

‘Is it a voice inside your head? Like Joan of Arc?’

‘Not really, it’s strange. I sort of have to piece the messages together from artistic things people create and random things. Like, they trigger an old memory I had of something else that the symbol  reminded me of. From then on it’s like word jumble. When I figure out the correct message, I get this little vibrating feeling inside me.’

‘I’m sorry, G puts a vibrator inside you when you get it right?’

‘Fuck you! You know what! I’m done talking about it!’

‘I’m kidding! So touchy! Why you mad?’

‘I huffed a moment, but laughed anyway. ‘You’re right on that burn though, I so set that one up for you!’

‘Haha, yeah you did!’

‘Okay so this vibration feeling, don’t laugh…’

‘…promise’

‘…feeling let’s me know the answer is right.’

‘What if the vibrator…VIBRATION… is like a wrong buzzer going off inside you.’

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath before I answered, ‘because I know in my heart it’s right. I’m not sure what it is exactly, they say our spirit guides are a higher form of our consciousness or another you from another dimension or some shit like that, but I do know for certain that G and I are tied together very strongly here and now. I never feel lonely anymore. G’s my best friend, is funny, and is much, much smarter than I am. G’s always with me, even though I have no idea who G is. G even watches me poop.’

By now we had been standing at the 11th floor platform waiting for the no. 3 shuttle, the one she needed to take after all. The tower was 33 stories high and didn’t feel like regular stories at all. Over the ledge we could see that we were far higher up than we would in a normal 11th floor.

She looked at me without a word, only smiling. She was probably dumbstruck by the insanity I’d just spewed out of my mouth. She spewed back,

‘Have you ever seen Vanilla Sky?’

‘Are you kidding? That’s my favorite movie.’

‘Me too,’ she said not surprised, ‘it’s not like, the greatest movie in the world, but something catches me about it.’

‘Like it resonates with you.’

‘Yeah. I mean, I’ve always wondered if we’re not all David Aames in the movie. Just waiting to wake up. And you come along and tell me you’re awake and have a sidekick named G.’

‘Well I never said I was awake awake because I’m still not sure. It sounds crazy but it makes sense to me. There’s this thing called the Dark Night of the Soul. It’s like a test your guide gives you. G gave me this test. And it’s every bit if not more grim than it sounds.’

‘And what happens with this, Dark Night of the Soul?

‘I’m not sure if it was the same for everyone because we don’t talk about it to each other, but you’re basically tested to see whether you’re willing to live your life for the good of the world, the universe rather than continue living your life for yourself.’

‘How did G test you?’

‘Let’s just say I passed.’

‘No, no you can’t drop a bomb like that on me and expect not to get some of the radiation! You have to tell me.’

‘Argh…. how about I say, G tested me on whether or not I would die for the world, the universe. I think people who fail this test go nuts.’

‘Whoooa, Some real Gethsemene stuff, huh?’

‘Yeah, I guess so.’

‘How do you know you passed?’

‘I… uh… was reassured?’

‘HOW?’

‘Stars were doing weird stuff that night, and believe me, I know. I felt a strange surge through my body, a sense of relief like a load was lifted, and I felt the spirits cheering, like I’d graduated college or something, I dunno. I was by myself of course.’

‘And this is why your friends think you’re crazy.’ she stated as a matter of fact-ly.

‘…Maybe.’

‘What if G’s an evil spirit that came here to fuck with you, and you’re just cursed? I mean, you do smell like a dumpster and sleep on benches. AND I caught you looking at my ass when I came back to offer you money.’

‘Whoa! I was looking at your legs!’

‘Liar!’

‘I haven’t lied to you all night!’

‘I’m wearing jeans!’

‘They’re shapely!’

We both started laughing.

‘As for G,’ I continued, ‘G doesn’t ask me to do anything that hurts or induces fear upon anyone else. G’s always been there to keep me calm and confident. G back’s me up when real people turn their backs. I trust G. I trust G with my life and I can honestly say, I’ve never been happier. Can you imagine a world where no one scared you with bullshit or hurt you for some irrational reason? Everyone’d work because we all have to work. But we work together. We’d have no need for money. We already had all the power we needed in the world. There’d be no ego because we’d stop giving a shit about transitory things like cars, shoes, and apple products. G helped me murder my ego that night. It was the greatest feeling I’ve ever had.’

She’d walked around the platform because the shuttle hadn’t arrived yet. I followed her and noticed she was walking toward a candlelight vigil. They set those up when someone unjustly dies, and usually for a stupid reason. She stood over a 4×6 framed photo of a young girl. As I walked closer a few tears had fallen onto the frame obscuring the face. of the young girl in the photo. I didn’t know the girl in the photo, but my attention was more drawn to the fact the tears that had fallen on the photo were as black as ink. Maybe she was pouring ink on the photo. She then picked up the photo and did a weird skip dance.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m living my life with love.’

‘Put that picture back, it belongs to someone.’

‘Yeah, it belongs to me now.’

‘I’m serious, don’t disrespect the dead.’

‘You know full well we can’t disrespect the dead by loving them.’

‘Now you sound crazy.’

‘Really? Let’s ask G if I’m crazy.’

‘…’

‘What’s the matter? I was just kidding’

‘I don’t know. I can’t breathe.”

Then there was a rumble and upon the platform was the number 3 shuttle coming in.

‘You’ll be fine.’ she said, and just like that, I was fine.

‘Whoa, that was weird.’

‘You never asked G whether or not I was crazy.’ she reminded me. Suddenly a horde of people came pouring out of train, all faceless, and wearing black suits or dresses. She asked again, ‘ask G quick!’

‘I can’t right now…’ and suddenly I was caught in the waves of the exiting passengers and separated from her like the tide pulls away from the shore.

‘Ask!’

‘What?!”

‘ASK G IF I’M NUTSO!’

‘I TOLD YOU I CAN’T! WHAT’S YOUR NAME?!” the wave of black separated, some for the lifts and the others down the stairs. It was more like a wave because it barely seemed like anyone was walking, I could’ve choked on someone’s tie or bonnet. Bonnet?? ‘YOUR NAME!!’

‘YOU REALLY DON’T REMEMBER ME?! ASK G!’

And I suddenly woke up to the song Turn, Smile, Shift, by Phantom Planet. I usually listen to music all night when I sleep, because it feels more soothing than meditating. I never meditated more than two minutes, on the toilet. It was such a nice dream, let alone any at all. But the employed Phantom Planet song has this heavy note of despair in it, which was appropriate in it welcoming me back into this world. Was that woman in my dream who I think it was? I’ve no idea.

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Extra! Who let that dog out!

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Up and coming indie film sensation Monet Tango, 2, caught red handed in yet another lewd sex scandal with the above released photos with the young one and a half hit wonder, Happy Feet. Feet, pictures above is seen face down and presumably crying with Tango standing over his body with a look of severe indifference on his face.

Monet, whose recent projects such as True Growl, Run Dawg Run and Trans : Dog of the Moon has won his way into the hearts of many young pups that were getting a little more than annoyed with Hollywood’s doggybag of talentless big name canine actors, preferring the more refined and natural characters of young Tango. However, the humble actors antics fails not to capture tabloid headlines since his winning the Oscar for best supporting actor in Schindler’s Leash, starring opposite Stoney the dog of Dude, Where’s my Car fame. Along with his Grammy nomination for his side project anti-folk/hip-pup band, The Werewoofs with the album Kibbles & Bitches, the rising star has no choice but to remain in the limelight.

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When asked about the released photos, Tango refused to comment and instead waged his tails as his owner/press agent ushered us off the star’s 40 square foot lawn shouting, ‘he’s just trying to take a dump right now, he’s had a long walk and is feeling a bit walk-lagged right now. Twitter is showing mixed trend reviews about the situation with some tweeters saying quote,’Monet is such a bitch’, those being corrected with ‘he’s a boy, so calling him that’ and others, assumed to be newly converted fans saying ‘Dats my dawg!! F*ck dat bitch doggy!’ Those being politically corrected as well.

To find out more about the cause of these mixed responses of privacy infringing photos, we took a poll. It seems a majority of the people weren’t intrigued simply by the fact that Happy Feet was of another species like we had thought here nor was it the fact that it was the fact that both stars were male, which we thought next. It was because there was speculation about whether our not Feet was of the legal age for sexual intercourse. Though there was also an aftershock of speculation as to how penguin years are calculated, most fans have all relied on wikipedia to answer that despite the penguin wiki page showing signs of being tampered with by anybody, all sheer to remembering Feet’s birth on camera, which may have been a stunt double. When asked about the scandal Feet’s press manager had this to say;

‘Monappy [Monet and Happy] have been seeing each other for quite some time. They met at the red ,carpet opening of Happy Feet 2. They started talking when Monet made a joke about to Happy about his being lucky they didn’t title her sequel as Happier Feet. As for the pictures, I want to clarify that Happy was not, I repeat, was not face down and crying. You tabloid have no soul.’

Well, if or caring meant we were soulless, then I suppose we’re a bunch of soulless tabloids with nothing better to do.

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The revolution begins and end with you

There’s a little voice inside my head that tells me to tread carefully for fear of mucking things up. That little voice seems intent with my protection in the world, keeps me in place. What if I don’t get this job?! What if she/he doesn’t like me? What if I’m wasting my time? Why is this happening to me? We know that voice. But what about that other voice?

We all have this other voice that condones our more carnal urges. I want to sing out loud! I wanna play with my food. am I the only one that thinks that’s funny? Both voices clash ideologically, though they have this in common: fear.

The first voice fears the dilapidation of the ego. As though a part of who we think we are is chipped away when something doesn’t go accordingly. Onsets of depression and disappointment are but venomous. They serve to reconstruct your ego until the second voice is only scorned upon.

The second voice is fearless. It is the voice of your psyche. Or soul. Or whatever the hell your passion comes from. Once the who of the first voice is snuffed, the psyche’s voice takes over. You’ll do, DO the things you really want to do. You don’t need the rules of everyone else to tell you who you’re meant to be. Man wasn’t meant to be grounded. We’re here because we’ve lost or way. We’ve lost or magic. We’ve lost our love. Even the pious had the right idea when we were riddled with the skies to be or limits. Of whom on earth is closer to godliness than they who fear not the death and demise of themselves.

An atheist doesn’t believe in the powers that be, an agnostic is close to solving their riddle. A gnostic looks for the right words to speak the truth. The amazing thing is, it is the atheist that is closest to god, than they know. Not to believe in a higher power is just a backwards and secular way of saying they don’t believe in life, a=a/1=a(1), they don’t believe in death. No heaven, no hell. What’s left is that second voice, telling you who you really are.

I used to be such a cynic about spirituality-hippie-shit, but a cynic is only cynical about the things they don’t understand and don’t have. Understanding chaos is the first step. It shimmers in infinitude in the starry sky despite the veil of a blue sky on a sunny day, but its secrets are howled to you in the wind. If you think this sounds far-fetched you must ask for which voice is telling you that.

Your courage and wisdom will wake you back up to the life you were meant to have. In an imperfect world, courage and wisdom wouldn’t count as currency. If you’re one that thinks its all going to shit anyway while you lifted not a single finger to help, just keep your damn mouth shut while the rest of us do real work. I was that guy. Then I found a bargain and bought a whole universe for the price of my one material world.

”we were brought up on the space race, but now they expect you to clean toilets. When you’ve seen how big the world is, how can you make do with this?” -J.C. Pulp

”when they lied, I knew it was just stable children, trying hard not to realize, I was standing right behind them.” -J.C. The Strokes

Well if you were me and I were you, then I’d use your body to get to the top. You can’t stop me no matter who you are.” J.C. Ace Ventura: When Nature Calls

which voice do you think is creating art? Take a second look at the things you enjoy, for god’s sake, sister. This is the last of my betrayals to the art of subtlety. the metaphors miss me… but I did this because I miss you.

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træce the daisy chains in the night

I’ve taken to embracing the darkness. It isn’t as cryptic as it sounds. There’s also the light, that most people opt for when they speak of good or some other discarnate intelligence. From what i’ve seen since my return from the underworld, my encounter with death, I couldn’t help but notice how most that strive to keep a foot in the light only do so out of fear. They fear this supposed punishment of eternal despair. This invokes savage behavior to do the right thing for the wrong reasons. A thirst for the coin is as good as thirst for wine, for it is a thirst in life. Wine isn’t something one should do alone and what good is your purse if you know naught what to do with it. When I embraced the dark of the night, it did not mean that I had shunned the embrace of God. Even the dark was the Gods’ doing. One big practical joke to measure those who knew God. The real light, is buried with the covers of darkness. When the veil of day is stretched over the sky, it does not mean the stars aren’t shining. If you think the last judgment hasn’t happened yet, you’re, quite literally, dead wrong. Your coins will serve you no purpose when the reign of a thousand nights begin to pour on the earth. You’ve nothing better to do than wait. At the pace some are going, I can discern no difference. The fact is is that you will die. But I choose to wait with wine and a strange profound kind of love you’ve never known. It’s really more simple than it is cryptic, but I think that simplicity is what terrifies most people.

You well not begin to live the life intended until you are willing to die, meet death, chat, and joke with them. The kind words of the departed souls whisper this to us in the wind. My eye was woken by these whispers, and I was born on May 31st of 2012.

I sincerely hope you can get to the table on time. from a basement on the hill. Knock us a kiss and let’s celebrate today because we’ve already spent too much time in coffee shops asking questions that never mattered. You’ll see what I mean when you follow that voice, neither I nor anyone else. The light comes to you just once and in a way only you can understand. The poets and the heretics of the past, speak the language of the gale, they are messengers that work for the pay of love. A love for you. I was skeptical about the femininity of the realization, however I was unable to seer anything higher in it’s stead.

To whom it may concern: my number is 5 and their name is Aeqerasias. æ is the mark on our door. And ”they can wait a little longer because we’re not finished.”
To whom it may concern: you know who you are if you got the message, find me, there’s more I have to show you. Please watch your step, you fool.

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One part: breezy, two parts: free and easy, a little umbrella and serve

I once strode forth like the thunderous gallop of the tides with an answer before a question. Only one fluid ounce of yearning; half for wielding the best questions in my right hand and the other half to yield the best answers in my left. A swift silver tongue to fool them all into thinking me a fool and nothing more. The snicker of a man.

But waning in time left me only to lurk in the doorway between the deafening past and the deafened future. The raging waves of my finesse became blind raging waves and I had been nothing beyond a mere jester.

I climbed off the stolen mare in the marketplace, and watched the merchants, orphans, lambs, gamblers, liars, thieves and travelers. I shut my eyes and covered my ears at the thought of being one of them. To the right of the square was nothing, making it an ideal place to be. I shuffled a coin between the slits that were my fingers to ponder. A festive murder of crows squawked in the distance accompanied by the howl of a wolf in the other direction, paying homage to the rituals of moonlit nights. Except that night, the wind didn’t speak it’s lonesome tongue. Murmurs accompanied. Gibbering echoes like they were from the bottom of some magnificent cave. ”mine yesterday, not mine before, not mine today, mine after,” I heard at dusk.

At once, I rose forth like an engulfing field of daisies with pollen for the bees. I wielded and yielded both questions and answers in one hand and held the hand of the blind future with the other. Though, one hand on the water vase for the blossoms. The grin of a woman.

Men kill beasts. Woman kill beasts without bloodshed. I whistle with the murder, howl with the mangy mutt, waltz with the wind, snickered as a man and grinned as a woman. I see no beasts to kill for I can now see.

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cleanliness is also next to deathliness

Living amongst 4 persons in their mid 20’s who had not been coerced into their adulthood through an irredeemable loss, has but revealed many truths about life. One of which, is the fact a pedant innocence follows them no different than that of a shadow that follows a figure. I would not have been able to discover this had it not been for the advent of my 25th birthday, when I decided to clean our kitchen.

It’s aesthetic design was not of marble but of white, as a kitchen normally is. The darker streaks on walls and counters were not apart of the original floor plan. They were stains and smears of filth and foolishness, admittedly, I may have been guilty of as well. I scrubbed with fury and obsessiveness, as I would when trying to convince a woman of my love for her. Fury and obsessiveness only works when cleansing it seems, and within the same amount of time. Five nights. It cost me five nights to learn how much more I loved my mother than I showed, as love can only be proven, never shouted.

I had always looked at my upbringing with disdain because my kitchen, let alone the rest of the home, was ever filthy. Beyond my wonder, I could not see why my mother could not keep it clean. A mother of three boys. I did my part in excelling scholastically, and kept out of trouble, even keeping out of social situations which caused most troubles in youth. A sacrifice to me. All my mother had to do was go to work at sunrise till about an hour before the boy’s bed-time. Dinner was then started, and the filthiness of the kitchen was sustained.

After becoming a quarter of a century old, I cleaned my kitchen. A kitchen that has sustained a year and a half of belligerent batteries. I have suffered an irreparable loss. I have not uttered a single solemn word of inconvenience. I have realized the insufferable child that I was. We spend our lives in preparation of many things, but never could quite accurately appreciate a person regardless of the ample opportunities. If there’s at least one bit of goodness I may impart upon the blind few it is this: clean your kitchen to your standard and take a second look after 5 days, it well show you the things you take horribly for granted in life, in honest euphemism.

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Farewell, Joe of Fair Oaks and Bellafontaine

I knew the names of the bums of the city. I conversed with them about nothing that mattered to anyone, not even them. Some I recognized, despite seeing them in another part of town the last time. Some haunt the same areas. Some of them even have a sort of celebrity about them. Monday nights are spent distributing food and clothing to them on 6th and San Pedro: Skid row. Treating bums like people shocked some of my friends.

I can’t picture you doing that, or how do you know that guy’s name is the general reaction to my doing this. After the initial shock, I’m then misconstrued as being benevolent, or a sweetheart, or philanthropic, or whatever else they want to believe. I had an ulterior motive -I ate the red berries.

Orangutans wait and watch for another one to eat the red berries before doing so itself. I wanted others to take it up themselves to start regarding hobos more as people than stray animals that want the contents within your pockets. We’re all hungry or poor sometimes and sometimes we’re both, but they were never actually stray animals that we can shoo away but stray people that we shoo away. I thought that if I did it enough, someone else would do it, then another, and another; making altruism and other gay shit contagious.

The thing my endeavor was always misconstrued for was that I actually cared what happened to these filthy people. It mattered squat to me whether they lived or died, and bums actually felt the same way in regards to everyone else. I knew this because I was once a hobo. I had had more money than was necessary once just the same. A real benevolent person spreads goodness without reward; this meant I wasn’t a benevolent person. I was an imposter. I wanted something in return. I wanted everyone else to actually be benevolent and actually mean it. This seemed more advantageous to humanity than going green or giving up red meat. This has become an ongoing scam of mine because after being in both the winners circle and the parade of losers, I saw something both sides were susceptible to; far worse than shooing away the flies to get to the scraps of a half-eaten sandwich soaked in aged mayonnaise.

Of this affliction, both the rich and poor would never defend with justifications or redemptive words. It is the deep degree of desolation that can only, only be attributed by loneliness. Worse are those that can’t recognize this disease; the loneliness they feel becomes terminal. I’m not a man with many beliefs. I was undoubtedly raised with beliefs and values (my parents are acquitted of the crimes of that state) that were conducive towards a healthier morality, but consequently, those beliefs and values have fallen prey to beasts like contradictions, paradoxes, improved knowledge, logic, etc. That being said, the immeasurable agony of loneliness is one of the few beliefs I know to be eternally consistent in which no creature is granted amnesty from.

There is nothing more fatal than to ignore another person so casually as if they didn’t exist: most question themselves as to why they are still alive on a daily basis while the voice of their hope cheers them on. The cheers lose enthusiasm each morning they wake up on pavement. There are certain bums I leave alone. The ones where it is physically possible to see how devoid of hope they are; they glide by, without fear, without anticipation, and without motive like a ghost. Real ghosts are intriguing at least, but these hoboghosts haunt sidewalks, and medically can’t give a fuck. They have accepted they are no longer affiliated with the human race.

Even if I don’t mean it aside from having a hidden agenda: I will call bums by their names to say hello to stroke our fake friendship, hope my spare change isn’t used for recreational treachery, and give out pink socks to the toughest looking hobos on Monday nights. Trying to trick everyone into eating the red berries sounds like a stupid idea. The fact one person feels unconnected to any of the other 7,022,410,584+ sounds like a stupid idea too.   

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New Years Err-ve

shalom

Your last few minutes before the imminent actuation of 2012 were probably expended on the disintegration of your own liver through [a hopeful] self application. Or, as I had, had done anything else inconceivably bland. Like disassociating reflections irrelevant to a conducive purchasing of a new calendar, because you had spent the afternoon voraciously venturing anywhere the free trains found a track to roll upon,  while a concealed half-empty booze bottle blackmailed my thalamus to transform my more tranquil temperaments to those that thwarted the terror of singing aloud to my Regina Spektor playlist in the style of Jonathan Richman with a veracious sincerity to move passengers. Of this endeavor, I’ve an obligation to impart a word of advice; “project your voice as thunderous train rails will big-league your thunder on principle. Try the candid musical at Whole Foods! …My concert didn’t move anyone. Expect to move their narrow-mindedness away.” 

Of my last minutes of 2011:  spent swallowed supinely by a subterranean silver serpent, spanning seven serially spacious cylinder-shaped stomachs. Counting down the demise of 2011 with unacquainted patrons on L.A.’s Metro Goldline, was a disproportionately grievous but accurate reckoning of my lone dejection. I had already been privy to the dejection. And I hadn’t stigmatized an opposition to gang-related public countings. …or chantings. 

It was a reminder of the dejection to be on that train anxiously wanting to negate it by being somewhere among people I just met but knew the signature laughs to, subconsciously suffocating because of the possibility of 2011’s implosion engrossing the train into an ink-blackness, billowed broodingly the looming nebulous darkness deflating downwards mocking the touchdown of a buoyant balloon toward the pinch left of that little white promise. Fostered, finally by my indolent yet conscientious cerebral constitutions. I had no wishes to be reminded of these or other things behind the sun before I had my coffee from the fresh pot of the new year. …But their merriness know no mercy! Further exasperated by an unflinching off-key acapella belting of Auld Lang Syne in the key of ‘Contentedly smug assholes’, whilst the more musically declined of intoxicated invalids, will have exponentially expressed evident existential enjoyments to a greater degree than my own, as their overwhelming voices slurred every other word of theirs into my charitable coherence. Finally, they impart insensitively echoed  cheers and chants condescendingly commanding me to “have a happy new year…” 

“‘have,’ is an interrogative!” I’d always wanted to clarify. …cavalierly!

I prayed midnight would not catch this train. Moments before my physical boarding of the train, I’d sent my roommate a text asking his fetching of the phone number to the coffeehouse of which, laid at the ends of my cross-hairs of my steel serpentine missile. I warned them of my impending tardiness. “By 2 minutes”, as specified by my infallible meticulousness.

I had gone to work earlier that day which, coincidentally, was also a coffeehouse. The difference between both cafe’s was a corporate dictatorship, of which mine had lacked warranting my merriment as opposed to counting down the cooking of 2011’s goose behind a cash register. An earnest elation emanated from not having to tiptoe around an invisible ladder of hierarchy. But during my shift New Year’s Eve easygoing-ness, I inadvertently noticed a pattern, perpetuated amongst peculiar patrons; their collective consensus to adorn an indifference to the induction of the new year, 2012.

Ironically, I’d have imposed an indifference of my own caliber towards the discovery of a mass banality under ordinary circumstances, but this banality had especially fingered my fancy as it inconspicuously instituted intelligibility. Indifference was the answer. The essence of life was a dim corridor of endless possibilities to be revealed by the light. But high-up above the essence of existence, the chandelier of chaos swung subversively, illuminating innumerable flickering candles of curiosity infinitely over innumerably transparent possibilities, indifferent to a possibility’s consequence coveted by your necessities.

Having expectations sprouted a salacious susceptibility to somberness. Frowns and grimaces issued. But not having expectations didn’t do that. And contrary to popular banal belief, not having expectations did not prohibit our capabilities to comprehend cheerfulness. Flashy smiles and grins! An indifference instigated an honest humbleness alongside an extinguished egotism.

Upon arrival to the stop, my watch had sweetly slipped some spare minutes to me. But it wasn’t enough to implore my running. My evening’s habiliments included a trench-coat, of which, a contraband whiskey water bottle cooperated with, a sweater vest, fitted slacks and,  finally, pointed Italian boots which merited a significant level of respect, possibly higher than the deterrence of my lone dejection.

I was 2 minutes from the coffeehouse which of whence commenced the hooting, hollering, honking, whistling, clapping, slapping, hugging, kazoo-ing, laughing, screaming, crying, burping, dragging, lighting, spitting, facebooking, smoking, splashing, calling, texting, twitting, screeching, emailing, singing, scratching, clawing, brushing, caressing, kissing, …to the consistent clicking pair of Italian heels on the pavement.

Pacing perfectly, obstinate to stay on-beat, the clicking was immune to twinkling notes in the crowded chords. Perhaps it were the chords who saw no twinkling in the clicking? The enchantment of the crowd’s casual camaraderie seemed inexplicably indiscernible to the piano’s careful chords, chaotically conforming celestial crescendos. The stark clicking continued as the chords always twinkled it’s keys behind his lead. It only click with absolute certainty in time. The meticulous metronome clicked consummately but had always leaded clicks ahead of the keys. The clicking time of which it was a virtuoso, but the chords twinkling of keys gracefully followed behind wherever it went, cursed only ever to hear them nearby, never beside their grace. Never else, besides the clicking.

I found myself mangled among a crowd of friends at the coffeehouse and had forgotten to devise an exit strategy. The sight of it illustrated the clustered cords collected behind an affable entertainment center of a living room of which my disentanglement deplored dusty discouragements. The schemed departure was a quirk of which I’d conditioned myself to prepare aiding my avoidance revelation of my really being a fleshly incarnate of ineptitude abominable in crowds. In hindsight, allowing myself to fall victim to such a state to begin with, exemplified a higher degree of cowardice in comparison to the requisite of a delusional vindication for a fallibly foreshadowed flee of your own prevarication. (enter dream sequence below!)

I stood, shuffling and fidgeting anxiously around sipping my water bottle of whiskey a few minutes in repose,  while they indecisively deliberated among themselves about going to a bar, to which they decidedly went after all. Confessedly, I wanted to join them. But embarrassingly there was a longstanding fear I had inhibiting my being among a group of real nerds. I had the mental aptitude and meticulousness for detail that real nerds possessed, though it demanded more. The preconceived shortcomings I had among them germinated from never having dedicated the incomparable amount of time they mantra’ed into endlessly effortless eccentricities.
I was afraid my arrest would be demanded to justice, or the hauling to the gallows of my malnourished flesh-bagged bones, and spilling of my blood would be chanted for if I had, say,  mistaken their dismissal of my presence to be subtle acceptance and, out of a displaced sense of courage, expounded an obtusely vague reference in regards to some sort of basement pop-culture wonder, errant of a minor detail, I’d be tossed to the repressively enraged mobs o’ subordi-nerds in which they’d have a frenzy inthe defiling of my body!! And those nerds! They will defile me with an overt courteousness, I’d have an inclination to shake they’re unsatisfied hands as I picked up my shuffled, tattered remains of my wits! And poker cards! This floor was filthy! …no it’s not your fault, Craig. I forget the nerdy public brandings! Imagine it! being forced to stand publicly in place! My posture is guaranteed to receive not an smidgen of envy! …and the nerds that setup  the display of your sickly body! They say ‘please’ and are dressed stereotypicall-y! Real nerds are to lazy to have a big bang theory! …or a little bang! …sorry, it wasn’t directed… yeah, I know… well how would I…? Digress now! Okay! I will if you promise to continue wearing large t-shirts! with the logos that can’t be paid a single cent  for it’s lack of sense! …and it’s pastel shade from overwashings!

Digressed. ‘would you mind‘?! They ask me! the nauseating formality! Certainly not! It was implied I had no choice! but your tone! So gentle and exudes a gracious politeness! …I feel bad for not having a choice!”  AND THEY STAMP!  Stamped with such stamping! The atrociousness absent! …fingerless fingerpointing! Devoid of detriment! you misunderstood monsters!  fraud!  They say…? at me? poseur!  one of them murmurs, but he’s hiding his face! I can’t tell if he’s actually trying to talk to the guy next to him.  infadel!  Bravo! I yell back at him. I did not not anticipate your originality! ‘Why thank you!’  he yells back a moment later. and stamped with black sharpies the exact opposite  fury exemplified during the holocaust. A full-blooded nerd could be compared to a German Nazi to some degree.

Of course, that statement would be pushing the boundary, but you wouldn’t think so after witnessing the kind of passive, unobtrusive contempt so mercilessly managed, it’d flabbergasted you to anomalously deteriorate into a state of catatonia to which even the thought of suicide seemed as feasible as cutting down a tree with a piece of bark. Fuck that shit! I’ll spend New Years alone with the shitty whiskey in the water bottle.

Even the whiskeyed water bottle in solitude to the fantastical Pulp albums on New Years morning presented a deficit in the standardized quality of torment my fearful fortune favored. I counseled a relationship till 4. (Rather than embellish the rest of that in full detail, which included hours of hysteria, a secret cave off the train tracks, a search for a little girl’s stuffed animal, and a chocolate breakfast burrito, I’ll summarize.) 

Notes from counseling (I basically had to reiterate these few lines multiple times in order to get the message through. I think they’ll help someone… if you listen to the words you use.)

-Irrational arguments are ones you make excellent points… that are irrelevant to the topic. They only sandwich more layers into your shit sandwich, but with gummy worms and waffles. (Plus, you sacrifice validity and maturity by reintroducing an already digested topping.)

-pedantic arguments are the ones where the past is brought up as ammunition for a new argument, which is also a repeat performance. And sometimes, this is done accidentally and will snowball into something else if you have Stubborn’s Disease.

-childish arguments are pedantic arguments, but have become childish because of your employ of, “I wasn’t the one who started it.” or the ‘shut your mouth when you’re talking to me!” and my favorite:

“you did this to me once remember, I’m doing the same thing back.”  the ol’ i get a freebie because this fight had already been had, but we’re not going to learn from it, nor any of the other fights we had and will ever have. -Then followed by the consequent, “how can you be mad at me for doing that?! I was going to use the freebie i think you know I technically justified.”

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Commitments

The thing about commitment is that a commitment is a commitment. It does not have an expiration date. Brushing your teeth every morning with your wife or husband for 30 years is a commitment. People who avoid a big commitment are the only ones who know how big a thing a commitment really is.

People talk behind people’s backs in A flat. If I didn’t speak to you condescendingly, it my give you the false impression of my having any respect for you. At least I care enough to talk about you.

Why, hello! I’m Mr. I-had-no-friends-growing-up-so-I-only-watched-t.v.-and-can-now-make-countless-pop-culture-references-that-makes-no-sense-to-anyone-else-but-me. You must be Ms. Commitment.

We need to arrive at a strange detente because we’re like two dogs circling each other at the park about to bite each others eyeballs out. Now, I say that with all the love in the world. Wait, didn’t I share half a pastrami sandwich with you in the back of the washroom at a truckstop in Bakersfield? No? Man, it would have been really funny if you said yes. Two answers and you pick the unfunny one. I’m being childish and not taking this seriously? Why do people say that with such pleasure? I have feelings, you know. Hold on, I gotta take a dump real quick.

Done. My large colon took your lunch from the lounge. I’m was in the bathroom negotiating it’s release.

Someone considered too nice, is considered a naïve idiot. Dostoyevsky said this. Voltaire said this in Candide. Demonstratus! (I wrote in Latin because I don’t hide how much of an ass I am when I’m writing). People call nice people, idiots, because they remind them so much of who they aren’t. Like a flu. And before they know it, that person has made them a better person. No, I don’t want to have sex right now, I’m in the middle of a dumb idea. Mel Gibson movies aren’t going to get me into the mood! Where’d you study?! Do I love you? I love parts of you, but we’re getting closer. I’m an idiot? I’m not disagreeing. But don’t blame me for being vulgar, and having naughty fantasies… blame my gender!

They’ll probably make a statue of you one day, but probably with your pants pulled down and a giant Kick Me sign taped onto your back. Hold on, I need to tell my editor something. “So the rabbit goes aroooound the tree in a loop, theeeeen it goes down the hole.” Okay, where was I? Again, two answers and you’re choosing to be dull. I’m being childish again?! Okay, okay. It’s bargaining if you want something isn’t it? It’s begging if you know you’ve nothing to sweeten the pot with. This kind of thinking killed our lord. At least once.

Life is scary, and dangerous and complicated and going down like a plane. Hope is for sissies. I’m going to ignore you now because you make me sad… you lesbian! Well, I know you’re bisexual, I was just rounding up, Ms. Commitment. Am I kidding, you ask? If I was kidding, I’d be dressed like you. Wait, are those… Givenchy’s? Nice. Did you know hallucinating is the way for the brain to work out a messed up problem…. and that your brain is bleeding. That’s what happens when a bus hits you, when I say bus, I mean a passive aggressive commitment keeper.

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