Post by Steve on Oct 24, 2005 23:41:44 GMT -5
The following week or so i spent most of my time at the Lutheran college library down by garfield ave. I didn't see much of Renea, by her doing of leaving and attending her own agendas, which i don't blame her for doing,saw her every couple of days, and divied the day up between walking; sleeping; brooding and reading. I would awake late in the afternoon, mostly because i had no reason to wake earlier than when i felt i was ready, then proceed to soak in the tub for an hour or so. I'd emerge just as dirty as when i submerged myself, but these baths weren't about hygiene, they were about descending into the depths of your mind where the only comfortable enviroment was water. Walking deep inside of your being until you felt everything from everytime your soul inhabitted a body, a being, until slowly and tradgically you arrive at the point where any form of town; city; country; land left you feeling alienated from them. This line is where the warm water casually cooling around your body, filling every creavice and fold; enveloping your body like nothing else but air could accomplish, made fine suitor to the infant innocence bliss that fell a cross your mind. Time became as lost as it was before emphasis of responsibilty and urgency of punctuality during your life was intravenously administered. This is vague, abstract, i am sure i have lost a few people here. Let me explain further. It was about receding into your mind as far back as you possibly could. If the beginning of land walkers is too far, if the idea of experiencing emotions without any cause from a previous existance is too much, then imagine crawling to such pits of yourself that the feeling of water; being submerged as deeply as allowed, was the only comfortable thing; the only natural feeling. Walking such distances within yourself that you begin to crawl, begin to be carried in arms, begin to be hauled in an elastic flesh pocket filled with fluids; the only natural feeling is being submerged in liquids. That is what the baths were for. The cure for a terminal depression, a world of missing, whether residing in the reconstructed poor model of your mother's womb or in the ancient ever-changing oceans; water is the ultimate remedy for this depression.
Wet hair beneath the closing afternoon sun, the toxic chemical smell of the neighborhood's meth labs, rabid foaming empty-eyed dogs flossing incisors with wire fences, cars passing; older but in better condition than myself, were all things i enjoyed as i walked blocks to the library. There were a few summer students that mosied around campus, waited to be translocated by the buses, and professors wandering about doing similarly; i imagined. The library was of a relatively nice size, three stories, air conditioned and the staff was full of sweet faced academia, young and elderly. In the center of the library the second and third floors wrapped around a square hole that let you look down onto the first landing. I would position myself so i was able to overlook the front desk, watch the red light of the scanning device reflect onto the face of the operated off the protective plastic the books wore, glance sideways on ocassion when i heard the doors clank shut to catch a glimpse of the person entering. I organized myself on the second floor to resemble that of deformed neglected Appalachian hunched back of the Lutheran Library, crawling eyes over literary love, scratching my dreams into a wirebound notebook i kept folded in half in my pocket, secluded always and never by complete desire or effort on my behalf. I was strange, with my red eyes cracked like sculpture formed generations ago and abandoned in and ivy garden through every kind of weather, my lips twisted in some modest knowall way of humble superiority and my eyes again, never looking away or backing into the shadows of my brow but always in openworld to opticarms way. I would sit for hours reading Thackery, Melville, sutra after sutra, page following book following series of words written on Siddartha on what he had said. Pondering quotes he supposedly had uttered: "Subject to decay are all compound things. Strive with diligence.", thinking about the various projects that i was going to construct; mental and actual construction of things.
The first thing i began doing was sleeping on the floor without any comforts. I would ocassionally be smoking a cigarette outside (where Renea was i had and have to this day no clue), begin to feel sleepish and decide to sleep on the concrete 'patio' in the backyard. I am not sure if this accomplished anything spiritually, but the lacking need for comfortable accessories to sleep has proved useful since, and i am not certain if i had begun doing this with hope of some sort of achievement in mind. It was the project that i never was able to begin that would have elevated me both bodily and mentally.
In the living room there was, what looked like, the base of a wicker table; the actual table portion lost. It was about thigh high with a diameter of about a foot. The plan was to find and cut a piece of plywood to secure to the bottom of the wicker cylinder, create a flooring. From there on the project updated itself as my process progressed. I would begin with sharp objects ranging from broken glass to nails and slowly work myself to be able to tolerate hot objects, because the ultimate goal was to acquire the capability of walking over hot coals. Where any of this fit into my desire of lotus flower peace beneath slow easy weightless willow branches, listening to astronomical love from sweet girl laying head on my lap, we both drunk sipping from bottles of wine that we eventually turn into glass fence collecting morning dew and refracts the solar light-after lunar light found us kissing beautifully behind buddha's turned back-and sends rainbow over our faces- her face of another people and mine of another people but hers so exotic and smooth her cheekbones melt seemlessly into her jawbone which slides into her cracking smile, parting first at her front teeth then cutting heavenly into her cheeks.-as we sleep through day with carelessness of youth; i didn't know. Its need to be attempted slowly faded with every chapter of Dostoevsky set to memory, until poor Russian angel made me cry one night in warm July, my tears felt cold against my cheeks. That night, depressed, alone, i decided to meet the people of this town with or without assistance from Renea.
and this is why i am delusional july 12 2005 from the journal
moss drying in the sun
So, it was mid afternoon and the sun was out after raining sporatically most of the past three days. Trying to make the best out of this intimate moment with the sun (i have begun to think that each session beneath the sun is as heart warmingly needed wanted and tender as a woman's touch. Able to bring chills from your bones to the surface where a single shiver will expound any uncomfort. Yes, sitting in a stolen lawn chair in the middle of the day is...) i opened the blinds in the living room. I sprawled out on the carpet, you know, arms stretching towards the fabled place of princes and intellect and my legs curving and twitching; dancing about as though the devil himself were trying to grasp them and yawned. It was a good and mighty yawn. The day was going, and thats all that mattered. It wasn't one of those stagnant look at the clock (well for those that need it) and after a feeling of an hour only 10 minutes had gone by. No, time was moving and in a steady pace.
It was about 3:30, i am recollecting the time as though that has a major significance (pshhaaaw m/s), i had just smoked a couple of bowls of resin (oh shame i do declare!)and was in the middle of reading my book when i decided just to stare. You are well aware of the stare that i am speaking of. It is that; i need to think about these things that are going through my mind now, for if i don't, i will surely be driven mad by them, type feelings. The memories of pasts, of presents and the day dreams of the future.
So, there i was, stoned, with a Russain Novel resting in my hands still open to the page i left off, thinking my thinks over and under and flipping them inside out so that the are no longer thinks but no the early stages of thought. I had about two or three of these converted thinks, now thought, and was prepared to take the last step to thunk when i heard voices from the kitchen.
And a new think was born. But never to age into a thought.
It was evidently Dick, he had just pulled up in his spiffy little Toyato *Blah Blah Blah, but there was a female with him, and much older. I heard them exclaim aloud, announcing every room that they walked through..."THE KITCHEN!" mumble mumble mumble..."THE DINNING ROOM!" spic spac spic spac spic spac. "THE LIVIN...OH Ian! This is Mary, no no no, she's cool."
Now, while the last quotation was being said, a stoned Ian wearing a green dress with a Nirvana t-shirt over the top half of it, holding a Russian novel, was scrambling to somehow hide the bowl. The wall that i was sitting against was empty on both sides of me.
As they entered the room i hadn't bothered to look up and actually see who was walking in with him, i hadn't the slightlest inclination to do so, and since i hadn't, the first thing that i relied on was scent. In the room there was the sudden aroma of Cat Litter. The chalky thickness that when in the same room, quickly without hesitation, attacks your tongue. It smelled as though some one had just poured a package of cat litter out onto the carpeted floor.
The blue dress seemed, hmmm, well, it was rather hard to explain in one word. It reminded me of the type of dress that your grandmother would wear if, when she was younger not much older than you are now, were addicted to diet pills but has long since abandoned them. That strange taste in clothing that people that have had problems dealing with substances still carry with them even years later. At first you can tell it wasn't of any quality, simply one of her 'better ones'. Which, in full honesty, meant the only one that fits her properly, or so to speak. The colour blue was the colour of a 'blue' crayon, but not the one you wanted. The one that you always had to settle for because either some one else was using your first choice or because you had broke it using too much force (i think that is why children should colour more, it teaches them patience and the simple fact that pressure and force does not make anything easier or more beautiful, yay).
I believe it had some sort of dark pattern floating around on it. No definite direction, just grazing about her attire like unlead cattle.
I smiled and shook her hand, fascinated now at how she could smell SO much like kitty litter. I couldn't take my eyes off of her. She wasn't by any means attractive, even voiding age, it was more of the way the sun was just gushing through the window by this point and just drowning us all in our own thinks. Even in front of each other. But Mary graciously, but not without caution (mind you i am wearing a dress) smiled back at me, and her yellow teeth ensured the fact that cigarettes were also a quality of her. Her entire open mouth screamed coffee and nicotine at 7 am five days a week surrounded by red lip stick. Not raunchy french whore red and not fire engine either, more of an artificial color. More along the lines when you think of red candy. yes, red candy.
Mary and Dick walked away, and to be quite honest, i can't remember them passing before me on their way back to Dick's side. By that time i had lost all cares and went back to thinking about my thinks. And now they involved this unbearable happiness, no doubt brought about by the scent of cat litter. I took another hit and read a few more pages of the book trying to overcome that no reasoned over abundance of joy that was cracking each bone as it passed through my body. All of this, now, all at once! Where the fuck were you for the past week? I could have used at least a fraction of what i have now a couple of days ago, but that is what i thought in retrospect. In fact, i sat there and just revelled in the nicety of being content again. Child like and innocent.
CHAPTER 1: SECTION 3
The headlights of the car were blue, richotted off the trees and the parked cars. My eyes were in a frenzy trying to keep up with the refracting light, bending in myriad directions- slate blue rod of light bending upwards to the night sky like a sewage pipe leading from the heavens to earth. Beams as thin as horizontal feathers circled the trunks of trees, pierced through window shields, met a window of a home and fell backwards a cross the street onto the back of some lonely traveller walking the roadside. All over the street before us were irridescant streaks sliding from one side of homes to another, from an oncoming cars' windshield into my eyes and a cross our faces, filling the car in amazing aquatic features.-while Josh talked about drumming and proceeded to demonstrate this on his steering wheel. We were off to his pad to grab some munchies, to meet his roomates twice his age that would get me drunk, off in the night with our minds on astral plates in the dark apocalyptic gasoline motor night, oh so high low on barbs.
Where we were i hadn't a clue, i was smoking a cigarette outside, paitiently waiting for myself to finish so i could go inside and meet the presenters of alcohol, my fellow worshippers of Dionysis in cold Washington summer night with dreams tangle-knotted in our hair. Inside was loud, the pounding of my blood through my temples made me sway, and all conversations were drowned into one poor dying mass in ocean words: -Its not my fault sex should the veggies be stiff with vasoline and then you just but the oil keeps the colour of the screams were fake you didn't even come close to the falme because when you drop the oil in it jumps up like a spring whenever you do that baby i need another drink. Ian do you want a drink, i could give you more of a drink, i'm sure yu would want to Cheryl, slut, he's vegan, oh my, no cows no cows like it on the rocks honey? i bet you would take me on the beach, [cup handed to me], get the fuck in `ere what sauce, i was trying to get him to relax.- I stare at my sandwhich, which turned out to be a very good veggie snack, but could only think of awful vulgarity with every mouthful. Only think about relatively overweight sea-bass mouthed woman handing me a drink and wrapping large painted filthy fish lips a cross me. I finished eating and left quickly to smoke a cigarette outside, drink me drink in peace of brisk forgetful air; always full of pieces of wishes, dreams, parts of people collected over the land, think over my drink.
Wet hair beneath the closing afternoon sun, the toxic chemical smell of the neighborhood's meth labs, rabid foaming empty-eyed dogs flossing incisors with wire fences, cars passing; older but in better condition than myself, were all things i enjoyed as i walked blocks to the library. There were a few summer students that mosied around campus, waited to be translocated by the buses, and professors wandering about doing similarly; i imagined. The library was of a relatively nice size, three stories, air conditioned and the staff was full of sweet faced academia, young and elderly. In the center of the library the second and third floors wrapped around a square hole that let you look down onto the first landing. I would position myself so i was able to overlook the front desk, watch the red light of the scanning device reflect onto the face of the operated off the protective plastic the books wore, glance sideways on ocassion when i heard the doors clank shut to catch a glimpse of the person entering. I organized myself on the second floor to resemble that of deformed neglected Appalachian hunched back of the Lutheran Library, crawling eyes over literary love, scratching my dreams into a wirebound notebook i kept folded in half in my pocket, secluded always and never by complete desire or effort on my behalf. I was strange, with my red eyes cracked like sculpture formed generations ago and abandoned in and ivy garden through every kind of weather, my lips twisted in some modest knowall way of humble superiority and my eyes again, never looking away or backing into the shadows of my brow but always in openworld to opticarms way. I would sit for hours reading Thackery, Melville, sutra after sutra, page following book following series of words written on Siddartha on what he had said. Pondering quotes he supposedly had uttered: "Subject to decay are all compound things. Strive with diligence.", thinking about the various projects that i was going to construct; mental and actual construction of things.
The first thing i began doing was sleeping on the floor without any comforts. I would ocassionally be smoking a cigarette outside (where Renea was i had and have to this day no clue), begin to feel sleepish and decide to sleep on the concrete 'patio' in the backyard. I am not sure if this accomplished anything spiritually, but the lacking need for comfortable accessories to sleep has proved useful since, and i am not certain if i had begun doing this with hope of some sort of achievement in mind. It was the project that i never was able to begin that would have elevated me both bodily and mentally.
In the living room there was, what looked like, the base of a wicker table; the actual table portion lost. It was about thigh high with a diameter of about a foot. The plan was to find and cut a piece of plywood to secure to the bottom of the wicker cylinder, create a flooring. From there on the project updated itself as my process progressed. I would begin with sharp objects ranging from broken glass to nails and slowly work myself to be able to tolerate hot objects, because the ultimate goal was to acquire the capability of walking over hot coals. Where any of this fit into my desire of lotus flower peace beneath slow easy weightless willow branches, listening to astronomical love from sweet girl laying head on my lap, we both drunk sipping from bottles of wine that we eventually turn into glass fence collecting morning dew and refracts the solar light-after lunar light found us kissing beautifully behind buddha's turned back-and sends rainbow over our faces- her face of another people and mine of another people but hers so exotic and smooth her cheekbones melt seemlessly into her jawbone which slides into her cracking smile, parting first at her front teeth then cutting heavenly into her cheeks.-as we sleep through day with carelessness of youth; i didn't know. Its need to be attempted slowly faded with every chapter of Dostoevsky set to memory, until poor Russian angel made me cry one night in warm July, my tears felt cold against my cheeks. That night, depressed, alone, i decided to meet the people of this town with or without assistance from Renea.
and this is why i am delusional july 12 2005 from the journal
moss drying in the sun
So, it was mid afternoon and the sun was out after raining sporatically most of the past three days. Trying to make the best out of this intimate moment with the sun (i have begun to think that each session beneath the sun is as heart warmingly needed wanted and tender as a woman's touch. Able to bring chills from your bones to the surface where a single shiver will expound any uncomfort. Yes, sitting in a stolen lawn chair in the middle of the day is...) i opened the blinds in the living room. I sprawled out on the carpet, you know, arms stretching towards the fabled place of princes and intellect and my legs curving and twitching; dancing about as though the devil himself were trying to grasp them and yawned. It was a good and mighty yawn. The day was going, and thats all that mattered. It wasn't one of those stagnant look at the clock (well for those that need it) and after a feeling of an hour only 10 minutes had gone by. No, time was moving and in a steady pace.
It was about 3:30, i am recollecting the time as though that has a major significance (pshhaaaw m/s), i had just smoked a couple of bowls of resin (oh shame i do declare!)and was in the middle of reading my book when i decided just to stare. You are well aware of the stare that i am speaking of. It is that; i need to think about these things that are going through my mind now, for if i don't, i will surely be driven mad by them, type feelings. The memories of pasts, of presents and the day dreams of the future.
So, there i was, stoned, with a Russain Novel resting in my hands still open to the page i left off, thinking my thinks over and under and flipping them inside out so that the are no longer thinks but no the early stages of thought. I had about two or three of these converted thinks, now thought, and was prepared to take the last step to thunk when i heard voices from the kitchen.
And a new think was born. But never to age into a thought.
It was evidently Dick, he had just pulled up in his spiffy little Toyato *Blah Blah Blah, but there was a female with him, and much older. I heard them exclaim aloud, announcing every room that they walked through..."THE KITCHEN!" mumble mumble mumble..."THE DINNING ROOM!" spic spac spic spac spic spac. "THE LIVIN...OH Ian! This is Mary, no no no, she's cool."
Now, while the last quotation was being said, a stoned Ian wearing a green dress with a Nirvana t-shirt over the top half of it, holding a Russian novel, was scrambling to somehow hide the bowl. The wall that i was sitting against was empty on both sides of me.
As they entered the room i hadn't bothered to look up and actually see who was walking in with him, i hadn't the slightlest inclination to do so, and since i hadn't, the first thing that i relied on was scent. In the room there was the sudden aroma of Cat Litter. The chalky thickness that when in the same room, quickly without hesitation, attacks your tongue. It smelled as though some one had just poured a package of cat litter out onto the carpeted floor.
The blue dress seemed, hmmm, well, it was rather hard to explain in one word. It reminded me of the type of dress that your grandmother would wear if, when she was younger not much older than you are now, were addicted to diet pills but has long since abandoned them. That strange taste in clothing that people that have had problems dealing with substances still carry with them even years later. At first you can tell it wasn't of any quality, simply one of her 'better ones'. Which, in full honesty, meant the only one that fits her properly, or so to speak. The colour blue was the colour of a 'blue' crayon, but not the one you wanted. The one that you always had to settle for because either some one else was using your first choice or because you had broke it using too much force (i think that is why children should colour more, it teaches them patience and the simple fact that pressure and force does not make anything easier or more beautiful, yay).
I believe it had some sort of dark pattern floating around on it. No definite direction, just grazing about her attire like unlead cattle.
I smiled and shook her hand, fascinated now at how she could smell SO much like kitty litter. I couldn't take my eyes off of her. She wasn't by any means attractive, even voiding age, it was more of the way the sun was just gushing through the window by this point and just drowning us all in our own thinks. Even in front of each other. But Mary graciously, but not without caution (mind you i am wearing a dress) smiled back at me, and her yellow teeth ensured the fact that cigarettes were also a quality of her. Her entire open mouth screamed coffee and nicotine at 7 am five days a week surrounded by red lip stick. Not raunchy french whore red and not fire engine either, more of an artificial color. More along the lines when you think of red candy. yes, red candy.
Mary and Dick walked away, and to be quite honest, i can't remember them passing before me on their way back to Dick's side. By that time i had lost all cares and went back to thinking about my thinks. And now they involved this unbearable happiness, no doubt brought about by the scent of cat litter. I took another hit and read a few more pages of the book trying to overcome that no reasoned over abundance of joy that was cracking each bone as it passed through my body. All of this, now, all at once! Where the fuck were you for the past week? I could have used at least a fraction of what i have now a couple of days ago, but that is what i thought in retrospect. In fact, i sat there and just revelled in the nicety of being content again. Child like and innocent.
CHAPTER 1: SECTION 3
The headlights of the car were blue, richotted off the trees and the parked cars. My eyes were in a frenzy trying to keep up with the refracting light, bending in myriad directions- slate blue rod of light bending upwards to the night sky like a sewage pipe leading from the heavens to earth. Beams as thin as horizontal feathers circled the trunks of trees, pierced through window shields, met a window of a home and fell backwards a cross the street onto the back of some lonely traveller walking the roadside. All over the street before us were irridescant streaks sliding from one side of homes to another, from an oncoming cars' windshield into my eyes and a cross our faces, filling the car in amazing aquatic features.-while Josh talked about drumming and proceeded to demonstrate this on his steering wheel. We were off to his pad to grab some munchies, to meet his roomates twice his age that would get me drunk, off in the night with our minds on astral plates in the dark apocalyptic gasoline motor night, oh so high low on barbs.
Where we were i hadn't a clue, i was smoking a cigarette outside, paitiently waiting for myself to finish so i could go inside and meet the presenters of alcohol, my fellow worshippers of Dionysis in cold Washington summer night with dreams tangle-knotted in our hair. Inside was loud, the pounding of my blood through my temples made me sway, and all conversations were drowned into one poor dying mass in ocean words: -Its not my fault sex should the veggies be stiff with vasoline and then you just but the oil keeps the colour of the screams were fake you didn't even come close to the falme because when you drop the oil in it jumps up like a spring whenever you do that baby i need another drink. Ian do you want a drink, i could give you more of a drink, i'm sure yu would want to Cheryl, slut, he's vegan, oh my, no cows no cows like it on the rocks honey? i bet you would take me on the beach, [cup handed to me], get the fuck in `ere what sauce, i was trying to get him to relax.- I stare at my sandwhich, which turned out to be a very good veggie snack, but could only think of awful vulgarity with every mouthful. Only think about relatively overweight sea-bass mouthed woman handing me a drink and wrapping large painted filthy fish lips a cross me. I finished eating and left quickly to smoke a cigarette outside, drink me drink in peace of brisk forgetful air; always full of pieces of wishes, dreams, parts of people collected over the land, think over my drink.