Monday, December 31, 2012

We met him on the road, a few miles out of town. He was wearing a pair of startlingly shiny boots, it's how Denny saw him, actually --spotted him just slowly walking down the middle of Michigan Ave.

He must've not heard us yelling to turn around --just kept on with his slow pace, arms and hands keeping rhythm like the slowest motion morning jogger you'll never see.



Sunday, December 30, 2012


Suicide is the answer, actually.

Metaphorical nothing. You shoot yourself in the head with a gun, any gun, and you die, here, in this world.

In all the other worlds, though not a statistically significant number, you don't.

It isn't time travel if it is strictly vertical. But vertical in a sense we can't understand.

Suicide is a doorway.

This is a lot of rumination, though, isn't it?

Walk into the gun store. Wait twenty-four hours. Start traveling. Don't be obvious, buy three boxes of bullets. Asking for just one bullet would probably send the wrong message.

WARNING TO OTHER TRAVELERS:
Whatever reality you're about to exit goes on without you. Whoever you're living with will have to clean your brains and bones off the ceiling or the carpet or the wall. Be thoughtful! Double bag that head before pulling the trigger!

Whoever loved you will have many, many questions. Why? What? Why?

Also, probably, a few weeks later, it will dawn on them and anyone that loved or even knew you will ask themselves: "Why?"

It is best to leave a note. Just one, and don't be fancy. Explain that . . . I don't know. Suicide notes are very personal. Don't blame anyone, though, and make sure they know you were happy and want them to be happy too.

Don't try to make them hate you, that always backfires. Trying to make people hate you will, eventually, somewhere (and possibly not to a statistically significant number) back fire, and open more questions.

Loving suicide notes don't make sense either.

You see the trickiness, now, yes? You get to go galavanting around in other dimensions, with other identities, for literally ever and all your loved ones here grow old and die wondering why you opted out "before your time."

That's (probably) the best suicide note to leave: "This is my time." Don't embellish. Don't get flowery. Good, strong declarative sentences and pull the trigger and move on.



Thursday, December 27, 2012

"Color of her eyes was the color of insanity." --Dave King

It's always like that part in Anpao. It is pronounced, in my head: Ann Pay Oh.

Snakes and ankles and bare breasts and too much sweat and keep going anyway. What else would you possibly want to do, but that?

What else could (haha, cud) you do?

Seriously: You. What would you do?


I would call less often, which these days wouldn't be hard to do. I wouldn't have called then, looking back on it.

I'd've taken that jam stain and laughed and washed it off and then I'd've tattooed another F on my forearm, a big ol' embroidered looking mother fucker of an F and I'd've left it at that.

Seriously: That is what I would do, if somehow these eyes were always always blue shifted.

It'd change everything, that solitary phone call not made. Dominoes. Would I be here, though? Would I care?

It's interesting, that proposition equation.

Would it be even?

eF equals n?

Wednesday, December 26, 2012

Worth less?

I won't know. I can't know the value of a party by the gigantic cannon, off Prospects. Note: that isn't a metaphor, there's a gigantic cannon (still occasionally used) and it sits proudly on the side of a road called Prospect in Ypsilanti, Michigan. I didn't go to the party and I ran into the host at a strip club a week later and we said hello like it didn't matter, but I know it did. I was a value added proposition --else why invite me? And I'd decided against it despite her penetrating eyes and our firm handshake at the invitation. In another life, she and I are lovers, by now, or 4am coney island confidants.

I do know there was value in the beatings. We four merry drunkards, bleary eyed and stunningly acrobatic and indefatigable on that green Friday night.

[Fo(u)r] two hours we swag from a fifth of someone grimier, sharper, hotter than Jim Bean and wooo'd and I wobbled around, meek and red, between the pile ons.

I caught a glimpse of the spirit of Ypsilanti, Michigan, USA, while we were out. We were walking an unlit bridge, having trounced the lonely horseman barring our way ("You shall not pass" --pah.) and our token female, more balls than the lot of us wither her leg braces and clicky klank swagger, was saying something and I only came back to her words when: "But sexually it just wasn't happening, so." got spoke.

And then there was a neighing and horse's breathe still somehow steaming in in that green night. all knees break with a kick and applied baseball bats.

Many

Wednesday, December 19, 2012

Write what you know and . . . die bored.

I met the spirit of Ypsilanti, Michigan, USA, the other night.

It jumped from a young girl (call her twenty-three) to a late twenties barman, smoking a cigarette before going back to a surprisingly packed gourmet sausage bar.

It asked me how I was doing and, distressingly for me, the spirit of Ypsilanti has, among them, powers of truth.

I lied anyway, on opening my mouth, "I'm good,  thank-you, I blurted." And ran to my car, keys jingling in a shaky hand.

I am thirty years old and a beard most men would envy. I am six feet and four inches (think: 2.5 meters) tall.

The spirit of Ypsilanti, Michigan, USA is a scary thing to meet.



This morning, I realized I'd been summoning a spirit shard of sadness and entropy. I realized this as I was driving to work, and also while driving to work, I devised a cage and a way to capture the shard.

. . .

I just finished the last part of the lock, I think (I hope) and look at me! I'm writing and publishing a blog post about lies and other fictions.

There's truth to be had, here, my love, and I hope you see it.

* * *

Last night, as we were getting dressed, steam rising off our naked bodies, pulling on our socks over wet toes to get our feet off the changing room tile that much faster; in that moment of black socks and total acceptance Nick asked Bea if she'd like a ride home. My mouth hung open, my words stolen.

Proof time isn't linear, right there.

It's my own fault, I suppose. I dragged a friend two and a half days into the past and pushed and shoved him into his ex wife's house, where we got wasted on her top shelf rum and he tried on her clothes and kicked her diningroom chairs around and cried his eyes out.

"Thanks man, that was actually really good for me." He said.