The fiona, spun sangria, and the warehouse party house

The bar as I sat with a glass of whiskey in my hand was a pale oak sheen, and there were bottles lined up, and tins of tincture powders like a drugstore. I was not ready for what happened. I had already been at a feast, and outdoor garden picnic, an indoor corridor twice met, a crowded bar where I met an old friend, and Michel was there in all contexts mostly speaking cryptic close words, in a huge warehouse while I was wrapped in red silk. He said the number nine, and merged into the couch, with green hair. The warehouse and the party, the quiet scenes in the corridors, and now this; Fiona.

The first thing I noticed was the thing she wore on her hand. I heard her speak and glanced only twenty degrees to my left. She had an orange webbing with blue pale jewels woven into the sunset macrame. It instantly imbued her with an energy. “I didn’t want to sit here without saying anything she said.” and this was a caveat and a ruse, because as I turned toward her, she began.

The device she had in her other hand was a spinning liquid dispenser made of bronze with two holes releasing amber and chartreuse liquid. SHe was spinning it’s ellipse-shape and  alcohol was somewhat falling into the tumbler in front of her. I had to back away slightly because it was falling on the floor. THis did not stop her! I glanced behind me and an entire chorus of men in suits were singing a song in gaelic.”FIOONA, CE!!!” THis is how I knew her name was FIona. THey clearly were singing for her in the sort of swelling chant  which erupted accompanied by unknown drums. This fueled her motion. I grasped my whiskey.Joe was there. He started to help the spinning liquid machine Fiona wielded. Others held a huge tub with rinds and fruit suspended in the liquid sangria. I realized the liquor fest had begun. Fiona was the spirit, the song, the drink. It was invoked. This had promise, but then I awakened.

Earlier I entered the bar upstairs in the lightness. As I was walking through the dim corridor to arrive, Michel met me. He put his arms around me in a hug. It was familiar, and instantly too much to be embraced alone by anyone but Joe. He came with me into the bar, like a shadow to my right. I felt odd to be with him going into this wild packed room. A woman began telling me a story and Michel slipped off. I could not listen to the rest of the story because Beth, my childhood friend was there. This time with her little sister Laura, all grown up, and her husband and new baby which he carried. Beth showed me a program from some event she had gone to. While we weren’t in Germany as far as I could tell, one of the programs was called, “Looking toward the Panzer’s” It cost 2,800 for the trip. I scanned the document which was a receipt as well, with my careful intensity reserved for Scorpio’s private curiosities. I saw that they had indeed paid the $2,800 for the Panzer trip. I embarrassed myself by telling her I noticed that they had paid for it and since I knew she had gone to Germany after high school, I let her tell me…”Actually, we’re going tomorrow!”  I couldn’t believe it. I have been studying Huertgenwald’s famous  1944 campaign. As I slip off to find Joe, there is no sign of him. I return to the dark corridor with it’s slate grey berber carpet and sloping inset lights like an aquarium, He is standing in his leather jacket and dark jeans in a wide stance at the bottom of a ramp. I wrap my arms around him. “I’ve been looking for you, ” He said, “I’ve been looking for YOU.” I say.

“What have you been up to ?” I ask. We go outside to where there is a circle of burned grass. He sort of trails of as if this is explanatory in and of itself.

Earlier in the warehouse he’d sat next to me after Michel dissipated and I had felt the soft closeness as I turned up toward Joe’s face and smiled just for him. The couch seemed hung 20 feet above the floor and we watched a woman come in with big placards of wood with a white veneer and tarot -like images. Her task was to paint something on them and bring them back to the vendor she’d worked things out with. It turned out to be Eliza Urtiaga. SHe did a wide plie and did not screech as she often does, nor giggle, which was a relief. Old wooden tracks seemed to be taking someone away in punishment animatronically with a puppet jaw. This room was mostly empty. I wondered if I ought to be making more contacts with the people in the village.

Garden party, money in the rice…

&~~

Prologue: As I was cooking breakfast, I recalled the most important thing which was a vision that came to me between sleep and wakening. A man called “the rock” was shown driving…HE HAD THE SECRET. He looked like my great uncle pete, Carl L. Peterson the II in a photo I saw of him in the seventies on a hike(perhaps when he took on the APpalachian)

What he knew was this:  It was a brain. It was an object in the shape of a brain that flashed to me. The thing about it was…it was his. He had his own brain. He got to make solid thoughts in his own brain. He formed them. They were in corruptibly his own because he knew how to put them there and how to keep them there. It is an oubliette of one’s own mind that is required. Go inward and form your own brain theoretically, abstractly, and then actually. 

 

 

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purple jelly monsters

I’m in clearing in the middle of a rolling thick forest. It’s dark. A fairly large community of people started living here ever since a Black Magician put a spell over the land. We live in trailers and eat whatever we can scavenge. There is a political science club that holds classes on political theory — I am in this club — and we are currently studying for a national test that will award a monetary scholarship to those who score in the top 5 percent. I couldn’t care less, but I’m still kept up at night trying to solve annoying practice test questions. The teachers of this preparatory class are my former high school professors — I know they don’t like me very much.
Life in the forest has a very cinematic quality to it. Everything feels predetermined, as if at any moment someone much larger will hit an otherworldly fast-forward or rewind button. Tension is running high through the community. Word is out that the Black Magician will be up to something particularly sinister this evening (and this is the night before the big test on political theory!).
The ground begins to tremble and the surrounding trees are swaying frantically, though the sky is nursing no wind. Over the treetops an enormous glowing purple mountain begins to amass . . .  no, not a mountain . . . .   It has eyes! And a dreadfully large mouth lined with razor-sharp teeth! A giant beast is approaching! It’s body is a bit translucent through a hazy purple hue, with stout arms and legs protruding from its robust round figure.
As it enters the clearing I can see that it is at least thirty trees tall. Almost immediately it explodes into hundreds of large jelly balls . . . and then those balls explode into thousands of smaller one. This multiplication of itself happens about four more times until the earth is covered in millions of balls the size of a human hand. Deep dimples form in the balls, two of which fill in with mean glaring eyes, and one which hollows out into a sharp hungry hole. I have a gun that shoots lightening. I take aim and fire, but my weapon is useless against the ravished jelly beasts. My childhood friend (Joe) drive up in a cardboard bus. He is going to save the day (or at least that is the sentiment that his arrival elicits). About thirty people dressed in white assemble against side of the bus — they form a wall, three people high, standing on top of each others’ shoulders. Suddenly a massive saw blade begins slicing through the bus, and it passes smoothly through the bodies of the people whose white clothes are now red with blood. They collapse into a withering pile of limbs and heads. The monsters are hypnotized by the spectacle, and quickly begin to gorge themselves on the human offering. After being hypnotized, myself, for a few moments over the feasting monsters, I make my way to a quite trailer at the edge of the village. I have to inquire about a particularly difficult question that I’m nervous is going to be on the test in the morning.
Freakin’ test! Do I really need to take it? I hate these kinds of tests!

old odd mazes

I’m in a junkyard filled with smashed up cars. The world is set in a deep blue cast. The crushed cars are arranged as a labyrinth — the walls, six high. I am wondering through this maze and a woman, a college crush of mine, is following me. I’m annoyed by her presence. She never cared for me. Why the hell is she following me around? She flirting with me and I want her to stop.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of one of the cars. Do I have a second nose? What’s going on here!?
No, it’s not a nose, it’s some kind of bump or pimple to the left of my nose. And it’s growing. It isn’t painful, but it is hideous. When I squeeze it nothing happens. Every time I see my reflection I shutter. Will this thing ever go away? Or is it new and here to stay? It has now exceeded the size of my nose, and it’s expansion is showing no sign of stopping. Should I cut it off?  . . . or learn to like it?
And why . . . why is this girl following me?

I’m in Texas, but this Texas isn’t landlocked. There is a sea that floods in at high tide and renders travel impossible. I’m traveling, trying to find my way to . . . wait!? To Where? Where am I going?
Through hitchhiking I’ve made it to a strange roadhouse. It’s nestled between two short brown dusty mountains, but high up, and I have view that extends 100s of miles into the desert. I don’t have a lot of time here — the tide is coming in, and when it does I will be stuck here for days, maybe weeks. I decide to make a call to my mother. A familiar voice answers the phone, but it isn’t her. I must have dialed the wrong number, but I can’t just hang up — I know this person. I have to figure out who it is without tipping them off that I unintentionally called them. I ramble uncomfortably about nothing for a few minutes. . . .
Got it! It’s Kirsten. I know her, but haven’t spoken with her in years. Shit! Now is not the time to catch up. I need to get out of here — I have to find a way to make this short. She then tells me it’s her birthday and is upset cause no one (other than me) has called her. The tide is coming. I’m stuck. I’m staying. I’m listening. The flooded mountains do look magnificent — but I left my camera in the trunk of the last ride I caught.

dolphin safe

I’m standing on a rickety pier, surrounding me throbs and swells a black angry ocean. No land in sight. The sun beating on my neck, the still empty blue sky above. I’m fishing with only a hooked line and a short thick stick. No bait. Despite the pitiful tackle, I am able to throw the 3-pronged hook far off into the rough waters. I use the stick to help me reel it in by twisting the line around it. My bare hands covered in thin red lines.
On one throw the hook lands centered in a pod of playing dolphins. I love dolphins. I immediately start to reel in the line as quickly as I can — nervous because I don’t want to catch one on the hook.
SHIT! . . . Got something! . . . please don’t be a dolphin . . . please don’t be a dolphin . . . please don’t be a dolphin . . . .
I’m frantically twisting the line around the stick — it’s dragging something, something big, something heavy. My arms, hands, and fingers strain and ache — my tension builds as the struggling creature is desperately tugged closer . . . please . . . I don’t want this to be true. Sharp pains running from my fingertips to the base of my neck. Closed eyes . . . please don’t be a dolphin . . . please . . . .
Then I see . . . it’s not a dolphin!
My dear friend, Katie! . . . the hook is through her nose!
I collapse to my knees and break out into uncontrollable tears. She reassures me that she is fine while yanking and twisting the gnarled hook from her nose and climbing from the cold black water. But it doesn’t matter. I’m devastated — reminded of every time I have unintentionally hurt someone that I love. A deep hopelessness swallows my mind as dark clouds close in and spiral violent above me. My sobs growing louder, the sky cracks open, and frigid raindrops pierce my heart. My breath becomes the turbulent surface of the untamed sea — and I vanish within everything surrounding me.

I wake gasping for air. And the lyrics of a song immediately possess my mind — they soothe and cradle my sadness as I try to fall back into sleep.

we are young supernovas

I’m in an abandoned shopping mall with two others. We’re not entirely sure what’s going on. The world seems to have stopped turning, and most people have disappeared. We’ve heard that a few, whom we don’t care for very much, are still lurking about. We have this strong inkling that it would be a terrible idea to leave the mall. It’s dangerous outside — maybe zombies, maybe thieves, maybe our arch nemeses.  But than again, it’s dangerous in the mall too. We are in it, and we’re growing more desperate every hour. The only food is a buffet table with baskets full of black putrefying bananas. The two others are good people. I know they are, but this situation is getting to us, and we are growing distant and locked into our own minds. One is male, he has short blond hair and he’s physically fit — he reminds me of my childhood friend, Justin. The other is female, named Tali, she is also fit with blond hair — I know her.

I’m walking past the buffet table, it’s on my right. I keep walking and the outside wall is gone. Crystal blue waters are lapping against the pink tile floor. The ocean has come for us. The water is shallow by the end of the mall, but there is a large sand pool just a few meters away, and a tiger stares at me hungrily from that pool. We cannot leave by sea. I quickly retreat back into the mall and see a large silo. It has no doors, but it has a ladder. I race up it to see how fast I can get off the ground — I know that tiger will come for me eventually, and it’s a safe place. I get to the top and the hatch opens, but it is small, and the roof comes to a triangular point anyway. The walls are wide, and the ladder is made of thin round metal — it’s very uncomfortable, I couldn’t last up here for more then a few minutes.
I climb down and go back deeper into the mall. I see Justin, he says “He’s coming!”, and bolts past me. I follow and when I round the corner, he’s in one of the elevators, but the door quickly closes before I get in. I don’t know where Tali is, but I hope she is well hidden in one of the hotel rooms upstairs — “He” is coming to find her really, not us.  I hide in a darkened corner for a bit, and then make my way towards the silo. As I’m walking past the buffet table “He” is there. The bananas are all yellow and plump, and he has a smirk on his face. He’s a round man of medium height, I’ve never seen him before, but just through his smile and smell I know I never want to again. He’s running his fingers over the bananas, they are a present for Tali — there’s hundreds of them. We make are way to the crystal blue waters — our eyes locked into each others’ feverish gaze. He is confident and unafraid. He standing with his back to the ocean. It is dark now and three moons hang above the water, each within its own phase. Justin is there. He begins punching the fat man on the face, the man make no motion. Justin steps to few paces left. They are both staring at me, entranced, muttering, muttering in some foreign language. The man breaks his rapture and grabs a sword out of a tall bejeweled umbrella vase and slices Justin’s right arm. He drops the sword in front of himself pleased and fearless of retaliation. He raises his shirt to reveal his round belly as a meaty grin stretches across his face. Justin grabs the sword and slices him longways just above his bellybutton. At first nothing . . . and then a thin red line appears, and then it opens wider and wider, redder and wider — then streams of blood and gobs of guts gush out of him. He collapses to the floor unnaturally, like a Jacob’s Ladder. Eyeballs and living rats slither out of his ghastly wound. His face is white, mouth agape; his skin wrinkly and thin, hanging off his bones, too big for his deflated body.
We race back to the elevators and call for Tali. We decide it’s time to brave the greater world.

We’re in a truck driving through a small town. People are about. Nothing seems wrong.
Is nothing wrong? Were we wrong??
I see my friend Rachel, and tell her to climb into the truck, she does and we start driving out of town. With her she brings a peace that we’ve forgotten. The road vanishes and we are speeding through a field of large flowers, every peddle a different color; and although it is night, their glimmer is spectacular. They seem pixelated, as if we are in a digital film or video game. I look behind us and the flowers are fine, our tires do not crush them. We are light and laughing and quickly approaching the ocean and its moons — with no intention of slowing down when we meet them. ♨

a girl falling from a plane

I am still kind of in shock. I watched the plane transform as it passed two other planes. It roared and broke. Some one said “that’s not normal” It looked like bodies were falling. A body plummeted toward and smacked against the wall of the pool and into it. I raced toward the steps. I was on the median between two pools. I looked down at the girl. Someone offered a red foam board for transport. She was small and  conscious but not even bleeding. She was shaking. Her legs kept sticking straight up. I am dying, she said. She writhed painfully. I woke.

In the little alcove a man with brownish skin talked. The store had changed its name. It had been Trohve in hamden. Up a back stair. A woman with a child pressed so tightly into her chest wriggled into form from the sagging twin bed. Another appeared behind her, but it was a manish form that hugged me when I told him I speak arabic. It was odd. As We left to go get into the utility truuck, I saw Rupert Wolonski, head down. I said goodbye. The side of the truck said “Mannslers” or some other Germanic thing. It was the Olde tyme writing style that made me think I was part of a german company. I got into the passenger seat. The dark skinned cabbi got to the intersection again. He wanted to take me to the new side of town andl eave me there. I was indignant. What this again!? Take me to the other side of the highway and leave me by the bus stop! But still, of he goes to the left hand turn lane that takes me toward the new part of town.

Earlier I skipped a class. I watched the time 12:10, almost 12:15 I thought. I sat with my high school friend Chris H. He kept leaning toward me. He reminded me of some earlier kiss which really had never happened. I walked down fantastic stairs of some incredible design. The shag had tubes of color flaps. It was remarkable, though I don’t remember what we were saying. I was in a motel room. I was walking through a doorway, not locking it.  Musical instruments play behind him. He talked about his girlfriend. I found myself at 433 West Creek Rd. or 6266 West Creek Rd where I grew up. I was upstairs. I was reading a poster. I placed two spray bottles near Williams pillow for the cats. My pants must have fallen down. I saw a naked girl in a room laughing. There was a sauna. It was an odd misplaced sexual energy.

the conjuring bells

Something is coming for me from the inside. It began one day when I was walking home alone through an autumn forest on a cloudy afternoon. Out of nowhere I heard the melodic ringing of bells. I sat down against a tree and listened. A strange high started coming over me, and I soon realized that the sound was coming from within. That first time I welcomed it, and allowed the ringing (and the high) to build — its song filled my head and all my thoughts vanished. It felt as though my skull melted and then murmured voices began to speak — but they were too hushed for me to make out any meaning from their words (nor to know if they were speaking English). I had a sense that questions were being asked, fairly banal questions.

The ringing bells starting coming for me multiple times a day, and every time I ran away to be alone and steady myself. The high lifts me out of time and space, and I am swept up into a pulsating and rhythmic tornado while still sensing my feet firmly planted on the ground. Every time feels as if I am being turned inside out — my inner life exposed for all to see, but with no one there to bear witness.

I lived in a roofless house in the middle of a forest. Helen would visited me there, and I would often find her sleeping soundly on my bed. One particularly disorienting afternoon, I was handed a typed letter by a tall, gaunt, faceless man. It was from my brother Bobby. It read:

                I’m dying.    I’m dyinG. 
  I’m dying.    I’m dYing.                     I’m dyiNg.
       Everything is made of Green.
   There is a GUN ship in Hanoi.
…it was used by ghosts to shoot down US Bombers.
                        I’m not ready to see you.            But soon. 

The paper was a work of art. It was stained in colors I had never seen before, and the ink from the typewriter seemed to endless drip off of the paper but leave no marks. I wanted him to know how beautiful it was — but I knew he wouldn’t believe me.

I raced home with the letter when the ringing came for me again. I grabbed a tree and rode the high out. I was tired of this unexpected visitor (or visitors), and I hoped Helen was at my house so I could hug her. I went in and, thankfully, she was there and held me as I wept frustrated tears. Whalen was sitting at my desk. He mentioned the ghosts — he said he spent 8 hours one day teaching them the alphabet.

In Helen’s arms the ringing came for me again. I ran out of the house into the dense forest — the melody became more insistent and began drowning out my vision. I started sliding between two separate worlds…. My eyes would open and I would be in my bedroom (in Hanoi) in a trance, motionless, staring at the ceiling . . . then my eyes would close and I would be back in the forest, stoned, the bells ringing louder and louder. This happened about three times, and on the last time I willed myself to stay in my bedroom — in this world, from where I type this entry. ♨