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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Love and Eros

Performing. The room was the old living room in the old house. 433/6266 West Creek Rd. Newark Valley NY that now sits like a museum of poverty. There in the strange discomfited space, I spoke while you waited in the wings(or where the windows to the backyard are. Gathered around the wood stove all the big armchairs and cacophony of seating made nowhere perfect to stand for visual center. I kept speaking, pacing from one point to another as though I was trying to hold the attention but the light of focus kept shifting. I was the intro, but I kept talking, kept offering caveats, kept going over the lines emphatically. It was going to be about Love and Eros. There were more parts. It was a constant attempt to get at the perfect resonance. I was speaking louder, even using poet voice. I was performing the words.  I felt the feeling of it all being chairs going in opposite directions. No stage was set and I couldn’t get it to coalesce

&~~

dawn in possessed beach town

It was that some knew when they were asked and some knew not to say much. The difference between a possessed and someone looking for the dawn to come was in the amount of clever hesitation.  Only the dawn peaked and never rose.  Rounding the corner, the hyper strong possessed girl came toward me. Another stepped out and they seemed to distract each other. Around the corner, the light was a warm nebula over the field where the city ended, and in that moment a heat of questioning seemed to permeate everyone. We all wanted to know who remained pure. It must have been that some still thought they were but had been possessed. Their eyes were thick with questioning and leaned into your my space. I ran toward the sky but it only became a road down which streets with porches of tired beach weathering seemed to hold the very possessed who had bothered me at the dawn.  In a home small wolves with red eyes and strange sac bodies of blood were strewn. The home seemed sick with vampiricism.  Like the other women, I had an ornate shell anklet. One dark skinned girl was shaking shells in front of her chest and face and chanting. The elder talked of pairings. Mentioning me and someone named “Japan,” I turned and saw a strange white skinned boy with dark little nutty eyes.  Said we were two individuals.  Maybe we were all zombies. No one seemed gone into the light.

&~~

the riddle house

I’m sneaking out of an abandoned house. I am covered with red dust from scarping against the bricks. The main entryway is tight, I’ve squeezed myself through it before, but this time I realized that there is a easily opened window on the side of the house — which would be better to use to avoid visibility. The police have been violent lately with trespassers.

I get out and make my way into a red van. It’s night. The van moves back and forth within a length of only a few feet, but somehow I am at an entirely new location. No, actually it’s the same house, but there seems to be a party happening inside. I crawl back through the window and am greeted by a woman with the head of a deer. She leads me into the basement. There is a bedroom and I go in to take a nap. When I wake up a man is sleeping next to me, and there are about ten small clay figures of (mainly) fetuses lined up by the door. I go to check them out, some are still soft. My friend, Chris, mailed them to me from afar. They are exquisitely detailed. One is of a mother eating her child. Another is of four skeletons holding hands and sitting in a circle — every bone accounted for.  One, a purple faceless Indian deity sitting on a pile of splintered bones. Someone tries to handle the mother/child one and it is almost flattened, but  I gently take it away before that happens. I leave them at the door and follow the candles to a windowless room, there are people sitting in rows. I am escorted to the front by the deer-headed woman. After I take my seat I realize that I am at a wedding. It is for my friends, Eamon & Lisa. They come out wearing, what looks like, pajamas — one-piece, black and with a large neon green collar. The ceremony is quick, and a loud applause happens, but no one has moved. They take their leave with a big smile and small bow. Still, no one moves — I sit awhile motionless and then get up. The room is empty and the ceiling has lowered to the point that I almost hit my head. The door has moved to other side of the room. Hunched over, I leave. I am upstairs, starring at the main exit. It’s still bricked up tight. I see the open window, but decide to push my way through the small hole instead. My body folds, unnaturally, but without pain. And I am covered again in red dust.  ♨

Elbe unfinished

Dreams are barely linear. How can I describe how we talked of Elbe, its desolate carved mountainous contours with only a train station running through. Even then I was walking in a plot of weedy land, seeing it for its potential, thinking of composting inside the abandoned race car seat hulk.  Big skunk cabbage leaves everywhere. I wandered in this solitude; sheered off by entering the house to hear her crying for me. She crawled and hung by her fingers from the red tool-chest with stickers.  Then she was the size of a fist and cradled in a small hammock. The baby in fever beside me; in the dream I turned off the hot spray of air and a cold shower dripped onto her wet face. I lay there in a naked embrace with the trio of our generation, for her father had joined us.   The lights came on as the bikers returned. Carl, Lars, and a third black-clothed carabiner-wearing crew member were in the room. Lars was finally ready to talk.

He took me somewhere and said.

“Someone suggested I write this down, so I did.”

He had a black and white composition notebook from which he read, “When I got there he was covered in blood and was flushing the face down the toilet.”

I stopped him there. “Was there a body?”

Lars sort of froze, expecting the words to speak for themselves, without question.

I wonder now, did I get off the train in Elbe once, and walk the brown soil, brown facade of a town, emptied of its old mining families; like a dusty set of “Bride comes to Yellow Sky.”  All I can picture is a combination of images accrued from reading about burnt firestorm scenery North of Berkley, and from the hills of Seattle seen from a plane.  And why would Lars hide something so awful?  I did not sit and listen to what he had written unfortunately, and since I was dreaming, I will never know the content of that book, nor what face was flushed away.

&~~

skinless legs

I am living in an old house with my friend Michelle. The place is a disaster. The only places that have any cohesion are our individual bedrooms. The house is windowless, and creepy art is everywhere. My brother and a mutual friend are coming.  I am waiting for them, nervously for some reason. When they finally arrive I give them drinks and go upstairs in search of Michelle. She is working on a project in the corner with multiple sets of bird wings. In her room I also have a collection of human legs. They line one of the walls. They are my legs, and I can still sense and move them. I have a habit of skinning them with what resembles a large fruit peeler. I do this a lot — and though the inner sensation is not comfortable, the visual and textural experience is exquisite. Michelle thinks my habit is gross. I also carve fine lines into them. On the lower calf of the legs I have made a series of six uniform horizontal lines about one inch in depth. I am skinning the thighs now, preparing them for individual carvings.   ♨