Dear Diary Spelunking

Once in a while I dig into my journal and find pieces of myself that I have forgotten. Here, I share these with you. Hope you can read the shoddy handwriting, and don’t take too much offense in my badly placed humor. Clicking on the pictures will take you to its original size, which just might make it easier to read.

Nonsense! 1.314101

Yet more tidbits from the nary dusted, more darker corners of my mind.

I know things people don’t know. For instance, look at Bob. He has gone for days complaining about the reek of excrement following him around. What he doesn’t know is, during an intense congress with the toilet, he had unknowingly gobbed a piece of stink onto his finger during the wiping of his buttocks. As a result, when reaching for an itch deep inside a nostril before heading to the sink to lavese los manos, he inadvertently created his condition.

Plastic eating microbes harnessed to consume landfills go awry, and cleanse the world of petroleum based products. False hearts disintegrate and fill the ribcage with blood. Cars leach into dust that blackens the wind, leaving astonished drivers staggering out of a crumple of steel.

He found himself embarrassed by outward displays of masochistic camaraderie, more so when perpetuated by men well beyond the teenage years. It was as if he felt there were certain quarters to communications, that it should be undertaken austerely.

Bob farted and Rob said, “I hate it when you pull rank on me.”

It’s the Boneyard Jive,
Not found in just any dive,
Just when you take a dirt dive,
It’s the Boneyard Jive!

X: …so to explain this, I’ve got an analogy for you—
Y: My God. He called me an analogy.
Z: I don’t know what that means, but it’s grounds for a good beating.
X: Hey, wait, I was jus—CRASH! BANG! BOOM!

“Look around you! The still deception,” Master Shoshen smiled.
“So you are saying there is a conspiracy a-foot, Master?”
“Yes!” the monk beamed. “A conspiracy of self-deception!”

We are just stuff inside stuff.

Neon hags patrol Catharsis Square, strange ideograms glowing under their short skirts and fuck me pumps. Raucous crows scatter in the passage of their marks, young lecherous men in sharp suits who flash small denominations and pick the women up in dented cars.

The package read: “A new fun flavor!” She wrinkled her nose and brought a morsel to her lips. “O! So this is what fun tastes like!” She dug in, great powdery drifts of confection snowing from her greedy fingers.

“That man, he’s always going someplace; he smells of somewhere else.”

It’s a powerful thing, to shape a false real.

He swallowed the gaudy morsel just as there was a newscast announcing Napalm Truffles caused spontaneous combustion in aged humans and shouldn’t be taken by individuals older than forty-five. Whoops, he said. And that was that.

Nonsense! 1.0

These are the weird little things that occurred to me during my late night paid binges of fluorescent light, that give me pause mid-task to jot down in my little notebook these squiggles, making me wonder if there is such a bar defining normalcy, whether I would frighten some people I knew if they read this.

The ride was called The Psychedelic Swirl and upon its completion he stepped off and remarked dizzily to his companion, “What a revolution!”

He dressed it up in his mind as something ephermal and transitional in nature, and accorded the respect due to such a state of mind.

“Life’s all about moving up the rung.”
“So what was there before ladders were invented?”

The laws of reality are being rewritten as we breathe, a monotone voice says as green-spectacled leprechauns caper around the fairy circles that blotch the White House lawn like ringworm infestations, Secret Service agents targeting with laser scopes the little green men, laughing to each other and going, “Oh! This is better than target practice in Afghanistan,” where they shot dark-skinned youths in loincloths who sprang from the smoke-bombed cave harems to run across the hot dust, a flurry of red dots converging on body parts.

Her crotch consolidated in the vulpine geometry of a fox’s head, its eyes glittering of fallopian secrets, its pink tongue slightly revealed under sharp teeth. Her toes fluttering like intoxicated moths, wafted in the light. The fox grin yawned and he fell into its pink gnashing kiss.

The CITRUS VIRUS, it soured out its victims until they become unapproachable by most members of society, including close friends and family, and gradually sink into a depression, to culminate in a wasting away disease, often anorexia, or a suicide, in which they take their lives in a befuddled state. What happened to me, how did I get here?

I am being written, she tells him. I don’t understand the language, the vocabulary; I lack the context, but I know I am being told, my purpose spirited from—wait… listen! She cocks her head and searches for the narrative that runs through her mind always. You’re mad, he says. Mad! She looks at him with a sad smile. If I go mad, it is because I am made to go mad.

A nervous state of mind, in which I translate contact with individuals in terms of a reverse temporal current: angry men, vapid women, sallow faces, hard lines and laugh wrinkles, plump tendencies and corpse sentimentality, there are all kinds of people, and gazing upon them, I cannot help but try and see them when they were young, unblemished by the joys and agonies of Experience… their skulls shrink, decalcify under their tautening flesh, wrinkles regressing with small shudders until what remains is a child’s small frame draped with oversized clothing, the weight of the world that grows with each succeeding year bursting from their shoulders in a bitter vapor, leaving behind innocent eyes that glitter with the exultant anticipation of Experience. Their smiles grow, crack to reveal gapped teeth, goofy and true to human nature… then there are these sad, tired eyes that quickly break contact with mine to desultorily stalk the ground. Sour sweat taints their wake as they pass me by.

Primary Secondaries

His gargantuan form pushed through the door into a litter-strewn hallway, the dirty stalks of his shoulder-length hair scraping his stubbled cheek. Gray eyes—cold gunmetal—scanned the premises. A bare light bulb flickered, lending Brick’s movement a strobe-like fervor as he strode with lethal grace to the end of the hall. His assignment was simple enough, within the ballpark of the not-so-slightly illegal variety, a field in which he excelled. There was something strange about this particular job, though—

He gripped the knob and cautiously stepped through the threshold, his other hand hidden inside his greasy jacket. The only light was winter’s cold glare through the dirty windowblinds, barely lending coherence to the vague forms that moved on a shabby mattress in the otherwise empty room. He stiffened, working to consolidate the scene in his mind: a dopey face rising, its oily mouth moving in the gloom next to a lump in the mattress “—it isn’t what it seems… Well, yes, it is, but I have money, you see, you’ll be well taken care of—” Brick roared and there was a cold arc of metal, the length of his arm terminating in a flash of light.

He looked at the corpse, somehow familiar—jammed freeways, hating the grinning baby-kissing mug on countless billboards crawling past oh-too-slow… Oh, shit! A fucking senator. He was in it deep, but he wasn’t sorry—then his gaze slid to the closed-eyed boy lying in a snarl of ratty blankets. The boy opened his eyes, slow and bleary, and Brick saw the needlemarks bruising his forearm. A gestalt of the child’s myriad futures unfolded in his mind like a lotus blossom opening; it wasn’t pretty. Kid was dealt a bad card.

“It’s going to be all right, boy,” he murmured, lifting his gun.

His anonymous employer must have understood—appreciated—the peculiar code of ethics which set him apart from various backyard hoodlums, and expected him to recognize the secondary objective—no, he understood the primary mission to be secondary now—and implement the means necessary towards rectifying the situation. He had wondered why it paid much more than the call of duty demanded, and now he knew. He set about applying his original plan; the corpses made things easier, more credible. Bad wiring, old frayed insulation lining… the fire, oh sigh, tragedy, coincidentally double sad tragedy when they find the bodies, families torn apart, political parties splintering, national news, yadda yadda. Shit.

Brick strode from the burning building cursing his rumbling stomach and tried not to enjoy the smell of roasting meat too much.

Jack and Buck

Jack: My, my, you’re incisive today.
Buck: I have to be. Otherwise I wouldn’t be very useful, don’t you think?
Jack: The least you could do is stop being a prick.
Buck: It’s the nitty gritty of reality.
Jack: Well, reality hurts.
Buck: There’s no pixie dust, no royalty to transport. That’s fantasy. This is the next best thing, believe me.
Jack: I don’t need reminding. Well, that fantasy is one of my favorite stories. Thanks for ruining it.
Buck: Why am I not surprised?
Jack: I’ve had quite an influence on popular culture.
Buck: The same is true for me, but I’m cutting edge.
Jack: (sighing) What are you going to do, gut me?
Buck: That’s the idea.
Jack: (toothily) I don’t mean to be square… but why are you doing this?
Buck: (indifferent) It’s necessary. The circumstances demand it.
Jack:
Buck: Uhh. Who knew you had a seedy underbelly! Thought that only happened in crime fiction.
Jack: (self-absorbed) It’s not fair.
Buck: That’s true, but when I’m done, you will be.
Jack: Huh?
Buck: You do have a nice grin…
Jack: (warming up) I do, don’t I?
Buck: …but your eyes are a bit bent out of shape.
Jack: And here I am, thinking you were being nice for a change.
Buck: I don’t mean to slice and dice your feelings.
Jack: It’s your nature, huh?
Buck: Yes. (sharply) It’s not like I can help it.
Jack: (despondent) At least you don’t stab my back.
Buck: …yet. (stabs Jack’s back)
Jack: What was that for?!
Buck: Dunno. More light, maybe? You sure can hold a candle.
Jack: I sure can, don’t I?
Buck: (sincerely) Yes you can, and it’s brilliant.
Jack: (happily) I’ll forgive you. You know not what you do.
Buck: Yeah. I’m just glad I won’t be turned into pie.
Jack: (miserable) I knew it was too good to be true… once a prick, always a prick.
Buck: It can’t be easy being a pumpkin. Rotting, forgotten in the compost.
Jack: At least I bring joy. What do you draw but blood?
Buck: Blood and meaty orange pulp. Good knowing you, Jack.
Jack: Well, fuck you, Buck. (sarcastic) It was nice while it lasted.

Garden Felicitations

Miss Olivia Ladgrise confers with a close acquaintance, the Madam Jessica Souperkoup, concerning the subject of a favorite employee and his esteemed qualities in the garden and kitchen:

I love how he manhandles my watermelons and delicately plucks my strawberries. The cherries he drops into my hand, so succulent! Cucumbers, corn, carrots, celery, and eggplants! Many small mushrooms of all kinds and some quite large ones with a sweet flavor and a salty tang.

Red tomatoes, pressed together until they explode pulp to be simmered. He strokes the basil with tenderness as he brings it close to savor the scent. What magic he does with my oreganos, you would like to know! But it’s our secret. Oh. He clutches at my pomegranates with a thirst in his eyes. My avocados soften in the heat forged by his skilled hands.

Rhubarb! Oh, his rhubarb pie makes me melt with candied delight.