Children drunk on the night
together telling stories
crawling out windows
alone feeding on electric
excite without reason
tasting like comic books
movie scores, cans of coke
the largess of some new infatuation
each hour giddy with greater force
greater mystery
dark veil unfolding
with each sucsessive shoal
pitch and wale
a crest
upon each crest a wreath
ringing of numberles jewels
reflected in these the locus of all potential
and every becoming

Thinking of the red maple in the yard of my boyhood home
I can trace a line from there to here
from that boy to this one
walking those old roads is something like how the imagination must smell
newest scent mere memory of Time and place of emotion
and in these lay even those fabricated ones read or imagined
in all this I find the value and weight of everything now
of this life I admire all trees becuase of that one
for every thing a former was born
what I ask myself Am I concieveing this moment
when may its future blossomng arrive
to weave a hope for every moment save the last which can only look forward
to make that most unnatural leap above every hope and beyond all beauty and desire

Tallyho

Hello compadres, sorry for the delay, a family wedding one move and a stifling heat wave have uterly tied my creative philopian in one solid knot. I guess the summer has got the better of us all.
My approach with this thing was to really challenge myself and consistently craft some fiction and poetry worthy of, well, something. Like all of my undertakings,(meditation,stomach crunch's,sobriety), I started weak and tapered to nothing at all. So rather than intimidate myself clear off the page I decieded to simply right what ever I can on my given day, so forgive me if I bore If i defy good sense if I murder the page or occasionaly whine eaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa........... Im just trying to keep my head in. At the end of this what excites me most is'nt simply creation its the fact of communication so rather than attempt to impress or avoid this thing I'd like us to share something, anything.
I know most of this group pretty well and consider it an intimate forum with some of my all time favorite people and to those I dont know, you get points by association,for being within this world system,upon this planet,Invited to this very group, what are those odds? so mabey we write.....eh?

Staying Positive In Modern Times (without medication)

Look on the bright side.

I'm sitting on a bench in the recently reopened and remodeled Washington Square Park. It's finally dirty again after just a few weeks. It was just too clean when the chain link fences came down. It's like the filth of mankind wanted to smother this pristine park.

I started therapy. Sliding scale counseling work at Adelphi's psychology dept down off of Varick. Not sure how much I'll have to actually pay, which is good because I'm only now finding steady enough freelance work to pick myself up after this economy knocked me down. It's more helpful than I thought, this ranting at a young grad student who's bitten off more than she can chew.

We're going to discuss medication next week, but for now, I'm on my own. Well, I have nicotine & caffeine, and maybe some hops & liquor to help me get by. A hearty dose of hormones and chemicals from my daily meals and I'm good to go. Toss in a dash of sunlight and enough exercise to stave of atrophy. Golden.

I find it is the idle mind that is vulnerable to societal sabotage. Something about constant movement fights off the spiraling depression of modern living. Small acomplishments, or at least momentary satisfaction (which works for most), are the markers on your path to mental health. Of course too much walking in circles, dwelling in distraction, floundering in fiction, will only lead to depression.

Upwards and onwards young man! Make sure every step is bigger than the last. Resolve your problems, change your mind, redefine yourself constantly. Be open to the universe, try not to question the personal disasters, accept and see the good in everything around you. Odds are, the things you're upset about are probably just comfortable pains.

There's something utterly defineable of self in regards to our personal problems. We often cling to them, prefferring the familiarity of discomfort over the unknown potential. Complaining is just so satisfying sometimes. Especially when you're competing with the others in your life. Easier to dive deeper than them, rather than try and lift them all up with you.

It leads to isolation which is another depression pitfall. For some reason so many of us can not be alone. At least the television is on, or our pets snuggle up to us, allowing us to feel connected to reality, if not actively engaging it. The idea of silence in a room alone is maddening to some, inconcievable and impossible a task.

Is it the whirlpool of despair that sucks at our souls as we either remain oblivious or living in utter denial, escaping into our own fantasies? I've found that creating is what keeps the flames of hell at bay. Every spare moment I'm consumed with the desire to write. I've a multitude of projects going at this point in my life.

Is it all just another overconsumed escapist drug? Possibly, but at the end of it all I'll have something carved out in letters that sears its way into your brains, and hopefully makes a difference. Hopefully it helps.

Don't worry, be happy.

K

try as i might

The Small craft glided effortless within a small inlet impressed upon the face of the rock, perpendicular to this lay a sheer wall and try as he might Sirus could not see its end before the swoon of vertigo and rapid entrance into the small clear eyelet within its face would overtake his efforts. Still peering out the small oracular window Sirus could see people standing and walking at the oddest angles minus any discernable floors or walls and beyond this lay space humming its cold awe full refrain. Abruptly the craft pivoted sharply to the right descended a small clear tunnel and let out upon a stainless tarmac which for its solidity Sirus thanked all that was holy.

Now within the retaining room sirus was systematically scanned by various colored lights, a loud ding signified his clearance as he was shuffled quickly along to the next chamber whereupon he was prodded poked and scrubbed by a series of small mechsicans, (small droids bearing no relation to the earth people), The humor not lost on him. Grinning madly Sirus approached the phisting chamber, (named for Ronald e phister scientist responsible for density adjustment technologies), once inside Sirus became one one hundredth of his natural weight, now hysterical He was shot quickly through a length of vertical corridor some 1400 yards clear into what would be his living complex, exiting the chamber Sirus reclaimed his original weight as a large shirtless man-titted clown greeted him across the face with a large slippery fish.



Sorry this one got away from me….

Fragments from my notes

The Stenographer

The clacking of the machine’s keys was infernal, and became nearly unbearable within the first few moments of the day’s docket. Onyx keys lacquered with fluids of unimaginable origin; their characters intricate and involved, constantly morphing from one alien dialect to another. Oft times the keys became phosphorescent beetles that shifted and crawled to the desk below, or strange teeth that would snip at her fingers, or begin to chatter with intention to try and communicate, only failing in the attempt. Sometimes, if the stenographer took notice, she would see the voided mouths of where those teeth came from, those sitting in wait, along the side of the bench, shuffling thumbs and preparing to take the stand. The dictation machine was more than keys; it was an organic typewriter of sorts. She had memories of William S. Burroughs' insect typewriters; it would make her giggle thinking how those visions of old Bill were actually her reality here. Then again, knowing what she knows now, old Bill’s Tangier could very well have been the same place she now existed within; although he slipped in and out, where she was firmly stuck in place. There was nowhere to go. There was no way out. There was only the clacking.

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I would like to continue The Stenographer in installments.

Thanks for reading.

Well then, let's begin

This is not even my day. I hope it's ok, but I figure I should write this shit now, when I'm in it, so as to not avoid it any longer. I think I can write whatever I want, and plan on posting more fiction than fact, but for today, I need to type up some reality that hit me. I slipped up, and didn't post when Kurt started up this great idea. I had a good reason though.

I was 24 hours away from slipping into a coma by the time I was admitted to the intensive care ward of a local Long Island hosptial. I wouldn't find out the severity of the past statement until a week after I was discharged; told to my wife and I, by my new doctor (and odd endocronologist, a Pynchon-esque character of a man, brilliant , a new friend).

I am a diabetic with laser eyes and a bad disposition.

I have been tired for years. I have been cranky for years. I have woken up, 6 to 7 times a night and taken a piss at least 3 or 4 times out of that for years. In mid June of this year, I began to lose a considerable amount of weight. I figured it was due to me now taking lemon slices in my water, and nothing more. My constant companion of fatigue took over new heights and floored me. I woke up more, hardly sleeping more than a 1/2 hour at a time. I was depressed. Cussing with the frustration of a seemingly phantom depression that turned out to be my body, my physiology became completely fed up with my lack of attention to it, my ignorance and hypochondria allowing the neglect and avoidance that it took reach the point I did, and it did the only other thing it could do; put me in a deep depression free of panic attacks as to not make it seem like the normal depression I'd known over the years. It was my body saying it'd had enough, the alarm batteries all but fizzled out, and things began to close up and shut down. It was time to begin the process of dying. And with this, I would still avoid it all.

Fourth of July weekend I looked at myself in the mirror. My face was drawn, my eyes sunken deep in my skull (I had remarked to myself that my visage reminded me of my grandmother, when she was in the process of passing away. The look that a human gets when things are beginning to fade internally; externally things begin to dissolve as well), my somewhat chubby face and impossibly vile beer gut shrunken down to a point that a strict diet would have given me (had I actually done the right thing, and not the wrong). At this point, my spit had stopped working. For a few days, I had no saliva. Even this (which I had remarked to my wife about, I also shrugged it off as a symptom of the odd dehydration that had also been a problem. Odd because I'd drink a liter of water, then piss it out within 20 minutes. Again, ignorance is bliss) did not cause me to raise an alarm, even though my body had set off every alert it knew possible short of my skin shedding itself to create a doppleganger, one that would sit me down, and explain things, Pete to Pete.

What it took me a few weeks to realize, in fact, only this past weekend, that while I had this introspective mirror moment, I was, in fact, watching myself die. I was dying. My body began to shut down, and for the sake of ease, it began to remove me from the tethers that accompany man and his worries; the threads that cause both ease and strife. I had reached a disconnect that was preparing my body and mind for termination.

My wife and sister in law finally got me to the doctor. My blood sugar was in the 500 range, while fasting. It was the blood sugar of myself and four other individuals. All within me, my blood turned to syrup in my veins. I was pine sap, I was molasses. With this number, I was taken into the ICU and kept there, hooked up to sinister machines, plugged and pulled, blood drawn hourly, shots given to me in my stomach, blood pressure cuffs slipping down and pressing on my iv drips, causing pain where I couldn't care for any. My body had become acidic, and my kidneys were shutting down. It was zero hour, and what my endocronologist spoke of, about me being gone in another 24 hours, was the bottom line. It was a nightmare factory that kept me awake for 4 days; only watching Caddyshack at 2:00 a.m. one night allowed me to keep my mind. I had to keep my shit together in there, if I didn't, I would become a patient instead of a compromised human. And that, I feel, is why I got out. Because with all the drips and medicine and whatnot, my internal desire to get the fuck out is what got me out. I was at a disconnect, but as medicine (as a healer, not a corporation) began to heal me, my body began to quit dying, and instead, began to live again.

I spent about another week recovering and getting my strength back. Becoming familiar with my new routine of insulin shots (four times daily, my gut is sore) and blood sugar checks several times daily. A complete diet change; a new, exercise regiment. All the things that I need in order to manage this shit, which, luckily, is completely manageable. I am an obsessive/compulsive beast by nature, and for once in my life, this may work for my benefit as this new lifestyle is labor intensive, and a pain in the ass. I'll manage it though, as I have too much to lose if I don't.

As I have now returned to my daily routine (complete with all new routine within routine) I am only beginning to quantify the event I experienced. I am beginning to stop thinking of how I was dying, and am now thinking of how I am living. I am here again, and feeling leagues better than I have in years. I've listened to my body, and although I am filled with sadness and anger, I am also brimming with joy. So, to All My Friends (see below, please) I am here again. Thanks for never leaving.

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The day of my discharge from the hospital, at 5:30 a.m., I finally allowed myself the pleasure of listening to music. I put on my headphones and bumped the joint "All My Friends" by LCD Soundsystem (this particular version, performed by John Cale). Seek this song out, but for now, I'll provide the lyrics. I think you'll see what I mean. It was my great release.

Be well, next time you'll get a story that has telepaths, lasers, and possibly space cowboys.

LCD Soundsystem "All My Friends"

That's how it starts.
We go back to your house.
We check the charts,
And start to figure it out.

And if it's crowded, all the better,
because we know we're gonna be up late.
But if you're worried about the weather
then you picked the wrong place to stay.
That's how it starts.

And so it starts.
You switch the engine on.
We set controls for the heart of the sun,
one of the ways we show our age.

And if the sun comes up, if the sun comes up, if the sun comes up
and I still don't wanna stagger home.
Then it's the memory of our betters
that are keeping us on our feet.

You spent the first five years trying to get with the plan,
and the next five years trying to be with your friends again.

You're talking 45 turns just as fast as you can,
yeah, I know it gets tired, but it's better when we pretend.

It comes apart,
the way it does in bad films.
Except in parts,
when the moral kicks in.

Though when we're running out of the drugs
and the conversation's winding away.
I wouldn't trade one stupid decision
for another five years of lies.

You drop the first ten years just as fast as you can,
and the next ten people who are trying to be polite.
When you're blowing eighty-five days in the middle of France,
Yeah, I know it gets tired only where are your friends tonight?

And to tell the truth.
Oh, this could be the last time.
So here we go,
like a sail's force into the night

And if I made a fool, if I made a fool, if I made a fool
on the road, there's always this.
And if I'm sewn into submission,
I can still come home to this.

And with a face like a dad and a laughable stand,
you can sleep on the plane or review what you said.
When you're drunk and the kids leave impossible tasks
you think over and over, "hey, I'm finally dead."

Oh, if the trip and the plan come apart in your hand,
you look contorted on yourself your ridiculous prop.
You forgot what you meant when you read what you said,
and you always knew you were tired, but then,
where are your friends tonight?

Where are your friends tonight?
Where are your friends tonight?

If I could see all my friends tonight,
If I could see all my friends tonight,
If I could see all my friends tonight,
If I could see all my friends tonight