Traditionalist Summer Reading

The point of my summers are nature. When I read I often reread the same damn thing, same books or authors. The common theme is nature . In no particular order:

Pan, Knut Hamsun

Notes From the Century Before, Edward Hoagland

The Glass Bees, Ernst Jünger

Poetry by Yeats, Jeffers, Vasko Popa

Black Lamb, Grey Falcon; Rebecca West

D. H . Lawrence stories

Soul , Andrei Platonov

Hadji Murat, Tolstoy

Taras Bulba, Gogol

Camus Notebooks

Eliade Diaries

Ovid

Hrabal because one needs a little laughter 

Mathematics

The dram of hope he kept hidden in his eyes. See the child gangly with adolescence, see him abutt adulthood, see him covered in the insects of his past. Each action , each gesticulation, each sentence, nictitation, exhalation is drenched in anxiety. When HE left for good, it was good that left in another direction. The walls, borders, limits that the young man had within himself and between the world came down in a cataclysmic collapse. The result is that he is now punctuating his equilibrium, so to speak. The result is that he now is awake to his mortality. He begins punching and kicking, like a babe in the womb, in his case his "womb" is the wake of the unseen object, his lawlessness, his desire for destruction of even more of his existence. And, he wept at his travails.
And his trials multiplied; and with their multiplication came a solution to his problem: 1 plus o=0. Zero is the mystical answer. The real answer. At zero, he added himself to others, notably women, thus his problem became one plus one = two. Only, he became obsessed with erasing the problem, and himself, and then returning to it, ad absurdum. One day, he became -1 to the 100th power multiplied by zero, added to one, erased again. Another day, after the first one, he said , "Fuck math."

Waiting

He couldnt sleep. He lay there eyes wide, tapping his foot, thinking of death, then of sex, Bugs Bunnys physique, the condor, news, the story of the last jaguar shot in Arizona, the earthquake in Italy, somewhere in the North of the boot, the politics, the intrique, the excruciating boredom of politics. Why were humans so concerned with politicians? Outside the wind gusted against the bedroom window, his wife lay next to him, sleeping, pregnant, mouth slightly open. What was she thinking about?The new president was liberal, handsome and pedantic. His actions were the same as the last ruler, only the new man did it with a learned hypocricy. As his mind went over this word, his wife stirred.Hypocricy... Her breath already smelled of babys breath: that whisper-smell of sweetmilk, of fresh air.As if the baby were breathing thru her. Would my baby be a liberal, he thought?A conservative? Ill teach it right, he said aloud. Rolling over he lifted the coverlet and put his mouth inches from the protruding stomach of his wife: Government is bad. All politicians are evil. Nature good. Animals and lakes and fishes:good. Sky and sun and rain and trees:good. Average people are good, Obama is a fuck. Bush is a moron. The baby kicked. His wifes face turned into the sleeping equal of a frown. He kept whispering this odd cant, or prayer or nonsense: Yea, tho I say unto you, young babe, the earth is not of itself, you are not of it, but of me and my wife, we belong to each other, we are a family, a small cell of the human animal, the disease of us are our dreams, the manifestations of our failings is our governments, with these we become parasited, a hall of mirrors, and Gregor Samsa stands fists to his head, weeping at his change, what hath god wrought? Screams he, screams a babble a gurgle, a sound not of himself, disappear that image....baby? Shhhhhhhhh, regardless of the worlds suicidal obsession, it is worth it, to be here, to have hope and dreams not bought from humanity, but that emanate from oneself, stark urgent dreams that only children and the mad have, and it is worth it, my dearest, to change, from angel into insect, into what we call adult, but in truth we are worse than the dead, for our knowledge brought us to naught.

Nothing. Nihilism , albeit with butter. A sweetness like a popped mushroom, dry spores floating away to seek purchace in dark earth...and then? Growth. Change. Always in the shadow of something larger that could come crashing on top of you.

Modoc

We lived in the northeastern part of the state, Oregon on the north border, Nevada, the eastern border. The entire county was atop the Modoc plateau. High desert. Powerful winds. Wildernesses. Alkali lakes that barely existed, ghost towns, tumbleweeds, geese, alfalfa fields , sweet in summer, white with snow in winter, wild mustang herds and dust, sage after rain. The feeling of being apart from the rest of the nation, even humanity. First and most importantly because here humans were rare. There were more Herefords than humans. More antelope than families of homo sapiens.
You would wander thru the desert, thru orchards, with a .22 rifle, looking for rattlesnakes, coyotes, beer bottles. With your long walking stick, with the “y” at the tip, you overturned rocks, sometimes you’d spy them , coiled, tongues flicking, rattling their warning, but in vain, you aimed with one hand and shot their heads to nothing but ragged bloody ribbons of snake meat. Move the stick and the rock falls on their serpentine cadaverlet.A crow in Uncle Sonnys cherry tree: aim, heart of crow in your sights, fire and it falls, wings akimbo, flailing, or, sometimes, strangely, motionless, in slow motion, no branches, a strait, plumb-line, from branch to dead earth. You’d walk and look at the eyes as they went from yellow, paniced, draining with life, til yellow morphed to white, to cloud, beak opening for one last “caw”.
You read the earth for signs of life. Deer, bear, bobcat, wild dog, coyote, skunk, porcupine, raccoon, antelope, and the tracks you wanted most and feared the most were the ones of the mountain lion. In forty years you never saw one. You heard their purr, or their yowls, their screeching, their quiet watching , their eyes sending limbic fear into your heart and bowels, making you shake, expecting the paw of one to razor your face from its skull, its canines to puncture your brain. But, it’d watch you, play with you…you with a gun that was really just a b.b. gun on steroids.A .22? Flesh wound, a mob of mosquitos would harm a mountain lion more than your .22.
Rounding a curve in the trail, you’d run, adrenaline coursing thru you, natures cocaine, you’d run from the hills, the pine trees, down, down to pastureland, to the open, and walk, exhausted thru the Basques field, knowing that, unlike the lion, he would strike, he would shoot. But, his gun was rock salt, still when it hit the fleshy fat of below your ass, there at the top of the leg, it’d welt you, bleed you. His archaic language of double ‘a’s’ and “x”, Neandertal!, you’d scream at him. And hide , stomach to the hot earth as rock salt scythed the wheat above you.
Grasshoppers crawling on your face, wanting to bend on knee and take aim at the sonofabitch, shoot him in the eye.That Basque crow, that foreign fuck. He always thought you had crawled away, so he’d leave--- you’d hear the tractor harrumph into life, wait a minute, peek up and see him driving away from you, the orchard of your uncle Sonny a football field away.
Up! And, youd hoof it, so goddamned fast, you flew, as if carried on the wind, reaching the barbed wire you’d dive over and roll. Then, sometimes, youd shoot at his tires. At that range a .22 was useless, the bullet hit with a metallic limpness.The Basques neck moving from you, lobster red, welt red, red as eyes after whiskey.
The orchard of Golden Delicious was originally planted by a Cherokee named January Jim who had stolen some of the original Golden Delicious apples in Clay County, West Virginia on the Mullins farm. From here, these sweet, aromatic apples went up and down the West Coast. My uncle Sonny had told me this story many times, so many times in fact, we began thinking his mind was going. “Did I ever tell you the story of the Mullins Cherokee…? He’d begin, and my aunt Wanda would shush him down, his eyes would go from bright and lost in remembering to the here, the now, the bright red water pump in the kitchen. He’d always start pumping a bucket of water, embarrassed. Wanda would shake her head as he’d go water the turkeys or rabbits.
In the orchard, I’d read. I’d sit. I’d hide. My dusty cowboy boots strait out in front of me, eagles on wind, high; crows and ravens eating the apples, the cherries, plums, making a racket. My cousins, Rhonda and Katy, twins who looked like strangers and the opposite of each other: Katy had an afro, big boned, loud, witty, ready to arm wrestle any one, even a man. Rhonda, small framed, quiet and coy, doe eyed. My uncle Big Sonny and Aunt Wanda adopted them , a drunk Apache and her black amour had a cardboard sign, 1959, outside the Safford , Arizona post office, “Adopt our girls for 100 dollars”. They gave $40. They took them up and down the West, following whatever was ripe, living in tents and cabins, finally settling in Modoc.
Being half Indian was enough to gain a fight every day, or, at least words. But, being half black was akin to being part unknown, part nightmare. Aunt Wanda would beat Katy if she listened to James Brown, danced like a “nigger”, spoke like a “jigaboo”. Katy would tell her, in an eerie monotone, matter of factly, “You will never beat the nigger out of me, bitch.” Uncle Sonny would plead for his wife to stop, the small Pomeranians were yapping, Rhonda would cry and Wandas blood sons, Elbert and Roy, when they weren’t in jail or in Alaska, would insouciantly waltz over, grab the leather strop and walk away as their mom, glowered and spit and hissed.Uncle Sonny outside chopping kindling, the little dogs yapping. The wind from the warner Mountain Range blowing cold, in gusts, bringing flecks of snow to the red house in the middle of June.

To Be Loved

To Be Loved.
Late Fragment
And did you get what
you wanted from this life, even so?
I did. And what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself
beloved on the earth. ( Raymond Carver,122)

Natalia O. Lebed was born in the Kuban city of Krasnodar, (formerly Yekaterinburg: gift of Catherine, in this case, Catherine the Great, Empress of all the Russias). As Krasnodar was a gift to Catherine, Natalia, or Natasha as she would be known in the diminutive form, was a gift to her twenty –two year old mother, Yelena Vassilivna Lebed. Natasha was 56 centimeters long; she had black, curly hair like a little lamb, or in the Russian “yagnyonok.” Her mother in Russian to me, “All I could see were two blue sapphires, like two streams of light, after twenty hours of labor, one hour of labor for every year of my life, sparkling.” She was very happy to see the eyes, she said. Last week, Natasha and I had a conversation, I asked her to speak about her life before meeting me, this is what she told me:

The first trip my mother took me on was when I was sixteen months, to Riga, Latvia. My first steps were taken in Tajikistan, in a small village or aul. When I was two, I drank the crystal clear water of Baikal. When I was three or four, I spent a winter in Krasnoyarsk. I remember the pine nuts in the summer. We would buy pine nuts from babushkee (old women).” (When I ask Natasha why her mother travelled around so much, she tells me---in between coughs ---“she was looking for a man.”) One day she was passing through Moscow and could not find a room in any hotel. There, in the Moscow of 1983, she met a taxi driver from the Urals named Alexei Ignativich Konyshev, 8 and a half years older than Lena, 36 years old, handsome and tall. His distinguishing features: deep-set blue eyes and an aquiline nose.
Many, if not most, people commented on his similarity to Vyacheslav Tikhonov, the famous Russian actor who portrayed “Stirlitz,” in the film Seventeen Moments of Spring, a cult classic that spawned hundreds of anecdotes, mimicking the melodrama of the film and the over –the-top seriousness of Stirlitz. Example: Stirlitz thinks. He thinks again. He likes it. I admit that until I saw the film, these anecdotes made no sense.
From the time I was five until I moved to America I was a normal Russian girl, er, Soviet, then Russian girl. I liked animals. My father was an alcoholic. I recall the smell of blood and his violence. He and my mother would break furniture across each other’s backs. I became immune to the domestic chaos. It seemed as if all the adults were cracking up, as the nation got closer to its own crack up. He did quit drinking when I was nine and twenty-two years later, he has remained alcohol-free. He is a different man. Less blood, less bruises, no more bellowing, he loves his dacha, my mother and me. Whatever the case, I did well in school. I was first an Octobyonik, a child of October---October, of course referring to the October Revolution---then, I became a Young Pioneer, from age eleven to fourteen. At fourteen the country I knew collapsed, imploded. The next step after Pioneer is Komsomol member. With the death of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, I never had a chance to become a Komsomol member. I wasn’t too sad, though. I was actually happy. With the end of Bolshevism, we no longer had to wear those hideous school uniforms. It was now all about jeans, boots and letting our hair down. And, learning the language of commerce, Shakespeare, Jim Morrison and Madonna. Poka Lenin, dasveedanya Stalin. I let my Soviet hair down and it became Russian. I entered university to get a Masters in Philosophy. I liked Schopenhauer, he was dark and weird. I liked Herr Kant…when I understood him.
When I was nineteen, I had, uh, sex for the first time. I will not go into detail. I will just say that it created a curiosity in me. I experimented, as young women are wont to do. I had lovers. I married one. Dmitry, or Dima, as I called him. He was simple but he had a nice ass. We lasted a year. I refer to him as my “fake” husband. The pretender to my throne. Meanwhile, during our separation, my graduation, my experiments with other men and drinking and carousing, I applied for an American work visa. I was so-so about it. No, I didn’t really care. No, I didn’t want to go. I was having fun. Unexpectedly, the news came that I was accepted. By this time, I had begun to think that there must be a purpose for me in America. I was moving to America. Now what?
So, I think I know now why I came to America. It was not to be with the cross-dressing high-school teacher, James. Sure, we had fun. He introduced me to the fetish world. However, three years of NYC nightlife was enough. Besides, I never loved him. He was a clown. He was clownish. He was not manly enough. He was a silly goose. My psychologist did not help. Drinking did not help. Sex did not help. Not even dancing helped. Dancing! After repeated assaults to my self-esteem due to alcohol influenced mistakes, I quit drinking and prayed to St. Xenia of Petersburg to help me find “the one,” to find “love, true love.”
I remember feeling glutted. I remember browsing MySpace and seeing nothing. I became celibate and sober. Then, one day after weeks of not thinking of my life, I received an email on my MySpace page, the title of it was, “Vysotsky said knock you out.” It was from a man in Northern California. A man who questioned my sincerity, but knew Russian culture. And, he was handsome. Very, very handsome. And, witty. (From a conversation last week, December 13, 2008)
Here the story of Richard begins.
“SSN: 551-17-8652.Where the grapes of wrath were stored, and then drank.”
Rather than bore you, dear reader, to actual tears with my barrage of pain, pain, pain, in chronological order. I will attempt to amuse, to entertain, to become a raconteur, a storyteller as good as I am in real life. All good stories begin with “Once Upon a Time;” all bad stories end with “ashes to ashes and dust to dust.” But, life being a mix of good and bad should be told the only way I know how to tell it. With vim. With truth stretched on the rack, and then tickled. And, so I have a tale to tell…my tale. May truth laugh more than she shrieks.

“Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust.” My childhood was not the typical American childhood. My sisters and I used to play a game where we would make a list, verbally, of bad and good(funny) moments in our life. The lists would have looked like this:
1.) The time Mom was so drunk you fell out of the car.
2.) The time dad and Uncle Sonny fought in Grandmas kitchen, Grandma kept telling them to stop, and she poured boiling water on both of them.
3.) The three months we were in that cabin with no electricity and no food except biscuits.
4.) The day Richard was running down the mountain and ran into a black bear.
5.) The day dad brought no presents home because he drank all the money.
6.) Then, Richard went and stole toys and books from the store. He was seven.
7.) The sound of dads Harley, like so much thunder.
8.) When we all put sugar in his gas tank.
9.) When he showed up outside the Paiute Reservation for three days of hell.
10.) The night Big Sonny and Little Sonny shot a Hereford bull thinking it was a deer.
We all ate it anyway.
11.) The time Uncle Johnny found a baby bobcat kept it and left for a week to drink
with the Pit River Indians and came back to his entire house cut up, as if with a razor blade.
12,) The night Mom tried to commit suicide with vodka and pills. The blood. The
ambulance.
13.) The times she’d make fun of our stepfather, Ron, the half Fox Indian. He looked
like a hippo.
14.) His molesting us.
15.) Moms apocalyptic ramblings about Communism and Armageddon.
16.) The winter days spent pretending we were on a Greyhound to Disneyland and
Burger King.
17.) Uncle Albert who held up a McDonalds with a screwdriver and spent 3 years in
prison for it.
18.) The days wondering about food. Dreaming, salivating.
19.) Discovering John Barleycorn and forgetting everything.
20.) My first arrest at fifteen for arsoning the high school football field.
21.) Sniffing gas with the boys from Hupa Reservation.
22.) Stealing salmon in Battle creek –because we deserved it as Natives---and selling
them to restaurants to buy alcohol and crystal meth.
My mother’s grandfathers came from Ireland, both married Cherokee women. My father’s grandfather came from Northern Ireland and married a Cherokee woman. As my grandfather Ervan would say, “We’re half alcoholic and half drunk.” In fact, all of my relatives drank like thirst-suffering turtles. Created from vodka sperm and whiskey eggs.
My extended family was always around us wherever we went, and we moved everywhere: thirty-three places before the age of fifteen. Mostly, we lived in the West, but we had our occasional forays into the Midwest and South. My immediate family, my mother Virginia, born in Safford , Arizona, a few miles from the Apache reservation in 1949, myself born in Portland, Oregon in 1968 and my three younger sisters, Christine, Teresa and Misty. Portland, the “City of Roses.” We are all two years apart. All born in Portland, except Misty who was born in a small (population 2,000) Northeastern California town called Fall River Mills. Logging and ranching. Tourists do not visit.
At seven, my mother quit drinking and doing drugs, and became “saved”, a member of the Assemblies of God Church. She forced her religion on us and, at first, we liked it. Because, frankly it was better to see one’s mother engaging in glossolalia than “drunkenese;” twas much better to see her “slain in the spirit,” than to be unconscious, foaming at her slack mouth due to a Hunter S. Thompson cocktail –of-death.
But, later her religion became something we detested, something that ate at us. I grew to enjoy hating her God, her religion, and especially our connection –, which was shared blood, but also a bloody, shared past. I hated being related to her, no matter what guise she came in, appeared in. I hated my genetic material.
After reading Jack London, I fantasized about living far from civilization, far from humanity, far from my panoptic, fanatic mother and oleaginous, always horny, stepfather. One was loud and like a piece of artillery made of the Ark of the Covenant, the other was quiet and like an unknown plague, created by NAMBLA: instead of bubules and blood from pores, he gave me guilt, shame and a lifetime of anger. I felt dirty and nothing, not even the blood of the Lamb could cleanse me. Where my heart should be was a hole dug into a latrine. Sloshing with effluvia and waste; reeking of fear.
Along with religion, our lives were saturated by poverty, even after Jesus came into my mom’s heart and soul. Jesus seemed to answer none of her prayers. For me, books were an escape. Hackneyed, but true. Stevenson, London, Twain, Chekhov, and many more authors were my friends. Between one act of molestation and another, I would read of the Klondike, of pirates, of Russians, of Arctic explorers, of suicide. The thought of ending my young life was a Goshen, a Promised Land, my ace in the hole. But, eventually, she divorced our sick step-dad and immediately married…our father, who we hadn’t seen for eight or nine years. Oh, joy!
They stayed married exactly one year; once he began drinking again, our lives were thrown into the chaos of our childhood –only this time his bark was much worse than his bite, as the saying goes. And, he did remind us of an animal, a canine. Of a were-wolf. A were-human. Like all of our uncles and aunts: great, amicable people, functional even, yet, one drink and they transmogrified into creatures from Hell, from myth, from my books. We expected the beatings and they never came. He was like a feeble ghost of his once Hitlerian self.
When dear old Dad left, I never heard from him again. Instead of mending myself, I began to mimic everyone around me. But, I wanted to be worse than those around me. If they drank, I would drink, too; and, I would take pills, smoke pot, and huff gasoline to add to the beer or vodka. They would have brushes with the law –and I was on a first name basis with all of our town’s police force, our county Sheriff’s department and judicial system. They would miss a day of school and I just quit completely.
From eighteen to nineteen I was arrested eighteen times. Mostly for alcohol related offences, but also drugs, guns, assault, arson. I liked to attack anyone who reminded me of my real father and my stepfather. At nineteen, I was given a three year suspended prison sentence and three years probation. The judge told me that if I fought, drank in public or did drugs I would go to San Quentin. I had to go to A.A. Life had suddenly changed. And not to my liking. First, I had to spend six months in jail. I was the only guilty prisoner. Every single person swore they were innocent. Not me –I knew.
From nineteen to twenty-five: I had sex with enough people to fill up an Icelandic village. Women, men, old men, middle aged women –anyone. That hole in my chest needed to be filled, covered up. Yet, I felt dirtier. I began to write and read obsessively. I found solace in Russian writers, in her history and culture. I read Asian history and literature, Jewish, Irish, American Indian, English, literally everything I could get my hands on. I sang in punk bands after probation ended and began drinking again, fighting nearly every night. For work, I cut down redwoods, did construction, was a commercial fisherman, cared for horses, farms, ranches, grew marijuana, and washed dishes. I wanted to do everything I had read about; I needed change and variety. When I met my first wife, I had two bands, three jobs and seven girlfriends. Amazingly, I was never arrested again in my life.
I married Lauren at twenty-five and we had two sons, Finnegan and Cormac. I joined the Communist Party. I inculcated my Marxist beliefs into my children. At 30, I was kicked out of the CPUSA and my marriage. From twenty-five to thirty, I had quit drinking. Completely. 100%. No drugs, either. Nothing. I didn’t cheat. I worked full time and went to community college at night. I began to act in local theatre. I jogged and jumped rope. I dabbled in spirituality.
After the divorce, my life-blood was literature: Kundera, Hrabal, and Jan Neruda, Polish authors, Russians, Irish, Nietzsche and Kierkegaard. Eventually, reading enough of the dour Dane, and Dostoyevsky led me to the Orthodox Church. I converted. I was now an Orthodox Christian. I was still overly sexed. I drank again.
Still, there were women and men, men and women. Still, I ached for something “real,” something “authentic.” Love. I drank, I did mushrooms, I did sweathouses, I travelled to Alaska, and I worked, quit school, broke my back and ended up in Northern California, ready to either commit suicide or become a monk. I went to the local Orthodox Church and prayed to St. Xenia of Petersburg to help me. I lit a candle and dropped a dollar bill into the collection plate.
A friend turned me onto MySpace. I was wary, at first. Scared and doubtful. I met a few women who turned out to be moral lepers, spiritual John Merricks, or just not my type. I planned to return to Alaska, to work in a lead mine, buy property and never return. Then, one day, after surfing MySpace, I found a profile of a Russian woman, in NYC. A model. “Russian Diva” was her name. Red hair, Asian eyes, pale skin. Fur coat and fishnets. I had been with many models and knew them to be shallow. I decided to write this one. But, I wanted her to know that I was suspicious. And, also to know that I was very knowledgeable about Russian culture. “Vysotsky said knock you out”, was the title of my email. The rest, as we are told, is history…
MySpace turns out to be a Golconda, and not a Gehenna.
Their souls, among the flowers, will run
And their voices will blend and sound as one.
They will inhale eternity together.
And somewhere, on a fragile river cross,
A narrow bridge across the universe
Holding their breath, they will meet each other.—Vladimir Vysotsky, “The Ballad of Love” (http://www.kulichki.com/vv/eng/songs/shambat.html#ballad_about_love)

According to Hasidic myth, when a man and a woman fall in love an angel is born. This is reality, whether one is Hasidic, Jewish, Christian, pagan, Buddhist or atheist---we angels exist. I know, I am Richard and Natasha’s angel. I am the product of their love. Or, I could be a product of Richard’s overly active imagination. Whatever the case, just go along with me, pretend I exist, because whether or not I do or do not, the story of their coming together is very true. At the beginning of their meeting, their old selves and lives sloughed off like snake skins, blew with the wind, like an elongated collection of dust.
Quoting Vysotsky, Richard attempted to impress Natasha. It worked. She wrote back. Back and forth the emails went, becoming longer and soon she divulged her phone number. He called that very night. It was on Maslenitsa (A Russian holiday of eating Russian pancakes, blini with butter or maslo, thus the name ), in early March 2006.
They spoke for only a few minutes, she could not quite hear: “Please, call me later tonight at 10pm.” He waited one minute, till 10:01, and called her, nervous. Questions were asked and parts of their lives were shared, stories sent over 3,000 miles of telephone wire. They talked for a little over an hour. The next time they spoke for two hours. Then three. Eventually, they spoke for seven hours on the phone. Emails were written daily, calls were made in the morning and at night. Drinks were quaffed, cigarettes smoked, one after another.
After two months, he could think of nothing but her, and Natasha thought only of him. He was tired of lies and half-truths, so he told her everything: the gritty, the foul, the illegal, the tearful and regrettable. She did the same. Poems were written. An example of their emails, which mirrored their conversations, is provided here. First, one of Natasha’s emails:
Richard... you are so wonderful, no, seriously, I did not expect from you what you did... Thank you :) Yes, honesty is such a great feeling. Apparently, not everyone can afford to be honest. I want to be honest with you. I am sick of even putting my mind in a position of possible lies...
I guess people get used to lies and they don't expect good nature of someone shown... Im really touched by your email. And you called me your....hmmm... girlfriend.. it is so nice to hear...
Oh, I am so ....mmmm :)) I find it so charming: the way we communicate with each other -- I am purely getting more and more fascinated by you, us together, our "encounter", and I know as you said, people of course say that you are different, but I'd say that you are very special... and real to me... That's why we get along so well I think ---- because we don't make any efforts to look into each others souls, we simply look into them, drink them, eager to learn with no fear. Yes, by talking we, I think, opened up and discovered so much about one another, that it feels that we've been talking all our life drinking the spring of the endless story called "Richard&Natasha":)))
And as you know, the real springs are never to dry out, if they are filled with fresh water sources...Neither would we....I think... I have a feeling... But being realistic, our soon encounter will become the one moment of our relationship.... I really really want that to happen....
Call me, Richard, I want to hear your voice ;)
~ Kitten...
Oh, god, I am nervous....! And so excited!!!(4/16/06)

And, one of Richards emails:

ok, natusik...listen closely.....all day, nearly every minute, i thought of you......constantly, of what we would do when you come, where id take you......maybe we should rent a car, only i dont have a credit card...do you...i could give you the money beforehand, cause i dont want you to pay for it.....we could drive into the woods or go see me mom?and sisters......in redding......im so crazy about you, i have never been like this ever...with anyone........i connect with you like no other human being......i looked again at your pics......and your friends and i thot of my friends here, the people here....its so provincial here, a backwater.....nobody like your friends....this really is siberia, american style.....my heart was racing all day long.......if i didnt know better id say i was falling madly in love.....cant wait to talk.......xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx,Richard(4/20/06)


Natasha decided to visit Northern California. She would arrive on the fourth of May. Their conversations became more fevered, more romantic, eager. The day arrived. Her plane landed, and Richard saw her walk across the tarmac, a black and red dress, and black heels. He wore black Carhartts and a black, long sleeved shirt. His head was shaved. On top of his head were tattoos: an anarchy symbol, a banner reading, “Made in Portland”. There were flames above his right ear, with three dots in a triangle, a holy symbol of Irish brotherhood. He had eighteen in all. His arms were covered. Four on his back. Two on his legs.
As Natasha from Moscow/Krasnodar waltzed across the tarmac, every one of Richards tattoos felt alive and wanted to run off his skin and into the redwoods. He was shaking. No woman had ever made him nervous. Natasha was trembling. No man had ever made her tremble. Here was the woman of his dreams, the woman he had spoken with, literally, for hundreds of hours, had cinematic fantasies of on an almost hourly basis for months, here she was walking confidentially towards him, her black dress worshipping every curve and dip of her body, her crimson lips set in a coy smile. Thru the turnstile----a body’s length away!—and they speak each other’s name in unison and, as both hearts were galloping, gallivanting, dervishing, they embraced. He inhaled her skin, her hair. She felt his large body, smelled his manliness. They held each other as they moved faces to look, eyes dug into eyes, eyes moved over the others mouth,teeth,cheekbones,body and mouths and heads and brains and souls moved closer, mouths touching, daringly, tongue tip to tongue tip. Kissing each other, mouths open, clutching tight to each other, moving back and looking, laughing, kissing with greater confidence. Both had tears, hot tears, moistening their eyes.
And, for the six days Natasha spent in the foggy coastal hippy-hamlet of Arcata, she and her amour made love thirty-six times. Or, was it forty-six? They counted , but lost track after thirty-five: They’d speak and make love. Sleep, wake, make love. Eat, make love. Walk, make love. Everything they did was punctuated with the sexual act. Everything they did had the infinite beauty of the ellipsis. Sometimes, they would laugh during it; other times they would cry. The day after she left? Richard called her and proposed marriage, Natasha accepted. The date was set for June 3rd, the place was the cliffs overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Holy to the Wiyot tribe.
They married high above the blue Pacific and below the hypnotic, azure sky. A breeze. Redwoods and rhododendrons. Wildflowers. A Raymond Carver story. Minimalist. Once again, they rushed home. And, again their love makings were rabid, legion, drenched in emotion, and, as their love grew, I grew, for angels are nothing but created energy, yes? I mean, we don’t have social security numbers.
Three years later…
Natasha and I live happily ever after in each day. It is a very sappy statement, that. But, true. We have become closer. She is my best friend. Sometimes we pinch each other--- just in case we’re dreaming. Sometimes we pinch, just because. We have had our tiffs, our disagreements--- as any couple will .But, the difference is that we got to meet each other before the physical part began. Something unique in the West these days. Had we met first, knowing our libidos, we would have ceased talking very quick. We are glad it worked this way. Our friends are jealous.
At this very moment Billie Holiday plays, Natasha makes Russian pancakes, I write my final paper for Creative Nonfiction, we have spent the entire week trying to make a baby. She likes the name Alexei, after her father. Boy, girl, whatever: I just want our Russian/Cherokee/Irish baby to have Natasha’s blue eyes.
I think, I hope, I feel, that in thirty years my soul mate, Natasha, and I , and our children, and my children, we will say that not only did we survive, but that we flourished. That, after all that has happened to us, our painful pasts, our cacophonies and chaoses, our dins and pandemoniums, we can now enjoy our ecstasies, our silences, our placidities, our life together.
Natasha calls me “volk,” which is Russian for wolf. She says I remind her of an animal. I call her koshka (kitten), krasavitsa (beautiful woman) and yozhik (little hedgehog). She reminds me of so many things. My sons love her. My daughter likes to tell her stories. Last summer, Natasha and I visited far Northern California. We visited my sons and daughter for six days. There was a lot of laughter. The sun was out, playing hide and seek behind the ever-present Northcoast clouds; it filtered down between the giant redwoods like a mist of bees. They circled us, natures cathedral, as my children and wife frolicked like little goats on the cool, green grass. I felt content then…and, six months later, I feel even more content. I feel part of something miraculous. I feel beloved.

Exhaling

I lay dozing , dreaming really, at the cusp of wakefulness and being underwater, because dreams have that slowness about them, even the fast action dreams, everything is slow---and, when one is there, on the edge of the dream ice, ready to roll in and under, I hear the telltale sound of heels tap me away from the edge. I bolted upright and saw her: black sheened panties, black heels, black bra, she walked to the bed and slowly dove as if the bed turned to cream, thick and white and so was stopped from going under. I pounced onto her buttcheeks, biting, scratching her inner thighs, looking out of my right eyes corner at her right eyes corner, both eye corners staring, sleepily at the other, her shoes, black and shiny at the end of long pale soft legs, glided in the air, in a back and forth motion, dancing, I saw them out of the corner of my left eye as I buried my nose into her scent,she arches her back and I trace an exclamation point along the slit. She arches higher.I bite harder.I lunge for her neck, now I'm on her left side, her head turns to me, she is smiling.Her eyes look bigger than they are.Lips are fuller now. This is the case of all primates when aroused. I tell her this. She laughs and I graze my upper teeth against her spine, where I bite the panties off with one pull and with hands now more like claws turn her 135 lb. frame over, spreading the legs to an engorged pussy, pinker now, fuller now, I ask what she wants and strike with my torso , placing my face next to her face, playfully biting her lower lip then down , down,down, with a directness that elicits a gasp from her, I envelop her clit and lips and pull,right thumb glancing off the bottom of the clit, furiously, she begins to buck...she says I look sexy doing this to her, I smile there pressed against her swollen sex, she moves in tighter circles now, hips and mound of venus pressing into my face, harder as I flick faster and in circes, she moves as if her bones were filled with a hurricane, I open her reddened lips, edges the color of bruised violets, exposing the hood of her shiny, wet nub. It retracts as I caress it, lick it, all 8,000 nerves of it, sending out their "MayDay, MayDay", their Halleleiuias, their Amens, and she comes, the belly taut then bunched, the mouth a maw now, hands clasping my head moving in my familiar religious manner, she says shes cramped in her hip but wants me inside her and when I climb up, and slap it against her engorged humidity she pulls me inside her and its then I 'am aware , for the first time, ever, that reincarnartion is real.I see her eyes and I "know" as truth I have seen her soul before, she scratches and the pain makes me fuck harder, grinding into her, her lips are larger than I have ever seen them, her eyes all urgency, all hunger, delight in the knowledge she has found everything she has looked for.The poem made flesh, the flesh made a fire, the fire engulfed them both, from the loins to the mouths , biting and opening against hot skin, salt and fragrance, eyes connected by cords older than either of their countries, older than them, older than even books, even stories, and as they moved , he inside her and she around him, a yin and yang, as one, the past came up from below and settled, perched on the colors of their eyes.And, the animalness of it all forced him to position her on her knees as he entered from behind into her extraordinary tightness, an unbelievable silkiness, the musk of their union flaring his nostrils, and he moved with grace in and out of her, faster and faster , not trying to hold back, not thinking of a deterrent, letting go, being consumed by her as he also ate of her, motion in tandem with motion, past galloping with the present, animal with human, and even this, this part of her that determined her name, her identity, he knew that he knew its feel before, its feel , so unlike any other he had ever known and with this thought he erupted inside her tightness.And, the pain at the tip was too great and he exposed himself to the air as his wife collapsed onto the bed, her bones absent of any wind, any force, any violence, by all definitions:spent.He screamed a limbic scream, against the end of life, against the gamble of waking, and for the sheer joy being inside her brought him, for she was his fetish and icon and life. As his cum drip onto her pink and white cheek , he fell onto her, exhaling as if he had kept his breath inside for 40 times a million years.

Mother Bird

Mother
When she was younger: tall, long ,blonde hair big green eyes, fine cheekbones,highset. You see the pictures and she's hot. She was graceful. A drug-addicted ballerina offstage. Large pupils or needle point pupils she was the embodiment of grace, elan, finesse.Even 10 years ago she still jogged, she exercised. She had a vitality that was missing in her younger years. Jump forward to now: The first thin you notice is the pallor, the sunken cheeks, the circles. Next, you notice anger, it soaks her every word. Her gesticulations remind you of a crane---an agitated crane, a cartoon bird. She sprinkles her phrases with "fuck". If her monologue were food, it would be very spicy. She tells us she is on a cereal diet; yet, included in her bizarre foodchoice, are various pills:percocet,valium,soma,codeine,oxycontin,flexeril.As she talks I'm reminded of Mutual of Omahas "Wild Kingdom", my mother is a crane,some wierd were-bird. Her taxonomic classification is blank. We stare at her for hours as she speaks in a clipped, ornithological manner. In squaks, in chirps. This isn't right.My mother has turned into a heron.An egret.A tall bird.So, I ask, this is what a steady diet of Wheaties and opiates will do to a person?She answers in a flurry of epithets.This should be sad, but she has her hair pulled way out, her nose is a beak, she looks tropical now.As she curses her head moves as if shes pecking at the air. As she gets up, feathers fall,slowly,in suspended animation, to the hot,California earth.What the fricken' fuck? "Mom, you're losin' your feathers."

The Tree Scar

Walking home thru a park, an Eastern park. Trees with terra cotta foliage, with squash colored leaves, rucksack leaves, rust , sun hued fallings. And, of the sun: it's weaker now, as if a wall of gauze was erected between earth and it. It comes slantwise now. Everything seems to slant. Squirrels are in impossible poses, upside down on sides of trees, following you with their black eyes, jerking from one spot to another, as if reared on cocaine infused milk. The old people, backs bent to pull the detritus on the ground into large piles, and as the rake and shovel, more leaves fall, one tangerine colored leaf fell right onto an old mans pate.It sat there and he did nothing. Eventually, it fell of it's own accord. Me? I'd leave them. Natures way of saying, "Makeover". Everything seems fragile. Leaves would actually twirl at the end of a branch and fall. Limbs lay on the ground in front of a tree with a strange scar that ran the length of it. Not even a scare really, just a hands width strip of bark , gone. Why? Everywhere around the tree, I saw no bark, and the tree just stood there silent, it's cambium cold and pea-green. I placed my hand on it. Cold. No sign of violence. Just a strip of bark disappeared. Maybe the squirrels are that hungry.

ellipses

The hand sewn to the golem lump
the ancien fate of a sad,brave hagiography
to the wall , to the well, to the casino
all the lights are no match for our darkness
we flit from one scene to another
slowly, or frenetically
it doesnt matter
the stitches above our extremes
unravel in slow motion
fly like miniature ravens, letters
feet left here, hands on an anonymous cheek
we guard our fowl, and hunger thunders inside us
forget and a wake of feathers on a trail
into our minds
more parts and days and songs forgotten, fallen to the wayside
discarded. we forget the meaning of us.
in the nothing, even tears stop
and all is nothing, the end of the end.
the world and its jots
its smiles and people have dissolved now
roll into the cave, sewing with prayer the leper-self
into the long-awaited tomb
a strange Goshen
i'am a hero, to save my loved ones the pain of me.
without fanfare or parade, minus medals ,I wait.
the ellipses is erased now. Period. Full stop.

The last apocalypse

Self-murder. Suicide. There are a million and two books dealing with every aspect of self annhiliation. There are proclamations and handwringings galore. There are advancements in science, in medicine, in self-help, better drugs, easily accessible porn, women, travel, pills, fight clubs, children, movies, entertainment--there are things to salve ones demons, ones cravings for the end of this monotonous dread, the excruciating mundane nothing. The big zero that Life sometimes is. There are religions. There are a number of ways to escape, momentarily...but none as thorough, as forever as suicide. Momentarily. Alcohol, for example, lasts a few hours; more often than not it only aggravates the emotional state youre in. And, if you happen to be not quite right with your existence? It will plant mines, it will decimate you, it will turn you against you. You become your own worst enemy. The more your drink, the more often you drink, your inner fortress becomes undefended, the enemy at his pleasure seeps in, takes over and hoists his flag, which is your soul in tatters. You lose. In the end, a fight against oneself ends with both parties defeated.
At the outset, the onset of adulthood, we form prejudices that will dictate our future if we dont abandon them when theyre not needed anymore. In our teens we feel insecure, anxious, angst-ridden, fearful. Suspicious of self. By adulthood, we should be past this, otherwise we become almost fated to madness or self-death. At 25, I had a son. I ditched my desire to die the day he was born. What would hound me, for the rest of my life , is a desire, if not to destroy me, to question me, to berate me, to bitchslap me whenever I do something good for myself or for others. I have often wanted the luxury, the dubious luxury, of being able to plot my own death. I have yearned for this. Why? I cannot tell you. It isnt logical.
A few years ago, I befriended a man who struck me as my doppleganger. We discussed life, art, literature, ideas...and death. Every time we met, the big questions were discussed. Life was so serious as to be something to laugh at. I know now, the laughter was a bank of fog obfuscating the reality on the ground: my friends fortress was over-ran. His flag, gone. In its place, Deaths...which is always our soul. After his breakdown and asylum stay, I related to him my own experiences: half a dozen stays in sanitarioums, asylums, locked down for attempting to kill myself. Drugged. Psychoanalyzed. Despairing. Reaching the nadir each second. Every moment of my existence a Kursk, a D-Day, a mayday alert, cacophony, pandemonium, a din that nothing could squelch. Until my son. I told Carlos of this. I'd see his eyes and see myself reflected, myself from before my son, myself when myself was my own worst enemy. I wanted to save him. I wanted him to get better. To escape himself. I know his mind, because, it is my own. Call it madness, call it a chemical imbalance, a curse, a malady---anything you want---whatever it is, it is the worst emotions one can imagine, the absolute assuredness of knowing that one does not belong...anywhere. And, that ones very skin is enemy territory. You live inside enemy territory each second, waiting, despairing, death seems the only option. For years. One week of this is enough Hell to last a lifetime. A lifetime of feeling like this is beyond comprehension. I really cannot explain to someone who hasn't felt this, what it feels like. Just know that it is torture. I'm not being flippant or insulting when I say that a life lived in this manner is no life, it is a holocaust, it is a genocide, famine, war, plague, and apocalypse distilled inside each cell of ones body. It dictates ones actions, which all lead to one place and one place only. After the alcohol, the travel, the drugs, the doctors ,after everything and anything cease to work...only a miracle can save you. Nothing else. Hearing of Carlos' death smarted me, hit me worse than any death before, even my grandfathers. Because, I 'am Carlos. He is me. The thing that afflicted Woolf, Plath,Sexton,Byron,Nietszche, Styron, Thomas, Kurt Cobain ad infinitum, ad delirium, ad nauseum, etc et al is the same strange blood that afflicts me. For 13 years I have kept the enemy at bay. I have the faces, the love of three children and , for me, this is enough to fight me. I have a wife, this is another powerful deterrent. Their souls fly from my castle. Yet, the axe to chop down the flagpole lay at its base. It is a fixture rather than something to fixate on. I notice it, say Bonjour to it, 'Allo, Privet and leave it at that. There is other work to do than to attack my fragile self. This is key. I think the trauma that people like Carlos and I have experienced at our own hands is akin to PTSD. In fact, Ive had every doctor diagnose me with it. Am I a veteran of a psychic war? Am I a veteran of possibly the least understood battle? Have I survived the last apocalypse? Today I have. Tears fall from my eyes, hot and easy. There is a grief for my friend, for his pain, for the pain his family surely feels, for my wife who knew him longer than I did. This is the first time a friend of hers has passed away. In a sense, even though many friends and family have passed, Carlos' death is the most deeply felt because he was a brother, a comrade in arms, we had seen the exact same battles, been in the same war, the war that never seems to end. The war that is always waiting.Today, this moment I salute you, Carlos. For trying. For fighting. You are a brave man. A man not less than any other. You did fight. You did try. For this, for your memory, for our camaraderie, I salute you, even though I wished you had kept going.Even though, I know that there is nothing anyone could have done. When I was mad, when I sought my own demise, I felt, as sure as the sun rises, that my exit from this world would alleviate the suffering of my friends and family.I was sure of this . As I'm sure you were thinking the same thoughts ---but, just as I was more sick than wrong, so you were, Carlos. Sick. So many of us miss you. I understand. Too much. Thank you, my friend, for sharing your life with my own.

My Technicolor Coat of Ailments: A Travelogue

At this moment I have back pain, right kidney pain, insomnia, acid reflux, depression, a numb left shoulder , a crackling left elbow, allergies and diarrhea. Its past 2am. Im on an anti-depressant, an Oxycodone 10/625, a benadryl. Ive coughed up funky black and yellow sparkly goo. My left shoulder, the blade rather, tingles nonstop. I want to read Yeats, The Second Coming.
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world.

Shit Knife

The Inuit didn’t fear the cold; they took advantage of it. During the 1950s the Canadian government forced the Inuit into settlements. A family from Arctic Bay told me this fantastic story of their grandfather who refused to go. The family, fearful for his life, took away all of his tools and all of his implements, thinking that would force him into the settlement. But instead, he just slipped out of an igloo on a cold Arctic night, pulled down his caribou and sealskin trousers, and defecated into his hand. As the feces began to freeze, he shaped it into the form of an implement. And when the blade started to take shape, he put a spray of saliva along the leading edge to sharpen it. That’s when what they call the “shit knife” took form. He used it to butcher a dog. Skinned the dog with it. Improvised a sled with the dog’s rib cage, and then, using the skin, he harnessed up an adjacent living dog. He put the shit knife in his belt and disappeared into the night.

Che, Murderer of the Drug Addled

So, Augusto Pinochet has passed away; his soul flies like an Andean condor to a heaven where Franco and El Duce have tee time at noon. The media in the world attack him, as they should. Pinochet was bad. He is to be reviled, ad infinitum. But, there were worse murderous idgets. Che Guevara,for example. A strict moralist, he would have shot all of those who sport his image on baseball hats and t- shirts.Odd, most of the people I know who love Che, smoke pot. I have no problem with people who smoke pot. To me, it's boring. Theres no drama in pot. I like drugs with drama, melodrama, action, fisticuffs and weeping.I like drinks. Pot is too utopian,too flat line,too lowlight,too nothing. Its too much like the grey that permeated communist states.
Humberto Fontova, described Guevara as "a combination of Beria and Himmler." Anthony Daniels once quipped, "The difference between [Guevara] and Pol Pot was that [the former] never studied in Paris."
If you don't know, Beria was head of the NKVD,the Soviet equivalent of the Gestapo...only the victims of the NKVD are in the 30-60 millions.
Che, while never killing more than many thousands, including whole villages of every man, woman and child for the crime of being "capitalist"( if you had one too many cows or pigs or ears of corn, this would get you a quick dirt nap by Che) The NKVD did the same under their de-kulakization program---kulak is the epithet the Soviets gave every peasant who had more potatoes than their neighbor.
Che once said that the Soviet system was the most humane in the world. You cannot call him ignorant. He was educated. He was a true believer. He knew of the purges---6-11 million dead for speaking their minds, he knew of the Gulag system,(untold millions dead--30 million is a good number, Che knew of the state orchestrated famine where 6 million died of starvation. When asked what to do
with the peasant problem, Stalin is known to have barked: kill them all.
Che had drug dealers and users executed en masse. Homosexuals were lynched on his orders.
Pinochet?Under Operation Condor he had 3,000 dissedents murdered. Another 30,000 arrested. R.J Rummel, expert on genocide and a sexy survivalist Kris Kristofferson look alike prof . at the University of Hawaii gives the estimate of 73,000 deaths by Castro. These arent military actions. This is for speaking your mind, smoking a doobie, drinking too many beers and sucking a strangers face in public, being religious, being an anarchist, not wanting to work or laughing too much. In short, not following the law set down by the handsome lad from Buenos Aries could and would get you imprisoned or killed. What I do not understand is this:
Why does one murderer get a t shirt and his own place in popular hagiography and another one is "Hitler-lite".
It has to do with looks. Che was handsome.But, so is Richard Ramirez. So was Horia Sima, the head of the fascist Iron Guard of Romania. He was hot. No, Ches record is as sullied as Simas', as rotten as Pinochets'.,,or worse.
Handsomeness and communism.Communism, even though it killed far more people than fascism,is still seen in a positive light.Well, if not "positive" than "excused". Like communisms blueprints are correct but the builders...well, they built wrong.People dont look at communism as being inherantly false and murderous. But, it is.Heaven on earth is a very persistent but infantile idea.
Utopia.No more hunger.No more oppression.Brotherly love. O.K. What about no more diarhhrea, no more rent and longer erections?
And, I want to get paid millions .But, reality says nyet.Reality is a bitch.And, what communism does from the start is to deny reality.Lies.
Like Che, Communism is handsome..purdy...but, in reality , a mass murderer.
Brad Pitt with a cocked beret and a garden full o' cadavers.Che's motley army of admirers run from the drug addled to the academe educated,from the movie star to the rock star.An image.Communism deserved the end that Che had: a violent death.Ceucsecu got it. Unfortunately, bigger fish got away.
This rarely happens to murderous thugs like Che. Usually, they die peacefully like Idi Amin,like Stalin,Mao etc...
Trust me, if Osama looked more like Omar Sharif rather than an Amish Mexican basketball player, thousands upon thousands of Westerners would be converting to Islam, wearing his visage on dirty t- shirts and naming their pets after him.
Alas, we have Che.

The Shaman

The shaman

He sat on the ground and sighed. Blood was dried and there was a metallic tinge to the air, nothing stirred. No wind. Trees stood like soldiers. The wind from last night was dead.Gone. If one were watching him, one would notice he did not move for hours on end. He not stir when mosquitos lit on his skin by the hundreds. When large yellow flies bit his arms he sulked deeper into his sadness. Yet, he did not move. He was akin to the death around him.
Then,
from out of the forest, a banging, a crashing and a reindeer floated into the clearing, nostrils flaring up . Prancing. Still, the man sat . Smelling him, the stag stopped and turned , nostrils hurriedly opening and closing. He snorts. He paws the ground. A raven caws. But, not in the normal corvid manner. Lately, the Soviet ravens mimiced wailing, weeping or sobbing. And this is what moved the Chukchi to raise his eyes : a strange sniffling and crying. his eyes are puffy and red.He is tracing something into the ground. A look of infinite sadness wrenches his face as he takes in the reindeer with green moss drooping his antlers as if it were hanging from a living xmas tree. The man opens his mouth, inhales and caws. The deer jerks to the left and seems to hover above the abbattoir, disappearing into the distance, until he is but a fleck on the horizon. The man slowly moves his eyes around to the trees, searching for the raven.He calls him with raven sounds. Clouds scuddle across the sky. The wind picks up, and directly above him, he hears the hybrid caw and sob of the raven, which turns his eyes skyward to see the raven outsretch his ebony wings and propel forward into air and at the same time drop white steamy liquid in one long tendril, the wieght of the liquid, moving with gravirty, dancing, forming into another rope, into 3 different ropes of white , millimeters from each other, like stark white stalctites aimed at his forehead but instead of driving into his skull, piercing his grief wracked grey matter , the ravens gifts splatter at once on the poor mans forehead, splattering him in white. The sobbing of the crow slowly disappears as it sails over the treeline toward the beautifulKolyma region. Gone. But, there ! Do you hear that? Sobbing. On all trees are ravens, all with beaks open, their variegated plaints and dirges wafting over the air, over the tableau of death. There is work to be done. And then the more important work: waking from this nightmare. Wails rent the air...and then sobs. Corvids are known to be almost perfect imitators. They mimic toilets flushing, machine guns, motors, cats, dogs, Chinese, thunder, water running, anything and everything.
As if paying their respects some of the assembled corvids: crows and ravens began to whistle Chopins funeral march. Duh, duh, duh...while others quietly sobbed. The effect was unsettling to say the least. Our hero walked to the shovel and began digging right where the ashes of his bed used to be. While digging, halfway through, he realized burying the dead in the ground was very un-Chukchi, but very very Russian. He looked at the half burned bodies of his parents. There lay his Chukchi father, his arms gone. face a charcoal mask. And, lying next to him, on top of his disappeared arm, is his Russian mother. Amazingly her body was intact. Her skin looked fresh, her face sooted but content . Her cheeks almost shone. He bent down to gaze more at her brilliant skin. Why wasn't she burnt like his father?Perhpas she was gone when the fire started and lay with him afterwards? This is too much, he thought. The corvids flew from their perch to the ground . Hundreds of them, crows and ravens looking askance, walking jerkily among the dead reindeer without touching any of the flesh. He went to caress his dear mothers cheek, yet when his fingers made contact with her skin her entire body collapsed into ashes.
What is to be thought in such moments? he stared, of course he stared. At where his mother once lay and where his fathers corpse was. The corvids flew off, disappearing into the sky, dots on the horizon.All, except one, which lay rolling on its back in an anthill, a white mask over its face. Dizzy, vertigionous, fazed, awkward, he stood directionless. What to do?Where to go?
and the crow, it said somethig, what?did it really say this?no.Yes. Mosk-va! Mosk-Va!
And, without knowing exactly why he placed one foot in front of the other , walking towards another world, another place, towards Moscva.

Pisdets!He whispered.

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Jose, Can You See the Man with the Dildo

Jose , can you see the man with the dildo

You git off the Q line at Brighton Beach and walk into Little Odessa , your ocular videocamera pans everwhere, panoptic, panorama, soak it in, be the bread, this is the vodka:Cyrillic signs, women selling piroski, dubious men selling pirated dvd’s of movies still in the theatre, people here have different genes.You are not in New York any more.According to Vitali Vialiev,"Spiritually, linguistically and psychologically, Brighton Beach is not part of the USA. "We don’t go to America. We have nothing to do there," its residents like to say. An American, arriving there by accident, stands out and gets stared at - like an Eskimo in the streets of Abu Dhabi. (Brighton Beach, by Vitali Vitaliev,Travel Intelligence)

The men , for the most part, have thick lips and sad baggy eyes. Everyone seems tired and sad, but still theres a sarcastic smirk right below the surface. The women are stereotypes: huge, roly poly "babushkas", old women wobbling down the street, faces looking more like brown carved apples, bags in both hands, eyes darting from you to the street, half quizzical half nothing. Then, there are the Slavic beauties sashaying down the sidewalk, heels, high cheekbones, pursed lips. Young toughs standing, smoking, no neck, chains with Orthodox crosses, piercing you with a beating from their narrowed eyes.Kitschy Russian music wafting from restaurants, old men with grizzled faces, sitting on buckets, smoking, drinking tea with jam, playing chess in their ketchup stained Russian Navy tank tops. Trash is everywhere but noone pays it any mind. I don’t feel like I’m in America anymore. All around me is tangible evidence that I’m not. But, according to Russians, neither is this "like" Russia.
The buildings look older here, plaques are either in Rafi script or Cyrillic, Hebrew or Russian. Even the ice cream man is Russian. Nowhere else in America have I seen a non Hispanic icecream seller in a truck.
Cars slowly pass by, Russian men hanging out the windows, the Russian 50 Cent or Kelly Clarkson blaring from the speakers.
The boardwalk, though, is where it gets wierd. Its where good old American perversion meets the Old World. Hasids scurry past, holding up their skirts or pants, men with fistfulls of misplace fat wearing Speedos, their bellys swelling over, bitchtits sweating, spindly legs carrying the whole shebang down the promenade. They look impervious to my stares, my open mouth. Women, too, are wearing tiny bikinis when they should be wearing a tent. White cellulite hangs from arms, midsections,necks, derrieres,even ankles. Mullets thrive here. Lapdogs, too.Hang left at the boardwalk and you enter mostly Russians, go right and it’s mixed with African Americans, Hispanics and noise. Its dirtier, louder, drunker. Go left. Stay clear of the Americans. If you wanted Americana, you’d visit Omaha or Dallas. This is not your papas America and things will go from strange to whacked, from different to not too far from a David Lynch story.
On the beach, people are lolling, splayed. Burning themselves. Russians love to get brown.In addition to the Russians, the Ukrainians, the pasty Jews are Hispanics, Congolese, Cameroonians,Lebanese, etc. Spinsters with National Geographic physiques , conical bosoms and zip code hips, amble by, darker than a Maya. Men a million years old cruise by with walkers, nearly the hue of a walnut table or a Hottentot slattern. Young women, men, kids, even the shaved poodles have Hawaiian Tropics tanning lotion clinging to their skin like alive cellophane. There are alot of the white paper nose strips, there are sunglasses ala CHIPS on people who probably cannot see through their glaucoma. A man plays "If I were a Rich Man" on a violin, a kid races out of the ocean with a small crab cage, he measures it and throws it like a baseball back to the fourfeet of water. A man sits in a canvas white kilt, his belly gently laying on top of it, he rests on one arm, like a girl posing, only he is not a girl, nor a boy, he is close to 60, he is nondescript, except for this white kilt . He is looking around, as if he is waiting for some one, suddenly he lifts his leg to reveal a 14 inch black strap-on. It bounces and points towards me. I can’t believe it. Not 20 feet away are 2 women, early 20’s, kicking a ball with all the concentration of a couple of ADD posterchildren, theyre not so much kicking a ball as displaying their wares, they kick with outstretched legs and, as they do so they look at a group of muscled men, to see if theyre looking. Theyre not. Oh, but the man with the white kilt is. He smiles. He lifts his leg, I can see the silhouette of his faux equine cock. The girls startle and stop kicking. They whisper in each others ears and look back at freakboy. He is all smiles and opens his leg for a wider shot. This isnt just your average American exhibitionism, no, this is whacked. This is too European, too artsy, too staged. Eventually, he becomes bored flashing his faux member or he has another beach to haunt, either way he leaves, with a strange leer spread across his face.I’m reminded of the passage in Neil Simons, Brighton Beach Memoirs, where the character, Eugene Morris says:

Seems like Brighton has always been a little twisted. Yep. Twisted.

Notes on the Austro-Hungarian Empire, or dessert in a cupboard

scrambled thoughts on dessert in a cupboard

Johann Straus number 2 was the most famous musician of his time; he was, in a sense, the Michael Jackson of his era, no, thats not right, he wasnt black, fucking whacked out, a pedophile, melanin confused, the definition of batshit crazy, no , ok, Strauss numero deuce was like, well, he was like noone today, celebrity was different then.Examples are aplenty if ye need them.The cult of celebrity that we are all members of, to some extent, didnt exist then.... in a time of European intellectuals and artists delving into their pauper, peasant roots, Strauss was no different, taking the folk songs of the Austrian and Hungarian peasants and re-tooling them into classical music; though,his music proved to be immensely popular . Very popular. His waltzes and marches had the world humming. The music of a dying epoch, a diseased empire. Vienna at this time was abuzz, indeed all of Austria-Hungary swooned and reeled with artistic eruption. But, at the edges of empire, disparate groups sought independence and/or a new society.
Serbian nationalists, Croat patriots, Magyar neo-Huns, communists,socialists,anarchists,pan -Teutons, jihadists, Czech nationalists,Italian supremacists,Pan -Slavists, Zionists,etc,et al.....out of this ethnic and political goulash came great ideas(Jung,Freud,...) foul aberrations(Hitler,Anton Pavic, the Ustasha, the Hungarian Iron Guard) music(Strauss' all, Brahms, )writers galore---Felix Salten(he, of Bambi and soft porn fame, Joseph Roth, Musil, Karl Kraus, Geza Csath, Jan Neruda, Strindberg, Krleza, and art: Klimt, Kokoshka, and others, Egon Schiele, Adler, Martin Buber, Schnitzler, Ferdinand Porsche, PEZ(Haule , I think he was who invented PEZ), KAFKA!!!, Max Brod, Hrabal, Herzl, the list is exhaustive...coffee, the best absinthe, dances, pomp and more pomp and circumstances beyond ones wildest imaginations---well, perhaps not Freuds or Jungs.
And, before the attentat by Gavrilo Princip on the fateful day in Sarajevo was a decision by the deranged archduke(no capitals,please)to commit suicide by disregarding the advice of his closest aides and military advisers. Instead of hundreds of bodyguards in a place where most of the citizens wanted you dead,for one reason or another, the good archduke brought under a dozen men and his wife.. To a region newly captured,that had just thrown off the Ottoman Empire after 500 years,a region teeming with revolutionary groups, with nationalistic groups, with every kind of violent person swarming with other violent persons the gaudy archduke paraded in an open motorcade before pissed off Muslims, wrathful Serbs,mad anarchists, zealous communists, Slovene patriots under the influence of one too many cappucinos; nine assasins lost their nerve when the first assassin, regaining it , attacked...firing five shots, hitting Franz Ferdinand in the jugular and Duchess Sophie in the tum-tum.The surprise is that everyone was surprised.I think, more than anything, Europe was saddened that its best dressed, youngest, most melodic Empire was now dead. Kaput. The song was over. The end . The ornate, gilded dancehall was silent as a tomb.As Eddie Izzard says, it all ended with the flair of a sunken flan in a cupboard. Only this flan, turned into World War 1. The brocaded, mustached Empire of Austria- Hungary had disintegrated and it took Europe down with it.

New York is next to Sierra Leone

new york is another country Fellini said NYC was like a huge spacecraft with reps from all social strata, color,creed...then shook up and its denizens released:, dazed and mad.this is New York sayeth Frederico Fellini. Another artiste, this one a Spanish wordsmith , Lorca, says this: New York is something awful,something monstrous.I like to walk the streets, lost, but I recognize that New York is the world's greatest lie.New York is Senegal with machines. It is a different country.Bored and angry, bored with being angry ,angry at being bored...this is the common facial expression, the attitude of all and sundry.If somebody does show emotion, one has to assume their cheese has slipped off their cracker or they're new, like me.New Yorkers are devoid of human qualities. They don't react.They seem "tough" to some naive Americans and Euros but, in reality, it is all fluff. They seem brash, brazen, bulls in a china shop who never quite break anything. Its this action that is stillborn in a facade that is New York. Yet, I love the fact that I could be killed by a car driven by a person who cannot utter an understandable sentence in any form of English---not even a pidgin, a creole a patois a slang riddled syllabic sewer ...no, they speak in Pashtoon, Manx Gaelic, a Siberian neolithic Turkic language spoken by humans with four tongues . They stand on subway platforms and no one, not one person will notice say, a Linda Blair spazzin out, a rape, an alien invasion or a stampede of butterflies with diaphanous wings laced with turqouise veins...but, theyd notice money. growing from the cracked sidewalk...so strange how all the Diasporas here meld into the attitude I've just described.A cab driver from Amman, Jordan, nonchalantly missing a semi by a nano-inch, casually describes Bedouin relations with Circassians; the Galway bartender with eyes lacking life, muttering about his wifes recent heart attack, his eyes looking aquatic, slightly filmy,milky. The barber f. Cote d'Voire who smokes like an ebony Jack Nicholson constantly contemplating suicide in his slow monotone French accent. It's the ones who exhibit life, who smile , who nod, who jump...these are the recent arrivals, the ones not"cool" not New York yet....New York hasnt levelled their zest, their inner Zorba and/or Dionysius...these are the barbarians,still all beating heart and elan..... Brendan Behan said he loved New York because its the place hed least likely get bit by a goat. He loved this joint for what it didnt have.Likewise, I like the fact I will never get poison oak or ivy,leprosy perhaps ,ok, but never attacked by a puma...just a man in Pumas. Some Columbian academians the other day strolled thru the park pointing and causing a brouhaha over what they deemed a peacock(a female turkey).Cute. Funny, that a hundred years ago and theyd probably all know the diff. twixt a cow and sheep, hay bales and a pile of worthless grass.Ah, but then history and industrialization happened with a mechanical thud and they migrated to the urban areas., to the Bostons, the Philadelphias, the one and only New York...abandoning the pastoral, the bucolic, the natural for the manmade, the pandemonium, the thyroidal bee hive called Gotham. Am I bitter?No. Frazzled? A tad. Fate has thrown me into this spaceship and I'm only now beginning to acclimate myself to the frenzy. Give me a week and I'll be bored and angry with it all. Or, more likely buying a ticket to Senegal.

Posted by Chukchi at 1:40 AM 0 comments

Possessed by Lenin

Possessed by Lenin

So, she tells me she just returned from an Orthodox monastery in Ukraine where she and her sister looked for some kind of help with a lil' problem.Nothing major, nothing out of the ordinary, just her sister is possessed by V.I. Lenins spirit.Maybe it is a job related injury---she is a medium.Things like this happen to mediums. Lenin is not a good spirit to be possessed by. Let me diminish his smarts: He was not intelligient, reading, university doesnt make one smart, on the contrary, its an expensive conformity. I know of nary a plumber , logger or farmer who have started wars.No, its always, the college educated. Germany, prior to Hitlers rise to power, although mired in penury and inflation, occassional bouts of cannibalism, rampant prostitution to make ends meet, suicide en masse etc..., Germany had one of the most educated populations in Europe and the world.Yet, Bach,Beethoven, Goethe and Rilke and Franz Kafka , Kant and Schopenhauer meant as much as one of Adolphs butt cheeks. Their education meant nada.Some of the most astute, sagacious people I have met were uneducated at university.Nietzche was right: we do need to destroy all the books, all the profs, all the schools and start over.Decorum, protocol are offal from the educated. I'm all for civility but not for the sake of human lives.Being civil in the face of gross inhumanity is akin to co-authoring said inhumanity, right?Right. Example:Sudan.All the so called pacifists make excuses to not get involved.Governments make hollow declarations, threats defanged.The U.N. is all smoke and mirrors and handshakes and kowtowing to fascist Islamic heads of state.Bottom line. And, still people die.As they have since '83, '99, fill in the blank, maybe nobody really wants to get involved to save Negroes.Look at Rwanda.South Africa was able to exist for decades.Whats needed is a goddamned united front against bullshit.Someone needs to get possessed by Churchhill and whip some Muslim ass.Invade Sudan right now.The worlds leaders need an exorcism. Seems as though theyve been possessed by the spirit of the middle class, the "safe" caste, the cadre of "dont' upset people, don't get involved"
A shame. Goddamn, let the spirits of Crazy Horse, Michael Collins and Richard-the-lion-hearted possess me!!!Pizdets.I'd bomb Khartoum in nanoseconds.And Paris, for shits and giggles.
Back to the Ukraine: So, she and her sister were blessed by Orthodox monks after a rough nights sleep on concrete with dish cloths for blankets.And Lenin. Apparently, he is rude. He just interrupts.No hour is safe, no place is holy. I asked if the voice showed any sign of feebleness, retardation,illnesss. "Oh, Bozhoi moi, God no, very bright and quick", she said. Strange. Because a year before he croaked, Lenin had suffered a couple strokes and was rendered a second grader..a lil better than a mo-mo, a tard..Which would make her sisters possession more strange.I'm wondering how did Vlad get better. And, why this middle aged woman from Russia?Why not talk to a peasant?Zuganov?A hedgehog?a Berkely hippy with a stuttering problem who carries a rotten leek for good luck?
Baffling. No exorcisms occurred there in the monastery. The women left and paid for their visit in a most proletarian manner: with a Visa.

Posted by Chukchi at 1:43 AM 0 comments

Venus febriculusa

006

I love the smell of Venus febriculosa in the morning My mind is again caffeinated and racing, a hooligan mob darting from a burned out car to the police, from one thought to another and, yet, in my mind these thoughts all have an umbilical cord tethering them to the same mater/pater: theyre all familial...siblings..Yes, born of my grey matter(which, by the way, does look like a horrific nest of grey vulvae), my thoughts now seek independance and run off on their own or together sewing mayhem and sowing oats to produce tada! more thoughts.here, let me capture some of the buggers and tell you what I see:Oh, ho,ho!Surprise, surprise:They all have the same look,carbon copys of one another,the same wickedly gleeful look,and these thoughts convince me that I' am thinking of Venus febriculosa,aka, cunnilingus.Now sex.Sex in general.Am I a sex fiend?A maniac?A satyrnalian?I do not know.All of my life I have been captured by the thought of women(did i steal this line from Pasternaks poem?)I have been a devotee of their winsomeness, their foreignness,curves,smells.I tried the gay thing and it didn't work.I felt too much like Narcissus.At the tender age of six I did things with a girl my own age that most six year olds do not do.I'll only say this involved tongues, insertions and a peculiar frisson at the whole affair.From fifteen to I -do- not- recall I had many lovers, more lovers than people that live in some Icelandic villages.Over 100,over 200. And, we may stop here.We will.I have always had this lust for more and more sex.Insatiable.never satisfied.In the past this lust was characterized by the desire for all women.Since my first marriage(25-30)it is a lust for more sex with the same woman.Only, I had never had a woman who could keep up, alas I became a serial monogamist.Until now.You'd think that after 35-40 times in five days I'd be satisfied.Oh, but no, I want more.Just her.Yet,my body feels cartoonish: this fiendishly prolonged horniness won't go away.Do i need a goddamned hobby?More exercise?A shrink?I have read everything on the net about sexual addiction.I'am not a sex addict.(I can hear the hackneyed slogan,"Denial is not a river in Egypt.")I'am not denying anything.I just think I was born with too much, a surplus if you will, of testosterone.An average day masturbating: 5-10, once I onanized myself 12 times.I love sex.And, trust me, it is not about the end result, the liberation of France, the explosion, the bellowing like an Angus steer followed by copius amounts of silvery D.N.A strewn onto a pale stomach to resemble a very shiny archipelago.No, it is the work before that interests me.The cessation of time and space outside of the lovemaking, the fucking, the whatever you want to call it, has never been lost to me.It baffles me.This act, on one hand so beautiful, on the other, so ridiculous.I will admit that a huge part of my fascination with the Ol' In -Out In- Out is watching the other squirm and shriek like a victim in Butryki Prison.I love watching them cum.I really enjoy this.Much more than listening to Chopin, eating cajun food, playing rugby, boxing, reading, writing. And the taste of women!Jesus !The closed fist of her sex.You teasing it to open.Its becoming swollen and wet,a moving orchid.The lubricity, tightness,tartness and musk.So animal.So mammal.So godlike.Human.I think philosophers would not have been philosophers had they shagged more often than ,oh, once every lifetime.Nietzche looked beyond horny.Kierkegaard was virtually a monk.And, not just the existentialists.The whole lot of them, especially the venerable Professor from Tubingen:Kant Herr Kant needed her cunt..you get the picture---although the picture of Kant bumping uglies with anyone is nauseating--- This thought is haunting me like a bipolar poltergeist with seperation anxiety.Egads.The lot of them:Spinoza, Hegel,Hume,Berkeley,...oh, Richard stop.Marx in a threeway with Engels and Kant and perhaps some Bavarian slatterns,some opium,Munchen lager,apertifs of moans in that oh so romantic German tongue. No, it didnt happen, thus we now have Das Kapital.And, London has the Teutonic hippys bones.Of course they had sex.Maybe not enough.Maybe just the generic kind:where you just go at sex like you go at a pizza:laborious,mechanical,boring.Of course I've never had sex like this,i have been with women and men who prefered sex like this but a good roughing up usually dredged them out of the doldrums, recued them from their malaise,oh, God!Why do i compare and contrast women?Am i grading cattle?No, it is human to do so, right?i mean everyones been with a person who wasnt a virgin, yet lay there like a mummified Aztec behind glass,everyones been with that special someone who, honestly, if they left your horny ass, you could have had more fun with a hatchet, 17 dead snakes, a worn copy of anything by any Bronte sister and a jug of lukewarm water in a graveyard .Right?Right.Then, you have those doozies.They fuck .As if they were bred to fuck.Later, you are with someone better and you realize , no, you were just horny.This new person is actually good, then you meet the best.The one .Her.Or him.Time goes by, youre with more Aztecs, more pizzas, another wow!, then, you meet the deity, the demigod of sex.everything she does is holy.Her resilience is otherworldly.Her stamina frightens; yet, is matched thrust for thrust,moan for moan.You've found each other and you get married. I think this blog is a warm up exercise for my ACTUAL writing Sex.The joyous, galloping union of phallus and lacuna, cock and cunt, saliva and sweat, pan-optic eyes and verbiage being sexy or even bizarre(Once, a Palestinian woman ,while in the act, she on all fours, smoking a joint, in between puffs decides to tell me that ,"...last week I spoke to Satan in an alleyway behind my club."--what?I asked.She then repeats this inanity.needless to say I lost my appetite...which is in marked contrast with my early years when women said even more bizarre things and it seemed as though these outrageous asides brought on orgasm quicker,why the change I do not know) Sex.I'm sorta going in and out of subject.So, yes, finally i have found someone to keep up with me.At the expense of sleep, victuals,entertainment,the outside world,cinema,etc.. we do it constantly.24/7, or 24/5 rather.24/6.And, as I age I find that intelligant conversation stimulates me, that fetid piffle , dismal drivel always makes me flaccid.Lately, the conversation has been at 11.The best.Ergo, the sex is also at ...11.and, they feed on each other, dual parasitism.Like us.She tells of her experiences I become aroused, she talks and gets misty eyed and again: arousal.Ad infinitum.Talk, talk, talk....that old aphrodisiac, the salacious quality of gab.I'm in need of a cold shower now.

On why cannibalizing hippys sounds good

On Why I Suddenly Feel Like eating human flesh

On why I suddenly feel like cannibalizing dirty hippys....

My first day in Dantes seventh layer of Hell. I've decided to quit smoking, yet cannot remember the reason why.My neurons are exploding each nanosecond,every pore is agape and shrieking.My body chemsitry is experiencing a physiological Bolshevik Revolution.Dopamine levels have plummetted.Insulin is not being suppressed.Adrenalin levels are seeking balance.No, its much worse than that.This first day without nicotine is like 400,000 Mongols are running amok inside me,it is the entire Wehrmacht in my veins,a million cellular Mansons --- I'am your own personal Chernobyl.I'am confused and spacy.I feel like I have Downs Syndrome, Alzheimers,Parkinsons,A.D.D. and the severest case of Tourettes .Fuckingoddamnhalfwitmotherfucker has become my favorite word.I want strangers to know what I want....ten minutes ago.I want friends to leave---only, after theyre gone I want them to come back.Then, leave again.I've cleaned the house and messed it up again.I'am a 200 pound hamster created by Phillip Morris and my choices.23 years of gagging,hacking,coughing,sputtering,spewing up all manner of dead creatures,of being fatigued,winded,smelling like a Third World toilet.

I want to kill something large.Ants wont do.Birds dont have enough blood.I want to annhilate a herd of wildebeest.I want Arma-fucken-geddon.

I want a cave.I want T.N.T .I want planes loaded with bombs.I want eject,rewind,pause.Fuckin Spice Girls....yeah, I tell ya what I really really want:

I want a goddamned cigarette.A Gaulloises,perhaps?Sure,times 20.A Marlboro,Camel,Kamel,Winston,Woodbine,Sherman,Raleigh et al

generic Arapaho reservation -made fags...I dont care.A cigarette butt.Anything.A nice cigarette and cigar boullaibaise.Distilled Turkish Specials clam sauce over tobacco fettucine; A Winston Light pizza.A fresh pack of smokes,unopened,you stare at it like its your lover and its been many moons since youve done this,you start by kissing the object of your desire,oh yes, then undo ,unwrap make naked,then part,opening the insides and unlike coitus,your first motion is to pull out(do not "pierce"the cigarette,I tell you it will not work),then fire,then that initial inhalation:Nicotine like the angel of Life to every famished cell.Nicotine: a cross between the philanthropy of Mother Teresa and a bucket full of orgasms.

.I'm chewing gum.Trident. I hate gum and people who chew it.Even if gum tasted like Sapphire gin or Glenfiddich it'd still look moronic. Each chew brings up visions of cattle masticulating their cuds:Looking vapid,retarded,so uncool,so anti-James Dean.Its how I feel at this moment:Half momo, half psychotic.I sit here shaking my knees ,chewing ferociously,dreaming of sexy paleskinned cigarettes.Oh, but theyre sirens.They mean harm.This is where I'm supposed to ask to be tied to the mast,right?

This goddamned gum tastes like Barbie hair.My house smells like a bar.A gaggle of hippies trudge down the street:smoking .I will mug them for a cigarette.It all makes sense now.I will eat their nicotine laden veins ,I will scrape the tar from their frazzled lungs with a clam shell,boil it down and shoot it into my spasming circulatory system.Theyre going down, every Medusa headed ,bongo beating organatron will perish;afterwards,basking in post-nicotine ingestion bliss I will wash their vegan and patchoili blood from my hands,dry it,cook it and snort it in lines resembling a topographic rendition of the Andes. Oh, yeah.But, first...first I have to remember how to tie my shoes.

Posted by Chukchi at 1:46 AM 0 comments Links to this post