i hold weed but i ain't smoking. not tonight. i feel good enough to drink. that's as far as i'll push the motherfucker. four thousand years ago i filled a pint jar with absolut and ice and got into this little white box and chit chat tip tippity tipsy type. now it is a classy glassy with a heavy bottom and frenchy vodka to the rim. it was to the rim. it was to the rim several times. i tried to clean my glasses but managed to smear them further. i either just broke them or the ice cracked. i've been gone. went up north for a spell. lived in berkeley for a couple days. the opportunities to jerk off were few and unacted upon. so when i got home today my prostate was aching for a little spring cleaning. clearly. and don't forget, i typically jerk off more now, at thirtytwo, than you did when you were seventeen. it's just a fact of the universe. god granted me this absurd libido and a supple wrist. regardless, i get home and grab the come towel and take off my shirt and get to work. masturbation is like getting stoned. you do it every day and it is ample, but when you take a week off you kind of remember how it used to be. whenever that was that i didn't jerk off multiple times every day. ok, so you realize how it could be. so there i am, realizing how it could be. i realize how it could be all over the place. i am typically pretty good at mitigating the after effects. i rarely even nail my navel anymore, much less stain something or launch and lose track. today i thought i was controling the landing zone. i really did. i mean, i expected a little extra product, but in the back of my mind i was reigning it in and laying it down on my abdomen. so i thought. when i opened my eyes and cleared the fog i realized i had dickdrool on my good "out in public" shorts, on my black pima cotton boxer briefs, filling my navel. i mopped up best i could with the come towel. used a corner to soak out the goo in my belly goblet. changed out of the shorts and pulled on my red and white striped camp pants. for the next few hours i'm scratching dried spoat from various regions of my torso. are you still with me? who the fuck would keep reading through that. i'm gambling here, but i'm going to say no one. slipshod the organist bounced our rhythm, a failing heart, our mouths wide open and gathering rain. a constant pattern, rain the spill and patter, rain the inconsistent constant the will and our rhythm, a failing heart, and yet constrained we can pull and placate and insist that nothing is natural, nothing is in sync with a failing heart. i dreamt of bondage, bare sun and clear desert sky a dry heart gasp, clatter dry bone on dry wood. bondage, bare chest upwards sun perfectly aligned through two trees gapped and window glass and a door just cracked. i said all that, lord help me please, lord help me now the lord leaned in close and whispered that nothing is natural, nothing is in sync with a failing heart. LOLOLOLOL!!!!!!!111! we were adrift on the withering sea, she and i. the waters a flat, dull lie holding tightly deep and hidden currents. our raft moved as steadily as a sled pulled over ice by invisible horses. the sun set and rose and set again. the wreck of the great ship that had stood like an island on the horizon disappeared into the stars. the sun rose. "i need to make a call," she said. she was blonde that morning, with tight curls under her pale pink bonnet. her dress was impeccably clean, delicately embroidered, and embellished with snow white lace and deep red satin ribbon. she held her parasol aloft, obscuring her pale breasts from the sun. "you and i both," i said. "they must miss me at the office." the image of my stale, grey walled cubicle soaked into my mind. the red light of my desk phone lit to indicate waiting voicemail. in the lower right corner of the monitor the ghost of an incoming email appeared and faded away. i reached with a single finger to activate the speakerphone. "what are you doing?" she asked, her voice hollow and tinny with electrical transmission. i lifted the handset to take the personal call. "please stop," she said, her breath moist on my ear. "have you accepted that we might die?" i asked, my lips moving in soft flesh between her breasts. i opened my eyes and peered into the dim cave of her cleavage. her arm circled my shoulder, her fingers running up through my shipwrecked locks. "please," she said. her hand closed, claimed a fistful of my hair. my head jerked back with her fist, my neck oddly stretched. i gasped. her eyes were pale green and demon shaped. woman shaped. i had lost all perspective. she licked my throat cat-like and then threw me bodily backwards. "i was overcome," i said. "there is nothing you should say now," she said. "i didn't know where i was," i said. "you should be silent," she said. "i was confused," i said. "before you make it worse," she said. the sun set suddenly. the moon shone its slightest milkwhite edge. her face darkened. her eyes glinted ruby red. her dress inexplicitly gone, her starlit skin shimmered like abalone shell. the bush between her legs growled at me. "i would like a gin and tonic," she said. "a bourbon, neat," i said. "two shots of aguardiente," she said. "and a pint of local lager." "i'll have what she's having," i said. the bartender nodded silently and turned his back to us. i could see the starlight glitter on bottles through the gaps in the bones of his ribcage. "i wish you would take me home," she said. she was wearing an apron, once white but now nearly completely smeared with paints of all colors. as she leaned towards me one breast slipped from behind the apron, the nipple sliding stiffly over my bare arm. "to bed?" i asked. "surely not!" she said, sitting rigidly upright, a taut jawed shock filling her face. "what would our mother say?" the bartender slid four shot glasses in front of us with skeletal fingers. the liquor poured from the sky as rain. "we are out of beer," he said. "four dollars." i slipped my hand into my abdomen and extracted my pancreas, slipping it across the bar. the register bell dinged and the drawer slid out with a crack. the bartender deposited the pancreas and dropped a fingertip, black with rot, in front of me. i rapped on the wood with my knuckle and the bartender dipped his skull mildly. "this is going to get us nowhere," i said, turning to her. she tilted her head back and poured one shot after another down her throat. her hair had gone straight and black and shined in the wet neon night. "we should go there," she said. she pointed up through the crowded street and into the distance. "the castle?" i asked. "no," she said. "further." "the mountain?" i asked. "further," she said. "the ocean?" i asked. "the ocean," she said. "the withering sea." i woke with the sun red on the lids of my eyes. i did not open my eyes. my chapped lips tasted of salt and iron. my head was cradled in her lap, in the soft fabric of her dress. her hands traced lines through my hair. i tired to return to sleep, to dream of a soft childhood and my mother's arms. i tried to let my mind drift and delude, to the safety of ignorance, of innocence, of first principals and unbounded possibilities. i opened my eyes to the furious sun. i was alone on the raft. i was adrift on the withering sea. the waters a flat, dull lie. i was adrift, alone, and too afraid to swim. that's a metaphor for assex. i've drank nearly one bottle of grey goose. the ice supply is holding. i want to live in a neighborhood surrounded by intensely creative and intelligent people. quickly, someone recommend a city. i am tired of dull and vapid people. i may start a campaign of highly abstract craigslist personals. 'stricktlee platonic'. i'm all about strikty platonic at the moment. sex has become an obstacle. i don't need it right now. i have no need to procreate. god has given me a supremely supple wrist. don't make me go into that again. what is the white shit in the bottom of my glass? impurities in the ice? fucking goddamnit, impure ice. it can't be comething percipitating out of the vodka, can it be? i responded to one of those platonic ads in craigslist the other day. the other week. maybe early last month. i think i wrote about a thousand words. i got no response and the ad was promptly deleted. sometimes i feel like too many people can't take this shit i got. fuckem. though if i had a lighter hand maybe i could sneak in and allow some folks the freedom to come to different conclusions. right now i have a sledgehammer in one hand, and that is just a diversion to distract from the i-beam on chains that is swinging in. does that make sense? why the fuck should it. never again am i buying this l'orange vodka. l'gug. i should go back to polish vodka. i should probably not go back to any of it. this is an exception to a rule. just a little break in the normal routine so i can coredump my brain and pick through it tomorrow. this little white box is the perfect place to corrupt my execution and spill the state of the nate. that reminds me, fuckem. i better drink some water. i'm too old for this shit. ha. i want to go talk to nate of four thousand years ago. he'd kick me in the nuts and call me a fucking pussy. over the weekend i ate some particularly potent mushrooms and wandered around the woods with my camera. i have several hundred pictures that i took of the wind. how the fuck do you take pictures of the wind? i think i may have pulled it off. i'm waiting for them to offload from the temporary storage device. i'll have to investigate tomorrow. the platonic ads on craigsliss are sometimes very specific activities that someone is seeksing a partner for. sunbathing partner. hiking partner. swimming parter (who sucks at swimming). i need to think of some specific things. i want a pladonic partner to read james joyce with. m4w. got to keep the possibility open that leopold may induce hardcore horsefucking. i'm never going to read ulyseeees unless some person is out there setting the pace or looking at me to set the pace or otherwise being an external motivator. plus, coversations and some coffee here and there. latte and adultery. horsefucking. you understand? i want a platonic partner who likes attention, walks, and photographic art. i want to wander around with a roving model. m4mw. i don't care. i haven't fucked any of my models yet, i don't need to start now. not even the naked ones, mabel. i want a platnoiuc partner who will read some fucked up verse of mine and wnat to talk to me.l that just sounds sand. ] sad. killed it. the ice supply held. i'm going to pass on the bourbon. my ancient liver is crying for the universal solvent. i had a mole burrito for dinner. it was the size of a small child. or, at least, larger than a guinea pig if you're not into that hyperbole thing. it was fucking big. and full of delicioius delicious pork. mom said "they fry their carnitas here" i said "carnitas is supposed to be fried" mom said "it isn't always" i said "then it isn't always carnitas" mom jumps when someone slams a cardoor. for lunh i had a large caesar salad with roast chicken breast and white anchovies. for breakfast an asiago bagel with creamcheese. for dinner prior a carnitas burrito from gordos on college ave in berkeley. for lunch prior something something. for breakfast prior a bran muffin and al atte. for dinner prior prior no idea. how delightfully exciting. moribund posting. tick tick tick. gasp.

cheers, nate.

god damn, nate.

Speechless.

saw a man die today. we went out to north salmon creek beach in the early evening. brought sky rockets and sandwich components and kites and everything necessary for a successful bonfire. we sat on a log, made and ate sandwiches, drank beer. salmon creek curves into a brackish, warm lagoon. when we arrived at the beach the tide was out sufficiently so that a sandbar of beach separated the ocean from the lagoon. children played in the protected water. a large family huddled on its bank under a green and white striped umbrella. we built our kites and stood in the declining sun and held kite strings and beer bottles. from the parking lot there is a narrow footpath down the side of the cliff to the beach. i watched a latino family make their way down the path: man, women, children. i became aware that one of the women has become red faced and pointing. she was screaming something, pointing down into the lagoon. the man looked up at her and froze. she kept screaming, pointing. out in the lagoon i saw a person in a white tank top standing in the middle of the water. i saw children playing along the banks. i looked back at the screaming woman. the man was looking out over the lagoon. then he broke into a run. the woman was screaming “he is drowning he is drowning hurry.” suddenly there were people running into the lagoon from all sides. the person in the white tank top stood motionless. about twenty feet from the person was another shape, face down and floating. someone reached the shape, someone pulled the shape to shore. there was a lull then. we pulled the kites in and sat on the log and watched. and then there was frantic motion. three people ran back into the lagoon and began diving, searching. eventually they pulled out a larger shape. a man in a white tshirt. they laid him on the sand and someone started chest compressions. the ranger came ten minutes later, jogged around the lagoon with a large red emergency pack on his back. he took over the chest compressions. he talked into his shoulder pinned radio. i heard distant sirens. i watched a line of emergency vehicles drive the road to south salmon creek beach. i watched them drive back to highway one. the ranger continued with chest compressions. chest compressions on a dead man. a coast guard vessel came bouncing up the surf line and proceeded to pace back and forth just off shore. the ranger continued with chest compressions. paramedics, sheriff’s deputies, and firemen arrived on the beach and jogged around the lagoon. the sun set into the ocean. the air turned into a pink mist. a red reach helicopter circled several times. a sheriff’s deputy cleared a space on the beach. the helicopter landed in a soft cloud of sand. men in white helmets jumped out and joined the crowd of people. the chest compressions continued. another helicopter, a blue sheriff’s helicopter, made broad circles in the sky. people came off the beach, heading for the parking lot. those coming from the south end of the beach had no idea what was happening. they walked by us joking and laughing. a beach patrol truck pulled up twenty feet behind the crowd. a sheriff’s deputy led the family to the truck. the chest compressions stopped. they pulled a fluorescent yellow blanket over the man. a family of four walked by us. they struck up a conversation. i noticed the man’s wet shorts. he had been one of the ones in the water. the first one they pulled out, the daughter, was ok. it was her father who died. they walked away and we turned to each other and decided to go home.

...v cant do chest compressions,or mouth to mouth,so a 60 year old man died in my arms 3 years ago,even when the heart stops,the lungs keep going,,,then you piss youself,then shit yourself,and I still dont know resusititation,we all should.I did say a mass over him in perfect Latin,but its no consolation when your dead,is it?

it may be, v. you do not know. i was breathing hail marys and our fathers. there is something wrong with the way we have been conditioned by modern society. how uncomfortable sadness is among strangers, even when everyone is feeling it the same. perhaps it is desensitization through media overload. or maybe it is the media bringing every catastrophe to our tv screen. it is more than man can handle. i escape inside.

Nobody heard him, the dead man, But still he lay moaning: I was much further out than you thought And not waving but drowning. Poor chap, he always loved larking And now he's dead It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way, They said. Oh, no no no, it was too cold always (Still the dead one lay moaning) I was much too far out all my life And not waving but drowning. -Stevie Smith

the news

Nate, you are one heavy dude. I don't think the you of 4,000 years ago could cope.

i don't know, sem. maybe his coping mechanism would be to kick me in the balls. fucking four thousand year ago nate. what a rotten bastard.

Nate,your 03.09 a.m.,10 july posting is so true,to Joe Public,death only happens on t.v.,all though I found people are real kean to catch your last twitches on phone-cam,sick bastards.,hope I dont die in a public place.

maybe a wonderous public death would be an opportunity to possess fame without the consequences of fame.

Nate,now when it comes to a "wonderous public death",(and you cant do a lot in 30-60 seconds),rip your clothes off,then spread your arms and legs wide,as in the most famous sketch by Da Vinci,it is now used as an icon for culture the world over,unless you have a better idea.

methinks such a wonderous public death as you describe could quite possibly end civilization as we know it. given the pervasive internet, the video of my demise would certainly be viewed far and wide. and, upon seeing what can only be described as my third leg, the male half of the reproductive generation would be instantly rendered impotent with the jealous knowledge that the female half of the reproductive generation had just seen the schlong of a demigod. but that might be a good way for you to go?

Nate,well,uh,v still has a 2 foot cock,how about you?,,,and dont go telling me you got 2 and a half foot shlong.

no, i'm not sure how long it is. i've never measured. but i do wrap it around my waist a couple times before running it down my pant leg. it would suck to form a callous on the head of my cock from all the dragging.

...I use a wheelbarrow most of the time,cuts down the callous problem big time,and if some one remarks,I just tell them its a prize winning marrow im takeing to a show,how about you?

unfortunately, being a champion producer of squash, i am unable to use my wheelbarrow to carry my cock, as the wheelbarrow is constantly full of true, prize-winning marrow. as it is, i am occassionally used by the zoo to encourage the pythons and other serpents of the boidae family to mate. also, as a party trick, i use a quick snap of the wrist and a bit of rubber cement to snatch dollar bills from the lips of maidens standing across the room.

Are these posts edited or unedited?

well, speaking for my posts, i spent several hours carefully crafting the bits about my penis. other than that, i think it is white box in white box out.

GUYS,IF I MAY BUTT IN,GUYS FROM LITHUANIA HAVE THE BIGGEST COCKS IN THE WORLD.,ITS A WELL KNOWN FACT,ABSOLUTELY FUCKING HUGE,A SMALL ONE STARTS AT 24 INCHES.

i've never seen a cock so little in diameter, v. i feel sorry for lithuanian women.

I dated a lithuanian guy. I don't remember his cock being in any way memorable. I do remember he was a total mama's boy, but not necessarily penilely.

maybe his mama was holding his real cock for him.

I generally like sleeping with mamas' boys (if memory serves); they want to punish mommy for loving them too much by making it dirty, dirty, dirty. Tragically, this is not a sure thing.

I've heard, but can't confirm this, that Nate can type with his cock, whilst its tossed over his shoulder, that it is so sensative, his typing skills are excellent, and he needen't even go back and use the spellcheck. [this, of course, leaves his hands free for other activities]

oddly enough, my cock spells better than my fingers.

so you run everything you write through spellcock?

spoocheck

im searching for way into this but thus far nothing is presenting itself.

if you are patient, your probing will be rewarded.

...my spelling is shit,so as I say I use 3 dictionarys,most times,it comes out not so bad.

the last thing i remember clearly about last night is my ex standing in her doorway, drunkenly explaining what an asshole i am. now i am hung over and stupid, trying to choke down a pair of dry chicken breasts that i boiled in salty water. i am wandering robotically through the standard routine: water, vitamins, protein. the inevitable depression is full and thick, narrowing my vision, slowing my thoughts. raising paranoia and fear and despair darkly into the forefront of my worthless brain. my worthless fucking brain. i think the trouble began when the party went from the ex’s house to the bar. that is really just a guess, educated by the seconds of clouded memory i still possess. fresh air and exercise does wonders for my drunk. the rowdiness builds towards self destruction. i was buying drinks for anyone who would shoot tequila with me. beer like restaurant water, secretly refilling, challenging me to drink faster. i am a mean drunk. i am mean sober, but i am a really mean drunk. so, clearly, the ex knew what she was talking about. at least, about being insulting to some guy i can’t remember saying more than ten words to. pleasant words, early in the progression of things. he was a nice guy. boring. not someone i would talk to for long. except, later, apparently. maybe i wanted to punish him for being so uninteresting. in some sick way, i imagine i was making him interesting to me. nobody really remembers what i said to him. apparently it was sufficient to make this nice, vanilla boy flip me off whenever my back was turned. thank god, to my back. i would have gotten in his face, pushed him around, tried to get him to take a swing at me. i am a mean fucking drunk. this isn’t who i want to be anymore. this chicken is fucking awful. i’d stop eating it, but i need it. i need the protein to chase down the darkness. my ex tore into me fiercely from her doorway. the vanilla boy was somewhere inside, everyone else had left. she told me how horrible i was to him. i took what she said and then walked away. i didn’t have any idea what she was talking about, but it wasn’t a far stretch to accept that i had earned her venom. somewhere in me i don’t give a shit. i feel like people can choose to be around me or not. i like interesting people, but i’m not collecting friends like baseball cards. the people who can put up with me stick around. i’m not for everybody. i’m starting to question that. i’m starting to question all sorts of things. shit, i’m fucked today. i wish i could just write it all off.

you're always questioning all sorts of things. you always have, it's in your nature. hope you're feeling better today. i know all too well what the day after feels like, in your head, in your mind, behind your eyeballs, in your stomach, throat, and finger tips. your liver, nate, you should be careful with the mono and all. did you sprain it again? a friend's ex-fiance (btw, i loathe the word fiance) put himself in drunk camp for thirty days. this might be his second time there, if not third. my friend had to call off their wedding, because about a week before the wedding day, he had gone on a 3-day bender, after being in AA (or whatever) for several years. what she found out later was that he was also riding the rails and continued to do so almost a year after she broke off the wedding. he is a 40 year old man with two beautiful children that she loves. he was finishing his PhD in music and plays piano and cello and sings. he is bright and interesting and down to earth. she has a PhD in something called Human Computer Interactions. they are both funny as shit. they were going to be so happy together, she thought. she just got back from what was going to be their honeymoon. she went on with her (gay) best friend. this past weekend she went down to visit her ex at drunk camp. part of the therapy is to invite the people who have been hurt the most by the drinking and drugs to say what they went through, how they feel, how their lives were and are affected. seems to me, if that alone doesn't keep one sober, nothing will.

i hate the word fiance too. i try not to use it ever.

i've had to tell someone in recovery all the hurtful things that their drinking had done to me. what a shitty thing that is. i'm drunk maybe once a month, if that. it is only a problem when i'm in big groups.

ha! that is clearly bullshit. maybe i need to keep a better eye on this.

"ride the rails"? Is he a hobo?

ride the rails = snorting lines of cocain nate, i'm not suggesting you need rehab. far be it from me.

no, i know. i just don't want anyone to worry about me.

too late

it is really not as bad as this thread makes it sound. i don't drink every day. i rarely drink alone. when i do drink i usually don't go past a drink or two.

how many do you think we had that night we played poker at angry sams?