| THIS IS A READ-ONLY ARCHIVE FROM THE SORABJI.COM MESSAGE BOARDS (1995-2016). |
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| By Nate gazer on Thursday, February 19, 1998 - 09:48 pm: |
We, he and I, make a random course through sleeping residential neighborhoods. He is the brother of my long time girlfriend. I, myself, am me. The vehicle is my 1988 Honda Civic Hatchback, gold, CA Lic# 2DAS425. (Purchased in 1994 (used), 82,000 miles. Current: 128,000 miles. Replaced: 1985 VW Vanagon GL. Blue, dark blue stripe. My high school love machine, aka The Blue Box of Death (BBoD).) We enter a neighborhood under construction. Frame houses line barren streets, ne'er touched by street lamp. HE: You could fuck for days out here! I: You and I? HE: Eh, no. I: Ah! We could fuck for days out here! HE [voice lined with trepidation]: You and I? I: Eh, no, -we-. At which point his face grows pained with an ill look. Quickly, I search my brain for something that will remove his attention from current trains of thought. "I know," I said, "we could spotlight people fucking!" Attention immediately diverted, a smile imparts his face. Grabbing up the trusty maglight I keep wedged between my seats (for, uh, incase I need some light, or something,) he starts scanning the horizon with the greedy intent of a greedy and intent person. And we see our prey. At the end of a dead end street, flashing red against the white fence with steady rhythm; brakelights. I'm - getting - a - blowjob - and - tapping - my - foot - on - the - brake - pedal - brakelights. He raises the light. He flashes the car. I realize I am faceing los puercos. I take the first turn before the dead end. I am followed. Followed in that slow, annoying way a cop will follow you. He knows he's going to pull you over, you know he knows he's going to pull you over, he knows you know. It goes on and on. But the important thing is that everyone knows. I am pulled over. I am license and registrationed. I am asked to exit my vehicle. PIG: Are you carrying any weapons or drugs? I: Uh, I have a teargas canister in my jacket. [I reaches into his inside jacket pocket. PIG's hand now rests on the hilt of his .40 H&K] PIG: I'll get that for you! I: Oh, uh. Yeah, I forgot. PIG: You should watch Cops more often. [PIG laughs weakly as he takes the mace from my jacket.] PIG: Do you have a license for this? I: Uh, yes sir. It's in my wallet. PIG: Can you get that out for me? I: Oh, uh, I thought you would do it. [I takes his wallet out and removes the faded yellow license from it. PIG motions for the wallet to be placed on the hood of his cruiser, and takes the license from I.] I: The sheriff's deputy who issued this was named wade eubanks, isn't that wierd? PIG: Uh, yeah. Wierd. Do you have any drugs or weapons in the vehicle? I: Uh, no. PIG: Well, then would you mind if I searched the vehicle? I: Uh, yes I'd mind. PIG: So you have some drugs or weapons in the vehicle? I: Uh, no. PIG: So why is it a big deal if I search the vehicle? I: Uh, I don't know. I guess you can. And up rolls the backup. Enter Ken. Mild mannered and critically short. Add one spotlight to my little golden civic. Add two more testicles to the tally. Ken and PIG talk briefly. PIG walks to the guest side of my little golden civic to where He (my girlfriend's brother,) sill waits. Ken talks to me. I: How's it going? Ken: Uhmmm, could you close your eyes and tilt back your head? I: Uhmmmm, sure? [ I tilts back his head, closes his eyes. Ken takes his trusty pen light from his pocket and procedes to shine the light into I's nose. I's eyes snap open and he brings his head down.] I: What the ... ? Ken: TILT your head back and close your eyes. I: JEEEsus, ok, ok. Keep your dick in your pants. [ Ken shines more light up I's nose. For a short while, in fact. Just looking up I's nose.] Ken: Ok, so when's the last time you did any crank? I: I didn't do any crank. Ken: No, I don't mean today, I mean ever. When's the last time you snorted crank? I: I've never snorted crank. Ken: Oh. PIG returns with He, and we both sit on the cruiser's hood. Before the nimble pharmalogical detecting penlight of Ken. Sort of in a spotlight, too. And PIG goes to search the vehicle. Just like he said he would. Ken [to He]: Open your mouth. I: Don't do it man, just ask for your lawyer. [ Ken gives I a dirty look. He gives I a dirty look. He opens his mouth. ] Ken: Uhmmmm, looking kind of green in there, son. When's the last time you smoked pot? He [horrified]: I never smoke pot! I: Yeah, never. Ken [with dirty looks]: Well then, why is your tongue green? You been eating jolly ranchers? He: No... I, uh, I just had some coke. Ken: eh? He: ACOLA! CocaCola. Ken: Ah, Uhmmmm, I didn't think you meant cocaine. I: He just hoped. It's been a long shift. I was kind of being a prick, but I was pissed off. We hadn't even done anything wrong and these cops were dicking us around. I glance over to PIG's progress. Getting into the trunk. Black backpack. Black backpack. Uh, something I should be remembering here... uh, black backpack... Right! It seems that earlier this summer we had been doing a little creative filming. In that black backpack was some of the props we used. An old while ceramic Buddha (I think a drink came in it at Bennihana or something,) and in the hollowed out back of the Buddha a syringe, a bent spoon with sugar burnt on it, a tiny baggie of flour and a fistfull of green, plastic easter grass. I: Did I give him permission to search my trunk? Ken [suddenly very serious]: Are you revoking your permission to search the vehicle? I: Uh, I thought he had to ask before he could search the trunk. Ken: Are you revoking your permission to search the vehicle? [I glances at PIG, who has put the black backpack down and is pulling on rubber gloves.] I: Uh, no. Nevermind. PIG returns to the cruiser and drops the black backpack on the hood, pulling Ken off to behind a spotlight. I tell my girlfriend's brother that tonight might be interesting, and that if they take me away he needs to call my mom and have her call the lawyer. He looks like he wants to vomit. From behind the spotlight I hear "We gotta five him." and PIG comes through the beam, turns me about and handcuffs me. Suddenly I am washed with a realization that I have really done nothing wrong. At most I'm going to have to sit in a cell for a few hours while they test the sugar and flour in the back of Buddha. For the first time I could fully enjoy this process as a process, because I would not have the pain of knowing I had fucked up to hold me down. A broad smile crossed my face as I was slid into the (tiny, painfully plastic) backseat of the cruiser. Meanwhile, He, my girlfriend's brother, is frantically discussing something with the cops. They pull the syringe from bag, and pull the orange needle cap pokey protector thing off (revealing the fact that the needle had been broken off.) They look really closely at the sugar burnt on the spoon. They talk a bit. PIG comes over and pulls me from the car. He unlocks the handcuffs. PIG: We decided to be nice and let you go. I: Oh yeah, real fucking nice of you. Actually, that's not what I says. I goes on this whole speech about getting fucked over for doing nothing wrong. And then PIG stammers out "Well you should have been straight with me from the begining!" To which I replies with something that begins with "I was straight with you from the fucking beginning." But it is all rather stupid, recycled anti-establishment cops suck propaganda, that isn't worth repeating here. So that's it, PIG and Ken watched us take off. We turned a corner, got on a main street and floored it. I rolled down my window and let out a terrible scream. Truely a time when I gazed upon the face of the Boognish. |
| By Nate on Thursday, February 19, 1998 - 09:52 pm: |
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| By Spiracle on Thursday, February 19, 1998 - 10:49 pm: |
i should be studying though.. ya happy now?! |
| By HAL-1 on Friday, February 20, 1998 - 10:29 am: |
Hal2@mindless.com Hal-1 |
| By Kelsey_girl on Friday, February 20, 1998 - 02:23 pm: |
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| By Pete on Friday, February 20, 1998 - 02:38 pm: |
P.S. Did you ever notice how everyone always misspells weird as wierd? Wierd, isn't it, uh...I mean weird isn't it? |
| By N a t e on Saturday, February 21, 1998 - 05:51 pm: |
I had a world history/government teacher in highschool named Mrs. Weir. I told her that her name was a d short of accurate. She insisted that Weird was spelled Wierd. I didn't believe her, but for some reason after that I started spelling weird wrong a lot That and squirrel. I got it wrong on some inclass spelling bee type thing in 6th grade and was ridiculed by my peers. I only recently figured out how to spell the damn word. There is more to gazing upon the face of the Boognish than being in a tense situation and then getting out of it without a scratch. It has to do with the feeling of the event. The way the memories of it stay with you. Memories of emotions. The electric glow of the event. |
| By Jim on Sunday, February 22, 1998 - 02:54 am: |
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| By Nate on Sunday, February 22, 1998 - 06:00 am: |
I was on the corner of a residential street watching the breath from my lungs collect in wispy clouds as it condensed in the icy air. My attention was drifting momentarily, but suddenly it snapped back to the house in front of me, where three young women were carefully decorating the trees and bushes with America's favorite paper-product. Bathed in the semi-sureal yellow glow of a nearby streetlight the girls danced back and forth, scattering roll after roll of toilet paper with the air and poise of fairies. For a moment they lifted their feet from the ground, rising up in flight to ring the topmost branches of a tree with their double-quilted garland. At least, I saw that. In retrospect, I will admit that it was probably the half-dozen slightly stale dognuts I ahd purchased from the Safeway bakery and consumed minutes before on this quaint street corner. It was Safeway where this adventure began. It was about half past super-noon, and I was wandering through the many aisles of my latest Mecca with my trusty sidekick Toady. You see, our Safeway had just recently "reopened" from a massive expansion and remodling (I use "reopened" with prejudice, as they never went from the standard 24 hour per day service, they just suddenly erected banners that said "Grand Re-Opening!" while poluting the night with giant spotlights [an obvious ploy to summon Mothra, but that's a different story.] Anyway, my point is they "reopened" after never closing, which is stupit.) I am a firm believer in the expanded Supermarket environment. I like to play with weird produce. I like to squish the eyeballs of countless whole fish. I like looking at odd ethnic foods floating in odd liquids contained within odd jars whose labels look like they were designed in the 1950's. Most of all, however, I love picking up semi-fresh baked-in-the-store goods, such as the dognuts I bought on that fateful night. Toady and I had walked the length of the store when I realized that, with the exception of the malt balls and yogurt covered raisins I had just snagged from the bulk-food bins, my stomach was fairly empty. With a revelation obviously imparted to me from the great Boognish himself (and possibly the fact that I was standing in front of the dognut shelves,) I barked something incomprehensible to even myself and began to fill a box with things chocolate, maple and glazed. With a box of dognuts in hand and two quarts of vitamin D milk in the trusty grasp of Toady close by, I found myself standing in line for the cashier. "Buhwah?" I gasped. A line in Safeway at some quarter to one in the AM in this sleepy little cowtown? A brief struggle in my brain brought about a realization that each of the three youthful women ahead of us was carrying an econo-sized package of that bathroom savior, that post-poop picker-uper, that wiley white wonder wipe -- T.P. (which should be read CAPITAL TEE, PERIOD, CAPITAL PEE, PERIOD, inserting explitives where appropriate.) "Potty Party?" I asked, reaching for an explanation. A smile, a few chuckles and a bit of "Uh, yeah... something like that." from the biggest of the three. I smiled and shut up, slightly thrown from damn near blowing the conversation game by striking out in the first inning (and with ugly chicks!) (and in front of my Toady, nonetheless!) The cashier asked what all the paper goods were for, and got a laugh and a response -- something about just coming back from Mexico. He shot me a glance that said "Look at me, I succeed where you have failed. I have charm over ugly chicks!" I responded simply with a look that said "If I wasn't so busy smiling I'd be ripping your throat out." We cleared the store, pausing briefly to bow to the North and kiss the oddly warm ceramic tile just inside the automatic doors, and dashed for my car. I noted that the three girls hadn't even started their vehicle yet, and remarked to my Toady that we should follow them. His enthusiastic YAWL! led me to believe that he liked the idea, so the plan was a go. That is how we found ourselves in a car chase that even Al Cowlings would find painfully slow. The car ahead of us blasted through a twisting course of residential streets, never exceding speeds of more than 5 miles per hour below the posted speed limit and at times dropping down to a blazing 10 MPH (at least, that's as low as my speedometer goes. From the look of passing objects I would guess that a toddlers with his legs smashed by a tire iron could outrun our pathetic parade.) After they tried to lose me several times by ducking into a cul-de-sac repeatedly and making ever-so-tricky three-point-turns (the bootleggers of the low-speed car chase,) I pussed up next to them and ordered my Toady to roll down his window. When I saw their driver had her window down I shouted out "I JUST WANNA WATCH!" (Which gave me a sickly feeling like I had just pounded on the bedroom window of a naked couple and shouted "I JUST WANNA HOLD THE CAMERA!") They laughed and looked relieved. I guess they thought that Toady and I were going to rip their throats out. Maybe they caught that look I gave the cashier. They led and we followed, our vehicles taking us to a certian corner in a certain residential neighborhood in this little cowtown I call home. Without any of the fear birthed caution that I displayed on similar expeditions as a child I stood on that corner drinking milk from a carton and eating somewhat stale dognuts with (as I would discover shortly) somewhat halucenigenic properties. My attempts to converse with Toady in anything more than hushed whispers brought angry SHHH's from the girls. I realized that any angry occupant who ran from the house before us would either be a) no challenge to knock over or b) no challenge to run from. I heavily debated walking calmly to the entry way and ringing the doorbell. In the end I waltzed back to my car, popped the trunk and produced a plastic representation of the Son of God in baby form. Swathed in a little injection-molded tunic and exhibiting a power cord exiting from the middle of his back, Baby Jesus smiled up at me as I walked over to the largest of the three girls. "Body of Christ?" I asked, hopefully. She frowned slightly, staring at the two foot long plastic Jesus. "Can I have have that?" I stepped back, shocked. She was asking for me to give up my baby, my bestfriend, my god. Sure, there were six more in my trunk, but still--Principle required me to refuse. "Uh, I never give up the Messiah on the first date." I tried smiling, hopeing that she wasn't really serious. She looked discouraged, and went back to anointing the shruberies with toilet paper. I went back to my car and shoved the Christ child into the trunk, wondering what I was thinking when I brought him out. "Never show your Christs to strangers," Mother had always said, "Never ever let on that the Son of God is stuffed in your trunk." The truth in Mother's wisdom cut even deeper several minutes later, when the girl came back to me and asked if she could buy the Christ from me. "I'll give you a dollar." She said, a shimmer of hope in her eyes. "How can you put a price on the Kingdom of God?" I asked in a loud voice, my eyes wild and my nostrils flaring like a stallion who has just been rendered Eunich. "Why should I sell you the Christ? Do I look like a purveyor of men? Much less a purveyor of God?" She shook her head "I just thought..." "Thought what? That I am some sort of sucker who would part with eternal salvation for a little green portrait of George Washington?" "Well, I..." "What would you want with Christ anyway? He ain't good for anything more than a couple empty promises." "It's just that I know these people who lost their Christ recently. It would make them so happy to have a him back in their house." She looked so sincere, like all she wanted in life to brighten the lives of these poor people who lost their Jesus. "Uh, they wouldn't happen to live near here, would they?" Suddenly it was dawning on me--she didn't want a replacement for the missing Christ; she wasn't talking about a misplaced Jesus. She was talking about a stolen King of Kings; she wanted that very Prince of Peace back. "Just down the street," She answered, pierceing me with a knowing stare. "They lost two Christs." "Oh." It all came back then, in vivid pictures and sounds. The first house I had found with an Anglo-Christ lawn ornament. I remember having the ever-gulible DoltBoy pull up to the house one night. I remember running out across the lawn--the smell of the wet grass, my breath visible in the air. I remember grabbing the Christ--the soft glow from within his plastic torso, the slightly warm feel, the giant spark that shot with the violent yank... The yell of victory as I lept into the car and we sped away. Their Christ gone, did they give up? Did they pack up Mary and Joseph and the three Kings? Nay, not them. They got a new Jesus. An alien Jesus. A blonde haired, green eyed Jesus. Now gentle reader, Jesus was born in the Eastern Mediteranian to parents who came from Asia Minor or Northern Africa. If you look at the peopl who are native to these areas of the world and compare them to the way Jesus is portrayed by the vast majority of Christianity you will see a massive inconsistancy. Jesus didn't have fair skin, fair eyes or fair hair, friends... Jesus was dark. That simple fact caused the sight of this blonde replace-o-christ to cut into my sense of -right- like a steel dagger into Santa's belly. Every twist of the blade moved me towards my conclusion: The blonde Jesus would join his brother in my trunk. I blew caution to the wind, and one night Toady and I grabbed the blonde haired, green eyed Christkin--along with 5 other similarly fair skinned Plastic Saviors. In my trunk they all remained until this bizarre night. In my trunk they all remained until I felt something I have rarely felt before. Guilt? maybe. The effects of six sickly-stale Safeway dognuts? probably. Either way I was overcome by the sudden urge to give the girl some Christ. "Fine. You can have them back." I beckoned for her to follow me over to my car, where I popped the trunk and stood staring into its depths. "Really?" "Sure. Let me just get the right ones." I dug through the tangle of plastic Christs and power cords, coming up with the two Sons of God that I had pilfered from her friend's lawn. Then she said something that struck me with all the force of a sledgehammer to the chest. "I had a dream about you." "What? You've never seen me before," But I recognized the hand of B00GNISH imediately. A wave of relief passed through me as I realized that these events were part of the pre-ordained. That I was -supposed- to return these Christs. That I was on the right path, the correct road, the superhighway to the eternity beyond the apocalypse. I was following the will of B00GNISH. "I know," She paused, as if guaging how much I would believe. Apparently I look psychopathic enough that she felt secure in continuing. "It's just that I knew that whoever took my friend's Jesus probably took others. Then I had this dream. You were in it, only it wasn't you. It was like you, except with blue skin and spikey hair-- But the trunk was the same. And the Christs were the same." "I, uh..." I floundered as she began walking away. The other girls had finished the decorating and were getting into their car. Toady and I watched them drive off, and then just stood there admiring the house and its mummy-wrapped fauna. My mind began to wrestle with explainations for the night's events, but it was quickly interupted by Toady. "We should have killed them." And truely, on that night, I gazed upon the face of the Boognish. |
| By Klovis on Sunday, February 22, 1998 - 06:48 pm: |
THE STORY OF KLOVIS I am have no food. I am hungry though. I do not have eaten of three days. I have a money. A seven coins in my jar. I go to buy meat. The market busy today. But it would seem i have not money enough for meat. i even do not have enough to buy toad. and no chance even of crazy bean babies. But perhaps i have luck after all. BOOGNISH send nice man offer meat for low price. i rush home to eat my happy new meat. Yummy. Meat taste funny, but i not care. and i am not anymore hungry but now feels sick and eyes see funny. Feel sick. BLECCCH! and now hungry again. i thing i try again. |
| By Nate on Monday, February 23, 1998 - 12:12 am: |
"eat my happy new meat" interesting. |
| By Z Q on Monday, February 23, 1998 - 01:03 am: |
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| By Alienprobe on Tuesday, February 24, 1998 - 01:02 pm: |
This is how I know about Boognish. Someday I will tell you about the government mind control rays that the bad CIA try to use on me, but I have defeated them. |
| By Donny Osmosis... Pudyank Utah on Sunday, April 19, 1998 - 08:12 am: |
Now it all makes sense. Why do street lights flicker and dim when I approach? Boognish. The payphone thing...yeah! I understand now. Boognish. We just bought our first house. For the first few weeks there were the sounds of people walking up the basement stairs when NOBODY WAS HERE, except me. I attributed this to the ghost of the previous owner (who I believed was pissed off at my paltry remodeling efforts. In fact my friend HOJO told me that this Mr. Carmen DeLillo was a slightly disturbed, Italian-American ghost who was angry that my son has a REALLY COOL midi setup in the basement) but the BOOGNISH has been revealed through SORABJI.COM. All hail BOOGNISH... (BOOGNISH, while seemingly a dominant and terrible presence, is, in all actuality a clever imp that uses parlor tricks and intense situations to bolster a rather weak, fizzling career. If you call him on his little game, NO MATTER WHAT...UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES... the critter folds up camp and YOUR OWN BRAVERY diffuses the situation. This happens to be true of any demon. They CANNOT STAND to have the flashlight of truth shone in their eyes. And of course this is all bullshit, because evil spirits ain't real...unless you are some kinda Christian fuckhead...then you deserve evil spirits.) |
| By Nate on Monday, April 20, 1998 - 08:22 am: |
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What you don't know can hurt you a WHOLE LOT. There is a lot more to this world than what you can see my friend. And I ain't no Christian fuckhead and I have not touched drugs in ages. I hesitate to define what the unseen is but know that even this planet you stand on has a life force. If you want to call this a spirit that's fine. Whether these forces are evil or not is often a reflection of the intent with which they are perceived. In other words, not only is beauty in the eye of the beholder, but so is ugliness. Scoff, but be careful when you shut the lights.... |
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pfffffft. y'all should know that the boy ain't quite right. by the way, ubiquity is pretty phat. thanks. i'm gonna get some more. |
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it's yesterday-and tomorrow. it's the black hole of your soul. it knows your regrets- and your triumphs. it gazes lovingly upon your slumbering countenance. it chases away your nightmares. it makes you late for work. b o o g n i s h all, nothing always, never. |
when did you meet the boognish ,agatha? no more stories of baseball bat wielding footballers. |
I have had many encounters with the Nibbler, though: The story of the NIBBLER by Dr. Semillama, Ph.d F.S. The Nibbler is a being well known to those of us who have at some point in our adult lives experimented with psychedelic drugs, and lesser known to those who haven't. He has been called in ancient Ireland the "pookah", and can take many forms. One famous example is Harvey the rabbit. Another is the giant spider witnessed by Robert Anton Wilson when he was a wee lad. I have witnessed the nibbler as a child in a stand of weeds. After I started experimenting with acid, the nibbler became a more common character in my life. The first "good" look I had of the nibbler was early one morning with my friend Dan, who pointed him out to me. He was in the guise of a litle dancing man, across the way from my dorm building. Out of the corners of my eyes, I could see him, dancing and waving, but when I looked right at him, I couldn't really distinguish him from the background. Years later, while on mushrooms, I was struck suddenly with the thought that maybe the nibbler isn't just one entity, but perhaps a whole class of beings, existing on the fringes of our reality. Only those in the proper frame of reference (ie children and those flying on the edge of reality with the aid of acid, shrooms, or pot) are able to see them. The nibblers or pookas or gremlins or whatever you wish to call them may be the lost souls of those WHO WENT TOO FAR. Syd Barrett is a Nibbler. He only appears to those on psychedlic drugs. "help Me, help me," he seems to say as he dances about, waving his arms frantically. Barrett belongs to the class of nibbler known as the "unwilling nibbler", those souls that are trapped between realities. Other nibblers are the "merry nibblers", which may have rise worldwide to the stories of elves and fairies. The "dark nibblers" are the ones that induce paranoia and are the causes of the infamous "bad trip". These nibblers are the ones that hide underneath your bed. The nibbler takes many forms, and stalks us all. The majority of humanity is either unwilling or simply too dull-witted to notice them. DO NOT BE LULLED INTO COMPLACENCY BY THESE PEOPLE. The Nibblers exist, and are following you. Do not doubt this. All you have to do is . . . LOOK BEHIND YOU RIGHT NOW! I wrote this for a friends 'zine. Not the BOOGNISH, but something from a similar reality-plane, i think... |
i went there to visit my friend, g. we'd been friends since the fifth grade. the year before, his father got a job at a college in maryland and took his family away to live there. i missed g because he and i used to do a lot of fucked up shit together when we were kids. like deciding that getting a game of "fireball" going in the elementary school playground would be a hell of a lot of fun. neither of us really had any idea what "fireball" was; it was just a loose concept we came up with while shooting the shit about how tennis would be much cooler if they lit the ball on fire. it all ended up with a bunch of kids kicking around a flaming gasoline soaked nerf soccer ball at eachother, trying to blow shit up. someone kicked the fireball into the bucket of gasoline, shit hit the fan, everyone scattered, etc.,etc. no one officially got busted, but someone was ratting out cuz soon after, both our parents got together and decided that it was "for the best" that we didn't hang out anymore. years passed and g left. so i was on the greyhound that summer to go check out g's new crib. g came walking up to me at the station looking like charlie manson. no shit. he gets to looking like he's got a bit of chuck in him, sometimes. he wasn't listening to the michael jackson/prince/motown/parliafunkadelicment jams we used to listen to... he had this eclectic mix of 60's psychedelia and mid 80's d.c. punk. lots of bad brains/dag nasty/minor threat/government issue and shit. he had this vw bus that looked like one of those psychedelic nightmares they warn you about in grade school. so he's telling me how he'd met the guitarist from government issue and how this guy is really into obscure syd barrett tracks and blah blah blah i don't know what the fuck he's talking about i'm just glad he's got pot cuz i smoked my last joint on the greyhound etc etc and then he puts in the tape and i'm hearing "vegetable man" and thinking that's the most fucked up shit i've ever heard in my life. g is making sandwiches in the kitchen and i'm making "let's raid the liqour cabinet" noises but he's just shaking his head cuz he says he has something "better". later we're at his friend's house. i think his name was bruce. his friend's name was bruce. g introduces me to his friend g. two g's. that was strange because "grant" is not a common name. later on in my life me and the two g's would come close to going away to the little big house for many many moon. but that was not to be. bruce. bruce and g and g and me and a couple girls whose names i never get to know are sitting around talking shit. bruce asks if we "want to party". yeah. i wanna party. he's pulls out the ziplock full of fungi and cuts it up on the table. we all take a handful. i'd been reading carlos castenada so i was all about getting my don juan on becoming "attuned". i didn't know what the fuck to expect; just acted like i did. it's all fuzzy after that. it's all m.c. escher painting on the wall with ribbons flowing through spheres flowing through faces flowing through ribbons again. it's all in the bathroom with the red light looking into the mirror turning into satan and then jesus and back again... it's all create destroy nataraja in your head. it's all running through streets, climbing trees, staring at alleycats staring back at you and trying not to blink first. it's all in the vw bus and looking up at the full moon but out of the corner of my eye i see bruce making wildly strange faces and gestures but when i look directly at him he is calm and steady with a slight demon grin and i'm thinking that right below his skin is some mad lovecraftian nightmare. it's all in the head. or is it? the music comes... and when it does, it doesn't help. it doesn't hurt... it;s fascinating... but you have to make mental adjustments to deal with the high weirdness... i want to tell you a story bout a little man if i can a gnome named Grimble Grumble and little gnomes stay in their homes eating sleeping drinking their wine and from there on out ir's all lucifer sam and unicorns and mathilda mothers and gigolo aunts and pipers at the gates of dawn. it's all birdy hop he do he hop along a lonely bird upon a window sill chirp chirp shit. all effervescent elephants and raving and screaming and all sorts of off-kilter madness... it grows and metamorphasizes and plays games with your sense of the impossible, makes you walk through strange plains planes frames and head high deep get it deep and it would be until big double triple dipped woodstock blotter before i could listen to it again. porkchops. no more syd. sleep now. |
Can I have some, please? |
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hi nate. if your wife hasn't yet read this, she doesn't really know you. miss you, hope all is well. |
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