her arms en l'air, sleep Goodbye lair
Chest hidden dances, carafe of time
spills signs, prances, no stare;
soil under ash, oak chains to mash,
Eukaryote lime, wire,
Inusa, inusa so filling
Tame me in killings "Oh, Ford, Ford"
Beat, grind, dirt, rewind, tap door
Which way to the lord, lord.
tap drum hum beat on the door near the shore,
Which way, which way; the way my Lord.
Still Steve needed to chop more. Two hours ticked by. He stared at the word and phrases, and carefully dissected the poem over and over again. Changing "Lost" to "oak." Rearranging sentences, finding a title and finally cutting half of it down to size.. Trying to find the perfect thump. He had to get it right. A title, a rhythm and a far off meaning that had post-modern fervent.
Hassium still dances.
So speak, false self
Whispering veil, half price books on shelf
Revise shopping list on ticket stubs,
Day red hissing ,birthed; place called sun
"run,run free, son" thy self
Vast sea, blackbird fell, a Temple condemned
Condemnable spells, Highway 10 flag,
Calypsonian kiss, never miss me, the golden temple falls down.
Heartbreakingly, entice gavel cachet madly, as they knell to the east walls,
His pen lovely, her cheek, a dove sea, oak chains, as the knell to the halls, of hell,
her arms en l'air, sleep Goodbye lair, Godbye,
Which way to the lord, the way lord.
It took Steve half the day to come up with this twelve line poem and finally it was in sediment. It was near solid. As solid for this life as he could tick away at it. He took his blue envelop entitled World Famous Poetry Context and folded the paper in thirds. Overlap the top half larger and then finishing the fold with the bottom half, signed it, initial by the date and licked the pasty sticky liner of the envelop, sealed it and stamped it with a bunny rabbit picture stamp for thirty four cents. He added a few envelop stamps with the George Washington face on them. They were a new solute to ol George and his stoic profile and full frontal facial glint. The address read 3637 Oaks Rd, World Famous Poetry society, Brecksville, OH 44147.
The next day went by and he asked the deeply opinionated and pensive Dr. Hurt if he could run out and purchase a magazine entitled: Writers and Poets. A few days passed and Hurt went out and purchased the magazine at a nearby drugstore. It was a long Saturday. No screenplay ideas had kicked in yet but he could feel a few boiling deep in the cooking pot containing his creative juices-but only waiting for sketchy story boards, and jotted notes on a legal pad. It was coming together like a hurricane.
. He selected another contest. It was entitled Poetry Contest, 36 ½ Seaside blvd, Santa Monica, CA 90401. Rules were stated as 21 lines, and no harsh language. Blaa on the language rule but he figured it was worth a try. Some one could be waiting to publish. Something published meant safety and possible money. Some writer did make a buck in the present time. It was common for writers to starve. But what the Bleeb do poets know but that no sounds like know. Poets know the true meaning of words, semantics, placement, grammar, and the sound and music of verse, prose and choppy pulp fiction.
Poe did. Wolf did. Huxely looked like he did. Many colonial writers surely did. It was the norm for English writer to do it, I think it was merely required in the UK. A handful of writers hurt for their word. But some were fortunate enough to escape the pangs of hunger and the misery society forced upon their gift by landing on lucky. On the other hand a few transcendentalist choose to surely go with out. Thinking about the pang made Steve stomach grumble. He had picked at his last three entrees of nuked chicken and stale green beans for the past few weeks. He was growing a little light.
He figured he wait till late night fell and sneak into the snack tray. Gorge time was coming on. Like magma, the essence of hunger roared underneath his bones, and then a vent of frustration and anger caused this magma to transform into molten saliva of ripping hunger pangs and sweet tasting attractions. The lava of hunger shall burst to its full if too many meals are threateningly neglected.
He hadn't eating a whole meal in a few days. Steve felt empty inside. Hunger was panging up a new poem.
"How is the project going?" Asked Dr. Hurt. "Well, one eighty. I started off in one direction, brainstorming about the idea of the slayer, the serial murderer, in Hollywood. I decided to name him the Movie Star killer. I want to base him on Tommy Marcel." Dr. Hurt cleared his throat. "He is a great comic actor nowadays. Populated following. Do you think people would get it?" Steve's eyes slightly widened and then relaxed. "Yeah. It would be in the obvious to use Gary Oldman or John Malkovich. They are dramatic. Are usually are. A serious actor would be too obvious. That is in the actor's real life. See, on Film Tommy is funny. He is like Hanks, or Carrey. Does family films, some racey stuff here and there, but mostly Grade A American family. But now he is seen in the rue lime light. The lime light of life." Dr. Hurt jotted a few scribbles in his pad. "How are you with it? Whats happening to the project. Have you started dialogue?" Steve added, "No. Just brainstormed. Made a circle with Hollywood in the center. The first line joined to the circle was the word murder. Than, a flash bulb. I drew a flash bulb. The murderer, or Tommy, kills others in costume. He had once played a murderer like Jack the Ripper but in modern times. Trench coat, old camera, 1940's, old detective hat." Dr. Hurt sat up and sipped up his hot steaming tea. "So he is a detective?" Steve took in a quick sip of air, "No. Tommy once played a detective in a kind of Pulp fiction rip off. The detective was sourly evil. He killed young women in the picture. The residue of the role wore off on him. And so Tommy, the actor, dresses up like the chaotic detective and haunts down women in Hollywood. He particular likes to murder rising stars, and especially if they have male gay lovers or friends." Dr. Hurt questioned with, "So, what your saying is Tommy kills young female rising stars who hangs out with gay men and he is opposing on a role he once played for a . . ." "A Hollywood film in the beginning of his career. He fell into killing the young lady rising stars, while playing the role ten years back. He is deeply insane. At the time he started to kill he was taking unique drugs, mental drugs, and illegal, and he lost his goodwill in the vanity and fame of it all. After a while the character of the dark detective, lets call him. Officer Exy. Begins haunting him." Dr. Hurt. "How does he haunt him." "Well. Tommy begins getting phone calls. Just blank phone calls. No breathing. Some times the other end mechanically beeps. Then, he begins to see Mr. X's real name on notes and trashed paper in office rooms, he figures the character he once played is coming back to possess him." Dr. Hurt smiles with intrigue, "You mean like a demonic possession." "Yes. The script he did was called The Untitled. It was about various people in society or reality who are familiars." "What are familiars?" Steve smirked, "They are demons who take over a body, or they arise, to take on a human form, to trap, or throw evil upon the innocent, or Godly." The Dr.'s leaned back and eyed the dolphin poster on the wall. "Interesting. So, Tommy has been possessed by a familiar, or a demon, that has taken the form of the Mr. Exy, the detective. Weird name Exy." Steve added, "Its short for a long middle eastern name. But anyway. The detective, has a father that's Indian and his mother is Irish. So he is half. But Tommy played him in his early career. It was a bad horror B film. But it caught up with him. The script was cursed, or damned or whatever." Dr. Hurt smiled, "So what happens to Tommy. And are you going to use his star name." "Yes. Why not. Well, Tommy kills and has been killing for the past ten years. Serial style slayings. He preys on them before a big premier. Then, he shows up a their motel, a perfect place to kill someone, or hotel, and he takes photos of them with the 1940's vintage camera. The flash bulb distracts them and then he fills them full of holes with a silenced revolver." "A revolver with a silencer on it." "Then, no one can hear the pistol fire. He kills the lady and anyone with them. It would be a horror slash detective story." "Steve. How does he get caught. Doesn't he have to get caught to be a good detective story. Pulp fiction style that is." "No. He doesn't have to. But see, Dr. Hurt, he does. An actor, crazy, and B-personality or multiple, fucked in the head, and anyway, he thinks he is working for the FBI and falls upon Tommy at a big Hollywood shoot in town. Tommy Marcel next big comedy about a screen writer. The actor lands a small extra role in it. So, The actor, lets call him Jay. Jay Grisham. He has a ah Famous writers last name, he becomes obsessed with Tommy. Starts following him around Hollywood, thinks he has to protect him, thinks the FBI needs him to do that. But Jay has no relations with any governmental protection agency or the FBI, he's just nutty, but anyway, he follows Tommy around and catches on to odd behavior. He stakes out outside his mansion in L.A. He even follows him to the Big Apple and further. Eventual he meets up with Tommy through a friend from High school. Tommy has a nephew trying to break into show business. Jay runs to him on set as an extra. 'Hey. Will,' that's the nephew, 'how about we hang sometime.' So, Will and Jay begin hanging out. They go clubbing off of Sunset Strip, go to big night clubs like The Standard and eventual start picking up chicks and taking them back to Tommy's mansion when he is out of town. It turns out Will is living with Tommy. Up in his attic. He has a nice flat style apartment, good view of Tommy's duck pond, and Japanese garden, and his got a lab top and a laser printer and everything you need to make it in the business, through writing or acting, so anyway Will, Jay calls him the brat…" "Ok." Dr. Hurt." You write it down. Don't orally give me the picture. Put it in screenplay form. What else have you been working on?" "Well, I sent an original poem to a poetry contest in Ohio and one in Santa Monica. Just to help me with verse and prose." Dr. Hurt sipped on the tea. Jay read the tag on the tea tab ending. It read Nestle. "So you drink Nestle." Steve asked, "Yep. They have it hear at the hospital." "It seems you'd drink something with class. You know, like Alvita or Celestial Seasoning." "No. While I am at the hospital I drink Nestle. Look. Keep at your poems and your story. Tell me when you need another Writer and Poetry magazine. I supply you with those. For now work on the prose, verse or screen plays. Keep busy. Next, week your going to the upper level. Kay, man!" Steve smiled. "Thinks for this opportunity sir." Dr. Hurt waved the gray key card across the box and drifted away into the hall. It wasn't long until Steve was back at his journal entries and eventual he began making room for outlines of The Untitled."
Steve sat up looking at the pale round moon which sailed slowly behind a thick cottony gray work of clouds. He missed many things in the outside world, like the movie house, book stores, malls, shopping marts, vitamin stores, elevators, open fields, highways, cars, bus rides, crowd noise, but mostly the movies. He loved how the lights dimmed and the projector flicked its flashing pale, white light onto the silver padded screen, how the stereo symphonic speakers enveloped his mind and how the stories, the character's high or low, three dimensional or flatly written engulfed his imagination and washed over his senses, he missed the tears, the laughter and most of the feeling of losing yourself. You could go forever with out seeing a motion picture and after the trailers you were ready. It didn't take much imaginary practice like a play or book does. It takes a few days to get back on the training wheels of literature. Book reading to skill. As did watching and reading, and discussing plays. But the movies were idiot proof. You could two years with out seeing a single film and after the trailer you imagination was in shape and ready to plough ahead. It didn't take much imaginary training to stay in shape with Hollywood or even the BBC. Films were easy to love. And Steve had no fell out of love anytime soon. Since, he had been in the hospital, in room M04, his newly assigned working quarters, he had shared an unrequited relationship with cinema. This saddened him, for his was the number one buff of radio, television film in college, even though he was a theatre arts major. He flocked more to film than plays. This wasn't suggested by his professors, they always said, "A movie is more sexy, but a stage play has class. It's the challenge."
Steve slightly worked on his brainstorming project. He circled the word Hollywood and murder was the first oval link. His next word, idea, theme, was written as Pigoglow. He didn't know what it meant. He circled it and whispered, "pigoglow, pigoglow, pigoglow." What could it mean? Pig and o and glow. Wasn't a pig aglow? Was it pig jumping through an O and glowing in some type of darkness. What did pigoglow mean? Next, he conjured up the word honey wagon and circled it. He drew a giant bee and circled it. Next, he dug up the word escape, circled it and then latched it with a single, straight line to pigoglow, then he attached a line to the honey wagon. Last, he drew a circle wrote the word darkness and scribbled over it. The images were accumulated as the following: A pig o glow, a bee vomit wagon, escape, and darkness. He peeked at his new wrist watch. It was a cheap digital watch given to him by Dr. Hurt. Hurt wanted him to time how long he wrote. He never did. Always forgot. Steve seemed to be lost once he opened the journal or broke out a new note pad. Pigoglow must have had something about the burning of a pig, or a pig glowing from chemicals, or some type of chemical fed to pigs to make them light up. He couldn't figure it out. Perhaps it was a poem he was mustering up. I'll have to start over, Steve thought. Eventual sleep came, following lucid dreams. Steve had a foggy surreal dream of a strange orderly place. He was in a giant theatre house. People were all around. No wait, it wasn't exactly a theatre house. It looked similar. No, it was a giant auditorium. Full of familiar faces he had once seen as a boy. They were all staring at him. Staring, at staring. Silence fell over the crowd noise. A lull. His name was called. "Winner is. . .Steve Whatshisface." Steve jumped up. The crowd ignited with roaring applause. The clapped as hard they could. The clapping hurt Steve's ears and he begin to slightly tremble, for a mini second. Next, he stood up and pair of sweaty wobbling knees. His arms shook in tiny tremors. The crowd arose to their feet. It was a complete, full on, standing room. A standing Ovation, Steve thought. For me. For little old me. His eyes shot to the side of his skull and focused on an isle way. He scooted upright, fully erect, in front of the watching onlookers in his row. He made past three ladies and accidentally bumped his buttocks into a man's shoulder. The man was pushing forward to remove something under his lap. He didn't see the winner shuffling along the row. "Excuse me." The older gray gentleman said with a cheer. "Good job. Well down. Bravo Steve." The gentleman added and tucked a small program into his tuxedo jacket. Steve looked around. Everyone was wearing the same style of clothing. It was all black. All tuxedo. So formal. So fancy. So so so,
"Go get it champ." Some lady, in a black ostentatious dress of sparkles and midnight black satin, said a few row's ahead. Steve was shaking and sort of scared. His stomach felt as if he had just jumped from a four story diving board. It just scooped up inside him and ran away. He barely could feel himself. A bit of sweat tinkled down into his left eye. It just slowly hung over his eyebrow like a tiny bullet. Steve didn't wipe it clean. He let the sweaty droplet remain in place. He landed his feet firmly on the red carpet isle. The crowd roared louder and louder. A few even laughed at his blushing and trembling body. Like a small child, naked, vulnerable, he made his way to the front of the wide, and deep stage. On the front of the stage was a single glass podium. Alone and above hung a long wire, with a isolated tiny, puffy microphone attached to the end. Steve skillfully and slowly placed each dress shoe in front of the other. That was when he noticed he was fully suited up in a expensive dressy jet black tux. He even had a small pocket watch dangling by golden chain and silver pocket casing. Finally, after step after step he reached the bottom of the stair unit. It was encased in silver, glassy marble. He took his time on each stair unit. The crowd hollered, yahooed and yahooed until a shaky hard lump formed in Steve's throat. Before a tear could make its way up and over, a stormy blaze of whistling and screaming began to rise. A applauding fire storm of cheer was making it's way in small explosions. It was an glorious welcoming. Steve reached the last step and started toward the single step of the podium stand. Some one hollered, "For you Steve. All for yoooouuu. Wooo hoooo." Steve shot a glance toward the vibrant noisy thundering voices. The crowd was massive in size. There most of been over three thousand, maybe double. Faces jotted side to side, like a out of control monster with a thousand and one eyes. The crowd rolled, sifted, arose, and fall like undulating waves in a stormy vast hurricane. Steve stepped up and faced the dominion of faces, eyes, arms, legs, shiny shoes, black tuxedoes, white tuxedoes, black dresses, white evening gowns, strapless dark colored sexy ware, rosy cheeks, wide eyes, perfectly curled hair, tuxedoed bodies. Everything galloped with the fest of life. Then, with out notice, the entire legion of cheering voices extinguished like a candle. The conglomeration of joy slowly rained out and away like the last sprinkle from great tempest. Steve spoke softly in the microphone. "Greetings." His voice echoed into the dieing of dominion. Silence hung deep under each word. It was an out of place but honest silence.
The hush of noise tinkled Steve's thinking cap. He fell into a poodle of pensive thought. Steve noticed his arms were tight, back upright, erected neck and a fairly good man poise. He usually slouched at home and carried a lazy stance. He tried his best not too. Posture was an important subject around the dinner table growing up. Even while watching television late on Saturdaynight his father enforced the proper body code of posture. Steve noticed he appeared good, whatever good exactly meant. A sudden thought itched in his brain. He wanted to tear his pants down, bend over and moon the world. Way over three thousand spectators sat before him, and he still craved devious behavior. He wanted to shout, tear ass, hollar, curse, tell them to fuck off, masturbate and fart up some doodiii macka macke tu tu turds. He have to wait to get home to be that bad. Everyone has a job to do in society and they work diligently with self control and compassion( or at least they aim to). When they return home something in them cracks like a boiling egg and they spill in wisps of devious outburst. Outside of home is were we weed misconduct and plant the good of life, and unfortunately, and in many cases, home is were the opposite action occurs and we elude our moral. This is when the human weeds the badness and rids the halo. His cave is his nesting ground of private and secluded conduct. There is right to privacy. This is his and her, supposedly, God fiving right. Privacy has been bled for in this land. It's the shield one may hide behind while the false self arises.
The crowd murmured like a motoring ghost at idle. He wanted the many to be thrown off guard. Instead, Steve remained civil and address the following, "I would like to thank all who helped out with the project, I would like to thank. . ." Steve listed a gob of names, writers, and other artsy folk. He wasn't for sure of the award, after all it was merely a dream. "The directors worked so hard on this one, the story tellers and authors were brilliant, even the co-stars surprised me with dedication and compassion. I would like to thank. . ." Steve continued with a harangue of names, a list of groups and helpers. "I would last like to think God. With God all things are possible." Some one waved Steve from the front row. He turned his head and eyed a man rolling his hands over and over on top of one another. That meant he needed to wrap up his honorary list and the name mentioning. Congratulations had to be ceased. The repetitive thank you-ing and all accounts of 'positivity' (positivism.) and all ceremonial fashions of goodwill and happy go ha ha had to be stopped and "for god sakes of godforsaken sakes, for the sake of now, hurry the hell up. Please God, hurry up." A voice cried from deep within. It was time to step off. The applause was accepted, the award was finalized, and now it was over with. Steve bowed his head with knightly charm, took the little engulfed gold demon and trotted off stage to the wings.
Steve awoke before daylight. He wanted to head toward the snack tray, but he figured it could do for later. Now, it was time to review his dream. He thought about taken a dream journal but a friend had warned him against it. Once, his friend accounted for his dream on paper and bad things occurred afterwards. He figured he take mental notes of the dreams and use them later in his Screenplay. This dream was neither bad nor good. It was kind of in between. The only segment of the dream that he was fearful of was the dominion. He didn't like the fact that the crowd held enormous power. Eventually he accepted it and moved on with life. Morning arrived and he made it just on time to the early morning riser. A few trailed in afterwards. First was Skinny ol' sissy. Sissy was the skinny old artist, with crazy wild eyes, bushy gray thinning beard and the odd limping walk. It looked as if he had been electrocuted by a bolt of lightning. "Ride the lightning." He whispered as he walked up. For a minute Steve figured he may be the one and only man that could read his own mind. Sissy wide torturous eyes lifted up to him with brightness and sever clarity. "Hello son." The grinding, gurgling, raspy voice rushed over his being. Steve stopped in motion and remained still on in his sit. "Come early ey." The artist whispered. "Sissy's here." Sissy said limping over like a hurt lamb.
Steve remembered the first time he saw Skinny Sissy. It was back when he was first admitted seven months ago. Sissy looked as if he had been strapped to a ocean vessel's mast and cast out to sail through out of control electric sea storm. Taken a beaten and barely ticken' was his motto. Artist, paints with pastels, answers to "Sissy" or "Skinny" in early morning riser group. Sissy walked up to the community circle group a complete wreck. He looked fifty from far off but the closer he came the more seventy he read. Hollow, cheeks, wild staring eyes, eyes the poked like buck knives. Stringy hair, walked with a mechanical cut up limps. His left ankle shook, twittered and vibrated off his ankle as if it was loosely wired and sparking. Then, the left, hurt, foot would fall and meet the ground and carry his body over to his good right foot, which then and again kicked into gear and carried his body cleanly over, but to await the next shaky lift of his left. He was a machine with a monkey wrench left in the sprockets. His left leg shook and thumped in place and his right firmly lifted off the ground carrying him over like a tilting and slobbering battle ship out to war the angry maddening seas.
Next to show to the group was Oldman curse head. Or Oldman cuz. He got the name from cursing his filthy mouth and moving around like a monkey on crack rock. Sissy told me once, "He's a speed freak." The old man entered the room with a mouthful of hate, and fuckyous, and gotohells, and screw yourself. Then, he go into rant and rave about Nixon, Johnsons and various topics concerning aspects of the Vietnam war. The old mans other nicknames were Johnson, Fowl mouth newscaster, shit mouth, mouthy, Fuckyou man and speed head. Old man was Steve's nickname for him. He looked like a dirty sergeant in an Oliver Stone Nam flick. Graying hair, beaded mustache and spotted grayish black beard, alcoholic looking, wild mind. Never knew why he blubbered about Nixon and Johnson so much. Rumor had it he was in for losing his twin brother. It must be hard to watch someone pass into death, if that someone mimicked your looks exactly. Then, what looked once like you, that someone with the mirror image, became a still something, which did nothing. The onlooker would see his own image fall to cold and utter stillness. But the Fowl mouth Johnson, the old man, was nowhere near stillness. He was the opposite of still. He was complete frenzy. Complete motion.
Next to arrive was the holly Hispanic lady. She wobbled out of her room with a Styrofoam cup of what she called, "Holllyyyyy Waaaater." She went around blessing the chairs, walls and floor. "Bless you, bless this, bless you, bless you, its blessed dear lord holly virgin marry mother of grace." Steve though she was First Baptist trying to be roman catholic. She showed up with her bunk hail Marrys and her mispronounced exorcisms.
Next was Jesus Dude. He was back from critical. He dropped too much weight. Far too much weight. He looked like a thinned out twig with out the leaves. Eyes poked out of his hollow sockets and his cheeks were like to reamed out golf holes. He was a deathly sight for insane soaring eyes.
Steve got up to get a OJ in the lunch room. They sometimes carried pulp free natural juice from the vitamin store. He walked in and spotted a new arrival. It was a Hispanic man, who later earn the name of Bi-level hair cut man. He had thick black, long hair, fine and straight with a bi-level hair style. One AM/FM radio was held to his left ear with his right hand. He listened to the speaker as if he was listening to a seashell. Elton John blared Rocket Man and the Hispanic man sang to every word. He hummed the melody and ignored Steve. "Hey man. Its time for group." Steve said softly. The man continued with, "Rocket Man ah ta da to dooty de de dooo." Steve figured he knew half the lyrics. "Ok. Fine. See ya later." Steve grabbed a health nut pulp filled OJ. The title of the OJ was Health Nut OJ. HMM. "Guess its for me. Got nuts in it." Steve smiled and hurried back to the circle. Skinny, holly Hispanic lady, Johnson filthy mouth and a few newbees awaited in a cold medical silence.
Steve conducted the community circle group with ease. Toward the end, and after every question was gestured, only two questions were proposed, Steve read a passage from a Robert Frost poem. While he read, Sissy interrupted, "Two paths. How do you take two paths." Steve answered, "He didn't take two paths. He chose his own." "But that's a path." "No, he made his own path." Steve exclaimed firmly. "Made his what. Oh bullshit." Sissy hummed and got up. His left foot jittered and sketched up and down like a over heating jeep hummer. He planted the shaky thing onto the ground, solidifying into to the manmade earth, then his right foot scooted around the chair, took grip to the carpet and peeled off. He hurriedly limped toward his room, praying a male tech was not ear shot of his protest. If a patient acted up in the community service riser group they were concealed to solitary. "Sis come on back. You don't have to like it. Its mere poetry. Only a poem Sis." Sisssy humbly hobbled back to the back corner room. Steve remembered once staying a night in there. An odd Native American boy had been admitted to his room. It was in the beginning days on the unit. Steve would wake up with this young boy hovering over his bed with a pair of black coal eyes. This frightened the begeebees out of Steve. He eventually was forced to move down the hall, of his own will of coarse. He snuck out from the boy and carried his bed naps with him. He made his way to Sissy's rooms to stay in his extra bed. No one bunked with Skinny. One night Skinny Sissy woke Steve up. "Whatshis face. Is that you? You ever seen demons before." Skinny asked. Skinny went into a long story about Demons. "I have. I've seen them. You know what they look like." Steve shook his head no. "I do. I killed a cat once. Didn't mean to. I was with some gal. Painting pastels chalk of her. We were doing it and I rolled over and crushed the pussy. Didn't mean to kill the cat." A strange grin arose across his face. Steve knew he was merely freaking him out. Sissy didn't want to room with anyone. Steve knew he wasn't crazy. Sissy had gone nuts before, but it was for the art. "They sent me off up north. To the big Asylum. Big place." "I heard you can buy cigarettes there." Steve said. "They have cigarette machines, chocolate machines and even an ice cream machine. That's what I heard." Steve smiled. "Yeah. But its hell too. You pays for whats yous get. Hey, they shot me up with pure alcohol there. Purely." "Pure." "Purely. Fine alcohol. Pure fine alcohol. Pure as gold." Steve wiped his grin clean from his soul. "Is that why you shake." The rest of the conversation eventual was covered by the offhand sounding noise of the AC vent chilling the room. "See ya Sis." Steve headed back to his room.
The memory flashed out of his head and he found himself alone, in the community room, with five empty chairs surrounding his chilled body. Some one had turned down the AC unit and the room was degreed at 67' and dropping. Steve got up and headed back to his room. He grabbed a handful of jellies and jam and his falling awaited.
Dr. Hurt had told him something significant and true. He said, "Live in now. Don't live in tomorrow, don't live in yesterday or the day before or even the day before that day, don't consider those past or even future moments, LIVE IN NOW. Write in now. That's where the ideas live. Now. Ok. Be in now." He took this in stride over the last few days. He related his patterns and rituals of pigging at the snack and tray and saving jelly packets and jams and bagels for the sake of tomorrow. It was what was of tomorrow not of now. Another time concerned him more than the present moment, and this way of thinking sent him into ritualistic thoughts concerning future days or past memories. Time had lost him. He was traveling in his own invented time machine, back and forth, forward and even side ways, but not traveling in now, thus, he was concerned with going backwards, forward and even onward into past images of what the future could be like. He had created this false images over a long period of time and lived in them. What did the trees look like in his future land, what did the smell like, did they have palm leaves, what foods existed in this non present world, what were the people like, are the mean or nice, are their nice men, did the ladies spend tons of money on fashionable clothing, did this future place have tall buildings, sky scrapers, vast oceanic scenes, what was it like? Or he do the opposite. He travel backwards to past moments with his past friends. Moments lost. Most were damaging memories. Moments when his father pinned his face in a laundry basket on top his math book and for merely forget, moments when he saw his Step father tackle him and choke him and spit a mouthful of Copenhagen snuff mixed with grape jelly biscuits into his face. He could smell the snuff and the grape scent and the fowl mouth of his abuser. He traveled behind his sixth grade lunchroom cafetarria were Bryant Possoms fought him over Chrissy Childs. He wouldn't stop punching Steve in the face. Wam over and over again and again. A left, a right, a short jab, another left quick one, a swift hook and then plop they fell onto the dirty mud and slide, tackled, wrestled and kneed each other black and blue. Steve was told to let go. Give up. He didn't quit. He kept taking the punches. Something deep inside him would not let him give in. Wam, another and another, fist kept smacking below right eye. He was a left handed boxer, south paw. Steve kept running into his fist with his hands lowered, unguarded. He didn't care. He wanted the pain. Blam, smack. The crowd woooeeed, and hisssssed. He fell, Bryant got on top, pinning him with his knee squashing his cheek into the mud with his free knee. Pain had not made it's appearance quite yet. Numb or sting, it did not matter to Steve at that moment. He fought on, images of his father holding a dear rifle with a cigarette hanging from his lip, a smile on his face, polishing the neck of the gun, a picture of his mother on a bench in front of Burgers lake, a exact photo memory of his mother kissing him on the cheek and handing him a Dallas Cowboy snow coat, a memory arose of his sister curling his hair and grinning another picture of his sister holding a suitcase and standing before a pick up truck, "By Steve." She whispered and hopped in her boyfriend's truck front cabin. Break lights on his face. Alone he prayed to God on his twin bed on the second floor of his Dad's mansion. He could see the great house with the torrent, tall Tudor triangles with it's English ivy and brown paneling. A mansion, they say rest in heaven. He could smell the Oreo cookies, and ice cream and the thick ham and cheese with mayo sandwiches. He could smell the sizzling bacon and eggs and for dinner the boiling casa cheese dip, fajita and extra good and hot spicy jumbo shrimp. It all those pictures, memories and past segments haunted and cheered his moving mind. His head jarred to the left, and swiftly snapped to the right. Bryant was on top of him. He was a muscular roper whose father was a Christian Boxer. The fight ended with Jim Keys pulling him off. Keys was by far the biggest sixth grader around. He looked more like a Sophomore. Keys pulled him off and ended it all. The out come was one horrible shiner and a broken wrist. Bryant had hit Steve so man times in succession that his wrist snapped and later he was rushed to the ER for a cast and setting. So, Bryant had broke his hand on Steve's face. Steve may have won. Steve only had a shiner. It was a black and blue puffy shiner and it swelled up, and even almost shut, but he did not have to leave campus for medical attention, Bryant did. Now, for the person who started the fight. Steve and Bryant would have never even got in fight, or even oral argument if it wasn't for a hot tempered kid. This kid had major behavior problems. Too aggressive and violent. He had to see blood drawn. A free bleeder, or hemophiliac, had managed the fight and even started it. Some believe he had to see blood fall from others, due to the shocking bloody moments in his life. Seeing blood was like a type of revenge for him, on others and the world, for his unfortunate physical case. Steve's soccer team, which Red played as goaley and forward, dedicated a game in honor of his name. He could not make a soccer meet due to an attack of his sickness. The doctors had found out he was urinating blood. He was internally bleeding. Anyway, this manager, or instigator of the violence, was a hot headed kid about the same age as us. He was known for starting many fights between two students and then watching them and agging them on, until bloodshed. One of my friends exclaimed openly, "Red had no temper. He simply blows his top in matter of a half second. A temper can build. Red doesn't build to anger. Bam, his angry. Anything can make him erupt like a volcano. Its instant rage. Then, blood. " What he meant was that Red, the hemophiliac, wouldn't just become angry, and with out a slightest of a warning. There was no predicting him. If you knew Red, you knew how to walk on the skin of eggshells. The skins, skin. He would go from being merely calm to becoming savagely, wildly aggressive. He was tagged with beating up one of the toughest junior varsity foot ball players, the line backer, in a quick flare of firing punches to the face. Red grabbed his hair, lifted his chin and whaled into him like jack hammer. "He simply grabbed a handful of hair and pounded away." A witness admitted to Steve and the school yard Wamo players. They where mostly goof offs, half of them made the basketball team and most were second string to drumming section of the Keller highschool band. Red was a mysterious one. He didn't engage in much physical fighting. He could be killed if he got socked wrong. Red was a manager of the school yard hustlers, boxers and wrestlers. Red like punching. He like to see punching. He like to see bloody noses. "Why does he have to see?" JJ said as he pegged the second string flute player in the back of his head. In Wamo, if you dropped the ball, you were force to lean against the lunch room wall in order to take your tennis ball pegging. On played Wamo with a tennis ball. Rules simple. Bounce the ball, like hand ball, against the wall. Next, person would catch it with one hand and toss it back. If you dropped the ball you had to tag the wall. If someone tagged you before you tagged the wall, you had to suffer a pegging. If you missed the runaway, then you had to run and touch the wall, and that gave someone the availability to peg you, before touching out on the wall and so on. It was a game of skill and sprinting. Fear kept you from dropping the ball and helped you in touching the wall. "Why does he blow up. And people let him get away with it to. They have to huh?" The second string marching band drummer shyly squealed. "I can't guess." Steve figured his father taught him to be so violent so no one would mess with him. He couldn't get hit or he'd bleed. And if he bled he died, unless he was rushed to the ER. When Red would play football in the varsity game, he was a wide receiver, an ambulance would have to be in the parking lot, or the game could not precede. His safety was valued at Keller. The game continued despite his illness. I saw him one time over run a pass and then loop back to making a diving miss catch and face planted into the green, grass. He could have bled to death on that attempt. Red is dead today. Rumor of his death were in many fold. One rumor was he died from a blood transfusion. There is a type of special transfusion which is composed of many peoples blood mixed together. Special eight, I believed. Or formula eight. They take blood from all over the states, all types, to thicken the consistency. They give it to hemophiliacs to help clot the blood. It is for the aiding of the conglomeration in which they are neglected. Many young hemophiliacs attracted the aids virus from the blood clotting process. All it took was one Aids infected donor to pollute the clotting liquid. Steve didn't know how Red really died but he did know he was gone. Memories kept swimming in Steve's head. His pen was scribbling away at his journal like a EEG needle recording an earth quake in a mad artist's head. He wrote a few of memories down on his memo pad. He felt a few of the memories belonged in now. He sat the pad down and glared out into the night sky filled with a magnificent pale moon.
Steve felt like a child again. His mind wondered into the chamber of memories of toys, left over birthday cake and thick chocolate sauces. He picked up his note pad and began to construct the first page to the screen play. He titled it The Untitled.
EXT/INT. MOTEL ROOM. HOLLYWOOD SUITES. RAINY NIGHT. 12:36 AM. #616. JESS, twenty three male and BRENT, twenty four male put on make up in the bathroom mirror. Giggles. They wear drag. SANDY, twenty five, well rounded tall blond. Sandy walks out of the bathroom. She has cocaine her lip. Sniff.
Get out of my make up kids.
Don't honey me. Were going to be late.
EXT. FRONT DOOR TO MOTEL ROOM.
Steve sat his pen down. He had to make changes. IT couldn't be a motel and Sandy had to talk in a more witty fashion.
EXT/INT. HOTEL ROOM. HOLLYWOOD SUITES. RAINY NIGHT. 12:36 AM. #616. JESS, twenty three male and BRENT, twenty four male put on make up in the bathroom mirror. Giggles. They wear drag. SANDY, twenty five, well rounded tall blond. Sandy walks out of the bathroom. She has cocaine her lip. Sniff.
Get out of my make up kids.
Better honey me. Were going to be late.
EXT. FRONT DOOR TO HOTEL ROOM.
If that's Phil tell him to go home. He's not invited
Could kill him.
(Brent runs to the door. Silencer whispered on the end of a gun. Brent walks back to the bathroom. Jess and Sandy do a line of coke. Brent falls to his knees. A hole of blood appears in his right cheekbone. Sandy screams. Thunder.)
What the fuck?
Steve put his pen down. The screenplay stopped in is head. Hopefully, temporarily. He needed something. A scream. Some one to fall in the hall. A black lady had been admitted last week. She was in her late thirties, maybe forties. She walked in through the double doors. Buzz. Click. And then, she fell on her side. Steve walked over to her. The Jesus Dude rolled his IV stand to her. He tried to reach out. Heal her. It was similar or more like if Jesus may have done in the past, or if he came back in a time machine, or something in that fantastical scheme. Anyway, he needed change. He was going to set up a proposal to Doctor Hurt. A schedule for social research. Steve needed to know society. He would especially need to know society, if he were to construct a screenplay in modern times. Current times. Something had stopped clicking in the story. He knew who the murder was. He knew what he liked to destroy. He knew where he was going, but he didn't know the victims struggle. He had to meet knew people and maybe go to the mall, find a victim and pretend.
"What about the movies. If I get a kind of field trip pass to the mall. I could watch a film. Movies show good story structure usage in mapping out scene by scene, moment by moment, frame by frame verisimilitude. "Plot, character, music, movement and theme, and all frame by frame. Hell, most Hollywood films including each part of the Poetics. Strange how Aristotle went corporate ain't it. A film would help me meditate much more, possibly sire!" Dr. Hurt sipped on a small plastic coffee cup and studied his eager patient. It had the phrase "Oh, Believe in Yourself. All things are possible. Stop thinking about it. Just believe." He put done the inspiring coffee mug and took in a breath. "Well, maybe. We have to watch you at all times. Two or three techs, maybe a nurse and me. We have to hover over you. You think it will help?" "When can I go?" Steve asked. "What is it your dying to see." "Anything, anything. Really. Something real. Something stunning and real. Raw. I wanted it to be raw and tearful. Something to get my attention. Change me. Really change me." The doctor scratched his head, "And the stories and journals. How are they." "It just shut off. Its been lonely with out Sean. I feel I'm missing a muse or something. You know?"
The doctor added fastening his name tag, "Well, Listen to this.!" He broke out a small sky blue book and began to read, "The mind can never find a real answer, nor can it afford to search out a explanation, or even a resolution, because it is far too busy wrapped up in the puzzle, or conundrum, see, ah, picture in your mind's eye a fire men trying to put out fires his self. See, you can not be completely rid the pain, or what you call blockage, over emotional overload, until you stop associating yourself as the mind, or ego." Steve scratched the corner of his brow. He sat up and stared at the dolphin posture. He noticed a phrase above the dolphin jumping toward the silver, gray sun, "Be yourself. Succeed." Steve cleared his throat and took in a deeper breath. "So the mind and me are different." "Yes. The mind is a tool for you. Don't let it lie to you. Don't believe in what Sam Shepard titles one of his plays as, 'The Lie of the mind.' Don't let the lies trapped in their, the self critic get you down. You need stillness up there to create. Stillness of the mind is the mother of invention. Calmness is the key. Remember you. Be you. Now. Live for now." Steve took another breath. Then, he realized what he did. He breathed. Not his mind. Not his ideas. Not the story. Not the peers. Not the other patience. Not the doctor. Not the hospital. He breathed. It was his glorious breath that he took for his life. It was his life. He was in his shoes. "My breath. I took my breath." Doctor Hurt smiled, "Yes it was your breath. Your breath indeed." The doctor stood up and downed the last drop of his slogan filled cup of bean. "Well, you look good. Eyes gone clearer. IT seems your catching on." "Eyes got clearer. Clearer?" "Clear. Go write. Meditate. Break out your journal and tomorrow I'll see if we can schedule you a trip to the mall. I like the idea of you seeing people, meeting society again, studying it. And I'll look up some raw ass films for ya." Steve smiled at his down to home, informal jargon. "Sounds wonderful."
Night arose with it's friend the moon. He was fully developed now. Pale and white as thick milk skin; pasting it's moon beams over God's creation. It was a still night. Steve had burrowed a candle from Dr. Hurt. He lit the wick and watched the flame ticker happily. He set up in a seated yoga position. It was not quite the lotus position. He had studied it in a Health magazine lent to him by the soft spoken nurse. One leg wrapped around the other, the foot falling softly over the ankle, balancing on the other. Steve chose a more comfortable position. He merely sat Indian style, or how one use to sit on the gym floor in sixth grade while watching a guest speaker. His mind seem to simplify in order. He didn't feel the thunderous, wild thoughts spin into a blending mix. Instead, all he focused on and paid attention to was the cold wind blowing softly against the glass. Fear was fading and self-assurance, confidence and the power of the self, was rising to victory. Soon, he laugh at the demonic thoughts and the lies. Soon he'd over come the evil critic. Soon he kick them out, oust them, evict their deadly souls, burn away their harmful words and bad intentions. No more, "It's over." No more, "Quit." No more, "You're a loser." Now it was time for, "I'm a winner." Now it is time for, "I will win. I will take control. I will overcome. I'm me and my life works. My life works." Steve began to hum in a small voice. Then, he began to slow and drift away into a beautiful land.
Steve picked up his pen and began to record some private thoughts.
"My issue on the women."
Steve had recalled an evil sneer from a female school teacher who had been admitted. She had taught school for eleven years and was in for mania. He did not know the grade level she taught or the state with in America. What he did notice is that she kept an eye on him. She never talked about school teaching but she did like to trade books with him. She traded a Jack London book for a book on How to make a Million self help get up. He'd rather go with the Jack London. She sneered at him when he was on the end of his fast. He'd fast for three days, exercise in the pool and lose up to five or six pounds. One time he lost fifteen. Steve was an over eater. It was his way of receiving pleasure in the ward. He hadn't really mention it to the Doctor cause he was much thinner than he. And he had not mentioning it to the nurses because they were pretty damn wobbly and pudgy. Flab was coming among a few of the doctors and nurses. But Steve had to watch out. Being a writer and performing, looks became an issue, especially on the performer side.
He'd make more mistakes while on the fast. This would insight a greater dedication to focus and being in the present moment. The school teacher, lets call her Nancy, laughed at the night before he visited the tray. She just had a hint, or a hunch, that he was pigging, and this made her incessantly, and intrinsically mad. Mad enough to kill.
Steve had a problem. She knew he did. It was not just food. Taking in too much pleasure, at once, became a nervous issue and a painful labor. But Steve enjoyed some of the tread. He was, what most clinical psychologist, call a masochist. The sadist part he was trying to uphold with prevented anger to boil. Holding down anger became a constant prevision and expectation, to overcome and defuse. Anyway, Steve noticed that,
"Women don't like men pigging. They want to give to them. They want to provide pleasure. It makes them feel useless when they can not provide pleasure. Hence, this is the fuel for their fire. Every time a prepare for a festive prayer to O'l mighty Dionysus, they become distraught and envious. Nancy will laugh at me. It makes me mad that she does. I was the type of kid that was the first to arrive at the breakfast table and the last to leave. It took much energy to counterbalance this eating crutch. My family taught it too me. My father was the type to order six Jack N the Box tacos, two French fries, a malt and steal from my sister and mine's bag. We usually get a taco and fries or a hamburger and fries. Maybe a extra taco just cause it made him smile. But he take down seven or eight tacos and get extra fries. It was just hell on him. And now he is as big as hell. Big as hell, I say. That hurts to take that on. She doesn't know I am addictive. I know I'm creating pain for myself, but you can't always deny the pain. That would be lieing. Pleasure and pain, it's a cycle that must be filtered. I'm now trying to filter it. Perhaps, I'm too young, to inspired by art. OR perhaps I just believe in Dionysus. Nevertheless, it's none of her beez wax. Just known of her business. The women needs empathy and sympathy, but mostly understanding. She needs understanding. I hear Nancy leaving next week. They say she got on meds, and is all balanced out. She only came to get stabilized and now it's time to return to her chosen occupation."
Journal entry. February, 5th. 2003.
Steve started to realize that more people paid attention to him while on a thirty eight hour fast, or even a forty eight. At times, he seemed more clear headed, in tune and relaxed when empty. Steve knew being full all the time was more to regular life. Steve wasn't regular. He wasn't like all the rest. Not common for masses. He had a thing for men, liked their looks, their feel and he seemed to be somewhat in love with Sean, who left him. He was co-dependent at times and he despised when women laughed at him for his need for pleasure. It was an independent need, a private pleasure. It was his battle. It was not hers to deal with. She had other things in nature to balance, like periods of menstruation, lovers to live off of, or even other's men's abusive aggression. Steve had an eye out for beautiful women. The kind men could not resist. These type, every once and awhile attracted him. Sexual or not it was up to the Gods for future interactions. Their fait was in their hands. If he felt it, the love, or passion, or compassion, or a warm sinking heart, head over heels, if it lies with in him, in a true fashion, then, Steve would accept it. The feeling had to be there. It had to be real.
His new room #M04 was nice. It was near the West wing of the ward. The west wing over looked the parking lot, which was currently under a thick seize of snow.
Steve wrote down his feelings on the note pad and gazed freely out of the frosty, snow laced window. The ice crystals sparkle like ornaments on a evergreen near Christ birthday. He could barely see a couple of punk kids ice skating on the bare flat bottoms of their high tops and combat boots. He watched them giggle as they made their way off the icy parking lot and headed home. The wind picked up and he began to write.
Dr. Hurt had left a copy of the Art section of the Washington D.C. local neighborhood paper hanging on the head of his bed. It was dated, Feb 1st, 2001. The films released were the following: The Recruit with Al Pacino, Final Destination Two, Darkness Falls, Confusions of a Dangerous mind, and Biker Boyz. These showing were playing at the mall near the hospital. Dr. Hurt enlightened him that he was only to visit that mall, because of it's close distance to the ward. There was one other film that interest him that was opening in place of Biker Boyz next week. The film was called The Guru. It starred Heather Graham. The preview read, " Ramu, an Indian Dancer, moves to the United States seeking fame and fortune, only to end up a waiter. Then, at a party's catering, he is mistaken for a spiritual guru and becomes a celebrity over night." Celebrity over night, Steve thought. Hmmm. The paper continued with, "But it complicates his friendship with Sharonna, who accepts him for who he really is." Steve figured it was a film Sean would love. It was romantic, it had a dancer, it dealt with spirituality and Indians. This may give him leeway in finding Sean. If Sean wasn't there, perhaps an artsy type, or another man like Sean could reveal his whereabouts. His intentions became clear. He wanted to see a film, study human behavior, society at large and find Sean. He could do all this by asking artsy men if they knew Sean. He gives them a description and try to get a phone number or perhaps an address. Steve would have to have special permission to detached from the leash of the doctors or nurses guarding over him at the mall. It would take planning. But not too much planning. Steve had to stay in the now.
Steve greatest fear was becoming part of the movie after leaving through the exit doors. As a child he had a friend once tell him, "We always try to be the heroes in films. I stopped doing that. It's not good." Steve didn't like giving up the fantasy. He continued the tale long after leaving the film. Long after it had become a classic. The stories always continued for him. He could let them do that. That's what they where for, at least for him. Steve had had waited long enough to get out from the main doors of the ward. Seeing a movie would help him escape the process of living in now. The movie was in Now. It rolled in front of your believing eyes. Paid or not paid, it was real at that moment. Movies where real tears formed. Where experience lived and bloomed.
That night Steve went for his savings of Jelly packets and cream cheese packets. They were a new kind. He ate a little and began taking notes.
Steve remembered once in L.A. he had studied with an acting class in the hills of Santa Monica. Also, he studied in the hills of Hollywood. He learned that his teacher use to keep M&M's and other chocolate candies in there tropical plants, in her living room. Some of the actors, fully grown, had heard a rumor that the chocolates would come up missing. The blame was cast down upon The Little people. They were dwarfs, elves, tiny mutants of some kind, or something that had got into the plants for a choco delight. "It was the little people. I believe in them." One cute actress said with bouncing brown curls and seductive eyes. "I believe in them too." Another blond actress said with a serious green stare. Fantasy could take on many different levels. But when fantasy was sneaking into plants and removing chocolate rewards it became nuance. Steve half believe in The Little people. Some say they had seem them. Small elves haunting for a savory treat in a interior tropical plant. Steve figured if they could believe in such myths, he could live in a story for a few moments in time. He figured the story was in now and now was the time to taste that side of the surreal and real. It was time to become lost. Like the song says, I was lost and I was found.
That night Steve found a few wrapped pieces of peanut butter crusts and a few packets of grape jam. It was the top brand type. The hospital was allowing patience take in more healthy types of jams. One type was called Natures Brand Jelly. Steve opened ten packets and spread the jam on the crusted peanut butter sandwich. He noticed a line of ants crawling from the inner window sill to the foot of his bed. It was a single line, like an army would make before setting up a beach battalion or defensive line. The ants militantly, and slowly crawled along. Steve finished up his snack and washed his hands in the bathroom sink. He returned to the line of ants. He noticed they were not after the bread crumbs. They were prepackaged too tightly. Not air was leaking in or out the plastic wrap he used from the snack tray. It was the initial plastic wrap, or Sahran wrap, that covered the snacks. It was on off brand, or generic. Like some warrior guru Steve began mashing ants with his wet finger tip. He killed about a dozen or so and then wiped his hand on a toilet tissue. He used the toilet tissue as a type of sheath for his finger, the sword. He smashed a few dozen with his sock covered toes and then removed the sock so he could feel their squishy death. He continued mashing and smashing the line of ants until he made a slowly war path from the foot of his bed to the icy window sill. It most of been two degree Celsius outside. Thirty degrees or so in Fahrenheit. It was freezing and the ants thought they could crowd me out of my space. Steve must of killed over seventy to eighty ants. No more. He must of killed a mere hundred little marching red army brats. All of them squashed by his toe or wet finger tip. The wetness made it easier and swifter to flick and mesh them into small red doughy balls of disaster. Boy, no more ants were going to be coming back for a visit. Not tonight at least. Not tonight. Then, as Steve sat down to read, he saw a single ant crawling on the ceiling. It was the last red army booting around alone. Steve stared up at his tiny red crawling body and contemplated his future. Should a squash, through a book or simply torture with Sean's matches. Sean would smoke every once and while and he left matches under his mattress. Hmmm. Steve thought. Death by squash, fire torture or a quick end of fate by a flying thick anthology by Jack London.
A poem fell over Steve's head. He broke out his new Ball point and began to scribble.
Printed on her forehead
Not paying attention
A tattoo sigh
I don't care blues
Dove drove to flight
Over brick sunny side
on a ride
out of hell, dozy
Calm the church bells
winged tracks clicking by
on a ride to now.
So far to shore
dry sea, no lies,
Steve put his pen down and gazed. He decided to rewrite and name the poem.
Daze to night.
Printed on her forehead
Not paying attention
A tattoo sigh
I don't care blues
Dove dozed, a flight
Over brick sunny side
on a ride
out of hell
Calm the church bells,
winged tracks clicking by,
ride to now;
Far to shore,
dry sea, not a lie,
Her touch, rain, for now.
Yellow sun asking how.
All the son's asking now.
Then, another re-write. Steve finished it with,
Printed on her forehead
Not paying attention
A tatoo sigh
I don't care blues
A flying dove dozed,
Over bricks sunny side
on the ride
out of hell
Calming church bells,
winged tracks clicking by,
pouncing ride to now;
Far to shore,
dry sea, not a lie, dry eye,
Her touch, rain for now.
Yellow sun asking how.
All the son's asking now.
Steve picked up the journal and wrote it once more. This time it was finished.
Printed on her forehead
Not paying attention
A tatoo sigh
I don't care blues
A flying dove dozed,
Over bricks sunny side
on the ride
out of hell
Calming church bells,
winged tracks clicking by,
pouncing ride to now,
Far to shore
no needed doors
so take me now
love, and show me how
Steve feared writing the truth done. "I feel the word on paper does something to the physical world." Steve unearthed a new topic with Dr. Hurts. The doctor constantly obsessed over Steve's screenplay idea "I love the idea about a killer in Hollywood. One who slays rising female stars. It so, so bright. New. Excited." Hurt grew a huge stretching smile which slid ear to ear. "Its so 'Mullholland Dive' You heard of David Lynch. The eccentric film maker. Well, I hear he isn't that odd. But his films are so peculiar and full of wonder." Steve had brought in a cup of green herbal tea. "Ah, yeah he directing Elephant man, not the play Elephant man but the movie, and he directed some odd stuff on Broadway, with telephone wires, ahh, I heard it was genius, he directed Straight Story, that was genius." Dr. Hurt squinted his eyes and looked inward. Steve keep rambling and motoring his mouth. "It's about the old dude on a lawn mower traveling the long way, stretched out on a john Deer doing five to eight miles per hour or faster in the fast line, or more like the shoulder lane, but that's the fast lane for lawn mowers, especially tractor lawn mowers, small John Deer's, who knows the speed those puppies can really reach, and uhhh. . ." Steve's eyes became wide, round and infused into Dr. Hurt's. "And he directed Fire Walk with me, which was related to the television serious Twin Peeks which he directed using many fine actors, and he directed Eraser Head which is a cult classic, one of his first films since art 101, worked five years on it, financed most of it himself, used raw actor's, even used Sissy Spacek's husband, or old husband, she later supported his work, Sissy's great, uhh what else, oh yeah, and he directed. . ." Dr. Hurt realized Steve must be on some type of high. His mouth was running a million miles a minute. "You ok." Dr. Hurt asked. "And he directed and he directed. . ." Steve just continued listing the filmmakers credits oblivious of the doctors care, "He directed Wild at Heart, Lost Highway, in the late nineties. Nicolas Coppola or as the refer to him as Nicolas Cage was cast in Wild at Heart, Dennis Hopper played the villain in Blue Velvet. Blue Velvet is one of the top notch psychedelic thrillers of our times. . ." Dr. Hurt cut in with a choppy chuckle, "Psycheeedelic thriller. Good one." Steve jumped back into the listing, "You never heard of psychedelic thrillers. Ever? Ok. Lets call it a Psychological thriller. Better." Hurt concurred with a nod. Steve zipped in with, "Ok? Ok! What else! What else? Oh, Oh. Don't tell me. OH, uh, he directed uhhh. . .What is it? Its on the tip of my tongue. Tip of my. . .OH, I know! Got it! He directed. . ." Suddenly Steve shut off like a broken robot. He just began staring into nothing. Than he clicked on like a eighty watt light bulb snapping into socket, "GOT IT. I still don't have it." Steve's eyes slowly began to fuzz over, than, with out notice they sharpened and focused to pure blue clarity, "GOT IT. This time I have it. . ." Dr. Hurt looked highly concerned, "You do eh. Hurry up then." Steve inhaled and slouched over/ His chin touched his thigh. He was really trying to unearth the film. It was as if he was about to break a record in holding your breath contest. "Got it." Steve sat up as calm as an Indian guru. "I know now. ITS. . ." He clocked out of the room again. It was as if his spirit just go up and abandoned the conversation. "You seem to be going under a sort of psychosis." Steve slung down again. Chin to knee. "Just a minute. I'll be back." Steve focused on his breath and could hear his heart racing. Thump, ticket, thump, thick, tick, thumpity, thump." He listened to it tick inside his chest. This gave him a bit of pleasure, than joy brighten over and lifting him back up. He sat up and exhaled, "GOT IT THIS TIME DR. HURT. Its called. . ." Steve took a larger breath, his face turn kind of red, and even swelled a little, then he slouched over again, chin to his upper thigh. Next, like before, he slightly inhaled and held the air in. He covered his mouth with two piano sized fingers, then, kept the air in a little longer. Steve seemed to be getting some type of new high. "Your getting yourself high when you do that." Steve waved off DR. Hurt. Then he lifted up erect, "It helps me think." Steve swooped back over touching his chin to his knee. Dr. Hurt sipped on his milky coffee and jotted a few observations down on his note pad, "Ready now." Steve sky rocketed back to a perfect seated posture. Then he let out his air and place his hands to his side. Then, he leaned into the chair a little, throwing off his perfect posture. He seemed to be slightly relaxed now. His face was growing back to pale and less red. He scratched at his eye brow and relaxed fully into the chair, releasing his ankles and extending his toes in his floppy socks, "This time I got it." Dr. Hurt smiled, "Stop playing games Steve." Steve returned with, "Life is not a game Dr. Hurt. It is not a Game." The room grew quiet. Steve could here the Doctor breath. Hurt sipped on his creamy coffee and wiped his upper lip. "Hurry now." Steve's eyes grew greener and brilliant. At times they changed color. This time they remained greenish blue. The color of envy, everlasting, brilliance and innocence. "Wait I got it. DUNE. He actually did a sci-fi." "Dune?" The doctor questioned. "Yeah. The Sci Fi thriller. The one where they screamed to fire their guns. WOOOOOOOEEEEP. And then the gun shot out into the giant desert sailing worms. Oh. And the big dude who floated around. Member the big dude in the suite. Big dude suit, worms poking out of the desert dunes." Dr. Hurt rubbed the corner of his eye. A tear had formed, "Your very funny. Steve you just named David Lynch filmology. Not in order of coarse." Steve grabbed a quick sip of the hot tea with his puckered lips. "Ok. Eraser head, NO wait. I remember. I really remember. Alphabet. 1968. The Grandmother 1970. Then, Eraser Head. The Elephant man 1979. No 80. Dune. 85'. Blue Velvet 1986. Weeds which was a song. In 1987. Zelly and me 1988. He acted in that. Hollywood Maverick 90' something. Wild at Heart nearly the same year. The Cabinet of Dr. Ramirez in 1992. No 1991. And he was the executive producer for that one. And lets see, uh, Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me in 1992. And then Lost Highway, Straight Story and Mulholland Drive. Which is one of my favorites." Dr. Hurt looked offended. "Lets not focus on other peoples work. I know your getting ready for the mall and the visit, the field trip but hang on ok. Film makers have their own personal style. Ok. Focus on yours. I know you've acted, I know you've been all theatrical in the life before here. But focus on your story. Your script. Tell it your way, not theirs. Don't use them, use you. Steal what you need, I guess. Grotowski did say to be an artist you must be a good thieve. I think a good thieve knows what he needs for his style. If Lynch will help fine. But you will never be Lynch. You have to be Steve. Steve Whatshisface. Ok." Steve positively nodded and broke out his journal. "I have a new poem. I think my film is going to have a poet in it. I can use my verse for dialogue and possible poetry for the poet in the film." The doctor looked please, "Now that's original. That's you right?" Steve smiled, "Yep. Ok here's the poem." Steve had found the poem under Sean's mattress. The poem seemed disturbing and he wanted to hold it's worth up to Dr. Hurts critical mind. Sean had left so no harm done. "Its called. Wait. Before I give you the poem orally, or by mouth. I want to make sure you know it has been writing by a friend of mine who is no longer here. I don't want to give any names. I think the poem has heart and I would like for you to comment on it. Ok." Dr. Hurt agreed he'd be honest. "Here it is."
The room grew still. It was as if everything turned black and white. Slow motion occurred. Steve was looking through the opposite end of a telescope. Dr. Hurt seemed far away and tiny. It was as if the room had turned into a long, narrow hallway that carried on for and endless stretch. "It is called Thermogenic, Thermogenics.
Its who you wanted to be.
Fake it. Make it. Fake it to make it. I don't' matter today.
Point click breath, point click breath, over and under I need. . .
Now, now, now,now Kopow, now in now,
Sky red, heart burning
I see my self drift away. Whither. Whither.
Its winter and I feel her.
Its summer and I want him.
Its blue. Yellow and red.
Its only in my head.
Shhhhh. In my head.
When will I dance.
When the rain washes me clean.
When will I dream
When the rain washes me keen
When will I dance.
When love washes me to rain.
When her hands touch me like the sun.
"That's good. How are you going to use it."? Dr. Hurt asked. "Well, I think I'm gonna have an FBI agent chasing the Killer. The killer has a nephew named the Brat, or Will. Jay is the agent. Tommy Marcel is the killer. The one killing the rising stars. The Brat is about to break into Hollywood. So, I figure there could be a sub plot with the Brat, Will and Jay, the agent undercover as a screen actor. Will could take Jay to poetry Slam. A gay poet, or dancer, or some type of artist, could perform the poem in a Slam." "Perform the poem in a slam. A slam?" The doctor probed. "It's a poetry performing contest. I chase to usually win a prize performing your verse. Usually solo, or with a friend. But you are judged afterwards. That's the bummer." "Judged in poetry?" Dr. Hurt asked, "Sad isn't it. You give your poem to the people with your body. Body and mind. Body, mouth and soul. Than after you give your heart and soul, the judges hold up score cards. 1-10." "1-10. Like in the Olympic high diving sport." Dr. Hurt chuckled and rolled, "Similar. Yeah." "You can't judge poetry." Hurt sadly requested. "Yeah. But it heightens the stakes. Nowadays the people don't want a mere poem and microphone like in the fifty beat generations. Now they want you to put in your all. No just snapping fingers. Don't get me wrong, they do snap, but they boo too. Snap, clap and hold up the score cards." "Sounds like you've been there." "Poetry slams. Yeah. I went to a few in L.A. They usually have them on the West and East coast." "West and East, eh Interesting. Better than drug wars I guess." Steve closed his notebook. "Drug wars are no fun. Slams rule. They really make you work for you verse or prose." The doctor polished off his Hershey colored cup of Joe. "So where are you at on the script." Hurt was fascinated with his Hollywood killer story. "What did you title it."? The doctor realized he had announced part of the title in his questioned. "The UN titled. It's called The Untitled." "Good name." Dr. Hurt exclaimed, "I'm proud. Now where are you at in it?"
Steve broke out his journal.
I've got all these new story ideas. A story about these thieves that kill writers and steal their stories and sell them to New York publishers. They make fortunes killing and ripping off other minds. It's called, "The word thief." Toward the end of the tale, one of the thieves gets a knack for writing short stories and short dramas. Begins constructing long story outlines. Finally, writes a novella. He is killed and his novella sold.
Other stories about time, a clock that can never be set, the wind that never lets up, young loves who never fall out of love, a working man's glove that becomes magic and turns everything he touches to jewels. A story about a folk hero that moves west. It goes on and on. One after the other, one after the next. Ideas after idea. I need more time. More time, I say.
Journal entry. Steve Whatshisface. Feb 3rd. 2003.
Steve kept thinking of his stories. Different images floated to the top of his head and then into his eyes. Images of a condominium complexes, where cabinets slammed all day, and food went to mouth, people played Tennis and swam, watched HBO in small rooms with shiny bars, and nonmoving bicycles, and in place walking machines, that never walked, but voiced like mice, courts that echoed haunting whispers, courts, square by square, unit by unit that captured the call of the television set. Newscaster voices bounced of the racquet ball courts like blue rubber balls. Hand to mouth was a common occurrence. Young men would yell at the top of their lungs at their lovers, wives and ex-wives. A complex of people living side by side, box by box, room by room, over head and under, lied a boxy house, a compartment of the world, where giant metal contraptions hovered over the sky, aero machines hanging on by man made wings, and the fuel cluttered the air, and the oil spilled and the men laughed and the banana's peeled, and the world, fertile or sterile unfolded forth, into it's activities and non-activities, into the heaving motions of movement and into the breathlessness of stillness. The world kicked on like one large climatic building network, a electronic brain, a machine of the Gods, and then POW, WAM, and Bang, it released and everything rose and fell unhindered.
More and more time. Tick, tick away. Memories. I thought it would be good to go to all my memories in order to construct the screenplay. I thought I'd start numbering them. No chronological order. But I could use them every once in awhile, in order to draw from real life. If I number them I could list them and then look them up, for reference usage. You never know when you'll need a new idea, memory or scene from your life.
1st memory. Closet. Dark closet. Feeling the toys. There is a glowing alien doll. It's staring up at me. Mom opens door. Mom calls my name.
2nd memory. Three years old. Keller, Texas. My grandpa, Papa, sitting in one of those tin lawn chairs, with the green and white checkered cloth cover. Running my red tricycle up against a gray tree with large flaky barks. Bark spilling on the front wheel. Bark falling everywhere. Smokey, my first dog, light tan, green brown eyes, licking me in the face. Bark falling on his fur. He whimpers. I get up, like a young triumph stuntman. Papa walks over and lifts me up. Laughs. Smells like pipe tobacco. Carries me up to the top of the inclined driveway. It has a rain cover, a garage type of building, opened sides. Empty shed in the back. He gets me ready, but this time in the wagon. It's a red wagon, radio flyer, I sit up and pull on the wagon handle. It pulls upward and begins to roll down the cement incline. I head toward the tree. Papa laughs and laughs. Wind, wind. Then, with out notice, a blue sky, tree. Stop. Bark falls. Smokey howls. Runs over. Licks me and we go again.
3rd. Memory. Mom and Dad divorced. Mom dating other men. Nine years old. Third grade. Dad at work. Step mom watching TV in the TV room. I am sitting in the dinning room looking at the curved street out front. A road. A hill headed toward our house. The curved street. Waiting on Mom. Mom supposed to be home. She isn't. She is supposed to pick me up at six pm. It is six O five pm. Fell bad. Stomach is empty. Kicking legs at the thinly laced curtains. So, thin they seem like spider webs. Counting. I'm counting, and counting. Count to a thousand. Time ticks and ticks and ticks. I call. No one answer. I call from the kitchen no one answers. I try to read a book. The words fall away. Fall from my understanding. I need her to hug me. I need her close. Six ten arrives. Still counting the seconds. Kicking the thinly spider web curtains. Wind blows. Bandit arrives. Our third dog. Smokey died from banging heads with the school bus. Smokey two, a German Shepard is our second dog. Beautiful thick hair. Never so thick, brown hair. Smokey two gets shot with a twenty-two. We don't know. He growls. Turns mean. We send for a specialist. A dog trainer. Smokey two bites her. We give the dog away. X-rays. They tell us the dog has been shot and that is the reason for its aggression. Pain. It was acting out in order to sooth the pain. It needed to cover the pain so it bit. Acting out. Attacking out of the wound. Third, dog is Bandit. Tan must. Deep brown eyes. I feed him a big bowel of dog food. Car lamps. Is it mom? Mom? Seconds go by. Heart speeds up.
Mom has a new place. It's an apartment by Six Flags and Wet N' Wild. She finds a cat named Rainy. It likes to go out in the rain. She works for a work out gym called Richard Simmons. She knows a lady named Mike. Mike is a pretty hot lady. A model I think.
Long blond hair and she has friends. She takes me and my cousin Sean to Six Flags. They flirt with men. Have us ask one of the guys in line for the Flying swings, "Hey don't mess with her our I'll tell my dad on ya." She wasn't really my mother. She wanted me to pretend. I started to believe. I wanted out. Didn't like the divorce. I wanted out some how. I fell into my head. Images. Pretend. GI Joe. Comic strips. Donald duck and Gene Kelly. Walt Disney. Movies, movies and movies. Interested in movies. Me and Shawn, my best friend, would sneak into R movies like Lost Boys and war flicks. Started hanging out at the YMCA summer camp.
Shawn and I'd go there to swim and join teams of dodge ball. We loved Dungeons and Dragons and the movie Labyrinth. Later, I would put myself in a labyrinth. Labyrinth of lies. Fantasy. Fantasy and make believe. Make believe in what was not the truth. The truth was too much sometimes. So, I'd escape. Begin hanging out at Putt Putt golf. Playing video games, eating salty nachos, hot dogs, ice cream with the marshmallow at the bottom of the flavored, waffle cone. Me and Shawn are close.
Later, I get into acting, he gets into filmmaking. Mom comes in. She has two advertisements. One from the paper one from TCJC. She asks me, "You want to take an acting class or a writing workshop class." I choose acting. It had stage combat. Later, I fall in love with the eloquence, physical creativeness and emotional power of acting.
I still write. I see acting and writing as brother and sister. They are sibling rivalries.
Shawn and I as kids.
We did our first hit of acid together at Fifteen. Went to some young teenagers house. Fell in love at first sight, didn't know her name. She had a picture of a girl that brushed her hair and transformed into a skull. Shawn's Granddad picked us up. I thought death was knocking on the unknown young teenager girls house. We tried not to laugh in front of Hank. Hank drove us home. I laughed at the car lights. Sat in his grandfather's Hank's backyard and watched the bushes grow and transform into dinosaurs. Believed I was in a Dungeon and Dragon's adventure game. Shawn said I was. We spun glow strings all night long and watched helicopters, circular glowing pizza pans, and UFO's appear in the dark. Everything appeared in those glow strings. Spinning and spinning up little worlds. I laughed so hard my stomach hurt. Since, I've been acting I haven't seen him much. I heard he got in trouble. I don't know what kind. Saw him once on the highway driving. Many years later. He had long black hair, goatee, devilish mustache and a beat burette. Odd, how people grow. Many, many moons have passed. We use to smoke pot, listen to AC/DC, Pink Floyd and Ozzy out in the forest. We park he friend's car and star up at the stars. So many stars. Then, we skate board and guffaw at our clumsiness. Too much time has passed. We got separated toward the end of high school. Met a gay artist friend. Got into Drama. Left Keller behind. Gay artist friend moved away to College and hooked up at a College down the street. Went their two years for drama. Sophomore year I woke up and forgot who I was. Left school. Got help. Went back into school. Got more help. Left school. Blew up. Blew down. Got help. Left to another school forty minutes from home. Got thin. Fell in love with an eighteen year old. Did theatre everywhere, even in Czech republic. Got into the Bard. Empathized with Hamlet. Studied theatre movement like crazy. Even studied it in Ohio. Interned at Hip Pocket theatre. Hip Pocket became a haven for me for a while. Did Waiting For Godot. Played the lucky role. Graduated. B.A. in theatre arts. Left for L.A. Hollywood. Walked around in the background. Flew to New York. Went to Grad School for one year. Got aggressive. Came home for help. Trying to exist in the now. The now is the key to healing.
What is a home?
Must heal. Must find a way. Let go. Take it easy. Looking for love. Looking for fame. Looking for a place to call home. Can't deny the pain. Will fame give it a name. What is home? I hear it is a place that will take you in. Is it New York? Is it L.A? Is it the heart? Is home close to God? I believe a home is belief. The foundation is taught as a child and we build on it every day, every breath and every beat of the heart. That is home. It is ongoing. It is in movement. It is life. Home is life and much, much more.
"So how is it coming along. Any more poems sent. Anymore scene ideas." Dr. Hurt relit his pipe and stretched back in his rolling chair. He blew out a puffy stream and unsheathed a new, black sharply pointed fountain pen. It had a gold trim that twisted off exposing a bronze old fashion fountainhead. It sparkled and gleamed as it swiftly waved in the doctor's fingers. He shook it slightly and scratched a doodle on the note pad. The ink was thick, long and streaky. Steve noticed something different about the boring walls in the room. The dolphin poster was not alone. Next, to it was a picture of a sun peeking out from a dark, puffy silver cloud. The room had a touch of fest and entertainment. It was actually exhibit a bit of color. "New poster. It reads Insanity does not exist in Consciousness." Steve observed the silver lining outlining the clumpy cloud. "You look more plump today." Steve said. "Oh, me and a few friends had a huge pasta dinner the other night. Veggie pasta, marinara sauce, cappelinni, meatballs, whole nine yards." "Wine." Steve asked. "Ecco Domani. And some Chianti. Banfi. And you." "Nuked chicken, corn and peanut butter." Steve smiled. "So lets here it smarty pants. What's the new segment." Steve scratched his chin. "New Segment?" Steve questioned. "Oh. Ok. Well, I was thinking about writing past the murder scene I told you about last week. I want a FBI agent to be in it. Jay. Jay Grisham. Like the writer." "You enlightened me on that subject." "Yes. I remember. Also, I want the killer to have two identities. The movie star and the insane role of the mad detective. He must be both." "Good. The dark shadow, or false self would be the mad detective." "Exactly. The shadow of the star. The star has this glorious life as a famous celebrity in Hollywood. He has fans, money, big house in Santa Monica, and everyone loves him." "But he has to vent. He has to escape his perfect life." The doctor added. "Yes. He has to live a life that Hollywood has given him and he has to pay for it." "Pay?" The doctor whispered, "Yes. Pay. He was born a devote Baptist Christian. He feels he is going to hell for his fame." "So why does he feel he is going to hell?" Hurt questions. "Well, easy. Fame is evil. Power is evil. Money is evil. He has much of it all. Much evil. That evil manifest." "Who says power, money and all that is evil." "Christ does. The eye of the needle. The camel. Remember." "Yes. That makes sense. So, sense he can't get through the needle. He can't. . ." "Go to heaven." Steve says smiling. "So, this is his payment. Not owned to God. But to. . ." "The devil." Hurt looks over to the new poster hanging next to the dolphins. "What do you think of the photo of the sun." Hurt pointed at the new poster. "It makes sense. Sun coming out from a gray cloud. Dark cloud represents illusion. Unconsciousness. Sunshine represents copiousness, or even a type of well rounded consciousness; God. Or clarity. So on." Steve smiled again. "It's right. Insanity can't exist in consciousness. It wouldn't exist in plain days view. Those who are conscious. In the now. Are present in this world. Or what is reality to this world. Or reality to them. Those who are very present are, what most call, sane." "Some are too aware." "Yes." Steve rested his notebook on his lap, he took a nook for a new idea, eyebrows shifted up to an arch. "Yes. Those are unfortunately too aware. And their awareness must be sublimated." "Smart word. How do they sublimate it." Steve's eyes grew clear and calm. "Art." "Can this art be writing. Acting. So on." Steve smiled and did not answer. Time was up. The clock strikes six. Hurt went back to his office. And the day drove forward. Steve went into the eating room and prepared for dinner. He had just washed his hands in the side bathroom, and they were still dampened with soapy gloss. He polished them dry with a brown napkin and cracked a few knuckles. The nerves had kicked into his system. He was one of the only patients on the ward that was allowed to choose his type of sedative. Every one else was assigned to a special med, or even narcotic. Night was nearly full. The nurse rolled in the dinner tray. Same as always: Nuked Chicken deluxe. Corn. Mash potato that tasted like salted mush and hardened dry dinner rolls. Steve peeked under the side table as the nurse shook the chronic patience OJ. There were a few chronics that set in wheelchairs and never spoke. Some even catatonic. Steve spotted the grove he had been digging away in the mortar on top of the crystal glass block. The tooth past had been disguising the carvings. It was as if an artesian home decorator was at hand. Not a single flake of past spilt. Or as the Merchant of Venice puts it, "Not a drop spilt." The nurse said as she poured Steve a glass of milk. Steve winced, "Thanks." He hated milk. The nurse passed him buy and the bi-level Hispanic guy turned up his AM/FM. Believe it or not, Elton John came on. It was the theme song for Lion King. Steve winced at it too and dug into a slice of the nuke-processed chick. It tasted like dry oil. He passed it over, silently ranting at its eccentric savior, nibbled at his corn. He had to get some strength in him. Tonight he shall carve the second side of the block out. He had only completed the left side. Now it was time for the right.
He asked for more toothpaste. The only type that was given to him was green. He needed Colgate. Colgate, the plain kind was white. I believe it was white, Steve thought. "Colgate. You got Colgate." The black female nurse shook her head. She was new on the unit. She had big eyes and looked a little like Oprah, but heavier and not as glamorous. "Nope. No Colgate. Pepsin, Crest or Aqua fresh." "Can I get all white kind. With white past." The nurse coaxed her head to one side and popped her neck. "Oh. Tense there. Ohm. Lets see. Nope. How bout Aquafress." Steve didn't want to be found out. "Ok. Fine." He took the colorful Aquafresh and decided to try and pick the white out of it. No use. It was too mixed once he emptied a mesh of onto his finger. "Damn." He whispered. He went back to his Colgate. It was the original kind. Plain white. It worked best for mortar. "I'll squeeze a bit more." He wrinkled it out onto his finger and stuck it in a wad of paper. It was enough to paint over the flaky mess he'd leave behind from the grove. "Ok. Now to brush." He eased a line of Aquafresh onto the bristles and began to brush rigorously. He didn't get much exercise in the ward. So, brushing became part of his work out routine. "Brush, Brush, Brush." He sawed back and forth as quick as possible. He spat and washed up. Now, it was time for night to sink in. He crawls on his belly into the eating area and hide under the last to the left table. All they way up to the glass block. He chisels away at the right side until morning, or until he couldn't keep his eyes open. Usually after two hours or so of nicking away at the glass block mortar grove, with a plastic spork, or spoon, he would then arise a overly wrought blurriness and haziness to his focus.
The theory of thievery.
Steve's past was not just about a loss of identity. It was about thievery. Thievery in the essential form. Steve's Whatshisface was once a pickpocket. Now, a pickpocket is only after cash. They don't care about the credit cards, usually their not that stupid, they have high dexterity skills, and are very quiet people. Usually, they don't care about the photos of the baby, pictures of friends, the pet Chi hua hiua, and in most cases the victims ID. Now, a professional thief may rip off some one's wallet just to retrieve a driver's license or picture ID. There is much they can do with those two items. One, they can call your back, if you have any other info on you like a social security or something in that nature, they can pose as you on the phone. Many pro criminals will listen to how your voice sounds and contact your bank. In this case, they can have your checks mail to a false address and pick them up, or have a worker pick them up for him. Depending on the crime ring and it's size. Now, a thief does many things with the money. He can support he or she selves, or he or she can use it to feel good. Usually, if they use the money to feel, they eventual fall inward and go chaotic. If they use the money to survive, stay off drugs and keep a clear head, they go far. Its sad, but thieves can have a some what successful life. Most get caught. Now, I do not recommended thievery. I don't at all. Its for the birds. But if you are going to choose that path, get your smarts now. Skill and wisdom go far on the streets. Oh, by the way. A thief's business ground is the street. It can be the Internet, or banks, or even a clothing store, but it's considered The Streets. Meaning, that's the name they will give it in most cases. Most of their money is put back in the black market or on the street. So, they have their own personal corporation. It's merely an invisible one. Thieves do not always considered themselves thieves, many go to jail saying, "I didn't know it was against the law." It doesn't matter than. Once in custody by a police officer the game of thievery is temporarily, or even in some case, over period. Sean was a thief. He was a thief of hearts. Steve was a thief. He was a thief of reality and wallets. He stopped his stealing do to clarity. Many thieves live in a semi-conscious world, but when the are in the act of stealing they are hyper conscious. Perhaps this is their problem. Perhaps they still are need for gaining a higher consciousness. I don't know the real reason for a thief. I know Christ was nailed between two thieves. A good thieve, and a bad one. There are myths about thieves. Heroic stories and bad ones. Robin Hood was considered a good thief only because he was given, loyal and kind hearted. Robin Hood never murdered, but he did fight. He was taught by Little John and the holy ways of life. He was a good example. Bad thieves don't care about anyone but themselves. They don't know God. They don't care and they don't want to help anyone less than them. They are chaotic. Sean was closer to the good thief. But at times he went dark. Now, he gave up Whatshisface. He gave up the technique of pickpocketing. And Steve gave up his zigzagging path through reality and back jean pockets. No more hiding away. No more pretending to be others. No more persona swooping. He had to move forward in life. Move up to a more morally ethic way of life. Life will test you. It was had you five thousand dollars and see what you do with it. Do you spend it on candy, gas, hot women, clothing, drugs or do you give it to someone who is in need, or better yet, do you help your self with it. How does candy and drugs help you. How does hot women and drugs advance you in life. Some say it may. Only God knows. He made hot women and drugs didn't he. God made everything. It's a test. I'm pretty sure. Feeling good has something to do with the test taking. I don't know if it's a true or false answer, but we all know, we like to feel. Some steal to feel, some steal to gain riches, some steal to understand, some steal to love, and some steal to help. If we were all thieves, lets just pretend we are, why would you steal?
What is a proper business deal? What is a proper business handshake? Is the product always what you say it is? Is life always the way you expect it to be? So, when you sell an honestly prepared product. Meaning it was legally assembled in a legal factory, are you selling what you think is a perfect product? Do you cook up a better story than the product seems to be, a better deal than actually exists. What is the best deal? Every businessman will admit that a great deal made has a hint of the devil's warmth. Every great product is slightly a lie. Every thing in nature has its counter reaction. You would lie to say, "Its perfect. It's a perfect deal." Wouldn't you.
Steve was giving bad deals in life. He had been ripped off when he was younger.
I have one last time to steal. I was thinking about ripping off the doctor's expensive fountain pen. It would make a great tool to chisel with. I have to figure out a way to get it. Maybe I could invite him to swim with me. He has to get changed then. I could take a break from swimming while the Doc is still at it. Then, I'd go into Hurt's jacket in the locker room. Tell him I had to pee. It might work. He'd be swimming and I would simply remove the pen. Use it nightly to chisel at the mortar.
Steve. Feb something. 2003. Think it's a Wednesday. Or Tuesday. I'm lost on days.
The swimming lie.
Dr. Hurt replied, "Go Swimming. I have my own pool at home. Why go swimming with you." "I wanted to race ya." Steve smiled. "You don't have to." "Well, when do you go swimming?" "Tomorrow. Around noon. They take me. The techs. Every other day. I ask for it a lot. I wanted to race you. You look pretty fit. And you could use the extra exercise. Eh?" Steve gave serious look. It was always good to look stern when mentioning racing, or competing. "OH, why not. I'll race ya. Tomorrow at noon. May do you good to compete." Steve through his hand out. "Thanks Doc." The doctor's sleeve cuff rose and expose a diamond laced, golden Rolex. "I like your watch." Steve grinned. "Expensive looking." "Its new. Don't think about it. I know your past Steve Whatshisface."
The next morning they met at the pool. The water waved and sparkled in wavy silvers in light translucent gray. Steve use to live by a modern art museum. There was a chiaroscuro painting of an Olympic pool. His memory arose to this hung image on a wall somewhere West Fort Worth. He was far from the modern art museum but the pool was before him, as if it stepped out of the painting and became reality. He had seen the modern art museum many times and had come across many of the images in his real life. The pool was one of his favorite chiaroscuros. He had seen it for this reason. The painting had come to him. All paintings eventually come to you, after they are witness. IT may not be the exact replica but you will see them in some form or fashion in life. Painters, and artist alike, not only capture life but they send it to other places. And in this sending, there is an arrival; a meeting.
The indoor pool was located on the tenth floor. It had one large, wide glass window that revealed the distant city of Washington D.C. The indoor pool was mostly shallow with one deep end section. There where high walls, with a giant heating vent which was spilling out luke warm air. The pool was mildly warm, and wisps of fog hovered over the top like pale, formless spirits. "Steamy." The doc announced. It had three diving platforms for the fast lanes. They lifted about two feet from the water. There were four lanes in all. Fast land, semi fast, medium and slow. Each lane was segmented with a long chain of floating white and red bobbies. Steve took off his bathrobe and revealed his skinny, muscled long legs and red burrowed swimming trunks. One of the techs let him use a loaner. He wasn't too ashamed to be exposed. He wasn't as self conscious about his smaller left booby do to the doctor's knowledge and experience in science and medicine. The Doc was dressed in knee long blues and a neon white swimming cap. Most of his body was not that bony. He was slightly impressed. The Doc must have belonged to a 24-hour fitness. The Doc had strong, round arms and healthy, bright legs. The both scooting into the shallow in, while the techs headed to the showers. They were allowed to shower their on breaks. Steve and the Doc began dog peddling to loosen up their muscles. The doc performed sic-different swimming stretches. One was for free style. He planned each move with exact robotic control in definition. The arms stretched high over his hands and locked by the fingers. His elbows squeeked and bent as he pulled them upward and extended. Next, he brought his arms skillfully backwards and carefully rolled his head back. Grace, slow and tranquil, wrinkles formed under his neck and his age showed in his sagy breast, and loosely spent muscles. Steve still had a tight bode and his arms still revealed ripples and work out veins. "So, you ready." "Doing your push ups I see." Doc Said. "Sean got me hooked on one of his Ballet warm ups." "Oh really. Floor work huh." "A little. So one practice lap." "Sure." Doc took off faster than Steve expected. He finished up a lap in a good two minutes. "For this size that's good time." Steve had not swam in awhile. He began to dog peddle more. "Just joking." Steve bubbled as water splashed in a haywire fizzle. "Breast stroke or free style." "Free style." Doc said dunking his face into the water. Doc rose a pair of goggles from under the water. "Catch." He tossed them to Steve. Steve snagged them on. "Ready?" "Hang on." Steve dipped the goggles into the hazy water, sipped and spit onto the lenses. He rubbed the lenses, each single, and flipped them over his head. The elastic caught on his hair and snagged a few out. "I'll got with out goggles." Doc insisted. "Are you ready." "Should we get some one to count down for us." "No. I'll say one, two and three and go." Sean scratched his chin. He looked perplex, "Do we go on three or go." "Good question." Doc Hurt mumbled. "Lets go on three. So I'll go one, two and three." Doc motioned in the water. "Three's the key word." Steve stretched his hand high above his head, jittered his head left to right like a set of windshield wipers. "Ready." Doc moaned with inhabitation. "Ready." Steve singled with a thumbs up. "One, two and…." Steve cut in. "WAIT." Steve adjusted the side strap of his goggles. "Goggles got a leak." Luckily, Steve had stuck his head into the water to test the suction of the goggle lenses. "Ok. Better." Steve blurred as he re-strapped the side adjustments to the goggle. "Ok. I think. Wait. Yeah. Go ahead." The doctor positioned himself for the final time. He stuck one had in the air and shouted, "ONE, TWO AND FOR THE LAST TIME, THREE." The two racers rook off like gas powered paddleboats in an inane theme park ride. White water fumbled up to the surface and boiled around the bodies in motion. Their legs flittered and shivered like a set of humming bird wings hovering over it's nectar. The Doc cut out in the lead, Steve was far from giving in. Water shot up his nose as he hit the second boey. The doc was approaching the fifth booie as he felt something sting in his calf. It was an ol' charly horse. The doctor tried to shake it off his flipping his foot in a regular walking position. This meant he no longer formed his foot straight. Instead, he kept it loose. Steve began to gain on him quick. Steve, YMCA taught, kept his feet flat, like fins, and used the small paddle technique. He slowly past the doctor by the seventh bobbing bobbie. Steve had no boggle about his lead. He was one foot ahead of his Doctor. Red rush fierced through his viens like gasoline through a tank's engine. One hand over the next, arms cupped, elbows out, head in the water. He could hear his coach at the Y hollar at him. Head down. Not too far. Elbows bent, over the water, all the way over, curl hands infornt of the chest, follow through with it, follow through. Glide, hustle, glide, hustle. Legs together, streamiline, feet pointed, quick little peddles, quick ones. The voice even echoed under the water. Steve was on the last bobbie. He was inches from the wall too close to somersault twist. So, he simply spun around one hundred and eighty degree and shoved his feet of the pool wall. Bam. He was off like gun fire. No mercy to the laten Doctor and his sad heave ho. The doc hit the wall in an underwater twist. He flipped over with a flass pushing all the air out into a thousand tiny bubbles. He was off and after Steve. Only a body length away Doc said. Steve had the lead with his crazy fast arms and little kicks. Doc surfaced from the push off and stream lined about a good yard. Then, he put on the muscle. Doc was a champ at free style. He had one State champion ship for his highschool and his four year undergrad college. Go Eagles. Go. Doc could hear the cheerleaders shouting at the top of their lungs and he put on the kick. His neck twisted to the side, sucking down full breaths, as his lips barely escaped the water. HE was now on to Steve's feet. He was less than a body length away. Steve heard his heart thump loudly. A tired blue replaced the red rush and he began to slightly slow. Doc had no problems gaining now. Now, it was about perserverance and speed. Doc, peddle faster, faster, arm over head, long strides, fast, swift kicks. Every once and awhile he cheated a wild thrust with his arms. They hit the surface with a ragefull explosion, exploding splash after thunderous splass. The Doc was tied with Steve. Steve suddenly lifted his head lower into the water. Though shall not fall now. Steve remembered a song with those words. Not to fall now. Steve flipped his elbow vertically and dove it long ways. It was time to start the hustle. His legs speed up in tinier kicks and his arms began to karate chop the steaming surface. Tied they passed the last bobbie. Doc felt the wall as Steve lifted his head. Steve hand was touching the wall as the Doc turned to him with an open mouth of water. "AHHH." Doc mumbled. "One lap is all." The doc hit the lane and began kicking harder. Steve was way out of breath. Steve thought for a second he had tied him, or even won. The doc was still going. Steve stood completely tall and watched the doc finish off another freestyle rushing lap. Doc made it to the other side and hollered, "Slow poke." Doc hit the water again, and like a narrow submarine torpedo arrowed at him, after his kick off. "Your kiddin me." Steve smiled. Doc reached him with double speed. "Thought we were doint ten laps. Come on." Steve followed after him with a cherry stroke. Steve realized he was out of shape. He had not been working on cardio. He couldn't. It was impossible to do on the ward with out getting into an ordeal with the other nuts. Steve decided today would be a time to catch up. "Its time to get down and boogie." Doc said raching the pool wall. He stood up and spit a silve line of water out of his mouth like an old cherub waterfountain statue. "Lets get in shape while we can eh?" Doc headed off again. Steve was getting the picture. Doctor's don't get out of shape. The body is their life. Life is the body. Healing power and healing knowledge is felt in the body as well as used. The body is a tool of the doctor. It must be sharp and it must be healthy. If it wasn't he'd be an oxymoron. It would be like a pastor who preached the gospels and worshiped the devil. It wouldn't make any sense. Steve once thought about becoming a doctor. Actor and doctor both care for the body. They use it like a tool. Both must keep them sharp and useful. The pool day ended after ten or twenty laps. "Paul Newman does seventy laps a day. That's what I read." Hurt said. "Seventy." Wow, Steve thought. That would take all day. "It doesn't take him all day?" Steve asked. "I don't know. I've never swam with Paul Newman." They hit the showers. Steve found himself in his room sitting over his journal. He felt good again. Memories of summer camp and evenings at the lake came up. He had that chlorine smell in his nostrils and that prune wrinkle skin on his palms. His face felt dry, smooth and soothing. Water is healing, he thought. I'll write about it. I know,
I want to write a story about a world full of water. Like, Water World was bought, but with out man as a central subject. More apocalyptic and post-desertion, than what was in the 21st century. 22nd times and beyond 3000AD, beyond 4000 and further into AD. After, 5000,6000, 7000 A.D. Beyond AD. Way, way far, away in the future. A story beyond the time of man. Beyond his creation and His second coming. After revaltions and after hell on earth. After the fire is smothered with the mixed purity of salt water. A story where there is no man. No land. Just water and sea creatures. It can be story where the time of man did not exist. A story underwater. Note too self. Ask doctor next week if he can bring hunt up some National Geographic. I want to read about the healing power of dolphins.
"Your off track." Doc said. "Your too sporadic. Stay on one subject. Write about your life. OR the story of the killer. Don't include everything. It gets to eclectic. Too much like a collage. People want structure." Steve nodded, "Not really. There are writers that give you everything. Fiction, non-fiction, reality and non-reality, truth and surrealism all in one. Think of Vonnegut." "Well, it must come from you." "Who else could it come from." "Good point. Well, it's your story. I don't follow you anymore. Is it a screenplay, story, novel what." "All of em. It's a collection of stories in different forms. I don't want to just write in one form. I want to include everything from my point of view. Past, future and present. But I know secretly it will. . ." "Come from the present moments. I heard about that with writers. Stories told about the past are really.. . ." " Stories about the present moment of now." "So, you can't avoid now. Even when you include the past. . ." Steve finished for him, "You're including this moment. This moment I speak of. . . Now. Steve wanted to leave now. He didn't know why. He had an urge. Doc went back to wherever back there lead to and Steve pulled the covers to his chin. Time was ticking. That scared him. There was so much he wanted to see, do, hear, become, so much to take on. There was a mountain to climb. There was a sun peeking behind a silver dark cloud. How do I get through this cloud? He thought. With this. Steve held up Hurt's fountain pen. He took it as the doctor showered. Steve got in the shower next to him and turned it on. As the Doc soaped up he tip toe to his locker and silently opened it. He had no lock. He went into his inner jacket pocket and Wahoo, it was there. Hurt never mentioned it was missing. He held it up toward the window and watches the gold trim sparkle and glisten.
Steve skipped the snack tray as he crawled belly first into the eating area. He knew pleasure was not the answer. Pleasure did not equal happiness. Joy derived from an inner peace, or an non-pleasurable aspect of life. Joy arose in the present moment. What really is. What the truth thrived on. Joy was breath. Joy was God. Joy was the true self. Pleasure was merely a reaction to an outside force, it was a scientific stimulus igniting, sending messages to the body. A elixir of pain. Pleasure always wanted more, more and more. Joy did not need more, for Joy was all. Joy was always full. Joy was always free of pain. Joy needed no antidote. It's was calm, one and free.
Steve made it under the table. His knees were slightly aching due to all the slow crawling. The nurses were up watching the moderators and some Entertainment Tonight special. Voices rang through the thick glasses. Kudos to John Travolta and Heather Gram for some new Film. There was a new Rock N Roll band started by a new Star. Rhythms of vanity shivered in small echoes through the ward's hall. All coming from the mouth of an electric set that spat out waves of confusion, greed and perfect insanity. Evils unnecessarily broadcasted to man's wonder and temptation. Steve scrapped along the groves of the mortar outline. He removed all the dried paste with his fingertips and the back end of the ballpoint. He whipped off the screw top and exposed the bronze tip. He began scratching away at the grove, in careful scraps, not to spill the ink, or cause any marks on the glass blocks. It was coming along with double speed. The mortar was flaking away in soapy piles on his wrists, knuckles and on top of the linoleum floor.
As Steve chiseled away at the mortar line, he began to replay a drama he had scene in his Freshman year in College. It was on one of those BBC productions of Shakespeare for Youth. The line was shouted by Edgar in a latent but triumph lament, "The weight of this sad time we must obey; Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say. The oldest hath borne most; we that are young Shall never see so much, nor live so long."
Guilt is defined as, "The fact for being responsible for the commission of an offense." Guilt was the outcome of the weight of wrong or right. It is the component, or mechanism that balances the Lady Justices delicate scale. I was once told that Guilt does not really exist. Not really. I know that is hard to take in my mind in a moralistic society, a land based on Justice, Peace and Bravery. A land's freedom that soaked its young men's blood for the tree of liberty. A bell shouting like thunder. Ringing from the highest dark cloud or sunny mountainside. Either way, the bell shouts freedom. And in this freedom there is a price. A payment follows. And in this payment there is truth. Guilt, or no guilt, truth does prevail. Freedom is truth. If a man exists in Truth. If a man fully lives in his own consciousness, than, he is free. Freedom is the present moment observed with every sense and every angle of the heart. Truth is. . .
Steve did not feel guilty for carving his way out. If Sean returned for more help, he'd have to play with the Jesus Dude or Sissy. Sissy and the rest, even the holy Hispanic lady, would have to duke it out in the circle with the minds of psychology and order. They have to learn about the building and falling of structure. Steve had made up his mind. He was on the bottom edge of the crystal block, scrapping away like a mad wolverine in heat.
A ambulance siren rang past the highway. It was following by two other high falsetto mechanical screams. Woee. Yeeie. Wee. Yoeii. Weio, wieee….Woeee. Heeeee. It could have been War World three out there. It could be the end. Steve thought about if he was leaving safety. And yes. He was leaving safety. He no longer needed it's dull cradle.
Post modern times had no choice but to wrap up the safety dance. It was time to mausch. It was time to bang our heads. Time to pogo into your neighbor. The sixty children, hippies prayed for peace. The Seventies man wanted to feel good, dance and wear bell-bottoms. The eighties he wanted to tear down walls, spike up his hair, call upon anarchy, so the center would not hold, in the nineties he found his feminine side, called upon mother earth for answers, spread the computer hands all over, he wanted to talk to everyone at one time, now that two thousand has arrived man needs a transfusion of bright hope. Hope that will send him toward and away from the fire. Buildings fell, pentagons burned, buldings rebuilt and towers of babels persisted. Two thousand was a time of chaos and complete and serene order. A time of invention and cloning. Out there, was the end. The end of a beginning. But the street sellers still shouted, "Buy a shirt. Buy a shirt. It has the twin towers on it." Not long after the thousands of people were lost in the ashes. And their families suffered. The street hustlers pushed the sale harder. Selling their lungs out. "Bye the shirt. Bye it. It has the twin towers on it. The lost twin towers. Buy it now."
Just like it had always been. An end to begin, to start over and regenerate. When, some one falls and breaks a bone they go through the three R's. First, the injured one recovers. Then, the hurt person falls into a safety net, or rests in a restful place. Second, the person rebuilds or rehabilitate. Third, he or she regenerates and rejuvenates. I believe we are always growing. Even the old. They're growing toward something. People call it aging, but many writers and philosophers have compared it to returning. So, can the old get younger? Can the younger get older? Answered. I don't always believe in forward motion. Aging to me is not a straight line. We are always growing up. Up toward the heavens. But is this upward motion the same, or in continuum, with forward momvent. Does it have the consistency of motion. If the blood in our bodies does not flow, our hearts remain calm. If we rush, the blood rushes and the heart pounds. See, it's, the world and man's age, is not always going forward, but merely re visiting the soul. Forward and backwards have had its meanings in our culture. Yes, time sends us forward, but in that time we repeat, and this may seem like the illusion of backwards. Like when you are in a car, and the other cars roll forward and you feel as if you are reversing. Age is a funny thing. Is it you wake up one morning to realize that you have aged. Wrinkles, gray hair, soft body and bony shadow. Or is it that you choose not to see it happen one day at a time. WE all are in a constant process of trying to reverse the reversible. WE are all trying to stop the forward motion of the great clock. But with out the swinging of the pendulum there is not movement. And without movement there is no time. Thus, mother nature holds us in its cradle as we step out onto Father's invention. Time sends us. Time is motion. With out we would be nothing. Many believe it doesn't exist. The measurement of time exists in many forms. Time is a man made invention. Thus, as long as man exists time shall move onward.
That night Steve finished much of the digging out of the crystal. He fell asleep holding his notebook, pen in ear, head leaned back into the standard sized pillow, with white linen, and hard puffy stuff. He dremt of a box. It was no larger than the average TV screen, but it was not television. It did entertain him that much, but it did sing to him. The box was tan and had one large eye lense. Kind of like the lense on a pair of glasses. The box hummed and whistled and even said a few simple words like "Good day. The time is… or Goodbye." The box was very lonely and had no friends. It never left the house and never went out on engagements. It never drank liquor, wine or beer. It never ate meat. The only food it consumed was light. It had to have light. The type of light that was lost in motion. Steve could think at the box and ideas would arise on it's lense. The world was shown to him. Countries in central Africa, foggy streets of London, double decker buses, Ireleand and long grassy hills, Normandy cliffs, Desert regions the spread for miles and miles, heating up and dusting the wonderers. It revealed a man walking with twelve others. The tallest man was the thinnest. He had sunken eyes, and not an ounce of hate on him. His eyes were solid love. His movements were gentle and soft. The men were huskier, and carried more clothing on their backs, thicker textiles and longer materials. The tallest had light tan skin, with a long thin nose and wavy long hair. He had thinly sandels on with laced ties. The others watch over him and protected his every move. They followed him. He lead them across a long desert toward a a vast city. It had tall buildings, loaded humped camels and a brilliant lights. Also, the city was full of sinful deeds. Idolizing other men, other false idols and worshipping evil presents. Prostitution, drug usage, killing, and savory of gold was very common. Men used power against one another in order to control. Everything was timely, people were out all the time, wondering, collecting, judgeing and warring. The city was waiting for him. Waiting for his words and kindness. He was traveling them to save them from themselves. The city had become to structured, it was building a plan against God. In the center of the city was two tall towers. They pointed toward the heavens. The towers foundation was painted green. Each level of the tower had different names. The tower stacked six levels highs and was painted various colors. One name was Sidybinch. A wooden sign painted in blood red was titled Sidybinch. It was their god of temptation. It carried the color of a glowing yellow and the shape of an hour glass. It made men into slaves and kings into demi gods. The rich became richer and the poor suffered due to it's tricky promises and masterful lies. It could give you everything and take it all away. Unless you had God. God could destroy it with a snap. If one worked for glowing evil hour glass they were allowed to feel good, but a payment of pain was at hand. The second layer was named Ickzowne. It's name was based on a nearby river of worship and cleansing. People kneeled to great river of Ickzowne. The chosen people called the river by a different title. It had a holly name and was rarely verbalized among tribes. They knew it was a river from God and they treated it as such. Ickzowne, to the condemned city dwellers was supposedly a river of comfort. This layer was worshipped with the travelers. One could pray to Ickzowne and comfort would appear in their bodies. They could travel further and walk tall mountains. The third layer had no name but was in the shape of a white sea shell. It allowed power to appear if the prayer was said properly and with honest hatred toward the city. The prayer was to mimick the sounds of the ocean and various wild sea creatures. Rumors had it that people could fly to far lands if they worshiped long enough in this particular level of the tower. Many prayed to this false god. Everyone had a deed with travel. Long distance was a item many could not possess. The fourth layer of the tower had dark and gray coating. It was the thickest layer was the shape of a pyramid. It was called, Duahller. The duahller had a light green color, like the foundation of the tower. It allowed the worshiper to own the power to control others. The weaker you were the more it could make you do what you chose not to do. It could even make people go hungry. It could even make slaves work for you. The duahller had many tricks. It could make beautiful sleep with the ugly. It could make the ugly beautiful. It could even make the weak strong. All you had to do was deny your maker and focus on it's dull, monotonous laborious words. Greed was it's blood. Greed was it's filthy breath. The fifth layer was called, Covet. It caused men to want to own other men's possessions or even loves. Covet caused wars and separated families. It was the shape of a square. The sixth layer was named, Lost. It caused Steve to get confused, and dizzy. It tempted him to lose his way. The others that prayed to it lost their way, their minds and at times they died of sickness and self abuse. It was the shape of a white and black checkered jokers mask.
The workers would finish their work and go to the tower. They were allowed to choose the level according to the amount of work they had done for the condemned city.
Many of the workers did not work hard enough so they could only enter the level of Sidybinch. You entered the tower from the bottom of green level. You could climb the levels three different ways. First, by laddar. Second, by a spiral stair case. Thirdy, by a small square room lifted by a thick knotted rope. Steve stood out infront of the great tower. The second tower was as same as the first but the colors were a shade lighter.
He could not chose which tower to climb. Something deep inside him told him not to enter. But everyone was walking toward it, worshiping it and everyone seem to be attracted to it. Steve turned toward the desert region and saw the tall man and his twelve follower approaching over the hill. The tall man seemed full of life and energy. Steve knew he was filled with God's love. That is the only thing that could make the towers crumble. No man alone could touch them with out permission from the guards or keepers. And the keepers kept track of you work record. They knew what you owned and what you possessed and that is all they cared about. They moved like robots and had lifeless eyes. Steve didn't trust them. Rumor had it a tribe tried to burn the buildings years back. It was unsuccessful attempt. They were stopped by the city's army and were stopped by the towers worshippers. The man approached faster and faster. His followers had a donkey tied to a rope and were waving palm leaves. Steve knew the man was coming to give an important speech. His words were stronger than any tower.
Steve woke up in a cold sweat. One of the kind nurses, not the soft spoken nurse but the round fleshy one, name tag Margaret, had given Steve a box of dried apricots as a Valentine gift. He slowly made his way over to the round box and opened up the lid.
He returned to his journal and explained, in jotting words, his fear of writing.
I feel a grind of guilt when I unearth a thought and bring these little life into words.
Steve felt a kind of guilt when he thought about giving up his normal Thespian lifestyle . Actors had no business writing. Let, the writers work. Why mix the two. Steve had good intentions. Actors were out all the time. On the move. Observing others, their bodies, their hands, shoes, feet, movements and inclinations of the spirit. Feet moving, inclining up and down. Intonations of speech, being observed. What business do they have writing. Steve heard in the grapevine that Ethan Hawk had published a novel. A story about the human life. He sat down, alone and escaped his obligations. Why? A voice beckoned in the back of his brain. You have made a mends. You owe me. Falsity. Falsity. Falsiiiiiiityyy. What happens to all the un-reality. The tricksters, jokers, pranks of nothing but a serious smile exists on you from fate. Steve moved on with his pen, or Hurt's new felt tip, but not his. He moved on scratching at the paper like the grove from the mortar section of the glass block, Turning out scars of history, lashes of a future, in small words, large ideas, short phrases but meaty meanings. His character began to act like a pen. He started to become a pen. Steve was a pen. He became something different. He became inanimate. That would be his role, his occupation until returning to the state. He'd split the routine up. Split his life into two separate and small artistic factorize. One, the writer. Blowing the smoke of philosophy and plot. Flailing away with his expensive ballpoint or other. Two the actor, becoming and becoming until he forgot himself. These two structures, two mechanisms, two lovers, quarreling in a dance, scratching with tooth and nail, biting at the legs, whipping at the hands, until one separated or, tragically, the other destroyed the other. Or would they go on with this slow dance of death. Banging heads like a loving married couple. Tying at the war between them calling truths, and then returning to a ring of words in the body. Soon, the actor would live, for that is his job and art, and in this life actions over came the typewriter or pen. Actions became the nemesis of the thinking and writing writer. The fire of love derives actions and memory. But, with out notice, the story would hatch from an abandoned seed and his pen would cry a fit. A frightful fit on nonsense patter. Or would he meet in between, pause the quarrel and settle for Playwright. A good writer and a persevering actor equal's Playwright. Molier, Shepard and Spalding Gary did. Woody Allen became all of them and even changed comedy in Hollywood. The actor and writer, even crazy, unbalanced and aggressively creative, still deserve the artistic juice of power. IT, (actor/writer/playwright/ in some cases, in one man shows, diretor) deserves his place in the theatre.
The white witch.
Steve recalled a memory. One time, after not eating for three days, he brought a can of black beans. He's ex girlfriend father had a superstition that black beans where unluckey. A long time ago, sailors used to select the mast man by drawing the black bean. This was similar to when the biblical Jonah was asked to draw straws during a long ago fierce sea storm. See, back in the olden days, around when pirates sailed the seven seas, before motor boats, or all you can eat Disney cruise ships, the sailors drew beans to see who had to climb the sailing mast during a storm to retrieve tackle and bullwicks. Several handfuls of beans where gathered. Seven different colors of bean. Each type were collected and dropped into a wash bucket. There were Spanish yellow beans, tan beans, navy beans, black beans, Scottish brown beans, English red beans and light pinto bean. Each bean held a sailors fate. The sailor that picked the black bean had to climb the mast. He was the unlucky one. Most masts were over thirty feet in the air, and swayed during shaking tides. While living in the sailor bean memory he decided to eat lunch. He must have been too concerned with the recall of memory. No reason to fret over the historical account of sailors and storms. Well, Steve wasn't being careful. See, he decided to open a can of black with out complete presence. He cranked away at the can with a regular, dull can opener. "Bush beans." He smiled not knowing his next dark moment. He was lost in his head. Steve did not know that opening can of bean's with a dull edge of a can opener, can be a painful mistake. The can opener was rusty and old. It was time for a new one. He was cutting the edges with too much pressure and this caused the can to shake and open crooked. Rain began to sprinkle outside in a flowing charm. The lid sunk into the Bush beans with a snippy splash. As the can openers sharp teeth chipped away at the lid, it left behind a shoddy, jagged edge. The jagged edge, which was now sticking upward, bit into his passing finger with swift surgical exactness. "The can's edge sliced the edge of my index finger. " Steve whispered with amazement. Then, "DEAR GOD." He shouted. Just the tip. Blood spilled. It spilled more than usual due to his fear and physical exhaustion. His heart pounded. Lightning fell sharply with an echo of thunder. He was in the wrong weather at the wrong time. Gathering fear caused the heart to pump even more. He was worrying over what had just happened. He needed not to fall into this veil of useless panic. It was like a domino effect of emotion, one thought jamming the next, until he was stuck standing staring at a bleeding finger tip. Then, with out notice, it began thundering with in unforgiving rush. It was changing to green outside. Clouds overcast. Lightning boiled overhead. Rain poured with fierce anger. Steve got so upset that his face turned red and his heartbeat pounded in unison with the rushing wind. It was all in his head. His pulse sped up twice the normal speed. This caused blood to flow in a much more stronger and pure fashion. It wasn't a river yet. It was more like a pebbling broke. Nevertheless, it flowed. Unfortunately, it was flowing out of Steve. It did not seem to conglomerate. It was clogging slow but not as fast as usual. "Perhaps my worrying is making it bleed more than average. I could die over this cut. I might could. It could happen. Death by Bush Bean can lid. NOOooo. What would they put on my epitaph? Steve Whathisface. Lived a to be twenty-seven. Died an unknown actor. Cause of death: Can of beans." It was not your typical average cause of death. The blood still dripped from his finger. It was not up the average conglomerating rate, the flow was off, and it was not clogging soon enough. To tired perhaps. To worried. Why finger. Why. Listen to me finger. Heal damn it. Blood speckled. Heal. Steve was really concerned over the bloody mess. He was just conglomerated out. Drips falling away over the new wood floor. Drips from my flesh. Drips due to this here can of Bush Beans. He noticed there were small red drops drying on his toe and floor. He ran to the sock drawer. Half dressed he began to curse. It was the nice kind of floor too. The realtors must have invested a wad of cash. Two wads. Hundred of dollars. Thousands. Look how nice this floor is. It was the kind one would see in O or Home and Garden magazine. Now, it was all ruined due to drops of blood. His blood. Now a perfect wood floor was spotted with part of Steve. He was bonding with the floor. Soon, the place would be covered with him. He would become his place. Blood is what we are made of. Steve was turning into his apartment. Crazy talk. Steve shouted. Crazy type of thinking. Stop that. He wrapped his finger in a thick bunch of toilette tissue. Then, he went for the duct tape. The same girlfriend, you know, the one who had the father who read too much Treasure island, believed that duct tape was the solution to all accidents. "The world is currently being put back together with this stuff. Thank the inventor of Duct tape." Her mind replayed in his ear as he unbolted his front door and strapped two rounds of duct tape around the mesh of tissue. AS he ran out, he remembered he had placed a box of band-aids under the sink. "No time to go back." He muttered. Steve ran to his car in the pouring rain and quickly rushed to the ER. He passed traffic honking and ranting for his life. Head reading red, finger soaking in toilette paper, duct tape sticking here and there, a complete disaster. Honk, honk. The car's back wheels spun in a shallow puddle of water. Steve ran a red light. Ran a yellow light. Stopped at a green light. Ploughed over a flattened turtle shell. Steve was speeding like a normal Nascar driver. Impatiently waited at the five other red light stops, stopping at two more green lights and hauling ass three four stops signs. Steve calmed a touch before hinting at taking a pit stop at a nearby 7-11. He decided no to stop and continued fast lane. He headed off the exit ramp and sped to four way stop. He turned on his blinker, drove around the halted cars and ran the fourway. A car was just approaching as he swered left into the passage road. In a flash, he appeared a block from the hospital. He was held at the last stop light before the emergence ambulance entrance to the ER with chattering fitful impatience. Steve raved his engine. The engine mimicked his anger and rage. He was in a complete frenzy. Finally, he reached the ER. His hair was shaggy, his hands were shaking and his mouth was dry as an anti whistle. I'll get another chance. I'll get another chance, it was a screw. A screw. Just a screw. Oh, God, that means I'm . . . Another chance. It was a mere instance of self-denial, or self-cutting the denial of self. Hunger caused accidents at times. To finalize the inane matter, Steve decided to placidly whimper. Steve had gone with out food for a few days and this caused his nervosa. He was hungry. Had no money on him. And about to face a physician. They put me away to a nutritional nut bin. He was sure of it. These accidents were linked to food. Not eating or eating, it had something to do with what went into his mouth and eventually into his body, tissue and blood. Lack of food or a need to overfill. He started to review his life. Too busy. Too much dull work. Work. Dull work. Work to dull boredom. No fun. Work all day with not phone equaled The Shining's worst moments. "Work. Work, work, work. Nothing but . . . wait." He sat on the medical bed at the ER and reviewed his accident. There had to be a cause. Ever accident had a cause nod effect. Every effect had a cause. Got it. Steve just kept forgetting to pick up the food at the nearby corner store. He'd always rush home after work to scratch out monologues and work on verse for avant gard one acts. He never stopped by the café after work. He use to go to Moo Goo Chinese buffet. He use to pick up an order of fried rice, Vegetable Lo Mein with extra shrimp and curry sauce. Lately, he had been skipping. He'd go directly home and hungry and confidently request to himself, "Screw it. I'll eat breakfast in the morning." Then, he wakes past breakfast and rush to work. No yogurt. No milk. No cereal. Just work. Home and work. Home work. Work and home. It was nervosa. Nervorsof not planning meals correctly. He had reasons. He was building reasons. He was getting to the center of the anarchy of nervosa and worry. It would soon all be figured out. But something was missing. He noticed the white curtains surrounding him. He began to listen to the beeping sound of the neighboring heart moderator. Life was entering the now. He began to feel his breath. Joy began to rise. Then, he sank back into his head. So, I get to the emergency room, still bleeding, still hungry and still upset. Tears boiling. Heaving away. It wasn't my first attempt at ER.
Steve had been to the hospital several times. He had a record of panic attacks. They even ex-rayed his crooked chest to check the pressure of his crooked chest. He figured he was lying to himself. But why would he lie to himself? Why would he want to go to the hospital? He must have wanted to be there. He must have been trying to discover something new in the medical field. Maybe the hospital was trying to suck him in. Get his money. Perhaps it was like an odd, large magnet. Money had a strange power due to its evil necessity. Greedy people, he thought. It was a fact that doctors were classified as one of the highest paying profession in the known world. They needed customers. On the other hand, people feared doctors and hospitals because of their motivated backing. People had cause to fear the ER. The ER stood for emergency room. Who wanted to be in an emergency? Doctors had intentions. Their goals were simple. They worked to heal and no one wanted to admit they needed healing. Everyone had special needs in unique moments. Steve needs could have been false. Fact or opinion, it was left to the Gods. But everyone needed to be fixed every once and awhile. That's what hospitals are for. That's why they exist right? Or are they an exit place. A warp hole to the other dimension. A stairway to. . .On the other hand, people could go to others for help. Hospitals were usually for the dieing. No one wanted to be dieing. Who wanted to be busy with death? Especially Dr. Death. I hope no one is named Dr. Death around here. Steve continued with his nagging and ranting and raving. Perhaps they had some type of mental will, a power beyond ours. Naaa. I'm sure this is a legit hospital. He exclaimed. They all have degrees in biology. They know life. They have a high value of life. But people play the opposites. It would be predictable to play the role of a doctor by saying they loved life. What if doctors didn't love life? Noo. That's too far fetched. He thought. He was driving himself up the wall. Maybe the hospital was causing him to cut himself. Maybe the people already injured and staying overnight were lonely and needed assistance. Maybe they needed my help. Steve began to cook up a hand full of overly imagined conspiracies. "I wonder if I'm faking these injuries. To study the doctors, perhaps. Maybe I'll get one of those doctor shows on TV. And. . .and. . . I got it. I know now. I am secretly causing these tragic events so I can learn more about them. That must be it. I'm cutting my toe to know the ER and it's procedure. ER is on TV right. It's a great show. Everyone loves the television show ER. Its loading with fast turns and chilling episodes . . . Maybe secretly I'll be on a few episodes of ER one day. If lucky a reoccurring character. A new doctor perhaps." Just like the good old ham actor, Steve gazed into the stars. There he went again, fantasizing about being a television matinee star. Steve was an armature actor. At the time he was journeying across community theatre stages and non-profit free for alls. It got him nowhere. With out the dough he had no way of paying rent. With out rent, he was an E with out the R. A rolling medical bed flew past the curtained room. Some kid was screaming and holding his bandaged head. Poor kid, Steve thought. The kid looked as if he had fell into a monkey cage with a handful of yellow sterile bowed shape fruit. Steve listened to the kid grown and peeked out after his rolling body. He wanted to follow along with the procedure. He had a nag for studying hospitals. It was an extraordinary reality. Extraordinary realities made a man turn to his imaginations. He had visited an ER once or twice to study sexual transmitted diseases and syphilis cases. In Los Angels he almost got to study a real live case of syphilis for a play. He could not study the case due to his unpopularity and low ranking in the crafty art. He had no power and no money. If you did not have a famous face you could not witness surgery or study in the ER. Unless, you faked a wound. He decided it would take up a real patience time, if he faked. He didn't want bad karma to bounce back. If he took an injured persons time away from the ER, and he was not really injured than this could cause more pain for a hurt one. Thus, he was passed up. That did not discourage him. He still went to small doctor offices and caught up on the details of syphilis. Also, he read up at libraries and asked around at public hospitals. He had the right. Or he thought he did. He was doing Ibsen's Ghost. Ibsen meant business. Any one with the gorgeous and serious first name of Henrick mean deadly business. The house of Ibsen did not create matinee material. He was not writing for day players. No Loving here. It was created for tragic, head banging artist, out to change the universe with realistic prose, poetic gestures and metaphorical scenery. The train did not blow it's horn for background effect. It blew it's horn to remind the people of isolation, detachment and loss of hope. Characters in an Ibsen were free floating in non movement. They had lost all hope and remained stuck in between point A and B. Henrick Ibsen deserved a fake tummy ache or reoccurring migraine. No, no more than that. Ibsen deserved much more than a scratch. Ibsen was worth surgery. Full on rib cracking, chest cracking, blood leaking surgery. But no one would fake to get under those bright, heated lamps. No one would fake to have to piss in a bottle for a day due to logging over anesthesia side effects. No one would willingly go under the knife, or would they? Blood for Ibsen? Is that what it takes. Eleven years of acting school and he still wasn't a member of the Screen Actors Guild or Equity. "Perhaps I was a doctor in my past life." He half whispered. "Hang on. I'll get a bandage." The nurse said trying not to guffaw. Actor must of read all over his face. The nurse returned with small handful. She carried a large white medical tape, butter fly bandages, clipboard and a tall bottle of peroxide. "Oh, this is a mere scratch." Steve turned red. He tried to smile through his mental anguish. The nurse verbally covered his reddening mask with, "But a serious scratch indeed." The nurse patched him up in no time flat. The doctor entered and looked him over. He removed the cotton and patch with a boyish grin. Next, he broke out a medical mask, medical string and sewing needle. He swiftly began his procedure. First, he cleaned the cut with alcohol and dried it with a cotton ball. Second, he numbed his hand with a long anesthesia needle, poking it in the soft, slightly webbed spot between the fingers and fist knuckles. He did this by poking the space between the fingers with a needle half full of numbing anesthesia serum. After Steve announced his hand had no feeling. The doctor pierced the thin sewing needle through the side of his hanging flesh and guided the clear string through and through. He pulled the string and dipped in for another poking. Steve felt nothing. He barely could watch. Eventually he turned his head to the white curtains and the writing nurse. He did this twice and cut off the clear string. "This should be taken out in a few weeks." It was over in a flash. The doctor petted him on the head, scribbled on a pad, had him sign a few papers with ink felt and exited behind the white curtains. "One stitch. One stitch is all I need?" He questioned the nurse, "Yep." and Steve was off. On his way home he stopped of at a nearby 7-11 for medical tape and extra rubbing alcohol. It was a useless fear. Also, that was not the only way Steve found ways to cut himself. He seemed to be living with a monster that liked to cut him or cause him to be cut. Maybe it was the neighbor upstairs that vacuum all the time. Maybe she has some type of will power over me. She guides me to the bean lid or the upturn screw. Maybe she doesn't like actor. : Perhaps, she is a witch. But she has to be a white witch. She works in the garden; she's hefty, big blue eyes and blond wavy hair. She is far too pretty to be a mean witch. What if she is trying to teach me a lesson? Maybe acting is wrong. It's sort of like lying. Steve thought and thought. "But that's crazy thinking." He said. "There aren't witches." He lived in an expensive studio apartment near TCU. (Texas Christian University.) He found a way to poke his big toe and a lose screw that stuck up under the heated basement. The screw would simply pop up, with out giving warning. He would jazz slide or do his normal Tom Cruise impression, sliding on socks across the wood slick floor, of coarse not with out blasting Old Fashion Rock N Roll, or some type of nostalgic Rock similar. But for some odd reason he poke his toe on this uplifted damn screw. It would simply pop up like pop goes the weasel. Then, with out notice, his toe would jam into the upward lifted screw and blood flowed in short sporadic spurts. He must of hand at least over a dozen toe head on collisions with this taunting screw.
Steve lived over a couple in some unknown apartment complex near DFW. He lived over this couple for about a year. All he ever did was work on a book, run, run some more and read Paul Auster. Also, he worked on a few acting skills like speaking, singing, music, rhythm, poetry verse, and emotional recall. He even did a few Growtoski exercises, along with emotional current work. This is where you free up all emotions and let them flow like a river. Meaning, you don't withhold. If an emotion arrives you play it out to it's exhaustion and then free it out of you. Steve lived in the complex and worked on his book. It was called Untitled. It was about the people of the world that wish for fame, hope for the best and become untitled. The wish is to turn the untitle into a title. A true working title. A name. A place. Every name had it's place. Every name had it's face. An actor looking to be seen. A book looking to be found and read. That is what Steve, Jona and Jay were about. The story carried the theme of the insanity and it's lost ways, the gothic romance and it's oblivious gyration, and the recovery from hell to paradise. It was about transcendence and love of art. Untitled was the transformation of the ugly duckling into a swan.
Room M04 was only occupied by Steve's lonely existence. That night the voiced returned, "I know what you want Steve. You want to be television star. You know what kind of success that is." The voice crackled like an old black bird. It had a high-pitched squealing cackle. He wanted so bad to get back to Hollywood or Chicago. He wanted to return to the Big Apple, land a role on soap or something near it. "That's major success my friend. What about a baby? You could have become a long shore's men in Long Beach, CA. Could of stayed with the college professor maybe got her pregnant. Kept her pregnant. Don't dare say you don't want a baby. Everyone wants a baby."
"But in this hellish world."
"You made too many mistakes. Its over. Give in."
"Never give up. Always try. If you lose no fear, just try, try. . ."
"I know, I know. Try, try again. Mickey and his fucking failure friends. Try again. Yeah right. Get real. Come on. Grow up. Your over Steve. Its over."
"Not until I say it is."
"Its over. You'll never succeed."
"Yes I will. I believe."
"Too old you fag."
"I'm a winner. I know it. I'm winner. It's true. My life works. My life works. I can. I know I can."
"Oh, poor little baby. Oh, that's what they all say. Mr. Fear will return. Just like Dr. Hurt sessions."
"You'll never beat me. You'll never beat fear. Ever."
"I'm stronger that you. I don't believe in your self-destructive chatter. I believe in courage, hope and faith. I believe in love and in wishing on the furthest fireball in space. I believe in hope. Hope is balance."
"Yeah, bla, bla, bla. I'll be back. You'll want a normal life. You'll want a wife and kids. Grow fat on the nine to five. You know you do."
"Stop taunting me. You want me to give up my work. My struggle for a safety net. We can only keep the net up for so long. The safe way can't last for every. You take risk, you go further."
"You'll be back. You'll see."
"Not if I believe. If I…no if ands or buts. I will succeed. I will complete it. I will accomplish my dream. Go away Mr. Fear. I will succeed. You know why?"
"I don't care. I don't want to hear. Fear. Fear …Be afraid."
"Because I believe in me. And you have no power over me."
"You have no power over me. I run my life. I will . I can. I can."
The voice died. Silence entered the room. Steve finally could hear himself breath. It had been quiet a while.
The memory box.
If I had time in a bottle, played smoothily on the bi level hair cut, Hispanic man's AM/FM radio. Lunch was served. Same as always: nuked chicken, half dried peas, mushy potatoes and what seemed to pass as smelly, saucy apple sauce. It could of passed as 'tap' pudding, but it exposed a strange aroma. Steve inhaled a half, slight tracing whiff of cooked apples. And with a half and slight smell by far. The steam that ghostly arose from the flakey yellowing brown creamy top appeared to be fake, or faked. It seem to be the type of desert steam, or fog that would lift from the opening doors of an Martian space ship. This thing was quick out of the microwaves. Or straight served from Mars. The planet and not the candy bar. Steve poked at it with his fork and winced. He quickly moved to his dried peas.
Steve's Journal entry.
I think I know the reason for my starvation. I went one week with nibble from my lunch and dinner plate. Even skipped breakfast. No milk or toast. No jam. One week. The reason for my hunger is preparation. I know no joy can derive from pleasure or pain. The only feeling that is birthed from pleasure is pleasure. The only reward from pain is agony. Pleasure and pain carry as a single entity. Joy derives from the breath of now. Joy has been present sense birth. It does not come from gluttony or masochism. Joy is already present. It is here now. So, I deny joy when I turn to stuffing my self full of peanut butter sandwiches and packets of jelly and plum jam. The grape, the orange, the apple butter and the strawberry jams do me no good. I just return to another ten pounds higher. Then, I starve again. Down I go, toward zero. Then, I wait. My body goes empty. I deny more meals. Then, for some odd reason, joy seeps into my life. I think I'm learning. Budda learned this way. I believe Christ did as well. He would go on fasts. One these great masters have taught me is that the denial of desire equals joy. When desire is destroyed, when man denies his wants, then, joy arises. It is a natural and sometimes unavoidable circumstances. Death is on the way. Peanut butters, apple sauce or the jelly packets from the snack try does not match up to the pains and rewards of death. The dieing body is something we can only prevent temporally, its permanents, it's absolute is not escable. There are no vampires. There is no immortality. We are born to death, and we follow. The valley awaits. Good or evil, we walk through the shadow. Its beckoning call cries down the hall
Steve's notes for Untitled. RM # M04. Febuarary, 10th 2003. The asylum. Cold out.
An acting peer once informed Steve, "Don't write about actors. People don't want to hear about actors. They want to know your real. They want life, no the image of life." Steve agreed. People wanted to see them, they didn't want to see the actor being them. So, what makes the actor them. What makes the actor real to life. Well, the actor is real. He or she is in real life. They want them present. That is the fruit of life. Presence. If the actor is with them, as they really are, as they really feel, embaressed, ashamed, proud, prideful, strong, weak, bad, good, whatever, it doesn' t matter. They want them. They want to see in them. When an actor yawns people look inside. When an actor speaks people study and listen. They listen with their bodies and ears. They fully take them in. So, could Steve write about an actor's life. Yes. No. It didn't matter. Life is what you make of it. It's your own oyster, it's your shell, it's your ladder, or ruler, or leaf, or door, or drum beat, or a girl asking what Fare means in a French class in Bedford, is, is, is. And it keeps on. Life is being real. Reality is breath. Reality is touching. Reality is spitting, tripping and wiping the dirt away. Reality is. . .So, what is the story. It is. It is not what it is not trying to be. It is not trying. It is. And when something, "is", then it breaths. So, does my story inhale, stand up, walk, march, sing, dance, hiss, kick and twist—is it moving. Yes. Scientist would say no. It is simple words existing on paper or screen. Scientist would roll their eyes and shout, "Lunatic. Lunacy. Loony head." But if these scientist were not properly dressed, in formal clothing, and properly brushed and properly speaking, than no one, not even other scientist, would most likely agree. Or perhaps they would. Nevertheless, the point being, in this particular case, is that the story stands on it's own to feet. In any form. In any existence. In any medium. The rule to it, is that there are no rules. Thus, to read forward would be your own choice, and if this choice is felt in the gut and the heart nod's yes, than this story is for you, if not, stop reading. There is a life awaiting. In short sporadic breaths, or long meditating strides, there is a life hatching, and twirling in lights and mass—all with open hands.
Structure and creativity are like oil and water. And watery oil sucks with speghetti con olio.
Steve's Journal Entry. Feb 10th. 2003.
Wrong, wrong, wrong. Oh, pooh. Steve wasn't written to be right or wrong. Yes, he wanted to get out of the hospital. Yes, he wanted to get back to Los Angeles. Yes, he wanted to act again. The stage awaited him. But he had too many bad run ends. Especially in NYC. A guy tried to attack him with a screw driver, he was barabarra. "What the fuck man. Your screaming and I'm trying to cut hair." The barabara from Spain or some country near Spain, or perhaps it was the Middle East, but anyway, it didn't matter, he could not tell his origin, dark skin, thin lips, bad breath, skinny as a rail, yelling and yelling about this and that, "Get the fuck out of here. You don't belong down here." The barabara commanded. He owned a barabara shop upstairs above the attic. Steve was underneath a dorm practicing cat calls and singing strengthening. He was working like past Stanislavski needed him to. He had to. The barabara continued yelling in his face, throwing chairs and storming up a huge fit. "Do you realize what you just did?" Steve asked. "SHUT UP." The barabara added. Steve backed up and slowly walked off, keeping eye contact the whole time. See, two cats, while fighting, have a playground rules. The first cat to walk off is not the loser. The first cat to walk backwards, keep eye contact and calmly make his way to safe ground, IS the winner. The cat that loses control and turns to aggression loses. In cat fighting, the winner is not the attacker, it is the cat with the most control. The smarter cat finds safe ground and drops the threatening routine. The barabara was out of control. Screw driver raised. Fierce squinchy face. Hard tone. He was waisting energy. "No problem." Steve insisted, "I'll be fine elsewhere." Steve made his way toward the attic elevator door. "If you come down here again. I'll shoot you." The barabara added. Steve made his way to the laundry room to the elevator shaft, passing various cans of morter, paste and so on. He pushed the elevator door button. "Stay gone." The barabara yelled and slamed the opposite door leading to the storage room. There were two ways to get down to the basement floor. One was the hallway door. It lead to a long thin hallway which ended at the storage room for the hair saloon. It was connected to the dorms. In the long thin hallway was a door that lead to the maintenance room. It was full of buckets, screws, trash bags, cans, rakes, boards, tables, and broken furniture. Also, there was bags of beer and soda cans for recycling. Everything was down there even the kitchen sink, hell the kitchen was down there. Anyway, Steve felt the place had a curse. I did. Any place that is full of screws is cursed. Steve had just finished digging through a clear jumbo size trash bag full of dinner rolls, French bread and various restaurant loafs. He had no money. No food. So, he turned to the toss outs. He tore a small hole in the clear bag and snagged a few loafs. Right there in the evening rays. Right there infront of the public on Park Avenue and Twenty first. It was that or go hungry. He had already fasted for two days. He was so weak he was about to drop. He had to do it. Plus, he had homework. How was Steve supposed to do homework with out food. His acting class had assigned him voice lessons and tons of sensory exercises and historical reading. He was running low on energy. He needed it. The clear bag infront of the corner bakery swiftly cracked open with a jotting jab of his index finger. He stuck the loaf into his jacket and walked down twenty first street. He had retrieved a French and a Italian loaf. He stuck the key into the front door, walked through the lobber and hit the elevator key. He returned to the dorm, heated the bread in toaster oven and filled a bowl of water half full. It was so rock stiff he could barely break it into. He took the heated halft French loaf out of the toaster and cracked it into short pieces. Next, he soaked the crusty bread into the plastic half filled bowel and stuffed it in his mouth. He took in too large of pieces. It was more than what he needed. His hunger had got the best of him. It didn't matter now. He was alone, scared and hungry. The worst three combinations and the best to have in the big city.
"Sir. Lunch time." The soft spoken nurse said waking Steve out of his memory. Steve was sitting day dreaming about the Big Apple and his adventures with stale bread.
Steve slurped down his apple sauce as Johnson went on yelling about Nixon and the Hispanic holly lady chattered in Catholic jargon. No one was really taking in lunch today. Eventually Johnson wondered off and the HHL decided to fall asleep with her face in a bowl of cereal flakes. She always saved them for lunch. She ate dinner for breakfast, breakfast for lunch and lunch for dinner. It was her personal behavio and eating habbits. Steve respected it. She had to do a lot of saving, switching lunch trays and so on. Steve stared out the window as the sad rain drops. Outside glitterd thousands of tiny mudholes and runny sloughs. He occasionally eyed the crystal block window. Along the sides of the crystal block window was a clear glass window. It was short and narrow, like a type of window a medieval archer would have had shot his crossbow arrow through. The outer sides of the narrow window were laced and interlaced with long, tan security wires. Alarm bells. Steve thought. There was no touching the narrow clear window. If anyone tried to smash it in, the bells would holler. Plus, they were bullet proof thick. There was a set of even and narrower windows; one to the left and one to the right of the glass/crystal block window. Also, the narrow windows had small chicken wire interlaced with in the glass. There was no tampering with that kind of security. On the other hand, the crystal block window was viewed more as a wall, or a lit wall. The sunrays would land on the crystal, or glass block and a foggy orange and tan light would glow from the outer edges. It was a pretty wall. Steve knew it was not laced with security wires. That was the hospital's flaw. They figured the crystal block wall should not be rigged. It was a wall. No reason to trace a wall with security measures. A wall is secure enough. No one would be smart enough to mess with the mortar. No nut could figure that out, or even be sane enough to work it out.
Steve entered another thought or two in his journal.
Falling into temptation is no reason to quit.
Temptaion is part of reason, just as we reason ourselves from it's shady grip. But with out notice the sotish would hatch from a abandoned seed and his pen would cry and fit. Or would he meet inbetween, pause the quarrel and settle for play, or a cookie.
Every nemesis had it's justification in every situation. It was either a sweet snack or drugged attack. Would she ever touch his face again. OH, the pain that has printed on his face, in lines, and graveled long an old forgotten road.
Steve pen began to flow like water over the pages. Word after word after word. Idea after idea. He shoved another jelly packet into his cheek jowl like a mad squirl and danced the felt tip across the journals white skin. This next few nights would become a creatively prolific and fruitful time for Steve. Black words popped up in seven fold. Seven fold over seven fold. Word after word. Everything was spilling out. This is when he wrote the hide away poem for Sean. This is when he came up with the idea of The Filter.
The filter is defined as the eyeball, or the inner eyeball of the writer. It is what the writer had just seen, or had seen seven years back. It didn't matter. The filter changed the reality. The filter smoothed out the raw and made it serene. The filter was mainly for the reader. It made the world the writer perceived drinkable for the reader. If the writer added everything, if everything was purely true, than the water of the story would be full of pollution.With out the filter, the reader would be swallowing too many pebbles and too much rawness. The writer's job was to take life, ingest it, swoosh it around in his mind and make it his own. The reader would see this as a mathmatician would comprehend the understood one. Fiction and non-ficition had it's place in reality and fantasy. The fairy talke was little in the fiction and a little in the non-ficiton. The words were attached to the writer imagination, just as it was attached to reality. Some feel there is a fine line between the two ideas. The writer teeters and dances back and fro on both plaines.
Steve's journal. Feb, 10. Midnight or so. 2003.
Steve found a new book on the shelf. It had a pig and donkey on the cover. "Animal farm by George Orwell. He opened to the front page. George Orewl was the pen name fo an Englishman named Eric Blair. Why would someone not use their own name? Steve thought. Perhaps being a writer is a seedy cover. Meaning, perhaps writers that use pen names don't want other to view them as a writer. Or perhaps, they don't want to show off. Or perhaps they don't want other to judge them based on their writers. They don't want to be what they were when they wrote what they wrote at that moment. Why even put a name down in that place. Perhaps the writer lived a double life. One part of him wanted to be well known, even famous, the other half wanted goodness, purity and isolation from fame. George Orwell was not really Geore Orwell. He was Blair. Steve knew is was born in Bengal in nineteen hundred and three AD and educated at Eton. He even learned he was part of the Uropean Indian Imperial Police in Burma. He actually earned his living writing novels and essays. Many considered him a political writer. OH. So, that's it. He didn't want the government fucking with him. So, he could hide from the real writer. He could say and print anything he wanted and then ecape back into Eric. George wasn't real. The book was only his ideas no Erics. Later, he learned that Orweell hated totalitarianism and served in a loyalist force. He was critical of communisma but like socialism. He hated intellectuals but loved to criticize literature. He died at forty seven from a lung ailment.
Body swapping was tough. Steve had once been Jona, Jona once Jay and Jay once Cole.
Cole is another story. Steve was learning how to do it. All he did was close his eyes and focuse on a body. He focused on the rythms, the speech, memories, intonations, the positioning of the head, the decorum, skin tone, color of hair, length, skeleton frame, eyes, eye color, eye movement, feet, toes, toe nails, how many fingers, finger movement, the occupation of the body, the way it occupied space, the size, the structure, the meanings behind the poise, the intentions, the bodies wants, wants, wants, and most of all the body's soul. Steve just closed his eyes and focused on these images and slowly day by day he would transform. Transform into someone new. Maybe he could do this. Close his eyes and escape into the world as someone else. Someone new. Fresh. Real. Funny. Good looking. Tall. Charming. Not a lier. Not a loser. Not a person trapped in room #40R. Not a person in these condition, this state or this facility. He wanted to be out of the hospital. He wanted to be on the sidewalk. Under the Empire State building. Maybe at a playhouse. Perhaps a movie house. Maybe even on a date at a Café in Paris. Talking half French and eating pastries. He heard the crepes in France were the best. But crepes were associated with dummies. He had it now. He would get crepes in France. No he get Belgium Waffles in Germany. No. Belgium was not as exciting as a bloody milk mixture in a tribe in the Jungles of West Africa. He had to travel. He had to get out. It was time to get published. Get a liteary agent. Compose a book of poetry. Yes, it was time to unbite the bite marks of the stage. But he couldn't. He couldn't kick the addiction of the fool and he did not have a reason for it. He was addicted to the specials, the spots and the ensemble. The pretty faces. The playing. It made him young again. The theatre made him young, it didn't just make him feel young, writing could make him feel young, but the stage made him young. That's it's addiction. Life.
"Lee Petit Prince by Antoine Saint Exupery." It was all in French so he couldn't read it. It looked like a children's story about a little prince. Must have been left behind by an inmate that spoke French, or was learning French. Perhaps it was just misplaced. Steve could not figure out why a book written in a foreign language would be in a make shift library created by inmates from D.C. He went through the inmate rigged four level library shelf. It wasn't really in a library. It was just a set up make library shelf created by various patients and doctors. It even had call numbers. There was fiction, non-fiction, history, one science text book, one geology text and one book on fashion. Mostly it was wild fiction by King, Bachus, Orwell, Vonnegut, Kessey and a few theatre books on Artuad. Later, Steve learned he was locked up for insanity and wrote a book about the shadow of theatre tittled The theatre in it's Double. Artuad was a film actor that went sour. He started off with a beautous life and face and ended with a wrinkled, skeleton disaster. His writings are beyond genious. Steve skimmed through the fiction section and found a book by Paul Auster. Auster was a current writer with economical grace in prose and verst. Auster was full of philosophical wonder, logic and truth. He mostly took from his own life. It felt as if every word was giving to the reader by a wonderous, and sophisticated child. Austur was far from childish writer. Austur was a man constantly trying to recall every moment of his past and it's significant meaning in his world of today. He was one of the most present writers Steve had ever read. Steve set down with a book called Ghost and began to read. He found it interested and considered taking it back. Later he came across a personal book about isolation and it's inventions. The book discussed his family and mostly leaned on the three dimensional form of his father. Steve decided to take this book along with Animal Farm. He would read Austure first and then later see how much he could get out of the Animal Farm. For some odd reason, he feared Animal Farm. An actor in his past had recommended to him. This same actor attacked him in the dressing room after a production of Waiting for Godot. Steve had snatched a handkerchief from Vladimir's neck after Potso cries, "HANKY." There was no hanky so Steve's borrowed one from Vladimir. There was fight due to the ripping of a vest. It was bullshit. Animal Farm always mad him think of the hot headed actor he angered and raged over the ripped vest. Ham he was, a ham he is, a ham he eats. Steve had no value of the fashionable lifestyle after playing Lucky. Lucky revealed to him the torture of fashion and handkerchiefs. Lucky is a tormented soul.
Steve learned much in New York studying acting. One thing that stuck with him was said by a smart and lovely famine actress. She stated, "A drug addict uses his, or her body to signify to society of it's wrongness." In other terms a drug addict uses his body to reveal to society that there is an ailment with in the political socio structures. In other terms there is a sickness with in society's body and the drugs where the flag saying WAKE UP, there is something wrong and I have to wrong myself to show you. So, is there need for the druggy, is there need for the pusher, is there need for the criminal. Crime is backed by complex intentions. The criminal acts from feeling. He or she wants to feel. He or she acts upon their temptations in order to feel better. So, in laymen's terms the criminal is simply trying to feel good. We hate others for being selfish, but in the judging there lies selfishness. Who are we to point fingers, who are we to correct. Who decides upon right and wrong. No other person, no other object, no other world but GOD. God is the only entity to judge man. Man is best sticking to kindness and obeying his father. The understood is out there. Every child knows the truth. Every person knows what is right and wrong, or at least, almost everyone. In some cour cases people have been tried with alternative circumstances due to the fact that they could not distinguish between right and wrong. In other words, they didn't know the difference. Many would call these people lower than human. Others call them monsters. Other say they are wild and never can be tamed. Right and wrong, in my opinion, is God's decision. Right and wrong is not up to debate by people who do not know the larger scheme of things. If one does not possess all the puzzle pieces nor does not understand the puzzle's final form, than how must the human person put it all together? If one is not allowed to see the overall image, than how can this human person be expected to answer to the universal mystery of the good and evil. Can man answer question, "What is the meaning of it all?" If he can then this person can see the out come of the puzzle. If the person is left dumbfounded by the question, or is hazy to answer, than he or she is left with a few pieces missing. Steve believed that mankind was not completely full. Mankind was not giving all the pieces to the puzzle. Thus, every man had a missing piece or flaw within. No one was made perfect. No one.
Faces travel. Steve knew this. He could see how they traveled. Face to face. Steve could see a new patient arrive and it was the form of someone in the past. The face, the way it talked, the way it moved and grinned didn't just seem but was a part of the past. We were all linked. WE all answered to one another. Steve saw a face in a face. He saw someone in another. It was a blond girl that was admitted for nerves. She'd probably be out in few weeks. She has to take prosaic, maybe a few Valium and rest. But she wasn't completely off her rocker. At least not yet.
There were several types of nuts in the nutbin. There was the manic. Mania was characterized by loud screaming, fast pace walking, thumping, eye shifting, hair grabbing and tossing of the head and neck. Mania was fun to watch. There was the depressed. Usually the writer. Over eater, sad eyes, angry, raspy voice, loved to sleep and bitch. They weren't so lovely to watch. There was the delusional. Heard voices, thought they were a Governmental official and loved to talk directly to God in public or in front of the patients. There was the schizophrenic. Similar to the delusional. Schizophrenia was usually connected with paranoia and isolation. They usually hoarded, talked to people that were not there, lived in the past of future, created imaginary worlds and at time could be violent or violently sheltered. There was the aggressive. Usually got made, pushed people around and through hissy fits. Also, there was the bi-polar, obsessive, and obsessive compulsive and obsessively neurotic. OCD was followed by odd behavior, touching of objects in repetition and profound worrying, self-awareness and they usually had a need to impress other. There routines were strict and ritualistic. The routine was usually ongoing and consistent. OCD types made great actors. Last, there was the socio path. They had no conscious. They could walk up and stab some one and then buy a snow cone. They didn't care and they were mean. Evil mean. Usually they made great move stars.
Steve figured Tommy was a socio path. Why would some one with his kind of power chase a struggling actor like Steve? "Steve. Tommy's coming a few hours to talk with yall yahoos. I just wanted to inform you." Was this for real? Steve had gone so far. He was working on a screenplay about his killer. Tommy was not real. He was fake. I mean, his myth was real. Tommy was a real movie star. Everyone knew his film. Western Difference, Wolf and the Ring, Raspberry Perseveres, and the romantic comedy Love Sickness. Everyone dug Tommy. He was the comedian of the seventies, the action man of the eighties and the war hero of the late nineties. Everyone dug Tommy's performances. He had one. One Oscar for a film about a mentally challenge gardener named, Zimbo. Zimbo Challenge. Everyone liked, "Tommy again. FUCK THIS SHIT." Sissy yelled in a rage full fit. "I'm tired of Hollywood trying to get in the door here." Sissy was pissed.
Tommy had gone a long ways. He started off as a background player and later got hooked on opium. He was in place similar to JPS for aggression and delusions.
The hospital had a title. It was named JPS. Stood for John Peter Smith. He was a war hero in the civil war. JPS was initially from Texas. It was a Texan hospital with a mental ward. This particular JPS was in D.C.
Tommy entered through the double doors. He cared a small jam box with a handful of CD.s It was music therepy time. "Today we will listen to Mingus." He popped in a CD entitled OH YEAH. "The first song is titled Hog Callin Blues." Sissy hissed as the first few licks kicked on. The holy lady got up and began hailing Marry left and right. She even shook her tush a little. Johnson, believe it or not, got out of his jangly chair and began to tap like a wired spider. Steve didn't mind it that much. He even snapped his thumbs to the beat. I didn't mind it either. It was a special moment. Kodak. Charles Mingus whistled and hollered as Tommy did a small jitter bug routine with the Holy lady. She blessed him and they laughed. Steve smirked. Sissy kept looking away and rolling his eyes in the best Jesus impression as possible. Jesus Dude came out with his IV and skinny frame. He tapped his toes. The soft spoken nurse walked out and added to the jangle of jazz. Trumpets chirped and twirled, as they sax talked to the drums and the drums kissed the base and the tramboin pooted and farted. The entire jungle jammed away with and Oh Yeah and a spurting fits of monologues from soloist with golden historical jazz pasts. It was Charles, Booker on tenor, Doug on bas, Rahsaan the flutist, Jimmy Knepper and Kannie Richmon on drums. One collective tornado of creative artistic symphonic builds and blasts. They danced and partied with Seltzer water, table cracker and crayons. The party lasted thirty minutes and then, the devil had to go to a shoot near the Abraham Lincoln memorial. He flipped a penny at me, "I'll be there." Tommy said and vanished.
Steve had nightmares all night. Morning came. "Steve visitor." It was Sean. He came back for his last visit. He wanted to conduct a meeting with me on the roof.
Steve took the elevator to the roof. Sean was waiting at the edge. He wore all black, black relaxed pojoma bottoms, long black knitted sweater and a black wool scarf. "You came." He insinuated a painful approach. "Uh. I need to talk. I'm leaving." Sean stared out over D.C. sky line. THe buildings were mere speckles of lights and nothing else. "Going to LA. I landed a film role. Its set mostly in Los Angeles. I'm playing a cop. Funny huh. Me a cop." Steve was allowed to take his blanket with him to the roof. The doctors knew they had a close relationship and it would help Steve in the long run. To see him off. "Well, I hope your happy." Steve stared at the tip of the bottom of the blanket. It was sponging up a dirty muddy poodle, resting strangely with in the roof's gravel rock floor. "Blanket's getting wet." Sean sneared. Steve left the blanket in the drab water. He felt no strength to raise it. "Just a blanket." Steve announced. "Just a blanket. Hm. Poetic. You still writing." Steve shook his head that he was. "What?" Steve whispered, "IT's untitled." "It has no title. Not yet at least. I'm sure you'll be the next Fitzgereld, or Hemingway." "You think." Steve smiled. "Perhaps. At least Kessey, you read enough at least." "What are you getting at. I mean why are you here." Sean kept gazing out into the sparkling skyline. It was like he was some gothic count pondering his next victim. "Well, Chief. I ain't coming back. I'm better than you Steve." Steve squinted at his lost friend. His eyes seemed farway, distant. Something inside him hurt. "Bettter?" Steve interrupted with out a kind tone. Sean spoke out with unaspirated beauty. "Anyway, the best and brightest live in the West and the fastest and most honest live in the East. So West here I come." Steve tried his very best to keep his eyes from rolling in the back of his head. Sean continued ranting with his head held with prideful poise, up he stood like a totalitarian officer during Napoleons rule. "I don't mean to be mean. I really don't. But your not as good as me. I'm perfect. Nothing is wrong with me. High IQ, perfect skeletal system, no speech impairments, not a blemish. Nothing." Steve stared out and took over Sean's gothic glare. It was as if Steve had traded places with Sean. He was stronger more confident. "I know it hurts. Some people are simply better than others. We are not all equal in this game of life." "Life is not a game." Steve said with a narrow tone. "No. Perhaps not, but it is rated. I'm rated on a higher scale. I believe in every once of me. I don't believe in you. You are pathetic. You should feel ashamed. Your piggion on peanut butter and scratching away at some journal awaiting flames in the hospitals insinerator. Come on Steve." "You don't know, Sean." "Come on now. Its close to be tossed in a fucking trash compactor. You're a freak Steve. A freak. Do you understand why you hate yourself. Your body won't allow love. You see everything as if you belong. Do you really think you do?" Steve inhaled with a double small beat tailing the extension of his inward breath. It was as if inspiration tapped on his diaghram. "Did you feel that Steve. That is you crying. I've got to go. I'm sorry I've spoiled your night. Who knows, perhaps some small poetry organization will let a couple of your chicken scratches show in some book somewhere. But to be honest, I won't be looking out for it. I came back to tell you the truth. Just the truth and nothing more." Sean hurriedly marched to the elevators, pushed the down button and dissipated from Steve's life.
Surprizingly the soft spoken nurse informed Steve that he would be released temporarily to go see a film. Dr. Hurt and three male techs would accompanied him to the entrence of the theatre house. There would be a security guard blocking the back door and the exit doors to the movie house. This meant, that Steve could watch them film in isolation. The doctor walked in, "Ready. I know it's early to go to the mall today." Steve checked his digital watch, "Six AM. Six AM is a little early." Dr. Hurt lead Steve to the main hallway. "Heres a jacket for the day." Dr. Hurt had him place each hand into a light tan wind breaker. "Better than the white ones." Steve said grinning. "You can wear it until we get back. Might rain." The techs were in threefold. One looked like an Olympic wrestler, the other was tall, well built and the last tech was short but stalky. "My name is Dan." The Olympic sized tech said. "I am Shane and this is Phil." Shane said putting to his chest and to the man to his right. Shane was the tall one and Phil short and well built. The doctor lead them into the elevator. Steve remembered a film he once saw were the enmate is lead down a long green hallway. At the end of the hallway was a electric chair. The story was called The Green Mile. It was a magical tale about a inmate who had the power to heal the sick and dieing. At times he could even bring the dead to life. The irony of the film is that the inmate was being convicted to death. Steve was reminded of the film as he was lead into the elevator room. The techs stood still and calm like the guards did before the inmates execution in the film. "SO, whats playing at the mall's cinema house." Steve asked in a young Alexian accent from Clock Work Orange. The doctor cleared his throat. "Four films. One is about a guru. I forgot it's name. Five star film. Guru I think it's called. Funny reviews. Two is about a pianist in Warsaw during the hallucast. Its going to be up for best picture. Third film is ah. . ." Doctor turned to the foreground tech. "What is it called Shane?" Shane grinned, "Biker Boyz." Shane covered his busting laugh, holding his diaghram. Steve's chin twisted to his side tilting his neck and headlike a puppy dog will do when taunted. "Biker Boyz. Is that about motor bikes?" Steve asked with a biting inflection. "Uh. Yes." "Nope. I'm not going through all this embaressment for dirt bikes." Steve announced. "Don't worry. You get to pick. Its part of your treatment. You need help making decisions for yourself. Part of your cure will be in making a choice and sticking with it." Steve looked up at the elevator light. "Nice light." He enquired. Shane scooted over as the doors spilled open. Doctor Hurt let Phil walk infront as Dan clasped his hands around Steve's elbow and upper back bone. "This way Sir. If you run. You get this." Phil revealed a small device that looked similar to a remote control with two inward fangs. "What is it?" Steve asked. "Its juice that will knock you silly." "Juice" "Electric juice." They lead Steve to a white van. The driver was waiting. He was dressed in a green tech outfit with scrub pants. "Hurry guys. I got to get this back before four." The driver shouted out the passenger window. The doors slid open. "Is this all legal DR. Hurt." Dr. Hurt shook his head. "Don't worry about it." They lead Steve into the van and slammed the side door. Everyone was inside. The driver turned to Steve, "Names Chet. Hey." HE pushed on the gas and they were off.
The movie house was nearly empty. Only five cars were parked out front in the main parking lot. We didn't walk through the mall. General Cinemas had an outdoor building, separate from the main mall's shopping indoor section and outlet. They pulled up near the building. Steve decided to see the Pianist. "Roman Polanski's stuff is the best. Have you ever seen Rosemary's" Steve asked Dr. Hurt. "When I was in undergrad. It's been a while." Dr. Hurt unlocked his seat belt and let the strap flip in place. "Last stop. General Cinemas. Enjoy the movie Buddy." Chet said puffing up a cuban cigar. "Is that Cuban?" Steve asked, "Maybe. So, Dr. Hurt you got it from here. I'll be back in three cool." Dr. Hurt got out along with the three techs. Shane lead Steve to the ticket booth and ordered, "One for the Pianist." "Its pianist." Steve said correcting his thick southern accent. Shane pronounced it like "Pie anisht." "Sorry man." Shane said. "Steve stand over here." Dan said. "What part of the south you from." Steve asked Shane. "Don't worry about it." Dan paid the ticket man. The ticket man had white hair, thick wrinkles and looked like a version of Col. Sanders. "Enjoy your movie." The old man said tapping on the small key board that printed out the ticket. The ticket popped out of a small silver slot. Dan grabbed it. "Can I keep the ticket." Steve asked. Dan stuffed it Steve jacket pocket.
"Do I get a snack?" Steve asked Dr. Hurt as the entered the lobby. There was fountain soda machines spilling red fructose upward and downward the glass cases. There where three interior lit candy cases full of Milk Duds, Sprees, Peanut M&Ms, Reesies pieces, Snicker bars, Red Hots and Nerds. Next to the lit candy cases was a separate taller candy stand. It had small square compartments full of chocolate candies and hand shovels for shoveling the treats.On the side of the tall stand was hooks with petite white paper bags. The tall candy stand seemed to be filled with mostly crunchy chocolate nuggets, choco balls, vanilla chocolate swirleys, colored jaw breakers, Oreo cookies, chocolate covered red peanuts and Hershey kisses. There was one hot dog grill with four types of winnie dogs. Jalepeno, smoky, jumbo BBQ filled with cheese and regular. Each line of Winnie rolled with sinful mouth watering temptations. The grill was smooth, dark silver and the skin of the grill bubbled with oily sweat. A hot lamp rested above the hot dogs heating them to a warm luster. Occasional steam drifted upward from their red puffy round bodies fogging the plastic cover top. Each dog was six inches but the jumbo. It was nine. The fat round Hercules, it was titled. A sign blinked Nacho Cheese adjacent to the dog stand. There was a opened case with a swinging door. Inside the case were small boxes of Nacho chips. Next to the case was a gaint glass case filled with Mexican restaurant style chips. Each box of chips were served with out any sauce. The nacho chip plastic containers were built with an empty rectangular slot for hot cheese. "You'll have to dispense your own cheese." The customer service food guy said pointing at a large yellow case. Neighboring the nacho chip stand was a single heated nacho cheese dispenser with racked metal grill guarding. It guarded the bottom under the dispenser from falling hot cheese. It was designed to catch any messy cheese drips, in which fell from the dispenser's mouth. Dried bubbling cheese crustidly rested in tiny cheesey domes on the cheese dispenser grill guard. Sliced Jalopenos peppers and chopped onions rested inside two small tubs next to the dispenser. The entire candy and food area smelled of greasy machine oil. "Smells like burnt butter and salty popcorn." Dan said. "Can I get a snack." "Dr. Hurt will allow you to use this coupon." Dan handed him a coupon for a free hot dog. "I don't eat hot dogs." Steve said. "I hate pig. Can I get nachos." Dr. Hurt took the hot dog coupon and opened his billfold. He pulled out a green bill with Abraham Lincoln memorial on the back. "I'll use it. and yeah here get some chips. Beward of the cheese." Steve scrunched under the red railing ropes which were strung in three rows horizontally. He stood up and brushed his the knee section of his green srubs. He walked up to the counter and waved down the attendant. He handed a five to the food guy. "You'll have to dispense the cheese," "I know." Steve said and took the small box of nachos. He smiled as he inhaled the salty fumes. "Better than Nuked chicken." He whispered. Steve walked over to the dispenser. There was a long tiny pole which was topped with a black circular knob. Steve pressed down with a mighty shove. Cheese squirted out in a yellow mess. It spurted onto the cheese guard. Steve retrieved a napkin from the napkin dispenser and dabbed the yellow guck. "Cheesey." Steve said laughing. Next, he opened the nacho cheese lid and stuck the body of the nacho pile under the mouth of the cheese dripper. "Here it comes." Steve said. He pressed the block knob down with one quick push. Yellow thick goe eased out of the mouth and swirled ontop of the salty chips. Steve pushed on the knob three full times, first allowing it to breath to the top, and then retreieving the upward rise of the knob with a quick downward pump of his index and middle finger. More cheese flowed onto the chips. "Easy now." Dr. Hurt said walking over with his Jumbo dog. "Big enough dog there Hurt." Steve said piling up on condimens. "Slow down on those peppers buddy." Dr. Hurt requested as he pushed the ketchub knob downward. Red pasty water leaked onto his hot dog. "Uh. I wonder if they have the packets." Dr. Hurt walked over to the attendant and retrieved two packets for his dog. "I'm going to see a film." Hurt said. "You will be lead to the van after the Pianist is over." "What are you going to see Doc." Steve asked pumping another fourth layer of yellow ooze onto his chips. "They." "Whats They." Steve asked. "Horror." Dr. Hurt said smiling with wild eyes. Steve wondered if Hurt was really going or just pulling his leg. Steve didn't care much now. He hadn't seen a real film in ages and the Piano looked like a good one. He followed the red ropes to the ticket clerk girl. She was in her teens and had a thick mouth full of wires. "Enjoy your movie. Last door on the left." "Oh. I forgot my drink. Shit." Steve said placing his nachos to his chest. "How much is water." "Three fifty." The ticket girl said. "Three fifty. Damn." "I can get you an ice crushy." "Whats that." "Ice crushed up. It's a coureousy." "Ok" Steve said inhaling the hot jalapenos while balancing his treat with care. Steve waited around. There were three movie poster signs. One was called The New Hope. It was some military film about war and glory. There was one standing poster of a man with green eyes. It looked like the brat but Steve wasn't for sure. It was called, "Swivel." The man was standing with a Mag flash light and wore a black ski cap. "Hm! Looks interesting!" He exclaimed. The ticket girl came back. "I couldn't find any courteous cups but here." He haned Steve a Dansbi water. "Oh, thanks." Steve said. "Didn't cost three fifty." She smiled, "Don't worry about it."
Steve walked down the hallway. He passed to double doors. Above the doors where rectangular shapped plastic boxes with black letters over layed on white lit boards. Biker Boyz as the first one and second one was titled The Guru. They must have been on the opposite side of the building. Steve walked under the sing that read Pianist and opened a single door. The door squicked and needed oiling. Steve made his way down the red carpet to the first set of seats to his right. There were four older couples. One couple had a large tub of popcorn. Their hands dipped in and out of the tub. Their chins lifted back as they cupped a handful into their watery mouths. They chopped away at the popcorn. Steve dug into the nachos and slipped a few round cheesy small yellow saucers into his mouth. The cheese was hot and the jalapenos made them hotter. He took a few sips from his bottled water. The lights dimmed. Steve finished a few more bites. He wanted to down his nachos before the flick started. It seemed far too dramatic and important to merely snack and watch. He wanted to give it his full concentration. He polishe off few more bites and got up to throw the rest away. The cheese wasn't mixed correctly. Far too pasty and sticky. He opened the squeaky door and tossed them into the hallway trash can. He returned to the movie room and sat down. Something began to happened that annoyed Steve. First, the door kept opening. One time from a movie sweep up clerk and few times from entering movie goers. Steve became tired of listening to the door slam. The door did not have good hinges. So, each time someone entered or exited the door would squeked open and thump shut. "No more of that." Steve whispered to himself. A man go up to use the restroom. This time, instead of listening to the door slam, Steve got up and caught the door. So, during the preveiwes, Steve had to constantly get up and keep the door from slamming into the edges of the door frame. It would tink and piss the shit out of him. He inhaled a frusterated breath as it opened and closed throughout the greatest part of the pre segments of a movie. The door needed rebuilding. A whole fucking hinge and half. He had to get up a total of eleven times. Back and forth, back and forth to his seat to the door, stopping it from clattering and echoing into the cinema audience seating. Next, a fat man came in, slurping on a orange slurrpy and popping chocolate coated red peanuts into his trap. He crunch on the munchies, belched and pooting around as the door remained ajar. His eyes shifted left and right as he chose a row of his choice. He started to a seat and then halted. The door almost shut due to the fact that he was walking as slow as a snail and this caused Steve to have to go around the man in order to stop the door from slamming once more, but with swift speed Steve reached over the fat man's shoulder and kept the door from shutting noisily. Ha, Steve thought. Thought you were going to block me from stopping that damn door from slamming again. He deliberated. Next, a couple got up and headed out. The door hissed opened which caused Steve to roll his eyes. If only a had a door stop. He inwardly sneard. One of those rubber door stops, he begin to think of its small triangular shape and how it gripped the carpet under the crack of the door. Oh, the wonder of a door stop. The beauty of its structure in this modern world of doors, doors, doors, squeaaaaling. It would put a silence to this nasty ordeal. If only they sold door stops at the candy counter. Probably cheaper than the fountain drinks, or in this case the H20 at three fifty a pop. Damn noisey door, he whispered, and then sipped up his drink keeping his eyes on the silver motion picture screen. He leaned back, slumped and sucked and swooshed the water in his cheeks as a revengful tactic to the noisy door makers. They'll get theres, he mouthed. The trailers were half over. The following were shown as trailers: Some film about Mexican mafias, there was a film about a romance and few others that Steve didn't get to pay attention to because of the damn door. Only the trailers anyhow. Finally, things settled. The Painist started. It opened with beautiful paino music that sounded like Chopin. The films music score was backed mostly with classical and modern classic undertone. Steve decided to move up to the front row. He hated the sound of the door opening. He arrived at the third row from the screen. He sat against the wall. It was quiet there. The door opened but it was too far to intertupt. The only aspect of the door that bothered him was the hall light from the day outside. The film was great. Andrain Brody execute the part with realistic and comedic charm. It was not a funny role but Andrain found the comedy. The overall feeling of the film was of horror and pain. The characters were beat, starved and persecuted. It was one of the hardest films to watch. Steve really enjoyed it. It taught him about hunger, unfairness, and hatred. Polanski acuatlly escaped from Polish Ghettos during the war with Germany in 1940's. Germany had taken over Warsaw and the resistance was acting up. The film was about a painist who is left behind and force to find solace in his slaughtered home town. He finds inspiration by playing the Piano for a Nazi officer hiding out in an abandon capital. The film was based on the life of a real Polish pianist with last name of Spilzman. Before the war breaks out in Warsaw, the pianist plays for a Radio station in which broadcast classical music. The pianist loses his family and many of his friends toward the end of the film. The only thing that is not robbed and ripped from his hands is his love for the paino. Steve compared the film to the struggle of many artist's life. Many times artist are persecuted and most find refuge in what they do. It was hard for Spilzman because his art was in playing the piano. Since the character was always on the run he had much trouble in practicing his art. How could he get better at the piano if he was forced to labor for the Germans, starve and live in fear? Spilzman was so skilled at playing the Piano that he never lost his touch. There is a saddening scene toward the end of the film in which requires the Pianist to perform. Spilzman had been traveling from hide out to hide out looking for food and secure shelter. Bombs and resistant attacks were exploding in the abandoned Ghetto. The war was coming to a climax. Underneath all the death and noise always peered the faint sounds of a piano. Spilzman could hear it being played through walls in his hideouts. Many times, he could not even see the person playing the piano but only hear it though the walls. Eventually he ran out of food and water and had to scavenge through the streets and abandoned house. Russia was on its way to liberating Poland. Spilzman runs to the capital in search for food. He finds a can of watermelon and attempts to hammer it open with a fire place log poker and small ash shovel. He is discovered by an officer of the Nazi military. The nazi asks him, "Why are you here." Spilzman is speechless. Brody lost thiry pounds for this segment of the film, so it was not hard for him to be mute. "What do you do?" The Nazi officer asks. "I play paino." Spilzman says. The Nazi officer walks him into a room and sets him down at the capitals paino. Spilzman plays a piece by Chopin with beauty and heartfelt inspiration. He plays for his life. The Nazi officer is so impressed he feeds Spilzman jam and bread. Also, he gives the jew his Nazi overcoat, which later gets Spilzman in trouble. In the end, the Nazi tourps leave Poland and the Officer is rounded up by the Russians. Spilzman is shoot at by the Russains due to his SS coat. "I'm Polish." Spilzmans shouts. "Don't shoot. I'm Polish." He is recognized and saved. In the end, he goes back to playing to paino for the radio.
Steve returned back to the hospital. He slep well that night. The film acted as a catharsis and emotionall rid him of worry and sorrow. That morning he asked to go to the upper level inmate library. The techs allowed him with out concerning Dr. Hurt. He had gone there over twenty times in the past month. Steve found a childrens book entitled, "The rabbit and the turtle." He sat down to read the ancient tale of moderation and competition. Voices returned in his head as he studied the Japanesse drawing of the rabbit and the turtle. It was not written in Japanesse but the artist had a Japenesse name. Ha Noh Ho. The voices kept repeated. Steve had brought his journal with him to the make shift library. He decided then and there that he was going to turn part of his screenplay, Untitle, into a fantasy, fictional account of his travel from Texas to LA and to New York to Chicago, Back to LA and then to Chicago and finally to Washington D.C. He would choose a town to set the story in. Most likely a town he was most unfamiliear with. He wanted to write about a place he had not yet experienced. He wanted the central Character, Cole, to be established in one place. He could travel toward the end of the story, but for the first part of the tale he wanted Cole to remain in an unfamiliar city. The main character would narrate his life. His journey. He would talk about his troubles and the importance of writing his fictional accoung.
I want to write a fiction that takes from my life. I would like to create a world set in four different bodies. Each body would represent an aspect of my nature. The city would reflect the emotional state and philosophical exploration of the current persona. I will name each character a distinct name. The first character is named Jay Grisham. He has the last name of a famouse writer. I like the idea that he is a nobody. Jay thinks he works for the FBI. In fact, he doesn't. He is delusional due to a mental illness. Jona is the emodiment or Jay's old persona. Jay transforms into a gothic, lost youth, traveling aimlessly and pennilessly through the streets of Chicago. He meets up with a gal named Rhiannon and hangs out with a newly formed gothic band that smokes from a Hokaah. He gets high and falls in love. Later, Jona changes into Steve. Steve is a gay male from Texas who moved to LA to pursue and acting career. His career falter and he decides to move to Chicago. Later, he steals a car and drives to Washington D.C. Jona and Jay Grisham can talk to Steve. Jona can't see Jay nor Jay see Jona, but Grisham can communicate with them. Jay convinces Steve to go to Washington for mental help. Steve locks himself away in room number M04 to write a screenplay about his mental disorder. The screenplay is called Untitled.
The voices would not leave Steve. "Its over, its over. We are laughing. We are. We are. We can see you. Laughing. Laughing. Laughing. Laughing now. We are really laughing. I mean we are, we are indeed, your over now. ITS ALL OVER FORGET IT. GO SUBSTITUTE. GO FUCKING SUBSTITUTE." Steve didn't know what the voices meant and where they were coming from. He guessed from envious evil. He proposed a source of the voice. The voice was created by himself, placing and matching other relatives, friends and peers. The voice sometimes sounded like them. "You need a boob. It will never work. Your killing your family. You killing others. Stop it. You need a boob." Steve put his hand over his chest and felt the slight lump. It was not his fault God had made him unique. One of his acting coaches told him, "The pain we feel is God's love toward us." The voices wouldn't stop, "It will never work. Your killing her." Steve figured her meant his mother. But he hadn't talked to his mother or father for a quiet awhile. He didn't even know if his dad was alive or dead. At times, he didn't care. He had an abusive past and didn't want to ignite emotional scars. Let them rest. The "Substitute" thing he didn't really understand. Did it mean substitute teaching, did it mean substituting other things for other parts of life, like sublimation or what the great actin coach Uta Hagen calls "Imaginary circumstance or sublimation." Replacing images from your past to ignite feeling in order to create the moment of the character. What did substituting mean. He guessed it was closer to substituting teaching. After all Steve had a B.A. in the science and art department at a major university in north Texas. His B.A. would be good background for subbing. The voices would not leave. Steve figured the only way to burn the voices was with the fire of his felt tip. He would write them away.
Somewhere faraway was a presence. It was a group presence. People with money and power. He couldn't tell if they were Jewish, British or what nationality. The ethnic background did not matter. What matter was it was a power from far off. They had money. They had control over the publisher and the printed word. They made the choice whether the world read your words. They, they, they. Who where they? Even if he did write a screen play, so what? Even if he did write a book, so what? Who would buy it. Who would distribute it to major publishing houses. This is wehre the voices lived. In this fear. Fear of failure. That is what hatched the self critic. It was a killer. It was more deadly than Tommy's ritualistic slaughters, it was more deadly than war, the self critic killed you and took down others with you. Many called the self critic the devil. Steve had made up their voices. The devil, or self critic, can hide with in others, pretend to be others, act as familiars in order to trick and hurt. All the devil wants to do is cause misery. The devil will not admit his failure. IT cannot conquer God. God has an army of angels overpowering It's every move. The devil is a servant. He was made as an angel. Now, he waits at the bottom of the ninth level of hell, impatiently awaiting in treacherous anger, awaiting with his frail, ungodly shell, not moving in his freezing hellish misery. Not opened his hand to God. Just sitting, like a brat child, just staring, idle hands, letting time tick as God does his goodness, and spreads his love. The devil throws fits and curses man. He can not touch man with out God's permission. So he must ask. God only uses the devil to tempt and test man. Ultimately, the devil is sent back to his hell to burn and suffer and freeze in his sin. God's will makes him tired of love and life. The devil cannot stand anything good. If he see's man create or be godly in anyway, or even christlike, It will turn red in the face and become green with envy and lash out toward God. God overtakes him and settles him back to his miserable den. The devil did once meet with God after the great war of Angels. They met at the gaits between heaven and hell. God sent a messeger to bring the devil to the golden Gaits of seventh heaven. The devil sneared and agreed. God asks the devil to meet with him, to come over to heaven and give in. The devil whined and spat with terrible envy. God asked for his hand. The devil closed his bony fingers and bowed his head to God. "If you won't meet me now, than were shall we meet Lucifer." God asked, "On Calvary." The devil answered with an evil grin. "I'll meet you on Calvary." Blood was shed and time continued.
Steve started creating an outline to transfix the screenplay of Untitled into a novel called The Untitled. He did not know if he wanted to follow the path of Orwell and invent a Pen name. Stephen King had did it with Richard Bachman. George did it. Many writers did it. He didn't mind lieing about his name and creating a false persona. That didn't bother him. But what annoyed him was why? Why did writers lie about their names? The word is everything to them. Also, Steve began to think about credentials. Hemingway had credentials to write because he wrote for newspapers. Samaul Beckette had the right to write because he translated material into France and studied writing in Italy. Plus, he was Irish. Thomas Wolfe had the knowledge and know how to write because he taught literature at NYU and traveled over the continent. He was a compulsive writer that had the need to read every book ever written. He wrote so much he couldn't even carry all the reams of paper he had composed on. Steve's only past was on stage. And mostlty non-profit community theatre houses in North and Central Texas. He had written poetry for a small poet magazin and had road the ropes as a teenager with the other beat wannabees at nearby coffee shops. Steve actually went on a mock road trip to New Mexico mocking the experiences of Jack, Niel Cassedy and Dean. Steve must have had written over a thousand poems and had read many of them in public. He even told his mother at the age of eleven that he wanted to be a writer. When Steve turned seventeen his mother entered his room with two newspaper clippings. One offering a creative writing education at a nearby junior college of stage combat at a nearby theatre house. Steve choice the combate. At the time he was more of doer than thinker. But John Geilgud, the great actor, was a thinker. He believe it had everything to do with thinking. All that didn't really matter to him that much. He was just obsessed with credential. What honored him as a writer? Where was the glory in it? It was much moving around? Acting required so much movement through time and space? He loved to move. But Steve had been confined. Now, he was only allowed to move in his mind. He could go to the upper level pool, but only for limited amount of time. He could walk on the ninth floor, where the library was contained but only on allotted time. He could even walk on the roof, with supervision.
Spilling the beans.
In every fiction the truth will always float to the top towards the end of the story. Also, in every fiction there is an obsessive current of drab lying and opinionating reaccurrence. This is the nature of the beast of the pen. This is it's mysterious blood in which it feeds. Lies and truths do not play in the balance of the story. The story carries it's own balance, it was already present before the writer began his tale. The writer is merely digging it up, unearthing it from existence.
Steve began to fall upon a new character. His name, September. September lived in a small studio room near DFW airport. He lived there from the early parts of June just after the world trade center burned to oblivion. September laid in his room on a queen-sized bed. The bedspread was red and netted, thus it hurt his back after while. But nevertheless, September stayed there. Stories about his past life and stories he had never heard before arose to his mind like mercury in a thermometer. Heat arrived and the liquid set upward. This was the action of his story telling as he lived in the room near DFW. Airplanes fly past him and struck fear in his heart. He even became afraid of his own words. His own words on paper and sometimes his own words in air. The sounds of the jet reminded him of the terrible day of the attack and the after effects they now call the footprints. So many dead. So many burnt. So many captured from the blood link of history. Each life had a long link, a long stretch with mankind and earth. And now these lives where mere faces on photo copies hanging on street posts, telephone booths and concrete walls. Lost faces, once breathing. Lost faces, that hugged, spoke, read, talked, wrote and carried on with daily activities, gardening, brushing hair, sleeping till high noon, walking in central park, going to mass and buying half price books at cheap bookstores. Lost, lost in fire. Many were chosen to suffer. Why? Some had to choose weather to jump or burn. Flames appeared up around their office room, around their desk, hot flames calling them "Come with me. Burn with me. OR jump. If you stay you'll end up jumping anyway. Do you want to fall with or without the fire," the flames did say. Flames born from pure hate and jealously. Flames not worth their ignition. Nevertheless, flames arose on that day. And the image of their crinkling skin and sharp wavy red scream, opened Steve's eyes. He woke up and fixed himself a Johnny Mackerel salad, with beats, bulb onions, green onions, chopped lemon and thick tangy Dijon mustard. He sipped back a hot Kava Kava tea with a raspberry shot. September's downstairs neighbor was noisy. At first, in November, he played his rap music freely. Thump, thump di dum, thumpy di dum. Yo yo yo out in de street, yo yo, ye rum dum. . .and so on. This angered September. He needed pure silence. He didn't want the down stairs neighbor to be there. The down stairs neighbor had gang type friends hanging about. Coming and going at odd hours of the day or night. Downstairs was always there. Even during the afternoon. Hanging out, smoking, letting out odd smells, and noisy. At times he'd wake up to a loud shout of "You blab blab bla bla blah, blugh" usually the fight had nothing to do with anything. Downstairs had a girlfriend. She'd scream back, "Well you blab blab bla bla blah, blugh," and it would end up in a voice straining yelling match. Then, he'd hear her wake up in the morning puking. Strangers would make there way up and down to the second level. September lived on top and the downstairs neighbor didn't actually live on the ground floor. He lived above the first floor. September on top of the second. September even heard scratching above him, like that of a squirrel or field mouse, or bird. Pigeons arrived every morning, but they did not bother September like the Mr. Downstiars. Downstairs talked in a street rap tone. September asked him to take him for a ride in Downstairs black Honda which smelled of cigarettes and pizza. He didn't know what Downstairs ate or read, or even if he did read or whatever. Mr. Downstairs did judge. He felt that every time he break out a can of fish Mr. Downstairs would laugh. Anytime September ate a bite to eat Downstairs would grow critical. September had a feeling that Downstairs 'girl' as Downstairs called her, hated him. September loved to eat and snack before writing or even reading. This made Downstairs lady and even Downstairs pissed. September didn't know why. Airplanes still flew over and stories kept attacking September in the middle of the night. Sometimes during the day. Sometimes at all moments. It didn't matter the hate seeped up from the downstairs. September felt like he could here the thoughts of Downstairs, as if he was connected, "I'm going punch yaw, kill ya, I'm gonna, gonna gonna." Like some dorky monkey. September didn't have real reason to feel negativity toward the cheap ass bastard downstairs. He didn't at all. September shouldn't of been so critical and self absorbed. On the other hand, September thought he had the right. He was educated, honor college student and working on his M.F.A. A B.A. in arts and science and an M.F.A. stands for something. It stands for hard work and intellectual discipline. No one is simply handed a degree, it takes work. Obviously Mr. Downstairs could do nothing more than watch TV, fuck his gal, slam the door and probably sell drugs. September imagined what type of drugs he sold. Was it heroin, acid, pot or pills. Was it all of it? That would explain the shady character appearing late at night or at dusk. Someone would arrive at Downstairs house around eleven pm and slam the door. To be honest, the door was being slammed as September wrote this in his journal. It sounded like some one was running off right there. Down stairs was far too noisy. No one needed to be slamming the door at midnight. Something would have to be done. Just the other day September arrived from a long day of waiting tables at traditional Italian cuisine on Main street in Dallas. He'd take the Dart system to reach it from the small town near the DFW airport. He'd arrive home, passing Downstairs window. Downstairs had set out these miniature toy cars out front of his shades. Each rested in his window sill. One was a little white souped up Honda with opened doors and lifting trunk, and the other some dorky race car. They were models. Toys so fit his character, little there was. Its hard to have character while throwing constant fits. Also, Mr. Downstairs had a rebel flag that was posted on the back wall of his place. On the outside, or exterior of the wall of his pad was annoying beer slagos. Also, before Mr. Downstairs door was cheaply fashioned with a welcom mat which was placed mistakenly out of place. There was no welcom with bratty Downstairs. Also, he had several racing Nascar flags that hung around the top of his outer exterior. Christmas lights were strung over the windows and were not removed for way after Januarary. Mr. Downstairs was getting on everyone's nerves. Setember made a list of questions concerning the contridiction Mr. Downstrairs proposed for himself. He had a reason. He didn't want to judge him, he merely wanted to defend himself. See, September had recently did a television show. He kept it quite but it is hard to keep images on TV quite. It is possible MR. Downstairs had seen him on TV. One late evening there was a knock on his door. Downstairs had brought his gal with him. She was the one knocking. September was brushing his teeth and preparing to read. He didn't answer the door. He knew it was Downstair and his gal and he didn't want to communicate at the time. He had only exchanged a few words with Downstairs. Downstairs had given him a ride to the train center, but September paid him three times the gas money. He simply needed the ride so he would not miss the train and miss out on groceries. So, he paid for his ride and that was that. He didn't want to connect with his neighbors and September had the right to stay isolated. He was an actor/writer and needed his privacy and concentration. September could not understand why he would have hate toward him. One can feel hate. Hate resonates off the body and travels through walls. September loved to get up and go for long walks. He loved to swim and play volleyball. These things could of made Mr. Downstairs pissed due to the fact that Downstairs was a smoker. Now, Downstairs could have been two things. He could have been a narc trying to linger in September, since September had a passed in TV and acting. Or he could have been a criminal trying to hook him and was frusterated due to the fact that September was anti drug. September once had a drug probablem in his teen and luckily found a tast for life. Now, September was mad. He didn't want drugs in society anymore. He learned from the damage of LSD and X and at times didn't appreciate the long term damages of marijuana. Basically, he wanted all drug dealers to be taxed or assigned work. To set around and distribute a product with out competition is obviously unfair. Drug dealers had very little competition; most did not take the risk to sell. Drug dealers had to do two things to deal. First, they had to hook the buyer and second they had to find other distributors. Dealers had to break people down. They were like the devil. Dealers had to have people come to them, so he could control them. September was a lion, but he was a smart lion. Downstairs knew the only way to tempt a lion was to bang on pans. The only way to draw the lion out from the bush was to create loud noise. This must be why Downstairs, slams the doors, fights with his gal and so on. He wanted to corrupt the good. September considered himself good. He even knew that Downstairs was basically good. The philosopher Russell stated that "all men are good, it is the Reason and Temptation" that unfolds their character. Downstairs needed to shut up. He needed to find the right path, the balanced path and lay off the chaotic hating and aggressive door slamming. September continued to write and his journal and eventually found a small story concerning Mr. Downstairs, his gal and the dreams of September.
Steve thought September story might be including in The Untitled. He mapped out an outline connecting the imaginary thoughts of September and Mr. Downstairs. He didn't know for sure if he should make Downstairs a dealer or found out what he really was. For now, he thought he would seek out the truth. It might be interesting to put down that September could read Downstairs mind, and he could hear him think. Or this is what September's delusional mind had once believed. Then, September could learn of Mr. Downstairs dark behavior and eventually discover his drug usage and illegal selling. He knew three things about Downstairs from September. First, Downstairs had someone try and kick in the door. Downstairs screamed, "I'm calling the police." The police showed and stood in the bushes across the way. This happened on a cold night. September opened the door and peered at the officer who was stepped back in the bushes talking to headquarters. Second, he always smelled cigarette smoke. Third, there was gal with him that fought, vomited in morning (or she did once) and there was strangers, shady ones, leaving and coming up the stairs. It had to be a drug ring. It was best that September only listened with his telepathic powers and not attempt to intervene physically. Steve figured out the story. September would create journals based on the thought received and the noise that leaked from downstairs. Soon, there'd be an answer.
September Blues was not a real character. The author invented the name. But perhaps there was some lifeblood shed for him, far from the North. September was the main character in Steve's book named The Entitled, which was similar to the Untitled. It was a section of entitled, a chapter or two, in which intrinsically described September's life from HEB Texas to Los Angeles. September was a little over average height. No taller than six foot. He had light green eyes, somewhat longer hair than the average man, brown with a tint of red, around the length of Paul McCartney's cut during his earlier Beatle years. September was not much of a McCartney fan but did look up to Lennon. He had a Germanic style nose, with thick pointy eyebrows and his muscle were somewhat toned, but not large in mass. September was not real. It could not be proven that he existed in this current time in space. Basically, September was a platform. He was the next landing runway for the writer's wishes. To Steve was a new body to possess. He was a new transmutation to fill the form of his hope. September was a little of Steve, a little of Jona and a little of Jay all in one new form. He was from the HEB area very close to the DFW airport. He never went out. Sometimes he worked on Saturday evenings at a traditional Italian restaurant. He had a thing for beautiful ladies. The first bartender that worked at the Italian restaurant was a charming, drolly red head inspiring to be a young artist. She was about to leave the position as bartender and sign up at a nearby college to take painting lessons. September thought she was cute but her smile, and attitude did not fit his type. She was too aggressive and full of a different shade of energy that he did not empathize. The Entitled concerned the process and the arrival of September's fame. See, in the next few chapters September will be discovered. September had an extensive background in acting. He had joined a private college in theatre arts in nineteen ninety-three. In the year of nineteen ninety-four, before ninety-five, he had a small breakdown. Well, some would say it was a horrible breakdown. His nerves twisted into one large nerve ball and exploded into oblivion. He forgot his name. Even forgot his behavior. It's a long story that concerns a wild blond headed actress and the play Street Car Named Desire. September was trying out for Mitch and for some odd reason, landed the role of Stanley Kowalski. In the audition, the girl who landed Stella said that September growled and acted like a pirate in sections. "I thought it was his nature." September answered her back. September was not the likely Stanley. He wasn't really into big muscles and aggressive chicken eating and smoking, drinking, whore fucking and all that. He had to change. For September to transpose into Stanley would require experience. September started lifting weights, even borrowed a weight bar from his Papa (who fought in World War II and caused like the sailor he was) started drinking beer, smoking light cigarettes and working out at the gym. He was up to benching almost one hundred and eighty pounds before the show opened. That was about twenty pounds more than his weight. So, he wasn't really a huge Stanley, he was fair size but he found the demon of the role. See, September had a thing for his mother's chicken and rice dishes. So, after a long day of rehearsals and homework, he'd jump in his car and drive across town. Down Rosedale and into the heart of Fort Worth. He had a family key so it wasn't hard to get inside. He sneak into his mother's kitchen, while his Step Father Ealrchk (Football coach) slept in the back bedroom. He'd hurry in and attach the cookie jar. He'd stuff his mouth full of home made chocolate chips, vanilla wafers and then, he open a can of coke. Next, he chomp down on dinner rolls, as bread crumbs spilled to the floor and yank the refrigerator door open and gaze at the overload amount of food. He twist open a jar of Jelly grape jam and spread the purple mesh onto the dinner rolls, pop them into the microwave and sometimes add creamy butter. Next, he unwraps a foil of boiled and fried chicken mixed with wild rice and buttery mash potatoes. He stuffs his mouth full, nearly choking. He did this to summon a wild ape that hid in the very shallows of his skin. He plans this. He'd go every Friday or Saturday night. He go out with the gals and the guys on Friday, sometimes, they go to the nearby pizza joint or out to Dallas to dance in the clubs and smoke and bullshit and all the rest. He didn't want to get laid before the show opened. That would spoil his sexual need. He would only let women talk to him, touch him or even hug. It wasn't about fulfilling his sexual needs it was about arouse the libido to a hectic nervosas. So, since he couldn't fulfill his penis's wishes he turned to the desire of his tongue (tummy). This was not unlikely for most men. Tongue or dick. You got to spoil one. Men are pigs. September agreed. They are, and they have no reason to pretend like they are not. Men either want sexual healing, if it be heterosexual or homo, or they want to pig out on pizza, and or French upper class pastries. Men have many techniques in achieving their wants. If it is food they want, than they must choose a level, or a style, in consummation. They can choose the moderate snack, and go out and order a plate at some three star foreign restaurant (in most cases in the south it would be Italian, Mexican or Tex Mex, or Chinese take out) and eventually a women will admire that they are practice a form of control. It is hard to pig your face fast and furious in a public dinning area. Some do it. But they get no loving. On the other hand, a man can decide a higher, or in women's eyes a much lower, level of consuming God's fruitful necessity. This is called The Pig Out. The Pig Out is simple. Man will find his favorite types of food and collect them in large sums. In most cases he will pay with cash, or credit and in many cases he will find the food (Friends houses, family houses or in the trash. ) Hopefully he doesn't have to turn to the latter nasty and disposable image. September did not like, or even look forward to living by his desires. Those who chose to live in this fiery existence usually fell to their own desires. September knew that man had desires and could not be guided by them. He had to focus on Self Control in order to conquer his life. On the other hand, he had to feel. Theatre, acting and performing in artistic ways, are not about the numbness of life. Usually, and in most cases people do no want to see robots talking, or dancing or playing an instrument. People want to see and experience desire. Desire is entertaining. Emotions have their worth in attracting others. Emotions demand full ears. It's a simple understanding. So, how did September feel? Well, it was through falling to his desire and rising again. September feared that is he denied himself and desires too much than he would become numb. So, how would he get what he wanted and not fall overboard? Every action had an equal and opposite reaction. So, if September chose a woman, than he chose a world of responsibilities. First, a woman needed money to grow. It would be disastrous to expect women to enter your life with out a large banking account. A young lady perhaps, but most women, never. Now, how would Steve make money? He wanted gal. He wanted loving. He wanted to be held, caressed, talked to nose to nose or at least in a closer fashion than ball tossing range. He wanted the female's knowledge and her sense of giving, motherhood, bubble baths, and lipstick. He wanted to smell funny odors coming from the vanity mirror. He wanted to help her dress or bath. How would he achieve this? One answer. Money. He knew he could buy it. Some dashing young men, above average in looks and body tone could swindle it with their looks. The women would find these hustling breed so heroically stoic and pretty, and cunning that they would fall victim to their outer shells. Later, perhaps money would arise in this love game. In most cases this passing fancy would leave them twisting a small tissue and wining to their girlfriends. September new he was close to average. He wasn't Tom Cruise and he didn't care. He wanted a woman as a lover and wife, not just lover. The next step was to up his annual income. September had been struggling doing community theatre shows, small inde- films and stupid non-paying free for alls. The next step was either to chose another career or 'get bent', or land something lucky. Luck had no rules. He decided the most rewarding of the three would be to get lucky. He had spent eleven years acting for mere cents. He read somewhere, Meisner he believed, that acting could take up to twenty years to master. He didn't know if this was completely true. Meisner was supposedly a God of theatre. And many Meisner actors followed his wise words. The true master had done it for twenty years. So, would September continue to struggle, maybe find a temporary occupation to occupy his dry spells, or would he change. Change or get fortunate by chance.
Setember decided to write a book. He was tired of trying to hook a women with un-experienced fishing hands. Time would come for him to cast out and pull in. But for now, it was time for words. Setember could not decide on what type of book to write. He retrieved a labtop for his graduation present in 1999. He graduated that year with alternative honors. He did not make the honor role but did achieve the National Golden Key and dean's list. So, he worked hard. His three favorite classes were English, Shakespearean drame (he had to be spit at in the Richard the III scene but he accept the spit for the verse.) and he loved directing. All, these classes, believe it or not, required much writing. One children drama class, required him to write a fifeteen page essay two times in one semester.
Setember wrote poetry as well as Steve and Jona. Setember usually only wrote in dialogue exchange. Dialuge exchange is a type of poetry or dialogue, that consist of two character talking to one another. There is usually a topic, or them under the words, therein lies intentional poetry, or dialogue with thematic backing. The two characters in the dialogue exchange have something to say and or trying to overcome an obstacle. He had a small laptop and would break into the internet by using another's pen name and code. He found this code in one their lent computer. He figured it was a chance to sell poetry on the net. Yes, Setember was that type of bastard. He sold his personal verse to stay alive. And in this case, the word became a means of survival. He haded acted for eleven years. No one discovered him. He still wanted to act. He still had the desire to play for the public, time was running shorter and shorter, and money was becoming scarce in his life. So, he turned to the words. Maybe the words could provide him financially or, support him in a monetarily economical manner. It was possible. All things are. So, September figured he give it a whirl. He compose one book of poetry and send it to a publisher. Also, he promised to continue poetry on the internet and possibly try to be discovered from litrature sites. It beat starting at the boring walls.
Setember flicked the side of the labtop's skin with his thumb. A blue screen faded on and a little paper clip man saluted him with a wave. He found ways to change the paper clip man into other icons, or animated assistance. He used the keyboard small pointy black knob, or the finger mouse, to guide the cursor, or arrow, to a file bar. On the file bar he opened a horizonal box, this horizontal box opened another box and so on. It was sort of fun. September fixed a pot of hot coffee, Italian bean, on the free doffee maker and cleaned out a dusty extra jumbo size coffee cup. It had the face of Edgar Allen poe smoking a Hokaah. The quations above his head said, "Brilliant Druggy." It was either that coffee cup or the coffee cup that read, "Addicted to bean." It had a picture of a bean popping blue pills. He chose the Poe coffee cup and added Irish cream. In each horizontal box there were a list of words. For example, words like new office, document, storage, favorites and so on. He scrolled up and down with the thumb mouse, or finger pad, in the labtop. He opened a horizontal box that allowed him to change the facing, and form of the paper clip. He could choose from five different characters in time. There was six animated icons in all. The first choice was a paperclip. It was already established on the screen. It took him quiet a long time. When he would scroll different titles with in each box would become highlighted and this would indicate a direction he could follow in life. This meant that if he pressed on the space key, a new world in the computer would open for him, a world to fix problems and organize data. Each world had different tools to change different spacing to different forms. He only wanted the paper clip man to go away. He wanted to find a new face. Something that made him cheery and inspired. The other four figures he could change the paper clips to were listed as the following: A face of Einstein, a face of Evlis, a face of the Tweenkie man, and a face that looked like a Ballerina dancer. Each face, or animated icon, did the same thing. They rested in a section of the screen and when you commanded the computer to save, print, copy, cut, spell, or check grammer the face would make an expression. For example, when you saved or printed the ballerina would do Step of the Cat, or what is called in French terms Saut de chat. Also, while cutting or pasting the ballerina would do a Pas de chat. She had many fine and fancy steps. If you cut, used spellcheck or grammer check the dancer would leap or do a fancy elongated Arabesque. The ballerina seemed to be the most creative of the othe drab animated assistance. Only, one problem. It was hard to stop watching her dance as the story unfolded. But Setember got used to her and appreaciated her far more than the dreary paperclip man. He decided to go with her and use her to correct the files and misspelled words. After watching the ballarina jump, twists and make pre modonnda faces (after hitting document, cut, save, print, copy, cut, spell, or check grammer the face would make an expression.)
Steve liked the idea. It was a fairly simple story with complex theme. The story was about a man, twenty nine, living in the H.E.B. area. Steve decided to drop the idea of Tommy Marcel, and the Movie Star Killer (Rising Star Killer.) Now, it was time to work on Setember and his creative story. Setember was more a truist in writing. He didn't like to make up fiction. Instead, Setember wanted to document the world around him. The passing planes, the fighting at Mr. Downstairs house, the bubbling of his green tea and ginger root mixes, he wanted to paint the world as he saw it. Setember learned that this was very difficult to do. It was hard not to lie and write. It was time to be honest. September became a truthful character. It would be Steve's new masterpiece. He would call it The Entitled.
Steve Journal entry, Feb, 12th. Two days before Valentine.
I like the idea of creating Setember as a writer of truth. I think Setember should only document the life around him to the T. He should only record the dialogue from the now, if it be in his head or around him. Setember and Entitle is not as crazy, and sporadic as Untitled. The Entitled should only encompase the journey and struggles of Setember.
"Why not tomorrow"
"Tomorrow is too late."
"Do they want my word."
"But what of my word today."
"There is only one word."
"What word is that?"
"The word of today."
"What about the words from yesterday and to the future. Huxely new about those words. Their invented to become true. He knew. He was a man of tomorrow."
"There is not past, no tomorrow, there is only now. So the only words are now."
"Now is the only words."
"All you talk of of the past. All you guess and imagine of the future is only thought up and written down, at this moment. In now."?
"So now is where the words are borned."
"Now is all there is."
Setember decided to try a few poems with out dialogue exchange.
Beautiful nappy (A jazz musician excaping in his breath and word.)
vehicle and equiped
and his joy
a boy walking
salm, start, engine
row, row, row till salty
mouth, a gate
in society, 3,3,3 once
Black bird, light sunny.
Black bird red
black to red
over and over it said
chilling in box
awaiting the body
looking over again
where in now?
where did she go?
leaving behind Mr. Truth's
lover, pain and Miss hope
Go to, words, enter society.
rain in tongues
September continued writing in his small white journal book. He titled the book, September's poetry.
I can't change the way they look at me.
I can't change light.
Holding in her memory
A soft hand across
A hair of brown or blond
Eyes so free
Accepting the world as me
And a windy hush
Touching over my lips
And forgive my flight
And nothing and back again
Between left and right
The world spins puffy
Under and through the black milky night
September kept a small black book of wise words near his laptop. The book was entitled Wise words for the modern day. He turned to page ninety-nine and read on. The words spilled from his lips with ease, "When I know myself, I know others. When I master myself, I don't need to master others."
Steve knew that September's character was much more sane this his own. September's main intention was to find the now and stick with it. He did not know, the writer, did not know what time he lived in. I guess now. Far away. In Texas. In HEB somewhere. Near the airport. Steve knew he was digging up September, minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day. Moment by moment he would arise and speak, and live. All in Steve's journal entries. September was the type that could hear the distortion. And as long as he could here the distortion he was social.
Steve decided to construct a list about September's life.
September was born near the HEB area. Fort Worth.
September was raised in HEB and Keller, Texas. He went to preschool in HEB.
September went to elementary school in Keller.
September was raised in a trailer house with his mother Ann and His father Will.
The trailer house was set infront of the Will's mother's house, or Sept's grandmother.
His father was a hippie musician. His mother was a religious house wife. They both had long hairs, bellbottoms in the photos. They were the loose type. They explored drugs and smoked marijuana. The father played paino and sang.
Sept had a sister named Daniella. Daneiella was a tom boy that liked to fight. Sh was two years older.
Sept was born in nineteen seventy three. Leo. Sister borned in seventy one. Virgil.
Father starts a refinery refining Gold and Silver in the late seventies. By 1980 he is the richest man in Keller. He buys a huge open field and begins constructine a house. The house is designed after Tudo castles. It has one torrent, circular driveway and large fountain. Pond in backyard. Family moves into the Grandmother's house and later, after two years the mansion is constructed. The family moves in the mansion in nineteen eighty one, a year after Ronald Regan is shoot.
Ending in zero.
September remembered the day Regan was shot. Ronald was walking to his limo and BAM, a gun man attempts, at close point range, to assisinate president Regan.
September was at home miles south eating a pinto cheese sandwich and watching Seseme Street in the family den. It was a fairly warm day in Keller. The sky was clear and seren like the color of a vast sea. Blue jays, black birds and red carnals were chirping along the back yard fence post. Dog barking in the distance, squirles playing in the trees, hiding nuts and smoky, the family mut, chasing wild jack rabbits in a nearby wheat field. Dad was across the street showing off the second floor to our future mansion. Dad had moved into the Grandparents old house off of Roanoke. He was building his house across the refinery factor in a nearby field. The field was once occupied by gaint shuberry beleieved, by the neighbors kids and me to be a haunted bush. The giant shuberry had a small coon trail that lead through the center. It was like a giant green dome of thorns and leafy poison oak, and mesquite. Eventually it was cut down for my dad's new plans for a two story house. The house would contain over six rooms upstairs and twelve rooms downstairs, including a library, grand bedroom, living room, dinning room, kitchen, utility room, TV room (Size of a grages) tool shed, tool house, gun room, and side two story house with kitchen and bedroom. Also, it had a side office and large front patio. The patio was covered by three Roman arches and healthy ivy. The torrent's bottom floor was a sauna, whirl pool with larg bathroom. The second floor of the torrent was a circular study room with small slitted windows. Sept's sister's room was connected to this room. Dad was working on the second floor and showing it off to recent clients of Jewlry for Long Star casting. The current house, the grandparents old house was ordinarily charming. There grandparents house was bought by my father. It stood adjacent to my father's refinery. It was small house with a living room, fire place, three bedrooms, two bathrooms and a TV room. It had a backyard the looped around the house. Much property. There was an incline driveway, a great oak tree and a few pine trees. My family also had a apple tree, pear tree, plum tree and cherry tree. We had a pony named Tony and a cat named Tony. Tony, the cat was found dead under our old trailor house. IT was my first experience with death. The news cut in with a bulletin. I remember I was laying on my belly and eating a cheese sandwhich. "The President had been shot." A news caster came on and Seseme street shut off. This was my first experience with live shooting on TV. No more big bird, now it was time for Regan's slow motion shooting sequence. Bam, bullet fired, Regan spills over into FBI arms, while a dog pile of agents with uzi and mac tens, cover's Hinkley spastic body. This was not to be unpredicted. There was a rhythm in nature and politics. Also, there was a pattern linked to assisanations of U.S. presidents. Rhtym and pattern could very well predict the future, especially an execution or an assisination attempt of the Chief boss. Regan shooting should have been expected. One may learn from studying history that Lincoln was shot and killed in eighteen sixty five AD. What we have to look at was not the date honest Ab was assisinated in. We must focuse on the ending numbers of the election. Lets skip ahead to our second most recent shooting of a president. John F. Kennedy was shot and executed by an Lee Harvey Oswald, or the CIA, we don't know for sure, but nevertheless, JFK was assisanated in 1963. He was elected presidency on 1960. Ending number zero. The election date finalizes his presidency with an ending number of zilch. This once again reveals a patter of assisantion and the number zero. We have Ab Lincoln in 1860, Garfield in 1880, Mckinnely in 1900 and, finally, John F. Kennedy in 1960. All zeros enders. The point being that the number zero in the the year of election is very unlucky for a president future and health. There is something about guns and zeros. Once again, the date a presidents of the U.S.A. gain office better not end in zero or they are in for it. Frank Booth had no part in the pattern with Abs take down. It wasn't the type of person doing the killings, it wasn't the weapon or even the cause, it was the date. Particularly the ending number of the year. Lincoln was elected in 1860. The date ends in a zero. Lets look at the next shooting of a president. James Garfiled was born in 1801 and died in 1881. He was elected office in 1890. One year after his election he was shot and killed. The next president was William Mckinley. He was elected in 1900 and shot in 1901 allowing the good ol vice president William J Bryan to attempt presidency. Next victim was JFK in 1963. Shot and killed and elected with the ending number of zero. Ab elected in 1860. Garfield elected in 1880. Mckinely elected in 1900, JFK elected in 1960 and Ronald Regan elected in 1980. The pattern is consistant and it is not much of coinsedence if all the dates, and shootings are linked with a zero in election date. All successful shot by bullete while running office and all elected with a year ending in zero. The gun was fired and the election date ended in the number zero.
Steve put down his journal. The thoughts of September and his conspiracy theories on president's assisinations and dates and zeros caused a small smile to homourous arise in short patters.
Steve gazed at the moon and went further in the mind of September. He was becoming real. See, September had a home in Fort Worth. He had a mother and step father. They lived in a small cottage of a street called Able Ave. Able avenue always had a meaning to him. The stepfather's name was named Dole Wolves. Dole had four dogs. Every dog's name started with an H. September gave the name the Four H Club to the pack of pets. One was a black lab called Hanes. Hane was introverted but at times aggressive. There was one Dalmation named Howl. Howl was rambugence and playful. Hanes always got Howl into weird dog lockes, and dog holds. Mating position. But only in play. The remaining two dogs were named Hewy and Hildegard. Hewy was a white shaggy short mutt. She slobbered and wined. Hildegard was pure white, tall and had grey hound features. She never shed and always kept good behavior. September decided to come home and have Mahi Mahi, instead they bought Atlantic Halibut, or some type of white fish that sounded like Halibute, or Halabut, anyways, it was a white fish. They baked the white fish in white wine, Sauvignon, with spinach, tomatoes, fried mushrooms, dinner wine and rye bread. September prepared the salad. He chopped one purple onion into small, tiny squares and layered the cut up onion with tomato chopped. He simultaneously chopped the tomato and onion---cracking out a nicely juicy Pico dee guy oh. September spread the pico over the salad, and poured a cap full of thick vinigarette and oily dressing. It had six grams of fat and somewhate high in calories, so September diluted it in a cup of water and adding parsley and lemon juice. He poured the light dressing over a mixed green salad of gratted carrots, sandwhich sliced tomato, white mushrooms, and dry spinach. It wasn't the largest meal but it was a nice welcoming. Setember had been away in New York City at school and had been suspended due to aggression. He came back home for mental help and to find himself again. Mother picked Setember up at his new studio apartment near DFW airport. It was eight months after the terrorist attack on the World Trade. September was walking to class when the second plane met it's tragic fate. Fire never looked the same. Smoke never had the same smell and ash never had the same holiday fire place feel, that had rested in his heart from childhood. Now, the color of ash meant death and terror.
At noon, lunch, September's mom, Ann, arrived with a brand new puppy. Maybe a half year old. He was found by a nearby dump yard amidst of the airport district. Ann had been feeding dump yard pets extra dog food and ran across a group of stranded dogs. She brought a new girl puppy over. September bathed him and washed his filthy fur in clove shampoo. The job was exhausting. Sept turned up the water to slightly luke warm. It had a little too much steam on it. After awhile the pup began panting due to the overly warm water. Also, the puppy tried to jump out and caused a splashing mess. Finally, Sept let the pup jump on him, wetting his pajamas and shirt. Eventually the puppy saturated Sept to a watery finish. All his attempts at jumping away caused a roar of shaky tub water. The pup was still breathing hard and had soapy suds up and down his backside and front lining. So, Sept turned the faucet handle to the right, changing the water's temp to a slight luke warm chill. He tried to keep the dog in neutral temperature. He turned off the AC so cool air would not blow into the bathroom. The clove shampoo began to cover the stinky dump yard smell. Next, he needed a name for the new puppy. Immediately his head twisted to the direction of the shampoo bottle. He picked it up and it read Rosemary and Clove. He gave the dog the nickname Cove. It sounded like clove and he figured it fit her nature. She smelt like clove and had a warm good-hearted nature. He didn't really know why he gave it the name Cove. Half rhymed with her new scent. He didn't really know what cove meant. He was going to name it clove but decided Cove was more doggedly canine. Later he looked up the meaning of Cove. It meant a bay or shore, inlet. The dog was rinsed off with non-soapy water, much like a bay does on a sunny day. Luke chill in temperature. Cove whimpered as the cool water washed the suds into a fury bathtub. "You're baptized." September joked. The small black hairs stuck to the, now, browning white porcelain tub floor. The water spilled off her shiny black and brown body like a waterfall falling over silver jagged rocks. The dirt was being washed away. What comes around goes around, September thought. September had once run off to L.A. to act two years back. Driving around the city and sweating up the fumes of pollution made him become dirty. Sept met a lady of literature. She was a professor of English at nearby college in Long Beach. She found Sept as her neighbor at the Eve Gardens off of Atlantic boulevard. They fell for each other quickly and Sept found himself being scrubbed down by the professor lady with a scenty soap. She cleaned him up. The professor lady was anadem Lexus. She had a Jewish father and Christian mother. Sept had a background only in First Baptist religion, hardly any Jewish influence. They kind of clash heads after awhile. It was the religious background or the occupations. English lit and drama sometimes disagree is grammaticism and gesture. Clove curled up quietly in the corner of Sept's bathroom. He barely whimpered. Mother arrived early and they drove to a health food market and picked up the white fish and rye bread. They kept little Cove in the back seat and cracked a window. It was a chilly evening so it didn't get too hot.
The returned home with Cove. I fifth dog was added to the four H club. They ate the white fish in the living room in front of the Television. They did not have a family prayer. This was odd due to the fact that Sept's mom was very religious. Late, that night Sept had weird dreams. He had a few eccentric and wonderful dreams. First, off the four dogs were growling all night at the new visitor dog Cove. The dream was very dark. Cove went back to his school in New York to study acting. Only secretly the students were not studying acting. They called the technique the craft. Sept had seen segments of Harry Potter. In the middle of his dream he got up to take a leak. When he returned he spotted his shoes at the end of his bed. They had pointed tips. They were leather dress shoes with pointy tips. They seemed like witch shoes. He drifted off under his consciousness. Slept arrived. The dream followed one of his acting classes to an orchestra. They decided go on a short field trip. It was a little unlikely. It was a Grad class and in the midst of 2003 freezing blizzard. It was in the middle of February. The class of ten shoed up for The London Festival Orchestra: Carmina Burana. It was night of Carl Orff. The performance hall was massive and very natural. It was no an indoor performance hall by far. The London Orchestra was stuck in town due to the blizzard and decided to give a free show in front of the New York City public library. The entire orchestra set up, equipment, lights, cellos, flutes and all on the steps of this great library. They sat up and the class found a small area near a concrete slab. All ten member brought small lunches of dried fruit and hot soap. It was one degree Farenheight outside. The soprano kicked in under the bassy tenors. The cellos begin to saw back and forth like sea waves. The small violins sizzled back and forth like tiny field crickets calling away. The orchestra opened with Carl Orffs Chramer, gip die varwe mier. It lasted three minutes and forty seven seconds. "Most beautiful." The lead instructor said. He was tall, small belly, big brown eyes and resonate deep voice. Light snow flakes fell from the blue heaven above and the crowd listen with near silence. The turn out was awesome. Over a thousand. The streets were packed. Snow had pretty much prevented traffic from flowing smoothily. Taxi cabs still honked and hissed there back tires through the white streets, nearly taking down hot dog stands and bumbling over side walk curbs. It was dangerous for them to be out, but people still took chanced. The builds in the music boiled up as if a hot steamy pot of water was it's climatic musical underscore and intervals. The note relationships were like flying witches passing on brooms through a milky full yellowish cold February moon. The voices called to the crowd like commanding angels. The drums marched in and out of the melody like soldiers firing muskets. The melody was like a quick and gaint snack mouthing and tempting the air. It slithered through the crowd tapping feet, widening eyes and cheering small grins. Tears formed and spilled. Ice cycles hung from the tall fences and seemed to ting to the high notes of the soprano. The entire choir stood up erect like ballet dancer prepairsing to take flight. Sept was told to watch their good poster and the way the choir posed themselves to execute each segment and Sonata. The mouths opened and position around the notes like small invisiple pairs had been stuck in their teeth. "Its very Sonata de camer, sonata de chiesa." A hefty student with great wide cheeks and round chin said taking in a bagel with creamy, minty cheese. A student had opened up a package of bagels and some cream cheese. He passed it around among the ten. The professor had two. He skipped lunch in order to organize the last minute event of the field trip. They were not expected such cold and blizzard. One degree was far too cold to be out to listen to music. Everyone wore snow coats, snow gloves, thermal blankets and snow boots. What made it seem like a dream was evident and stuck out like a frozen thumb nail. The choir was simply dressed in black choir robes and the symphonic band only word tuxedo with light dinner jackets. Occasionally a vinalinist wore a small jacket, but it was always black and subtle in warmth style. No one seemed to shiver and express the feeling of cold. It was as if they were not effected by the extremities outside. The drum see sawed and flipped ontop of the a deep tenor, Martyn Hill, passionate cries and builds. The long voiling blades cut across the strings and steam arose from their hot instruments. It was as if the entire London Festival Orchestra was ghost, or lost in time. It wasn't like they were present. Ross Pople, the conductor, tapped the air with his long stick and commanding the music to dance. Parallel chords, various hilly motions, tones moved in step wise motion. It was conducted with Pathetique and Passionato. Quodlibet, whole rest, half rest, quarter, eighth, sixteenth and then a thrity second rest. It was off and on just like Orff. Counter point, contrary, compound meters, whistles hovverd from the pipes, and pissing blasts steamed from the flutes, and at once everything paused, heartbeat was heard thumping and then it lifted like a wild dove soaring through icy skies. A small click was heard and the music boomed in with a Dorian, Phrygain, Lydian and godly choral odes. The change of volume varied in sporadic segmented sehr. It went from nachlassen to ersterben. September mouth dropped and he stuffed a small dried apricot down the hatch. The music watered his mouth. It was like venging angels struggling over a heated flame. Whole, half, quarter, Fortissimo, mezzo paino, very soft, very loud, hard, hard, the wachsend was un expected and dangerously arousing. The sight was visually arresting. The music spilled to a quiet hum and then faded. The Orchestra took a five minute break. Out of the corner of his eye, it seemed a violin player took flight toward the clouds, hovered over the band and returned. "Odd." September said seeing the young, green eyed, long neck Irish young lady return to her seat. "My imagination." Sept interrupted. It only see to happen in a forte of a half beat. He could not prove it in any fashion. Not once did September believe it was only a February dream. He was simply in the dorm snoring away under it all. The professor leaned over to him as the musician warmed up their flutes, troubones, and snare drums were tightly adjusted. He had the groub hoover around him, "Carl Ofg composed his first Lieber while he was a student. His first hughe word was for a large choir, a cantra in three parts. Carl Orff built carillons, xylophones and metalaophones, or "Orff Instruments", whjich were to be the bases of his new percussion. It was his own concept. Carmina Burana came out in 1847 published by Johannes Schmeller. It was collection of middle age manuscripts in simple latin. Written in middle old high German, dating back to 13th century and found in an Abby of Benediktbeuren in the south of Bovaria. It contained around two hundress songs and poems originating from different countries and composed by itinerant trouberes and monks. These songs praised the pleasure of game, flesh and the feast. He stuck half the bagel in his mouth and tore a piece clean. White, crystal colored minty cream cheese stuck to the side of his lips. He wiped it with his glove and smiled.O fortuna, O fortuna." He humed. The round faced student with a flat chin asked, " What does that mean?" "Listen the proffesor." Asked him and the music began to spill under new arrived snow flakes. Sept never really cared at this point if the symphonic band was trained by witches or if witch craft existed in his class. He figured it was a delusional that fit into the coinscedence of the word craft. A movie had come out not too long ago called the Craft. It mimicked black magic and had fancy FX. It was merely his imagination. The dream continued and Carl Orf continued and dove into the Fortuna moment. After awhile the cold began to stabilize and snow drifted still. The moon hung over the scene like a giant eye of God, lighting the approaching night. Long shadows stretched over the crowd and small bon fires in trash cans arose around the library. It was like a cross between a Doors concert and a Orf fest for rich families in the east Hamptons.
At the end of the concert Ann Lieback, Martyn Hill and Daveid Barell took bows and people soared rosses. The class returned home and broke up soon after the concert. Class would be called off for the next two days untilt he weather cleared. Sept awoke the next morning. It was still a snow day. Snow piled up twelve inches high. The entire side walk and streets were jam packed with the blizzards left over. It was a world of snow outside. It was as if Sept had been launched out into space and crashe into a snowy planet in the great universal distant. It looked like a crystal holiday snow blizzard shaker outside. The blizzard breathe in with strong blows and huge exhales. Frozen snow hardened as the flurries swayed back and fro. It reminded Sept of the dream of the concert infront of the New York City library. What a dream, he thought. Where do I come up with so crafty of ideas. His three room mates had left for the day to go snow hiking to the nearby corner baker. They promised to pick up toasted muffins and French bread. Tonight they'd eat black bean stew with gumbo shrimp. They wanted to finish off the remaining frozen jumbo shrimp. Tommorow would be left over turkey sandwiches with rye bread and lettuce. Horseradish was available for dressing.
A collage of memories and fantasy settled upon the page.
Sept had eventually lost control and got into five fights with five different students. He was sent home for one year on suspension. He would have to seek mental help in order to returen. Sept's main ordeal was that he was not living in the now. He was stuck in the past or biting his nails at the future. Fear had arisen and shook him to a shatter. He thought about returning to LA after the end of the year. At times, he considered going back. He was torn. Both opportunities were so vast and full of wonder that he could not make up his mind. He layed on his netted bed spread in what he called The Lit Coffin. The Lit Coffin was a boxy studio apartment he lived in under the passing aircraft. Every day he was reminding of the tragic event of Setember and eventually he was overcoming it. It was becoming a worn memory, beside the fact it was a catchesism. At times he would go on long sleeping binges, lasted ten to twelve hours. Sometimes, when work did not call upon him he go on the bee, and sleep for over fourteen hours. His back hurt he got so much rest. He felt himself drifting. How would he return. He stuck in a CD-Rom of Carl Orff's Carmina Burana on the labtop and composed a journal he called the rocking bed dream.
The rocking bed dream.
I had a dream that my mother had found this white, thick square by an apartment complex in Fort Worth that is has been torn down. In place of the apartment complex is a Modern Art Museum entitled The Fort Worth Modern Art Museum. In the dream, it was the old complex. Mom had found this white, roundish, flat object. It was rectangular and it rested on a small triangle. It wavered back and forth like a Justice's weight. It was white and puffy like a Styrofoam floating dock, or bowie, found on many docks in the nearby lakes. It just rested on this metal, hard triangle. Mom brushed it off and seemed to repair it. She tried to balance it ontop of the triangle.
September could not exactly explain the mystery of the dream. He figured it had to due with his depression and his fight in the bed. At night he would wake up growling and clutching at his chest.
Steve skipped many nights to carve at the mortar. Instead, he wrote, and wrote like mad fire creating the background story and future of September.
See, September did not want to lose his dream. There was something to be said about dreaming. Dreams exist with a thick mixture of faith and hope. The wish is the head of the body of the dream. The body of the dream is faith and the legs are hope. They balance the dream. You don't knock over your dream. One does not say you drop your dream. On does not say it in that manner. It is not linguistically expressed in that fashion. One does not expressing a lost dream as a dieing dream. It is not a dead dream. One does not express it as a failed dream. The dream cannot fail you. One exclaims, "I lost my dream." It makes sense to use the word Lost, in losing a dream and expressing it's losing. Yes, you say, I lost my dream. The dream falls to an undertaking of waves, of the labyrinth of lies of the future and past. The dream, like Jonahs historical account with the great fish becomes a battle on stormy waters. Dreams can be eating by lies. It is swallowed by a great whale of myths, miss predictions and Blanton made up fears. Then, the dream rest in the belly of big fat lying whale of disguise. The fear grows into an amphibian's beast and swoons deep to the lover levels of the hatred sea. This embodiment of fears, envies and covet ness wishes, becomes the whale of lost dreams. It is the sallower. The lier consumes. One must struggle to rise the great whale and open it's mouth to the world. To rescuer the dream you must have passion and desire. The want is what vomits the dream ashore. And wants are born from the initial child.
The story of the junk yard dogs.
There was a tragic history behing the discovery and life of Cove. Cove was along side a pup named Carsy. Carsy had four brothers and three sister. The owner of the dump yard had not food or money to take care of the pups so he turned to the extinguishing as a alternative for care. He didn't want to starve the pups so he dicided to execute. The owner, Mr. Frisht, went into the head office. A dog day before had been run over by a fork lift operator. It was backing up and squash the dog into a pulpy, flat mess. Spine smashed into smitherines. Mr. Frisht, gray hair, freckled face, thick southern accent took the double headed shot gun from above the stuffed Bass head. He loaded it with two shotgun shells. "Well, I hate to do dis. Poor fellas." He walked outside in his rain boots. It was a gray overcastted and had been drizzling freezing rain for weeks. The pups all hovered around a bowl of empty bones from a left over pig. They chowed and nibbled until the marrow was sucked dry. There was no more food left. All seven pups were about to meet a horrible fate. The first shot rang out and echoed across the sky. The pellets splattered into the oldest pups head, cracking it open like a watermelon stuffed with water down ketchup. Blood spewed onto the muddy grown. The remaining pups began to yelp. Next, shot spilled toward the approaching thunder storms. It should have been thunder calling but instead it was the shotguns cry. The pup lifted off the ground, howled and lay dead. The third pup made his way toward the open fence. The shotgun sounded. It dropped like a dead weight. Blood slowly leaked from it's chest cavity. The fourth pup found a opened section at the bottom of the chain link fence line. Its black furry body dipped under and undulated beneath the up lifted link in the fence. It made it through. The shotgun pellets whizzed by it's shaking head but did not touch it's body. The pup ran as hard as it could to an open field and vanished with in the thick weeds and brush. The fifth pup ran to tin shed and slithere on it's belly underneath. It hid all day whimbered and waling at the onslaughter and murder of it's brothers. The sixth pup was the last male. The owner shot the three oldest brother's first. The fourth and youngest pup made it's way out through the main gate and headed southbond following a small stream heading into the forest line. It fell in the running water and guided it's trembling body with in the tiny rapids. Later, it arose in the forest tree line were the stream came to rest. The family of pup's wore force to split up. The survivors, the three sisters and the youngest male, met up. The witnessing of their murdured kin would never leave their eyes. Life had changed for the young family of pups. This life would later rub off on the new arrival of a puppy later named Cove. Later, the three sister pups would meet up in an open field near a bullfrog pond. They traveled toward the distant tree line. They could hear the youngest pup whining. The oldest sister pup found him curled up next to a pile of ceder brush. He was shaking and scared nearly to death. They licked him and got him to rise to his paws. They followed a nearby path which lead to opened fence area with old cars. It was a abandoned car lot. There they rested until the owner found them. At first, the oldest sister howled and growled at the owner but he offered them a handful of left over hamburger from lunch. The owner took the four pups in and named them. The oldest stister was named Worl. The second sister was named Flaps. The third sister was named Char. The fourth, youngest brother was named Dove. He took care of them for several weeks and later a lady began showing up and feeding them. She feed them puppy chow and kept extra food in the bowl. The pups would run up to her and greet her happidly sniffing the fresh puppy chow. Sometimes she brought bones and fresh left over sandwich meat. Mostly, she stuck with puppy chow. Cove, later, would show up from a nearby shabby neighborhood. He was an abandoned pup from a nearby family that left to Austin. The family traveled by U-haul, and did not have the desire to travel with the pets. They figured it would be better on the animals to leave them behind. They left Cove to the hands of nature, setting him free in a adjacent yellow field of bright wheat. He ended up finding a safe haven at the car dump yard miles from the airport. It was cleaner and more organized that the previous dump. He nibbled on wheat straws and chased field lizards until stopping at a tar street. The blackened smooth texture felt easy on his paws. The street led to the car dump. That's where the puppy family met up and Cove was shortly introduced and breiefly raised by the four fleeing pups. Cove learned to value life with greater and more worthier weight. He took on the pain of the four mentally tortured pups. Cove had been to the previous dump once or twice to take on a bony feeding. The owner their would dump out dead pig or left over fish bones. Cove eventually wondered back to his initial family in the nearby neighborhood. After the older couple left the neighborhood Cove didn't know which path to choose for his future. The couple, shook his little paw and a enriching ladies voice whispered, "Bye bye little one. Go find a home." The couple packed up and drove away leaving Cove in the headlights. Later, he rambled upon the car dump and met the family of nearly executed puppies. He saw in their eyes that life was not dog bones and chewy chewies. The pup learned that life was about silence and obedience. There was a beauty to the silence. Cove stopped whimbered and began to listen to the wind's, bull frogs leaping and the chirping in the trees. He began to take the world in with his ears, instead of merely await the next feeding of Puppy chow. Cove would later find a home with a young writer in the heart of the art district down town. The young writer had just moved to the south from New York to write a book about memory and fantasy. Cove was picked up only three weeks after he found the car dump. A lady from the Fort Worth area that volunteered at Petcoe fed the abandoned dogs every other day. Cute little Cove was rescued when she learned of the dog shooting. The other four pups had been claimed by the car dump owner. Cove was given away and protected from anymore abuse. He later was adopted by the writer that moved to the heart of Fort Worth, near the art district.
September felt lost in H.E.B It was like being cast away into some thrown away region of the world. A corner for the dunce. September went on a walk to a nearby park after not being called in for his assistant teaching position.
During the middle of his walk he stumbled upon a isolated park. It was near the water tower with the title ELES. Eles was the town he was currently residing at. He didn't feel wanted. He didn't feel he belonged. It was a community of writers, actors and dancer. It had been one year since his training at a honorable acting school near Washington Square park New York. Time does odd things to the memory and even a person't point of view. He felt ousted. Alone. Abandoned. When September first arrived at DFW he moved back home with his Step Father and mother. His step father was away far north visiting the summer home. The summer home was a two hour drive north from the big city. The step father took a flight and was gone for several weeks. His goal was to repair and remodel. September did not always get along with the man. September was interested in poetry, verse, Shakespeare, Morrissey, alternative rock, acting, dance and ballet. The step father was a star football from TCU. His interest where more physical and athletic. September had to admit that some of his step father life's gesture had worn on him. September like to swim and play soccer and everyonce in awhile found solace in moving through time and space. Fights usually stared with the words, "Pussy or fag" and ended in a wrestling position. Creativity took stillness and concentration. One could not create in a strict and unpleasant environment. September longed to move away. He hoped to make it to far away places. But money was a real problem with September and in the big apple he was forced to take shelter in a shaggy hotel called The River View. His room was a costly forty dollars a night and the size of a large coffin. New York was not a kind place for the poverty striken. He became hungry. Ate out of trashcans and scooped up loaves of bread from clear bags. The restaraunts would throw out stale bread in tranluscent bags. Usually dinner rolls and French bread. When September felt the life leave his legs, when he notice the energy falling from his body, he decided to throw in the white towel and accept the inner voice which repeated, "Its over with."
September's walk was to focus on the now. It was to get out of his memories and to find pictures, images and places nearby and far to write about. He wanted to take dictation from the world rather than imagine it. So, in order to remember what he wanted to write down he created a mnemonic. FFFLIM. ffflim stood for: The Fuller House, Fast food, flag of Jesus, log cabin, independent whistle and making it. FFFLIM came about from rearranging the words until the made a word. He didn't want to forget the word and he needed to associate the mnemonic with his current state of being. It was a slight chill outside and he sniffled. He had forgot his hanky and realized Flim made a word. Yeah, flim's good. He thought. But September needed more f's to use all the images. A single F stood for Fuller. And the other two F's would stand for flag and fast. So, September tuck his bottom lip under his top front teeth and made a long fricative FFFF sound. Next, he whispered, "fff'… lim." This action was part of his memory. It was hearing the fff and remembering the FLIM in his nasal cavities.
The Fuller House was a restored house from 1932. It was the first brick house built in the area of Eles. It was tan brick, with normal urban features. Only things that set it apart from ordinary houses was the windows were smaller, it had a tiny front porch and round thin chimneys. Neighboring the 1930's restored model house was a large side yard. It contained one windmill, and a log cabin. The log cabin had a rain cover top. Sept had recently acted with an actor whose parents invented and patented a similar rain, or storm cover top. It protected cars or RV's from hard rain, sleet or snow. It was a simple design. Four legs, roof with no sidewalls. I wonder what would happen if the sleet entered from the side, Sept thought. Perhaps it is not designed completely. The Fuller House was cute. It was very small and simple. Behind the memorial was a small playground with four park benches and picnic tables. Each bench and table was made from a mixture of metal and other light elements. Most likely tin and iron. The tables had a cross-stitch design pattern with thickly soft green paint coating. September sat down and broke out a book written by Paul Austere. The character A. in Paul's book described a poem written years ago. The poem had a mysteries element to it. Some one in time would return every few hundred years to translate the poem into a new language. Sept found the story interesting and meditated on its literal meanings. Auster new how to simplify text and use words in a flowing an economical manner. Most writers in this modern age did not write in his fashion. The current writers Sept read had fast, intrinsic pace that pattered out a MTV, scene by scene, action filled, cheap descriptive world. Auster only laid down truth. And truth takes planning and organization. Auster was on of his favorite writers because there seemed to be no lies or creative clabber within the pages. Most of his books were no longer than two hundred pages. Full of specific visuals and philosophical dialogue. Sept read alone for an hour. Cupping his hand over his mouth and whispered the prose and verse. Some kid in a black flight jacket whistled and hollered as he walked toward the Fuller House. He seemed to vanish as Sept peeped over the pages and tried to locate him as he tinkered by the fence line. A sporadic rhythmic dance of stable guns and hammering drifted wildly and echoed of the wooden fence separating the neighborhood from the park. Sept ignored the carpenter chatter and noise. A small propeller plane u-turned in the air. Sept imagined them having a high power microphone. He imagined the co-pilot recording his spoken words. "Naa." Sept whispered. "Not that great yet."
A couple hazed by walking in a typical foot inform the next foot manner. Time was turning grayer and the rain clouds seem to fade within the approaching evening. Night was waking into it's darkness. Sept decided to go home. But first, he would take note of a view images and memorize them for his return. He decided to write about five objects. He would remember five particular sceneries that captured him on his stroll. Things in nature that spoke to him. He wanted to discuss parts of the world that he longed for or aspects that did not belong to him. As he spun around the green iron security fence that protected the Fuller House and log cabin his attention was sucked to the highway. There stood a clump of signs. WhataBurger, McDonalds, Burger King, Taco Bell and Long John Silvers. They seem to pollute the sky line and ruin any sense of natural beauty or true essence of the simple unfolding path of natural time (the time if man let nature progress undisturbed.) Every fast food joint was stuck there to addict, collect dough and move people on. It was unnatureal, uncleanly and tragically gross. Greasy meat that should be outlawed. Fried heavenly snacks to weigh man down and force him to simply pass time, rather than savor it. It replaced what he did not need replacing. What happen to a simple apple or bowl of wheat. What happen to health of our country. The signs bright orange, red, yellow signs where simply designed to attract the eye and stir the tummy. Past research has shown us that bright reds and yellow trigger a sense of hunger or even salvation. It is unknown exactly why! Scientist have hunches why fast food advertise in these hues. Perhaps, more fruit resemble the colors of bright red. On the other hand, know that I think of it, they do. Hm. Well, clever on their part. One will never see a black McDonald sign or a pure white Taco bell sign. The have happy colors. Happy color out to please. Or so we pretend to believe. The third object he included in the word FFFLIM was flag of jesus. As he made his way across Slaughter Street he spotted a white flag that waved Jesus in bright red letters. It wavered above a small shopping complex off the highway. Jesus in bright red letters contrasting the white flat. Next was L. L stood for Log Cabin. The cabin was small and had a cute chimney about twenty feet high. He wanted to take it's measure in some visual form. So, he counted thirty six logs. It was thirty six logs to the top of the chimney. As he counted a carpeter on a nearby flat roof whispered to his working bud. He couldn't hear exactly what he whispered but figured it was about the way Sept dressed. Sept looked right out of a Gap add. He found a deal after arriving home. He tucked his last coat in a storage space off of 13th street in the Big Apple. He lost a lot of books, clothing and half written plays( and non edited.) The I stood for independent whistle. As he made his way back he began to whistle something other than Dixie. He wanted to change his ways and lose his sense of southern bigotry or hatred toward races. The whistle did not come out in a Dixie melody. He invented a new tune. He changed it up. As a kid he use to whistle Dixie and this made him feel like a civil war confederat soldier. Perhaps it even made him feel at home. Texas and New York was like oil and water. The south and the north had their past historical differences. It wasn't that he hated the tune of Dixie. It wasn't that he despised the confederacy. It wasn't that he looked down on Yankees. He accepted every state. He accepted the nation as a whole, indivisible. Afterall, Texas was in the white house. It was time to be a nation. War in the middle east, terrorism and protest all had it's worth in the weight within the troubling air circulated east, west, north, and south. He didn't feel ashamed that he left home. He didn't feel ashamed that he did not become a broadway acting star. He didn't feel bad for coming back. September had a hellish return. And when he did settle in he had it rougher. He had to work at 7-11 for a few weeks, scrubbing the tar marks off the front lot, mopping the floors at five in the morning, loading bear in the freezing coolers till morning. It wasn't glamorous by far. He was later fired for insubordination. September then, and luckily, found a job assistant teaching in the area. He'd come home after a full days of work and hack away at a new play about students and check web addresses on Boston Public. Perhaps, the casting directors would let him appear on the show. He could use the teaching position as method study. That's if TV was risky enough to allow a method actor to try out a serious like Boston Republic. It was September's most cheerished wish at the current moment. The excitement of appearing on evening television, nevertheless, Fox. He could be the new teacher on a episode. Maybe have a love affair with other faculty. Perhaps he could play a teacher in training. If he didn't land a TV job soon, or some acting gig financially rewarding, he would have to give in and begin his descent to the teaching field. Eleven years of asking money from his parents. Eleven years of college, training, dance class, speech, voice, more voice, more speech, more dance, more training. He went all the way to the group to learn. All the way to the big apple to study under the disciples of Strasberg. For what? To give up. How could he. He had to audition for something big. Something that got him in a union, TV or Film. He couldn't wait much longer. M stood for making it.
The mean man theory.
Once September returned to his father's house. He lived far out in the country in a large Tudor house. One evening before dinner he saw something most peculiar. His half brother fixed his dinner plate, loading it with macarooni and cheese, Deritoe chips and Fritos and headed off toward the TV room. September sat at the table. His father came in later after a business phone call. His step mother finished early and wasn't hungry. So, September sat alone at the table. Alone with a fajita sandwhich, chips and a diet soda. His father never showed so he dug in. He forgot to pray too. He just dropped his jaw and chewed. It was odd that his brother wanted to be alone in the TV room. It was peculiar that no one was around. September had returned from a mental health clinic due to a nervous breakdown. He had stayed there for nearly two weeks trying out different medications and valiums. Afterwhile, he finished his meal. Walked up stairs and laid down to bed, noticing he had forgot about God. He opened his eyes and prayed to the ceiling. "God why do you want me alone?" He asked. No answer. "God. One more time. Why alone?" He thought he heard a small voice say, "Go away." Why would God say go away. Did he mean go away like travel somewhere else to look for company? Did he mean go away like stop existing? The God he knew as a child never would tell him such a thing. "Go away?" What does that mean God. Go where. Where is away?
Once, when September was nearly five his sister and his mother went to Chisem park. They played on a gaint rocket ship, with swings, and tire rope chains. They walked up the spiral slide and made funny faces. Then, September's mom rushed up grabing him and sister by the wrists and lead them to the parking lot. She opened the car door and had them sit in the back. Next, she started the ignition and turned on the radio. She was sweating and an odd odor, bitter, entered the car interior. "See that man over there." Mother said. "He was watching us. Funny kind of watching us." My sister sneared at him. "His a mean man, mom!" She unknowningly exclaimed. "Whats a mean man?" I asked already getting the gut meaning. "He is." I turned and looked at the lonely man sitting at a park bench. He looked over at me and smiled, then he shifted his focuse onto the duck pond. The ducks cracked and honked at nothing and the wind picked up. The mean man was fairly thin, blue eyes and had a slight beard. I never understood what made him mean. September looked down at his twittling thumbs and listened to the newscaster talk about the weather on the car radio. "We better go." Mom said and put the car in reverse. They left the man alone to look at the ducks. He just sat there and smiled. Smiled into nothing. "What made him mean?" September asked his older sister. "His just mean." She simply knew. "It was his eyes. He looked strange." Mom was pretty protective. Most on that side of the family where. Her protective nature was secure within her heart. Later, that night September had a dream he talked with the mean man. He walked over to the park bench and held his hand. He had no fear. "What makes you a mean man?" He asked the stranger. "Nothing." He said in a low voice. "Nothing? What is nothing." "Exactly." The man said. In the dream, his eyes seem to stare at nothing. Similar to how they did in reality. He just seemed empty not mean. There is a difference between the two. I think women associate empty with mean. But I could be wrong.
That night I made a journal entry about television sets and other entertainment mediums.
I had taken a five sleeping pills and the prescription required two. Two wasn't knocking me off quick enough so increase the dosage. Also, I was taken an anti-anxiety pill. The dream persisted and persisted. I was far into REM.
A dream about a television.
It was speaking to me with a large blue mouth and antene horns puffing smoke to the ceiling covered in large, thick black cables and circular black tubes the shape of fiddlehead ferns. I stared at this surreal and unbelieavable sight fallen from my present state. I felt greater than man. Greater than any beast, or ape, or creature known to man, named by man or thought of. And like some greek god that had fallen from the clouds, to take in, document, to design, for a nightly visit to earth. The TV's mouth began to chat at me and my eyes unclouded from their nasty and cloudy state: (The voice echoed like some underwater monster from the hellish boiling, overflowing syrupy flames of a lava cap.)
Television grows. Vile vines on a thorn bush. The tv in it's square tube, grows. It redily grows. With calculation just as Cheome. Like tissues in your arms and fingers. Like the bones in the earth. Growing. Film grows. Skin grows. Movies grow. The people in movies grow and ungrow as you view them. It is a plan. The world is spinning and growing is plan. Factories that produced your GM grow and grow. Like people do from the ground. Artificaially. A coffee maker growing alongside a fresh garden of soil and dung. Just as unreal as the metal, plastic parts shipped from Asian factories. Just as real as Muscadine Jelly, concentrated sugar, pectin. Everything is growing. It's the creative mind of the earth, planting it's seed within every new invention. It isn't man's idea as much as the earth's idea. The earth tempting man to sketch on his graph paper and TE calculater. Playing a diety, a part, an arm, a finger, the eyes looking back. IT knows you. As you read this it grows on you. Little words attaching themselves to you like tiny parasites, conning, conniving, convincing you to grow. To take, to give and to grow. To give and take, earth or man, growing. Real as the dirt under your abodes. It all grows. Its all from the soil. Its all natural. It grows foreward, backward, side to side. Most of all it grows back. It returns as the idea originally did. The idea composed by the fire and to man. There is nothing truly manmade. TV was not made with man's hands. It was made just as a tree was made. A earthly trap. A invention from the soil. For all things are from the soil, just as all things will return. By something, fake or made boiling light hanging over the blackness inside black. There is nothing that is created or destroyed. Nothing new exists. We think the TV is a brilliant invention but it is not. It is no more brilliant than Zitt, or the mixing bowl. Its no more creative than light broided rum, or electric ice cream machines, or a DVD. It is not an invention. It exists along side the weed, the algea's heart and the arm. Its aaaaaaallll energy growing. Growing. It will never stop growing. Never, ever, ever.
Even in it's ashes it shall grow.
The whispered died a little. Some little voice within argued this poem or entry. You will never be. It debated with him claiming his worth, his existence. A little intoned voice, with a pinch of Irish accent and southern draw, a hint of lust, and a hint of honesty. A voice he was so familiar with, but had only heard a few times. "That's not true." Sept put his pen down and sighed. Then, he picked it up again. Holding it between his thumb and index, awaiting like a viper about to strike. Swishing the ink head back and fro, making small doodles like a rattle snack's tail.
Designs. He begin to draw on his memo pad. He drew a goldencrab, a plate of nugget squash and then a perfect circle. Not a million years did September think he'd every draw a perfect round circle. Chinamen have been attempting such a impossible feat for centuries now, and not one of those sly bastards could pull it off, not even Buddha could get one perfected. But he did it with out using a coin, or any drawing utensil at all. A perfect circle with a boxer hand.
He smiled down at his words on the paper. This is it. This will when her heart. This will when all their hearts. I have won. Then, he grabbed pinch of fat from his belly and began to whimber. Tears fell from his eyes. "Cry." It said. "Cry." It is too late. You have sinned, you glutonous pig of a man. You hog. You beast. You lost soul. I was and never will be anything but a failure. And the little voice revisted him, held him, warmed. He could see it's eyes. A deep color like the earth, and whispered, "And you, never, will be."
The First Class package.
September's stroll to the Fuller House and log cabin left him with a ton of small memories. The neighborhood had a gritty charm. There was a white hanger hanging froma front porch awning. He passed two young teenage girls playing in the front yard. A chobby girl sat on a toilette, skippily and half exposed in short shorts and curly fake quave, and almost waiting for Jesus to come back and lift her away like some super Jesus. Both girls waited on the trashed toilette, sitting and giggling at their low self worth, poverty and unawareness, which rested near the front driveway curb, the world halfway laughing at her and her back at the world, as her tall pretty thin friend splashed rain water from a wooden box adjacent to the throwaway shitter. She sat on front yard trashed toilette squinting and pretending to defecate. September did not find it humorous. To be honest, he found it rude and sad. It wasn't that the act of playing taunted him. It was the act of sending negative energy toward his direction. He knew what they were saying. He knew that men had to shit a lot. That older men turned to food more often. He knew age was coming upon. But moments before he felt young. As he passed down the road his youthful feelings returned and blocked out the memory of the two girls passing fake gass into the empty retired toilette bowl. Part of him did giggle as he made his way to the park. But he was not laughing at them. He was laughing at himself judging them. It was a foolish thing to judge a child at play. He passed a small yard that had a trashy off white house. In the front yard remained a disk rom for a hotmail site. It just layed in the front yard abandoned. A few houses down was a rope swing. It was nice. Reminded Sept of a Monet painting. As he passed the houses he studied them. Trying to take in their eccentric quality and Texas southern style. Some houses had neat trimmed front yards, some had shaggy uncut grass. Sept didn't mind too much. He passed by a set of front yard trees that were hacked off toward the top. He didn't understand why someone would chop off the top of the tree limbs. Three trees, or half trees, stood with out full branches. It looked like knobs of instead of tree branches. It was empty. Missplaced. Treated wrong. He didn't see how the trees would recover. The trees were more like tall trunks than normal full grown house trees. He passed another set of baby trees with yellow price tags still clinging to their fresh limbs. Its funny how you can buy a tree. Its odd how it can be rung up a check out counter at a Home Depot or a similar home do it yourself outlit. One can actually scan a tree with a bar code ISBN scanner and a price will pop up on a cash register screen. Nature for sale. Purchase a tree, pack it up in the back of the old Chevy and haul her home. Going once, twice and three times. Sold.
September began to walk through his memories as he forwarded to the park.
The first class package memory arrived.
You may call someone crazy so many times that you will find yourself becoming crazy in calling them crazy.The point being. Don't call other people names. The what goes around comes around theory will bite you in the ass. This next segment is about the memory of a first class package and it's valuables inside. (Continued in Entitled Book Two.)
Steve put away his journal. His last segment was almost unpredictable but evident. Steve wrote many predictions down on the sheets. He decides that he knew some of his future but understood that pandora's box would never open fully.
"To rove and raid. To rage toward hunger."
He knew the night would strike fear into him. He'd be on foot. Possibly the law behind him. He had to continue. Continue on. Never look back. If he looked back he revealed signs of fear. It was impossible to make it out of the city, in his dress, his condition and virginity toward the world left behind hide. He would have to relearn the outside world once more. He had to walk the way of society as he ran. One can only pick up on the way the world's currently behaving by slowing down, listening with a calm ears. He knew it would be a rush. It would be drift into the unknown. All the bumpy rapids of a new world forming and deforming in small slots of present time. Remember, Steve had been put out of the world for a few years. Fear would be his enemy and bravery his teacher.
His plans were simple. Steve would hide his last journal entries in his pants. He'd tuck them away along side the draw string in his hospital gown pants, keep it away near the small of his back. He did not know exactly why, but it was time to leave. Three Am approached. He tuck the watch, the pens, the remaining segments of his screenplay and book under the mattress. He decided to carry his initial journal, a tooth brush and handful of peanut butter packets. He had have to break into a house or car to find money for energy. He had the right. It was time.
Born again and again and again.
It was a chilling night. The wind was at its most unforgiving state. Complete darkness awaiting for him outside. The wind rushed. Rising to howls and skin stinging chills. Hard. Cold. Piercing. That was the night for run aways and the insane. Steve skillfully broke free the last crystal marble glass cube from the corner of the nut bin's lunchroom glass block window. Wind pushed its away into the lunchroom knocking over a group of plastic cups. They scrapped on the floor but no one was close enough to be startled. The last obstacle was finally loosened. The crystal block was kicked out. Its deadening fall swiftly sliced through the night air. Not sound. Nothing seen. It was time. This was it. The big escape had arrived. The landing was unheard. Its translucent square body had no reflection. Everything went as exactly planned. The crystal block simply dived from the window and drifted away into darkness. It flew down like a secrete submarine under a thickening dark icy sea. Steve had kicked out the remaining glass blocks in the window unit in one swift attempt. Everything untied neatly. The plan was unfolding. The remaining few glass blocks popped out like ice cubes crushing and cracking from the twisting ice tray. Steve heard no sound but guessed it must of landed on softness of the grass. Silence fell over everything. Occasionally, the rushing wind screamed in whispering pain. It was his time to make his getaway. His mouth grew dry. Dry as desert sand. His heart thumbed away. It banged on his body. It shook his mind, heart and will. It was as if a snare drum was playing out loud from his chest for every ear. For some odd reason the silence covered it up. It covered everything. Everything but his next thought. He whispered, "Fly away on the next gale." The silence return in a thick lull. Everything was engulfed by the calm peace. Even his most wild delusion. It was that breach that comes and goes in life. He was in the clear. The moments of nothing that no one understands. It was peaceful and kind; like a child. Steve was finally finished. Finished with all the old faces, the old lies and all the old names. No more soft spoken nurses, no more council, no more group meeting or psych treatments. No more nuked chicken in the luncheon, no more peanut butter crackers, no more jelly packets, or sleeping pills. No more hiding away his writings or undressing for hefty male techs. No more screams in the middle of the night. Sean was gone. He knew it for sure. Sean had freed himself in his own mind, in his own time and place. They'd meet again in a more open place. They would talk in nature and in the fields. Sean would make it back to the Big Apple. Steve would make it back West. He had no more candles to blow out. No more lights to extinguish. This final step would smother the voices of his past. The doctors, the nurses, the techs and the stars, that so haunted him from his first visit, would soon hide away in the corner of his brain. The pills, the vomiting, the stuffing of the stomach, the pains and the worry would soon vanish into a fiery nothing. Steve was confident for the first time sense he arrived. Finished with haunting screams and the raining voices in the wind. Finished with who he was. Who he was to be, who the false self said he was to be, and who the voices needed him to become. Now, he would no longer acknowledge their torture. 'Who he could be' was no longer an option! It didn't matter to him any longer. Now, it was all about motion. Forward motion to the end. The next step. Distance is defined as the space in between. It is seen amid two different perches. Time was about the eroding wait of existence. The place we fly above and land on. Every great journey starts with one step. Steve left his hell behind him, with one step into air. One step over the crystals. He abandoned the frozen state of non-existing in the world. Now, the world was his to construct and plan. He would decide when to move and when to feel. He would take it by the horns and ride it clean. Burn it clean as frozen air. Steve was not going to be held against his will any longer. No drug or strong, over powering guard could break his next moment. He was not going to be held anymore. Not while an ounce of will was left in him. Not while the spirit remained in his breathe and fire. He'd rather die trying to run West than live in chains and pass away a shaking in his boots. Enough was enough. Sanity or insanity, it was over. Classification had no room in his life now. It was time. Time to begin life. There was no reason to back away. Even, God hates a coward. Steve made up his mind for the last and final time. He turned back to catch one last glimpse of the inside. His feet dangled over the edge of the gaping hole of the cracked glass block window. He did not want to look down. He didn't care how far the fall was. There was no time to cook up any fear. He kept his hand and eyes turned toward the interior light of the eating area. As his shadow danced off the wall he vanished into mid air. No one was around. No alarm. No voices. Nothing. He was finally free. He picked himself up by the bootstraps and continued on toward his goal. He followed his tapping feet to the pulsing drum, to the wild march and fearless leap of adventure. Steve awoke to the magnificent, ample nakedness of the earth. The dark approached him and he admittedly saw a light in the distance. It was a telephone pole and it's power box. A green flashing light blinked above the wires and cables. No turning back. No inhibition. No fear. His eyes focused on the dark door that lie ahead. Steve took in a deep breath and nodded his head up and down. The present moment appeared before him in every step, every tiny move and every breath. He said a silent prayer, "please God be with me" and smiled. He was one. Fear left his every bone. The next step would be definite and irreversible. That cold night he climbed out the window, dropped to his feet and ran away unsullied.
The last journal entry had been ripped from the pages and placed on Steve's medical bed pillow. It was the last page. The soft spoken nurse picked it up the next morning. She could not find the green journal. She had seen him with it several times in the morning at breakfast and at night watch falling and rising on his sleeping chest. She even named it his green teddy bear. It wasn't long until Steve was discovered missing. He was nowhere to be found. A zilch existence voided and hovered through out the ward floor. It was as if a gear was misplaced in a factory's lead machine. He wasn't under the bed, or hanging in the TV room, or hiding away in the bathroom. The techs and doctors checked every room. The other patients still slept. It was an hour before community circle. After security was sent down to the garden, the techs were commanded to search Steve's room. "Empty everything inside and out. We need clues to his whereabouts." The head nurse exclaimed in a militant undertone. The two new techs over turned every trashcan, opened every drawer and checked every pocket of clothing. Nothing. Not even a scratch was left behind. The room was orderly, bedspread folded and tucked in corners as if pressed by an heated iron. It was immaculate and untouched, as if Steve never entered. Later, the room was scattered inside and out. Eventually, the medical techs lifted the mattress to discover the remains of cracker crumbs and a green wrinkled journal. The husky tech handed Steve's journal to her. The last journal entry fell from the pages and like a feather it spiraled and looped its way through the still air. A red flame fluttered over the ashtray and smoky hands drifted over the nurse's office faucet. Something had been burning to oblivion. The smoke grew upward in long wavy trial. If silently fell like black tiny angels from a darkened ascendance. The chaotic angels of smoky paper ash, hovered and pranced over the faucet sink and flaming ashtray. They miniature dark angels were no larger than fish eggs and they possessed long stringy tails. The fiery angels had small round bellies and wavered down and sideways with parachuting speed. Down, down it fell, spinning and stifling in tight, clinking ripples. As the tip of the smoke reached the ceiling and spilled toward the walls like troubling sea waves. Blackened ash landed calmly on the soft-spoken nurses tan tennis shoe. Her eyes shut down capturing their gray lisping scrapes. She rubbed her shoe clean with some tissue paper and walked to the file cabinets. The remaining of the journal fell from her hands. Her heart thumped harder as she approached the small campfire of journal paper crinkling inside the smoky ashtray. She picked it up with snake like speed. The burning paper roared in clicks, as she began to softly read, "The fruit of life is in the present moment." The words singled through the flames and hissed kindly. She whispered the words, God is a part of every moment. Words from the true depths, under us all. Wishes from the poet's poet. Her fingers snapped the faucet head and water spilled forth. With calm speed, she flipped the sizzling paper under the falling silver water. The fire sniffed out like an extinguished candle. Burnt ash fell from the corners and sides of the journal, and the writer's words dissolved into round black drain. In swift spiraling motions, the ashy paper swooped down the sink wall in a tiny volcanic landslide. Down, down the sink wall it rushed into the dark circular drain opening and closing like a flickering eyelid. Frothing and whining the sink spat in gurgling tantrums. She returned the half burned journal into the air, over the running water it hung like a bridge to an important land. She brought the remaining of the ruined journal, and words, out of the room and made her way to the elevators. Ash flaked from the pages, as the hallway's open window passed her by. The sun was rising. She walked into the file room with a confident, uncaring gait. Her heels clinking lonely echoes, her hands holding the writer's words and it's potential life. His last words were at hand. Her hands held his history. The story and how it unfolded, was up to her. She enter into the hospital's file room and stuck the remaining pieces of the crusted journal in a large manila envelope, licked the gluey edge and sealed the flexible folds to full extension. The words needed a holding place. Plastic around the journal sizzled, as the file door veered into the sliding box like compartment. Darkness fell on the words. "Soon they'll have light." She said. Next, she opened a small box containing markers, pens and paper clips. Her eyes were black and wildly open. She carefully picked up the black felt tip pen like a hunter pacing up her bow. Before marking on anything she looked up at the poster on the wall. It was a clear photo shot of Tommy Marcel hailing a cab in New Yorik City. She walked over to the poster, kissed her free hand and patted the glossy face. She returned to the file cabinet, accidentally knocking her front heel into the corner cabinet's bottom edge, and remained motionless. A paper clip fell to the floor. She didn't bother to pick it up. The nurse had a job to do. A deep breath was taken. A light flicked on. A word was read. She readjusted the pen in her fingertips. She twisted the felt tip's top off, shook it, and carefully held it over the center body of the envelope. Finally, she carefully met the head of the felt tip to the envelope's cover tag. She scribbled the following words: 'Steve Whatshisface.' The untitled: Psych Ward. Mentally disturbed. Level one. Stabilization unit, and filed it all away.
The writer, like God, creates his own world and to this world he is indivisibly omniscient, adoringly passionate, fatefully understanding and with envious dedication, truly in love.
--Untitled. Journal Entry. 2003.
Far away had the writer traveled inside and out of his private and public world. And things into which angels long to look. And he found his self alone, next to a book, reading through the time of man. The time he suffered and rose to his own ingenuity. A spark ignited and the electricity flowed. He started this quest near the snowy tracks of the grandfather's of coldness and severe harshness, and ended near a watery shore lit by the open, forgiving sun.
The phone rang three times in a unknown hotel room. Steve caught it before the fourth and last ting. "Hello is September there?" A deep resonate voice asked. "Speaking." Steve said in September's non-glottal voice. "You got it. It's yours." The deep voice resonated throuth the speaker. September dropped the phone and threw his hands toward the crystal hotel chandelier. He opened the night stand drawer and caught a glimps of a small black book titled, Holy Bible. "You're kidding me." He picked the phone receiver off the ground and smiled into the receiver. "Yes. I accept it." Steve wrote down the notes that the casting director gave him and got dressed. The small wiry clock hand landed above the seven. The clerk's check in desk was empty. It was seven hours the sun had traveled over the ante meridiem. It was the seventh day of the week. And the calendar read the seventh day of that particular month. It was seven hours it would take him to get there. The unknown ones who agreed upon this number did have value. September got dressed in his finest clothes in the airport men's room. He brushed his hair and washed his face in the sink. Wrong order but right fashion. September was preparing to travel to faraway places. His flight would last ten hours, he was surprised not seven hours like the rest of the day had been landing on. This number meant something. He had to pack and get all the proper ID's and vaccines. September picked up his thirty-five millimeter camera and headed out of his apartment. The world awaited his new footsteps.
He may return to the big city and it's black outs, terrist attacks, collapsing buildings, drug dealers, whores, freaks, piggish wallstreet money grubbers slurping the blood of man, he may return and walk the streets of the Titan, perhaps with a journal at his side, standing near a green, and black playground near King Street. Jotting down a new poem or idea, or outline for his next novel. He may return to the city of creativity, the city with so many lights, so many faces in one room, so many legs pumping on one Avenue, so many parks, so many artist, and starving craftsman and studios and empty rooms awaiting a Steppenwolf, the next wolfe, the next Virginia, or Tennessee, or the next person to jam from the Chelsea, the next song about great cities, the next poem alive kissing the mouths of it's readers. Or perhaps September Falls would nest in some small apartment near an International Airport, awaiting to lift off, head out and stamp his name in the Great Wall.
He soared down the apartment staircase with ease, barely noticing his way in the darkness. He closed his eyes for a half second and imagined the day. A day lighted world full or shadows, and dark corners, long men motioning with a jack hammer, shadows flying north, south, east and west, all of this, rising outside his pad. The pavement still shiny from the morning rain. Golden godly rays echoed off the apartment windows on the opposing side of the complex. Rays that he could see but never touch. Rays bouncing across the world awaiting to awaken others. Then, his eyes opened again. He was at the top of the stairs. Below him darkness. He roosted the bike on his shoulders and headed down the stairs one step at a time.
An jet airliner roared over head. He could taste the toxic fumes burning, from the ignited and used jet fuel, on the tip of his tongue. Like fire from a small flickering candle it stung a bitter sweat taste to his eye. Sweat dripped off his brow and he continued to decline in small biting footsteps. He could smell the fiery cigarettes from the first class cabin soaring above, a man snuggled up with a Wallstreet journal passionately studying the rollar coster ride of the business market, striking up a new idea for futuristic world, a car that ran on nitrogen and electricity, perhaps, maybe a new type of nuclear plant, one that gained all it's energy from steam, perhaps a windmill that produced better and more economical energy, a blade that saved in electric push, all the ideas of the enterpreunue under his figuring of numbers of stocks and bonds, rotating, creating a psycholical whirl wind of invention, all these creations of a new world falling, smothering his reasoning of the world markets and its account and balance and council, plowing into his existence, speaking inside and he could nearly dip his tongue in their selfish martinis. Perhaps it was his imagination or perhaps, it wasn't. Maybe his senses had grown to a uncontrollable and super sensitive state. Nevertheless, he continued down the stair case, whistling, plotting the next word on a prepared and curled tongue, awaiting to deliver the story with a half smile.
The sun was waiting to arise in distant lands overseas. September was impatiently stepping down toward his arisen future. He did not want to be late. Not this time. No he had no time to be late. And like the white rabbit, he pattered his feet, jumped on his Trek mountain bike with all twelve gears, and peddled to the airport-taking the passage road near I-35 not far from 820 highway. The sky blanketed him in a dark blue azure and a hint of an orange round sun was just warming up in it's rising birth. A golden hue had arrived in the darkly covered sky and nothing could stop it, or him. Nature gets the last laugh. September would get the second to last chuckle. At least before he gasped his last.
He whispered, " The dark had not yet meant the day, but it was approaching with Godspeed." Time was running out. He had to catch his seven o'clock flight on American Airlines. He was going first class for a change. Yes, he would get the last chuckle. At least before he gasped his last breath.
Jonathan C. Spivey and Ash Sword. No Stone. No Fire publishing company. ©
The hell will never transcend a person. Iron only lasts so long. All can be melted with heat. The only true happiness is freedom from the hearts desire.