The children were smaller, on a carousel facing inward, but not moving. It’s just where they liked to stand if they hadn’t “fallen off” and begun taunting each other, posing at each other, fists outstretched, legs bent down like superheroes, their crew-cuts, mother given, ugly as your knowledge of their predicaments locked inside their tiny white heads. I had gone to sit on a bench close to the street. You could see the cars going by and it was a relief, but then it hit me, I was a prisoner there. I would leave when they said so and no sooner. Even though I was 41, I was in no better situation than those children. We were all being kept.
It started when we were about to leave. Me and Christopher, but Christopher was fiddling with his camera. I saw the frightened faces of the Mexican workers and looked around and saw the man with the crossbow. I didn’t know it was a crossbow, but thought it was a rifle with a scope on it. He was about a hundred yards away and he was definitely beginning the task of pointing it at me, or my general area, as I crouched behind the car, behind the tire. I felt like the eyepiece was following me. Christopher seemed unaware of everything.
I sat in a white room with others. I don’t remember why I was there. Christopher would attack me at times. Run up behind me and grab me and hold on with all his strength. I tried to get through to him. One time I yelled into his deranged eyes “Christopher! Christopher!” and as they dragged him away I knew I had gotten through. A man looked closely at me and told me that I had fought back or something to that extent and I didn’t know if he was upset or pleased.
I was then called in for therapy. I am a large man, close to 270, but soon found myself being balanced on the legs of an average sized black woman who was probably about the age of 30. Somehow she could hold me using the weight of her body, her arms and her legs. I fell into it and enjoyed it. Then she let me fall forward and then would catch me. I was asked to relax and fall naturally, but I was almost too much for her. I noticed there were paintings on the wall, pastoral works and I saw prices written under the wooden frames. I don’t remember the paintings well, but they were of summer light in sad places, English hills, barns, non-descript browns and blues.
There was talking too, I remember now, but as she questioned me (it seemed as though the questions came when I was put into positions by the woman)…I can’t remember too well the questions, but the answers seemed to be about my life and my novel. I remember thinking about my mother, but do not remember the context. This seemed and still seems important. Progress was made, but no final answers given. The woman dropped away and then all I remember is being dismissed from the session by a different worker, this time a man and when he walked away I could see that I had just been another therapy session. That was the sadness. To feel as though you were being healed, but it was all a ruse in that you were just another therapy session. That’s when I walked away to the bench and saw the children on the carousel and knew the extent of the problem.
One other thing I remember is the therapists themselves, or rather, what appeared to be interns or something. They were young and they wore white coats and they walked in the glass door from the street on their way to work. I felt like they were giving me intelligent people to talk to finally. One of them had eyes that were very piercing, but I knew that it was in the service of knowledge and not me specifically which made me think of him a little bit like a robot. They all wanted to be therapists and were just learning. But their intelligence seemed like what I needed if I were to finally understand what had put me into this place where I could not leave even if I wanted to, but I didn’t know that. For now, I was just another kid on the carousel.
Dream
The Barky Concept
The barky concept
This is the story about my dog, Barky, Felix, Barky, Barky never shutups. Barky barks 24 hours a day and we, get this, we Keep him! Keep Him! My mom loves Barky. So this is the story. This is the way that it’s gotta go. Barky’s got to get famous. This is the only way. Barky must be famous so that my mom can be rich and I can get my own room on the other side of the mansion that Barky is going to buy us. Because, trust me on this, Barky can never be quiet. Barky can never Shut up.
This was the plan. Make sure that my mom didn’t find out, but sneak barky out of the house between two and 6 oclock when she got home everyday. I would have to buy my own carrying case. I’ll take Barky to all of the agencies. Everything. He’s real tame. He’ll let me hold him, which is a plus. A plus so far. So Here we go. Get that perpetual barking on command harnessed into a few dog food commercials and we’ll be set. I’ll keep the money quiet until Barky’s really famous and we can get that house and then I won’t have to listen anymore to that dog!
2.
this is the plan. 3:30 got an appointment with Alpo. I know, I know, Alpo. What’s the odds of Alpo wanting Barky, but they need Barkies and I got one. Put out a few fliers and some other things and got a nibble from Alpo. So I take Barky in and they put him on the floor and first look to see how he is around people and he’s good on a leash too. My mom trained him, she wouldn’t take no shit. And here was my mom on the end of the leash right now, going through all the best motions to impress these people and wouldn’t you know it, through her dog of all things, all of my mom’s stuff, right here.
Anyway, we got through that one. That tall guy was the one in charge, I know it. You can never be sure though. Barky did alright. He barked of course, little son of a bitch, on cue, but that’s what he was supposed to do and it didn’t sound so bad once it was put on full form for the cameras. It’s like putting nickels in a slot machine, each bark a nickel, a chance at the big jackpot on a national Alpo commercial. Christ, they need new dogs all the time!
3
get in get out. That’s it. You make sure that you get in fast get the sound guy and the camera going. In the mood, barky! Rawf! Trademark! Another 2 grand in my pocket. Fifteen thousand short of getting the house and this dog out of my life forever!
4.
Barky did it. A Lil’ Nibbler’s Chunky Treat gig with two other dogs, not the best scenario, the one of the lap and the smile, but I’ll take it, $1,800 to the broker tomorrow and we’re in and that dog can go to hell.
5.
Been in the house five months. Can’t hear Barky anymore. Thanks God. People tell me to use Barky as my money making scheme in life instead of doing what I do. I tell them look, I could be living the high life with that dog there. We could easily pull down another five or six hundred thou together, but you know what? Fuck that dog.
End.
Neo
Neo
Modern man is in a predicament unlike he’s ever been in before. I refuse to call this the “travails of the information age” because before technological advances made information as readily available as watching the evening sunset, there was still the fact of the over abundance of image in need of processing and this feat has been no small one by any means.
What I mean by being in an altogether new predicament comes from my belief that not only are we being given information, but the competitive human spirit is tying the assimilation of that information into our economic well being. The onslaught of the computer age has left most people grateful and yet perplexed as to not only how to use its machines but what the meaning of these machines is. There is no easy answer to this quandary. Man has given himself a mechanical brain, a brain that disseminates information, if not in the same way, then in a way that mimics it. This predicament, some would say, is no predicament, but a joy, a way to make it so that our own brains do not need to work harder than they have to. Unfortunately, our brains are also our minds and our minds continually seek, but irrationally. It does not seek to know like a computer, but to feel, to experience.
The artist is an example of both the victim and victor over the chronological mindset of computers and the almost virile power that this heightened mechanical process can inject into the previously virgin soul. We are supple beings. We meld into the latest thing as if we were born ready to fall into its arms even if when we were born it had not yet existed. The utilitarian power of computers is undeniable, but can we really ask ourselves to strive towards a purely rational mode of thought when perhaps the creators of this world, it’s leaders, mentors, sages were among some of the most psychedelic of minds. Can we ask the two worlds to merge in Peoria?
But the worlds are merging. We are becoming softened to the realities and being given a chance to say either “yes” or “no” to them via the images of internet and t.v. We have given ourselves over to the wiser powers. Those of us who want money or prestige attempt to break into the inside circle of software creating hives where we will be accepted by a fearless leader whose original vision came anywhere and everywhere but from a computer. In a way we accept the “trips” that others have taken at the expense of taking our own. Timothy Leary understood the nature of computers, saying in essence that it is the new high for the coming millennium.
But there is something false in it. Just as a word cannot be what it connotes, we too cannot be where we “go.” In fact, we go nowhere except into our own minds. True, the computer we use is our tool, where images are given to us and we grasp or duck them. The accepted images cling to us like burrs to our socks. The dreaded ones pass on only to be accepted by somebody else. When we are thus so well fed then how can we turn away from our feeder, the giver, the mother? There is no straight line walked simply in this world unless it is away from something. That which we accept needs be taken deeply into the soul. A Buddhist when he sits often does so facing a blank wall. A modern man needs the pictures. The artist needs the rounding out of the pictures in a search for meaning or structure. The philosopher needs to turn off the screen.
I use a computer to write. I have a word processing program, a screenplay writing program, a graphic design program and I used to have been an avid user of E-mail. This is not about using the computer. I’ve watched children stare in amazement at educational programs. I do not want to rid the world of a scourge which is not a scourge. My aim is to perhaps make one person who needs to, consider the nature of their modern existence. Perhaps my first concern is only for myself. When my faculties of discernment become too thinned and yet I insist on placing more and more food on my plate as if to devour all of the food in the world in the shortest amount of time will make me healthy, happy, wise and strong then I am fooling myself. The mis-education in our society is not that we learn too little, but that we learn too much. We don’t take the time to sift through what we’ve already got and allow the natural connections to unfold in a manner that we may see.
I don’t blame our educational system per se for we only want what everybody else wants, teachers included, that is, to give to children the necessary tools that they need to live productive and happy lives. But there are too many accidents. Too many deaths. Too much violence. Too little acceptance for difference. Too much hate stemming from too much pain. There is no one panacea for our societal ills. There is no one answer. We are ill equipped to ask the proper questions whenever two or more are gathered. One mind believes in reality as such and the other believes in a different world. All that we can ask is that “we get along” as Rodney King so poetically and simply stated it. We need to unplug our worlds at times and ironically enough, after we do, we then need to plug back in and take a few more strides towards the ever flowing stream of technology, political kindness which some would perhaps call an oxymoron, and the rosebud, never to be picked mind you, of an infant dream where morality is as the whirlpool and our greatest feat is not to dive, but to hold sacred without knowing fully or even expecting to in this life, its answer blurred yet glistening like a diamond in a stream.
Mythological Sketch of Dodi
Mythological Sketch of Dodi
Believed to be the son of either Horus or Re, the sun god. These two gods were often indistinguishable, especially when Horus wore the sun disc.
In the new kingdom 1567-1069 bc the pharoah was believed to be the son of Amun, the then ascendant God. In the temples of Luxor, reliefs show how Amun assumed the form of the reigning pharoah and united with his queen, giving rise to the new pharoah’s birth. To avoid any rivalry between ram-headed Amun and Re, both gods were assimilated in the form of the composite deity, Amun-Re. Luxor and Karnak were raised in honour of amun-Re.
The harmony of the universe was believed to depend on the well being of the pharoah. He was the chief priest of the Egyptian nation, although for practical reasons his office and duties were delegated to high-ranking priests.
In ancient Egypt there was a deeply held belief that chaotic forces had existed before the world was created. In the act of creation, these powerful forces had been banished to the outer edges of the world, but they still continued to encroach upon the society of gods and men. The priests assisted the gods in sustaining the fabric of universal order through the performance of religious rites. (The gods protect the people from ever encroaching, chaotic forces.)
Mans (?) annexed Egypt as a province in 30 bc. Then the next 200 years was replaced with a new belief, Christianity.
Horus: the falcon headed sun god of Memphis in Egypt. After death Egyptian rulers were said to become Horus’s father, the underworld god Osiris.
Horus’ mother was Isis, the sister and wife of Osiris. He was conceived by magical means. According to one myth, after Seth killed his brother Osiris, Isis went to look for Osiris’ body and found it in the delta marshes. She sat on him.
Horus was raised in the marshes in secrecy. When he became a man he determined to avenge his father’s death by Seth. by the gods to have won an…
Isis; daughter of the earth god Geb and the sky goddess Nut. Sister and wife to Osiris, mother to Horus, sister to donkey-headed Seth. taught her subjects how to grind flour, spin, weave and cure illnesses. She also introduced the custom of marriage. She … (?) some of his power and her unmatched skill in the magic arts.
The Greeks identified her with Demeter, Hera and Aphrodite.
Osiris was depicted as a bearded man, wearing the crown of upper Egypt and swaddled like a mummy. He holds a crook and flail, symbol of his power insignia also comprised sheaves of corn, placed one above the other.
Because the ancient Egyptians were so concerned about the afterlife, Osiris was the object of intense reverence. He was addressed as the king of… (?) His first task as a ruler was to civilize his subjects; he abolished cannibalism, taught them how to make agricultural tools and cultivate grapes and wheat, and showed them how to make wine and bread. He also instructed them in the arts of weaving and making music; and he instituted religious worship and a legal system.
Having civilized Egypt, Osiris decided. (?)
Seth threw a party and presented a beautiful coffin. He said whoever can fit into the coffin can have it. Osiris was presented the option first. Seth slammed it shut and closed it shut with lead. He then took it to the river and threw it in. The coffin floated out to sea and came to rest at the base of a tamarisk tree at Byblos in Phoenicia. Then She (Isis) took the coffin to the swamp of the nile delta. Er and Nut gathered up the pieces and resurrected Osiris.
According to one version of the myth, Osiris could have stayed and ruled Egypt. Instead he chose to become lord of the dead in the infertile, subterranean land that the Egyptians believed existed beyond the western horizon.
The dead were believed to visit Osiris in order to seek permission to enter his underground kingdom and to ensure the continued sustenance of their souls. The heart of each supplicant was weighed on the scales of judgment against the feather of truth, in front of Osiris and his forty two assessors. Anubis weighed the heart and the divine scribe Thoth recorded the result.
The Fargo Kantrowitz’z Literary Campsite – Albert – Blogpost #16
There is a song for everybody. I don’t care the beat. It just follows us along, accompanies our days like some metronome angel. Dylan’s song was of unpredictability, brokenness, like an asteroid going a million miles an hour and never really getting anywhere. He listened to others like he was a radio, but heard nothing, almost seeing the soundless radio waves instead, mocking him as though he could not know reality just because he perceived it differently, not wrongly. – From Dylan’s War by Albert Jones.
this is a short story of desperation
by
Albert Jones
a guy is born. Later he dies. It doesn’t matter to him because the way he feels he could care less. That’s the way of life. Death. Simple. Not that he wanted it, to die, no, he wanted to live, but it felt better to him to consider being alone in a warm grave for the rest of his life, or death, whatever it became. He couldn’t consider which was real. Life or death. The christians say that death is more like life than life is more like life. They call life death and call death new life. It’s odd. This is what all the presidents tell us and Billy Graham and the senate when they say a Christian prayer. Death is better than life, so don’t have too much fun I guess. I guess that’s what it means. Look forward to death after which you will have fun. What is fun then? I guess fun is being warm in a grave for the rest of your life or death, whichever it is like I said. So I guess I’m pretty straight on target, middle of the road for my views. I’ve never been much of a non conformist. Most christians would call me dour though. I guess I’m dour then. Isn’t that what they want us to be? Makes you think if maybe there isn’t money involved in this ludicrous argument. Fuck it. I believe in God, but I’m not going to freak out about it. The entire system of our Christian faith is wrong. We don’t worship Christ anymore but the devil. We watch television and go to church on Sunday. I’m not criticizing the television except its the most flagrant advertising scheme ever put out in front of the world and called by some “art.” it’s not art. It’s shit and an addictive behavior. The networks are enablers. Some will say that there are some good programs on television and its up to you to choose the ones you watch wisely. Well, they don’t live at my house where my dad sits around and drinks beer and farts his life away all the while watching Jerry Springer. We’ve become a potential case for the Jerry Springer show just by watching Jerry Springer what seems about four times a day. Is that possible? It sure seems like we see it four times a day. Fuck Jerry Springer and my dad. Fuck em all.
My mother’s cool though. She gave me four hundred dollars to get me by last month. She’s cool. Gotta buy weed and shit, but she don’t know about that and she thinks it all goes to my rent. I don’t say my mom is stupid, but she does give me a lot of money when I don’t really deserve it because I admit it that I’m a fuck up to some degree just like my old man is. I get stoned too much and I eat out a lot and I’m getting fat like my dad. I don’t work and that sucks, but I don’t give a shit. It’s what I want to do. When I get stoned it feels alright. I know, it’s an artificial high, but what else am I going to do? I got a dog that doesn’t stop barking. Barks at everything. It’s winter, got bronchitis. What the fuck else is new? Why not just get stoned and wait for better days to come in the mail. And they will. Sent out a rock musical and hope it will catch on. Created the tunes at home stoned of course. Everything stoned. Nothing held back and that’s my claim to literature like henry miller did, but, well, you can’t say better. Henry Miller wrote exactly what was on his mind. No messing around. Good writer. I try and look for ways to claim that the shit that I write is a short story or something so maybe I can sell it and get some money so I don’t die of starvation or consumption or stupidity or something or just die of being plain just stoned, scared and uncared for like most people do, I think.
But what are these paths in the mind that take us places we don’t really want to go. I know that everybody must think exactly like me in the solitude of their own minds. I just happen to sometimes put it down on paper. What are they going to do to me after I’m dead for writing these pages, admitting I was stoned and lonely and a loser and lost? Everybody will just relate. It’s as simple as that and I’ll be called a great writer because it will be as if I gave my very existence for their sakes since they never had the balls to write down what they felt which was just as fucked up as what I’m writing and often write. And I hope to sell this shit because I think it might make me a few bucks because people don’t know what short stories are and sometimes pick up a magazine and see something that looks like a story, but reads like a true to life narrative, but it ain’t it’s a short story, like this one, but you don’t know your role in it. After all, if this isn’t true then there’s no need for you to read further, but if it is true and yet false, I mean, made up, then you can read on because it won’t hurt you, it won’t relate to you in a preachy way. So I propose that this is a short story about what you would write if you could write short stories and had become a writer like you probably a couple of times wished that you could become, but didn’t. I write for you. Write the shit in my mind, because you thought that you would want to get out of your mind more than you did when you were alive, but you didn’t. You died silent. But don’t worry, Christians say that is the only way to die, silent and solemn. Then you dream well. Do you believe them? I don’t. I don’t think I do anymore. My father eats and shits and watches Springer. I get stoned and write short stories that I think maybe if i’m lucky might come to me in the form of an actual short story and not pure shit of my mind and it always comes out a little bit of both and all I can do is hope that the future will look at my work as valuable so that maybe while i’m alive I can actually get a little money so I can buy some shit for my bronchitis so I don’t hack to death, so I can sell my motorcycle and get a little car so I can go out on a date and chicks won’t think i’m a total loser and maybe my life won’t be a total waste. In the meantime, it is. And I write. I write a short story for you because I think that maybe you would want it that way. You would want a short story about the process of not really knowing how to harness all of your energy to write a short story and yet having the short story called a short story anyway. Then you get the money and you can get out of your shit situation like I can get out of mine, you can turn your heat up in the winter. You can work less. You can ache less. You can deal with stupid people less and just be by yourself more and maybe get stoned in a relaxing way or sit there with a drink because you not only gave yourself a mental enema, but you got paid for it and you knew the whole thing was shit and yet you didn’t care because they all bought it. They bought that all the mental puking you did on the page was somehow worthwhile and that you showed them a little bit about the imagination, free association, the nature of literature itself and you know it’s impossible that it really is shit and only by a stroke of luck, luck such as comes only once in a lifetime, some idiot reviewer might see your piece you got lucky to place in a stupid student literary review and say that you have a style and that you’re trying to say something but he is not sure what it is although he’s willing to give you the benefit of the doubt that somehow it is meaningful. But you know that if it isn’t meaningful in a way that has meaning, or at least words to describe some aspect of the feeling which poses as meaningfulness then it is all bullshit. It’s all a scenar. It’s all a fade out. None of it matters and you’re left sitting there knowing that your game is almost up and you will be homeless soon and all the talk about how you’re a writer will be out the window to the rest of the world as soon as they see you pulling out of its garbage cans. Such is the love of the world for artists and truthtellers.
So. Points of reference become important. Some are very close to you like the scratchiness in your throat which has turned into a fever because you fell asleep on a bed and your insistence that you still get stoned and try to write because you’re so confused about what the hell you’re going to do with the rest of your life that you don’t even want to think about it anymore. Forget about larger questions, those concerning the possibility that a big hand might come out of the sky and pluck you with it’s fingernail through your chest into another dimension which you won’t ever actually see because you will already be dead by the giant fingernail through your heart just like the movie Starship Troopers. Why not admit in our movies that we are all doomed to laugh and cry and die according to the straightness of our chins and noses? The young are praised and the lucky ones, like I’m not, make a lot of money early on chins and noses. The rest of us die unseemly deaths after many years of losing faith gradually by watching ours and our loved ones bodies fall apart. We see the girls who we thought pure die slowly through alcohol or drugs or just a bad marriage. We consider how many days we actually have after we have lost the best days of our lives to time. And sometimes we smell the roses, look at the mountains and try to remember that we still must have some good days left even though we can’t pay the bills on the table and we live in Santa Barbara where the millionaires live and don’t really give a shit about the poor folk and that’s almost a fact, I can’t say a complete fact, but they sure don’t open their doors wide around here for people without a lot of money. Let’s just say the Okies wouldn’t have been warmly received in Santa Barbara. They’ll arrest you for sitting down on State Street in Quackersville. Can’t even sit on a planter waiting for a bus. Fuck them. But that is the way it is.
Fuck Clacknersberg. And I’m trying to consider this a requiem for a fantasy. As I slowly sputter out I cry out like a leper without love ever and ask for somebody to notice me as I fall slowly down, spiral down, like a boy drowning in a whirlpool or falling over the falls of Niagara unnoticed, calm one moment and down and drowned the next in a violence unheard or unconceived until as yet that point that only the boy could have ever really known until he woke up or woke up dead. I think I’m dead. No, I can’t think anymore. I think I’m dead. Where is the short story in this statement? Where’s the monetary benefits? Where the benefits for a dead man? So I’m trying to be a good Christian and pretend that I’m dead when I’m really not because the Christians say that if you’re dead you are happy and if you are alive then you are sad. They don’t need to tell me that because I already know. I just can’t get myself to kill myself and I guess I never won’t.
The Product – a short play
Dave, Jenny, Marta, Johnny, Peter, Brenner and Janey sit together in a storefront.
Dave:
Okay. You, Brenner, you’ve got the existentialist shit, you know, the cloud of unknowing, we’re all going to die, but don’t worry be happy.
Brenner
Why do I have to be happy dying and you guys…
Peter
Because Peter will be handling that.
Brenner
You know I asked that before Peter even came along.
Peter
Look, Dave, I can give up hedonism. I could go with Epicurianism or something.
Dave
No, no, you’re covering hedonism. How the hell else are we going to…
Peter
Be bad?
Dave
Exactly. Look, some of the coolest cats in the world have tackled existentialism and come out okay: Sartre, Camus, Kierkegaard…
Brenner
I know, I know, okay.
Dave
Jenny, you’re the rationalist.
Jenny
Are there a lot of numbers?
Dave
Sometimes, but you can bring to it what you got.
Jenny
Can I make my beads?
Dave
Ask yourself.
Jenny
No.
Dave
Good. It’ll work then. Marta, you’ll be covering the darkest night thing, way beyond existentialism. This will make you ultra cool, though. Can you handle it?
Marta
I’m not sure how my mother will feel about Nihilism.
Dave
She’ll love it. Rather, don’t tell her about it. It will be okay.
Marta
Okay. I feel depressed.
Dave
Good. Johnny…
Johnny
I know. Idealism.
Dave
That’s right. It’s a sunny day. Everything is going to shit, but it’s a sunny day. We’re all going to be okay. The meteor isn’t going to hit. Cows will eventually talk to us and tell us that they like us.
Johnny
Do I have to smile.
Dave
Yes.
Johnny
I’m going to end up wearing a nametag a lot, aren’t I?
Dave
I’m afraid so, but we need you. We have to smile when Marta pipes in.
Johnny
Okay, I can see the importance in that.
Dave
What are we missing?
Jenny
What about Janey?
Dave
Janey, you’ve got all religious ecstatic motivation, got that? You got the ear of God, that sort of thing. Totally effulsive, mind blowing God exists type thing.
Janey
I feel like I’m getting bigger.
Dave
Don’t talk in tongues. At least not yet. This thing could blow out of control, but you will exist in this form. You know that you know that you know. Got it?
Janey
Hallowed be thy…
Dave
Keep it. Now. Everybody. Go!
They all sit silently not knowing what to say.
Dave:
Jenny?
Jenny:
Oh
(Jenny runs to the window and turns the open sign around. She returns and all sit once more in silence. Then the door opens. A man, Robert, walks in.)
Robert:
Hello?
Dave:
Come in. Come in. How can we help you.
Robert:
I was walking around outside and I saw your sign.
Dave:
We have no sign.
Robert:
It says “open.”
Dave:
You’re right. We have a sign.
Marta:
We can’t really help you.
Robert:
Why not?
Johnny:
(stands) Of course we can help him. Come in. What’s your name?
Robert: Robert Mayhew.
Johnny:
(Shaking his hand) Gosh, it’s good to see you, Mr. Mayhew. Isn’t it wondrous how things work out? Here you are. Here we are? The world is out there. The world is in here. But, in here, (he points to his heart) all things are possible. Wouldn’t you agree?
Marta:
That is if you believe that this turning world is not a diseased soon to be corpse patiently awaiting self styled annihilation. You see, Mr. Mayhew, we are on a downward spiral and it’s going all the way down this time. Corruption, sin, evil ways produce enough ugly corroding acid to assure that this world, including the one in your heart, will not last the millennium. Have a nice day.
Robert:
Perhaps I should go.
Dave:
Go? No, how could you go? You came in, did you not? IN has nothing to do with out and…
Robert:
Just what do you do here?
(they all just stare at him with blank looks)
Dave:
Do?
Robert:
Yes, do, what do you do here. Why am I here?
(they all look at each other)
Brenner:
May I respond?
Robert:
Of course.
Brenner: Look, I can see you came in here looking for something. I’m afraid that you’re not going to find it. There’s too much to find. Ultimately,and I know because it is a universal thing, you’re probably looking for answers, meaning, maybe even “God,” universality, foreverness, whatever. Look, how do I say this…
Robert:
Do you have a product? Maybe I’ll take one. Sure. I’ll take one. Give me one of your product.
(silence again)
Brenner:
Okay…Look, as I was saying, maybe you came in here looking for something. Maybe a “product” or something. Something to hold on to. Something tangible that will let you look at your life and feel good inside, some lasting promise about something good, some sense, maybe, that this life is not the only life we’ve got.
(janey starts to speak, but stays quiet)
Now, Janey may have a different opinion on the matter and I can respect that, but in forming the business we, I think, and I don’t know how it could be refuted, it is evident that the product that you seek would not make you happy because attached to every product is the promise of that product’s demise. Do you see? You are really, I’m sorry, wasting your time here because, really, nothing lasts. But that’s okay! That’s okay!
Robert:
Then I guess I’ll go then.
Peter:
Wait!
Robert:
You have no business, you have no product, yet the product I would have purchased here had you had one would not have satisfied me anyway. So I guess I’ll go…
Peter:
Wait. Wait. You can’t take his word for it. You cast aside something that does not work, namely, buying a non-existent product and what do you have left? That’s right…a reason to totally party!
(Dave, Brenner and Peter break out in guttural laughter. Janey, Jenny, Johnny and Marta remain silent)
Robert:
Right. I gotta go.
Dave:
Wait. Wait. We’ve got something for you.
(he scans the people in the room and then nods nervously to Janey.
Janey:
Thank you (relieved). Hello, Robert.
Robert:
Hello.
Janey:
Robert?
Robert:
Yes.
Janey:
I love you.
Dave:
There’s something. We’ll find it guys. We’ll find it. There’s gotta be a product somewhere that we have. Something.
Marta:
Prostitution is as good a way to go as any, I guess.
Janey: I love you with my width. I love you with my height. I love you with my morning. I love you with my night. I love you when all love seems withered. I love you if you don’t love yourself. Imagine a universe of holy love. By being here you are inside of this universe. Your soul floats on the starwagon hitched to eternity.
Marta:
Oh, Christ. You think, guys? You think? What are the odds…wait for it…
Janey: oh lalabadanallallapoalapolafolawalaoshkalasa…(speaking in tongues)
Marta: (singing) and we all go down together…
Dave:
Janey….Janey!
(Janey wakes up from her trance)
Janey:
Do you see, Robert? Perhaps you can call almighty, universal Love the only “product” that you need. I can.
Peter: Here here, as long as you share it with your friends.
Marta: You holdin?
Peter: Hell yeah!
(Peter goes for his stash, but notices the stern disapproving look of Jenny. Instead, he and Marta run offstage together)
Robert:
Why do I feel…
Jenny:
Confused?
Robert:
Yeah, confused. That’s it.
Jenny:
That’s normal. If you think of the amount of confusion that you deal with on a daily basis you will soon come to realize and see the threads that if you follow will lead you out of your confusion. Regardless of what some people think, there are things to know. The basic process of living is enough to keep your mind occupied happily throughout a typical day. You really don’t need much more than this: Life, Love and Happiness. But you’ve got to start somewhere. You’ve first got to get your ducks in a row. Make sure everything you do is going to get you somewhere. If you don’t you’re going to get stuck and then if what Janey says or anybody else is true then you will have come to it on your own. Just keep your eyes open, Robert.
Robert:
Miss…
Jenny:
Jenny.
Robert:
Jenny, you make sense. Can I ask you then, what exactly can I buy here?
(Jenny looks at him with a blank stare in her eye)
Dave:
That’s not important right now, Robert. There is something to buy, I’m sure of it.
(Peter and Marta return. Stoned)
Peter: Sure we’ve got something to buy.
Dave:
We’re selling, Peter.
Peter:
Selling now? Oh. We’ve got something to sell. Imagine it, Robert. Starting with a nice 1972 rieseling to compliment the Oyster Marmaduke in a slightly reversed onion and tangerine sauce. Beef Wellington and asparagus tips sautéed or braised, your choice, in an eastern Ethiopian frame of which I could speak all day followed by a port so influenced by the French that the Italians after years and years of trying finally outdid it. Of course I’m talking about Dell’callabrezia, oh 1982, possibly 1983, followed by hand rolled spliffs from seeds imported from Holland and grown in cat feces, I know, I know, it sounds horrible, but the high…
Marta:
I can attest to that.
Dave:
Robert, of course we aren’t selling drugs.
Robert:
You’re a restaurant then?
Dave:
No.
Robert:
He’s high, right.
Dave:
You got it.
Robert:
Then what? What! What am I doing here? I’ve gotta go.
Dave:
Wait!
(Dave jumps up and does a quick dance number before sitting back down.)
Dave:
You like? You like?
(Robert says nothing)
Johnny:
God, Robert, it’s all right here! The future starts now as they say and the heights that you can climb if you only start when the world wants you to start! Instead of doing this or that, battling that thought against that thought and always spinning your wheels, just accept that life is Good. Got it! Life is there for you. It’s as high as the sky and this future does not need a nice meal or a good joint to make it a real fact as long as you embark. Take off! Go! Be with You and all things will come. Your loves will appear to you and the next step will always be followed by another and one day, one day, Robert, you will quite simply, be sitting on a cloud.
Marta:
Or in burning embers.
Janey:
And his Eyes will behold you and His demeanor will state to all that you are worthy for the entering of the light and once the light is shining upon you the world will bow to the goodness of your soul until you disappear into the light and all questions will have been answered. Nothing else will ever be needed again.
(she closes her eyes and is about to speak in tongues again.)
Dave:
Janey.
(Janey opens her eyes, smiles, and acquiesces to the request not to speak in tongues.)
Marta:
So your sitting on a cloud, right? Robert, listen. So you’re sitting on a cloud and God comes up to you and sees you. You maybe masturbated earlier that day and maybe cursed your neighbor because your neighbor is brain dead and deserves to be cursed and then suddenly it’s like wham! Off you go. No more. Sayonara. No more high rise cloud living for you. Down you go. Falling. Falling. Seven, eight, nine miles until you land flat on your back in the land of the doomed. It was nice to think that you could make it to the cloud planet but ultimately you’re just like the rest of us imperfect specimens avoiding points from a pitchfork and watching full time the type of things that got you in hell in the first place.
Brenner:
Hell is other people.
Marta:
Not for Robert it won’t be. For Robert it will be full time anguish. Gnashing of teeth. Ticks, electric shocks, abject fear, blackness, death fucking death fucking death. It’s not going to be nice.
Brenner:
Robert, at least you don’t have to believe in fairy tales while you’re here. We may not have a product.
Dave:
We have a product!
Brenner:
Okay, maybe we don’t know if we have a product.
Dave:
We have a product!
Jenny:
Well, technically, Dave, while we have a lot of desire to have a product we don’t really, as of this moment, anyway…
Dave:
Sssh!
Brenner:
Okay, we have a product, but right now…anyway, if you want to listen to Nihilist Nancy over there I can go get you a rope from the store right now and you can answer all of your questions yourself.
Janey:
Go on, Brenner, testify.
Brenner:
Or if you go to Saint Janey’s school of perpetual elation you’ll end up being as dumb as an ox. No, listen. There is a product, but it isn’t what you think. The product is…Now. Eat, drink and be merry la la la for tomorrow we die.
Peter:
That’s what I’m talkin’ about. But it’s a science, man. A goddamned science!
Marta:
I need a new rat.
Robert:
I see. I see. Well, thank you. I really must be going.
Dave:
Wait!
(Dave jumps up and goes off stage. He comes back with a dirty rag)
Dave:
Here. Here it is. Here’s our product, Robert. Thank you for your patience with my salespeople. It’s a rather new staff that I’m still mostly training.
Robert:
You’re joking, right?
Dave:
No, no, not at all. This isn’t what you think it is.
Robert:
It’s not a rag with oil stains on it?
Dave:
No, not at all.
Johnny:
It is an emblem of all that you can be when you wipe clean your past and start anew.
Brenner:
It is a testimony to the fact that you will not be a victim to nothingness after you have asserted yourself into the truth about life, that you are born to die, but that shouldn’t put a damper on things now should it? You will still have this as soon as your personal assertion is made. There are really very few, if any, products like this one.
Janey:
It is what you will use to wipe the feet of the Universal One when your time comes. It is the flag of surrender that you will need more than anything else when all spiritual embodiment comes to compliment your hereafter. It is a valuable lifeline.
Marta:
It could sop up your blood when I kill you.
Dave:
Marta!
Marta:
Oh, never mind.
Jenny:
It’s a rag…
(Dave gives her a stern look)
A very nice rag if you ask me.
Peter:
It’s a start, you see, when you harvest there needs to be a certain amount of moisture held within the soil and by placing this over the cat mixture essential nutrients will remain. This is how it is done in the casino districts of Somalia.
Dave:
There you have it. It’s only a dollar.
Robert:
You sold me. I’ll take it.
(Dave hands Robert the rag)
Robert:
Thank you, Thank you. I’ve so wanted a rag just like this. Well, gotta be going. Appointment at four. Thanks again. Bye bye.
(Robert exits. The group sits around and says nothing)
Dave:
(to Marta disgusted) I need a new rat…
Leopold Loses
Leopold.
Yes mom
Come down to supper.
Okay.
Whats for supper mom?
Stew.
You like stew dad?
Yeah.
Does Jimmy like stew?
Yeah
I hate stew! Mom, Leopold is trying to make me say that I like stew!
Oh, leave Leopold alone. He’s just trying to figure things out.
So, if you like stew and you hate stew and I like stew, sometimes, and mom likes stew, then why do they name people after stews, when stew is only so-so? Like the Stewarts? What about Ronnie Stewart? Jimmy knows Ronnie Stewart. Does his family like stew?
Mom, tell Leopold to shut up!
Shut up yourself you demon’s calf and go and hush up there. Your brother Leopold is reading them books. You ever see how fast he goes through em? Jimmy, stop, look over there at your brother. Do you think Leopold is “normal.”
Leopold’s crazy.
No he’s not. He’s special. He’s smarter than both you and I. I need you to understand that Jimmy, Leopold is smarter ‘en you.
That dummy is smarter than me?
Yes, he is. He’s way smarter en you. He’s got what they call you’uns, see? See? An IQ test and he’s off the friggin charts and he’s young yet, okay? You was young once.
Never as young as Leopold. Leopold’s the baby! Hahahahahahh!
or
There has been some discussion here at the campsite about the sometimes necessary need for good writing. While the management has taken that into consideration many times, there were also times when the words were left there on the page to fend for themselves. Editorially perusing backwards in time, the management here at the offices of the fklc agree with the reader that sometimes something could have been made clearer. However, we in no way indemnify fargo kantrowitz, author of the heresaid work, as purposefully re-directing his reading audience away from the properly written word for any purposes of intent, malice, lack of straight-forwardness or
This is the Fargo Kantrowitz’z Literary Campsite
Tool
Money comes to those of you who wait. It might take you 89 years and you will have by then possibly died, but it comes. You just sometimes have to live to the age of Methuseluh. Perhaps we have children so that they can continue the pursuit of riches that we know we don’t have the time to acquire during our lifetimes. Maybe that’s it. Have a kid and they can do it. The dream can survive. Perhaps that is why we name our male children after their fathers. The dream continues. Perhaps once or twice we can forget about that and realize something greater, that the sum total of any new human being is greater than the sorry misdream of thinking somebody a simple function. We are not just a tool.j
Love
I’ve sat on this for a long time, the lost days, the moments of wanting what I had and no longer being able to feel the entering place. It really is like wandering dark hallways. All memory is lost because it cannot be seen. It can only be felt. There is nothing not askew. If color could be placed upon my mind, enough to outline those forms still brewing in my soul I would be a happy man, but it is only the acts of others that seem to be able to place me there. Those acts seem to be unimportant anymore. I could trace anything in my day. I don’t mean draw, but trace the outlines of feelings enough to be able to look back at it and proclaim its verity.
And I was proud. That was a good feeling. Although when you are at any particular place in your life you doubt that it is real and verifiable.
There was a time when final results occurred, final notions, things that made you breathe out and walk on sturdy in your step like a man who knows where he is going and determined to get there. Too many people have placed me aside or, to be more truthful, I have set myself aside for other people to shine. I have always been one who steps aside for the new and whole in others. I surround myself with those who do not consider these questions, those with minds that put forth what they know as if it were true and all that there is to know. This has caused me some despair over the years because my altruism overrides my selfishness and it is only in selfishness that you can assert yourself as those who are also asserting themselves mindlessly do.
I am working on this. It is my weakness, this capitulation to all who appear and assert themselves. If you listen enough to others you will forget that your truth must be gathered for yourself. What is this truth? It is a million footed thing. A monster or a saint that asks for less discussion, asks for an end to discussion so that it may be felt deeply. Study, something formerly sought after in my youth, in its disappearance leaves me hollow for then there is no more pondering. There is only scattershot thought, winged solutions, uncolored wandering darkened rooms. At least I lost my ego. But that was not what I truly wanted. There is the selfishness. This selfishness, this healthy selfishness, asks for more color, more light, assertion and proclamation all the while knowing that it may be shot down by another’s proclamation and yet, if so, this should be considered a good thing, for the lion, at least, has been let out of its cage. No place for a lion to be.
I believe that the mind, in forsaking knowing, retracts, becomes emaciated and if left too long in an unattended state, dies. I have attempted this soulical suicide. It has been what I have wanted, to find truth in an unadorned state. But truth unadorned is not truth for it cannot be seen. Vision is desired because it streaks across the mind in a flash, with flash, and does so because life is proud and viable and seeks beauty in every step of it’s formation. We cannot be a dunce, asking for nothing for hatred of human pride which we may believe lurks around the next corner ready to devour us. We are meant to shine. Our proclamations are meant to be daring and our lives so fulfilled proclaim back to ourselves our goodness. We become beacons of light that move us forward because it has taken away our choice. When you see an open path you must take it. When you do you bump once again against darkness, but beside you are visions of truth that edify. It is this picking of the fruit right where we are that allows us to grow. Growth is our ability to feel secure in our knowledge. Knowledge allows us to feel secure in our steps. Darkness is only darkness and can be penetrated by simple light until we finally reach the reality that we seek be it what we expected or not. We seek knowledge of ourselves. If we become too wrapped up in mind games of others concerning us we will become stilted, but once we awaken again we are more than able to continue the fight, to pick up the sword and cut once again at those black chimera’s just ahead. We kill fear.
To have true victory over fear we must have true acceptance of love. Love is the result of our having tried. Our having tried reminds us that we are worthy. Success is that which allows us room to stand back and smell the flower, to love the flower and all those around us. It is and is not the opposite of hate. Hate makes us want to hurt. Love, it’s opposite, makes us want to continue the path in which we are on. It is our payment for we do nothing for free. We all must be paid and when we play in the garden of such thought it is nothing but this love that reminds us that we are good and right and worthy. Love goes hand in hand also with change. If we are to love we must embrace the entry into the realm of love. Without this entering into the darkness with bright flame we are nothing. Fear, the first thing we encounter on our journey, is only fear. We must not back from it. We must edify ourselves with that which will remind us of this. Some would call this positive thinking, but I hate such terms. It is more poetic than that. This beauty, this senseful beauty which occurs when we dare to love, is all and all ultimately, for if we are to give our lives over to the process, a process which may at times decapacitate us, we must reach for the lifeline and love is the lifeline. In it is beauty and joy and delicate artistry. This goes for thought and spreads into things that thought produces: art, literature and such. We are meant to explore the good and great things in our lives and in other people’s lives. It is not our responsibility to hold it down as the greatest of thoughts, for all things die as well as the opportune moment for the release of a beautiful thought, but while we are with it we should be with it completely. In this way the love spreads through you and you are able to share the thought poetically, shiningly, daringly and lovingly and the end result is that whatever kernel of existence was hiding inside of you is now released into the wider world, injected into other souls who can use it for their own sustenance. If it falls flat then we must remember that the process is true, but not always true for others. Opportunity knocks to those who can hear it. For those who can’t it doesn’t mean it won’t. It may just mean that it is not time.
I have gathered a hatred of poetry over the last few years because of hatred for myself. This must change or else I will die. Literally die. The body cannot live in a world where love is kept out voluntarily because you feel unworthy. I am worthy.
