They Said It Would Be Good For You

I recently adventured, katabasis style, back to the wilds of my fostering. The aims and strategic goals of which may come to light later, but suffice to say it was complete and utter garbage. Maybe more on that later, but the cafe here, in Palmer, is slapping with all the muted violence of civilization and the denied and deeply rooted understanding of necessary bloodshed. Then again, maybe I've just read too much and this has informed my poor opinion of my fellow being. Then again, it could just be that I'm trash, like my momma used to say of other folks not to her liking. Who knows?

Mr. Hendrix here on the wall of a Hardy St. brewpub (Keg and Barrel if you're interested and in the vicinity.). This place was legit and by legit I mean it was a thinly veiled attempt at white gentrification in what had, in my memory, been a black neighborhood. Indeed, there were still many black folks going about their lives on the aforementioned street, blasting up and down the lanes, blowing loud dro out of their windows and blasting rap music of a kind unknown to me that rattled trunks and speakers. The brewpub featured many local brews from Gulfport, Hattiesburg, Kiln - the most delicious of which were the sour beers that perfectly matched the perpetual zeitgeist of the failed South in their bitterness, a perfect match to the humid, hot, racist environs of the region. Who knows what it is I'm trying to say here? The pub was nice. They had outdoor seating next to juvenile magnolia trees and yet to flower hydrangeas with beds strewn with pine straw and the hot afternoon sun warded off by giant umbrellas and a light breeze while inside was cool and quiet with close captioned sports channels. A vast oasis among the revving cars and birdnoise and human drama unspooling all around me.

I witnessed a uniquely human event during my travels - the presentation of music and the gathering of the masses on the public green - complete with brews and food provided by mostly black folks for the whites in attendance. The occasion was a Friday and it being hot in the Hub City and the need to congregate to establish that we are goddamn alive and this will all end but in the meantime we need to get in some recreation. I was poncho'd up, owl style, and received no small manner of looks. It would be some time before the train took me to the airport with the ultimate destination of home and I watched the folks behaving in strangely magnanimous ways, only taking the barest necessities from the commons - spreading their chairs and blankets with utmost respect and consideration of the other, even in a place as violent as the South, with a certain deference for their neighbors. I was stricken by the oddness of it.

This trip I spent much time amongst the dead, in their cities and beds, in the bardo of their transition, them still here somehow, yet somehow not. I marveled at their absurd monuments, the gravitational pull of their stones, the stupid desire to persist. My own journey was one of attempted right-making, taking someone where they should be and had not been for some time. A giant waste of time and resources, much like the mausoleums pictured here. And yet one hopes my charge ended up where he was destined to be.

I visited the zoo, usually not my jam because, you know, the unethical nature of housing inmates, but I had time to burn after I had completed my mission. I saw many beasts - tapirs, wild hogs, hyenas, flamingos, giraffes, alligators, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. I was baffled more by the patrons, mostly white, mostly barking at their children in a way that seems not to happen elsewhere and would likely be frowned upon in other regions. There, in that place, no one gave a second look, as if that manner of aggression was preferred with regards to urchins. I saw this many places and I marveled at my own upbringing. The peacock and I communed for a good long while, within close proximity, he in his livery and me in mine, and I asked him if he regarded my plumage as a threat. He eyed me close and did not answer.

Back home at the Moosehead, I studied these things - the journey, the people, the muted disapproval of a freak such as myself flying his flag in southern Mississippi, on a mission to put someone somewhere, to close a thing, to finish a chapter, to find the right azimuth, to reconcile an existence, to be. No answers apparated and I was left alone, plunging magically toward oblivion. Perhaps I have not said what I have wanted to convey, perhaps I have been intentionally vague due to personal reasons, perhaps I have opted for obfuscation rather than clarity, yet here this thing is, signifying nothing.

Suffering from a Case of Sobriety

I just sat down in the cafe where an older white woman sitting behind me said, "It's been a month of a week." I had to move because my back was to the window and I couldn't see the street and had to keep both exits in view because, obviously, if you're not watching the street in addition to the entryways, that's how they get you. So, I moved to have my back to a wall and still have eyes on the exits but I felt like going back to the lady and asking her if she, like I had last night, inadvertently pissed their pants, toddler style, while trying to navigate the labyrinth of my belt, or that I have eaten no food for 36 hours (and counting), or that I couldn't stop anxiety vomiting all day yesterday, or that I had just cried and cried in my vehicle while on the phone with a representative from the VA, a nice lady, who helped me begin to a file claim. I refrained from the dickwaving. But yeah, I hear her and I'm sure her week has been similarly challenging.

This is a book I'm currently loving. It's atrocious. Containing lines like, "Remember, this is top secret!" and "The porter was an oriental." and a raft of characters one of whom, whose greatest affliction was not the mysterious plague broken out on a military installation or the various shady and definitely nefarious conservative agents bent on upending the nation but was the problem of his sexual impotency, in a moment of self-reflection exclaims inside his head "Goddamn, I feel horny!" The book was published in 1986 by the now defunct "Leisure Books". Things like this used to greatly upset me, but the comedy on display here is SUBLIME. I'm halfway through and it is a gasser. Few things have pleased me as much as this in some time. Make your own conclusions about this set of data.

I am a fraud. I moved on from the work at Job Corps only to move from the move and I am reminded about all the times I told the students inane, unheard, and definitely unbelievable messages about career planning and making sound, adult decisions. In the interim, I've been forced to return to taking care of things I've let slip in the wake of trying to "fix" others (e.g., the VA call mentioned above, basic hygiene - I changed out of my pissed pants and put on the first pair of clean pants in a month). It's strange, as if the dormancy of adulting for myself has erupted to the surface and I'm accomplishing all manner of concerns not to be discussed on the internet, almost like a waking from sleep. Things are terrifying, clear, crystalline, pure horror, yet right.

We've had fools' spring here in the valley. Now it's back to snow and overcast. I'm still in the cafe, spending money I shouldn't and listening to music instead of looking for employment. I'm sure you all know the feelings - the guilt, the irresponsibility, the shame - of doing so but I'm pushing away at those emotions, in a gentle, non-hostile way. As for the Pabst above, I'd advise against. It tastes like a mix of Yoohoo and a mocha flavored Monster energy coffee drink and I knew, after the first sip, I'd finish the drink and regret it. The experience brought back memories of childhood, when my mother would pack shelf stable boxes of Yoohoo into my lunch. She'd have preferred my drinking milk, but was afraid of spoilage due to lack of refrigeration at school and so she went with the next best thing, one supposes. She would have, and sometimes did, give me money for lunch at school but my middle brother tuned me onto the scam of pocketing the money, a cool $6.25 per week, and going hungry during the day. She wanted me to eat and could have saved the money I was embezzling by applying for a free or reduced lunch but there was a strict taboo in the house against getting things "for free". Hence the brown bagged lunches and the Yoohoo. Again, make your own hypotheses about those data points and their inclusion here.

Well, shit, what are you doing?

Would I Have You in My Dreams

I harbor a disturbing fear that my kin, the crab at the Anchorage museum, has passed. Yesterday, we went to the museum for the free day and to scope the wares of the Alaska Black Chamber of Commerce. I was so white I didn't even know such a thing existed and the atrium that is usually quiet jammed with noise and action and vendors and the solitary representative from the Anchorage police department, the lone white woman manning a table at the expo. The place was too busy for me and I sought out the crab in its (hers, his, theirs?) enclosure to find it voided save the anemones and the kelp and the rocks. I became distraught and began to curse loudly at grief and general bullshittery such as to prompt my special lady to remind me where I was. I sat and watched the tank for a moment. Later I would discover via the internet that king crabs can live in captivity or without human predation for up to 20 years. (This may figure later in the narrative, who knows.)

The museum experience grandly astounded, as it does. And it made one reflective and moody, quiet and stupidly reserved. Water spilled onto a drum. Globes turned in a darkened nook. Mapmakers and sorcerers conversed about known and unknown territories. The top floor of the museum is always a treat and this day's exhibit, part of a lending from an Italian artist, was the figurative cherry on top - a cube of screens that one steps into to view images and hear lies. The docents made us wear paper booties, like surgeons, and the screens showed us images of all kinds, from the world over, and a gentle, almost robotic voice recited a litany of lies the world has heard from any manner of "trusted sources". (My favorites were "Saddam Hussein orchestrated 9/11" and "Prostitution is illegal in every country in the world." Say what that does about my memory and who the meat brain is.)

After the museum, Ulybear's grandparents had gifted him a theater performance, his first, to see the dance, percussion, spectacle exhibition that is STOMP. It was the first time congregated with many folk in quite a while and as we all sat and breathed and coughed, the show came up and what followed was a true epic, a ritual, a sacrimony, an offering, truly human. I wept, my favorite parts being the symbolic combat, the high prayer for deliverance preceded by thunderous drums, the warriors' triumphant return. Man, it's getting me right now, even in memory, yet I remain confused by my fellow show-goers' inappropriate, to me, responses. They kept clapping and hooting like mad apes presented with higher ordered intelligences, somehow instinctually afraid of what, what portent they were beholding. The performers bled white while these imbeciles cheered. I am tormented by things and places, yet the desire to keep experiencing these events persist. Later, A drove us home.

After dinner at Klondikes, I stayed downtown and watched the scene. I have not been out, later than about 6 PM, on a Saturday, in some time. I described the experience later, to A, as it being like the late night bar scene, but for middle aged people, one of which I am. There was no desire to party, however, to cut loose, to "live in the moment" as it were. I read some poetry and tried to write about the experience referenced in the cave above. Failed. Wrote about the inane instead. Ditching the scene, I walked home in the dark, trailing my book filled purse like a schoolboy. Later, I would search for record of a similar act I watched in the same venue as STOMP years prior yet could not find evidence of it being penned and spammed on the tubes. (I know I've written it, probably even here, but it was a field trip for G when he was a kinder.) The search brought me into a time capsule that burned with the acknowledgement that I've never been as kind as I should have been.

I hope the goddamn crab made it a full twenty. They were (are?) my friend.

You Want Maximum Stupid I am the Guy

Lately I've taken to wandering around and watching the world on mute. It's strange with no auditory input. Really sharpens the edges. Take, for instance, just now at the Moosehead where I am ostensibly "working from home" there is a gigantic television playing the series "Supernatural". I've never seen this show outside of the bar and the only reason I know of it is that it airs on TNT network which sometimes has hockey games but must fill the day drinker's viewing schedule with reruns and trash until said time as puck drops. All manner of spooky things are happening - a car drives without a pilot, a little girl's playground goes maliciously poltergeistish, a child is lured by a malevolence to be locked inside a refrigerator. The adult actors are trying with all their might to be serious, dramatic, full of affect. It's like watching your children in a school play. ("Aww honey, you were so good up there!" Proceeds to nurse a hidden whisky flask in the middle school theater lobby.) Is it bad? Is it shlocky? Maudlin? Disingenuous? Outright lies? How far from poetry has this performance drifted? How far have we?  

I was watching pair bonds happening in the cafe earlier. My god what a wonder. There were two tall, thin, Celtic-looking motherfuckers hunched at a table, over their phones, sharing each others' air and tertiary attention. I imagined a cave-dwelling couple, hunched next to a fire, both working  individual pieces of chert, each to their own crafting and purpose. (Oh look, the malevolence is conspiring to drown the episode's child protagonist in a public pool! Much drama. There is an 11th hour rescue. All is saved.) There were other folks there too. Olds. Witches. Shamans. Warriors. Fathers. I could say any number of things about them. Women with children spaced roughly two years apart, lugging their brood around with such insouciance, trailing bags and car seats and whole corteges of misery and plastic. I watched a woman smile at her baby and fortuitously enough, my friend Nick had recently supplied a quote from Denzel Washington that roughly said "when a mother has her first child, it's the last time she ever falls in love again."   

I recently discovered a new, to me, band named Alvvays. It's probably basic indie pop and a nothingburger critically, cranked up on echo effects and subtle production autotuning with a hint of reverb. Who knows? I'm certainly not qualified to say, but the lead singer's voice makes you want her to scoop you up and pet your head while you cry about being alive in that dualistic way of wanting to be off the ride yet not wanting the fun to stop. Who knows what she's even saying in these lyrics? All I know is she's a true savior, a right bastion of goodness. (Hey, look another episode of something. There is a wedding, delightfully sporting not one but TWO whole interracial couples, graciously black female/white male and black male/white female, maybe one of the guys is Latino. What could they be trying to teach us about race in contemporary America? Black bride affixes her tiara'd veil to a young blonde girl's head. I think it is the cop-drama is "Bones"?) I don't know the woman's name, the lead singer that is, but her existence is like being in the forest and spying a particularly fantastic fruiting body of some sort that only you will see before its decay into the nitrogen cycle. 

For work I went to Talkeetna. An episode of uselessness and terror. I vomited 8 times in one day due to stress induced anxiety at having to talk to strangers in some sort of professional capacity. A true Gallipolli, none of the objectives planned were achieved save the tenuous beachhead but I met some good (false modifier) people along the way. A sorceress in the library, a gremlin hooked to an emphysema pump, a sundry goods store cat, the barkeep who was so glad I'd said I was from Palmer rather than Wasilla, the bar patrons who then proceeded to roundly trash Wasilla. Talkeetna's a place, that's for sure, and the pic above is from the only bar that was open on 25 January and only one of four establishments of any sort that was open to commerce. My friend D has written about this very inn and I highly recommend his collection of stories that contain said experience. I stayed in a cabin that my employer was supposed to pay for but didn't and I turned in early after watching Wheel of Fortune. It reminded me of my old man when, one of the contestants asked to buy a vowel and then solved the puzzle, I protested loudly as to the contestant's dumbness at having thrown money away when the phrase was so obvious. (Now there is a pro-adoption commercial featuring a black family wherein the adopted teen discovers how to create a dish before heading off to independence and his adoptive mother finds a prepped dinner for mother and father after he'd gone. I cried. Idiocy. Cretinism. Other stigmatized words indicating less than average mental function.)

As always, the puzzle of existence, of sentience remains. As always, not in any methodical, rationed way but more in a vacant catatonic internal scream reverberating in a standing wave inside the skull's bowl. Sometimes I wonder what it's like to be a person who has "no bad days". There is a couple that comes into the bar, retirees, every Thursday afternoon to share two Coors Lights and hash out their week. Here comes the second round right now. There's a guy, slim, likely white, awkward, who plays predictable oldies on the juke and sings along as he shoots terrible pool on Wednesdays at 3PM sharp. It's Mike's birthday today and there is a cake and balloons for when he arrives in about 30 minutes. The afternoon bar is a hell of a scene. You can do anything here. Take a shit. Read poetry. Cry. Watch sports. Vomit. Listen to dead people sing via a hand computer. Write. Be.

Be.

Sunglasses

I am in a state of continual bafflement about the necessary evolutionary idiocy of human pair bonding and the delicate Newtonian curved functions of women's asses. Are these two things related? Will you make a point, ever, that is not wallowing in the obscene, the erotic? We know the answers to these questions already but as I sit here in the cafe, the wonderment about the initial mysteries is profound indeed. Despite the amount of awe these constructs procure, I've come to no real conclusions about anything deeper than a base, root code, instinct for the propagation of species. Worn ground, endlessly tracked, sure, but wonderful all the same. 

More and more, I truly believe in the audacious luck my life is perpetually becoming. I went to the store today and dropped a bill on booze and sundries. Seven dollars for a pint of vegan, keto friendly, coffee creamer. Thirty five for beer and wine. Four for a package of hair ties (I low-balled these.) Twelve for shit paper. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. The day prior we went sledding with friends in the neighborhood. We've been feasting for days, eating like madmen barons with heaped plates of meat and cheese, bread and olives, pastries and chocolates, stood by with whole gallons of beer and liters of wine. I remember, once, seeing my old man at the kitchen table, head in hands studying a checkbook that lacked the funds he needed in order to make the monthly note on the trailer where we lived. I don't remember his face, but the scene of him staring at the wanting ledger maintains, a theme of woe, a great unavoidable burden.

As the year climbs back into lightness, I had the phenomenal luck to be party to many rituals - all of them profound. We visited the river with offerings for the birds and the moose and we hailed the river roundabout, supplicating for a blessing of another agreed upon year of togetherness. We effused goodness and warmth and, later, for our ministrations we were gifted with an earthquake, a sure sign that the animism in Nature had heard our prayers. Later still, the entire family gathered in a log communal house bedecked with fake boughs and colorful ribbons. We sang hymns and celebrated the miraculous act of conception and birth, lighting candles and hearing all the old stories. An 8 months ripe mother played a flute and a young, attractive couple dueted blissfully while a communal fire was raised and another, younger and more attractive couple ushered around bits of the flame for our candles. A brief flicker of light in the dark, an exhortation to go forth and be fruitful, a petition for tribal unity. It was the most human thing to have struck me in some time and I left elated, exuberant, cursing God in the parking lot for the beheld miracle.

 Christmas day came. I spent the day ice-breaking through reality, trying to get a handle on its faults, the rips in the fabric. It was a useless pursuit, but worthwhile nonetheless, like most things. The Packers had won the day prior and I was happy, sotted, twisted, alive as we sat around with family (man-woman-child-grandparents). As much as I wish I could, I can never forget the news clip of a Palestinian father and son murdered by Israeli snipers in the early, heady days of the first intifadah. (You've talked about that before, broken record.) I wonder what happened to the rest of that family, now, twenty years on from that afternoon. 

I'm Risking It Always

I started a new job, likely the cause of my most recent and critical terror. It's an endeavor to support homeless queer and trans young folks who haven't been presented with the most welcoming environments in their limited experiences. My colleagues at the new joint are all the worst hope junkies, furiously railing against systems and bureaucracies and the general funk of the world and the furtive realization that nothing matters except this singular instance of passing, tick, tick, tick, of the neverending present. Who knows what I'm talking about? I sure don't, but better yet, who knows what lies I will profess next?

I've been doing a multi-dimensional comparative reading of various texts - tomes on magic, religion, and the various and nigh identical communal fantasies that arise whenever more than two or three are presently gathered together, naturalistic poems concerning the majesty of the insect world, the capitalist necessity of the witch hunt and the vast legislation against the common individual, essays on poetry and translation, short stories, and a thoroughly racist account of the Killbucks' missionary vision among the Yup'ik peoples in the late 19th century, among other things. Just now, I had the thought that I felt very much like the ewer from Aesop, the one in which the raven drops stones to raise the water level so that it might drink from the vessel. I don't know what I'm talking about.

Throughout my adult life I've been stricken with nightmares, needing to be shaken awake from a moaning keen by my bedmates, whoever they might be, to stop the reel playing in my brain. The other night I had a dream of the agglomeration of the most beautiful and innocent and wonderful young girl with whom I'd had a conversation. The talk was light, airy, full of magic. We sat on a bunk bed and talked, she in a nice blue dress with crisp linen mille feuille. In the dream's logic, I had to recurrently leave the little girl in the bedroom where we were speaking, and was forced to pass by the child's corpse being stuck to a wooden peg, like a coat, on a closet door that stood outside the room. I screamed and cried, looking at her little shoes. Dangling on the peg. Her living face so resplendent in memory and not reality. I don't know what that says.

The solsticetide festival season is upon us and the cafe throngs with holiday liveried folk and well wishing and parades. Dax Riggs mellowly croons "I'll see you all in Hell or New Orleans" of that titular track from his eponymous record and I get the feel that he'd definitely vibe with that notion here in Palmer as folk shepherd reindeer through the town commons and a cobalt blue tractor hayrides bundled children along the town's streets as the tatted barista dressed as a lithe Ms. Claus delivers trays of steaming sandwiches to tables brimming with old women and their grandchildren. Does that follow? (It does not.) I sometimes wonder what it is I'm trying to say.

I can go with the flow. 

Hey, Hey!

Here's a collection of depressing things I've found on a recent trip to Bishop's Attic, and maybe some commentary. 

When you witness heartbreak in the real world, what does that look like for you? Has the child died? Is this Raymond Carver? Is this Hemingway? The child has died, regardless, in theory or experiment, for this item has made its way to this image. What is the baby's name? Who did she look like? What is her (possibly inextant) arc? There are billions of heartbreaks flowering all around us.

Absolute insanity in any direction, a blanket of non-stop wondrous living, pushing into the right void of nothingness existence in a moment that cannot be replicated. And the sound, sound, sound of it hammering, concordant, disconcordant, at times harmony, at others noise. There is a portion of us that pushes against the false reality and gives the briefest moments of smeared clarity that also cannot be fully resolved. Look at this little girl's face. Feel every instant of her being. Joy.

This life, my life, has been a spectacular spiraling about things that keep surprising me. As if I'm some idiot continually reminded of the shit that's happening outside my window. It's as if you live in a haunted house but become acquaintanced to the ghosts. You get to know shaky drawer Beth who rattles the silverware, Moany Pete who can't shut up about his heartbreak, Cold Area Maver who you just put on a blanket and sit with.

50 years only to end up in a thrift store. Who would buy this? Who could drink from such goblets? Me. Imagine sucking down the lifeforce of 50 years of co-being. Imitative magic in the extreme. Parrot the thing you wish to happen. I left the set on the shelf as a faded ghoul in the rear of the thrift store hacked and hacked at some catarrh. Later, I would go to the bar.

Uly and I engaged in the old, the ancient, the creation of magic amulets and medallions, the genesis of coins, of numismatics, of record keeping, of bureaucracy, of grain, of slaves, of property. He's a quick study, the lad, and he knows things writ deep in the nature of his soul. These things we inhered with special portent, in the hopes that they might see the sun through to another passing, another moment, another everything.

Don't be so hard on yourself.

 

Howl.

Evidence of a kill, possibly by an American Kestrel. 

Not from Ginsburg, but from Alexandra Savior, who I've recently discovered in my ever expanding circle of shit that I'm into. I've been listening to a lot of Indie/Folk lady singers belting out their heartbreaks and melancholic misadventures with their wavering throats in tones like pink lemonade to steal a lyric from another of Ms. Savior's jams. Who knows whence came this re-education, but as I was saying to my special lady earlier, I should have known something was in the works as I had been the alone twink 17 year old boy with tears in his eyes who embarrassedly and with much self-consciousness crooned along, badly, word for word, with Sarah McLachlan's "Adia".

See the swag, the drip, the absolute candy paint bling recently copped from Faerie magazine's merch portal. You can find them under the "Witchy" tab on their site which hails to contain "all things witchy!" This also says something about the current rabbit trail from which I send out these inconsistent updates. I remember, it being the apropos time of year upcoming, how much my mother detested the thought of witchcraft and the unbearable stench of anything pagan let alone Satanist. When we were kids we never dressed up for All Hallows, even going so far as to turn off home lights and ignore the knocks of the bravest trick or treaters to haul up onto a darkened trailer porch in rural Mississippi for treats for the fear on my mother's part that even a dalliance, a bit of fun, an opening to evil could lead to a slippery slope of idolatry and sin, the loss of our collective and delicate souls to the foul machinery of the Devil's workshop. That probably says something about me too, but I'm ill-equipped to say what as I'm all I've got to analyze the situation.

A rare internet sighting of a Dighiera in the wild, seen socializing with wise folk.

I turned 40 recently. I certainly wouldn't proselytize the greatness of simply existing in the world for its own sake, by any means, but this past birthday was the easiest one yet. I spent my celebration day alone, twisted, wandering around town, completely adrift, my special lady having abandoned me for her summer hiatus in the lower 48. I ended up at the bar, natch, and can't remember much about the particulars of it - what I ate, drank, heard. It was, as many current days have become, a seemingly endless cinemascope of a man performing bizarre Skinnerian behavioral loops. Hypotheses: Given "a", subject will wake, look at a screen, rise, dress, walk to a cafe, drink coffee, write, walk to a bar, read Virginia Woolf. Given "b", subject will wake, look at a screen, rise, dress, drive to an office, look at a screen, drive home, drink. Put that on repeat and the edges start to blur. It's reasonable to accept that some of the details are lost but that, on balance, I feel the days are "good". Likely, disaster is just around the bend.

There's snow in the Talkeetnas, the Chugach. COVID numbers are through the state's roof but, as the barista implicitly informed me recently, the pandemic was, in fact, over. I agreed. So do the hoi polloi of the cafe, me one of their ilk, sitting around in the public spaces of others, wantonly breathing particulate clouds around us, perforating each other's bubbles. I had a cousin die of the disease recently. She worked in the hospitality industry, restaurants specifically, in the deepest south you can probably go in this country. Thinking about her situation - an intubation, sedation, improving function, being woken up, trying to learn how to eat again, then a rapid decline into eventual death, is all abstract, like some kind of impressionist view of how shitty it is to die choking on your own fluids. Yet here we are, all doing our thing. You can't think about it too much.

Cafe Mind, Mind Cafe

Today I arose at a hefty 10 AM after lying in bed for more than an hour, staring out the window, at the screen, scrolling the tubes, watching the spectacle. After waking, I finished the cherry cider leftover from the night before, a nice, 6 oz. lift to what had all the trappings of a perfect Sunday morning, minus the availability of the Eucharist (my own fault, really). Instead of the liturgy, I repaired to the cafe, my seeming church, its congregants my brothers in faith, these days. There are all manner of folk here and only the old men come in, much like myself, for their soups and coffees alone. There is a boy who resembles the fat kid from Stranger Things on an awkward and seeming first date with a young lady. They make small talk and fumble with their cups. There are families, whole scores of people, with babies and children eating tiny portions of grilled cheeses. Old ladies consort in the corner. People stab plastic straws into disposable cups with a prurient urgency. Lana Del Rey is fucking slaying me and I'm close to sobs. Holy God, send a little help to your scribe down here.

Yesterday I was in the cafe solely for reading. I had been writing a truly insane piece of journalism that will never see publication (but that's okay) but put the juice on hold for the day in order to scratch around through a collection of thoughts from various authors. Continuing my education, as it were, refreshing the knowledge I'd forgotten. I stopped after each section in each book to "rest my eyes" as my mother would implore me if I video gamed too long. The cafe was a bustling oasis of warmth and I had just finished a story by Laura Van Den Berg (Volcano House) where the protagonist's twin sister fell victim to a mass shooting. I began to dwell on the absurdity of this, the logistics, the tactics, the possibilities of a man (white, mid-twenties) prepping in the nearby bathroom to gun us all to hell (the delicate click of rounds into magazines). I arose to investigate, found no shooter. Pro-gun Trump guy was in the cafe and I considered the lack of public violence in my town. How would one go about such an endeavor? Remember basic Marine training. Begin planning. Arrange recon. Make recon. Complete plan. The thing I can't remember unless I google (Its acronym's placeholder being an I). Supervise. What was I doing if not making said reconnaissance? I studied the layout of the cafe, the patrons, the curiosity of mass shootings happening in mostly open venues like supermarkets and malls. Here, we were/are target dense, few exits, choke points for bodies, literal fish in a barrel. Why hadn't the imagined guy from the bathroom come in blasting? Which corner would he take first? What child could I steamroll to escape? The thought of a hand grenade rattling around in the small nook. A possible incendiary device, maybe more. The pop pop pop of 556 rounds into puffy coats and bodies. The baristas flooding out through the kitchen in back. Maybe a surprise? Maybe Pro-gun Trump guy engages the target with a concealed pistol? Maybe an "allahu akbar" prior to a clean and final light? Rest your eyes, Benjamin. 

I go back to work tomorrow. Not excited about that one. I suppose its necessary as I've worn out my welcome at home and everyone needs a break. This "vacation" of mine has been, like all things, a mental odyssey. Another family through the door, vacantly looking around before selecting a table. A child in bib snow pants (mauve?) runs about smiling like everything, the world, life, is okay. The beauty of the young is so grand, in that they are ignorant of all the ways the earth will destroy them. Yesterday (Friday?) I watched a short-eared owl coast above the Matanuska river before plunging, presumably for prey, into the reverse slope of a nearby rise in elevation. Everyone is speaking wordlessly, replaced by the music making a circuit of my ears which in turn is equally as meaningless/ful. Ah, fuck it.

I suspect I should get in this balloon and motor.

Mind Cafe, Cafe Mind

In the dark (brilliant, dazzling) temple of the cafe where there sits a family of seemingly Nordic stock enjoying the hard-earned labors of the man and woman (man sits with his hood raised) among the children dressed as ragged scamps (one, a boy possibly, doffing a red and feathered felt fedora prior to repast). They are curious. Recently I read the story of a prehistoric mass grave unearthed and examined in Europe somewhere (the Baltic states? the Balkans?).  A collection of skeletons unceremoniously dumped in a pile in a shallow grave all of which bore the evidence of disastrous head trauma, aged 2 to old, and only a few of which were related genetically. The scientists speculated as to what had happened, what led these bound victims to their brainings, but if you pay attention to this family over here, you already know. A massive, ugly truth from the deep unrecorded.

A barista delivering a meal passed within arms length. I chuckled about that. Last night A and I finished a movie, I'm Thinking of Ending Things, which is, as far as I could ascertain, largely themed around the armature narrative of the unknowable other. (Jesus, will you ever shut up about that?) It was good, infuriatingly so, the way decent works of Art are supposed to elicit outrage. Of course I wanted to argue with A about it but she would have none. There is an ancient man, a gnome by rights, who frequents the cafe in the same way as I. The baristas know him, his usual, and I even saw one of the prettier ones, one who works here no longer, hug him once. He sits and watches and I rarely see him speak. Is he a widower? He is always solo, save for that legendary scene where, over bibles and notebooks, the blonde woman a quarter his seeming age asked for a hug and received one (avuncular, well-meaning, rightly-intentioned, no hint of filth). Fuck I hope she's doing well, wherever she is.

The other day at work, I consoled (one wishes), a young lady from the village about a recent test result that had not gone in the intended direction. She was upset (it seemed) at not having performed on a metric that others had impressed upon her as important. She'd called to see if it were appropriate to visit my office at the oddness of the hour and I said yes, natch. She asked on the test results' seeming import and I explained that, while I understood her concern, to not bother with feeling shame, or bad, or negative as the test was an absolute falsehood. I tried to inform her of testing's inherent bias and of things cultural and societal that had conspired such that she'd never reach the hoped for goal and as such pining about missing the mark was a waste of energy. Can you imagine the roles reversed? Can you imagine yourself hunting seals and being graded on your performance adversely and then feeling poorly because strangers might be disappointed at your failure? Absurd. Insane. Possibly unethical. Definitely wrong. She left after a quick chat and her eyes smiled but I don't know if it was genuine as she was wearing a mask for the duration of our visit. Bizarre. Wonderful. I cried after, about the futility, the hopelessness, the implicit consent with all the things that conspired to make her feel bad that her score decreased. 

White guy in dreads across the cafe, near where the paleolithic massacre victims had sit. I've been flogging the beast of race in these posts lately, mostly thoughts about whiteness. I don't know what I'm saying and I have no agenda. I don't even have a cogent position as you have seen. It's like hearing an idiot's blather. Yet it won't leave my mind unless the trepanning here. Earlier today I learned that Trump was set to launch his own social media platform. Other things I learned from the news recently was that a man killed a six year old girl, shot twice in the chest after spilling some water. Some guy killed a bunch of Atlantan Asian people the other day. The same student I spoke to about her test results had previously taught me the Yup'ik word for caribou. I described my life to Nick and Dan as a "series of potions" and I think that's pretty accurate for us all. When challenged about the grandiosity of a woman's armpit aroma this morning, I maintained that it was definitely top ten in odors. (You're making up that part.) A young blonde woman is eating a pumpkin roll in front of me. I mean, if you can't see the species connections here, I'm not sure I can paint a clearer picture. 

Balance, Balance, Balance

The cafe is a vast and sobering place. Lunch press is upon the baristas caroming behind the counter to espresso, pasta, soup, chatter, receipt tape, orders up, mania broadcast from every cornice. There are folks here, all white, hugging and laughing and, before I juiced into the prog jazz station recommended for me by an A.I., conversing about the economy and recovery and COVID related things. Across from me at the shared long table, is a man whose laptop declaims loudly his a: being a gun owner and b: that he is stolidly pro-Trump. The women, one of them is probably Eowyn Ivey, all wearing the uniform of the white: yoga pants/leggings, puffy Northface coats, children in tow. Earlier, in the library, there was a woman, in the uniform of the day, with four children, only one of which was school age whose youngest daughter supplicated, pulling at mom's coat pocket flap with a keening "unnhhh, unnhh" for a full three minutes before her mother dismissed her with, "One minute, honey." I was in line behind her and imagined all the implications of the scene before me, all 4 billion years of it, the absurd machinery. Who are these people? Why can't they get out of my head? Why can't I get out of my own?

Later, I went to the grocery store and spoke only in memes, aloud, to the patrons attempting to shop alongside me. I spent 80 USD to purchase items to make po'boys. I laughed in the check out line as I relayed this amount to Uly. When he didn't appreciate the hypocrisy, I enjoined him to chuckle, in the vein of Foghorn Leghorn, as "It's a joke son, you're supposed to laugh." I have the feeling that I'm going to be the old man in the home who speaks in crude and unrecognizable snippets of a lifetime of exposure to a culture that refuses right understanding and all cogent analysis. (Can you imagine explaining your daily life to an extra-terrestrial?) I imagine the long suffering CNAs doomed to cater to my needs as eye-rolling goddesses. How can one study a thing without the trappings of its infection? Maybe that's where the writing comes in, a kind of barely-maintaining-sanity-life preserver, a consciousness Mae West inflatable. Maybe the point is to become so cryptic and esoteric that one eschews ciphering, to write oneself into a nice solipsistic dreamscape from which awakening is unable and undesired? 

The older I get, the more I seemingly understand, as much as anyone understands anything, the flow of the jazz tunes that the machines suggested I hear. I've been in the nerve for a while now, long enough feel profoundly revolutionized yet not long enough to begin to question my initial assumptions, a dangerous juncture. I might say any number of asinine things at any second, outing myself as a fraud, a neophyte, an idiot. I wonder if the Trump sticker guy has these thoughts. Maybe I should ask him over a heteronormative and totally not homosex beer that I know, at least for myself, is going to happen later? We could talk shop, discuss the nation, engage my fellow patriot. The fictions we collectively suckle are delightful indeed. Wait, hold up, I just glanced over at my man's next to me (not the Trump dude) screen and found he was reading the story of Jesus's encounter with the famed (infamous?) tax collector sitting in a sycamore. I'm surrounded. I'm terrified. I'm in love. Man, is this track screaming. I need to displace, to reload.

The new pos is engaged with an enemy in the form of a white man, bearded, 30s, wearing a hoodie, who is roundly expounding about the military-industrial complex to a table of similarly raced folks, both apparent men and women. Oh, he's going hard at it, talking, talking, talking, declarative in extremis (What is it, exactly, that I think I'm fucking doing right now?). A woman at the hand-gesturing instructor stretched her back, twisting against the chair in left and right arcs and revealed she had, no doubt during the course of this very morning's shower, shaved her armpits bare. The light fixture over the table's head has one blown fluorescent bulb, the kind that, when introduced a while ago would destroy the incandescent bulb market and was seen, by some, as anathema to lighted structures. The walls of the cafe are decked in new watercolors and ink at obscene prices. I am beset by words, by lies, and the more I see them, the more I hate lies, as Captain Willard would say.

I was recently taken with the fantasy of using Uncle Joe's stimmy money to partake in a Greyhound bus tour of the Michigan wilds. Jesus Christ guys, I just took out my earbuds to go get a birch beer with ice and heard mil-ind complex guy say "For a minute there I thought you said 'game theory' and I was all 'eeeeeee' because it seems complex but it's really based on simple principles." (Legit LOLs here in the cafe as I type.) Anyway, I wanted peruse the highways, in Poe Ballantine fashion, of the upper Midwest, logging country as I understand it according to Papa Hem, and meet a kindly old man named Bert who would teach me to hunt and fish the land in a way my father never did. We would wear mackinaw coats and hunting caps with ear flaps and stroll the wood with our shotguns, looking for pheasants. Bert would be the kind of person who had never heard the construct "cancel culture". He would be solidly anti-hippie, but would, for reasons unknown to himself, take a liking to my long hair and ratty beard. He would have vague libertarian notions of national governance. Evenings, we'd sit by his cabin's glass-doored woodstove and stare into the fire without words, sharing warm whiskies, before a shuffle off to sleep. A completely absurd scene, surreal really, one that lives in my mind, like this cafe, like the baristas, like the Trump guy, like Zaccheus, like the military industrial complex, like this music, like everything else.

Jesus, these are words. 

Magic, Magic, Magic

Earlier today, the barista stopped me before I ordered and said "Don't take this the wrong way, but I was watching a documentary about a cult and you look like you belong to it. Hold on, let me show you." Then she proceeded to scroll her phone's images to display a shot of a  group of African men in orange jumpers, much like the thermal garment I wore. We then had a good laugh, mine altered, hers seemingly genuine. It's not the first time these young women have said something about the meat face and aura I project. Previously, I'd been informed that, from among the patronage, the group of early and mid-20s caffeine dealers (all white, many Christian) had decided that I was the one most likely to be/become a serial killer. It's nice to be seen, by anyone, much less a troop of attractive, young and unattainable folk even if it is not in the kindest light.

Speaking of the cafe, I took it on myself to visit for a prolonged stay, the first time since COVID numbers in the valley took a significant leap back in October of last year. The place is every bit as mysterious, as casually strange as it has been with only the sporadic mask sighting, a kind of looking glass back into pre-COVID days when people had the sheer temerity to gather indoors in large numbers of souls not in their circle in order to breathe on each other. A woman passed so close I could smell her perfume, and I had the insight that it was a divine thing, the smelling of people not your own and likely, I imagine at least for myself, to go away for the most part on a large scale just because COVID. Speaking of, numbers are down, statewide, from their obscene peaks around solstice-tide and so I sit in this magical spaceship cabin with my fellow passengers - to be awed by their separateness. If only there were some way to reach them, to communicate an experience, yet not one is reading a book. A bizarre let down from the species.

At work lately, students have been returning in fits and starts - subject to the whims of a fanatical bureaucracy and the order by fiat mentality of all the most oppressing machines. That I'm a tool of institutional racism is a fact that never fails to present itself. The Department of Labor needs civilized, meek, conflict-resolutionized, and anger-managed facile drones for the work force. At work the mechanism seeks to take the Native out of the Native; the sufficiently un-white, un-western must be whitened and westernized, else they will be unable to get and maintain a job "outside of the village". This and sentiments like these ring from the dorm mezzanines and the classroom walls, the institutional hallways and in the communal dining hall. My role in the beast is finely tuned, one for which a body must have the thinnest veneer of empathy to execute, and must be an organism attuned to the jazz sax wailings of a student's potential employment in Q4 lest the company performance rating take a hit, and one where a person must bow to the bottom line of and apparent student success, but who must also must carry around with them the family mysteries of hundreds of individuals, all piping similar melodies of the cruelties that brought them to us. What a world.

The equinox is trending and it shows - water in the streets, slush in the gutter, the scrubby cottonwoods on the walk downtown birthing just beginning to green nodes of leaves, vast labile moods from despair to euphoria. I haven't written anything coherent in months, almost a year. I've tried to corner ideas, snare them, but all of the things I write sound banal, corrupt, greedy, and, worst of all, repetitive. Topics abound that I wish to broach but the words look like idiots on the page, myself the idiot king puppeteer. A sentence appears yet one does not follow. The thought of submitting a story to a magazine sits obscenely gesturing at passersby. The prospect that graduate debt was a waste in both time and energy, at least in terms of creative ability and proliferation, looms.

  Ah, time for the bar and pint rim paredolia after some prolonged absence.

If Only

Today was an exercise, as all true days are. Get up, get nourished, ingest potions, armor up and get out the door, get experience, try to swagger through the buffs and debuffs of your most recently saved campaign. I'd the day off from work due it being the new year and the morning was a divinity of light and sun and the cat on the windowsill and a card that Ulybear and I made for his godmother, T, in thanks that she sent us a greeting and update on the necessary beauties of her own compartmentalized being. Once accomplished, I sat on the sofa and watched the mountain grow and mutate in the cresting sun. A went to the store and I put on music and slow swayed around my living room ingesting all of the beauty-terror of the day and my being in it. That has nothing to do with the Scoob here in his Christmas regalia but there he sits like some obese and profane satrap lavished by concubines and born along the yuletide snow drifts in an immense palimpsest born aloft on the shoulders of slaves of many races. It, the photo, is simply another mote in the ever growing gyre of absurdities in which we, all of us, swim.

Christmas happened, is happening, depending who you ask and we had the day ensconced in the living room, unwrapping gifts from locales near and far, myself with the added task of police calling the yard of waste generated by unboxing and unwrapping. Even with recycling, you fail to not make a substantive amount of trash but we persist in these rituals as they are older than memory can recall, developed at a time before which writing could chronicle. The weather is cold, it is dark, the spring may not come, I've been stuck in this motherfucking cave for a moon and unless we, as a tribe, make some diversion and spread goodwill then I swear I'm going to jab this antler tipped spear into someone, anyone, maybe even myself. My mind is prone to flights of idiocy, true, but I spend a fair amount of time trying to grind out what appears to be an inherent meaning between myself, the past, ancestors, my children, the stupidly unknowable future. Here is one of the nuggets, a high resolution raven blasted onto a canvas, courtesy of my two oldest. It attains primacy on the cave wall here, with others of its ilk, an important addition to the miracle of birds. Future archaeologists will ponder the meaning of this room of the cave. Did we venerate the birds because we believed them to be deities that would ensure the sun's return? What other evidence in the surrounding sediment layers support this hypothesis? 

My special lady got me a horse for Christmas. It's beautiful. I love it. The plan is to take it to work and elevate it for all to see who should come visit my work cave. I've become obsessed by horses, have been for some time now. Just the other day, I sent a text to one of my dearest friends, J, who is herself a horse person, that read "I petted horses yesterday. That was god." The occasion to send such a text was Uly, myself, and A going to a horse farm event for Halloween and I remember the exact horse - a buckskin quarter horse whose name escapes this faulty tub of neurochemicals - and I looked into her eyes, into that strange ungulate space, back down into the history of it, of us conjoined together, our species as rivals, then theirs as food, then their impressment into the service of humans, now, largely, their role as pets and recreation. As I looked into this creature, and into myself, I was stricken by the remembered line from Blood Meridian "and everywhere... horses lay screaming" as the most horrific in a passage rife with violence, human massacre, scalping, evisceration, and unconsented and sometimes necrophilic sodomy.

We went to the arboretum today and I stood in a snowglobe of crystalline shards and columnar light fracturing with the mountains hoving up like sea beasts on the horizon and the diamond particulate fluttering through the air in the cold and the vast mystery of the trees and the unquestioned existence of sprites in the wood albeit in diminished magic due to the nature of their institutionalization and the vermiculite tracings of voles in the snow exposed by wind and melt and the vast clear overhead bell of sky and the pop of snow underfoot. Perfection, save the absence of the two oldest due to positive COVID tests and exposure on their end. What a world. 

The Return

Something, something, COVID-19 denial, I am a sudden epidemiologist who reads at a 6th grade level and I saw on the internet that the vaccine is Satanic mind control mark of the beast end times, masks are a tool to tyrannize and oppress and pacify, and the numbers are all wrong, and what happened to the flu this year, and if masks work why distance, and if distance works why masks? Don't even get me started on the election. Hoo boy, do you have hours to lose, to educate yourself?

It is rainy and a windy 37 degrees here in the nexus of my universe and there are three boys, my boys, crouching in this living room and all of us meditating on the reality of our screens. They've been back home for a while now, early November, and the shock of their nearness, their presence in my home that they'd previously mostly known during the summer, in the dim of the year, is a thing of wonder. It's fulfillment and despair and choked silent weeping as you make dinner because of the goodness and rightness and wholeness of it all.  

Something, something, raising children is so soft today because I can't beat the living shit out of them and they exist and grow in an environment that is safer and less traumatic than my childhood and for this they are weaker and of less substance than I and did I mention that problem alcoholism is just fine as the model for your adult life with children? It's science, and religion, and the truth. 

Uly-bear, apropos of nothing, decided to draw this scene which he described as a graveyard where the person alive was in despair. All this he narrated with a smile, an innocence that burned, as if he could never really know the true sadness of death because he's yet to experience it on the root level. 

Don't mind me, I'm into the weeds on this one.

Something, something if homeless people wanted to work they'd find work but they don't and so I won't give them any of my hard earned money that I earn at my work which is stressful and busy and I have to prove, and prove again, my worth, my life to the company/my boss/shareholders and please press the gun of my financial debt into my skull a little harder so that I may find yet a lower place of groveling in the work worship, to abase myself more for money or position or status or whatever employment god I choose to deify.

All sense of propriety and ethical professionalism have exited the stage of the work comedy and this past few weeks I've devoted hefty chunks of company time to the pursuits of elevation, creative indulgence, and formless drifting stares out of the winter window at falling snow and the hope of birds in the frame and a shameless gaming on a miraculously unblocked site for school-aged children. I crafted these three, these gifts, for my sons, each piece informing the creation of the other and each again a small perception of who I believe these human animals so dear to me, to be in this world. The works are rendered poorly, and all I can focus on is their imperfections and they're one of those smarmingly saccharine tchotchkes of child/young adult hood that one hopes they cling to and port with them the places they will go, perhaps hanging them up, perhaps in packing, or in a well-meaning pile for the non-event of their hanging.  I suppose it won't matter, in the end, even if these creations get shit-canned at some point, and one hopes it will be the memory of the effort that will inform their future selves. Who knows? I'm definitely not going to be around long enough to know, I'm sure.

This is the night of their finally completed arrival. I messaged my friends Nick and Dan that this was perfection, and I maintain it was one of the grandest peaks of my life to have these two smelly teen boys crowding my space. Uly loves them, their more attuned age, their energy. Even now, as they gaze screenward at games he hovers and watches, hovers and watches. I should yell at them to stop, to go do something else, to interact with the "real world" but I won't and so I'll let it go on and watch these watchers. It's pretty good, these scenes and prompts marveling at luck in how the world rolls along.

The view here is nice, you should join me.