The day was long. Or maybe it was the afternoon that seemed longer, anyway. But he was home now. He was pale in sheepish monkhood. He sat down at his desk. Wallace opened the can of beer that sat beckoning, and releasing the pressure stimulating his ear by way of tiny vibrations that only a certain peoples are aware to the exact pitch, his universe became once again balanced. He finished the can in one or two, large gulps and a smile returned to his brow. It was just before dinnertime in the humid-heavy blanketed town. It was early June.
“Boy, I wish it would rain,” he thought.
“Me too, he heard the dog say.”
His eyebrows arched and he looked down and to the right. The room filled with the smell of puppy fart, and seeing the dog was asleep Wallace wondered if that was his conscience, and then if his conscience had evolved as he had grown old.
“SHIT! These beers sure are strong,” he thought. He reached down into the cooler that long fossilized his presence, indistinguishable and honest, and fished through the melting ice cubes raising the 12oz. can from the gaveyard abyss, liquefied now and previous solid form dripped heavy with gravity fell and splashed down raising the waters level, he wiped the remaining liquid on his cut off jean shorts, closed the lid and placed the can in the same spot as the previous. Systematic.
The dog rolled over and was now with its backside directed away from his sense. The rooms smell was dissipating its fart smell and the air grew cooler. Of in the distance a motorcycle accelerated its light red shifted until vanishing over the hill. A vacuum cleaner came to life in the apartment next to his and when it shut off he could hear the faint humming from the blonde girl who lived there. A pretty bird he thought. One who always lost her eggs. They had lived in adjacent apartments for a few months now but rarely saw one another except on the weekends though he could hear movement in her apartment on most days.
Wallace was alone.
He was always alone.
He didn’t mind being alone, in fact most days he preferred to be alone in his own thoughts this changed when he was drinking in a manner that some would label as heavy, or excessive—for example, seven or eight beers might pregame four or five shots of scotch to return again back to the beers and polish of the 12-pak, to return again to the scotch, sometimes bourbon. Being alone and writing normally wouldn’t bother another soul in the world though being a social animal: Wallace, during these times, needed fresh air, and fresh looks. So, he sometimes would take to the streets.
Just then, the phone rang.
Riiiiing, R-I-N-G, r-i-n-g.
“Hello.” Wallace answered.
“Hello,” he greeted once more.
There was a knock at the door.
Wallace looked toward the door and then back down to the phone. He sat the phone on the ground and walked toward the door.
“It will rain,” a voice shuttered from the other end of the spectrum and voiced to no one, then…
The receiver went dead.
Wallace switched on the porch light and opened the door. There was no one there. The night was crisp and still, something furry brushed against his calf. He looked down the dog was awake and looking up. Together they stepped down onto the porch and walked out into the dark and onto the grass. Just then, the wind picked up and it started to rain.
It was hot.
It was early.
Outside, the wind blew waves of communication: the squeals of the neighboring kids, the smell of freshly cut grass, visible light, warming into the study. Our main character stood up and elongated his posture into the maximum distance his skeletal structure would admit. He was of elderly hue. He had long hair and a beard that was perfectly opaque in the exact same ways from a distance if he was still and, provide his clothing didn’t clash but camouflaged and concealed, old Hank might be mistaken for a battered and broken concrete pole, skinny and slightly askew warn with both weather and time. His name was Hank and he was an industrial finisher, had been for years.
she had a thick accent
she smiled when he spoke
they kissed under the stars
he shipped off afar
under the twinkle of the night
and when moon is bright
I look too
We are in the same
one more beer
ill take all of you
one more beer and
ill be drunk too
one more beer
one more beer
a typewriter on a laptop
all of the following is an inchohearent uncheck stream of consiences typed as fast as allowed so please don’t be offended in anyrate this is just my brain (Read: I am on durgs)
he found his name.
the lonely letter said so
altogether different altogether: only
talking to people, the nicest of folk: when fucked up is increasingly difficult. I believe this in-part to be entirely due to the nature of my mothers side. That is, in other words, in its most severe syktosophrentic in nature. Something like 14% battery on the 14th. What is the world. What is the nature of the world What is the relationship between interaction? What happens after?
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This is a science fiction short about an object that when held by a person reveals another persons story in entirety, as if you were that person. You felt what they felt, tasted what they tasted, smelled what they smelt. It was real. It was vivid. It was personal, but you don’t know why.
Every person only gets one persons life.
Every person only gets a certain amount of story per day.
Every person has questions.
It is a story that is about an object that lest you manipulate space.
And there it was.
It had been there all along, sitting idly by waiting for its time to come, that is, for its discovery to be made, again. The object is a peculiar little one, not much larger than the fist of a small child and as old as the universe its powers hidden from view for an immeasurable amount of time. It had been hidden in an average sized chunk of ice and placed and average distance measured end to end within a star system and so named kipper belt which was randomly chosen by a computer program by an intelligent being some good time ago. That is, in earth time.
Before we can continue I must warn you, dear reader, this story is one found within the object, it has been translated to the best of my ability—by way of time and study—and should not constitute, by any means, more than what it is. A story.
“Mr. Teflon, we found something over here.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t know, Come and see for yourself?”
“Is it big?”
“So, its small and heavy?”
“Bring it over.”
“It’s unliftable, asshat,” whispered OBJ10 under his breath.
Teflon got up and walked over to where OBJ10 was working. Teflon looked down at the object which in his eyes looked a pale blue and balanced, unlike life—he thought to himself.
“Cut around it with the plasma cutter so we can see how big it is.”
“okay,” said OBJ10.
The cut out the object which was much smaller than they had guessed and they placed it on a melting pad to slowly melt of the remaining ice. The computer clock said 16hrs.
OBj10 was new to the mining apprentice. He had only been resourcing for about a year. He enjoyed it, like most people he thought that it was like any other job. Some days were good and others were not, but he kept coming and it beat the monotony of life without travel. It was something he could be proud of, something that could still be classified as an art. It was special and he was helping people.
As I type this sentence, I’m listening to the Stooges “I wanna be your dog.” Its 2015 I graduated high school nearly two decades ago and this song was recorded almost two decades before I was born, but not quite. I am listening through a pair of headphones that would make even the most seismic student in the early 70s swoon. Simply stated: the last sentence sole purpose relating to this essay is to let you know the stooges are playing loud in my ear. Which is not the same for the next: My 15 month old golden puppy is destroying my girlfriends scarf—I cannot help but to think of the metaphorical substance here. I have decided tonight to listen to Funhouse in its entirety and write about this and maybe someday someone somewhere will find it and read it, hopefully to the end. Music is, for so many people, an escape from something or a pathway to some greener and more luxurious mood. In a word, fun. And we have the first song on the album. “Funhouse” Thus, I pose the question: For whom is the funhouse fun?
I rather enjoy the hypnosis that is provided in the opening of the album and by the second song a am nothing if not loose when the solo vibrates and shatters my self confidence about being able to do anything close to as splendid as this band. But suddenly the music has an advertisement, nay two, and completely kill the buzz the stooges and I had going. It may take decades to regain the momentum.
The third song on the album trapped my dog in the scarf and has him rolling back and forth. Its like he can hear the music and is reacting (appropriately). He is acting how I feel. For a second, if I may, I would like to bring to the attention of the readed the album cover of funhouse which is glorious in its hell. Iggy pop seems to be melting into s see of fire and all the while is subservient to whatever is bellow which is, more than likely, the reason for the comfortable look he has. Its either that or I have had more than my share of the album. Either way I’m still listening and will continue to do so. After all its not like this is a new record or that I stood in line to get a copy so I could rush home listen and can have a conversations about what it all means with anyone but…
He is here too remember.
What I mean to say here is that in the years since this records release technology has led to a time when this entire disk is completely available free of charge to anyone who has the app and a good enough internet connection to stream the data. In other words we now live in a world where, at least the musically curious, as well as the adventurous are able
…and another commercial, or add or what the fuck was I saying? What the fuck. Fuck.
Ah! Finally, the funhouse. This album is fucking fantastic. It is the single greatest thing that I have listened to all day, and I want to do it again. And again. I have removed the headphones and now can clearly hear the keys as I write this review. It is a review, correct?
If not it had better have a direction.
I suppose on some strange and academic level this essay is trying to say something. That is something other than if this decades old album still carries merit, or even what that merit is, or for that matter, was. This paper, below its surface if I take you down, if I separate you from all the things you are supposed to believe it that deep down inside the bowels of this essay in its most unusable energy: this essay is about nostalgia.
The world communicates, as does the Universe, to us through waves and radiation. Much of which we being meek in our structure and virgin in our time are unable to experience or we are unable to explain. Though there are those who think other states of conscience can help. I cannot begin to explain how incorrect their beliefs. This paper is in some ways related to just that thought as its purpose, funally: nostalgia is nothing but the experience with ones self on a period of history in which they have had a “first time”
Who hasn’t? Of course, I know nothing about the period in which day-to-day life was for these rock icons. I suppose I suppose I could Google it, but then it might be more fun to make the story up. Something about my adolescent smoking weed and not having to go to bed or, if you reader prefer, when the cat is away. But that is propaganastic petty play. The real villain of this party is Jonathan Jones. Or, is it Jones Donavon. I simply cant recall without great uncertainty, that is, in other words not science worthy.
I just heard a coo-coo clock.
I don’t own such a timekeeper, even a broke one.
I’m pretty sure I heard it again.
And what’s really strange about the situation that I find myself in is what I am doing because of it: actually concentrating on trying to hear it again.
What I see however, is a dog. The sun disappearing over the horizon or the tree across the street, anyway and without its light Im afraid I wont is able to continue to write.
A conscience person that is able to live two lives; it’s the same person only their thinking is based on the others time. For example: Frank was born in 2006 but his physical body lives in 1776. The information that Frank has about the future does him or any body no good. He knows about cell phones, and movies on demand, gps in cars and hiphop.
The five gallon emitted waves of unpleasantness to ring in his ears. The apartment smelt like a mix of stale beer, candle wax and wet puppy. It was mostly empty. The floors were hard and displeasing to the gentler side of human nature. There were a few lights placed in different rooms, some rooms had two others none and not a single lamp with a twin. There were six rooms in total of the apartment, though only one at a time was needed. With the lamps of the apartment there were piles of books; some were open with letters facing the floor others were stacked totemed to the height of an average man without shoes or a hat.
I don’t turn on the tv most days, even though I type on one. Some days, for something a little different, Ill change fonts, others still Ill just talk about it. On those days that I do you would do well to realize that sitting here is what I indeed, intend to do. Most days I overthink, or tend to overanalyze common situations. Perplexed by the inner workings of everyday situations.
Pointed, hilarious and useful are the exact words used to describe a sex pistols album.
It becomes another thing that exists only to be consumed.
They say in order to write you just need to write, still there are others saying that they are ‘really good writers,’ I have my reserves about the latter part of that sentence, but I really am a no one. Really. Stop reading this, go outside, sit in the grass, breath in the air; do something, but stop reading this immediately. If you don’t you will not be glad that you did. There is nothing in these lines but bad grammar and worse writing.
I don’t know what is going to happen if you keep reading. I have no idea. The idea might completely change and the story might wharf into something wholly different; it might lack substance, or clarity, it is most defiantly a waste of time. And if your still reading it take a moment and think about just that word, time. What is it really?
Right now, at this exact moment somewhere a dog is playing with a ball, he is chewing and rolling and he is no more than ten feet from me. He is covered by a pair of womans underwear around his neck. Its funny to look at but to hear the screams emitting from the ball are more than disturbing. That might have been too dramatic. It probably sounds more like a black hole collapsing inward. The puppy is at the age when chewing on everything, on anything, is what passes his day; he’s like 3 months. On second thought, he is three and a half months. His birthday is on February 24th. I’ll probably go sledding with him. Today I should buy him a soccer ball.
Every time my dog gets tired I take a drink. I wish this had deeper meaning than it does and I am sorry if you were hoping for a similar outcome. It simply means that my dog likes to play outside and I like to drink and we do this together. We really are good, good friends. The day was strong on my stomach. I had to shit twice in that hot fucking box, it’s not good to admit but deep down I’d almost rather shit in the blue box. I just wish I wasn’t quite as tired or thirsty during the day as I normally am. I could probably blame it on all the playing with the dog. But then the more rational and clear thinker in my head would say it is probably the booze. I cannot help it. I don’t even want to try.
My landlord said that we could paint the apartment in whatever way we like. I did. I wrote one number and one number only—the precise location that is required of the potentiometer of whose job it is to selecting temperatures. I did this for the number 375. Not because that was the number I had previously chosen for this here assignment but in fact, was due to where the dial was turned my first night living here and when I went to cook dinner I saw there were no numbers on the display. In fact, there was no display. I don’t own a stove. I’m lying.
Trying to write academically is super frustrating when you don’t have anything to say.
It seems to follow, at least from yesterdays pattern, my writing has become somewhat more concentrated that is, a semi complete thought for at least one paragraph. They neither are great paragraphs nor are they grammatically correct, but they seem to be getting better in structure. I hope. Today’s writing assignment comes again in the form of an album the devil put dinosaurs here and the first song is Hollow. It is fucking fantastic in its Alice in Chains sound, from the opening I am thinking to myself; okay yes, let’s get fucked up. However I am alone, besides my dog and he is preoccupied. So that is exactly how this article will be written: as it was intended to be consumed—as fucked, and jaded as I can get. I hope it’s a long album. I might be out of my mind, but the ad’s that fill the air between songs are exactly where I can get the supplies I need for whatever I am researching online. Its almost like there is no more privacy at all. It goes like this: I think to myself, and I say, self. This is a neat idea, so I do a little research—I’m really into it—and all of the sudden: “The next thirty minuets will be ad free thanks to the following sponsors. For example: I was in need of a “how to” for in order to bond glass, and after Hollow. The home fucking depot! And so, I will more than likely go tomorrow after work and see what I can find. Why? This is suddenly very concerning to me. Not because I broke my stem and cant smoke out of a water pipe, but because and possibly more concerning, its not 1984. Its much, very much worse. Big brother not only can get in my head, but he literally can direct the ways in which I think about how to spend my day; I cannot alone, anymore. Neither, dear reader, can you. A good while after WW2 there were a few gentleman that would sit around drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes, L&Ms. They never talked about the same thing more than one day in a row unless it was baseball season. They did talk about baseball, a lot.
That’s the think you see, the thought that we are the soul supreme inhabitants of the universe is incontrovertibly singular. All together this is not really a new thought, but what is new, what is really different is that because we all experience time different, is that it is impossible to prove this beyond reasonable doubt. That is to say, there is no possible way that by reading this a person, say you, a person can be convinced about what the writer, I—an in me—can express. You have to write it for yourself. Because I wrote it for myself, this is the only way you can experience anything like the feelings that I express and make me feel. Do you get what I am saying? I think it is going to rain when I die. 1992 was a far better year than 1994 for Layne Stanley. I’m trying to do you justice, brother. I really am, but your shit is deeeeeeep. “I cannot explain me.” Its probably because I AM THE SOUL INHABITANT of my universe.
What if he isn’t goanna die, this was the last thought before the needle pierced his skin and making permanent the bellow the knee cock tattoo he was about to get. On second thought, the straightest line between two points is a straight line. It’s not that hard. Or is it? The most important thing, of course, is to remember not to jump immediately.
I think Lane you would be proud. I don’t recall much, and I didn’t write it down.
It is now 5:21 and the end of the movie that has consumed the last two hours of my life is nearing completion. It wasn’t horrible, the movie, I think I read the book the movie is based. It had to do with music and life and breakups and heartache and loathing. Ha! Loathing in my living room. Maybe I will watch that Hunter S. Thompson movie next. Or maybe I will listen to the clash. But first a small tidbit about my life: I own a cat and a dog, and the cat loves to sunbathe in fact he is doing that very activity as I am writing. He is atop the dogs crate in front of the window catching radiation. His life is fantastic and I am almost jealous. Also; I have everything I have ever wanted. And yet…
I want to say here are my words and I could give a flying fuck if you like them or not. In fact, I am going to continue to write them even if you fucking hate them.
 Do not discard the amphetamines and weeds that normally accompanied
 I broke something.
 Re-named because there have been more, many more and we do not recall large roman numerals.