A Safe Watershed



An old graveyard overlooked the highway that led across the river to the new airport. When it rained, the earth on the hill loosened and bodies rose gradually. So a team of three young men on the graveyard were there for doing the maintenance, keeping the buried down after summer rain.

A plane filled with young women flew over and the sound in the air was scorched for some very long seconds while Freedy let the new boy know what he signed up for: Recently, a filmy waste from bodies in the town’s watershed contaminated the river that divided the city and the airport.

“First things first. I haven’t had sex in three days on account of all this Spirtual Waste in the water,” Freedy said. “The science teachers at the school said it must be coming from this graveyard. It’s the oldest one in town.” As the new boy listened, he unearthed a body that had begun to rise. His hands slipped down his shovel and his head followed down to the body whose head had begun to expose a bit of brain.

“Smell that? That’s what happens when the brains get out,” Freedy said.

The film reeked of spirituality.

“Spirtual Waste?”

“Don’t tell me you don’t believe in it. It’s been trickling down to the watershed area.”

Freedy and the other worker named Bo came and patched the head using gauze and stitches as the new boy watched, trying not to believe what he saw.
Another plane filled with women took their voices, and they continued the maintenance.

Freedy called the science teachers, and he said that they had found another brain exposed. They still didn’t have a good answer about where it came from. So he hung up quickly.

“It was difficult for them to be accurate on whether it the waste they were finding in the river was the body odor from river bathers, vomit from a post-fasting period feast, or unused semen. But they were sure the brains of the bodies seemed to dam it.”

The three men continued to steadily place old limbs back into the half-rotted coffins. They did not find another loose brain, but Bo called Freedy over to the edge of the hill to witness the damage that had already been done. They sat to watch the girls on the highway to airport.

“Watch them, boy,” Bo said. “Mostly women, flying from the new airport as fast as they could, searching for a cure by starting careers.”

Freedy said the worst was that the waste had given the girls false hopes, that their brains were going to be gouged from their heads when their new lives out their ended. He looked at the new boy.

“What are you going to do with your body when you die?”

“Donate it to science.”

“That’s what I’m talking about, Bo, you see all these kids think its smart to donate their bodies to science, not even thinking how that makes the girls do the same thing. You know what that means, boy? All these planes?”

“That means the whole country would be infected.” Bo said.

“I don’t believe it.” The new boy said.

“I just need one of them.” Freedy said.

“For what?” The boy said.

“I’m looking for a girl to offload my complete history in, so I can free myself.”

“Memories.” Freedy’s memories were those of paralysis and vanity.

He said the memories weren’t really real in the first place. But now, Freedy’s fragmented history was now serialized in the ears of the many women he had brought up the hill. The last girl he brought up to the graveyard could not be objective about his history and ended up ejecting Freedy’s memories all over the graves.

“Last girl of yours, she must not have been white,” said Bo.

Freedy said that when he revealed his history as fact, her skin color turned from the glow of ocean froth into an inky red tide, and then she began squeeze and roll Freedy’s life in pictures out of the ear on the other side of her face. Next thing, she was on a flight to California to fulfill her duty as a woman and become a neurosurgeon. Only one explanation for that kind of hope: something spiritual had gotten to her.

He had not even begun to tell her about his method of keeping a whole world of Spiritual Waste from rising out of his mountain. As she ran, he yelled at her that they’d never get his brain from his head, and that he’d have to make his body suffer a very physical lethal blow, so it was obvious how he died. No science needed.

After she left, sprinkled over the loose ground were pieces of pictures, one of which showed a foreign airport and a deplaning girl with a stack of books crushing her head into the ground. But they buried that one.

“Tonight I’m gonna take my new girl up here. And she’s not contaminated. Heads screwed on straight. If she’s says she wants to be an engineer, she’ll be with me till I die. Girls who are engineers know how to lock their minds in their heads. Girls who are engineers don’t like California, anyway.”

He paused.

“Have you been burying those pictures, Bo?”

“Yes sir.”

“Where have your girls been?” Said the new boy.

Bo only pulled a framed picture of his mother out of his coat pocket.
Bo had had a girlfriend and had sex with her. Afterward, he said he loved her, and that he had finally figured out what good sex was. He said:

“It’s the phenomenal meeting of mental, physical, and rhythmic awareness. You have to do that all at the same time. And you can’t even think about it.”

After that, the girl screamed as a framed picture of his mother slid out of the ear on the other side of her face. Bo’s mother had died of the Spritual Waste when Bo was born, but in the picture, she looked like she did in the 60s, pregnant and dancing. She was tall and atmospheric with no signs of damages.

“But that can’t be it. It can’t only be the loose brains that are letting the girls go, can it?” The new boy said.

After he said that, a picture of the three men, each sailing their own Spanish galleon, rolled out of the new boy’s ear and glided into the river at the bottom of the hill. He screamed until he saw what the picture had done.

The three men on the hill watched the cars stop on the highway. Carloads of girls ran down to the bank. Each was very pretty and made each man love the world they watched from the hill. More women from the airport came to the foot and looked at the river. They gazed at the river and talked about memories, throwing water up in the air, and even acting out scenes of their lives: sneaking out of windows past curfew, going to college. A woman with the infant cried and dipped him in the water. Yes, the waste was surely stifled.

More reports of a decrease in Spiritual Waste in surrounding areas filled in on the radio as the men who had very forgiving jobs watched and thought about the many children they would bring into this world with the help of the woman, waiting until the day wives can mutilate their bodies so the cause of death is simple.

The sun was setting and the bodies were all tucked in. It was time to leave work.

“Where are you going now, new boy?” asked Bo.

“I’m going to go masturbate into your mom,” the new boy laughed with the relief of getting off work and then paused, remembering about Bo.

“His mom’s dead,” said Freedy.

“It’s okay,” said Bo. “I’m not emo about it.”

There is now a website you can visit on how to keep your watershed safe from anything that may turn up in the water of some middle america.

Fart Jokes

It's true; the internet can be suffocating sometimes.

But I think that's understandable, for it's as if popular internet culture is a small glass room with the spatial potential of a clown car, and the clowns inside swathe themselves in priceless works, resurrected after suffering the spiritual death of a commodity.

Then they fart, and the farts are incessant.

You might choose to laugh at the sounds, might smell it long enough to where the smell of other's farts discomforts you, or you might start to judge what they've eaten or how they ate it, and you might then choose not to breathe. Or you might exit the clown car and complete the joke, and go on farting over the hills.

Fish Lines

Dee felt sick inside the city crowds, binding her and declining her to her knees.The mayor mentioned, “high-fives for the fish inclined to wear fair doctor frocks!”Her eyes widened, and her knees sprung from the paved ground.Dee shined out of the leagues of men in the legal rooms to the seas. She was inclined to be a doctor, and lest she veered, the high-fives would be then inclined to her. When she came, the sea flowed in a forward religion. So she declined onto her knees and fished in order to be a doctor. Dee needed bait. To better he yet, she lacked and needed a net. She was resigned, but then again inclined to her religion, so she used her sock as a fish netter. Dee flaunted the sock, soaking it in the see and trying to make the fish inclined to it. The sock only became a soaking vault never to be broken. From her brow, Dee’s tears fell, hit, and splashed a mossed-over rock, lying.But again being inclined to be a doctor, she forever carried floss in her blue frock. The floss let the fish faster become her fowl. Dee hooked and lined five fish. She was now finally inclined to disguise herself and get those high fives from the mayor, being the doctor. She stuck her hand through the gutted fish like a mitt, giving new layers to her skin. When she was fully disguised inside the fish skin, she finned back to the amphitheater to be outfitted with the fair doctor fish frock, thus inclined to be the doctor and get those high-fives from the mayor. But when she arrived, she saw the city crowds in waves. Ousted from the buildings and theaters and legal rooms, there was no more order. The men and mares were finning out and in of their religions just like how soccer is ordered. Upon seeing the fifty layers all finning in and out of the field and sea in leagues and schools. She looked high into the sky. Someone called a foul. Everyone declined to their knees. But she stood as her fin on point, and proceeded to fish for the gutted, religion inclined, blue frock wearing city people, one by one, inclining them back to their socks, healing all with her fishing.

There are links if you can't already see them below. I can't tell. Visit them if you can.

The set used to be in Florida, where I'm at again. I hope its still there. Alfred Hitchcock and the Art of Making Movies has been gone for some time, too.
The Back to the Future ride has been replaced by the Simpsons Ride.




















When I was young I was scared of Kongfrontation.
The fire hurt my face. I wanted never to have inched my way through the miniature New York and meet that great half-ape machine, swaying in whining cringes as it screamed.

Cadence

Don't say a word
Don't say anything
Don't say a word
I'm not even listening
I read in the paper about their escape
They're just two bit of kids from a bunch of sour grapes
You better watch your step


Watch who's knocking on your front door
Now you know that they're watching
What are you waiting for?
Think you're young and original
Get out before...
They get to watch your step

Ev'ry day is full of fun
And family spies
They're making heroes out of fall guys
They say it's good for business
From Singapore to Widnes
You better watch your step

Broken noses hung up on the wall
Back slapping drinkers cheer the heavy weight brawl
So punch drunk they don't understand at all
You better watch your step

Ev'ry night
Go out full of carnival desires
End up in the closing time choirs

When you're kicking in the courtroom
And you're drinking down the Eau de Cologne
And you're spitting out the Kodachrome
You better watch your step

Bye
I send you all my regards
You're so tough
You're so hard
Listen to the hammers falling in the breaker's yard
You better watch your step
You better watch your step
Ooh, watch your step

Real Time

Centuries should go by before I crawl out of bed, and to witness the passing from glowing pages is a scrutinized wave of the fingers, weakly lifting sharp moods thought once on a rock by the river, now curved about the folds beneath by forehead, and they seep tightly and fasten in the flexible words that have yet to be said.

"The gown fell gauntly from her shoulders, across her fallen breasts, then tightened upon her paunch and fell again, ballooning a little above the nether garments which she would remove layer by layer as the spring accomplished and the warm days, in color regal and moribund. She had been a big woman once but now her skeleton rose, draped loosely in unpadded skin that tightened again upon a paunch almost dropsical, as though muscle and tissue had been courage and fortitude which the days or years had consumed until only the indomitable skeleton was left rising like a ruin or landmark above the somnolent and impervious guts, and above that the collapsed face that gave the impression of the bones themselves being outside the flesh, lifted into the driving day with an expression at once fatalistic and of a child's astonished dissappointment, until she turned and entered the house again and closed the door."
.
- First description of Disley from The Sound and the Fury - April Eight, 1928.

This is Not An Audience

The University of Bentbrook opened its doors, which recently earned inscriptions, advertisements as a haven, safe from recession.

The teacher's head totters when we discuss anything that's worth talking about, at least for an hour an fifteen minutes two days out of a calendar week for several months until summer comes and we can go about the business of mobility - arrivals, departures, ways to escape, displace oneself preferably away from a safety net that was so kindly knitted by people deemed worthy for whom to sacrifice your narcissistic self as a clock tells you that things are actually measurable, mobile, from place to place inside of one place.


"There's the talking head syndrome," she posits.

So we read from Umberto Boccioni's Genius and Culture. It goes a little something like this:

THE WOMAN (without looking) Oh well, he's an artist...he wants to renew himself, and he hasn't a cent!

THE CRITIC (bewildered): Strange! An artist! Impossible! For twenty years I have profoundly studied this marvelous phenomenon, but I can't recognize it. (Obviously with archeological curiosity.) That one is crazy! Or a protester! He wants to change! But creation is a serene thing. A work of art is something done naturally, in silence, and in recollection, as a nightingale sings... Spirit, in the sense that Hegel means spirit...

THE WOMAN (intrigued): And if you know how it is done, why don't you tell him? Poor thing! He is distressed...

THE CRITIC (strutting): For centuries, the critic has told the artists how to make a work of art ... Since ethics and aesthetics are functions of the spirit...

THE WOMAN : But you've never made any?

THE CRITIC (Nonplussed): Me? ... Not me!

THE WOMAN (laughing with malice): Well, then, you know how to do it, but you don't do it. You are neutral. How boring you must be in bed! (She continues putting on her rouge)

THE ARTIST (always walking back and forth sorrowfully, wiring his hands): Glory! Ah Glory! (tightening his fists) I am strong! I am young! I can face anything! Oh Divine elextric lights ... sun ... To electrify the crowds ... Burn them! Dominate them!

So we continue to talk and understand, and then we moved on to the Dadaists, where one Tristan Tzara put, "Philosophy is the question: From which side shall we look at life, God, the idea or other phenomena? Everything one looks at is false. I do not consider the relative result more important thatn the choice between cake and cherries after dinner."

He became Surrealists when the WWI ended.

The Surrealists were less egotistical, because after all, they relied on the partition of the mind, as desinged by Freud. To create the marevlous, more than on one is needed. His terms are one side of the equation.

Creval notes: "The narcissistic individual, the one has remained in the expressive stage, has eaten up the universe and because he has devoured it, suppressed the objects, becomes himself the object, and thereby not only becomes insuffiecient unto himself but destroys himself. In the island whose outline is that of his littleperson this isolated being succumbs before the mirror he has questioned - he was questioned the most mediocre, the most vain, the most superficial of waters."


Surrealism can partly be summerized as a combination of art, philosophy, and psychology.

"How would Breton respond to Tzara's decree in Dada Manifesto of 1918, "Logic is always wrong," the teacher asked.

Logic is always wrong when one considers logic the only path to rightness.

Sick of it!

I did some automatic writing in class, but I (concisouly) wasn't a part of it, which is a Surrealist tradition, which isn't really tradition at all; in fact, it's against it. Though I remember promising to myself once never to speak truthfully here, so who knows?


A frowning achievment across the light source of minds couteracts with a contempt for life. A human, can only react against contempt, but a static moment encompasses an amplifies from the inside out in a infinite cloudless definition of items found at o0nce on the underside of our eyes, which, in rotation, grow into a garden of mirrors.

The castles built on hills lack the experience to give life to a child, and thefore give experience away in birds, plastic, metal made of now depleted raw materials of an earth that is not ours to know, but to forget as a senseless explanation of impluse.

I've been reduced to a delusion. The characters are inhuman. Shall I define myself as anything less than a fish in the net of a fisher alone and eating, selling, farting, and itching each piece of flesh once jostled by a mother who held nothing but a placid fear, like that of a white breeze?