Today in history, something happened. I don't know what it was, but I'm pretty confident in its existence, if only because I have a vague memory of being alive one year ago today and, having been alive damn near 57 years, I don't remember a day when
something didn't happen. And just as I type this the television says, "Anything can happen." Synchronicity abounds if you pay attention. The entire impetus for this post was thinking about how bereft of anything to post I've been of late, and then remembering Jack Kerouac's advice, "Write what you want bottomless from bottom of the mind." So I'm writing from the bottom of the mind, so to speak; that is, I get what Jack was talking about, I'm writing from a primitive part of my brain without a plan. Spontaneous prose, if you will. Well, not that spontaneous. Some upper mind is sneaking in here against my will.
As long as I'm rooting around, what else is down here? I see Mike's basement and holding hands with Mary for the first time, and a yellow Subaru not white like Crystal's last two or my 1979 taken away from me by that drunken asshole whose name I swore never to forget and now seem to have done so (but it will come to me in the middle of some other thought at some point and maybe even before I'm done with this pointless exercise in which case I'll share it with you - liable be damned). Eureka - Nick Judson would be the name, and I can only hope that karma caught up with him because the law sure didn't (rich daddy). But that was 1982 or so and what else is rumbling around down here is regret. Regret over dogs I kept tied up outside, banished out of "convenience." Regrets over roads not taken. Regrets over opportunities passed up, bottles not tipped up, tits not bottled up, trips not titted up, stinking steamy piles of dogshit winter snowyard Kelsey Street blues over tobogganing downhill with Alf the feral cat along for the ride. Shari never knew about that but then what did she care anyway except to be the object of adoration, cats being irrelevant to such exercises in futility. But that 1979 Ford pickup was certainly a piece of shit and I never even fucked in it, not that vehicles were a favorite spot but it was sure big enough, and beat enough (Larry sold me that piece of shit and then of course took my money working on it to keep it floundering along), but who on earth built that monstrosity of a wooden stakebed I'll never know and don't care. Sneezes scare the cat and the only question left is how many angels can dance on the end of my worldstick. If you know the answer, please RSVP as soon as possible to whogivesashit@gmail.com. Are you feeling me? Write a letter to your future self and see how far that takes you on the path to Nirvana.
My IQ just went down 10 points from writing this and if yours suffered similarly, I apologize. I apologize. I apologize. They always take off my favorite TV shows, but they never apologize for it. The rank and file bastards, filly flank steak horsemeat spaghetti sauce-stirring shitstorms. Hit me with your best shot and don't forget to swallow after all it's only a few days a year when sleeveless diamonds haunt the everafter carrying watermelons and dying in front of mothers and sons on bridges (shameless Kerouac reference) inside my already full fullness and outside the houses made of ticky tacky. Okay. Dreamboat. Whatcha doin' when you ain't reading my poetry for unintentional meanings? Don't worry - I know what I'm doing, famous last words: From that distance they couldn't hit the . . . . Drop dead, Fred, or centralize thyself accordingly so you don't have to decide between a shiny knight and a white rabbit. Bottomless bottom feeding mind - stick that in your hat and light up - there's no reason to write another word except the next word might be the one that saves you. Sorry I'm overdressed. I thought it was a formal occasion. Maybe next time you can loan me a T-shirt instead of this soul-killing tie spouting heresy (Jerry, I apologize, go back to playing your banjo if you can) - a lot can happen in three minutes, history can be changed, lives can be spiked full of Irish whiskey and deerslayers can run amok in the black thickets around Thornecastle clear till March we have to wait for the third installment - they'll probably never apologize for what they are about to do - it's inevitable, you know, because I like it too much. That's the rule, if there is one, and that's the one to socialize with when you need to be alone, or vant to be . . . it's only magic, after all. In the grand swoop of history there's never been a more vapid excuse of a man nor beast neither. Amen and redundant so be its be upon you for selling out to the nearest bidder, you clydesdale-stomping everhard billy club. Leave me along alone along before I go Three Stooges on your stimulus check.
Bottomless bottoms up. Check. Right, Robert? Right. Good night, Chet. Lassie was last seen heading over the hill with a hambone in her mouth and June's daughter prancing around the farm wondering why she never quite made it except in one little boy's imagination fueled by Dimetapp dreams in shabby hotel rooms kittycorner from the 5&10 in beautiful downtown wherever
god (God?) that felt good to get that off my ass and why wouldn't it - why shouldn't the jumpsuit fit like that and why should we care more about Graceland than Swaziland? Why, it's the danger of the single story writ large and sung heavy with 2 sharps (someone will know the key) but I'll stick to being bummed out by cloud formations I can't name and crosswords I can't finish and finishes I can't cross . . . . There's no real way to end this, is there? No real way to begin again either. It's all folderol (look that up - it's a word) gewgaw (sounds like what I called a screwdriver before I could pronounce the sounds), maybe that was prescient but momma's gone for good and there's no asking her what little Ricky meant by it all. Slow down and harden your heart or lose me forever you big dud. Goose me. I always thought she'd live to regret me but I never got the chance (or never took it). So sad. So boringly sad.
Back to the bottom we go. Inside moves, didn't see that comin', didn't know that father, didn't find that puzzle piece until way late in the game, did you? Wandering around, no, staggering around the front lawn tipsied up good by the host across the lake, name lost in history, lake deeper than a moonwalk, Murphy maybe (doesn't sound right) something about a funeral home (old Gazettes?), what's wrong with dad? You'll never forget that humanizing moment when god is brought low and sunbeams bounce off the treebark like vomit in hoodoo, Hodor Hodor Hodor! Olmstead Act wasn't called the Owlett Act (obviously) what's that line called north of Dixie and south of my darkness? All around the barn without a window, set fire to it but watch the sparks - windy day, misty day, name your kid well, dig your well deep, never let it sleep, never let it rest, only a wrench will get it done half an hour to go. Bless your gizzard you old crone - I remember what you did and so does Sally whose brother got lost in Worcester (Wooster) to the best of my knowledge.
But back to the rules. Here's a notion for your motion: Jim didn't have to chug a beer to watch baseball but it helped, and Lenny didn't have Boney for no reason, did he? Find that picture and all will be forgiven - man, that was a party and who knew you could drive a car and puke out the window at the same time? Quit asking questions unless you already know the answers, muppet man. That's about it for sense-time value coupons. See next week's paper for more. Until then, see you in your wildest dreams.
Tuttle.
