I'm having one of those times again. Doubling the dose of my Lorazapam, to flog my brain into not dreaming, or at least not allowing me to remember whether or not I dream. And while these times are fairly conducive to productive writing, they aren't exactly a treat, if you know what I mean. So here I sit with my bones melting, and the room a little...off at the corners.
It wasn't like this, back in the day. Things were better then, life was simpler. There was not a mountain of stress on my shoulders, while people with skewed faces jam their heads in my office and screech gibberish about artificial deadlines and bellow their incomprehension concerning why it takes so long to troubleshoot a problem.
Fuck them. They're a bad dream, bad signal from an alternate universe where some stupid fucking Texan set the national tone for a decade, and all anyone can talk in is absolutes. Not like our world, you and I, where people are reasonable most of the time, and people hardly ever get their arses kicked by the cops for no reason, or just disappear.
Somehow, I've fallen into THIS future, though, and every night I am pursued by the sculpted horse from the legal district...and on his back is Benjamin Franklin, breathing fire and screaming indictments at me, while little dolls with their stomachs stitched together run alongside singing some Elton John Song. I'm pretty sure it's Burn Down the Mission.
I think Pushkin wrote a poem about this, once. But it doesn't really fit, because I haven't lost a loved one, so maybe it's just coincidence. There's a lot of coincidence floating around these days, here in America, where everything is beginning to look like Coney Island. Rusted, cheap, dismal, and run down. She's an old whore, America, and no, she's not the one with a heart of gold. Her heart is more a giant pile of shit, cold shit with undigested bits of The Dream embedded in it.
Anyway, those clanging bronze hoof beats chase me every night, while Franklin screams out his questions and his indictments..."ARE YOU HAPPY, NOW?", "WE RISKED OUR NECKS FOR THIS?", "WHY DO YOU CRAWL? ARE YOU A MAN?", that sort of thing. And I flee, not out of fear of the horse's hooves, but to escape that old man's never-ending condemnation of me and the nation I live in.
That nation IS Coney Island, you know...A rusted old joke that somehow still attracts people, long after it had anything worthwhile – or even fun – for them. There's a hundred year habit involved, and no matter how awful it is, people keep going... in the hopes that one day it will be shiny and bright and magical, like it used to be in some mythical time that never really happened except in the blurred minds of the very elderly. So they wander the midway, trying to smile in the midst of the squalor.
Then the dream changes, and I'm up to my knees in snow, back in Newfoundland...Back in the 70s, the golden years of that unhappy province. My dad is trying to get that piece of shit Volvo going, and I am happy in the knowledge that by now he CAN'T get it going, and he'll spend the day with me and my brother.
That having been established, we get on the city's only bus, to go down to what passes for a museum. On the way there, on the treacherous Barnes Hill, the driver takes his hands off the wheel, and turns to us. My father sees nothing wrong with this, and says, "Hi, Ben!".
Ben Franklin leers at me, and says "See? You were born free. You had a good childhood...An excellent one, in fact. A first rate education, followed by experience in arms and shady stuff that every gentleman should experience..."
His face distorts, the mouth stretching impossibly wide. "...SO WHY AREN'T YOU FREE?", he roars, with breath like Dresden and Tokyo and Nagasaki.
My father laughs at the joke, as the bus careens out of control toward the harbor. "We're going to crash!" I scream.
"Damn right you are, you little shit.", Ben laughs, "What the hell did you THINK was going to happen? You honestly didn't see this coming? Are you a FOOL?"
And then the bus hits the water and begins to flood. My dad won't get us out...He keeps talking, instead, about how I must always be careful on Barnes Road, because it's even dangerous when you walk down it in the wintertime, because it's icy and slippery and, "The trick, you see, the great trick, is to never lose your nerve."
And I wake up as I begin to drown in the frigid water, as the last air pocket fills up. The last thing I hear is my father, who tells me this is all probably stress related.
Then I take another pill and go back to sleep, hoping that I'll get 3 hours of half-ass sleep.
I am typically disappointed.
Okay for now,
Dok
Aw, hell.
We have seen the abyss, and it is us.
Wow. Really, really vivid and a little bit unnerving because you're right. It is Coney Island, decrepit and full of dark corners with nasty stories to tell, and all the park's docents really do is keep visitors away from there and maybe re-chrome a couple of the rides and the railings. But even that's half-assed and it peels right off if you scrub at it a little.
Shit, Dok...
Quote from: Luna on October 18, 2011, 06:20:46 PM
Shit, Dok...
Yeah! Shit
everywhere.
They all deserve it and it's what Ben really wants.
Might even improve the look of the place.
Sometimes you wake up and find that you live in the Denver airport.
No wait, that isn't quite right.
Sometimes you wake up and your lungs are collapsing and your head feels like a truck (a real one with a steel frame) and before you fully regain consciousness you're already angry even though you can't remember why.
And then you realize that you live in the Denver airport, and the fucking train is always going around and around like a Matterhorn ride, chiming its little tune at all the stops, and the horse... oh god. The horse.
Please come to Denver with the snowfall
We'll move up into the mountains so far that we can't be found
And throw "I love you" echoes down the canyon
And then lie awake at night till they come back around
Please come to Denver
She said no, boy, would you come home to me
And she said, hey ramblin' boy, why don't you settle down
Denver ain't your kind of town
There ain't no gold and there ain't nobody like me
I'm the number one fan of the man from Tennessee
Or words to that effect. I think.
Between Bluecifer and fucking Anubis, a girl can't get any good sleep around here. Not to mention the cheery chimes every time the train doors open.
CHEERY
CHEERY
CHEERY
CHIMES.
Quote from: Nigel on October 18, 2011, 06:59:00 PM
Between Bluecifer and fucking Anubis, a girl can't get any good sleep around here. Not to mention the cheery chimes every time the train doors open.
CHEERY
CHEERY
CHEERY
CHIMES.
But at least the train is on time, yes? And that's important, so you can get where
they're taking you you're going in a reasonable amount of time. And, when you get there, work makes you free. In the comfort and safety of your own home, to the pale glow of the television that tells you just how lucky you are to be smothered in debt, because you're a good American, a fine American, unlike those filthy, perverted America-haters that fill out streets and our parks bitterly complaining that somehow, someone fucked them.
But you and I both know it's their own fault, because they didn't get on the train.
ALLLLLLLL ABOARD!
Choo choo!
The train just goes round and round, Dok. I'm starting to think there's something really wrong with this place. I don't remember going to bed last night but I woke up angry. And there are some kind of sigils in the floor, embedded right in it.
I don't know why they had to put Anubis there. He's gone now, but he's still there, staring, and the horse just looks angrier and angrier. I can't even look outside anymore.
God bless Bank of America.
Quote from: Nigel on October 18, 2011, 07:04:02 PM
The train just goes round and round, Dok. I'm starting to think there's something really wrong with this place. I don't remember going to bed last night but I woke up angry. And there are some kind of sigils in the floor, embedded right in it.
I don't know why they had to put Anubis there. He's gone now, but he's still there, staring, and the horse just looks angrier and angrier. I can't even look outside anymore.
What's to see outside? An angry Egyptian God? A cat?
Those people walking? Sometimes you see things you don't want to see, like that one time at the courthouse (BUENO!), so when the universe closes the windows, maybe it's for the best. You can still look - I try to - but you have nobody else to blame when you see shit you don't really want to process.
Sometimes, it's your SO making out with someone else. Sometimes, it's the guy you apprenticed to, looking just as good as he did when he was alive to look at. Sometimes it's the sideways people, with their noses pressed to the glass, which makes you jump 3 feet in the fucking air.
Better to do what you have to do, until they go away. Most times, they go away after you've had some good sleep, but sometimes – if you're unlucky – they stay. And then there's a series of visits with the doctors that try to smile, try to explain to you that these cases that come on acute and late in life, there's only so much they can do, and that's why it's best not to go to those doctors. They have no answers, they tell you that you're sick, but how could you
not be sick in an insane world that displays all the moral qualities of a weasel with paint stripper on its nipples?
In the daytime, I can focus on tasks, that usually keeps the spiders out of my head. At night time, though, at night time, I have to listen to Frank Sinatra, who said "Music, bourbon, pills, whatever gets you through the night". So you stay awake as long as you can, and then smash yourself in the face with those pills, those wonderful pills, and sometimes they even work, and you can be Mister Roboto the next day, and nobody notices. Your secret is safe for one more horrible day.
Weird board outage has slain my pill-induced mood.
Maybe more tomorrow.
I just want to be free.
I can't help thinking that your enemy is hope. Hope for this fast-sinking clusterfuck they call "civilisation". Hope that it'll all work out in the end. Hope that things will get better.
It's a trainwreck, Dok, and my advice is give up on it. Now. Abandon hope. Bury your optimism or, better yet, stop digging it out and it'll get buried by itself under the mountain of shit that's piling up around every good citizen's ears.
It's easy to hang onto hope. Just like a real trainwreck, everything seems fine if you just don't look out the front window. Look out the sides and everything seems fine. Stare at the pretty landscape flying past and you can believe you're going to to reach your destination, safe and sound. Right up even after the first car leaves the rails. Just don't look forward and it'll all be fine until it's too late.
Fuck that shit. I'll enjoy the buffet car while it's here but I'm under no illusions. I'm ready to jump. I'm ready to watch the whole thing go up in a tower of burning wreckage. Truth be told I'm looking forward to it. Buffet is over priced and tastes like crap anyway.
Newsflash - Americatm is sinking. Get ready to swim for it.
Quote from: P3nT4gR4m on October 18, 2011, 08:53:06 PM
I can't help thinking that your enemy is hope. Hope for this fast-sinking clusterfuck they call "civilisation". Hope that it'll all work out in the end. Hope that things will get better.
It's a trainwreck, Dok, and my advice is give up on it. Now. Abandon hope. Bury your optimism or, better yet, stop digging it out and it'll get buried by itself under the mountain of shit that's piling up around every good citizen's ears.
It's easy to hang onto hope. Just like a real trainwreck, everything seems fine if you just don't look out the front window. Look out the sides and everything seems fine. Stare at the pretty landscape flying past and you can believe you're going to to reach your destination, safe and sound. Right up even after the first car leaves the rails. Just don't look forward and it'll all be fine until it's too late.
Fuck that shit. I'll enjoy the buffet car while it's here but I'm under no illusions. I'm ready to jump. I'm ready to watch the whole thing go up in a tower of burning wreckage. Truth be told I'm looking forward to it. Buffet is over priced and tastes like crap anyway.
Newsflash - Americatm is sinking. Get ready to swim for it.
Optimism? Blarg. I just need to hold my shit together for another two years. TWO YEARS. And then I can get on that train, that party train, woop woop.
Quote from: Charley Brown on October 18, 2011, 08:54:20 PM
Quote from: Doktor Howl on October 18, 2011, 08:53:21 PM
Quote from: Charley Brown on October 18, 2011, 08:52:33 PM
I just want to be free.
Then why aren't you?
Working on it.
Freedom != Mobility.
Freedom is a state of mind. You can be free in jail (in fact, MLK couldn't be free without it). Freedom is the ability, beyond any fear of retribution, to stick one finger on each hand up and tell a motherfucker what's what.
Pent's always been free. Some people will never even understand what it means.
Quote from: Doktor Howl on October 18, 2011, 08:56:16 PM
Quote from: Charley Brown on October 18, 2011, 08:54:20 PM
Quote from: Doktor Howl on October 18, 2011, 08:53:21 PM
Quote from: Charley Brown on October 18, 2011, 08:52:33 PM
I just want to be free.
Then why aren't you?
Working on it.
Freedom != Mobility.
Freedom is a state of mind. You can be free in jail (in fact, MLK couldn't be free without it). Freedom is the ability, beyond any fear of retribution, to stick one finger on each hand up and tell a motherfucker what's what.
Pent's always been free. Some people will never even understand what it means.
I weighed up the choices I was presented with and I was pretty sure the punishment sounded better than the reward. It was a no brainer, really. Can't take credit.
Quote from: Doktor Howl on October 18, 2011, 08:56:16 PM
Quote from: Charley Brown on October 18, 2011, 08:54:20 PM
Quote from: Doktor Howl on October 18, 2011, 08:53:21 PM
Quote from: Charley Brown on October 18, 2011, 08:52:33 PM
I just want to be free.
Then why aren't you?
Working on it.
Freedom != Mobility.
Freedom is a state of mind. You can be free in jail (in fact, MLK couldn't be free without it). Freedom is the ability, beyond any fear of retribution, to stick one finger on each hand up and tell a motherfucker what's what.
Pent's always been free. Some people will never even understand what it means.
In my own way this is exactly what I am doing.
Nigel's still stuck in the Denver Airport. :x
"Barbarians at the gates," we screamed, Dok! Barbarians at the gates!
So we ran and we screamed and we ran and we screamed some more, shoving the weak and infirm out of the way while we scrambled for what we could grab and moved towards the central part of The City, the part with higher walls and stronger gates.
Only we still haven't found those higher walls to hide behind, because every time we get there, there's nothing but rubble
and the barbarians are still at the gates
and still we scream and we run
but there's no more walls to hide behind, no more gates to seal against the barbarians
because we tore them all down
we are the barbarians
and we have sacked our own City.
Quote from: Doktor Howl on October 18, 2011, 09:04:14 PM
Nigel's still stuck in the Denver Airport. :x
The jaunty little tune the train plays is starting to grow on me. :)
The doors are closing.
The doors are closing.
The doors are closing.
The doors are closing.
The doors are closing.
The doors are closing.
The doors are closing.
The doors are closing.
YOU are delaying the departure of this train.
Quote from: Nigel on October 18, 2011, 10:20:17 PM
The doors are closing.
The doors are closing.
The doors are closing.
The doors are closing.
The doors are closing.
The doors are closing.
The doors are closing.
The doors are closing.
YOU are delaying the departure of this train.
This and the other stuff are fucking giving me chills.
I try to think of the differnce between "Freedom", and "reasonably content with what's happening or ignorant of the problems for the moment."
Then I try to pick out the difference. Then the screaming starts again.
Freedom? What the FUCK is Freedom? As a generalized category, there never was such a thing.
Freedom in the universe? We're stuck here on Earth, following the rules of gravity, electromagnetism, and nuclear forces, and we have no choice in the matter.
Freedom from biology? We're meatbags of a millions of years old lineage which has selected for those that fuck and make more meat bags, and every moment of every day our unconscious mind screams at us to make it so.
Freedom from humans? Humans are fucking everywhere, like cockroaches, but unlike cockroaches they don't keep to theirselves, they're everywhere and they all want to fucking tell you. There is no escape.
Freedom in our Nation? We have to be given rights for them to pertain, we have to grovel before the corps, because without them we'd be starving. There's always a hierarchy.
What fucking freedom? Because there is no such thing.
Quote from: 'Kai' ZLB, M.S. on October 18, 2011, 11:52:57 PM
Quote from: Nigel on October 18, 2011, 10:20:17 PM
The doors are closing.
The doors are closing.
The doors are closing.
The doors are closing.
The doors are closing.
The doors are closing.
The doors are closing.
The doors are closing.
YOU are delaying the departure of this train.
This and the other stuff are fucking giving me chills.
:)
When Dok posts like this I get angry that I cannot express myself like him.
Quote from: Donald Coyote on October 19, 2011, 05:13:15 AM
When Dok posts like this I get angry that I cannot express myself like him.
Yeah but you gotta be a little fucked in the head to flow like that, because you have to be IN it, and being in it is crazymaking.
That river, where I've stumbled upon Dok backstroking, birthday-suited, laughing all the way ... that river of shit, and of dreams, and of ghoststuff ...
it's all I can do to keep my lips above water and my wildly flailing limbs away from the bigger, nastier rocks. swimming? Ha.
Maybe I'll learn.
Props, Dok, for doing what you do.
Quote from: Nigel on October 18, 2011, 06:53:55 PM
Sometimes you wake up and find that you live in the Denver airport.
No wait, that isn't quite right.
Sometimes you wake up and your lungs are collapsing and your head feels like a truck (a real one with a steel frame) and before you fully regain consciousness you're already angry even though you can't remember why.
And then you realize that you live in the Denver airport, and the fucking train is always going around and around like a Matterhorn ride, chiming its little tune at all the stops, and the horse... oh god. The horse.
Oh, man. Really rings a bell. I dream about that train, too. Even though I've never been to the Denver airport, I think it's the same train all the same.
This train of mine looks like a grand ol' steam engine like I used to ride when I was a kid, not because I was urgent to be anywhere but just because I enjoyed the ride and the reliable "chugga chugga, chugga chugga, chugga chugga" but it sounded like "everything is on track. everything is on track" and here's Choo Choo Charlie, shovelling candy into bright heat of the engine "chugga chugga, chugga chugga."
So you get on it, yeah, because you trust Charlie and he'd never let you down but this thing is only a steam engine on the outside. It's a molded plastic imitation around an electric cart and you feel like perhaps you're the victim of a joke because this wasn't how it felt when you were younger. There's a sickening sense of mockery, anyway, or maybe you're feeling sick because of the spicy yellow smoke the engine is belching out over the following cars so you make your way up to the engine to see Charlie and ask him why the train is broken but Charlie got older, like you did, and he hates to break it to you but he's always been accountable to The Company who say feeding candy to a train just isn't practical and we've got to make cuts somewhere and things are tough all over so he's shovelling something else into the furnace. They're old photographs. Even though the train is run by electricity. They're your old photographs of the places you went and the things you smiled about when you were younger and as the train consumes them you start to forget what it was like having that innocent love of everything and you should really be taking your seat. You can get up again when the train reaches your stop, if the train ever stops again.
Chugga chugga, chugga chugga, everything is on track.
Quote from: Nigel on October 18, 2011, 10:20:17 PM
The doors are closing.
The doors are closing.
The doors are closing.
The doors are closing.
The doors are closing.
The doors are closing.
The doors are closing.
The doors are closing.
YOU are delaying the departure of this train.
THE WHITE ZONE IS FOR LOADING AND UNLOADING ONLY
Quote from: Donald Coyote on October 19, 2011, 05:13:15 AM
When Dok posts like this I get angry that I cannot express myself like him.
Trade ya.
Quote from: Epimetheus on October 19, 2011, 05:27:48 AM
That river, where I've stumbled upon Dok backstroking, birthday-suited, laughing all the way ... that river of shit, and of dreams, and of ghoststuff ...
it's all I can do to keep my lips above water and my wildly flailing limbs away from the bigger, nastier rocks. swimming? Ha.
Maybe I'll learn.
Props, Dok, for doing what you do.
You get used to the taste, after a while.
Quote from: Doktor Howl on October 19, 2011, 05:33:34 PM
Quote from: Nigel on October 18, 2011, 10:20:17 PM
The doors are closing.
The doors are closing.
The doors are closing.
The doors are closing.
The doors are closing.
The doors are closing.
The doors are closing.
The doors are closing.
YOU are delaying the departure of this train.
THE WHITE ZONE IS FOR LOADING AND UNLOADING ONLY
:mittens:
Quote from: Doktor Howl on October 18, 2011, 05:31:20 PM
I'm having one of those times again. Doubling the dose of my Lorazapam, to flog my brain into not dreaming, or at least not allowing me to remember whether or not I dream. And while these times are fairly conducive to productive writing, they aren't exactly a treat, if you know what I mean. So here I sit with my bones melting, and the room a little...off at the corners.
It wasn't like this, back in the day. Things were better then, life was simpler. There was not a mountain of stress on my shoulders, while people with skewed faces jam their heads in my office and screech gibberish about artificial deadlines and bellow their incomprehension concerning why it takes so long to troubleshoot a problem.
Fuck them. They're a bad dream, bad signal from an alternate universe where some stupid fucking Texan set the national tone for a decade, and all anyone can talk in is absolutes. Not like our world, you and I, where people are reasonable most of the time, and people hardly ever get their arses kicked by the cops for no reason, or just disappear.
Somehow, I've fallen into THIS future, though, and every night I am pursued by the sculpted horse from the legal district...and on his back is Benjamin Franklin, breathing fire and screaming indictments at me, while little dolls with their stomachs stitched together run alongside singing some Elton John Song. I'm pretty sure it's Burn Down the Mission.
I think Pushkin wrote a poem about this, once. But it doesn't really fit, because I haven't lost a loved one, so maybe it's just coincidence. There's a lot of coincidence floating around these days, here in America, where everything is beginning to look like Coney Island. Rusted, cheap, dismal, and run down. She's an old whore, America, and no, she's not the one with a heart of gold. Her heart is more a giant pile of shit, cold shit with undigested bits of The Dream embedded in it.
Anyway, those clanging bronze hoof beats chase me every night, while Franklin screams out his questions and his indictments..."ARE YOU HAPPY, NOW?", "WE RISKED OUR NECKS FOR THIS?", "WHY DO YOU CRAWL? ARE YOU A MAN?", that sort of thing. And I flee, not out of fear of the horse's hooves, but to escape that old man's never-ending condemnation of me and the nation I live in.
That nation IS Coney Island, you know...A rusted old joke that somehow still attracts people, long after it had anything worthwhile – or even fun – for them. There's a hundred year habit involved, and no matter how awful it is, people keep going... in the hopes that one day it will be shiny and bright and magical, like it used to be in some mythical time that never really happened except in the blurred minds of the very elderly. So they wander the midway, trying to smile in the midst of the squalor.
Then the dream changes, and I'm up to my knees in snow, back in Newfoundland...Back in the 70s, the golden years of that unhappy province. My dad is trying to get that piece of shit Volvo going, and I am happy in the knowledge that by now he CAN'T get it going, and he'll spend the day with me and my brother.
That having been established, we get on the city's only bus, to go down to what passes for a museum. On the way there, on the treacherous Barnes Hill, the driver takes his hands off the wheel, and turns to us. My father sees nothing wrong with this, and says, "Hi, Ben!".
Ben Franklin leers at me, and says "See? You were born free. You had a good childhood...An excellent one, in fact. A first rate education, followed by experience in arms and shady stuff that every gentleman should experience..."
His face distorts, the mouth stretching impossibly wide. "...SO WHY AREN'T YOU FREE?", he roars, with breath like Dresden and Tokyo and Nagasaki.
My father laughs at the joke, as the bus careens out of control toward the harbor. "We're going to crash!" I scream.
"Damn right you are, you little shit.", Ben laughs, "What the hell did you THINK was going to happen? You honestly didn't see this coming? Are you a FOOL?"
And then the bus hits the water and begins to flood. My dad won't get us out...He keeps talking, instead, about how I must always be careful on Barnes Road, because it's even dangerous when you walk down it in the wintertime, because it's icy and slippery and, "The trick, you see, the great trick, is to never lose your nerve."
And I wake up as I begin to drown in the frigid water, as the last air pocket fills up. The last thing I hear is my father, who tells me this is all probably stress related.
Then I take another pill and go back to sleep, hoping that I'll get 3 hours of half-ass sleep.
I am typically disappointed.
Okay for now,
Dok
Wow. I wrote this? :lulz:
Oh, THAT was an interesting Autumn! :lulz:
Oh, it's this thread.
:eek:
Quote from: A Very Hairy Monkey In An Ill-Fitting Tunic on October 19, 2011, 05:16:41 AM
Quote from: Donald Coyote on October 19, 2011, 05:13:15 AM
When Dok posts like this I get angry that I cannot express myself like him.
Yeah but you gotta be a little fucked in the head to flow like that, because you have to be IN it, and being in it is crazymaking.
I'd rather be inarticulate and more relaxed.
Quote from: Fidel Castro on September 24, 2012, 06:14:46 PM
Quote from: Doktor Howl on October 18, 2011, 05:31:20 PM
I'm having one of those times again. Doubling the dose of my Lorazapam, to flog my brain into not dreaming, or at least not allowing me to remember whether or not I dream. And while these times are fairly conducive to productive writing, they aren't exactly a treat, if you know what I mean. So here I sit with my bones melting, and the room a little...off at the corners.
It wasn't like this, back in the day. Things were better then, life was simpler. There was not a mountain of stress on my shoulders, while people with skewed faces jam their heads in my office and screech gibberish about artificial deadlines and bellow their incomprehension concerning why it takes so long to troubleshoot a problem.
Fuck them. They're a bad dream, bad signal from an alternate universe where some stupid fucking Texan set the national tone for a decade, and all anyone can talk in is absolutes. Not like our world, you and I, where people are reasonable most of the time, and people hardly ever get their arses kicked by the cops for no reason, or just disappear.
Somehow, I've fallen into THIS future, though, and every night I am pursued by the sculpted horse from the legal district...and on his back is Benjamin Franklin, breathing fire and screaming indictments at me, while little dolls with their stomachs stitched together run alongside singing some Elton John Song. I'm pretty sure it's Burn Down the Mission.
I think Pushkin wrote a poem about this, once. But it doesn't really fit, because I haven't lost a loved one, so maybe it's just coincidence. There's a lot of coincidence floating around these days, here in America, where everything is beginning to look like Coney Island. Rusted, cheap, dismal, and run down. She's an old whore, America, and no, she's not the one with a heart of gold. Her heart is more a giant pile of shit, cold shit with undigested bits of The Dream embedded in it.
Anyway, those clanging bronze hoof beats chase me every night, while Franklin screams out his questions and his indictments..."ARE YOU HAPPY, NOW?", "WE RISKED OUR NECKS FOR THIS?", "WHY DO YOU CRAWL? ARE YOU A MAN?", that sort of thing. And I flee, not out of fear of the horse's hooves, but to escape that old man's never-ending condemnation of me and the nation I live in.
That nation IS Coney Island, you know...A rusted old joke that somehow still attracts people, long after it had anything worthwhile – or even fun – for them. There's a hundred year habit involved, and no matter how awful it is, people keep going... in the hopes that one day it will be shiny and bright and magical, like it used to be in some mythical time that never really happened except in the blurred minds of the very elderly. So they wander the midway, trying to smile in the midst of the squalor.
Then the dream changes, and I'm up to my knees in snow, back in Newfoundland...Back in the 70s, the golden years of that unhappy province. My dad is trying to get that piece of shit Volvo going, and I am happy in the knowledge that by now he CAN'T get it going, and he'll spend the day with me and my brother.
That having been established, we get on the city's only bus, to go down to what passes for a museum. On the way there, on the treacherous Barnes Hill, the driver takes his hands off the wheel, and turns to us. My father sees nothing wrong with this, and says, "Hi, Ben!".
Ben Franklin leers at me, and says "See? You were born free. You had a good childhood...An excellent one, in fact. A first rate education, followed by experience in arms and shady stuff that every gentleman should experience..."
His face distorts, the mouth stretching impossibly wide. "...SO WHY AREN'T YOU FREE?", he roars, with breath like Dresden and Tokyo and Nagasaki.
My father laughs at the joke, as the bus careens out of control toward the harbor. "We're going to crash!" I scream.
"Damn right you are, you little shit.", Ben laughs, "What the hell did you THINK was going to happen? You honestly didn't see this coming? Are you a FOOL?"
And then the bus hits the water and begins to flood. My dad won't get us out...He keeps talking, instead, about how I must always be careful on Barnes Road, because it's even dangerous when you walk down it in the wintertime, because it's icy and slippery and, "The trick, you see, the great trick, is to never lose your nerve."
And I wake up as I begin to drown in the frigid water, as the last air pocket fills up. The last thing I hear is my father, who tells me this is all probably stress related.
Then I take another pill and go back to sleep, hoping that I'll get 3 hours of half-ass sleep.
I am typically disappointed.
Okay for now,
Dok
Wow. I wrote this? :lulz:
Writing like that all the time is probably lethal.
Quote from: Doktor Howl on October 18, 2011, 06:55:41 PM
Please come to Denver with the snowfall
We'll move up into the mountains so far that we can't be found
And throw "I love you" echoes down the canyon
And then lie awake at night till they come back around
Please come to Denver
She said no, boy, would you come home to me
And she said, hey ramblin' boy, why don't you settle down
Denver ain't your kind of town
There ain't no gold and there ain't nobody like me
I'm the number one fan of the man from Tennessee
Or words to that effect. I think.
Or words to this effect.
Please come to Tuscon for the winter
We'll move up into the mountains so far that we can't be found
And throw "I love you" echoes down the canyon
And then lie awake at night till they come back around
Please come to Tucson
She said no, boy, would you come home to me
And she said, hey ramblin' boy, why don't you settle down
Tucson ain't your kind of town
Jesus don't save and there ain't nobody like me
I'm the number one fan of the man from Gallilee.
Please come to Portland with the snowfall
We'll move out into the suburbs so far that we can't be found
And throw "I love you" echoes over the bridges
And then lie awake at night till they come back around
Please come to Portland
She said no, boy, would you come home to me
And she said, hey ramblin' boy, why don't you settle down
Portland ain't your kind of town
There ain't no love and there ain't nothing to see
I'm the number one fan of the man from Tennessee
Please come to Providence with the smog
We'll move up into Federal Hill so far that we can't be found
And throw "HEY, I'm WALKIN' HERE!" at the cars
And then run like hell if they come back around
Please come to Providence
She said no, boy, would you come home to me
And she said, hey ramblin' boy, why don't you settle down
Providence ain't your kind of town
There ain't real tans and there ain't nobody like me
I'm the number one fan of the man from Warwick, see?
Nice!
Butchering country songs?
Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you TGRR: Our very own Taylor Swift.
Quote from: Fidel Castro on September 25, 2012, 05:36:54 PM
Quote from: Doktor Howl on October 18, 2011, 06:55:41 PM
Please come to Denver with the snowfall
We'll move up into the mountains so far that we can't be found
And throw "I love you" echoes down the canyon
And then lie awake at night till they come back around
Please come to Denver
She said no, boy, would you come home to me
And she said, hey ramblin' boy, why don't you settle down
Denver ain't your kind of town
There ain't no gold and there ain't nobody like me
I'm the number one fan of the man from Tennessee
Or words to that effect. I think.
Or words to this effect.
Please come to Tuscon for the winter
We'll move up into the mountains so far that we can't be found
And throw "I love you" echoes down the canyon
And then lie awake at night till they come back around
Please come to Tucson
She said no, boy, would you come home to me
And she said, hey ramblin' boy, why don't you settle down
Tucson ain't your kind of town
Jesus don't save and there ain't nobody like me
I'm the number one fan of the man from Gallilee.
Please come to Portland with the snowfall
We'll move out into the suburbs so far that we can't be found
And throw "I love you" echoes over the bridges
And then lie awake at night till they come back around
Please come to Portland
She said no, boy, would you come home to me
And she said, hey ramblin' boy, why don't you settle down
Portland ain't your kind of town
There ain't no love and there ain't nothing to see
I'm the number one fan of the man from Tennessee
Please come to Providence with the smog
We'll move up into Federal Hill so far that we can't be found
And throw "HEY, I'm WALKIN' HERE!" at the cars
And then run like hell if they come back around
Please come to Providence
She said no, boy, would you come home to me
And she said, hey ramblin' boy, why don't you settle down
Providence ain't your kind of town
There ain't real tans and there ain't nobody like me
I'm the number one fan of the man from Warwick, see?
OOOOOOOH :lol:
Quote from: LMNO, PhD (life continues) on September 25, 2012, 06:49:46 PM
Butchering country songs?
Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you TGRR: Our very own Taylor Swift.
The difference is that he knows he's butchering and he does it on purpose. :lulz: :lulz: :lulz:
Butcher me some Alan Jackson.
Quote from: LMNO, PhD (life continues) on September 25, 2012, 06:49:46 PM
Butchering country songs?
Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you TGRR: Our very own Taylor Swift.
Rage Face suspended due to the kinder, gentler Fidel.Taylor Swift is a fine young musician and I wish her only the best.
Quote from: TEXAS FAIRIES FOR ALL YOU SPAGS on September 25, 2012, 06:54:44 PM
Butcher me some Alan Jackson.
It's gonna take a little while.
mmmm 911y goodness.
Woohoo! AMURKA, FUCK YEAH!
Quote from: Fidel Castro on September 25, 2012, 06:55:31 PM
Quote from: LMNO, PhD (life continues) on September 25, 2012, 06:49:46 PM
Butchering country songs?
Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you TGRR: Our very own Taylor Swift.
Rage Face suspended due to the kinder, gentler Fidel.
Taylor Swift is a fine young musician and I wish her only the best.
Uhhhhh...yeah. :lulz: :lulz: :lulz:
Quote from: TEXAS FAIRIES FOR ALL YOU SPAGS on September 25, 2012, 07:26:02 PM
Woohoo! AMURKA, FUCK YEAH!
Quote from: Fidel Castro on September 25, 2012, 06:55:31 PM
Quote from: LMNO, PhD (life continues) on September 25, 2012, 06:49:46 PM
Butchering country songs?
Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you TGRR: Our very own Taylor Swift.
Rage Face suspended due to the kinder, gentler Fidel.
Taylor Swift is a fine young musician and I wish her only the best.
Uhhhhh...yeah. :lulz: :lulz: :lulz:
I was trying to be nicer, at Holist's request (or at least to stop being me, which is apparently what he was after). Then it turns out that for Holist, being "nice" means "letting Holist heap abuse on you".
He is now my personal project.
Quote from: Fidel Castro on September 25, 2012, 06:55:31 PM
Quote from: LMNO, PhD (life continues) on September 25, 2012, 06:49:46 PM
Butchering country songs?
Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you TGRR: Our very own Taylor Swift.
Rage Face suspended due to the kinder, gentler Fidel.
Taylor Swift is a fine young musician and I wish her only the best.
Careful, there, man, you're going to strain something vital...