TUC 5

[Benjamin Dover]

=2E..
eyes unshrink
daylight massages
...
(pick slide__________________________________________________________=
_______)
abundantlike flesh
inspring growing like flesh=
.
never enough found to go 'round=
.
yeah, yeah, yeah blame your pa=
rents
inspiring growth the mind: twi=
tch
days as anothers, stolen time from death. a rose,
flattened. from it grows a soft moss. green like sp=
ring
why not born to die. to live, readiness is
all.
in the loneliness of your hollow foot,
the hall chorus drums you alone,
or your anemone softlike reaching,
brilliance of its echo, rolling back to you, the essence of selfisola=
te.
and in your hand, its glass diffracts the sun,
a brutality of: a joy of: notyetsurfeit of: a stench of: a truth of:
(____________________________________________________________________=
alive...
the-
undi pretentious literariness
scov from s.r. prozak & l.b. noire
ered
coun cbl...@pomona.claremont.=
edu
try. rm0...@academia.swt.edu

<05nov93 -0:02>
...u=
nshaded)

c o n t e n t s .:

~ l.=
b. noire
'filter (a.=
d.1993)'

~ w. catti=
sh marsh
'=
eyelash'

~ r. barney grubbs & s.r=
. prozak
'in the lee of the seer: poetical =
collage'

~ b.=
ambrose
'you asked=
for it'

~ s.r=
. prozak
stoner ad=
ventures

~ s.r=
. prozak
musica=
l morass

=2E..............................................:
l.b.noire 'filter (a.d.1993)'

It was a Friday night. For once, I didn't have to work the next=
day so it
left the night open for exploration of many kinds... When I opened u=
p the door
of my darkened apartment, the only thing I could see was the steady r=
ed light
of my answering machine -- it was serving its purpose. I didn't turn=
on the
lights. Instead, I closed the door behind me and locked it. As soon=
as the
outside lights from the hall were blocked out, the street light filte=
ring
through the blinds was the only source illuminating the room. I set =
my
backpack on the bar that separated the kitchen from the living room. =
It was
actually one large room, but the bar gave it the illusion of being tw=
o. I
walked to the middle of the living room, took off my shoes, sat down =
and
crossed my legs. The carpet was bare except for a small entertainmen=
t center
sitting flush against the wall. In the entertainment center sat an a=
ging
television, a half-working VCR, and an ad-hoc stereo with an add-on c=
ompact
disc player. I crawled over to the television and turned it on. Aft=
er
flipping through several channels, I became bored and tapped the knob=
, turning
it off. After that, I sought comfort from music. However, the CD's =
I flipped
through brought back unpleasant memories since they were remnants of =
something
no longer there. I laid on the floor staring up at the ceiling as my=
mind
started to tense up. I had only been home five minutes and was alrea=
dy bored
into psychosis.

After a few minutes, I crawled across the living room and into t=
he narrow
hallway that served as a separation for the living room and the bedro=
om. I
opened the closet and crawled in until I was sitting in front of the
footlocker. I fished my keys from my pocket and opened the lock. Af=
ter
digging through teenage leftovers, I found what I was looking for. I=
took out
the small bag crawled back into the middle of the living room. I aga=
in sat
cross-legged and opened the bag. I took out five hollow point bullet=
s and the
=2E38 special. I loaded all five bullets into the gun and pulled the=
hammer
back. It looked like I would go through my daily ritual of trying to=
think of
all the reasons not to let the firing pin go forward for once. I put=
the
barrel between my incisors and bit the metal lightly. My index finge=
r quivered
on the trigger with a tensed muscle. I was hoping that if I did get =
the
courage to pull the trigger, my medulla would create a unique spray p=
attern on
the wall directly behind me. It would be my posthumous contribution =
to the
world of art. However, the usual thoughts ran through my head and th=
e usual
tears ran from my eyes. And as usual, I curled into a fetal position=
and fell
asleep on the floor with Gun still in my hand.

An angel floated to my side and whispered in my ear...

The telephone beeped at me shortly after 10:00pm. I staggered o=
ver to it
through the dark, trying to distinguish between reality and the fadin=
g bits of
a dream I was already forgetting. I finally found the phone just bef=
ore the
answering machine kicked on. I pulled the antenna out and flipped th=
e switch
to "talk." The concerned voice on the other end was returning my cal=
l and made
an inquiry. "Oh, nothing," I lied as I laid Gun on the bar. We exch=
anged some
promises, but I picked up something else. It would at least drive me=
until the
next weekend. A voice of reassurance... It would be best to leave t=
he
sanctuary before Boredom settled in again. I put on a white t-shirt =
and a
black pair of shorts then headed out the front door. The night air w=
as humid
causing my t-shirt to stick to my skin as if it was wet.

I only lived two blocks off the main drag of town. There were p=
lenty of
bars, clubs and dives for me to choose from, but I always ended up in=
the same
one. The crowd was familiar, the employees were familiar, and the ch=
emicals
were familiar. I walked through the front doors and exchanged some g=
reetings
with the owner. We were friends so I didn't have to worry about the =
cover
charge. This meant I could save the five dollars for something with =
which to
squeegee my brain. The music was so loud that it was unidentifiable.=
I could
only feel the kick drum emanating from the speakers and resonating in=
my rib
cage. I bought a bottle of cheap domestic beer and sat down on some =
stairs
while watching the crowd -- my favorite pastime. Somewhere between m=
y fourth
and fifth beer, I had pulled a couple of small capsules from my pocke=
t and
swallowed them with the urine-colored drink. I remembered something =
about not
mixing alcohol with barbiturates, but hardly concerned with this. Ac=
tually, I
was interested in finding new perceptions by mixing different chemica=
ls.=20
Shortly after midnight I was talking to a "friend" I only knew as Bra=
ndon. For
some reason, he was also known as "Turnip" to some other people in th=
e crowd.=20
We had managed to locate a couple of Al Hofmann's problem children. =
At prime
time, we decided to head back to my apartment for some vein candy I h=
ad been
saving.

Last train to reality departing on Track 9...

The walk back to the apartment was quite interesting. It was a =
challenge
trying to keep the two of us together. Brandon was convinced that "l=
ittle
people" kept running out from under houses and biting his ankles only=
to run
back when he would look down. I was convinced that police cars still=
looked
evil when filtered through synthetic ergot derivatives. We eventuall=
y made it
back to the apartment without getting hit by a car or bus. He just h=
appened
(!) to have a strand of rubber tubing with him. I just happened (!) =
to have a
few syringes and a vial of Demerol(TM) which I swiped from work. I h=
ad no
previous experience with self-injection, but Brandon showed me the fo=
ur simple
steps. Within thirty minutes, we had both administered doses that we=
re more
than likely above prescription level. The first wave I fought agains=
t was the
nausea.

Somewhere over the next 36 hours, Brandon wandered back into the=
street.=20
I stayed in the apartment and decided to watch the criss-crossing col=
or
patterns of my bedroom ceiling. The television was fucked also up. =
The red
light on my answering machine came to life with new vigor. I tried t=
o drink
something because my throat was dry, but I was having a hard time wit=
h the
glass. This neon matrix is really interesting!

"Please don't take it for granted again..."

A fresh stream of vomit emerging from my mouth woke me. It mixe=
d quite
well with the dry puddle on my pillow. I was lying on my bed in only=
my
underwear. I tried to stand but only fell to the ground in the attem=
pt. My
sense of balance was nowhere to be found. I crawled into the bathroo=
m and
leaned into the sink. I turned on the cold water and rinsed my mouth=
. The
fluorescent light was too harsh for my eyes, but I managed to focus t=
hem
slightly. My pupils were quite dilated. My throat was swollen and t=
oo
constricted for me to swallow much more than thin liquids. I walked =
into the
kitchen with thanks to the wall. A broken glass was scattered across=
the sink
and the cabinet top. A small pool of blood was next the glass and wa=
s spread
onto the floor. A previously full bottle of Gatorade was on its side=
. Its
contents made the cabinet and floor quite sticky. I walked over to t=
he
answering machine and pushed the "play" button. A few calls from a p=
arent
feigning concern for my whereabouts, an occasional friend, a co-worke=
r, and an
automated telemarketing machine wanting me to tour lakefront property=
in an
area that could probably only be reached by four-wheel drive. I unpl=
ugged the
phone and went back into the bedroom. I didn't know what day it was =
and didn't
care if I was supposed to be at work. I crawled back into my bed and=
pulled
the comforter and a clean pillow over my head. There were still litt=
le things
crawling up the walls and I wanted them to go away. I just wanted _e=
verything_
to go away.

The angel sat beside me and cradled my head as I left.

=2E..............................................:
w. cattish marsh 'eyelash'

I can't seem to touch realiy
I'm free floating in my capsule of illusion
it gushes and mends insanely
twists and contorts
inescapable
my thoughts cushioning actuality
=09Oh truth pierce me!
rupture cleave my cell of delusions
my comforter of rationalizations
slaughter me awake
show no mercy
let me face existance head on
stand before me in all its glorious brutality
don't snip at me and run away
stop teasing!
=09I, and my enshroudings, begin to fray
rather slice once and let me confront
the life or death of truth

=2E..............................................:
'in the eye of the seer'

I found a little baby
I hung it from my prick
it makes the day seem brighter,
with a baby on your dick.
I hung it from a little hook,
it nestled gently in the crook
between my cock and leg.

I taught it how to juggle,
I taught it how to eat.
I taught it how to piss, of course,
(it couldn't help but see)
I taught it how to cut its meat
with scissors glinting keen,
then rap-a-dang-ding,=20
with one simple swing,
it snipped off my thing
and was gone.
b. grubbs

=2E

Against the glass my fingers spread
Beyond which children dance, alive
In each one daring to be each,
Against the ice I lean my head,
To watch the sun crest ev'ry blade
Of grass abundantly profuse,
With each one daring to be lone,
As I had been in youth submerged,
The moist cadaver of my past:
As from the bursting lungs of death
A drowning sailor grasps the air,
And bushmen quicksand fast depart,
My eyes found airport, stench of sweat,
And empty bottles, empty threats.

=2E.

waves of mortality
decorate this floor
the crushed breast of a red bird
(...bravely presented to his children,
loves, potential, combat for the self replicated)
the sticking leaves of a fallen tree
rot's sweet ichor repulsing my nostrils

yet i have escaped
a greater sweetness of stench
the clotted ways of breath
whisking through the streets,
collossal power of fluid retribution,
clinging each to its fragments,
as if to balance the whole
in the destruction of the tiny.
like clinging hooks,
gnats.

here these feet i think=20
enshrined far from safety
must be i think happier
yet wistful, as the eyes,
touching each cell in the skin,
each twitching hair,
will never witness themselves in reflection
seemingly never (again, perhaps)
in the deep smooth muscular lakes
of admonishing eyes.

=2E..

in the best howl of his words,
among of course his (devices &
rhythms & symbol syndicate) work
he paused, breath over beard,
then returned, shoes hard against the wind,
to speak out the last utterances
of some great man
on paper.
into the heedless they flee,
paper birds over the harsh flare
of an invisible city, burning.

=2E...

purpled like my oldest vein
sky reaches past a concrete rooftop
another incarnation of security and stolidity
each grey emplacement a brick,
mechanical, plotted, intricate resistance
to the depth of infinite indefinite
grasping space. drifting into space is freedom,
falling out of space is progression.

=66rom here to beyond the space extrudes,
extensible yearning lurking, a drawing lust,
it takes the flesh of the young,
and perverts the will of the old,
into dreadful casting tears, siding the face,
battered in the thousand wars of a mundane lifetime,
defeated in the abscess of time.

s.r.p.

=2E..............................................:
b. ambrose 'you asked for it'

I.
=09Heat, pounding heat, pulsing and writhing like some=20
decapitated snake, washing in waves to an irregular heartbeat; that=
=20
alone was all he knew. Well, that and the fact that Ned's Atomic=
=20
Dustbin was on the radio urging destructive practices on the=20
television set he didn't own. "Somewhere along this road," he=20
mumbled to himself, "there should be a sign, some sort of=20
demarcation." There was a pause as he considered how best to tell=
=20
himself just what kind of construction was needed. "Certainly not=
=20
something cheesy or conventional like 'Entering ...' or 'Welcome to .=
..',=20
but something else [pause], something a bit more undefinable." The=
=20
man chose not to elaborate out loud any further at this point,=20
speaking was an effort, and the doll on the seat next to him in turn=
=20
seemed reluctant to probe for deeper meaning in the statements,=20
preferring to stare mutely off to the side at the passing landscape. =
=20
Not that there was much in the way of scenery as far as the doll was=
=20
concerned; the barren terrain that sped by in graduated parallax=20
offered little comfort. The doll itself had no name, or at least it =
didn't=20
attach any particular concept-sound to itself, and certainly no one=
=20
had ever bothered to give it one. Brightly covered paint strokes=
=20
adorned the doll's wooden surface in a swirling pattern, order amidst=
=20
chaos, that when combined with the thing's bulbous goggling eyes,=
=20
spiraling horns, and permanent grimace, made quite an aesthetically=
=20
unpleasant impression despite the obvious care and craftsmanship=20
that had gone into its making. Perhaps aesthetically unpleasant=20
would be the wrong phrase to use, more like aesthetically disturbing.=
=20
Whatever it was, it certainly didn't appear to be benevolent in=20
nature, a fact that didn't bother the doll in the least. The only ot=
her=20
remarkable feature about the kachina doll, for that is what it was,=
=20
was the fact that embedded in its back was a squarish lump of blue-
gray metal. Cool to the touch even in the mind-numbing heat, the=
=20
metallic slab was definitely out of place, but as of yet, no one had=
=20
bothered to tell it thus, and so it remained blithely ignorant of the=
=20
quizzical looks it received from the man next to it.
=09The man, quite unlike the doll, did indeed have a name, David=20
Proudfoot, to be exact. David (as he preferred to be called), again=
=20
unlike the doll, was rather unremarkable in appearance. A pair of=
=20
dusty boots, a loose slightly-soiled white t-shirt, and blue jeans=
=20
punished in ways that rivaled the Spanish Inquisition in brutality al=
l=20
clung in a sweat-fueled embrace to David Proudfoot's rather lanky,=
=20
dark form. At the present, he seemed to be playing a little game as=
=20
to exactly how little he could move his arms, and body in general for=
=20
that matter, and still stay on the barely defined road that led deepe=
r=20
into Hopi territory. In fact, as far as the neutral observer was=
=20
concerned, there were two passengers in a truck that obviously=20
represented a marvelous advance in technology, for it was doing a=
=20
very competent job of driving itself, though at times it would seem t=
o=20
err and come dangerously close to the road's edge. Ned's Atomic=20
Dustbin had long since ceased it's techno-destructive tirade, and the=
=20
radio had moved on to a song that David did not recognize. Whoever=
=20
it was, they sure were angry, or at least acting like they were.
=09Time passed, sagebrush rolled, the sun shone, and finally the=20
station crackled into tinny oblivion, unresurrectable unless the=20
vehicle that housed the radio began to travel in a direction opposite=
=20
its current path, but by now it had became quite obvious that the=
=20
truck had absolutely no intention of doing so.
=09Slowly, almost reverently, David detached an arm from the=20
steering wheel with an audible *shclup* and lightly punched a button=
=20
on the radio. Static indicated a lack of success. A similar result =
with=20
the remaining five buttons produced a small frown, the nearest thing=
=20
to emotion that David had shown externally since the beginning of=
=20
the trip. The arm returned to its former position on the steering=
=20
wheel, which seemed to please the truck, for it no longer weaved off=
=20
the road like it had when David's arm had been occupied with the=20
radio.
=09For what was probably the hundredth time if anybody had've=20
bothered to count (but of course nobody did), David glanced=20
momentarily at the doll seated next to him before returning his=20
concentration once again to the road in front of him. It puzzled him=
,=20
this menacing kachina doll with the metal lump protruding from its=
=20
back. He had picked it up from a small out-of-the-way occult shop in=
=20
Phoenix, and though his original purpose had been to buy feathers=
=20
for tomorrow's ceremony, he purchased the costly doll so=20
automatically that afterwards he gave serious credence to the idea=
=20
that someone or something else had somehow influenced or coerced=20
him to buy it, rather than its purchase being a product of his own=
=20
will. =20
=09Glancing at it again (101 for those counting), his mind=20
wandered towards the problem of the kachina doll's origins, purpose,=
=20
and function. It was the metal, not the too-perfect craftsmanship,=
=20
nor the chaotic and foreign designs on its surface, that bothered him=
=20
the most, he decided. After he had acquired the doll and returned to=
=20
the safety of his cramped apartment, he had spent several hours=20
poring over it, examining the designs, feeling the smooth contours,=
=20
and most of all, puzzling over the metal block. When he had first=
=20
touched it, perched on his sagging bed, a strange sort of vibration=
=20
accompanied by a barely audible humming sound seemed to=20
emanate from it. Efforts to pry it out proved to be completely=20
fruitless, it was almost as if the wood not only fit around the metal=
,=20
but had also grown into and become a part of it. David wondered if=
=20
the doll's expression perhaps sprung from the very fact that it had=
=20
such a lump of foreign substance protruding from its back; he was=
=20
pretty sure that he would wear a similar grimace if such a plight was=
=20
ever his, but then again he wasn't really worried at this point that=
=20
such an possibility lay in his eminent future. The patterns bothere=
d=20
him too, albeit to a lesser extent. Somewhere, he knew, he had seen=
=20
these designs, but for the life of him, he wasn't able to recall wher=
e=20
or in what context. Nonetheless, the thing remained an enigma that=
=20
his mind could not ignore. Who would carve such a thing, and for=
=20
that matter why? Answers obstinately refused to present=20
themselves, so when it had came time to journey to the village for=
=20
the year's most important rain ceremony, the doll became a guest-
passenger on the trip in hopes that someone else might be able to=
=20
shed a little light on the mystery. For now, David just drove, the l=
and=20
scrolled on by, the sun slugged its way towards the western horizon,=
=20
and through it all the doll sat, deaf and dumb, offering not a single=
=20
word.

=09=09=09=09=09 II.
=09He arrived at the village at sunset, the colors so brilliant that=
=20
he fancied briefly that nature's palette had somehow been scrambled=
=20
in a such a chaotic fashion that nothing was left untouched, orange=
=20
houses, red dirt, and purplish clumps of water-starved grass. David=
=20
always felt a funny twinge when he returned here to the village,=20
nostalgia perhaps. The best he could think of was the feeling of=
=20
being caught between two worlds, but even that clich=8E wasn't right.=
=20
He couldn't help but liken his situation to that of the kachina doll,=
an=20
uncomfortable synthesis between tradition and technology, past and=
=20
the present. He returned monthly, participated in the many=20
ceremonies, and did his best to help with the survival of the village=
,=20
yet at the same time, he lived in the city, in an apartment even, and=
=20
did the accounting for a prospering insurance company. The intricate=
=20
doll was caught in the same situation, its form grounded in the=20
traditions of centuries past, yet also integrated so jarringly with t=
he=20
present through the metallic parasite. "The designs too," he thought=
=20
suddenly, "they too were somehow connected to the technological=20
side... where were they from, where were they from?" He barred his=
=20
teeth and shook his head in frustration, but unfortunately, those=
=20
gestures did nothing for the puzzle.
=09Driving always exhausted David, especially with the summer=20
heat, so after briefly visiting friends, he retired for the night to =
his=20
parents' house. He dreamed of nothing in particular.
=09The ceremony the next day went rather uneventfully. Looking=20
around at the sweaty red-faced tourists, David wondered briefly=20
what went through their minds while they watched. Did they see the=
=20
same things, the harmony, the intricacy, the blending between=20
nature, people, and lifestyle? For the most part he doubted it. "Od=
d,"=20
he thought, "I'm witnessing probably the most important rain dance=
=20
in the village's history, and all I can think of are some silly-looki=
ng=20
tourists and some oddly-made kachina doll that I picked up for an=
=20
arm and a leg from some occult freak back in the city." =20
Unfortunately, this mental reprimand did nothing for David's=20
wavering attention towards what was going on around him.
=09It had been a bad year for the village, another bad year in a=20
long succession of bad years, drought and barren fields were=20
becoming the norm, not the exception. Of course, with people like=
=20
David to help out financially and such, the village was not in any=
=20
immediate danger of starving; rather the threat came from within, as=
=20
more and more people lost faith in the old ways, especially the=20
younger ones. Those who remained adamant in the face of such stiff=
=20
adversity found themselves facing a dwindling population as more=20
and more left the village convinced it had fallen out of favor with t=
he=20
gods. If there was any time that rain was needed, now was truly it.
=09Two days later, David, was nearly convinced too, that indeed=20
the place had been cursed by the gods; the weather remained=20
unbearably hot, the land blistered and parched. He called in sick=
=20
=66rom the village's one phone and remained to help out with the many=
=20
jobs that more and more went unfinished as the work force=20
dwindled. As he staggered into bed later that night, his toe=20
connected painfully with a rather hard object that had found its way=
=20
into his bed. Pulling it out from among the covers, he discovered,=
=20
much to his amazement, the kachina doll. What was so amazing to=20
him though, was the fact that for two days he had been so immersed=
=20
in his work that he had managed to completely forget the doll's=20
existence. Now that he was reminded of it however, he found=20
himself bothered so much by its mystery that, imbued with new=20
purpose, he straight away padded over to one of the village elders's=
=20
homes, doll in hand. His visit was about as successful as the rain-
calling ceremony several days before. =20
=09Rising-moon, his paternal grandfather, and one of the most=20
famous kachina doll makers in the southwest, was not only clueless=
=20
as to the doll's origins or meanings, but he also exhibited an almost=
=20
hostile air towards the thing itself. He refused to give any reasons=
=20
for his distrust, simply saying that the best thing to do at this poi=
nt=20
would be to burn the thing. Consulting with others produced similar=
=20
results, though none so hostile; no one seemed to be able to answer=
=20
any of the questions David posed. More frustrated than ever, he=20
returned to bed, and drifted off into a restless sleep.

=09=09=09=09=09 III.
=09He awoke in the middle of the night to the sound of a single=20
wolf howling in the distance. He felt the strange need for a walk, s=
o=20
without any consideration whatsoever he sloughed out of bed and=20
tromped out of the village in the direction of the nearby hills; it w=
as=20
only when he was a good mile or so out that he realized he'd brought=
=20
along the doll.
=09The memories of childhood were particularly strong here=20
amongst the rocky outcroppings and rising swells that constituted his=
=20
personal playground as a young child. Many things remained locked=
=20
up and secret, a near-fatal encounter with an angry rattlesnake,=20
breaking an arm after slipping off a small ledge, and of course the=
=20
discovery of the cave.
=09David first encountered the cave while on one of his many=20
walks amongst the cyclopean masonry that seemed to propagate and=20
reproduce so much in these hills. Tucked behind a rather monstrous=
=20
boulder so that only the slim could ever hope to enter, a small crawl=
=20
hole opened into a spacious but bare cavern. The place still=20
contained a strong magic, the kind that tended to accumulate in the=
=20
mind of a young child. Barely squeezing through the small niche-like=
=20
opening, David recoiled in shock at what he saw when he shone his=
=20
light about the cavern. Someone, or something, had been in here=20
recently, very recently in fact. The chamber was completely devoid=
=20
of dust, and in the center lay the charred form of a kachina doll. =
=20
David's hand automatically reached for his doll, and much to his=20
relief he found it safe and sound, resting quietly in his pocket. Th=
e=20
charred doll appeared to be very similar to one his grandfather=20
might have made, and it seemed not to have suffered extensive=20
damage, so David gathered it up into the folds of his sweatshirt, but=
=20
not before pulling out his own doll. In the weak and wavering light,=
=20
it appeared more monstrous and menacing than ever, leering=20
mindlessly in a way that reminded David so much of some nameless=20
zombie in a cheesy horror film. Setting the doll down in the thin=
=20
layer of ashes before him, he crouched down for a while, eyes closed,=
=20
wondering what all this could mean.
=09Movement occurred, movement that was not his own, and=20
David shot up out of his crouch so quickly in a rush of fear and=20
adrenaline that he almost thwacked his head against the low ceiling. =
=20
A quick glance around told him that he was still alone, no one but=
=20
himself and the doll standing amongst the ashes. It was at this poin=
t=20
that David's eyes bugged out in a manner that would have made the=
=20
doll quite proud, for the doll's physical position and form had=20
changed; what was once a threatening grimace now was a=20
triumphant smile that seemed altogether even more hideous than=20
the formerly leering countenance. And when the doll began to=20
speak, David, staring numbly, found himself not the least bit=20
surprised...
=09He must have dozed, for his next memory was that of a sliver=20
of morning sun creeping across the back wall of the cave. Not=20
bothering to even look around at his surroundings, David=20
staggered/wormed his way out of the cavern and into the blinding=20
sun, which although it had but just risen was already beginning the=
=20
transmutation of the cold night air to the stifling heat waves of=
=20
midday. He paused, groped about in his pocket, and despite the=20
warm day, felt an icy, electric chill rush through his body as he=
=20
grasped the form of the doll, not the burnt one, but the accursed one=
=20
his grandfather would not touch. He clutched it spasmodically, and=
=20
everything came back to him.

=09=09=09=09=09 IV.
=09These days David found himself returning to the village less=20
and less, whether it was out of fear or guilt he didn't want to know.=
=20
Besides, the village no longer really needed him; it was prospering=
=20
like it never had before despite the numerous disappearances that=
=20
had taken place in the area and the ugly rumors that had begun to=
=20
spread as a result. Actually, he knew inside that he'd never go back=
,=20
not after witnessing the last ceremony filled with the grimacing=20
dancers, each and every one twisting and writhing with shining=20
metal boxes strapped to their backs, not after witnessing how less=
=20
than an hour later a gentle and refreshing rain had washed down=20
and fed the thirsty fields like a mother would her toddler. There=
=20
was something unnatural and wrong about that rain, it had seemed=20
tainted, almost pinkish, but the corn plants didn't seem to mind in=
=20
the least bit. Just what had he unleashed? He didn't know, nor did=
=20
he want to find out. No, the village nor its gods were no longer for=
=20
him. You see, it was not until later, not until after waking up from=
=20
some blasphemous nightmare that David finally realized what the=20
design on the kachina doll was and where he had seen it before. All=
=20
he had to do was recall his years in college, one class in particular=
,=20
Engineering 41, something he had audited briefly before deciding=20
that engineering wasn't his calling; the design so carefully painted =
on=20
the leering kachina doll was that of a microchip.

=2E..............................................:
s.r. prozak / stoner adventures

Into the darkness the smoke vanished, swirling upward like mother's=
=20
skirts in a dance. Something I remember from childhood: my mother=
=20
dancing. Something I remember vaguely, like a severed head rolling=
=20
down the aisles at church. Drifting from the morass of years, so=
=20
detached that I can't tell if I am five or fifteen in the vision. Ar=
tefacted,=20
rejected. Gone in a heavy-headed haze like a blackout. More smoke=
=20
pours over the sill, serpentine in its aceitine slowness, somnolent=
=20
stirrings, stiffening. The glistening stained-glass tower pouring sm=
oke=20
passed through us one more time, cashed and done, then reloaded=20
=66rom another entrant, a man named Goldbee. =20

Narrow, Italian, he wended his feet between ours to claim the edge of=
=20
a couch. His bag a shallow scratching of schwag, shitty pot, about t=
o=20
pass to us, some declining from the rattiness. "It's brick, but it's=
not=20
bad brick," his eyes turning to me wildly and I unwilling to refuse,=
=20
smoked. Harsh, and no additional effect at first. "Wait a while," h=
e=20
said. "I got so stoned once I saw my childhood. I was in the kitche=
n=20
and my mother was baking and then I went outside, and fell down, and=
=20
cut myself. I came back in and was sitting on the counter bleeding,=
=20
and she was cooking, and then my father came home and asked what=
=20
happened. I said I didn't know, I'd fallen. It was around ten p.m.,=
and=20
then dinner was served. Some of the plates broke and I went outside=
=20
to get away from the noise. I was out there and I saw an old man at=
=20
the curb, smoking a cigarette. I came closer and saw he wasn't old. =
=20
He spoke to me, and I left him shortly. I left without turning aroun=
d." =20
Goldbee left, later, after Spike had pity and brought forth our bag o=
f=20
thick luscious ropes of Cleveland Gold.

(Cleveland Gold was an old favorite on the block; a man named Jake=
=20
Hanscom, a guitarist for some blues-rock outfit in Texas, grew it on =
the=20
roof of his downtown Austin store. The roof was an atrium, but plant=
s=20
were still visible, even from a nearby dorm. He never got busted,=
=20
however. He had perfected his technique by touring with his band,=
=20
Dijon Lonely, and smoking with fans and bands and an entourage of=
=20
rocknroll crazies out to see the blues across the land, saving seeds =
as=20
he went. When he got back, he practiced some rather unselective=20
breeding which worked out miraculously. His first notice of the new=
=20
plants, with their distinctive purplish tint and reflectively-laden l=
eaves,=20
coincided with Spike, Aurora (a man), and I arriving at his apartment=
in=20
the back of the store. Spike had brought his new device, a speaker=
=20
impaled with a standard bong ("When the bass kicks in you go wild, it=
=20
reverberates through you and takes off your head" said Spike later,=
=20
slowly staring out a viscous window) and we had loaded a bowl. The=
=20
hit was so smooth we had no idea it had occurred, almost, until the=
=20
voice of Jake punched through the smoky silence, first the broad bass=
=20
of his region of Texas, and then the high screechy international whin=
e=20
of a stoner gone happily berserk. "I'm going to fuckin'=20
Cleeeeeeveland," Jake sang out, falling back into a ratty dun couch=
=20
with 'BONES 77' spray-painted on its back, pointed toward the=20
woodburning stove he kept as a kitchen)

This was all from the vantage of Spike's temporary Los Angeles=20
apartment, hovering from a precarious building in the gangrenous=20
flesh of the styrofoam city. A burnished wood finish guitar lay in t=
he=20
diagonal shadows of a corner, the wind wrestling brief snatches of=
=20
blues from its strings. The sun had set, and the world slowed. I ha=
d=20
been in a tremendous funk as if possessed maliciously by the demon=
=20
of slow death, feeling the day settle into my gut like a leaden meal.=
=20
There is something in that feeling which passes through me with a=
=20
shudder; I think it's entrapped childhood, pushing to get out and fin=
d=20
fast old fields of suspense and expectation, instead colliding with t=
he=20
day and its falling gap with a stutter. Imagining a wall of whale=
=20
blubber solidly knocking a New England fisherman into the sea, one=
=20
hand gripping his cap for no reason other than habit, the other haili=
ng=20
the boat swung away toward the shore by the ruffled string of its wak=
e. =20
At Spike's I was more than diffident, but after smoking more than a f=
air=20
share of the Gold (Spike whispering "Cleeeeeeveland" in my ear as I=
=20
each time took a hit, lightening the bits of consternation tracking m=
y=20
face) I was too diffuse to notice the artefacted children playing in =
the=20
window. I attempted a read;

"motherchrist and stern concern,
her eyes and arms wooden in the day,
summer suns strengthened years,
the lifetime of easter eggs defied.
motherchrist in her darkest smile,
even too much for the end of day,
too content with the grating of the cell.
8x10 squared i am."

("that's no fucking good," says Spike, ladling ash from a bowl onto t=
he=20
floor. It is his apartment, orange carpet beaten by feet like a=20
drumhead. "that's a fucking local rag, in the best sense of that, wh=
ich=20
still leaves it...not really any good. no, but yeah, there's nothing=
in it. =20
check out some of this," he said, handing me a too much frothy electr=
ic=20
novel, in the same way some dance music sticks to the roof of your=
=20
mouth. "inauthentic," I'd once said at a party, and we had a debate=
=20
going, until a girl with the fixed pupils of transportation said to m=
e: =20
who cares, you dance to it, and then you fuck to it. deny it that; a=
nd I=20
was silent, but unsettled. A partial explanation, true but inexplica=
bly=20
unsatisfying, as if the truth only gapped a wall, leaving the house=
=20
obscured. "that's no fucking good," Spike rescued, expounding on the=
=20
truth of the blues, and Muddy Waters' truth. "ask burr, he's a write=
r. =20
does Muddy Waters write well? no, but in his icon salad and rhythmic=
=20
leer he tells his truth. his movie." I nodded, gratefully lapsing i=
nto a=20
zoned moment of quiet breathing. Someone left to dance.)

"of course babe you're down,
it's the city, take you 'round,
when we go down, we go down,
and the sun it drop with us."

The yellowing shadows held tack to the light, lining slickly the floo=
rs=20
with vinyl darkness. Heavily the air rested on our eyes, burdening t=
he=20
lids. Late in the night, earlier than the coffee shops. We went out=
side,=20
to the shared balcony of his apartment complex, above the muddy=20
pool in which the larvae of hungry mosquitoes bred beyond the lives o=
f=20
their parents, growing to full size until the malathion truck came,=
=20
adding one more mist to the sludgy fog hanging over the city, trappin=
g=20
it and its vacant anger under the blanket of refuse. Spike exhaled,=
=20
blowing the remnants of a bong hit over the iron railing, it descendi=
ng=20
toward the pool and then hanging in the courtyard. We dreamt that=
=20
those never joined the slurry of the sky.

Later that night, heading home in the aching weariness of morning, no=
=20
classes I would attend, a project to finish on hold. Sleep chancre b=
ore=20
my eyes as I fumbled into the lobby of my apartment, my clothes=20
drawn with the drunken hand of a bitter cartoonist, hanging to my ski=
n=20
in the clumping disarray of rotting curtains in an abandoned house. =
=20
For an instant my brain recollected, falling back into strain, as I w=
as=20
halfway through the lobby, blessed seconds from stairs, softness and=
=20
sleep. An echo of the incessant "hey got a light" shot through the h=
air=20
behind my ears, and I turned, too tired to realize dangers although=
=20
fear vaguely sunk into my neck meeting skull. Four days of all black=
=20
coated him, silkish shirt taught over a body molded into it by the=
=20
adipocere of inactivity. His finger held a cigarette in the canting=
=20
stretch of the shadows on Spike's walls lengthening into morning. =
=20
"Sure," thickly, the lighter extending past the immediate fuzz to the=
=20
man: gently, like a swan, his neck bending to the glow of the lighte=
r,=20
head returning upright with cigarette stares. "Thanks; join me?" and=
I=20
agreed, sitting in the cheap lobby furniture smoking Marlboros. "I l=
ike=20
these. I once stole a pack when I was young above twelve, and then,=
=20
in the midst of a vacation, smoked most of them. They asked me the=
=20
second day if I smoked, and I knew they'd smelled it the first day of=
=20
seven on a dude ranch, and I said no, it was the people in the lounge=
,=20
knowing they had smelled and discussed the It, the cigarette, and=
=20
inconclusively accepted the easy answer. I hadn't even looked at=
=20
them when saying it, I was watching TV. I spent a lot of time doing=
=20
that, and spent some writing in a diary I abandoned, full of the scar=
iest=20
immature fantasies I could imagine. I was twelve writing like I was=
=20
two, with large dragons who were friendly until they saw something,=
=20
maybe a flowerpot or maybe a ring, and then they became largely red,=
=20
and changed into slumping swamp-things which consumed me (or=20
maybe not me, the narrator) with pseudopods and ire. We left on the=
=20
sixth day." The smoke coiled over two butts flattened like bullets i=
n=20
the ashtray.

The pillow lay softly like my past, beneath the aching head, sensing=
=20
earth and the moist satisfaction it brings. I reclined, a man atop a=
void=20
of memories, feeling immensely the power of the fall. However life=
=20
works, there is a fall. Priests, man, carnivores fall from grace, an=
d=20
others fall out of fashion, out of positions, out of vehicles. Death=
falls,=20
night falls. The earth receives the falling rain and the sweet sense=
of=20
satisfaction drifts up in a mist, an epitaph to sleep.

Morning crisp with the edge of cold and awakening, the city=20
slumbering by in thick rivers of cars, draining past in the waning li=
ght. =20
My hair unsheveled, undone in the spiking randomness of a battering=
=20
night, I bore my eyes through the mirror, like sifting through a bush=
el=20
of grain. At my terminal, I connected to a site in Australia bearing=
=20
some graphical images for public manipulation. I use the net as my=
=20
home, my shield, my buffer; in it lies half of my personality. Stowe=
d=20
away in duplicate invisible areas throughout it is the database that=
=20
more comprises me than I do, all of the information of my past=20
contacts, each touch with the world through a net. Pointers to every=
=20
known site, vast hordes of data on everyone conceivable I've run into=
. =20
The program which maintains it -- beyond the worm, beyond a virus,=
=20
more like an uberkernel under the kernel (if there is such a thing) o=
f=20
the net -- is almost as large, consisting of some of my favorite self=
-
modifiers and encryptors, some extremely versatile net manipulation=
=20
software Golgotha Vein and I cooked up one night baked, stupor-
bound to our terminals, creating our story carved in the net, some=
=20
viruses and defenses, Syd Semper Tyranus' detection evasion=20
software, and a thousand subprograms, daemons, and fragments=20
crammed into a semiselfaware program which maintains me. =20
Transparently, silently -- it is my greatest creation, and the world=
=20
cannot know it, because I only can use it, in my secretive world of=
=20
evasion.=20

I worked through the vein of a topology I didn't recognize. I found =
a=20
machine -- I assumed it was a billing computer from its size and=20
system setup, both fairly standard -- in one of the stranger setups =
I=20
had seen on the net. After an hour, I gave myself respite; I owed an=
=20
editorial to a local paper, and had no inspiration, no desire. Last=
=20
visiting engorged me with rage for the fetid sickness of pop journali=
sm,=20
the reductive impulse in mute surrender to the capitulate crowd of a=
=20
gourmand. Wrenching a beer open, firing up the word processor,=20
shooting out a link to the cluster of sites I'd found (connected=20
bafflingly, as if to confuse, linking two separate topologies through=
=20
collective links nested in each topology) with a program I'd develope=
d=20
called FetchBone, an elaborate jury-rig of code interspersed with=
=20
some of the best work I'd done in years. While I wrote, it probed th=
e=20
eiffel tower of network connections, spewing a printout silently behi=
nd=20
me. My cockpit existed in this room, a collection of equipment tied=
=20
together loosely with the cables that powered it, connected it, ran i=
t. =20
My devices didn't work with me; I worked through them.

("...christ under deadline even," the brown man vested for hibernatio=
n=20
spoke to me. "I didn't let it fall through any cracks," I said, ludi=
crously=20
high. (Spike and I had found a parking meter in a junkyard early in =
the=20
week, and, my column being finished, badly but doneso, we had taken=
=20
it to Raul's apartment over the lip of the baseball stadium downtown.=
=20
Raul used to be called Paul, but had one day taken several hundred=
=20
micrograms of good acid and connected to the net, converting himself=
=20
with us, the epiphany naming him Raul. Over the tympanic passing of=
=20
a train we plotted uses for the meter until Spike (too tired of=20
deliberation) rammed it into an old vacuum cleaner, prompting Raul=
=20
and I to modify the device. The coin slot now gaped, the glass=20
cleaned; when a perfectly huge bong hit was loaded, the pointer=20
swung to the three hour mark, and, when this hit ascended into our=
=20
lungs, swung to 'EXPIRED.' A touch on the vacuum switch operated=
=20
the device, a screw knob on the side regulating lung capacity=20
expected. Spike shrugged a bag of fresh green dope from his=20
shoulder pocket, uncoiling an arm to slink it onto the table. This w=
as=20
DungBrow WetHair, a super-potent variety of red hair grown=20
somewhere in the sewers of the city by a college friend of ours,=20
LoadingZone O'Rourke (famous for swinging into a physics final=20
observably too high to complete it, taking one look at it, and drawin=
g=20
out brilliantly the first and last problems, scratching out the quest=
ions in=20
between, writing "the rest is silence") living on bail for a statute =
of=20
limitations to gasp its last. Four large hits of that assassination =
mint,=20
each one slamming into my lungs reaching serpentine through my=20
brain, a clock slurred into focus, meaning my time to deliver; and I =
run=20
downstairs a street or two, a bus departs a lighted barge into the ni=
ght,=20
very hazy like being stoned on the net, getting to my apartment's alt=
ar=20
in time to realize my needed appearance, staggering into the=20
newspaper offices to present the document on local machines (a small=
=20
intrusion having crippled a core machine, killing my link access) an=
d=20
bypassing the acetate chaos of a newspaper office to find the small=
=20
brown man:) "...christ I thought you'd never arrive," he says, corpul=
ent=20
face hung over smallish body, sheathing fat of a chair life envelopin=
g=20
him, creating a miasmic spear of a man, acerbic acidic and harried,=
=20
aging fast. "Is it good to go?" (sure) "Thanks you can ..." his phr=
ases=20
lost, my feet carrying me (detached blissfully) from the arena, to ho=
me=20
and the net, my program deconstructing)

Early in the haze of protective morning I found Skunk latched to a=
=20
wallcorner, dismal cigarette poking from his beard, raging pointer of=
=20
fire which drew the morning to a point. He lit me one, given in the =
half-
handshake of the accomplished cigarette swap, and we together blew=
=20
smoke into the morning fog. The haze lifted vaguely from my brows as=
=20
I spoke: "Greetings, Skunk, bearer of unholy weed (Skunk had found=
=20
his name in the Foundation area where he was famous for homegrown=
=20
pot so fragrantly pungent that local authorities had busted him by=
=20
smell in a crowd. Once Spike and I became so stoned at Skunk's that=
=20
we had gone down to the park, and sat in slatted benches by the=20
melodic water. A policeman came with metallic tones and told us a=
=20
question to leave, then became upset when we did not really answer. =
=20
I was incapable of saying anything at that point even. I wanted more=
=20
lake-melody, the ancient water rising from its cold wet quietude to=
=20
flood the yearning relic my mind, lost somewhere between a bicycle=
=20
and four days in June some year in highschool. Spike looked up, and=
=20
the blueman wrenched Spike's arm with a grinding sound, beshitting=
=20
all that was tonal and fine in the balance of the morning. The dark=
=20
lakefog colored with mercy enough to see us away, and the blue man=
=20
tapping his shiny black toe at the base of the sword of orange-gold=
=20
reaching from the submerged sun, lurking with trepidation of the=20
morning), how goes it?" Skunk said little, flicking his cigarette as=
h the=20
color of his stubble with the same abrasive resignation the mask=20
implied. Eyes riding red glow he said: "Not bad. I am waiting for=
=20
something, but I have forgotten what, because I'm really high. I got=
a=20
bag last night, and Oso came over, as did mighty Amon, and we=20
consumed masses of thick fragrant smoke. I found myself here some=
=20
minutes ago, for my friends have drifted away, I think to resume live=
s=20
of waiting for jobs in their hydrocarbon homes. I am just now seeing=
=20
how nice it is to have fog drift over everything. I see people in it=
; I=20
think I am almost too high." I said there was no such thing. There =
isn't=20
on a general scale -- you can't get "too high." Specifically, you ca=
n be=20
too high to do certain things, usually involving other people who=
=20
wouldn't understand. For those you either persevere or make=20
excuses. I recall hating excuses. I asked him for what too high and=
=20
Skunk said, "Well, I gotta look for a job today, and I don't see myse=
lf=20
being normal before everything's closed, so it's going to be a gritte=
r. =20
I'll have to take Murine and fake it, but it always makes me twitch, =
in=20
those anaesthetic lines and offices, on dust-clotted floors and in=
=20
sweat-greased armchairs. I don't really want a job, because I want t=
o=20
go to school, but I don't want school either. So it's to the lines. =
Last=20
night I think I was too high to talk, because sometimes you get to th=
e=20
point where everything else recedes and you can't really talk but you=
=20
think fine, just nowhere near anything else anyone wants you to think=
. =20
They want you to hear them and the world, and talk to them, and you=
=20
want to be underwater in the clarity of that peacefulness, to not be=
=20
there but to feel it more than they." I agreed, vanishing the last e=
ighth=20
of my cigarette with a long draw. I don't normally smoke.
=09Someguy with dark long hair, curling over his avian shoulders,=
=20
looked at us through the membranes of his lower eyelids. "Heyman,=
=20
can you spare a cigarette?" he repeated. Sure shuffled Skunk and=
=20
lofted him one from the sheaf of his softpack. I bent to with a ligh=
t=20
=66rom a lighter I'd found in some thrift store, a zippo with a marin=
e=20
regiment inscription. Puff, drift. The drummer behind us slowed, an=
d=20
the inexorable time to speak came.
=09Someguy: Thanks. Sure is a nice morning.
=09Skunk: S'foggy.
=09Someguy: I kind of like it. Mournful.
=09Skunk: I am not inclined to be mournful. I like it because it's=
=20
harder to see everything.
=09Someguy: Harder to see...? Yeah, I can see that. I can=20
imagine that could be fun. Hey is that a somebattalion insignia?
=09My own skull spoke at him: I don't know I got this at some=20
pawnshop. Richenbacker and Hanover streets.
=09Someguy: I was in somebattalion. This was during=20
somepoliceaction. We fought in the valley and took heavy casualties.
=09Skunk: Wars...I don't get. Fog obscures everything.
=09Someguy: Yeah, it was pretty foggy there too. We had to=20
shoot into the fog, and sometimes we'd get something. You'd hear a=
=20
yip or something. Pretty ripe ha?
=09My lidding eyes: Must have been scary. Glad it's over.
=09Someguy: I am actually. It was actually a pretty bad=20
experience. But I think I got a lot from it actually. I think it be=
nefited=20
me in my real state.
=09Skunk: Real estate. My grandfather made a fortune in the=20
purchasing.
=09My dried, chewed, disconsolate mouth: My grandmother=20
canned hams, and was almost shot for witchcraft.
=09Someguy: Witchcraft? I never got into that Satan shit. =20
(Dusting hands he departs). Thanks for the smoke. Catch me on the=
=20
docks sometime and I'll return the favor.
=09Skunk: I live in Minneapolis.
=09Someguy: Cool. Do they have fog there? (Sideglance) I'll=20
catch you around.
=09Skunk: Yep. (looking at me with slaughterhouse look of=20
acclimatization)
=09My eyes still hung like sodden-framed pictures outside the=20
museum in the desolation of twilight. I gots to go, Skunk. We smoki=
ng=20
Friday I think not really sure, my life's kinda a mess.
=09No problems man. We are probably all going to smoke like=20
crazy this week. I was gonna look for a job, right, but I think now =
that=20
this is what I must do. Get beyond all of that stuff before it becom=
es=20
me. I feel like I'm going to be executed.
=09I didn't know, so I said to look around the northern office distri=
ct. =20
Sometimes sweet stuff got handed out there, relating my tale of=20
working as a file-boy for some extravagant rate because I'd proven=
=20
that I didn't talk. =20
=09I took my leave and let the fog slip behind me as coattails as I=
=20
went into downtown.
=09Crusting paint slotted stairs sideways up to the landing, at=20
which the option of further progress presented us. Spike and I, both=
=20
staggeringly high and drunken, rested the balls of our feet on=20
alternating brown and white patches of lichenous paint, drenched in=
=20
the sluggish smell of humid apartment building. A door led away from=
=20
the landing; it was the Nowhere Door, leading impossibly through a=
=20
wall. Beyond the Nowhere Door was outside from three stories up, a=
=20
blank wallface. Its purpose undetermined, it reflected graffiti back=
=20
toward us:

=09"Bill woke each day and went downtown,
=09 There he found all hangers-round,
=09 And he asked them what they'd found,
=09 They replied without a sound:
=09 There is a girl named Margey-May,
=09 Who by all accounts is large as day,
=09 And if you find her, you'll hit the hay,
=09 With living, bouncing Margey-May.
=09 And if with her you're really high,
=09 You might think your time to die,
=09 Has come, but on Margey's thigh,
=09 You'll read the motto:
=09=09Now I lay me down to sleep,
=09=09For only I my soul can keep."

=09Two flights of stairs further upward we paused at Bill the=20
Kitchen's door. Bill's Kitchen is his room, his house, wherever. =
=20
Chemistry fell into Bill's hands in an acid-rimmed highschool lifesty=
le,=20
and from there he went on to produce some of the most incredible=20
custom drugs known to man. This apartment, with its gutted door of=
=20
paint turned to decaying putty, blackened scorchscars outside the=
=20
windows, and floor flooded with chemicals, trash and clothing, was=
=20
home to many a great production scheme. Bill's bed abutted the=20
stove: his pillow was always warm. The rest of the room was a sofa=
=20
facing the bathroom, a small foot-table with a vase and flowers on to=
p,=20
and Bill, six feet of sweat clouded with a cigarette burning beneath=
=20
prodigious hair and shadowy face. It had taken him two minutes to=
=20
exhale as we stood there. The faint odor of dope pervaded his clotti=
ng=20
smoke.
=09"Ayeh," Bill said, stepping out into his kitchen from the self=
=20
ensconced in smoke. His eyes glowed upward at us, pupils writhing. =
=20
"I made the new batch: it's dope: it's my savior, man," he said.
=09"Christ, Bill," Spike said, "You didn't get religion, did you?" =
=20
Stepping up to a bar, pasting his beer on the table.
=09"Nehep," Bill intoned, softly with smoke rising past his focused=
=20
pupils. Suddenly sharp, in the courtroom. More whitespace staring=
=20
outward, the pupils recessive again, lost in the land past the smoke.=
=20
Smoke covered all of us, flowers coming out of Bill's foot-table. Th=
e=20
vase stared deep into its core.
=09Spike footed it, tapping the edge. "Strange contraption," I=20
asked. Bill opened the small side door to reveal two thick waterfill=
ed=20
chambers made from large mayonnaise jars, an electric bowl made=20
=66rom a 1986 Buick cigarette lighter, and some assorted tubing. The=
=20
guts of the beast: sacrifice. "Very technical device, for a bong," B=
ill=20
said, exhaling into Kitchen, "but very good. I hadda problem with p=
ot,=20
it being very nice (veryfine) but also pretty ratty stuff: the high w=
as=20
great, delivery bad. I couldn't really distill it into a pill and ha=
ve it be=20
fun, so I made this scrub bong. Pop inna some schwag," he said,=20
ladling dusty, ratty Mexican brick pot from a large loose bag. "Lift=
the=20
handle to take a hit," he said, closing the door with a musty warning=
=20
that the hit was blown upward when the handle was released, and until=
=20
then the chamber filled "like blood in water."
=09Spike's mouth trumpeted to meet the fluting mouthpiece of the=20
vase, his fingers twisting upward the chintzgilded handle, smoke=20
pouring in a trickle, more like mist than smoke, in the flouting glow=
of=20
the upright room. Clear glass mottled with its own dimension=20
intertwined with thick green glass, a pattern from a forgotten urge o=
f=20
dead parents; Spike's face pulled back, pallid in parts, BillKitchen:=
=20
"Huge hit", quick inhalation to seal the deed, then a calming face=
=20
shriven in its ruddiness. Bill: "Huge hit." Spike slowly withdrew =
his=20
face toward the window, and blew a pure note of clear smoke into the=
=20
crouching night. "Huge," he said, slowly. We checked the bowl: =
=20
cashed. Outside a car horn howled into a screech, and then a blast o=
f=20
metal groaning into a creaking collapse, swearing, an impact. Dim=
=20
edges of streetlight like the rim of an iris diffracted into the barn=
acled=20
windowpane. I took the next hit.
=09The smoke was soft underwater gesturing, like falling through a=
=20
memory of some summer spent in the breast of childhood, staring past=
=20
cloudy sunlight into something beckoning, a memory as bogus as it=
=20
was real, embittered in the swelling of life into smacklike infusion =
to=20
the main. The main, which rambled by below us. Outside: more=20
swearing, a muffled punching sound caught in the screaming horn of a=
=20
train. Car engine, vanishment into haze. "...so I figure, something=
's=20
gotta scrub schwag, cuz it's all that I can afford. And I talking to=
Silvia=20
one day: she said I was an artch chemist, and from that gotta be able=
=20
to figure out something. I worked with membranes a summer orso=20
ago, and these fit well into my two-barrel design, and so I made this=
,=20
and it takes my gunch pot and gives you clean smoke, licking your=
=20
lungs like a slender hand...this is all I need, now." Looking up to =
Bill,=20
past him the intricate crockwork of interlocking tubules like bones a=
nd=20
skulls, each decanter, each pustule of chemical mixing, and then to h=
is=20
face, set apart in the glow of its skin. I was really stoned -- am r=
eally=20
stoned. Was I in childhood? That memory of a ball bouncing between=
=20
trees, over thick grass, really alive, some people, some hope. Paren=
ts=20
even not descanted in their faces. Shriven with truth; now beyond th=
e=20
censer, something must exist in my mind...Bill saying something to=
=20
Spike: them talking I stoned too much?
=09"...big hit." My voice finished from somewhere, and Bill's=20
Kitchen device filling him up with strenuous billows of smoke. Gaspi=
ng=20
backward, sucking air, leaning down, grinning a grimace of future=
=20
knowledge: the soft smoke inflating his lungs in huge blasts would=
=20
soon inundate his spine, a serpent swirling to the brain. His hand=
=20
rested on the vase, affixed to that rock of a foot-table. Each hit h=
ad=20
burned a sixteenth of an ounce or more of cheap pot; Bill's Scrub of=
=20
the Kitchen had curbed the harshness, leaving a manageable hit of=
=20
pure stoniness. I relaxed with pulsing energy flooding out of my lim=
bs. =20
The warm orangeness of the sofa supported me; I felt the waves of=
=20
dopeness (beyond dopeness, beyond the slowness, beyond=20
relaxation, more to an energy derived from the leftover) swim through=
=20
me, gently reflecting from the sofa and the limits of my limbs, cloud=
ing=20
them in brilliant adhering light, swarming throughout me to exude fro=
m=20
me like the smoke I'd blown out. Muscles sunk into the ready atrophy=
=20
of relaxation, my eyes sunk into my face. Spike and Bill droned on=
=20
intermittently, speaking more for the sound of light syllables like B=
ill's=20
high laughter, I spoke a word or two occasionally, my ears swinging=
=20
questions or thoughts through a large space in which my mind moved. =
=20
=46rom me moved energy; without me moved energy, vague awareness=20
of other objects, some good, and some dark stimulus, deadness. I fel=
t=20
the connection of the world like electricity singing down a wire, or =
a=20
spidersweb of wires covering the world like the outstretched hand of=
=20
gOD. Everywhere the lightness of energy -- beyond particulate,=20
beyond wave, more an awareness of both, of creation more than=20
substance, a cyclical pulsation -- emanated from its respective entit=
ies,=20
human or non. I could feel Spike's mind like calm breathing beside=
=20
me, and beyond that toward the corner of the world Bill's Kitchen=
=20
rested absolute, projecting quick alive thoughts into the void in whi=
ch=20
we all swam, lost but not needing to be found, as in a space that ope=
n=20
and full of potential and hope there is no need for locale..."large=
=20
smoke, very stoned." Spike's quick unhurried laughter.
=09"What's its name?" Spike asked Bill, in morning, the next thrift=
=20
store we'd run into. Bill poring through clothing, quickly talking i=
n=20
offbeats, smoke still coming off his lip from the cigarette he had sp=
un=20
into shorn bushes outside the door. Above the day waxed bleak; I had=
=20
to wander through this greyness to deliver a column, but first solved=
=20
that problem with a quarter phone call to verify that I could have so=
me=20
margin of time. Last issue of the magazine turns out was late, and=
=20
deadlines pushed ahead by two days. A sense of encompassing=20
knowledge and the urge to probe it called to me. "...thrift stores. =
The=20
cool thing is, this is people selling each other stuff almost directl=
y, little=20
outside interaction. Plus you get some groovy shit:" Bill holding up=
a=20
seventies bellbottom pantsuit in orange gold suspended in red, with=
=20
diving canaries of green and vivid blue breaking it into composite=
=20
pieces falling into the furnace of the whole. =20
=09My feet walked backward home, crosscutting through some of=20
the clustered collections of building materials in the laundry distri=
ct. =20
These operated 24-7, and blasted steam from their tenuous=20
occupation of earth toward the solemn drained monoliths that held the=
=20
starched sky upright over these human twitchings. Multilingual=20
musings tongued around me, probing the air for life. Venus would be=
=20
proud; the occasional outburst of exploding language clattered around=
=20
my ears like falling swords. Starch, suds, and steam tunneled around=
=20
me, the wet frothy concrete earth returning impact to my boots, the=
=20
steam sounding hoarlike in its demonic intensity. Onward my feet=
=20
trod, pawing ground backward and whisking it into blurs like nighttim=
e=20
skies spinning when one is intoxicated, young. I looked up: the tunn=
el=20
of steam was receding ahead of me, and there lay the grey slack road=
=20
leading home.
=09A waterstain started downstairs, and led up the curving=20
staircase intermittently, like a contortionist's chair rail, and dyin=
g like a=20
fallen whip by my door. I grasped the handle, and opened it; inside =
all=20
was silent with the settled smell of infrequent occupation. The skyl=
ight=20
glowed vaguely over it all. My terminal awaited, the keyboard awake=
=20
with one faint light. A touch and click as the key returned, my eyes=
=20
wandering over the screen as my hands smoothed over the keys. Six=
=20
minutes later back to my newly-found site. I almost went right in, b=
ut=20
pulled back, built another link and probed from the side. Nothing=
=20
really wrong, vagueness again. A door ajar, almost. I coughed, and=
=20
dropped off, falling instead on another site riding the same vein: so=
me=20
brief manipulation with a verify function in their email system, an=
=20
archaic one brought up to date too fast for its security structure, a=
nd I=20
found a reading on packets to my system. Things had changed: no=
=20
real traffic, and a poke further found the alias: the site was linked=
=20
elsewhere. Fingers pulsing with my heart's anticipatory fear, I slig=
hted=20
hand and took a last guess at the link: somewhere to the mountains,=
=20
the connection dead and keyboard closing. Four hours later my=20
anonymous storage reactivated, my rent paid, and I sat on my duffel=
=20
bag smoking a slight cigarette and drinking coffee, waiting for Spike=
. =20
He let me stay the week.
=09We wandered to a cafe that night, an open air situation fronting=
=20
Mexican food and beers, good and better. A Dos Equis and I drew out=
=20
the day for Spike, and the reason for my flight: I had sensed the=
=20
stroking fingers of what would be called justice in the obituary. Hi=
s=20
eyes called for an explanation, sighted between the beer and I, over=
=20
his mouth. "I am a humble stoner," I affirmed. I took a draught of=
=20
beer, cold, heavy, sweet and full, with the timbre of broad land and=
=20
rich country. "But we fear the dark: that which is not understood ca=
n=20
be held over us: if we learn the light switch, we can at least know. =
I=20
found, I know. Something is up at that site, but I need another loca=
le=20
to see it, more carefully this time. I am not a warrior. I find, I =
see, I=20
explicate to our community. We tell those deserving to know. We=
=20
work for no governments, have our own laws. And they fear us,=20
because we can understand as well as speak the language they've=20
created in Olympus." Spike drawled a sip of beer down his throat, an=
d=20
agreed it was necessary, but wondered why I: it's like art, I like li=
fe. I=20
like being alive and knowing, and finding myself out there, a sense=
=20
that I'm alive, that we all are. Otherwise, this...? Spike asked if=
I didn't=20
like the restaurant.
=09To the streets we took, directing ourselves toward a more=20
obscure festival in a semi-abandoned house held in escrow=20
somewhere to the east. We found it by luck, or by stoner's intuition=
, or=20
something. Two stories of conventional house, cheaply made but=20
humble in appearance, drew up above us, coated in the same shade=20
of smog-tainted brown that much of the city without money is painted.=
=20
Some grey shone in the sash of a window above. At the door, we=20
greeted our friend Jeff, who waved us in. Each room shown with the=
=20
light of effort; the walls were fresh sheetrock, the lightbulbs=20
unyellowed. It was Zentower's doing: Zentower, the artist of flaring=
=20
colors and indeterminate periods of ranging experimentation, who had=
=20
gone each week of one school year on a painting binge, and outlined=
=20
in watercolor some ideas for a series of paintings: now his House of=
=20
Suites stood toward the sky, unveiled anew, recreated from the ashes=
=20
of its intent. "It's dope," Spike began, shouldering the blazing r=
oom=20
around him, and sliding a knifelike hand into his own trenchcoat=20
quickly beneath Zentower's eyes -- withdrawing his latest, a gift fro=
m=20
one of the indeterminably placed characters named Bob who run=20
military surplus stores, a rocket launcher which bore Bob's scratchy=
=20
writing in blue pencil: "Create the apocalypse; save the day." =20
Converted with bowl and mouthpiece, it unlocked and slid open to=20
unseal the chamber of water kept tight for traveling. "Fatness=20
awaits...." Zentower took the bong, and flipped a lighter alight,=
=20
swinging a swerving trace of flame down into the bowl, a whirlpool of=
=20
lifelike fire. He pulled the trigger and fresh air blew through the =
bong:=20
Zentower relaxed, thanked us, excused himself and molded into the=
=20
air to travel around the oddly-lighted rooms. People clustered in pa=
rty=20
poses, toes upward, casual hands sliding into dogsear pockets. =20
Clothing ranged from new yuppified to retro, both new words for old=
=20
ideas. But if an old idea is well?
=09The old kitchen had its cabinets and drawers stripped from it;=
=20
where the sink and counter had been, a drumset stood, been pounded=
=20
lightly by a vacant-looking Chinese youth, part of the entirely Asian=
=20
band. I swung my chin slightly; the greeting of the discrete from=
=20
across rooms at parties. We knew each other well, their dissonant=
=20
cover tunes having emerged from the yellow light of many parties. =
=20
"The all-Asian band that played Led Zep covers for free beer in=20
browns," I had thought once, heading over the ivywall next to a light=
ed=20
pool as police ranting started eroding the front door. My beer had=
=20
fallen, and landed upright, a tombstone to the head of a reveler=20
inundated before his time. We went further into the living room,=
=20
dispensing bong hits to the unwary. We had San Quentin=20
Wallclimber, incredibly potent dope grown in the center of America's=
=20
most famous prison by a warden set too much like a heirloom diamond=
=20
to forgive his ways. "Well yawl don't really have to see it, out the=
re,"=20
he had said, "but in here you see how much unhope is rested in the=
=20
human breast. An' for some of these guys, I like to sell 'em a littl=
e=20
cheap -- I make a profit, yes, but not much, considerin' the risk an'=
all -
- cuz I _know_ they're not getting out. An' the thing is, fellas -- =
I aren't=20
gettin' out either, really. I sold myself to the prison, now I'm sel=
ling the=20
prison ... some of myself." Thick A's. We had met him during visiti=
ng=20
hours, and had been introduced by Tremors (from his name, Phil=20
Shakes, but also from his habit of shaking wildly when high, as if fu=
ll of=20
energy he was unable to release) to the good warden, who had then=
=20
offered us some of his pot. It was full, fresh, and fed on the scrap=
s of=20
the prison cafeteria. "Amazing," Spike said, and we shrugged our way=
=20
out of the faded gray labyrinthine construct.
=09We ran into a room with Sift and Shar, two skatepunks who I'd=20
hung with some years before, but had drifted out of favor as they got=
=20
more into the skate scene and less into reality. The identity takes=
=20
them, and swallows them whole, but the fishing line still runs out of=
the=20
fish, which then leads the unknowing line around. They were packing=
=20
scraggly dope into a guava juice canister modified to be a large,=
=20
cheesy bong, so we treated them each to two hits of our bag. They=
=20
seemed more glazed, relaxed, and so we caught up on past. Their=20
time was conceived in the tomorrows and yesterdays; "yestidday we=
=20
went down to the mall, and got kicked out by a mall cop. You can=
=20
always tell mall cops because they look left and right on the footste=
ps,=20
as if it were some kinda drumbeat -- and then they see you and slow=
=20
their beat so they can watch you, head turning right with each leftst=
ep,=20
head left with each rightstep. Sifto here tried a dine n dash at a f=
uckin'=20
ice cream shop." They were living in a trailer home abandoned after=
=20
being smashed by a tractor in the three-lane crisis finale to a multi=
ple=20
car wreck, leaving a handful dead. The cause of it had been a stubby=
=20
red car whose driver was busy with a phone call, blurring lanes=20
distinctly into a diagonal path, bypassing a truck driver too fast to=
stop=20
whose fender became stained in two shades of ire. The trailer home=
=20
remained, with one end patched with the remnants of cartons that had=
=20
once contained a brand of diapers billed as having "the deepest-
reaching comfort." We smoked on, the lawn chairs being more=20
comfortable than most other accommodations.
=09"I was in this convenience store, and I had to take a dump, and=
=20
I talked to the guy, and he wouldn't let me, so I pissed in the aisle=
." =20
General laughter from some more positioned people behind us.
=09"Fuckin' cops, giving me hell. It's not so much that they got the=
=20
'statutes' or whatever, but that they got the attitude, the want to b=
ust=20
you. It's as if one kid not wanting to be a cop is every kid giving =
the=20
cop a finger. They know they don't have control, so when they gets=
=20
you -- the got you." Shar spat.
=09Spike brought up some of our recent experiences with the=20
intricacies of life. "Our fridge died some days ago. We bought it a=
=20
year past from a thrift shop in Dayton, and Ed and Flam brought it=
=20
back in their hippybus. They went crosscountry with only $98.50,=
=20
which they spent on gas, and got the rest of the cash for gas and foo=
d=20
by working nights in towns they'd stop in, getting paid like $4 an ho=
ur. =20
Noone ever hesitates to pay you cheap under the counter."
=09"Yeah," Shar said. "We were living on the Beach last year and=
=20
I didn't have a job, and kept looking, and then one night I went and=
=20
found a restaurant, and they paid me to clean up the kitchen and stuf=
f=20
after hours -- midnight on -- for about $10 a night, which kept me go=
ing=20
until I found this other job up the street. I was bussing tables the=
re,=20
and I got paid for three hours a day, but they hinted that I'd get a =
raise=20
if I worked five. I worked five hours a day for a month, and kept as=
king=20
for more hours, and finally one day left after three. Went back the=
=20
next day and I had a pink slip."
=09Spike couldn't resist: "Were you surprised?" =20
=09"No," Shar said. "I didn't really care. I thought about it later=
,=20
and it was like I wanted to get the hell out of there, but didn't rea=
lly=20
have any excuse, and so my body got punk to throw my mind out of=20
there. They handed me the pink slip, and I told them to fuck off, an=
d=20
they told me I'd better leave or they'd get the cops to come. I just=
=20
tipped over a whole rack of glasses, and they shattered, and I could=
=20
hear her dialing the phone so I split through the back, and cashed th=
e=20
check at a liquor store two streets over, bought a bag and hit the=
=20
road."
=09"They don't mind dicking you over, cuz there's a thousand of=20
yous coming through each month. They can dick anyone over except=
=20
the government, who's probably dicking them over anyway," Sift said.
=09A man in black belted white leaned over urbanely and said:=20
"They are dicking them over. They're dicking everyone over. You=
=20
should see what I paid in taxes last month."
=09Sift: "I don't pay taxes."
=09Man: "Yeah, I thought about that, but then I realized that I want=
=20
to contribute to society. I mean, if I can hack it with paying taxes=
, why=20
not? It hasn't been that bad so far."
=09Sift's response was a very stoned stare. The man mumbled=20
something and sipped his drink, backing away into the shade of the=
=20
light. Sift: "That job really did suck. I spent half my time making=
sure=20
that people had clean plates for breakfast five days a week."
=09Winding home, each foot crossing the other's path, Spike and I=
=20
drifted through red alleys and slick reflective streets. The city dw=
elt=20
unconscious. The cockroaches ran and scurried between our feet,=20
crossing the trails of our pointing toes. Over parked cars our voice=
s=20
echoed, into the darkness we vanished, and then came through again,=
=20
the mist of the night coalescing and disintegrating, cotton combed at=
=20
the feet of a spinning wheel. We passed an overturned bike, wheel=
=20
spinning in the air. At chance it stopped as we passed. Spike pitch=
ed=20
his cigarette through the spokes.
=09In Spike's digs, we got ready to sack for the night. I was=20
temporary possessor of sofaspace, a comfortable, beaten, beery-
smelling expanse of wide green softness loosely kept corporate by=
=20
stained white buttons. I threw my trenchcoat over a chair, and then=
=20
sat into it, more shifting my weight from standing to collapsed with =
a=20
convenient catch by the aged wood.
=09"Bong hits?" Spike said, hands over his eyes, wandering as if=20
he were blind. "Bong hits? Bong hits?" Good idea, relaxation sleep=
. =20
We packed a bowl of some consummately kind Thai Express, which=20
gained its name from its site of purchase, an Amtrak porter who had=
=20
worldwide connections with large diplomatic bags. Thai Express is a=
=20
rocket: up fast, very high, but it didn't hold us up hanging over our=
=20
consciousness, like other Thai pot.
=09"A nice big bowl," Spike said, descending on his newest=20
smoking creation. One of his two speakers had a musicbox resting on=
=20
top of it; Spike flicked open the box, and music sounded as a balleri=
na=20
danced. Spike pressed her head backward in a neckbreaking=20
position, and lifted the ballerina and a large circular base from the=
=20
musicbox. Taking a nearby large plastic mug, he flicked out the heav=
y=20
plastic base and inserted it in the box, removing the front cover of =
the=20
speaker to reveal a bowl as he did so. He turned on the stereo: some=
=20
Black Sabbath: "the bass is best when you take a ripper." I took fir=
st=20
hit, blowing my smoke out the open window, around which danced=20
curtains like light skirts, or maybe smoke itself.
=09Daylight fluttered past the curtains, now limp. Through the=20
greyness it pervaded the room, something I was aware of with only=
=20
light consciousness. Everything was ash-grey; exhausted, the room=
=20
hung with the same spent unrestful quiet that I did. My eyes were=
=20
merging back into unconscious oblivion when they caught just enough=
=20
of something foreign to alert my brain. The doorknob turned, and two=
=20
large men came in. I remained solid in my blanket, viewing them with=
=20
eyes at quarter moon. Behind them a woman I recognized as Spike's=
=20
landlord lurked; I realized something official but negative was=20
occurring, better than a robbery perhaps, but probably going to leave=
=20
the same feeling of having been torn, betrayed by some false kinship=
=20
of species.
=09Luckily action was not required on my part. Spike, roused by=20
noise, came out to interdict the men folding his furniture into the h=
all=20
with a yelp. He moved forward sleepily, and was cautioned to come=
=20
no closer by the landlady. His queries met with little answer; final=
ly,=20
they ducked outside the door, to have a somewhat hushed=20
conversation salted with strident whispers as mica is with tiny livid=
=20
cracks. The two men in black stood, gloved hands at sides, staring=
=20
around the room, sometimes at me. With a suddenly elbow, I turned=
=20
over, loudly expectorated opinional air, a rising cleft cloud to disp=
el the=20
stillness of the room, and feigned sleep until Spike came in to tell =
me=20
that we had been witnessed smoking pot by an elderly neighbor=20
across the way, and were very much evicted. The men resumed=20
placing our stuff in the hall.
=09"Isn't there a law against this?" I asked him later, as we bade=
=20
Amon and his helpful battered red truck goodbye at the rental storage=
=20
site. Spike wrapped a corner of his mouth around itself, like the kn=
ot=20
in my stomach, and said no, it was not legal because he hadn't rented=
=20
legally -- lowered rates for no complaints about size, non-working=
=20
facilities and noise from the weird machinery her husband ran in the=
=20
basement. (We learned some years later that he had been busted for=
=20
manufacturing explosives for a foreign concern; we never heard which=
=20
foreign concern, but it was information of doubtful value to us, as=
=20
shortly afterward we learned the pair had been busted for=20
manufacturing and selling phencyclidine)
=09A mall in flypaper suburbia provided a fast, paper-rustling lunch=
=20
as we planned our next move. "Where to?" =20
=09"I don't know," said Spike. "I don't have enough cash to get a=
=20
real place. I don't know where I can go." Neither of us bothered to=
=20
ask about family; we knew that on each end it had become an archaic=
=20
institution, a forgotten idea thankfully allowed to decay in photo=
=20
albums full of lies. Subservient grins. "I can't think of anything =
in the=20
city. I can't think of wanting to stay here. It's not like this is =
that big of=20
a deal, but the burgeoning out of control of it. First you, then me.=
=20
Paul took it heavy last month, and who knows where he ended up?" I=
=20
said I didn't want a permanent base of operations. "What you saw=
=20
scared you?"
=09"It's another manifestation of a wrong voice. The voice there=
=20
has information on us, and knows who we are, but doesn't want to=20
know us. It knows we know it exists. It's not even that I suspect w=
hat=20
it is: the way the net works, it could be government, or anything but=
=20
government. Who pays taxes anymore? Who has the voice to pay=20
them?" I continued: "I want to hit the road." Maybe a moving targe=
t,=20
but more moving vision, to catch the life we've filed too quickly her=
e. I=20
like cities; I live in cities. A tour, like a band, or something. R=
oad,=20
because it gives hope: it stretches into the horizon like life, in wh=
ich=20
you can never see the end, only visualize on what it is. If you try =
to=20
see the end, and explain it, you'll spook. So you just watch the sun=
=20
set, and then watch your feet, crossing each other as they pound=20
against the dark heavy road. Only when you stop do you remain.
=09The gritty sleeplessness hung under my eyes. I pushed out a=20
cigarette in another collapsible hat of an aluminum ashtray. My half=
-
empty coke, waxen cup and halfwet straw pushed out at the skylights=
=20
casting bright existence on the trodding mall, sat next to Spike's ha=
nd,=20
and his cigarette, infected with fire, grey ash of the deadness movin=
g=20
up toward his hand. "Spike," I said. "Ash."
=09He swept the air with his eyes, and locked them on me, flicking=
=20
ash on the table reflexively. I knew he wanted to leave, to roam. I=
=20
knew his eyes were sweeping memories, sweeping some away, and=20
saving others for a return, a mental packing. I lit another cigarett=
e and=20
stared at the colors of clothing passing. I heard his cigarette quen=
ch=20
itself in my coke, the crumpling of the pack and the light impact of =
it=20
dropping to the table, or maybe floor. I hooked my duffelbagstrap, a=
nd=20
swung my scarf over a shoulder as I hefted it and stepped into the fl=
ow=20
of people. Spike followed, and then pressed his chest past me,=20
leading toward a site for cheap junkers, fast, traded for a kingsrans=
om=20
of pot. =20
=09As we marched outside, the swirling smog engulfed us for a=20
minute, and we barely noticed the dawn of winter over the spawning=
=20
noon crowds.

=2E..............................................:
s.r. prozak / musical morass

Macabre 'Sinister Slaughter' - Infested since its inception with the
fascination with the obscure, morose, morbid, and gruesome, grindcore
progressed into a less elemental and more intricate genre with bands
like Macabre. With this offshoot of the genre, grindcore becomes tig=
ht
and compact, losing its characteristic loose, muddy, abrasive sound.
Yet still it grates -- not as much in the musical assault sense, but =
in
the phenomenon of structured musical power in conflict, producing
frighteningly apt short blasts of grind. Macabre structure their alb=
um
around 21 serial killers, with a lyrical fairy tale matching each. S=
ung
in goofy variations on classic grindcore howl and growl, each song
remains distinct, with touches such as non-distorted guitar intros an=
d a
cappella parts adding even more variation. Potentially Macabre are t=
he
most apt musicians in their genre, playing stuff easily as heavy as a=
ny
other band with effortless technical prowess.

Cynic 'Focus' - A great album and a great disappointment. Cynic, who=
se
release was easily the most anticipated in death metal, earned their
fame by playing progressive death metal on their own and for other
leading acts. On their first album, Cynic produce the incredibly
technical music all anticipated, but without the progression to a new=
er
form of metal most hoped for: as the leading musicians of a genre, Cy=
nic
were hoped to bring modern metal from the clone-slump that has embogg=
ed
death and speed metal. Instead, what one ends up with is almost a
composite, although a little more integrated: one part death metal, o=
ne
part jazz-fusion, and one part progressive. With incredible tempo
changes, difficult guitar work and incredible bass precision, Cynic h=
ave
proven they can play, but seem to have fallen prey to that traditiona=
l
hangup of progressive metal bands instead of concentrating on bringin=
g
the music beyond what could have been extrapolated from listening to =
the
top five current acts. Not to denigrate this release -- this album i=
s
excellent listening, with plenty of complexity for discerning (and
perhaps bored with crunch-crunch-smash death metal) listeners.

Therion 'Beyond Sanctorum' - Since Swedish death metal exploded into =
a
large portion of the market some years ago, a common complaint has be=
en
that all Swedish bands sound very...Swedish, that they have stereotyp=
ed
themselves. Therion have held out as one of the most unique acts, wi=
th
"Of Darkness...", their other US release, being distinguishable from
related acts. "Beyond Sanctorum" takes the musical vision on "Of
Darkness..." -- a dense darkness in art, coupled with the
environmental/political conscience of their lyrics -- and expands it =
on
this fantasy epic relying partially on the creations of H.P. Lovecraf=
t.
In that sense it is not unique -- thousands of metal bands have done
Lovecraftian songs -- but Therion place it into a complex story of an
album. Rich with quirkiness and unexpected intricacy, "Beyond
Sanctorum" takes a listen or two to get into, and then furnishes the
listener with hours more of in-depth listening.

=2E..............................................and so...

Thanks for reading the fifth issue of the undiscovered country. Back
issues and future issues are available at the following ftp sites:

red.css.itd.umich.edu /zines/Undiscovered_Country
ftp.eff.org /pub/journals/The_Undiscovered_Country
cs.uwp.edu /pub/music/lists/tuc
pomona.claremont.edu po_1995:[cblanc.tuc]

=2E..or by mailing either cbl...@pomona.claremont.edu or
rm0...@academia.swt.edu.

"be always drunken"

[EOF]

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La Bete Noire RM09216@ACADE=
MIA.SWT.EDU
Southwest Texas State University: Molding the minds of the medi=
ocre.
SWTSU: All we need is an X.
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