Four shades of life recede from the past
A darkness will glow yet fail to surpass
Shrapnel for days like sun from your skin
Lest surface of soul should haunt you again
Above
Below
Inside the yearning
A sweet sweat turns
The white of your eyes
To mute amber cries
Burnished artillery, a canon of lies
These oceans of bronze on the skin of her sighs
The years of my make up, like trees of the land
Sits down in a language I cannot understand
Above
Below
Her softness is burning
The sweet smell turns
The wind of your eyes
Triangled designs
We're in the forest alone
Under maroon skies
Grey gives the daytime
Space to groan
For all of the sparrows have gone
The great bear is sleeping
And dances of rapture
Will fall at your feet
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Friday, May 27, 2011
Friday, May 20, 2011
I can think of nothing
a man can steer his boat upon this unending, finite sea.
some see life so literal. and that might be helpful if they were talented in higher math, geometry. But they're not. they can barely shoot out a common square.
and they want to put us all in there, the whole world, the imagination, the sex impulse...
It's like filling up an ugly car with gasoline and letting it drive on auto pilot through the desert...
and why do others, with such beautiful living eyes, incarnate into dire situations?
no freedoms, no modern luxuries?
and through losing everything, i gain my self back. new.
and now i walk again. the old knowledge sifted and applied, the physical health firing, the spirit adjusted. the pains quietly put away, not hidden. but examined.
and the love of all still intact.
the closer i come to being able to murder a man, if need be,
the closer i come to giving up my life for another.
i think that's just the way it is.
a man pushes out. a woman recedes in.
why do i grow a beard?
because i can.
and because it's time.
there's a hole somewhere, between the worlds.
and a path, if worth something, guides you there. to the meat.
but at the very least it sustains you on the road
with milk.
Life is one long cycle of hibernation and reawakening.
and yes, i have been sleeping.
because within sleep lies dreams
and the vulgarity of life
produces the morning dew
of innocence regained
impartation, divine
some see life so literal. and that might be helpful if they were talented in higher math, geometry. But they're not. they can barely shoot out a common square.
and they want to put us all in there, the whole world, the imagination, the sex impulse...
It's like filling up an ugly car with gasoline and letting it drive on auto pilot through the desert...
and why do others, with such beautiful living eyes, incarnate into dire situations?
no freedoms, no modern luxuries?
and through losing everything, i gain my self back. new.
and now i walk again. the old knowledge sifted and applied, the physical health firing, the spirit adjusted. the pains quietly put away, not hidden. but examined.
and the love of all still intact.
the closer i come to being able to murder a man, if need be,
the closer i come to giving up my life for another.
i think that's just the way it is.
a man pushes out. a woman recedes in.
why do i grow a beard?
because i can.
and because it's time.
there's a hole somewhere, between the worlds.
and a path, if worth something, guides you there. to the meat.
but at the very least it sustains you on the road
with milk.
Life is one long cycle of hibernation and reawakening.
and yes, i have been sleeping.
because within sleep lies dreams
and the vulgarity of life
produces the morning dew
of innocence regained
impartation, divine
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Negate
Comfortable
A new word for me and you
Intensity draws pictures on
The mother's wall with crayons
Like it or not,
The passion soaks through
Only to confuse
Did we do that?
What actually occurred?
Cardboard cutouts mingling on the sea shore,
Let the tide decompose them
I would rather caress fragrant boundaries,
Grasp overlooked stimuli
Take in, become a part
Every cell should be tasted,
Every hair felt welcome
Insatiable fingertips
A new word for me and you
Intensity draws pictures on
The mother's wall with crayons
Like it or not,
The passion soaks through
Only to confuse
Did we do that?
What actually occurred?
Cardboard cutouts mingling on the sea shore,
Let the tide decompose them
I would rather caress fragrant boundaries,
Grasp overlooked stimuli
Take in, become a part
Every cell should be tasted,
Every hair felt welcome
Insatiable fingertips
saturday
they say he was a world class dirt bike racer.
now he roams the local streets, a harmless character. bizarre, worthy of not necessarily pity, so therefore scorn.
possession? schizophrenia?
or maybe just a common drunk over the edge.
that type was more common back in the 50's -- and wasn't that the golden era?
the highwater mark for everything america?
kids had natural style. we laid the pipe then, built the houses, streets, sewers, plans.
we live on top of those old schematics.
smoke crack in a house with indoor plumbing...
it was socialism forged out of the great depression.
i hadn't seen this man in months. and there he was, walking sideways and 9 pounds skinnier. same style ball cap, stringy gray hair and too long goatee.
his face has unnatural lines.
how is it possible to dig 6inches into 5inch skin?
he bends his elbow, wanting me to bend my and bump them together -- something we always did in the past.
he says "it's good to see you, boi"
and it's the most sincere thing i've heard in quite a while. and that's counting church, family, young girls and exes.
how is it possible?
and i'm so personally elevated through sheer force of will i don't even entertain the thought that i might be crazy.
cause i know i ain't.
one little cyclone calls me grizzly.
one avoids bringing her
polka dotted shadow to light altogether.
the black ambered pearl breaks me down into initials
another prefers mister.
and i respect it all.
A man should fear woman to an extent. the exact doppleganger
But...
crazy or not, his engagement proves something's kicking in there.
so many others are just negation, looking alive
now he roams the local streets, a harmless character. bizarre, worthy of not necessarily pity, so therefore scorn.
possession? schizophrenia?
or maybe just a common drunk over the edge.
that type was more common back in the 50's -- and wasn't that the golden era?
the highwater mark for everything america?
kids had natural style. we laid the pipe then, built the houses, streets, sewers, plans.
we live on top of those old schematics.
smoke crack in a house with indoor plumbing...
it was socialism forged out of the great depression.
i hadn't seen this man in months. and there he was, walking sideways and 9 pounds skinnier. same style ball cap, stringy gray hair and too long goatee.
his face has unnatural lines.
how is it possible to dig 6inches into 5inch skin?
he bends his elbow, wanting me to bend my and bump them together -- something we always did in the past.
he says "it's good to see you, boi"
and it's the most sincere thing i've heard in quite a while. and that's counting church, family, young girls and exes.
how is it possible?
and i'm so personally elevated through sheer force of will i don't even entertain the thought that i might be crazy.
cause i know i ain't.
one little cyclone calls me grizzly.
one avoids bringing her
polka dotted shadow to light altogether.
the black ambered pearl breaks me down into initials
another prefers mister.
and i respect it all.
A man should fear woman to an extent. the exact doppleganger
But...
crazy or not, his engagement proves something's kicking in there.
so many others are just negation, looking alive
Friday, May 13, 2011
Narrator (13)
Gone
The fable has ended
The moral is not to listen
But to narrate, investigate
Start anew, fresh
Where will the words as actions take you?
Do not butcher the plot
Tension turns to terror turns to black onyx
Dull, unpolished
Hidden in the sweaty pockets of hero worship
The fable has ended
The moral is not to listen
But to narrate, investigate
Start anew, fresh
Where will the words as actions take you?
Do not butcher the plot
Tension turns to terror turns to black onyx
Dull, unpolished
Hidden in the sweaty pockets of hero worship
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Desert Party (12)
It was late July.
There was a party in the desert, 2hours east of los angeles. Nothing for miles, just rock formations in the distance. and maybe the faint outline of mountains. but they were so far away they may as well have been dreams.
Samantha was now with me, we were in her car. Ray was, too. And Lester, a mutual friend who'd recently come to California.
The night started at the parent's house of a guy Ray worked with -- He had all the information. There was a red pool table and a silly family portrait on the wall. He had thick curly hair and a muppet face.
We listened to Frank Zappa's Freak Out! album.
We headed for the party. Porno for Pyros' "Tahitian Moon" played on the radio.
I put on Neil Young's Dead Man soundtrack followed by Lou Reed's Set the Twilight Reeling -- "Finish Line" had become a prescient favorite.
The music combination conjured a thick atmosphere. Pair this with a confusing relationship with Samantha and an uneasy alliance with both Ray and Lester...
I was about to embark on the moment the past 6 months had been culminating into.
We were 10 miles off the desolate interstate.
a huge bonfire. a full moon. gigantic pumping sound system, people dancing, glow sticks. hand drums hiding in the crevices of the rocks...
She and I broke away and climbed to the top of one, serene, with stars like snowflakes.
I ripped off my shirt. my eyes became black onyx. I tried to eat the boulders. creases tightened under the sides of my eyes. The universal beating steadily increased, synchronized with my blood's brain.
And when the sun started to rise there was mass hysteria, no one understanding from where it came.
I'd had enough and came down from the mountain.
Girls with smeared mascara walked by and I never knew if they were real or not. My supposed friend turned into my cousin, and I could no longer pretend I liked either of them.
"we're the same, you and me," he said.
It was almost too much to bear. I hated him.
"we're all one," he said.
I agreed, but not like this. not this way.
Samantha was crying, calling for maternal guidance no longer there.
I thought I saw a rape behind the sage brush.
I walked away.
"where are you going, CDL? You can't leave the group..."
I was a large cat lounging in the sun.
I had reached nirvana somewhat, but cheated. there was no peace.
We laid there on top of the world, the three of us, an animal truce.
"this is the point of life," one said.
i couldn't believe it. it was golden, but ugly.
a man was doing yoga poses next to me, a cactus flower at our feet. I pointed and laughed. A horrid, mad laugh, with my head thrown back. Samantha asked if the ocean still existed. I didn't know. I was so thirsty. people clamored around the water vendor. it was getting ugly.
I felt like an experimental lizard in a cage, my spinal cord pricked by unseen deities, testing the blunt reflexes. A game.
cars were stuck in the sand. no one knew how to leave, or even where the road out was. a tall black man walked over carrying a tire jack. He set it down and asked if we needed help. I looked down and thought of killing my friend, Cain and Abel style. He read my mind. we both shuddered as he said, "let's not think about that."
people began bouncing on the backs of cars, adrenalized monkey things.
I asked Ray if we were indeed stuck. He said yes, and that it was serious.
After a flash of logic, like the history of the world, I told all three to get in the car. I drove out in reverse as a whole line followed in mad pursuit. I didn't dare slow down until we reached the interstate.
The girl was in the passenger seat. she complained of severe abdominal pains. she stared out the window, muttering under her breath. it was like an insane asylum. the two in the backseat were wide eyed and evil, gnawing on gum like hyenas. I kept glancing in the rear view mirror, looking at my face. my eyes were vacant, had lost their twinkle. my hair stood up on the sides. I tried to console the girl, but in vain. I could hear the cries and calls of this whole side of existence. I drove on auto pilot. Ray in the backseat leaned up, asking "how fast are you going, man?" I looked down and saw the speedometer buried, 120mph.
I was in the left hand lane passing it all, mainly diesels and cars holding snakelike denizens from the party I had just escaped.
I don't know how we made it back from the six lane interstate.
Ray had to be at his job by 4 that afternoon -- An outdoor coffee cart underneath the skyscrapers of Wilshire Blvd. Lester was dropped off with him.
I just wanted to lie down.
Me and she made it back to Venice. I could still hear the manic screams of human insanity. As if giant vikings had descended upon the city, eating the heads of men and women like Goya's SATURN painting.
Inside the apartment I stripped off my clothes and stared at my face in the bathroom mirror. My urine was thick and dark. I walked back to the living room. a large glass window was all that still separated me from the bustling street nightlife of a summer saturday night.
it felt thin, too thin to keep the goblins away. I was vulnerable and trapped, desperate yet unable to escape from myself. she ground her teeth, i could hear them. I stuffed the corner of a quilt into her mouth to stop the chattering. My ears were ringing. I felt violated. I felt like an E.Allan Poe story... steps in the hallway, the slam of the front door...
I dozed off. I shot awake, running to the bathroom, inspecting my mouth in the mirror, a dream of rotting teeth, decayed. I brushed them frantically, relieved after finally convincing myself it was a dream.
Vanity in the midst of a breakdown.
(And this dream haunted me for several months, loose teeth, rotted and decayed.
Like large stalactites jutting monstrous...)
I walked back to the living room and caught my reflection in her full length mirror: Naked, 12 pounds lighter.
The organism in survival mode -- Some sort of strange warrior. running on instinct. The mind of a boy ripped apart, the last vestiges forever.
There was a party in the desert, 2hours east of los angeles. Nothing for miles, just rock formations in the distance. and maybe the faint outline of mountains. but they were so far away they may as well have been dreams.
Samantha was now with me, we were in her car. Ray was, too. And Lester, a mutual friend who'd recently come to California.
The night started at the parent's house of a guy Ray worked with -- He had all the information. There was a red pool table and a silly family portrait on the wall. He had thick curly hair and a muppet face.
We listened to Frank Zappa's Freak Out! album.
We headed for the party. Porno for Pyros' "Tahitian Moon" played on the radio.
I put on Neil Young's Dead Man soundtrack followed by Lou Reed's Set the Twilight Reeling -- "Finish Line" had become a prescient favorite.
The music combination conjured a thick atmosphere. Pair this with a confusing relationship with Samantha and an uneasy alliance with both Ray and Lester...
I was about to embark on the moment the past 6 months had been culminating into.
We were 10 miles off the desolate interstate.
a huge bonfire. a full moon. gigantic pumping sound system, people dancing, glow sticks. hand drums hiding in the crevices of the rocks...
She and I broke away and climbed to the top of one, serene, with stars like snowflakes.
I ripped off my shirt. my eyes became black onyx. I tried to eat the boulders. creases tightened under the sides of my eyes. The universal beating steadily increased, synchronized with my blood's brain.
And when the sun started to rise there was mass hysteria, no one understanding from where it came.
I'd had enough and came down from the mountain.
Girls with smeared mascara walked by and I never knew if they were real or not. My supposed friend turned into my cousin, and I could no longer pretend I liked either of them.
"we're the same, you and me," he said.
It was almost too much to bear. I hated him.
"we're all one," he said.
I agreed, but not like this. not this way.
Samantha was crying, calling for maternal guidance no longer there.
I thought I saw a rape behind the sage brush.
I walked away.
"where are you going, CDL? You can't leave the group..."
I was a large cat lounging in the sun.
I had reached nirvana somewhat, but cheated. there was no peace.
We laid there on top of the world, the three of us, an animal truce.
"this is the point of life," one said.
i couldn't believe it. it was golden, but ugly.
a man was doing yoga poses next to me, a cactus flower at our feet. I pointed and laughed. A horrid, mad laugh, with my head thrown back. Samantha asked if the ocean still existed. I didn't know. I was so thirsty. people clamored around the water vendor. it was getting ugly.
I felt like an experimental lizard in a cage, my spinal cord pricked by unseen deities, testing the blunt reflexes. A game.
cars were stuck in the sand. no one knew how to leave, or even where the road out was. a tall black man walked over carrying a tire jack. He set it down and asked if we needed help. I looked down and thought of killing my friend, Cain and Abel style. He read my mind. we both shuddered as he said, "let's not think about that."
people began bouncing on the backs of cars, adrenalized monkey things.
I asked Ray if we were indeed stuck. He said yes, and that it was serious.
After a flash of logic, like the history of the world, I told all three to get in the car. I drove out in reverse as a whole line followed in mad pursuit. I didn't dare slow down until we reached the interstate.
The girl was in the passenger seat. she complained of severe abdominal pains. she stared out the window, muttering under her breath. it was like an insane asylum. the two in the backseat were wide eyed and evil, gnawing on gum like hyenas. I kept glancing in the rear view mirror, looking at my face. my eyes were vacant, had lost their twinkle. my hair stood up on the sides. I tried to console the girl, but in vain. I could hear the cries and calls of this whole side of existence. I drove on auto pilot. Ray in the backseat leaned up, asking "how fast are you going, man?" I looked down and saw the speedometer buried, 120mph.
I was in the left hand lane passing it all, mainly diesels and cars holding snakelike denizens from the party I had just escaped.
I don't know how we made it back from the six lane interstate.
Ray had to be at his job by 4 that afternoon -- An outdoor coffee cart underneath the skyscrapers of Wilshire Blvd. Lester was dropped off with him.
I just wanted to lie down.
Me and she made it back to Venice. I could still hear the manic screams of human insanity. As if giant vikings had descended upon the city, eating the heads of men and women like Goya's SATURN painting.
Inside the apartment I stripped off my clothes and stared at my face in the bathroom mirror. My urine was thick and dark. I walked back to the living room. a large glass window was all that still separated me from the bustling street nightlife of a summer saturday night.
it felt thin, too thin to keep the goblins away. I was vulnerable and trapped, desperate yet unable to escape from myself. she ground her teeth, i could hear them. I stuffed the corner of a quilt into her mouth to stop the chattering. My ears were ringing. I felt violated. I felt like an E.Allan Poe story... steps in the hallway, the slam of the front door...
I dozed off. I shot awake, running to the bathroom, inspecting my mouth in the mirror, a dream of rotting teeth, decayed. I brushed them frantically, relieved after finally convincing myself it was a dream.
Vanity in the midst of a breakdown.
(And this dream haunted me for several months, loose teeth, rotted and decayed.
Like large stalactites jutting monstrous...)
I walked back to the living room and caught my reflection in her full length mirror: Naked, 12 pounds lighter.
The organism in survival mode -- Some sort of strange warrior. running on instinct. The mind of a boy ripped apart, the last vestiges forever.
Monday, May 9, 2011
A Sleep (11)
The purgatory of texas.
Traveling east you watch surroundings morph into dull green pine -- Louisiana then Arkansas.
Like someone throwing a loaded suitcase onto your relaxed belly as you have pleasant, intense dreams.
Slow age, same faces. Vague, obscure scenes only a small town can conjure.
The more feminine a mind, the more it will long for protection, for safety in numbers, a warm hearth like a nest for the newborn baby.
a LIE or just a lie? Why is mafia so appealing?
Because it's structured and unconditional, provides a large extension now obsolete in modern america
The nuclear family? An unskilled manboy with wife and possible child.
That's all? Faith is in small supply, takes too much imagination. Hip to atheize the god of our fathers. Technology. Yes.
It's hard for a man to make it alone. and it gets harder each day.
Why did noah build the ark? because MAN forgot how to dream. forgot why he's here.
he relies on his cleverness, on what he can see. he's now a tangible creature, wants it all SPELLed out for him. sorry.
Every tale i've ever witnessed is a tragedy. why is that?
see the endless parade of escape.... why don't they just pray?
Get down on your knees. you are a worm. end of said story.
"i'm in love" no, you are weak.
you are an embarrassment.
newspaper doesn't exist. all the garbage piled on television does not exist.
president pharaoh does not exist, ETC...... yawn
get privy to it and quit hiding.
right?
"i need to talk to you"
"ok"
"things are kinda weird. Robbie's been talking, starting rumors. But i'm here to tell you they ain't true"
We listened to Beggar's Banquet by the rolling stones, specifically "no expectations"
My wife was set to visit in 4 weeks.
Traveling east you watch surroundings morph into dull green pine -- Louisiana then Arkansas.
Like someone throwing a loaded suitcase onto your relaxed belly as you have pleasant, intense dreams.
Slow age, same faces. Vague, obscure scenes only a small town can conjure.
The more feminine a mind, the more it will long for protection, for safety in numbers, a warm hearth like a nest for the newborn baby.
a LIE or just a lie? Why is mafia so appealing?
Because it's structured and unconditional, provides a large extension now obsolete in modern america
The nuclear family? An unskilled manboy with wife and possible child.
That's all? Faith is in small supply, takes too much imagination. Hip to atheize the god of our fathers. Technology. Yes.
It's hard for a man to make it alone. and it gets harder each day.
Why did noah build the ark? because MAN forgot how to dream. forgot why he's here.
he relies on his cleverness, on what he can see. he's now a tangible creature, wants it all SPELLed out for him. sorry.
Every tale i've ever witnessed is a tragedy. why is that?
see the endless parade of escape.... why don't they just pray?
Get down on your knees. you are a worm. end of said story.
"i'm in love" no, you are weak.
you are an embarrassment.
newspaper doesn't exist. all the garbage piled on television does not exist.
president pharaoh does not exist, ETC...... yawn
get privy to it and quit hiding.
right?
"i need to talk to you"
"ok"
"things are kinda weird. Robbie's been talking, starting rumors. But i'm here to tell you they ain't true"
We listened to Beggar's Banquet by the rolling stones, specifically "no expectations"
My wife was set to visit in 4 weeks.
El Paso (10)
The Greyhound station sits on the border of Juarez, Mexico.
I'd been reading Kafka and Kerouac: One a paranoid social misfit with grotesque visions of reality.
The other a 'poetry in motion' post-world war II writer, out to re-imagine the american dream...
It was early morning, still dark. I walked outside. The attendant got my attention.
"See those girls over there?"
He pointed to 4 whores standing on the Mexican border.
I nodded.
"They'll cut your throat quicker than a man"
"Anything else I should know?" I asked.
"Yeah. Be wary of scorpions in the desert"
Keeping a safe distance, I gave the fishnet ladies a smile.
I was about to cross over when a carload of thugs on the other side sped near, hollering and shattering beer bottles against vacant buildings.
The station attendant said I should come back inside. I agreed.
At 7am I left, walking across the downtown.
By afternoon I was in the desert east of the city. It was early June and hot.
I was on Interstate 10, attempting to hitchike. No one stopped.
Later I got thrown out of a truck stop for vagrancy by a fat mexican security guard -- He made me sign a form saying I understood I'd be arrested if I stepped foot back on the property.
I crawled inside a culvert under the pavement for shade and a nap.
I continued walking.
One car finally stopped but could take me only as far as his exit, 5 or so miles.
He asked what I was doing out there, asked if I had family worried about me.
He had kind eyes. As I was getting out he placed his hand on my shoulder and prayed.
The sun was readying to set. I didn't feel good.
I'd seen a motel 15 miles back. I decided to get a room.
It was a long walk.
Around 10pm I'd made it to the off ramp leading to the inn. On the darkened side road a wine colored car pulled beside me. The white driver asked if I needed a ride -- I didn't, but accepted anyway. His brown-skinned passenger got out and ducked into the backseat. As I was getting in I noticed a seven inch knife blade under the driver's right thigh. I shut the door.
The guy in back was in the U.S illegally, wanted for unnamed crimes in his native country.
The driver had just been released from the Georgia prison system.
Somehow we ended up splitting a motel room.
Once inside the quiet Mexican started pacing, manically casing the place, shutting curtains...
The other was calm. He looked at me and said,
"Man, if someone told me they got in the car with two strangers late at night I'd think they was crazy..."
My blood froze -- I was seriously scared.
I could imagine him pulling out a pistol while smirking "You must be one dumb sonofabitch" right before he killed and robbed me...
But instead he said, "On the other hand, if someone told me they picked up some hitchiker on a deserted road late at night I'd think they was crazy!"
Nature. In the wilderness.
I was tired, hungry and dehydrated. My clothes were dusty.
The three of us shared some sort of outlaw respect,
"live and let live," I suppose.
Then they started making what looked to be some kind of drug.
I don't know.
They left and I went to sleep.
I'd been reading Kafka and Kerouac: One a paranoid social misfit with grotesque visions of reality.
The other a 'poetry in motion' post-world war II writer, out to re-imagine the american dream...
It was early morning, still dark. I walked outside. The attendant got my attention.
"See those girls over there?"
He pointed to 4 whores standing on the Mexican border.
I nodded.
"They'll cut your throat quicker than a man"
"Anything else I should know?" I asked.
"Yeah. Be wary of scorpions in the desert"
Keeping a safe distance, I gave the fishnet ladies a smile.
I was about to cross over when a carload of thugs on the other side sped near, hollering and shattering beer bottles against vacant buildings.
The station attendant said I should come back inside. I agreed.
At 7am I left, walking across the downtown.
By afternoon I was in the desert east of the city. It was early June and hot.
I was on Interstate 10, attempting to hitchike. No one stopped.
Later I got thrown out of a truck stop for vagrancy by a fat mexican security guard -- He made me sign a form saying I understood I'd be arrested if I stepped foot back on the property.
I crawled inside a culvert under the pavement for shade and a nap.
I continued walking.
One car finally stopped but could take me only as far as his exit, 5 or so miles.
He asked what I was doing out there, asked if I had family worried about me.
He had kind eyes. As I was getting out he placed his hand on my shoulder and prayed.
The sun was readying to set. I didn't feel good.
I'd seen a motel 15 miles back. I decided to get a room.
It was a long walk.
Around 10pm I'd made it to the off ramp leading to the inn. On the darkened side road a wine colored car pulled beside me. The white driver asked if I needed a ride -- I didn't, but accepted anyway. His brown-skinned passenger got out and ducked into the backseat. As I was getting in I noticed a seven inch knife blade under the driver's right thigh. I shut the door.
The guy in back was in the U.S illegally, wanted for unnamed crimes in his native country.
The driver had just been released from the Georgia prison system.
Somehow we ended up splitting a motel room.
Once inside the quiet Mexican started pacing, manically casing the place, shutting curtains...
The other was calm. He looked at me and said,
"Man, if someone told me they got in the car with two strangers late at night I'd think they was crazy..."
My blood froze -- I was seriously scared.
I could imagine him pulling out a pistol while smirking "You must be one dumb sonofabitch" right before he killed and robbed me...
But instead he said, "On the other hand, if someone told me they picked up some hitchiker on a deserted road late at night I'd think they was crazy!"
Nature. In the wilderness.
I was tired, hungry and dehydrated. My clothes were dusty.
The three of us shared some sort of outlaw respect,
"live and let live," I suppose.
Then they started making what looked to be some kind of drug.
I don't know.
They left and I went to sleep.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Downtown (9)
(Downtown Los Angles, 2am)
All the buses converged here for a changeover.
There was me and 30+ zombies swarming the street, waiting.
They eyed me, circled me.
I lit a cigarette. A black man approached me for one. I obliged.
Then another and another.... One had puke down the front of his shirt. There was a real tall fat queer leaning against the bus stop sign with small stud earrings in each ear. He said, "Do you know where you are?"
The skyscrapers loomed high above, cold moon shone through against a black merciless sky -- The same back drop for numerous histories: american civil war battlefields, german death camps. cain and abel.
I had on my backpack and brown corduroy jacket.
The bus arrived and we boarded.
The homeless ride all night to avoid the elements.
Sitting across from me was a wise-eyed hispanic in black cowboy boots.
He was holding a golden framed picture.
Looking at me, he said, "DTA"
I gave a quizzical look.
"Don't trust anyone."
I smiled and turned toward the window.
I took the bus to the greyhound station.
They had a special deal on a ticket to El Paso, Texas -- I bought one.
I had to wait 5 hours.
In the crowded bathroom I heard someone knocking on the door to the stall next to mine.
The man inside said "just a minute."
There was another knock, another "just a minute."
This same thing happened a few more times with increasing impatience in the answering voice.
Finally the man exited his stall and said loud and gravelly, "I thought he wanted to wipe my butt for me!"
I chuckled out loud.
The bus for El Paso boarded and I was seated next to a white kid about my age. We made friends and he gave me a little plastic figurine, called it a talisman.
I reached in my pack and pulled out a bright green plastic grasshopper I'd found on the boardwalk of Venice my first night there. I gave it to him, called it a talisman.
His name was David. He was headed to Phoenix to meet up with his fiancee and uncle, who had the equipment and plan to film a movie.
We discussed music. Howlin' Wolf was his favorite, and at the time I was unfamiliar with that form of blues in general.
David told me a story involving himself and two friends -- They'd drove to Los Angeles because one of them, friend B, said he had a place for them all to stay and secure jobs. When they got to town everything turned up bogus. They were homeless and broke.
After driving 2 hours up the coast because friend B had another last ditch plan that turned up nothing, they left friend B stranded at a gas station.
Seemed a bit harsh, but I could understand.
David and I parted ways in Phoenix.
I still have the talisman.
**I feel I talked to David in a dream much later, years later. He said his uncle went crazy and the film was botched and abandoned.
The uncle took David and his fiancee and friends to all sorts of faraway places in the desert, wanting them to do bizarre things for the camera.
I'd like to think they shot him and buried his bones in the dry earth.
Now there's a film.**
***And as I write this my consciousness travels back through those lands. The humid-less air shrinks my skin to its bone.
My mind in heaves, my head heated, my brain pulsating with thought and dreams.
My heart beats, electronic devices work improperly.
A girl friend sends me a message, "you're redirecting your spell, be careful..."
Past fear becomes palpable and I no longer want to write about this. The bathroom sink's water tap is running for no reason and I walk in to turn it off.
Retrospect becomes present and night threatens***
After the changeover in Phoenix I was back on the road, this time near the front of the bus. A fat native lady boarded and sat across from me.
She was alone. She knitted crafts and spoke no english. She hummed strange melodies. I heard people in the back giggling, their volume and social audaciousness increasing as the miles. She had the bearing of a young girl on the playground, but her face was lined and ugly, scary.
Her singing turned to near incantation. I tried to ignore her and the mockery from behind. Out the window the landscape transformed to large green cacti, bright red formations, like bones of dishonored ancestors.
The weather changed, we drove into a thunderstorm -- This approaching darkness seemed to scare her. She pulled out wooden trinkets from her bag and spoke to them. I fell asleep.
Come early morning, looking out the window at New Mexico, sunbeams casting rainbows and refractions, I saw the Indian woman's reflection on the glass, looking at me. I slowly turned my head and faced her. She was forming her fingers into a crucifix symbol, pointing it at me, meant for me, like I was a vampire.
She mumbled inaudibly -- A curse?
Her eyes looked past me, or through me.
I turned back to my book.
We arrived in El Paso.
All the buses converged here for a changeover.
There was me and 30+ zombies swarming the street, waiting.
They eyed me, circled me.
I lit a cigarette. A black man approached me for one. I obliged.
Then another and another.... One had puke down the front of his shirt. There was a real tall fat queer leaning against the bus stop sign with small stud earrings in each ear. He said, "Do you know where you are?"
The skyscrapers loomed high above, cold moon shone through against a black merciless sky -- The same back drop for numerous histories: american civil war battlefields, german death camps. cain and abel.
I had on my backpack and brown corduroy jacket.
The bus arrived and we boarded.
The homeless ride all night to avoid the elements.
Sitting across from me was a wise-eyed hispanic in black cowboy boots.
He was holding a golden framed picture.
Looking at me, he said, "DTA"
I gave a quizzical look.
"Don't trust anyone."
I smiled and turned toward the window.
I took the bus to the greyhound station.
They had a special deal on a ticket to El Paso, Texas -- I bought one.
I had to wait 5 hours.
In the crowded bathroom I heard someone knocking on the door to the stall next to mine.
The man inside said "just a minute."
There was another knock, another "just a minute."
This same thing happened a few more times with increasing impatience in the answering voice.
Finally the man exited his stall and said loud and gravelly, "I thought he wanted to wipe my butt for me!"
I chuckled out loud.
The bus for El Paso boarded and I was seated next to a white kid about my age. We made friends and he gave me a little plastic figurine, called it a talisman.
I reached in my pack and pulled out a bright green plastic grasshopper I'd found on the boardwalk of Venice my first night there. I gave it to him, called it a talisman.
His name was David. He was headed to Phoenix to meet up with his fiancee and uncle, who had the equipment and plan to film a movie.
We discussed music. Howlin' Wolf was his favorite, and at the time I was unfamiliar with that form of blues in general.
David told me a story involving himself and two friends -- They'd drove to Los Angeles because one of them, friend B, said he had a place for them all to stay and secure jobs. When they got to town everything turned up bogus. They were homeless and broke.
After driving 2 hours up the coast because friend B had another last ditch plan that turned up nothing, they left friend B stranded at a gas station.
Seemed a bit harsh, but I could understand.
David and I parted ways in Phoenix.
I still have the talisman.
**I feel I talked to David in a dream much later, years later. He said his uncle went crazy and the film was botched and abandoned.
The uncle took David and his fiancee and friends to all sorts of faraway places in the desert, wanting them to do bizarre things for the camera.
I'd like to think they shot him and buried his bones in the dry earth.
Now there's a film.**
***And as I write this my consciousness travels back through those lands. The humid-less air shrinks my skin to its bone.
My mind in heaves, my head heated, my brain pulsating with thought and dreams.
My heart beats, electronic devices work improperly.
A girl friend sends me a message, "you're redirecting your spell, be careful..."
Past fear becomes palpable and I no longer want to write about this. The bathroom sink's water tap is running for no reason and I walk in to turn it off.
Retrospect becomes present and night threatens***
After the changeover in Phoenix I was back on the road, this time near the front of the bus. A fat native lady boarded and sat across from me.
She was alone. She knitted crafts and spoke no english. She hummed strange melodies. I heard people in the back giggling, their volume and social audaciousness increasing as the miles. She had the bearing of a young girl on the playground, but her face was lined and ugly, scary.
Her singing turned to near incantation. I tried to ignore her and the mockery from behind. Out the window the landscape transformed to large green cacti, bright red formations, like bones of dishonored ancestors.
The weather changed, we drove into a thunderstorm -- This approaching darkness seemed to scare her. She pulled out wooden trinkets from her bag and spoke to them. I fell asleep.
Come early morning, looking out the window at New Mexico, sunbeams casting rainbows and refractions, I saw the Indian woman's reflection on the glass, looking at me. I slowly turned my head and faced her. She was forming her fingers into a crucifix symbol, pointing it at me, meant for me, like I was a vampire.
She mumbled inaudibly -- A curse?
Her eyes looked past me, or through me.
I turned back to my book.
We arrived in El Paso.
A Flash (8)
The weather was warming and a high volume of pedestrian traffic strolled past our large first floor window.
That thin pane of glass separated us from what my increasing paranoia deemed outside insanity, the pagan world at large.
But wasn't this what I wanted? Complete freedom, anarchy, adventure in a godless world?
Ray was dating a girl named Mya who had a friend named Lucy. Both girls told us how dangerous the location our new home was. Mya was English and at peace with the big city life but not with her own inner landscape. They came over one night on their way to an Oasis concert. They mixed their weed with cigarette tobacco, making hard draws deadly. I sat in the floor, quietly sketching in crayon.
We'd pulled our belongings out of storage in Bakersfield.
I mulled over my old writings -- They seemed inspired, ecstatic with life, from a simpler more electric time.
Now I was in the middle of the lightning bolt and wanted out, but afraid to admit it to myself. I listened to old recordings Ray and I made only 8 months earlier. They were near personal seances, they taunted me.
These girls mocked me, this culture mocked me. I was mocking myself.
What was going on? Had I been duped?
Life was a real thing, it wasn't an image in a book, a written splash of insight, it was surging through my veins daring me to mold it, and it was twisting my mind.
I felt like that Orwellian elephant put down with a self inflicted gunshot, my bones stripped by the natives...
I thought certain people around me were demon possessed.
I must have been running on base instinct at this point.
At midnight I went to the theater alone and watched "Cemetery Man."
Afterward to the coffee shop looking for Meredith. She was there. I wanted to kiss her, to reach out to her in some way, in some sloppy human being on the verge of a breakdown way.
I couldn't express what I desperately wanted to say.
Knowing how much I liked them, she'd made more dolmades for me, asked how she could get in touch with me... possibilities open...
I told her bye quickly and left. I caught the bus heading downtown.
I never saw her again.
That thin pane of glass separated us from what my increasing paranoia deemed outside insanity, the pagan world at large.
But wasn't this what I wanted? Complete freedom, anarchy, adventure in a godless world?
Ray was dating a girl named Mya who had a friend named Lucy. Both girls told us how dangerous the location our new home was. Mya was English and at peace with the big city life but not with her own inner landscape. They came over one night on their way to an Oasis concert. They mixed their weed with cigarette tobacco, making hard draws deadly. I sat in the floor, quietly sketching in crayon.
We'd pulled our belongings out of storage in Bakersfield.
I mulled over my old writings -- They seemed inspired, ecstatic with life, from a simpler more electric time.
Now I was in the middle of the lightning bolt and wanted out, but afraid to admit it to myself. I listened to old recordings Ray and I made only 8 months earlier. They were near personal seances, they taunted me.
These girls mocked me, this culture mocked me. I was mocking myself.
What was going on? Had I been duped?
Life was a real thing, it wasn't an image in a book, a written splash of insight, it was surging through my veins daring me to mold it, and it was twisting my mind.
I felt like that Orwellian elephant put down with a self inflicted gunshot, my bones stripped by the natives...
I thought certain people around me were demon possessed.
I must have been running on base instinct at this point.
At midnight I went to the theater alone and watched "Cemetery Man."
Afterward to the coffee shop looking for Meredith. She was there. I wanted to kiss her, to reach out to her in some way, in some sloppy human being on the verge of a breakdown way.
I couldn't express what I desperately wanted to say.
Knowing how much I liked them, she'd made more dolmades for me, asked how she could get in touch with me... possibilities open...
I told her bye quickly and left. I caught the bus heading downtown.
I never saw her again.
Wake Up (7)
But I've digressed...
After the Cripple Creek excursion my boss took me back at the dry cleaners.
A Russian tailor worked there, Lonnie. He was around 50, had coal black hair with a few superfluous grays and a closely cropped beard of the same color. He was six foot, lean and wiry. His accent pronounced vodka with a long O sound and Chris as 'creese.' He was boisterous and easily confused. When a customer requested something repaired I would write the request on a repair tag, safety pin it to the garment and place it in Lonnies's bin. Later that day, without fail, he'd sit the object in front of me and say "vhat can I do?" with his arms stretched wide in a sort of shrugging motion. So I'd say, "Do what it says: Repair the zipper," or whatever it happened to be. None were hard to understand instructions.
Next door to the cleaners was a bakery -- There were beautiful scones and breads of all sorts. The girl manager was cute. Some Mexicans worked back in the kitchen. One expressed interest in buying my car. I declined.
That is until I found a small one bedroom apartment for rent in Venice. I sold the car for deposit money.
Besides, I thought riding the bus was cool.
In the mornings the Santa Monica Blue Bus filled with small quiet hispanic ladies, housekeepers and nannies for the well-to-do.
They were like mini-female buddha dolls.
I wondered if they even noticed the long haired gringo riding with them.
Upon entering the bus you pay the 50cents and sit down. When your destination is near you pull the cable above your head and a bell dings.
"STOP REQUESTED" lights up in red above the driver's head.
In the afternoons the bus fills with minority school kids.
They speak spanish and draw weird symbols on the walls in black marker.
Meese had found a job at a florist in Santa Monica -- Some of their clients included Stevie Spielberg and Herb Alpert (of A&M records fame. Also the Tijuana Brass).
But he wasn't there long. He decided to move back to Arkansas. His old man had a job waiting at the mechanic shop.
Now it was just me and Ray.
And the apartment -- 1903 Pacific Avenue, right on the beach.
After the Cripple Creek excursion my boss took me back at the dry cleaners.
A Russian tailor worked there, Lonnie. He was around 50, had coal black hair with a few superfluous grays and a closely cropped beard of the same color. He was six foot, lean and wiry. His accent pronounced vodka with a long O sound and Chris as 'creese.' He was boisterous and easily confused. When a customer requested something repaired I would write the request on a repair tag, safety pin it to the garment and place it in Lonnies's bin. Later that day, without fail, he'd sit the object in front of me and say "vhat can I do?" with his arms stretched wide in a sort of shrugging motion. So I'd say, "Do what it says: Repair the zipper," or whatever it happened to be. None were hard to understand instructions.
Next door to the cleaners was a bakery -- There were beautiful scones and breads of all sorts. The girl manager was cute. Some Mexicans worked back in the kitchen. One expressed interest in buying my car. I declined.
That is until I found a small one bedroom apartment for rent in Venice. I sold the car for deposit money.
Besides, I thought riding the bus was cool.
In the mornings the Santa Monica Blue Bus filled with small quiet hispanic ladies, housekeepers and nannies for the well-to-do.
They were like mini-female buddha dolls.
I wondered if they even noticed the long haired gringo riding with them.
Upon entering the bus you pay the 50cents and sit down. When your destination is near you pull the cable above your head and a bell dings.
"STOP REQUESTED" lights up in red above the driver's head.
In the afternoons the bus fills with minority school kids.
They speak spanish and draw weird symbols on the walls in black marker.
Meese had found a job at a florist in Santa Monica -- Some of their clients included Stevie Spielberg and Herb Alpert (of A&M records fame. Also the Tijuana Brass).
But he wasn't there long. He decided to move back to Arkansas. His old man had a job waiting at the mechanic shop.
Now it was just me and Ray.
And the apartment -- 1903 Pacific Avenue, right on the beach.
A Bolt (6)
...I dreamed once I was married, had a wife back home in the deep south while I was fighting the war.
We got hitched during carefree times, drunken drug hazed days. They say the devil is quite the charmer during courtship, right?
And in this dream I had my young bride come live with me right on the battlefield, in the heat of the fight...
After a while most of the employees at Anastasia's Asylum knew who I was -- By circumstance and face if not personally.
One night I was sitting at the bar watching Scotty make various coffee drinks. He was an Irishman, thick accent with shoulder length reddish hair. He was taller than me and a bit hefty.
Our small talk led to music. He said he hung at the Brit Billiard Pub on 5th street. We walked over there after his shift and I watched him sing karaoke, Elton John's "Your Song."
I drank beer profusely and watched another guy sing "Benny and the Jets." Apparently i wasn't privy to something.
I got drunk, loud and mouthy. The rest of the night is a blur.
I never talked to Scotty again.
There was an English girl who worked at Anastasia's named Meredith. She rubbed others as opinionated and confrontational, but I liked her.
She thought my Arkansas-ness was quite the novelty. I remember her asking me if I liked the Pixies.
She invited me to a sunday afternoon party at the courtyard of her apartment -- 14th street in Santa Monica.
I went. She had made dolmades, my first encounter with them.
There was a Rastafarian there and I got stoned.
It was sunny and he began talking christianity with jamaican accent, his black round eyes staring into the deep.
He spit poetry and made sense. My head was swimming -- I couldn't comprehend consciously what he said, but I felt it.
I stayed quiet.
The sky was alien to me. I'd seen the face of my father in the night above the ocean, but this sky was different -- Impossibly blue, alive.
It scared me to have to accept that the christianity i was rejecting at this time in my life was possible of accepting such a foreigner as this.
He was friendly but strange.
I was mired in the flesh, of the ego. Spirit was opening a door and I was stapling my psyche to the false memories my brain coughed up, to the genes and blood of lifetimes of evolutionary striving.
I was a beast looking for a sign to back up what I wanted to believe.
But no such sign could exist.
Doug, who also worked at the Asylum, was a screenwriter. He looked a little like Quentin Tarantino, had short dark hair and unstylish glasses.
He was 33, good at chess and had a logical mind to a fault. He said he wasted ten years of his life wondering what to do -- And those words haunted me for ten of mine. We talked philosophy over hummus and pita bread. I asked him how he thought Mozart compared to John Lennon -- He said they weren't in the same league, not even in the same game.
There's so many things to bog an artist down -- Hipness, quality, truthfulness, immaturity. It's all arbitrary, all meaningless. It's not your job to sit around and evaluate. In the scheme of things you are nothing.
But nothing is static -- A person is perpetually unfinished. Man is meant to evolve, to avoid regression.
Take a shower daily, it removes all the accumulated thoughts and emanations from those around you, lets you start anew.
Everything is a sloughing off. They say after the 7 year saturn cycle your cells totally regenerate and you are a new YOU.
All your thoughts and decisions for that period come to pass.
We got hitched during carefree times, drunken drug hazed days. They say the devil is quite the charmer during courtship, right?
And in this dream I had my young bride come live with me right on the battlefield, in the heat of the fight...
After a while most of the employees at Anastasia's Asylum knew who I was -- By circumstance and face if not personally.
One night I was sitting at the bar watching Scotty make various coffee drinks. He was an Irishman, thick accent with shoulder length reddish hair. He was taller than me and a bit hefty.
Our small talk led to music. He said he hung at the Brit Billiard Pub on 5th street. We walked over there after his shift and I watched him sing karaoke, Elton John's "Your Song."
I drank beer profusely and watched another guy sing "Benny and the Jets." Apparently i wasn't privy to something.
I got drunk, loud and mouthy. The rest of the night is a blur.
I never talked to Scotty again.
There was an English girl who worked at Anastasia's named Meredith. She rubbed others as opinionated and confrontational, but I liked her.
She thought my Arkansas-ness was quite the novelty. I remember her asking me if I liked the Pixies.
She invited me to a sunday afternoon party at the courtyard of her apartment -- 14th street in Santa Monica.
I went. She had made dolmades, my first encounter with them.
There was a Rastafarian there and I got stoned.
It was sunny and he began talking christianity with jamaican accent, his black round eyes staring into the deep.
He spit poetry and made sense. My head was swimming -- I couldn't comprehend consciously what he said, but I felt it.
I stayed quiet.
The sky was alien to me. I'd seen the face of my father in the night above the ocean, but this sky was different -- Impossibly blue, alive.
It scared me to have to accept that the christianity i was rejecting at this time in my life was possible of accepting such a foreigner as this.
He was friendly but strange.
I was mired in the flesh, of the ego. Spirit was opening a door and I was stapling my psyche to the false memories my brain coughed up, to the genes and blood of lifetimes of evolutionary striving.
I was a beast looking for a sign to back up what I wanted to believe.
But no such sign could exist.
Doug, who also worked at the Asylum, was a screenwriter. He looked a little like Quentin Tarantino, had short dark hair and unstylish glasses.
He was 33, good at chess and had a logical mind to a fault. He said he wasted ten years of his life wondering what to do -- And those words haunted me for ten of mine. We talked philosophy over hummus and pita bread. I asked him how he thought Mozart compared to John Lennon -- He said they weren't in the same league, not even in the same game.
There's so many things to bog an artist down -- Hipness, quality, truthfulness, immaturity. It's all arbitrary, all meaningless. It's not your job to sit around and evaluate. In the scheme of things you are nothing.
But nothing is static -- A person is perpetually unfinished. Man is meant to evolve, to avoid regression.
Take a shower daily, it removes all the accumulated thoughts and emanations from those around you, lets you start anew.
Everything is a sloughing off. They say after the 7 year saturn cycle your cells totally regenerate and you are a new YOU.
All your thoughts and decisions for that period come to pass.
Cripple Creek (5)
I've told how James talked of the 'new music.'
On the way out of town, Meese and I stopped at a CD shop on Sunset Strip and I bought two discs: One was John Cage's "Cheap Imitation," his bare bones piano interpretation of Erik Satie's "Socrate."
The other was a disc of chanting by the Gyuto Monks of Tibet.
I'd read about their voices creating 'ghost notes,' overtones of self-harmony..
This was the soundtrack for our journey.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
French author Honore Balzac called the desert "god without man."
Yes.
We cut up through northern California then Nevada and Utah. We slept in the front seat of the truck. I can still remember waking up to piss on the side of desolate roads in the heart of farmlands, with the pink glow of the coming sun. And the wind magnified by passing semi-trucks.
Colorado -- The Russian inventor Nikola Tesla had experimented in these mountains around Colorado Springs.
White snow, crisp green smell of pine, air so fresh you nearly choke breathing its sweetness.
Tesla? The human community at large still hasn't caught up with what he accomplished and tried to accomplish -- Or the injustices he suffered at the hands of pettiness and greed.
Meese and I began ascending the dark road spiraling towards Cripple Creek, every star exposed, the moon touchable in its closeness.
The John Cage music ominous and minimal....
Months back in Arkansas we'd started recording a musical project. It was 'ambitious,' and left unfinished until later. It eventually became "Three Flaws: A Parody."
I bring this up because it contained what I call 'piano tinkling,' atonal aural musings -- And these feelings of unease and dread reminded me of the John Cage piece.
Cripple Creek turned out to be a small nothing town filled with mini-casinos. That was it.
No visions. No Jacob's ladder. No burning bush.
No 'sign.'
We went to the address Ms. Goodman had listed -- It was a vacant house.
A year or so later I learned she had died in October of 1995, right about the time I started reading her book.
The end of the line had been reached. My life was a total directionless mess.
I was the hanging man from the tarot deck, dangling by one foot between earth and heaven.
Prometheus. Or the fool.
We drove back to Los Angeles.
On the way out of town, Meese and I stopped at a CD shop on Sunset Strip and I bought two discs: One was John Cage's "Cheap Imitation," his bare bones piano interpretation of Erik Satie's "Socrate."
The other was a disc of chanting by the Gyuto Monks of Tibet.
I'd read about their voices creating 'ghost notes,' overtones of self-harmony..
This was the soundtrack for our journey.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
French author Honore Balzac called the desert "god without man."
Yes.
We cut up through northern California then Nevada and Utah. We slept in the front seat of the truck. I can still remember waking up to piss on the side of desolate roads in the heart of farmlands, with the pink glow of the coming sun. And the wind magnified by passing semi-trucks.
Colorado -- The Russian inventor Nikola Tesla had experimented in these mountains around Colorado Springs.
White snow, crisp green smell of pine, air so fresh you nearly choke breathing its sweetness.
Tesla? The human community at large still hasn't caught up with what he accomplished and tried to accomplish -- Or the injustices he suffered at the hands of pettiness and greed.
Meese and I began ascending the dark road spiraling towards Cripple Creek, every star exposed, the moon touchable in its closeness.
The John Cage music ominous and minimal....
Months back in Arkansas we'd started recording a musical project. It was 'ambitious,' and left unfinished until later. It eventually became "Three Flaws: A Parody."
I bring this up because it contained what I call 'piano tinkling,' atonal aural musings -- And these feelings of unease and dread reminded me of the John Cage piece.
Cripple Creek turned out to be a small nothing town filled with mini-casinos. That was it.
No visions. No Jacob's ladder. No burning bush.
No 'sign.'
We went to the address Ms. Goodman had listed -- It was a vacant house.
A year or so later I learned she had died in October of 1995, right about the time I started reading her book.
The end of the line had been reached. My life was a total directionless mess.
I was the hanging man from the tarot deck, dangling by one foot between earth and heaven.
Prometheus. Or the fool.
We drove back to Los Angeles.
No Home (4)
So, there's the three of us: Meese, Ray, Me. And there's two vehicles: mine and Meese's 1994 black Nissan pickup. We're parked in front of the SMCC. I work at Jim Dandy Cleaners. Meese and Ray don't work -- The roses had wilted. They scan the paper and do odd jobs for a temp agency. I take showers at a State Park north of Malibu. It costs 50cents for 4 minutes of hot water. I'd normally sneak in just before daybreak while all the campers were sleeping and the guard wasn't on duty.
My job at the cleaners wasn't too bad. Rich folk from the Palisades would bring in their clothes and I'd take their money and tag the garments. After the rush I'd lint brush the clean clothes and bag them. I worked alongside Tish, the Asiatic Indian girl from South Africa. She was petite, about 5'6. Her deep black hair was cut smooth and straight an inch below her chin. She was married with a girl child and she harmlessly flirted by emasculation. But she was intelligent and thought I was a lunatic, albeit a charming one, after learning of my then present situation.
She told me she told the boss not to hire me because I was a drifter and wouldn't be dependable. She was correct, of course.
After working there for two paychecks I had a surplus of money. So I went and bought me a pair of boots. She said that was dumb, one needed tennis shoes not boots in the city.
She was correct, of course.
When I was 19 I worked a summer at Amercable loading trucks. There was a certain driver who'd come in to cool off, and his body odor permeated the entire warehouse. He was short, half-toothless and looked like Ernest T. Bass from the Andy Griffith Show.
He was friendly and I talked to him whenever he'd come in. Turns out he was from Fouke, Arkansas, near Texarkana. Fouke is famous for the 'Legend of Boggy Creek,' a film made about a creature similar to BigFoot. I've passed through there and they have a little dairy diner named in the monster's honor. There's also a cut-out monster body with a hole in the head so visitor's can put their face in and look like they're bigfoot; It's a great picture opportunity for the kids.
But it looks more like a random shapeless black blob.
I don't think the legendary sightings brought in as many tourists as they'd anticipated.
I asked the truck driver if he knew of the film. He said yes, that he knew everyone in it. He mentioned the Crabtree family, said Mr. Crabtree was a big liar.
Anyway, the point of this ramble: I remembered this truck driver mentioning the best way to break in a new pair of leather boots: Put them on, get them soaking wet and wear them until they dry -- They'll mold to your feet.
So, after getting my new pair of boots I naturally decided to wade into the Pacific Ocean and walk around Los Angeles.
The boots never did comfortably mold to my feet.
I did, however, get blisters.
There was a bum who walked around Venice Beach barefoot smoking cigarette butts -- I asked him if he wanted a pair of boots. He looked at me like I was a moron.
I ended up leaving them beside the dumpster behind the Santa Monica Library.
The sleeping arrangements were as follows: Me in my driver seat, reclined. Ray in my passenger seat, reclined. And Meese in his truck, not reclined.
Every Tuesday morning the street sweeper came and we'd have to move our vehicles.
There was a book I'd been reading the whole trip: Linda Goodman's "Star Signs." It's full of her take on much esoteric thought. She talked of living in Cripple Creek, Colorado, 10,000 feet above sea level. She gave her address.
One morning I left Ray sleeping in my car and got Meese to drive me to work. On the ride there I expressed my mounting dissatisfaction with my current state,
bordering on insanity. Upon arriving in front of Jim Dandy Dry Cleaners I said, "To hell with it. I've got some money, let's drive to Cripple Creek."
So we did.
We did not tell Ray.
My job at the cleaners wasn't too bad. Rich folk from the Palisades would bring in their clothes and I'd take their money and tag the garments. After the rush I'd lint brush the clean clothes and bag them. I worked alongside Tish, the Asiatic Indian girl from South Africa. She was petite, about 5'6. Her deep black hair was cut smooth and straight an inch below her chin. She was married with a girl child and she harmlessly flirted by emasculation. But she was intelligent and thought I was a lunatic, albeit a charming one, after learning of my then present situation.
She told me she told the boss not to hire me because I was a drifter and wouldn't be dependable. She was correct, of course.
After working there for two paychecks I had a surplus of money. So I went and bought me a pair of boots. She said that was dumb, one needed tennis shoes not boots in the city.
She was correct, of course.
When I was 19 I worked a summer at Amercable loading trucks. There was a certain driver who'd come in to cool off, and his body odor permeated the entire warehouse. He was short, half-toothless and looked like Ernest T. Bass from the Andy Griffith Show.
He was friendly and I talked to him whenever he'd come in. Turns out he was from Fouke, Arkansas, near Texarkana. Fouke is famous for the 'Legend of Boggy Creek,' a film made about a creature similar to BigFoot. I've passed through there and they have a little dairy diner named in the monster's honor. There's also a cut-out monster body with a hole in the head so visitor's can put their face in and look like they're bigfoot; It's a great picture opportunity for the kids.
But it looks more like a random shapeless black blob.
I don't think the legendary sightings brought in as many tourists as they'd anticipated.
I asked the truck driver if he knew of the film. He said yes, that he knew everyone in it. He mentioned the Crabtree family, said Mr. Crabtree was a big liar.
Anyway, the point of this ramble: I remembered this truck driver mentioning the best way to break in a new pair of leather boots: Put them on, get them soaking wet and wear them until they dry -- They'll mold to your feet.
So, after getting my new pair of boots I naturally decided to wade into the Pacific Ocean and walk around Los Angeles.
The boots never did comfortably mold to my feet.
I did, however, get blisters.
There was a bum who walked around Venice Beach barefoot smoking cigarette butts -- I asked him if he wanted a pair of boots. He looked at me like I was a moron.
I ended up leaving them beside the dumpster behind the Santa Monica Library.
The sleeping arrangements were as follows: Me in my driver seat, reclined. Ray in my passenger seat, reclined. And Meese in his truck, not reclined.
Every Tuesday morning the street sweeper came and we'd have to move our vehicles.
There was a book I'd been reading the whole trip: Linda Goodman's "Star Signs." It's full of her take on much esoteric thought. She talked of living in Cripple Creek, Colorado, 10,000 feet above sea level. She gave her address.
One morning I left Ray sleeping in my car and got Meese to drive me to work. On the ride there I expressed my mounting dissatisfaction with my current state,
bordering on insanity. Upon arriving in front of Jim Dandy Dry Cleaners I said, "To hell with it. I've got some money, let's drive to Cripple Creek."
So we did.
We did not tell Ray.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Redondo Beach (3)
Meese had found a job selling roses, one of those annoying people who approach cars while they're trapped at stoplights. You see this kind coming and avoid making eye contact.
It was a sort of pyramid scheme -- The boss buys a bunch of roses cheap from the wholesaler and pays a modest cut to a bunch of grunts to sell them. He owned a large storied house in Redondo Beach with several destitute workers living there. Meese and Ray were about to join their ranks with a special guest -- Me.
I don't remember much about the place except that the bathroom was upstairs and carpeted.
Each morning all the rose salesmen would gather together and say a chant -- There was a dry erase board in the living room with 'inspirational' quotes scrawled across. Meese and Ray weren't very good at selling, though Ray was a little better.
My schedule made it so I didn't see my two friends that often. I worked the dry cleaners by day and hung around Santa Monica at night.
During this period I met James.
I spent a lot of my time in the Santa Monica library on 6th street. Homeless people stayed in there and it smelled like it. They'd sit outside and eat from tupperware containers, their gray-yellowed hair beyond matted. Their skin had that strange windburned look only the streets give. And the odor was beyond bad hygiene, it entered the realm of decay -- Sickly sweet and pungent. Like a jet engine to the ears or direct sun to the eyes, it was too pure for the senses to comprehend.
(A few years later, after I became aware of Charles Bukowski, I learned the Santa Monica Library is the place he'd go to read. He said he went there looking for truth and became disgusted at the lack of anything real.
Until he found the books of John Fante.)
Ray & Meese began running with Paul, a smarmy fellow rose man. He was the typical vapid Californian: Too tan with a touch of surface beauty destined to age ungracefully. His slight moustache and demeanor struck me as a runt Erroll Flynn. Meese had a porno mag in his truck and Paul wanted to borrow it so he could take it to his 'lady.'
Most of the people at the Redondo condo were cut from the same cloth as Paul. I remember a few talking about the music business, putting on the high roller airs.
Meese let Paul borrow his truck, which I thought was insane. Paul had some low grade powdered methamphetamine, but I didn't partake.
Someone came in our room one night and went through Ray's bag. This caused him much consternation, though I didn't think it was that big of a deal.
But we ended up saying our goodbye and left Redondo Beach.
I thought then and still do that there was more to the story. I think a few in our little party were probably making snake deals.
Someone always trades purity for a handful of coins, right?
And there's always a tree waiting for 'em in the backyard.
A rat in the place.
I'm not going to connect any more dots.
After leaving Redondo the three of us had nowhere to go. We went to Anastasia's and had some coffee.
We decided to sleep in our cars -- In front of the Santa Monica community college on the corner of 12th and Santa Monica Boulevard, down the road from Anastasia's.
It was a sort of pyramid scheme -- The boss buys a bunch of roses cheap from the wholesaler and pays a modest cut to a bunch of grunts to sell them. He owned a large storied house in Redondo Beach with several destitute workers living there. Meese and Ray were about to join their ranks with a special guest -- Me.
I don't remember much about the place except that the bathroom was upstairs and carpeted.
Each morning all the rose salesmen would gather together and say a chant -- There was a dry erase board in the living room with 'inspirational' quotes scrawled across. Meese and Ray weren't very good at selling, though Ray was a little better.
My schedule made it so I didn't see my two friends that often. I worked the dry cleaners by day and hung around Santa Monica at night.
During this period I met James.
I spent a lot of my time in the Santa Monica library on 6th street. Homeless people stayed in there and it smelled like it. They'd sit outside and eat from tupperware containers, their gray-yellowed hair beyond matted. Their skin had that strange windburned look only the streets give. And the odor was beyond bad hygiene, it entered the realm of decay -- Sickly sweet and pungent. Like a jet engine to the ears or direct sun to the eyes, it was too pure for the senses to comprehend.
(A few years later, after I became aware of Charles Bukowski, I learned the Santa Monica Library is the place he'd go to read. He said he went there looking for truth and became disgusted at the lack of anything real.
Until he found the books of John Fante.)
Ray & Meese began running with Paul, a smarmy fellow rose man. He was the typical vapid Californian: Too tan with a touch of surface beauty destined to age ungracefully. His slight moustache and demeanor struck me as a runt Erroll Flynn. Meese had a porno mag in his truck and Paul wanted to borrow it so he could take it to his 'lady.'
Most of the people at the Redondo condo were cut from the same cloth as Paul. I remember a few talking about the music business, putting on the high roller airs.
Meese let Paul borrow his truck, which I thought was insane. Paul had some low grade powdered methamphetamine, but I didn't partake.
Someone came in our room one night and went through Ray's bag. This caused him much consternation, though I didn't think it was that big of a deal.
But we ended up saying our goodbye and left Redondo Beach.
I thought then and still do that there was more to the story. I think a few in our little party were probably making snake deals.
Someone always trades purity for a handful of coins, right?
And there's always a tree waiting for 'em in the backyard.
A rat in the place.
I'm not going to connect any more dots.
After leaving Redondo the three of us had nowhere to go. We went to Anastasia's and had some coffee.
We decided to sleep in our cars -- In front of the Santa Monica community college on the corner of 12th and Santa Monica Boulevard, down the road from Anastasia's.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
James (2)
I frequented a little coffee shop in Los Angeles called Anastasia's Asylum. I don't remember how I ended up there, but it became a sort of home base for all of us. There were many other wayward boys and girls, artists I suppose. One was an older gent named Peter who reminded me of Howard Hughes -- Pale with unkempt beard, long fingernails and the smell of stale cigarette smoke. He was an editor of some sort, with bugged eyes filled with paranoia. But he was friendly, just a bit confused socially. He played a nice flamenco style on the guitar.
The Asylum had a small upstairs balcony with couches, tables, a piano and ambient lighting. This is where the music was performed.
One night I was sitting with the obligatory cup of coffee, reading and probably snacking on an English scone. A short jewish man, bald, was on the couch next to me talking to someone. I say short -- He couldn't have been 5'5.
He dressed eccentric -- Slacks and brown leather shoes, sports coat with the velour patches on the elbow, button up shirt and tie. But none of it really matched. He was like a college professor whose brain couldn't be bothered by such silly things as fashion.
His talk was mesmerizing, his words mystical and scientific. I couldn't help but eavesdrop. I wanted to talk to him. Later that night I did -- He made an off hand comment towards me and we began.
He had been a photographer, had photos of John Cage. He talked about modern poets such as Michael McClure. He kept bringing up 'new music,' and how I should become acquainted with it. (such as John Cage, Elliot Carter, Phillip Glass)
Pj Harvey, he said, was influenced by this.
This was the first time I had heard any of these names.
He told me about R. Buckminster Fuller, the thinker responsible for the geodesic domes in Florida. He related the story of Mr. Fuller contemplating suicide, tired of living.
He walked to the ocean and was about to end it when he thought of his family. He then began to laugh uncontrollably, and to cry.
From then on he promised god he would live.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I began to see James around the streets daily. And daily we would talk.
One Sunday night we met at the Santa Monica Barnes and Noble. He was on the third floor, writing.
I sat down. He told the story of a Japanese girl he was in love with -- He said it was common in their culture to bind their feet as children, but in doing so "their minds became bound as well."
This was his reasoning for what appeared to be unrequited love.
He was writing the girl a poem, a final poem, a last dirge for what could have been.
While we there a strange woman came up to him and introduced herself. She'd been making a decent living as an extra in film and said she could get him in if he were interested.
He was. She gave him her contact info.
Innocently bizarre scenarios like this were common.
James and I became friends. He talked of 'cosmic knowledge.' He said alcohol & drugs were of the dark ages, to be left behind with the cavemen.
Once, pointing to his skull, he told me "think about it Chris, there's a reason you met me. Think about it. Those types of things are for the brutes."
It would be another 10 years before I could follow through.
The Asylum had a small upstairs balcony with couches, tables, a piano and ambient lighting. This is where the music was performed.
One night I was sitting with the obligatory cup of coffee, reading and probably snacking on an English scone. A short jewish man, bald, was on the couch next to me talking to someone. I say short -- He couldn't have been 5'5.
He dressed eccentric -- Slacks and brown leather shoes, sports coat with the velour patches on the elbow, button up shirt and tie. But none of it really matched. He was like a college professor whose brain couldn't be bothered by such silly things as fashion.
His talk was mesmerizing, his words mystical and scientific. I couldn't help but eavesdrop. I wanted to talk to him. Later that night I did -- He made an off hand comment towards me and we began.
He had been a photographer, had photos of John Cage. He talked about modern poets such as Michael McClure. He kept bringing up 'new music,' and how I should become acquainted with it. (such as John Cage, Elliot Carter, Phillip Glass)
Pj Harvey, he said, was influenced by this.
This was the first time I had heard any of these names.
He told me about R. Buckminster Fuller, the thinker responsible for the geodesic domes in Florida. He related the story of Mr. Fuller contemplating suicide, tired of living.
He walked to the ocean and was about to end it when he thought of his family. He then began to laugh uncontrollably, and to cry.
From then on he promised god he would live.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I began to see James around the streets daily. And daily we would talk.
One Sunday night we met at the Santa Monica Barnes and Noble. He was on the third floor, writing.
I sat down. He told the story of a Japanese girl he was in love with -- He said it was common in their culture to bind their feet as children, but in doing so "their minds became bound as well."
This was his reasoning for what appeared to be unrequited love.
He was writing the girl a poem, a final poem, a last dirge for what could have been.
While we there a strange woman came up to him and introduced herself. She'd been making a decent living as an extra in film and said she could get him in if he were interested.
He was. She gave him her contact info.
Innocently bizarre scenarios like this were common.
James and I became friends. He talked of 'cosmic knowledge.' He said alcohol & drugs were of the dark ages, to be left behind with the cavemen.
Once, pointing to his skull, he told me "think about it Chris, there's a reason you met me. Think about it. Those types of things are for the brutes."
It would be another 10 years before I could follow through.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Hoffman (1)
I was 21 when I left El Dorado, Arkansas on December 30, 1995.
Ray and Meese left as well -- 3 guys, 2 vehicles, headed for Los Angeles, California.
<-----Fast Forward------>
We'd put some things in self-storage at Bakersfield.
We got to L.A and due to heavy traffic and my quick exit from the interstate became separated, and there was no way to find each other (no cell phones back then). I drove at random and ended up in Venice Beach. I pulled over and walked around the city, getting my bearings, when I was approached by a short latino man riding a bicycle. He asked me for a light. I said I didn't smoke and asked if he knew where I could get a paper that listed jobs and houses for rent.
He said, "a paper?" and made a joint motion to his lips. I said no and explained I was new to town and needed a place to stay.
His slow voice was a cross between Brando's Godfather and Tommy Chong. He told me I could stay on the couch at his house, only a few blocks from the beach. I told him I had a couple of friends and he said that would be Ok, just give him some rent money. Then I followed him home for the tour.
It was a little building in the backyard of his mother's. (He was in his late 40's) There was a back entrance into an alleyway.
It had a full grown tree growing through the roof with a 4 inch gap around its circumference. There were some little potbellied pigs in the yard and he talked harshly to his mother, who I never saw.
I told him I'd think about it and left.
As night fell I kept mulling over a passage of Kerouac's On the Road: "LA is the loneliest and most brutal of American cities."
--------------------------------
So there I was,the next morning driving around at random in my '91 white Honda Civic hatchback. Somewhere out there was my two buds, probably worried about me. But I wasn't.
This city symbolized everything to me as a child--most of it bullshit (as I'd conclude later.)
I remember my first rock concert -- RATT, 1985. I went with a childhood friend. I liked all those hair metal bands and they all came from L.A.
I hated my life (or so I thought), wanted something different and these guys represented that. Freedom.
It's ludicrous and sad now, but I had all this built up in my psyche. They played bars like the Rainbow Room, the Troubadour and the Whiskey a Go Go on Sunset Strip. I now know I was one of the middle american middle class pre-teens who were there target audience, the demographic they preyed upon. The marketing folks always got a plan -- coke up some hungry twenty-something musicians and package them as alien outlaws to junior high....
So LA was hair metal. But what else? Pornography. Growing up I had a friend in my neighborhood whose old man had a satellite subscription to 'American Triple XXX.'
We passed around all kinds of bootlegged video tapes. And I'm afraid those images are forever seared into my brain. And I wonder if any encounter is ever totally free from it's cheap choreography?
Oh, well.
Los Angeles is a city of illusion, a monstrous mirage where America's final frontier ends at the abyss of the Pacific ocean.
And i was just another chump -- I'd either discover the truth of myself or die trying.
-----------------------------------
As the second night fell, I drove away from the main action of town, where it started getting seedier. I idled at a gas station with the newspapers. I saw homeless people milling around with other various freaks. I stayed in the city that night, sleeping in my car, and drove back to Bakersfield the next morning.
We'd befriended the couple who managed the mini-storage, so I returned there. They lived on site. He was a gray-haired man, around 50, short with glasses and a slight paunch. She was mid-30's, tall and slim, with mocha skin. I don't know what their relationship was, but I think they had a child together. I rang the bell and told them the story, said I'd be staying at the Motel 6 off the interstate and to let Ray and Meese know this should they come-a-looking. They said they would and I left to get a room. It was nice to have someone to talk to.
Later that night there was a knock on the door -- Ray and Meese.
"Where were you?" "What happened!?" "blah blah."
I'd forgotten the plan should we get split up, which was to was to call El Dorado and tell someone. That someone would be our command center, so to speak. But I neglected to do that. They didn't.
So everyone back home was worried I was lost.
Anyway, it worked itself out.
I told them about Mike Hoff, who'd I'd met in Venice. We decided to sleep on his couch and drove back to L.A the next day. I tried hard to remember where his house was. We found it and knocked on the alleyway door. It was after midnight. He eventually answered and we went in and I introduced everyone -- The room was very damp, especially our blankets. And they smelled of mildew. But we didn't care at that point. We gave him some cash for the week and left our bags.
We headed to the beach.
It was mid-January and a bit chilly.
The sky was black and the surf was roaring, the damp salty air filled with sea gull caws. Bums, lovers and loners were silhouetted all around.
I let out a robust scream, stripped off my clothes and ran into the ocean.
Afterward the three of us wandered the Venice Boardwalk -- Incense, music, hippies braiding jewelry, guitars, bongos, high curtains blowing, lamps, women leaning out windows, palm trees, old sand, corn dogs, pizza, stale beer, marijuana, homeless folk...
Ray said he felt like we were home. I wasn't so sure.
We came to Santa Monica, the 3rd street promenade. Into a bar with a rainforest theme. We drank shots with small bills and change. A band played in the loft. Our hair was still damp and I was wearing my green army fatigue jacket.
The two girls bartending weren't very friendly. I tried small talk -- She asked where I was from. I told her. She mocked Arkansas and me.
I asked where she was from. Philadelphia.
I said, "That's farther east than Arkansas -- Why you laughing at me?"
She almost tried to explain herself, but I think the ridiculousness caught her off-guard.
We drank most of the money in our pockets and left the rest on the bar for a tip.
(See ladies, us Arkansas boys ain't so bad)
We stumbled back to Hoff's place and crashed on the couches.
We were running out of money.
We searched the newspaper for employment.
I found an ad for Jim Dandy Dry Cleaners in the Pacific Palisades.
I went and a friendly Turk gave me the job. He smelled of strong spice and sweat musk. My co-workers included a male Russian seamstress, an Indian girl from South Africa, and a small fella from Bangladesh named Peano.
I spoke the best English and was an asset, dealing with the upper class white customers.
Mike Hoff was nice enough. But crazy.
At night he'd tell us stories, said he was in the CIA. Said he was a member of the biggest street gang around, the 'Venice Familia.' Said he'd had over 100 bones broken in his body. Said everyone in West Hollywood had AIDS. He told a story of how his grandmother died -- Her husband drew her bathwater and she got in and boiled to death right before his eyes. It was "the plumber's fault for turning the hot water too high."
Hoff sat around watching a small black and white television set while drinking 40 ounces of Old English 800.
He said color TV's were a form of mind control.
We gradually learned other things, too.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
The gaping holes in the house made morning showers a cold undertaking.
My job at the cleaners was ten miles away. I had to be there at 7am so I set my alarm for 6.
One particular morning the alarm went off as normal but Hoff jumps up screaming, "Turn it off! Turn it off!"
I'm half asleep trying to figure out what the hell was going on. A startled Meese and Ray were doing the same.
Hoff continued madman ranting, "You're gonna get me evicted!"
I turned the alarm off and collected my head. Hoff's pointing towards the east wall then to the west, "You woke that neighbor up, You woke that neighbor up... they're calling the cops...you're gonna get me evicted...it's too loud!!"
I try to calm him, apologizing, tell him to chill.
I dress and go to work.
There were two couches: One a short loveseat, the other a full size with hide-a-bed. We alternated, every third night one of us sleeping on the short bed.
Some mornings Hoff would ride his bicycle to the local Venice Health Clinic for medicine. One morning I was asleep on the loveseat, my legs bent and cramped. It set next to the back door.
Hoff had left but came right back in, "I forgot my knife."
He goes to a drawer and walks back out, turns and looks at me and says, "If anyone messes with me I got this." He holds up a rectangular work knife, the kind they issue at manufacturing plants.
He makes a slicing motion saying, "I'll cut their throat and the head falls clean off."
He looks down at me and stares. He leaves.
I turn to Meese and Ray, "This guy's a freak!"
---------------------------------------------------------------------
I came in one evening around six. The guys were gone and Hoff was sitting in front of the tv nodding off, beer bottle between his legs.
I sorted my bags and brushed my teeth. I heard him mumbling. I went and sat next to him.
He told me about the time the cops beat him, smashed his face, literally stomped on him.
He died, he says.
Went to heaven, and god looked at him, slowly shook his head (which Hoff physically conveyed) and said, 'No, go back down.'
And... (Here Hoff slowly turned his head and looked me coldly in the eye,) "that's when I went down to the lake of fire."
Hoff continued to stare at me. Uncomfortable silence.
Later that night around 2am with everyone asleep, the room dark, Meese woke me up -- "Chris, Chris...you alright?"
I broke through consciousness, "Yeah. Why?"
He said I was talking intensely in my sleep, kept telling something to 'get off me,' like we were fighting. I said I didn't remember.
The next night I was reading by candlelight, one of those Mexican glass candles with pictures of saints on the side. Meese and Ray were sitting on the other couch reading.
Hoff looks up and says, "Good thing you got that candle, you might need it. Lots of people wake up over there fighting the devil."
Meese and I just looked at each other.
Hoff's actions became more and more manic and seemingly dangerous. One night, around 3am, a shady fella came pounding on the door, obviously high. He said he knew the Red Hot Chili Peppers, mentioned heroin.
After Ray saw Hoff smoking crack and was physically threatened by him we met up at our favorite coffee shop, Anastasia's.
Ray was seriously worried, so we agreed to abandon ship.
We went back to the house to address the situation, but Hoff wasn't there.
We hurriedly grabbed our bags and left.
Never saw Mike Hoff again.
We'd had a steady shelter and shower for over three weeks. Now we were homeless again.
But Meese found a job selling roses and got Ray in, too. It seemed a little strange, but the 'boss' had a house in Redondo Beach and said we could stay there...
Ray and Meese left as well -- 3 guys, 2 vehicles, headed for Los Angeles, California.
<-----Fast Forward------>
We'd put some things in self-storage at Bakersfield.
We got to L.A and due to heavy traffic and my quick exit from the interstate became separated, and there was no way to find each other (no cell phones back then). I drove at random and ended up in Venice Beach. I pulled over and walked around the city, getting my bearings, when I was approached by a short latino man riding a bicycle. He asked me for a light. I said I didn't smoke and asked if he knew where I could get a paper that listed jobs and houses for rent.
He said, "a paper?" and made a joint motion to his lips. I said no and explained I was new to town and needed a place to stay.
His slow voice was a cross between Brando's Godfather and Tommy Chong. He told me I could stay on the couch at his house, only a few blocks from the beach. I told him I had a couple of friends and he said that would be Ok, just give him some rent money. Then I followed him home for the tour.
It was a little building in the backyard of his mother's. (He was in his late 40's) There was a back entrance into an alleyway.
It had a full grown tree growing through the roof with a 4 inch gap around its circumference. There were some little potbellied pigs in the yard and he talked harshly to his mother, who I never saw.
I told him I'd think about it and left.
As night fell I kept mulling over a passage of Kerouac's On the Road: "LA is the loneliest and most brutal of American cities."
--------------------------------
So there I was,the next morning driving around at random in my '91 white Honda Civic hatchback. Somewhere out there was my two buds, probably worried about me. But I wasn't.
This city symbolized everything to me as a child--most of it bullshit (as I'd conclude later.)
I remember my first rock concert -- RATT, 1985. I went with a childhood friend. I liked all those hair metal bands and they all came from L.A.
I hated my life (or so I thought), wanted something different and these guys represented that. Freedom.
It's ludicrous and sad now, but I had all this built up in my psyche. They played bars like the Rainbow Room, the Troubadour and the Whiskey a Go Go on Sunset Strip. I now know I was one of the middle american middle class pre-teens who were there target audience, the demographic they preyed upon. The marketing folks always got a plan -- coke up some hungry twenty-something musicians and package them as alien outlaws to junior high....
So LA was hair metal. But what else? Pornography. Growing up I had a friend in my neighborhood whose old man had a satellite subscription to 'American Triple XXX.'
We passed around all kinds of bootlegged video tapes. And I'm afraid those images are forever seared into my brain. And I wonder if any encounter is ever totally free from it's cheap choreography?
Oh, well.
Los Angeles is a city of illusion, a monstrous mirage where America's final frontier ends at the abyss of the Pacific ocean.
And i was just another chump -- I'd either discover the truth of myself or die trying.
-----------------------------------
As the second night fell, I drove away from the main action of town, where it started getting seedier. I idled at a gas station with the newspapers. I saw homeless people milling around with other various freaks. I stayed in the city that night, sleeping in my car, and drove back to Bakersfield the next morning.
We'd befriended the couple who managed the mini-storage, so I returned there. They lived on site. He was a gray-haired man, around 50, short with glasses and a slight paunch. She was mid-30's, tall and slim, with mocha skin. I don't know what their relationship was, but I think they had a child together. I rang the bell and told them the story, said I'd be staying at the Motel 6 off the interstate and to let Ray and Meese know this should they come-a-looking. They said they would and I left to get a room. It was nice to have someone to talk to.
Later that night there was a knock on the door -- Ray and Meese.
"Where were you?" "What happened!?" "blah blah."
I'd forgotten the plan should we get split up, which was to was to call El Dorado and tell someone. That someone would be our command center, so to speak. But I neglected to do that. They didn't.
So everyone back home was worried I was lost.
Anyway, it worked itself out.
I told them about Mike Hoff, who'd I'd met in Venice. We decided to sleep on his couch and drove back to L.A the next day. I tried hard to remember where his house was. We found it and knocked on the alleyway door. It was after midnight. He eventually answered and we went in and I introduced everyone -- The room was very damp, especially our blankets. And they smelled of mildew. But we didn't care at that point. We gave him some cash for the week and left our bags.
We headed to the beach.
It was mid-January and a bit chilly.
The sky was black and the surf was roaring, the damp salty air filled with sea gull caws. Bums, lovers and loners were silhouetted all around.
I let out a robust scream, stripped off my clothes and ran into the ocean.
Afterward the three of us wandered the Venice Boardwalk -- Incense, music, hippies braiding jewelry, guitars, bongos, high curtains blowing, lamps, women leaning out windows, palm trees, old sand, corn dogs, pizza, stale beer, marijuana, homeless folk...
Ray said he felt like we were home. I wasn't so sure.
We came to Santa Monica, the 3rd street promenade. Into a bar with a rainforest theme. We drank shots with small bills and change. A band played in the loft. Our hair was still damp and I was wearing my green army fatigue jacket.
The two girls bartending weren't very friendly. I tried small talk -- She asked where I was from. I told her. She mocked Arkansas and me.
I asked where she was from. Philadelphia.
I said, "That's farther east than Arkansas -- Why you laughing at me?"
She almost tried to explain herself, but I think the ridiculousness caught her off-guard.
We drank most of the money in our pockets and left the rest on the bar for a tip.
(See ladies, us Arkansas boys ain't so bad)
We stumbled back to Hoff's place and crashed on the couches.
We were running out of money.
We searched the newspaper for employment.
I found an ad for Jim Dandy Dry Cleaners in the Pacific Palisades.
I went and a friendly Turk gave me the job. He smelled of strong spice and sweat musk. My co-workers included a male Russian seamstress, an Indian girl from South Africa, and a small fella from Bangladesh named Peano.
I spoke the best English and was an asset, dealing with the upper class white customers.
Mike Hoff was nice enough. But crazy.
At night he'd tell us stories, said he was in the CIA. Said he was a member of the biggest street gang around, the 'Venice Familia.' Said he'd had over 100 bones broken in his body. Said everyone in West Hollywood had AIDS. He told a story of how his grandmother died -- Her husband drew her bathwater and she got in and boiled to death right before his eyes. It was "the plumber's fault for turning the hot water too high."
Hoff sat around watching a small black and white television set while drinking 40 ounces of Old English 800.
He said color TV's were a form of mind control.
We gradually learned other things, too.
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The gaping holes in the house made morning showers a cold undertaking.
My job at the cleaners was ten miles away. I had to be there at 7am so I set my alarm for 6.
One particular morning the alarm went off as normal but Hoff jumps up screaming, "Turn it off! Turn it off!"
I'm half asleep trying to figure out what the hell was going on. A startled Meese and Ray were doing the same.
Hoff continued madman ranting, "You're gonna get me evicted!"
I turned the alarm off and collected my head. Hoff's pointing towards the east wall then to the west, "You woke that neighbor up, You woke that neighbor up... they're calling the cops...you're gonna get me evicted...it's too loud!!"
I try to calm him, apologizing, tell him to chill.
I dress and go to work.
There were two couches: One a short loveseat, the other a full size with hide-a-bed. We alternated, every third night one of us sleeping on the short bed.
Some mornings Hoff would ride his bicycle to the local Venice Health Clinic for medicine. One morning I was asleep on the loveseat, my legs bent and cramped. It set next to the back door.
Hoff had left but came right back in, "I forgot my knife."
He goes to a drawer and walks back out, turns and looks at me and says, "If anyone messes with me I got this." He holds up a rectangular work knife, the kind they issue at manufacturing plants.
He makes a slicing motion saying, "I'll cut their throat and the head falls clean off."
He looks down at me and stares. He leaves.
I turn to Meese and Ray, "This guy's a freak!"
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I came in one evening around six. The guys were gone and Hoff was sitting in front of the tv nodding off, beer bottle between his legs.
I sorted my bags and brushed my teeth. I heard him mumbling. I went and sat next to him.
He told me about the time the cops beat him, smashed his face, literally stomped on him.
He died, he says.
Went to heaven, and god looked at him, slowly shook his head (which Hoff physically conveyed) and said, 'No, go back down.'
And... (Here Hoff slowly turned his head and looked me coldly in the eye,) "that's when I went down to the lake of fire."
Hoff continued to stare at me. Uncomfortable silence.
Later that night around 2am with everyone asleep, the room dark, Meese woke me up -- "Chris, Chris...you alright?"
I broke through consciousness, "Yeah. Why?"
He said I was talking intensely in my sleep, kept telling something to 'get off me,' like we were fighting. I said I didn't remember.
The next night I was reading by candlelight, one of those Mexican glass candles with pictures of saints on the side. Meese and Ray were sitting on the other couch reading.
Hoff looks up and says, "Good thing you got that candle, you might need it. Lots of people wake up over there fighting the devil."
Meese and I just looked at each other.
Hoff's actions became more and more manic and seemingly dangerous. One night, around 3am, a shady fella came pounding on the door, obviously high. He said he knew the Red Hot Chili Peppers, mentioned heroin.
After Ray saw Hoff smoking crack and was physically threatened by him we met up at our favorite coffee shop, Anastasia's.
Ray was seriously worried, so we agreed to abandon ship.
We went back to the house to address the situation, but Hoff wasn't there.
We hurriedly grabbed our bags and left.
Never saw Mike Hoff again.
We'd had a steady shelter and shower for over three weeks. Now we were homeless again.
But Meese found a job selling roses and got Ray in, too. It seemed a little strange, but the 'boss' had a house in Redondo Beach and said we could stay there...
