November Draft Pages 1 of 1 (2016)

[This is from a short novella typed up about five years ago and is material I’ve been tinkering with when I have waiting time (bus terminals, bus rides, lunch breaks, a few hours and pauses in the action) and will be included in a collection that will be published as a real book sometime in 2017, called Three Dimensional Boxes Two, and acts as a world builder of sorts that adds fullness to my Adventures In A Dying Young Man Series. Warning. These are draft pages. Fiction. Made up. Never happened. Art. Life. Made with joy, and they probably contain errors. NOT A FINISHED PROJECT.  Thank you for reading.] 

1

I heard celebrations by all these poets I thought were only in books yelling at the moon or cursing the moon cause it was covered by clouds while more clouds covered the stars that were speeding out of sight, and—poof poof—like a magic trick—the stars broke with fire through the wall of more and more clouds that formed a dotted line of the summer horizon, bringing a clear sky and—the stars slow danced and fell in love and sang to those people down here that fall in love during the summer as the moisture of life soaked into their pours and came from the stars up there and out there, out my window screen…

“You hear me henry?” Sophie said
“Yeah darling” I said as right away I then faded away and started dreaming.
Baby—look up at the stars and—that action, can you hear all that noise that is happening out there darling?
What are you talking about Henry? It’s your turn to do the dishes. I’m going to take a bath.

And Sophie did take a bath. And so…I did wash the dishes. But first…I soaked in those smells and my mind drifted out there to where I thought them slices of life blew in from. And then I made love to Sophie. And yeah, so it goes. But still…Back when Sophie was here and when she was done eating well that meant I would do some dishes and brush my teeth. Soon I would in a matter of predetermined moments be spitting in the same sink as Sophie spit in a rotating fashion. And then after them teeth would be scrubbed and hopefully more white than before, then it was time for bed and I would hold Sophie and she would kiss my neck as I looked with wide eyes awaiting and thinking about those sounds and smells that maybe were covered in dirt, maybe they were, just as Sophie said…
Maybe they were sounds of a vile form, maybe them smells came from the decadent as I was told over and over. But I couldn’t believe her. I dreamt about those sounds as Sophie slept, and that’s why, because I was taken by the sounds of the unknown, sounds that sounded like the words I read in all them books that were lined up perfectly on cutely dusted bookshelves.
Sounds and horns and dreaming about those million eyes, and my mind would be overwhelmed by some foreign woman’s voice that heard singing…
come on baby light my fire…

This voice was a slow metal stretched out on jazz that could only be heart in the night as I lay awake with my lover, awake while she slept, awake while she loved me more than I’ll ever know.

Hours pass and still she would sleep. Minutes would pass—the alarm clock was unplugged. Seconds pass and more sounds would put me in some kind of trance…
All those sounds buzzed and brushed off trees chanting around a fire, chants of love for what I never knew, chants of the truth, chants of reality man, chants of what I read about with other people’s words, recorded by other people’s words…Chants and yelling of whatever it was, sounds that were getting savage and were returning people to the elastic skin.

She would wake for a moment and see my eyes were still wide.
Can’t sleep.
I would say nothing.
I was asleep…
I was sleeping with my eyes open…
I was sleeping in the night with my eyes not blinking and I heard her voice but I was sleeping in sound, I was sleeping with my eyes wide open to what? Who knows but it sure felt like peace.

Before I could say anything to her she would be back asleep, as lovely as she ever looked. Me on the other hand—I went right back to the trance, four in the morning—imaginary wonderings, back to the wave of the infinite that carried me on without even that normal type of human sleep. The sounds kept coming. The sounds of the tongue tangled on roots drinking these smelling things and sensual finger things, all these experiences and sensations became one and were real. Dreams, yes, this was just a day dream. But for me, as Sophie had her some of those real dreams, those closed eyed dreams, well my dreams tasted like chocolate—a real ripe tomato freshly picked from the vine. I smelled of cotton candy and dill pickles that smelled like fields of corn. I heard ice cream trucks that looked like trains that used coal and the coal was not the color black, the coal was a red rose playing the xylophone, and the coal tasted like blueberries and the rose that was the coal danced into the fire, the fire which smelled like campfires and tasted like oatmeal cookies. Everything melted together with the dream, the dream I had as I just stared at the screen window, the dream I was having in the middle of the night, a dream that wasn’t real at all but—I tell ya, it was a dream that tasted and smelled as relatively existent as the wet grass of morning dew that covers the lawns as the sun rises on just another day’s sky, a day that showers your perception with the colors of pink and green and invisible bubbles of water, a dream that shows you a storm, when it hasn’t rained in over a week, and the colors of the morning alone rubbing your eyes when the sky looks like a dream, but it ain’t no dream. The dream doesn’t feel real, but that sunrise is as real as real can ever be. My dream of those sounds out that screen that collaborated with all my human senses weren’t real, but they felt as real as some of those dreams that happened, those dreams that humans call memories of what did take place. Out there down from our apartment, as I was awake and she purred like a kitten, while I blinked with each rattle of strings—that brushed against the paws of our cat’s playful insomnia, as these sounds came in from our window, from three stories down on the dusty street, a street that looked more like a third world coast than a Midwestern town…Down there and down here in the bottom of the city where we lived I would at last fall asleep to those sounds of the night as Sophie woke up to tell me she loved me again, only to see I was still awake. She would ask me what is wrong, we would make love again, She be snoozing after orgasm with thoughts about our future, and without much of a word she would be out—just like a light—once again, sound asleep—innocent, naked and totally free, not at thinking about those smells and sounds that I was mesmerized by, and as I would slowly fall asleep only to have to get up in a few hours, as my eyes closed and opened and I looked at her, and that moon always made sure it shined white light on her motionless and dreaming body.

As Sophie slept and the apartment was silent my heart trembled with constant thumps of anxiety, the anxious rhythms of time that kept moving and would bring another sunrise and just another dawn as those sounds changed and resembled nothing I’d ever heard before and…(breathe) so, With Sophie’s still eyes breathing in and out with peace while still holding my hand she clenched with animal passion as she screamed I loved you, as she scratched my back with painted finger nails as we made love right before she fell asleep again, as I felt her pulse and the skin of her tiny fingers my hand was shaking and my eyes were transfixed upon that screen window, that window where all those sounds and foreign visions came from. And as I fell asleep I was happy, I was pure, I was in love but for some reason, I just wanted to know what was out there, what was out that screen, I wanted to know where all these sounds came from. And what I described above happened for weeks and months and then a year the same way. Just like always Sophie was washing her face and as she was doing this I walked down the stairs to have a cigarette. And well, and then there was Dusty Apostolo. Of Course, back then I never came across this dude, back that I didn’t even know he existed yet. Untying my neck tie I placed a smoke in my mouth and opened the mailbox, as you already know the mail box is at the bottom of the stairs and where I ended up finding that dang letter of Sophie’s. But anyway…when I looked in the mailbox there were no letters or nothing cause Sophie was always on top of getting the mail cause her father was always sending checks from that other southern America. My muscles were tired and my eyes were tired and my lips were tired from talking about the future with Sophie so much and man oh man I was ready for bed and dang! I forgot that I had to call my ol coach for the last time and tell him that I wasn’t going to play baseball no more cause well I was going to tie me that knot with Sophie. You know just settle down and begin a family, you know what I mean coach, so well I can’t a play me no baseball no more I had to tell em cause well I guess I was going to begin me a family or something. And man oh man he was going to be disappointed and he would be telling me that I was throwing away my god given talent and on and on he would ask me to re consider what I was doing with my life. But with the thought of this in my head everything just faded in the background of my mind as I turned the apartment door knob. The building was hot and sticky inside during the summer months and in Michigan the summer only lasts about three months. It smelled like human stagnation and all the air inside of the apartment building where Sophie and I lived, well that air had no choice but to stay put while the olive colored walls had a constant stream of a downward waterfall of salty tears always dripping from the rusted pipes, and every year these pipes have been patched over by some man name bill who has worked inside this complex he’s told me on numerous occasions for almost twenty years now. And these pipes of the building were the veins of the building and the broken furnace and radiators and garbage shoots that were too clogged up with broken up cement well these were the lungs and the kidneys and the cardiovascular of a building that was built during one of those prohibition years. And let me tell that building that I lived in downtown was so hot during the summer months and thank god for Sophie or I woulda surly frozen to death in the winter. Thinking about how broken this building really was I turned the door knob to that big red front door, a door that had foot prints all over it, feet prints of hooves and leather boots of all those cops and violent lovers and drug and bill collectors, these banging prints of markings and shadows of feet with toes and anger. The red door of my apartment building was beat and banged by lust and mania and greed, some of the boots were looking for salvation through this metal red door, a door that could be opened from the inside and was painted with so much red paint that there was nothing them fools could do to get in, the red door told such boots and feet and shoes of hate to please turn around and go home, because nope—there’s no way you’re getting through this door and…I opened the door and the warm air ran out into the street like a Labrador that had to take him a big ol piss and that air that was a dog or something ran out into the cool night’s air. The colder air of the outside hit my body and my wet face like a wall of ice and sweat was dripping into my mouth dried up as well just about right away, and I started to smile and then without expecting anything to come my way I heard some feet and shoes walking on the sides of houses and stretched out on the street and saw some large shadows swerving side to side on the street; both the shadows and the trees were lit by the overhead lamps that attracted insects that fed all those birds of the night that sleep upside down and bats that look like flying rodents, and those shadows didn’t really frighten me cause this was a college town and people were always walking around late and so…I don’t think it was that late yet but anyway I wasn’t fazed or worried at all cause well I justa’ came out here to have me that smoke like I’ve had every night for I can’t even remember how long, just that cigg that I’ve had every night when Sophie fell asleep, and as she closed her eyes in our bed well I had some time all to myself, on this stoop outside of our apartment and…I always came out here have me that smoke but also to look at some stars and just be inside my thoughtful head with just me, just think about my future and what I’m going to be and who I’m going to become and where me and Sophie are going to go, just ta’—think to myself like people whistle to themselves or talk to themselves and I never sung to myself or talked to myself cause when I would mumble to myself Sophie would ask me if I’m feeling alright and if I was going crazy or something. And when I was a boy…I was just singing to myself when I was in high school but…Mother thought I was crazy or something and so I don’ts a sing around people or talk to myself around people because I guess people think it’s crazy or something and everybody is always asking me if I’m alright. And when I come out here for this smoke it’s one of the few moments of the day when I can think and just—be me, just be—henry, all by myself. And if I want to sing or talk to the stars I can, cause there’s nobody out there in the night to call me crazy and question my sanity. So, I opened the door like I’ve done, only this time was a bit different. Out of nowhere the door opened the same as it always does but one of them shadows those gotten in the way er something cause BAM! Out of nowhere within the summer night that door just went—BAM! And god dang-it—wouldn’t you a know it, because there was—Dusty Apostolo, and I never woulda thought any good coulda’ come out of that night, but that door swung open and suddenly I heard shattered glass and then just silence and streams of light, and I wasn’t sure if the light was from cars or the rusty street lamps that lined the downtown street; everything stopped as I opened that door and BAM! I dropped to the ground and didn’t feel my head hitting the pavement Blinking…I…started…to…come…to…in…a…matter…of…seconds…although—it felt like timeless so, who knows. I couldn’t hear a thing, nothing at all, and my ears were sensing these fuzzing and tingling sounds, and I could hear ringing sounds that kept ringing and ringing and chirping and shocking down to the stems in my spinal cortex or something. My eyes were starting to make sense and on the ground I could feel my body lying on the ground and my head rubbing slowly as I was rolling trying to balance my body as it laid…
I was on the ground and my head was rubbing against the concrete and was stuck to my cheeks, without touching it I could feel that my lip was cut open. And I was thinking as I was starting to regain my presence man oh man—I was hoping that I didn’t lose any teeth. My eyes kept refocusing and tearing up and man I thought about playing dead but I was hurt too bad and that ringing ringing ringing in my head knocked all sense out of me. I had one hell of a headache I’ll tell ya that. That big ol red door that protected all those back-rent begging tenants, and yeah—that included myself. I begged the landlord often for just a bit more time and luckily Sophie’s father, because he had lots of money and so he always made sure his daughter had her a roof and…clothes and just—everything money could provide; Likely her dad would send those checks in the mail and could bail us two young love birds out cause, come the end of the semester I had me little scratch. But anyway—that big red door swung open and wouldn’t you a know it there was nobody else on the street, everyone else in the city seemed to be all tuckered out and were in their beds either yawning or snoozing their evenings away, and even with the abandoned streets it was just my luck and let me tell ya it seems that I have real bad luck cause these bad kinda things seem to happen to me more often than they do to most people. Yeah…Just my damn luck, and I just came out here to see stars and have me that smoke, the smoke was even in my mouth and lit, but I had yet to take a single toke from the filter and that creaking and cracking and creaking door slammed right into this person I’ve never met before, this person that well this person this fella this rebel that I’m not sure if his parents named…
That red door banged right into a kid that called himself dusty Apostolo, and come to think about it, even after all that sneaking around with that guy, with dusty, even after meeting him with this chance collision, even after all those miles we put on his beaten orange van, just driving with windows down and only talking to each other cause the radio was broken, even after all those towns and back on the Michigan roads with our hands surfing on the eighty mile an hour current, with fingers playing the kooky sounds on so many guitars and bongos in so many open mikes all over the land, even after all those drives and exit ramps and down interstate ninety four and back up then down for no point at all just searching for fresh people going down to some new town on interstate ninety six this time. Even after all that dusty never told me if that was his real name—or if he made it up, you know, to make himself sound bigger like a legend he made for himself, and one time I overheard one of his many girls call him Fred and he quickly silenced her when I overheard cause—I thought maybe that was his real name or something. But he just changed the subject and I never got to find out if Dusty Apostolo was his real name, and after I hit that kid with the door I never woulda expected that man just like pulling a rabbit out of a hat or sending a human soul into outer space, Dusty Apostolo and Henry Oldfield drove all over this state. But back then, I thought of myself as a writer and I mean at the time I had no other choice or anything else to do or anywhere else, other than to—go—back when Apostolo said, “get in the car and—hey—bring that typewriter of yours”. And when he said this to me I remembered Sal paradise and Dusty didn’t give two shits’ about nothing. Dusty Apostolo wanted to go cause he just graduated from college and his daddio gave him a set of wheels and…Dusty always said to me when I knew him, he always said “henry, you need to live your life, you always just sit in your dirty apartment, just sit there in the dark and type away away away, fella away, Oldfield away, henry boy, I dig ya but you’re just typing your life away”…So well, he kinda talked me into it but a writer has to have him some experience to go with the theory, right? But yeah we’ll get to more of back when I knew that Apostolo character after Sophie leaves the picture…I’ll get to all of this in just a Bit. But first where were we, oh yeah—that big red door slamming into one of them shadows. Suddenly, everything that happened came back to me like the decent of the roller coaster and during free fall you scream and lose your mind and forget about living or dying and get them butter flies in your stomach, but after that drop you enjoy the ride. And even though I wasn’t enjoying laying on the ground and bleeding and…I sure as hell wasn’t enjoy that ringing in my head…Everything snapped like a big ol light and I replayed the events, and what happened is when I opened the door it slammed into somebody. And that shatter I heard was a bottle that got knocked out of the person’s hand, and while I’m on the ground and pulling myself up, as I’m starting to regain my footing, as I’m wiping my lip and my teeth under gums that somehow dug into my cheeks, as I feel for all my teeth…

I see pieces of sharp glass of a broken bottle with a label. Colt45. That’s what cut me, and so I know what happened but I don’t know why it happened. But I got myself punched in the face. Smashed in the dome by someone’s rolled hand for my decision to open that red door. All this came back to me and now my hope was whoever had done this was long gone. I just wanted to go upstairs and clean myself up and try not to wake Sophie cause something like this would send her into some kinda nervous spasm. She would be calling her father for money to leave and she kept talking, telling me how this area down here was dangerous and man oh man…She kept saying—how this area where our pad was located—it got her nervous and from all’s she’s heard about some gang that I’ve never seen but from the new scrollers and newspapers talking about some new stereotypically brand of foggy hoodlums moving into the area, kinds of thieves and sinners and nope—not top of hill people moving down here, well, with all that the girl had been hearing from her friends and reporters and doctors and lawyers in the daily gossip chit chatting chirp chirp well…Sophie made it clear that she wanted us to move and I liked it here—I really did, and if I go up there and wake her up—looking all beat with a bleeding ear and a swelled lip—yeah—that Sophie would get frantic and start packing her bags until the sun came up. She’d keep screaming how that’s the last straw we’re out of here henry and on she would scare herself by pictures that neither of us have ever seen till that damn ringing in my head faded. So, with them thoughts thinking I got up off the ground and wiped the side of my face with my hand that was also scrapped. Taking a deep breath, I squinted at the light that seemed to radiate and form a constant streaming rhythm and beat to that ringing in my head and it throbbed with bells and fizzled of pop rocks of nausea and caused me some kinda vertigo… As that ringing and ringing…sounded like some kind opera singer er something, a screaming that was in my head…Well, I was facing the other side of the street with my back to the door and I didn’t think to myself weather or not if whoever kicked my skull in was still lurking around in the alley or behind some building or something, cause I couldn’t see nothing and I was thinking about that good looking girl, that lovely sleeping Sophie and—it wouldn’t stop, that ringing in my head that was clawing its paws against the lining of my brain. And so, I didn’t think if whoever did this to me was planning on coming back for a second strike, some more fun to add to their already drunken bloody night. And I didn’t think about these scenarios, because…I thought that—if I out of the blue…sucker punched some nice guy in the face, well…if I done something nasty like that I’d run away and ask for forgiveness or something; this is what I thought my attacker did and with the ringing and the lights and, with that blood dripping off my hand and from my bottom lip…nope…I wasn’t afraid of getting hurt again, I was only afraid of what might happen—if Sophie saw me looking like a wounded dog—you know, bleeding and limping and saying…“Nothing, it’s nothing, no honey I tripped.” And that’s exactly what I would say when she woke and starting crying, and so I turned around to that red door that started this whole mess to no fault of its own and I couldn’t walk right cause of that ringing bottled Mason jar in my head, and I leaned against the building and looked down for my cigarette cause let me tell ya, I came out here to have a smoke and like a true addict and for the love of any kind of supernatural being, I sure as hell needed it now.

A car drove down the street, a long and box framed Buick with thumping tunes, and for a second the ringing in my head dimmed down a bit. I was standing with my back to the door and my eyes were scanning the side walk. The cement was red with the blood from my broken lip and there was a faint imprint of a body that I left on the ground outlined like a murder victim that highlighted where I fell. But I wasn’t thinking…

Twas’ looking for my smoke and…Ahh hell—I couldn’t find it, and so I gave up and…snap—that ringing in my head wouldn’t stop and I put my finger up to my lip to stop the bleeding and then turned around to go back inside. Out of nowhere I heard a roll and a click of some fire and smelled some smelling threads of slowly burning tobacco, and wouldn’t ya a’ know it…

Standing behind me, in front of the red door, was Dusty Apostolo and he was talking to his little sidekick named Alex. I knew Alex; he was a Mexican kid and I seen him once or twice at this coffee shop down the street. He was a good guy and talked books with me. He wasn’t a scary kid but it made sense that he’d hang with somebody like Dusty cause Alex seemed as clueless about life as I did. So, at this point in the action, I wasn’t sure which one of them hit me because maybe perhaps—Dusty put him up to it. And by seeing it was Alex—I had a hunch he’d never hurt a fly, let alone attack in retribution for some lousy accident. From that premise, I was pretty darn sure that Apostolo was the one who did this to me, and I couldn’t do nothing and so I rolled my swollen eyes and my interior voice said…

“Oh—henry boy—you’re about to get your ass kicked and well, this time probably even worse, cause man, I isn’t no fighter and Dusty has proven—that he is.
Seeing Apostolo I said…
“Sorry I didn’t mean to…”
“Shhhhhhhh.”

Dusty placed his finger up to his lips while Alex walked back and forth on the other side of the street and shook his head in what only could be described as disapproval. And then I looked at the building and all the lights were out inside and everyone was sleeping cause it was sure as hell time to sleep, and I looked down the street and there wasn’t a single truck or car or cop was driving by, and I thought—where are those officers and civil servants now, right now, at a time when I needed them the most>?

“Please man I didn’t mean to I said”, to Dusty —who just kept blowing on his finger with a rolled S…S…S—which he followed with a tap…tap…tap of his steel-toed construction boots. And wouldn’t ya know it—that Apostolo was smoking my cigarette and this ticked me off.

With that ringing in my head, that white noise pinching with those disorienting shadows and no help to come I could hardly gather my thoughts, hardly make out what was going on, or what would happen next, and…I think you owe me a drink, I mean you broke mine dusty said to me.

I was now a bit scared cause the grin on his face looked like some lunatic about to go on a lunatic spree er something just killing and hurting cause they’re a lunatic. And I was scared and still bleeding, and this lunatic was in front of me, this dusty Apostolo fella—he was smoking my last smoke and this got on my nerves and by the fraction of split seconds that were passing me by I was starting to work up some courage that I never knew I had, cause man oh man the way that Apostolo smoked my smoke was a mockery to my end of the day solitude.

2

Old Writing Again #5: Just A Dog, parts 1-3 of 7. (2012)

PART ONE

            He ran—Nigel just ran. I mean in such an event what else is there to do? And since he was tired from the miles he ran he sat still and was covered in dirt. And he wasn’t anxious, Nigel was nothing but out of breath. Light paused for a second. Then even more shots came running down. Nothing was left and everything was gone. The north was now a little bit more west and the east was a lil’ more towards the south. It wasn’t just the natural world, but it could be seen in the attitudes of people. But none of this chaos matters because the human world ravaged itself alive. Lake Michigan was eighty-five degrees for nine straight days in March, and there were dead trees without leaves and the sand burned your toes. Nigel sat near the shore without his shirt, and he didn’t care either that the light wasn’t yellow anymore. The light was red and now blood was green, and there were many bodies—thousands of bodies dangled and slouched and burned, and the buildings were torn down and some remained—but only the old ones remained. It was simply bad and there was nothing but ash and green blood. He was there. Nigel was standing there, and he was wanted for murder—but well, not anymore. And it wasn’t his fault. No. He didn’t do it. His friend did, but it doesn’t matter anymore because he was in shock.

Nigel’s thoughts were consumed with the color of his bloodshot eyes, and they were green. And who were they? Where were they? But he didn’t think long because this was survival and so he ran and he kept running until he was out of breath, and he was out of breath so Nigel stopped running, and up in the air a storm was blowing in, but the clouds were orange, and so when he looked up there were airplanes crashing and metal sirens blazing and there were satellites falling back to earth from the sky; it looked like the sky was on fire but the fire wasn’t the color it was supposed to be. Everything was just a little bit more different, and that’s why Nigel ran through an old field, where in the past, he ran to get away from the ordinary days, days that are now gone by.

Feet ran by the old newspaper machines that were connected to each other with metal chains that held the benches in their spots. When he was out of breath he listened to the chaos and there were yells and screams and then there was silence from the alleys, and when he looked up at the skyscrapers there were hundreds of bodies falling from the windows, and when he smelled there were terrible burning smells and this was some kind of war but there was no enemy to be seen. And he was thirsty so he drank from a hose. It was the first water he had in days. But before he could get enough to drink because he was so thirsty, he had to hide in a bar doorway because there was a swarm of the ordinary running in his direction, and without looking Nigel heard their footsteps. Like a wild stampede in the Serengeti humans by the hundreds were coming from over the hill and they didn’t say anything but their faces were covered in fear and horror; their faces were screaming, “Get out-of-the-way boy!” And this wasn’t isolated. All around the world parts of the International Space Station and other orbiting junk pummeled into the tips of melting trees and bodies were crushed like a slab of butter and there were limp hands and torn pants and…The end was more colorful than any of us could have ever imagined, and as people ran passed him he hid in the bathroom of the city’s park. Cut off from hell and inside of the rest room for some reason made him believe that society was still together, and that everything was ordinary again.  So he closed his eyes and pretended he was in his house and that his girlfriend was sleeping and that his cat was purring. He forgot about the blood and the color green, and he replaced the newer memories with the memories from last week. He tricked himself into believing that everything was normal, and the way that it would be once again after all of this was over. But he knew right away that it would never be over because nothing can go back to what it was before after something like this happens. Because when something like this happens, it stays like this for a long time.

In a few minutes Nigel opened his eyes. The bathroom had a bad aroma and he didn’t feel good and his senses consumed the shit smells and the paper smells; he couldn’t see like he could a week ago, because now there was only the dark flickering light inside of the bathroom, and it was fading in and out. But still, Nigel wasn’t afraid but he was lonely and he didn’t want to be inside of the stale bathroom so he closed his eyes again, just for a few more minutes, because he wanted to go back to last week. So he imagined that everything in life was good and happy or sad, just the way it was. And when he closed his eyes the world went back to normal and there was a flicker of light and he opened his eyes again, and now it was hard to see and there was the yellow light and he heard more screams of people outside, and the sound of trees tangled and there was rubber melted together with metals and the sounds of helicopters vibrating with the sounds of power lines and the sounds of flesh and the sounds of more flesh ripped apart like paper. The sounds were terrible, and these were sounds that Nigel never thought were even possible and then…

There was nothing.  Everything was quiet so Nigel shut his eyes again, just for a few more minutes, and inside the bathroom he was going to wait, because he thought that if he left he would die like everyone else out there is going to, but he didn’t want to wait in this bathroom, even if it could keep him safe, because he didn’t want to die in the bathroom and so Nigel opened the door and as his eyes adjusted to the way the Earth now reflected, he couldn’t believe what he saw because standing in front of him was a happy dog who was panting and, it was just a dog. 

PART TWO  

His hands were blue. He started walking. By his side he carried a picture. A car drove by. The car was yellow. He ripped the picture in half. The war starts tomorrow. It hasn’t been planned. The enemy is old. The enemy is familiar. Tonight the world waits. At this hour, the world sleeps. He can’t sleep. He can only walk.

It was March. He kept walking. On his feet he wore old boots, they were his fathers. They were almost two sizes too small. This caused his toes to bleed at first. They don’t bleed anymore so it’s fine. Everything was alright, and so he turned around and walked back to the spot where he ripped up the picture. He found the bottom half. He smiled and crumbled it up and then sticking the paper-ball into his coat jacket he laughed. Above the pocket there was a zipper. He made sure to zip it up. He never cared about zipping it up before. He never even thought about it prior to this moment in tomorrow’s time, and so one more time: Zipping the old rusty zipper never crossed his mind. But for some reason out of the blue he remembered to zip up the pocket, and that’s why tomorrow, Nigel will zip the zipper. 

PART THREE

Patting his pocket, the paper ball was flattened, it was secure, it was safe. He wasn’t sure why he came back for the bottom half of the picture, he just did, he wanted it. Nigel wanted it more than anything he ever wanted in his life. He knew he needed the picture, whatever was left of it. This was a weird feeling for him to have, but not difficult to digest, the feeling that is, for he accepted this feeling. But he didn’t even know the person in the picture. He stole it from a home that he broke into. This was the only crime that he ever committed. He was never caught. He stole jewelry that he couldn’t sell. He stole a snow-globe because it reminded him of plastic sleds. There it was, and it was sad, because the dog was bleeding. So Tim yelled again. Tim said that he found what he was looking for, and Nigel didn’t really know Tim very good. They met by chance. What this chance event was isn’t very dramatic. They met at a probation office and…Mot, this is Tim’s Nickname, and he insisted everyone called him it, it, being mot, mot, being Tim’s nickname. But Nigel always forgets to call Tim, Mot, and this forgetfulness has caused domestic fisticuffs to be witnessed by normal nine to fivers during what the locals call happy-hour. And this is just a minor detail in our story, and so let us now shift back to the thievery:

Sounds of glass breaking, and it sounded great to mot’s ears. He, Mot, mot loved the sound of breaking glass. It was his favorite sound.

Sounds of crying echoes entering ears-tip-toeing-up-the-stairs, and metal falling to the ground.

Sounds of the kitchen floor.

Nigel heard feet walking back and forth-back-bark-whimper, and then he heard more glass breaking. These were the sounds of that particular night. The night before all hell broke loose and He didn’t know what to do, Nigel that is, and with not knowing what to do he walked out of the bedroom. More Echoes up the steps, echoes of the dog, echoes of Mot screaming like a madman in love with loud noises.

The sound of Mot saying that he,

“found it”,

that it was

“time to leave”, and

“now”.

Summer of Chaos (promo 2)

From an experimental novel by Andrew H. Kuharevicz, ‘Summer of Chaos’. Out Soon. Printed in two editions. Trade paperback, with streamlined layout for the traditional reader, or expanded edition, reading like the original journal with 40 pages of pictures taken on the road around today’s modern american scene. Published by West Vine Press

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Hand Gun Fires At The Beginning Of Winter’s End

(I suppose this could be labeled as an old school writer’s notebook entry)

After cleaning my place and washing dishes, made some coffee and took a shower. I’d say that it was about half an hour of mental prep work in order to calm down and get to the place where I could comfortably edit.

About an hour and twenty minutes I was working on my novel. My vision was the story and the words were the senses, and it did take a while but I got back to where I needed to be. There was the sound of random steps of pauses then steps of the fingers typing. Never sure but then you have to be sure if there will ever be an end.

There are so many decisions all asked at once. No. This is good, just good enough, forget about the words and style and let the story be itself, detached from the control of the mind, and it sounds funny, but this is what it takes for the inside fan to become one with the outside arctic wind.

I was there, at real nice quiet point, and then as I was moving to the next paragraph I hear four gun shots, then one more, a total of five divided by point three or so seconds of separation, it’s a real motive pull of the trigger, no rifle range, no American boys be boys Sunday evening target practice, and when I heard it—it sounded like it came from right outside my window cause’ my desk is next to the big one near the back towards the woods, and so I couldn’t write anymore and I thought about calling nine one one and telling them, but for some reason decidedly I figure just wait it out and turn off the lights, hope for everything to settle down.

Half pissed at existence for interrupting me, I was upstairs in the dark looking out the window down towards the street looking at the panels of long church window reflections all at once as a couple of cop cars drive slowly by and then circle around, and then it’s quiet again and dark.

It has now been less than Fifteen minutes, and I’m still standing there when there’s more squad cars crawling down the street and an ambulance and now it looks like Christmas lights in a mirror and I can’t really write anymore but I have to because I have to finish the book.

And being a writer isn’t easy, and as you get older there’s no coffee talk and silent university walls. There’s you and there’s the society out there—that you’re hoping to capture a glimpse of with prose, and then, when random things like this happen, part of you wants to run over to the scene of the crime without hesitation, like you did when you were younger, maybe to help, but you know you couldn’t. Because it’s over. What’s been done is done. But still you think about going outside, if only to see if you got close, to what you thought it would be like, even, if you don’t know what that is.

But you can’t, because you don’t know what’s out there, and you have this instinct inside of you that tells ya’, that if you die, well then you won’t get your work done, and it’s sad, because right now, sometimes, it feels as if that’s the only thing you care about. Completing the painting.

The sound of a gun is a scream of madness. It sends chills down my spine and (if it turns out to be reported) it’s the third killing (or attempted one) I’ve been within a short proximity to in the past four months. And I don’t like it. It’s not material. It’s a sickness. It’s bullshit. I don’t know. Maybe it is normal and everyone is desensitized or have moved out but me. And I know that’s not true, but maybe, it’s time to try and be an adult author and see if I can get a nice coastal residency. One not in the middle of a postindustrial war. Just great. More wishing well literary dreams of being relevant, and in the end, probably nothing more than hours of stamped paperwork that nobody will read.

Maybe this is where I belong. Maybe this is the writer I will always be. But whatever the future will materialize into nothing will ever surprise me more than the insanity of our species, and so below is what I was working on when the shots rang my nerves, and instead of coffee now there is beer and typing this nonsense instead of pacing before what I’m sure will be a restless night of trying to get to sleep.

These words are taken from a novel that I’m working on called The Fear & The Going. As always, Thanks For Reading.

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A strange day

This is  taken from a novel I wrote and released in the summer. It is called, From Far Out There. It is a mess of a pretty good book. I regretfully edited it in a messy and very small kitchen of a house that I was crashing in located inside of a town I just ended up in after I had to get off the bus. Overall, it was a necessary step to take I think as a writer, and it’s a good read, and so on this numerical sequence on the calender I was reminded of this section in From Far Out There, that is half and half based on what did go down. But as Hemingway said, it could be, truer than true. Enjoy. If you want to buy a copy of From Far Out There, go HERE!

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Another day in may #2

Another Day In May. ?. Fiction Theory. Summer Notebook. 2014. Page Nine Of Second Moleskine. Written By A.H.K. Draft Proofs. West Vine Press.

 THE MEMORY OF a brain never skips a beat. There’s no such thing as a hangover. Slowly in silence it all comes back. I remember everything.

End day and new night, and the three of us, Conrad, me and Slaughter, were sitting a bar called Taxidermy and a girl asked, “You want tequila?” 

End night and new day, and this happened, maybe or maybe it is fiction…still, I remember everything. I wrote it all down.

Tequila. That’s all it took and bam. After the tequila there was a stranger who said he was a Celtic folklore from the wilderness. His beard looked like it was made out of grass and twigs and he was always plucking a banjo or playing out of tune metal solos on an unplugged electric guitar, and after the tequila, there was a week of raves and hallway sit-downs and bathroom speakeasies, there was unrehearsed hip hop in garages and in the rain and there was college students and business men and women and doctors and nurses and veterans of wars, and some of them were playing with hula-hoops and chains made out of fire, and there was a house behind the university, and it rested directly down the hill in the backyard of the biggest graveyard in the city, and for seven days, there was punk and it rained tequila, and she had a pickup full of it, and after the tequila there was seven days of monster trucks and broken porches and broken talks and broken screen doors, and for seven days there was tequila, and the tequila wouldn’t run out for seven days, and this happened, probably, and the memory of a brain never skips a beat. There’s no such thing as a hangover.

New day and new night on little to no sleep. Seven days of tequila and across the street there were young kids with their young drugs and everyone was dancing and after she asked us if we wanted tequila there was a harmony with the nature of good times, and everything was forgotten, and in seven days everything that happened before the first day would be remembered, but not for seven days, and it was Sunday and I woke up alone in the driver’s seat of a car that wasn’t mine. Slaughter was somewhere in the Upper Peninsula and I was locked out of the rental’s floor that I was sleeping on and Conrad was missing in action. It was Sunday. I don’t like Sundays, never have and I don’t know why, and I was sad because it was a new day and it was almost summer and my life was almost chaos. Total chaos…

End day.CIMG1237

Another day in may #1

New day.

It’s cold and I didn’t even finish one of my last cigarettes, and I cant afford to waste the vice to my addiction, but I think I zoned out and a new song is playing. It’s john Lennon and he said he found out that there’s no guru who can see through you…

I found out. I found out. John Lennon Found out, and I think I found out too, something, I found out something…I think…

Wait. Same day. I zoned out again looking at willows shadow on woods lake, like hand puppets at night under lantern in bug tent near lake Michigan. I found out…no…

The song by john Lennon is over and next it is M…I…C…K…E…Y….Mickey Mouse. It’s one of the last tracks from the clockwork…no, the full metal jacket soundtrack from the Stanley Kubrick film. The scene where the young american battalion is walking side by side with flame throwers through a town that is on fire at night. Everything is burning and they look terrified with who they are and what they are doing and what they are seeing, and for the most part they are kids, all in their early twenties, and as they walk with helmets and boots and look close to sickness and losing their minds, and as they walk in the fire storm of what was the home of children before the war, there are no enemies, only their thoughts and the darkness and the fire and the voices that are heard on screen as they sing M….I…C…K…E…Y Mickey mouse. And near the fade out to black one of the soldiers is thinking about some girl and the innocent smell of her sexual desire, and he found out, and what he found out, I’m not sure, but he found out, there’s no doubt about that, and mickey mouse is the sad song that will get them through the night, because its the only song all the troops can remember. CIMG0980 (2)

 

September Draft Pages (One of Two) Where Is Babushka?

as I’ve already said (see below for old notes) this is just a raw demo of a short book I’m working on for preparation reasons.

“Started to take mental notes for The Future Book Of War. I think ill have to write many short stories before i even get to the novel. one will focus on a major offensive in Rome and then what the vets do after the war is over. the year will be set in 2021 to 2027. The last book in the adventures of a dying young man series

Peace Time

(working title for yet to be named short story collection based in the world of Henry Oldfield

Written and intellectual property of Andrew H. Kuharevicz

Unnumbered Time Lapsed Letter A

Henry sat like a Sunday school student with his hands folded at his desk and he was bored and like when he was a child there was nothing more and nothing less. He sunk into his subconscious and did not care about anything, and it wasn’t late but not like that mattered either. There was something though, and He couldn’t write another word. He felt ashamed for the amount of sound that he made when he wrote his dumb books. That’s what Pel called them, back…oh just back then. It was a joke now. It wasn’t then. Nothing was a joke even though many people laughed at the tragedy as it played out in real time, but now it didn’t matter because who cared where she was. Time moved. He grew. Henry was a man of repetition, of inspiration, of sunrises and sun sets, and he once knew how to write a chorus, and a powerful strong and pleasant chorus at that, but now he was all verse, one long verse without breaks, and this was like the day and the night. Life was a string of nothing more than a mess of particles that looked like the bread crumbs left behind in the strawberry jelly container. It was lazy but real, and the machines wore him down, and he smiled and looked out the window, and the windows were so clean. Henry missed the sun strains and soap stains, he missed something real now lost but yet undefined.

Again Henry watched the day, and the oaks and the pines were tall and about to die. Henry had another book due and for the longest time he used to grind his teeth and bite his nails, he would be nervous and the coffee would cause a goofy kind of manic vision to create itches that were not real, but now everything was fine, he was fine with everything, life was good, real good, life was as good as it should have been. Music didn’t get better or worse, it was held in time and he hadn’t heard anything new or bad or good that he really liked in a very long time. He didn’t know how long of time anything had been, it’s just been that time was moving, and of course it was, but the deadline wasn’t a screaming kind of red and it was now a soft circle on a nice calender that hung in the nice hallway that led into his office. He didn’t like to have calender anywhere near where he wrote, that was one of his rules that he swore by. No calenders by the typewriter.

And as it goes, there was a new deadline coming up, but now Henry wasn’t afraid of it, the deadline was a soft guillotine that couldn’t even cut through the first layer of skin. There was no fear. not like there used to be, and now the deadline, the guillotine didn’t matter. the story was fine and good and Henry wasn’t afraid any longer of the the last page. Because it was the same as the sheets on his bed and the suit coat that covered his arms, the words on the page were the same and everything was the way it was supposed to be. It was nice and normal now. Life was good.

After the writer, after Henry, after the character that he was got over love and excepted the business of business, he fell in line and kept track of the schedule on his calender, and he marked in line with his perfect handwriting that he spent weeks on retraining instead of actually writing, and he kept track of the information and the dates with the accuracy of statistician. The writer was prompt and pleasant and professional, and the new publishing house that purchased the rights to his science fiction pop up books, after the old school beast finally went out of business, well the new cat of media corps called, NovelDome, was the big surprise winner. After learning the tricks from the best of insurgent bankers after the great last depression, NovelDome had the game plan down before anybody else even had a chance. They waited in the shadows, and somewhere it reads in italics that they were based in Utah or Pittsburgh, the details are conflicting but true and upheld by the judges of the most respected sorts. The tenured journalists who reported this uprising weren’t sure how it happened and how NovelDome pulled of the kinds of money swings that would be necessary to overtake pretty much all of the publishing industry, and  once again looking at a mismatch of web pages that are old and ugly and faded in contrast levels, it would seem they were very much a rags to riches kinda of story that good normal folks love to dream about while watching fireworks….

So the story about NovelDome is simple. They came out of nowhere and became the market, and before pretty much anybody knew who they were they were an upstart company…I think…at least if rules of deduction are still reasonable. Anyway and in reality, they were a half-assed indie publishing house that released a couple alt lit books and some traditional and  fashionable photo books throughout the course of a twenty four month period. They had a budget that came from a one Mr. So and So, but nobody knew it was the same Mr. So and so who people believed had died in the Ozarks over twenty years ago but still somehow voted for the bomb to be dropped…

And it was, it was the same Mr. So and So. and it doesn’t matter anymore and NovelDome is now publishing the dumb science fiction pop up books, and Henry Oldfield does not care….

To Be Continued In September Draft Pages 2 of 2.

 

Thinking about the future of my books again, August 2014 Draft Pages

(This is a long post, intended to be read in more than one sitting. It will be the last post of august 2014) 

As the summer of chaos is slowing down and about over I’m thinking about work, stability, and the future of my book series that I had planned to be completed by 2016. I started working with this world in 2006 and now almost ten years later I’m still following around the protagonist Henry Oldfield. I’m eager to get a new typewriter and a new corner of this planet to begin the exercising in writing that it will take to get back to the creative energy I had when I was working on it before. There will be a difference this time, not all of my day will go to these books, well not yet, as I will be working in the public sector and then writing and editing after. As far as books go I have two more planned releases for two thousand fourteen, making that five books that I finished this year, not including the books by others that I edited, making this my most productive year as a writer. I don’t think this will ever be done again, because as I grow older the paper mountain shrinks and a new one is made, the back projects fade and new life obstacles stand in the way.

Being a writer and a person is a balancing act. The real and the fiction must be both given responsible amounts of time. I must get better as a person and as a citizen in order to become a better writer and artist. I have set very high standards for myself, as far as goals and legacy attributed to my cannon when I do, in many years, reach the end of my life, but for now, I’m somewhat young, somewhat romantic and blinded by living my life and trying the best I can.

Below are a few sections of the next couple books in the, Adventures of a Dying Young Man Series. The first two novels are out. You can buy them by clicking on the covers. They are both under ten dollars. They are first and second editions. When I’m done with this series, it should, if done properly, be something special. I’m sorta worried about people stealing my ideas, but not my words or my style, because only I can replicate it. I’ve spent so much time with these characters and this world that it is my fingerprint. But with that said, I probably will delete this sometime…just in the near future. Thank you for reading. If any large publishers or indie publishers with actual binary ones and zeros stumble across my words and would like to help me get these books out to a larger audience in stores, and also, pay me a bit of money, perhaps, and I stress perhaps, we could work something out. I’ve worked a long time with West Vine Press, and I believe in the message of real books. The problem is the budget, because there is basically only my imagination and my drive that keeps it going. I would like this story to be given a chance, because I think it’s a interesting story, and also, because I’m a writer worth reading, who will soon be able to stand toe to toe with the greats of this strange art form. Maybe not they will say. I don’t care. It’s just life. Rock and roll and that is all.

If you would like to message me for anything word related, or to talk about these books, send me an email at…

andrew.h.kuharevicz@gmail.com

Book A, More Adventures of A Dying Young Man, & Book B, The Original Adventures of A Dying Young Man, Out Now. Click on Cover to buy A Copy. 

http://www.lulu.com/shop/andrew-h-kuharevicz/book-a-more-adventures-of-a-dying-young-man/paperback/product-21721475.htmlproduct_thumbnail-1

 

Book C, Adventures of A Dying Young Man, The Fear & The Going, Part One, The Going, Out December of this year.

Book D, Adventures of A Dying Young Man, The Fear & The Going, Part Two, The Fear, Out Spring of 2015. 

Book E, The Future Book of War, Out sometime in 2016. 

Below are some draft pages. There may be errors and the prose will be different as the books have not went through the final rewrite and some have been written years ago. 

UPDATE. I deleted this post. read the first two books. I want to be careful with my material. 

 

 

Digital Blinks 2014 & More Never Ending Wanderings of a Writer In The Digital Age # Mental Notes.

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 MENTAL NOTES  

• Almost two weeks. Move into apartment on weds. 4 days left at bug tent..
• Did you know….that none of us even exist. For example…I’m just a character in a novel. This is all part of the advertising. Don’t worry. Hash tag. Coming soon.
• The bugs are being cool and staying away so I opened the tent and a little frog jumped in and there’s now a cat living next to me and so I guess the woods are telling me it’s time to go back to society. Two more nights and I’m gone woods. Also I’ll get to all my digital letters and hate mail in the morning. I Don’t have time because I’ve lived in a tent and want to shut a door…so I’ve had to work real hard in three weeks to get back above zero. I’ll be getting back on the bus next weekend to get all my typewriters and clothes and what not. But three weeks. That’s not that much time really. Peace.
• An interesting aspect of the streets in this post modern world is how office buildings have wide open windows even at the ground level. This gives off the quality of trust to the locals. For instance…in every m live media office building is clean and modern with flat screens streaming out to the streets. This is like some form of Walt Disney ride where you are in the newsroom. The strange thing is you hardly ever see anybody working and your local newspaper building has a for sale sign on it and now is owned by one of the oldest oligarchies in United States history.
• ”You know the only thing I’ve never lost is curiosity.” Hemingway, The Snows of Kilimanjaro
• I can tell you about the future…but I’m always running way behind schedule in the present.
• Some guy told me he was going to get two bowling balls and sink to the bottom of the lake. I gave him my copy of The Myth of the Sisyphus…which is one of three books I have on me….a high life and two smokes….and said shut up and read a book brother.
• Lost my apartment. Back to the hunt. Back to the bug tent.
• Been in so many places and cities and states this summer it all looks the same.
• Started to take mental notes for the future book of war. I think ill have to write many short stories before i even get to the novel. one will focus on a major offensive in Rome and then what the vets do after the war is over. the year will be set in 2021 to 2027. The last book in the adventures of a dying young man series.
• Chapter one. Where is Babushka?
• I want the book to read like a Kubrick film. Down to the grass and the dirt and the ropes and the follicles of hair. Every particle and atom and neutrino must be accounted for. This is the only way for true future storytelling. The book will be a big book. I will need many typewriters and many beers and more random life experiences that circle on repeating the axiom of nonsense.
• I was sitting in the park. A Squirrel fell out of a tree. Thump. It wasn’t dead but it looked pissed. Bad dream i said to the squirrel. I knew it was time to call it a day.
• Found an apartment. All good to go. One more night. One storm after another. Ill miss the lakefront property…but not the mud and…oh…it’s all good.

More Than Half Way There

Summer Notebook. August 9th 2014. Short Journalistic Piece called, More Than Half Way There. Written by Andrew H. Kuharevicz.

This isn’t really a short story. I don’t have the time right now to edit and put everything in quotations. Time is not working on my side. I am living outside and only have one hour a day with the computer. It is what it is. It is life, and this is just a series of handwritten pages that I wrote in my notebook…

This is what happened. It’s not all that much. It isn’t war. It was just this…

I was writing in the library and an older man said something to me. He was in his mid-sixties and his name was Albert. I know because he asked my name, and I don’t know why, and so I asked him his name. I was doing something and didn’t want to talk but Albert told me he didn’t know how to use the copy machine, “can you talk to it” he said.

This man I didn’t know was trying to make copies of sheet music and he performs in the park with the free symphony. Albert said…you must have had a class or something? you sure are a fast typer. I said I’m a writer and I guess you could say that. He opened his folder and showed me more sheet music. Nice I said and he asked me if I played.

Play? Yeah Albert said. Music. You play an instrument? Sounds like you play based on your typing. I laughed and said, yeah, well, I write a form of I guess…folk songs I guess you could call them, at least I do when I have a guitar but…yeah so…real cool though… I have to get back to my…

And I was trying to get back to the screen but Albert said, that’s all my handwriting, right there, see, on the sheet music, and I bet when you were writing your words I was writing music. Very good I said, and…

Here take this Albert said. It was a sheet of his music. It looked like art. It looked like writing. It was so much cleaner than my scribbled notebooks. I looked in my bag and then I handed Albert one of my handmade books. What score I said. I mean composition or piece is this? Albert pointed and… “oh…Bach”.

And now that I write this back at my tent, as the sun goes down over the lake, I can’t remember what Bach composition it was. I was in a rush at the time, and I know exactly what I was doing. I was trying to find a job. The cover letter was to be attached to my resume for a war correspondent out in the middle east, and I didn’t think that I would get the job, even though I should get the job, and sure, I would go over there and risk my life and be on no side because I am everything, but I would go and watch how the end game scenario of the flesh of steal and gunpowder and these crazy minds who are out to shed each other’s blood plays out. And the end is slow but steady, and I would go and write in war, I really would, only because I am a man of words and only here to get you the story, because this is about everything that is all of us…

But this is all beside the point, but then again not really, and that is because everything that is everything is part of the reason that I was in a rush and can’t remember the name of the Bach composition that Albert is playing a piano solo for, and He’ll be there this weekend. For some reason this is interesting and I don’t know why I said, but the truth is that I’ll be here and you’ll be there, and Albert will be playing the keys down at the park, and he’ll do this for free. He used to play the flute in the university of Michigan symphony and he’s still doing it. This is great stuff I said to Albert. He’s almost seventy and he’s still a music man. I’m thirty three. I’m more than half way there Albert.

Digital Blinks 2014 #What is seen is all right there

Sand on feet. Dirt on hands. The birds fly out to sea. The last of the young bugs have hatched and summer is at the eleventh hour. Listen and a new notebook is inked as the tides fall towards my blood drawn veins. 

Words on pages featured in pictures are taken from the book, The Original Adventures of A Dying Young Man, By Andrew H. Kuharevicz$9.99, Full Novel, 168 pages. Go HERE! to buy!

cover

Digital Blinks #Bug Tent Ranch

Summer Notes, August 10th, 2014…

I have a feeling that his first days at Walden were not as romantic as literary scholars would have us believe. I think Thoreau was doing what he did out of necessity…and then after the voices of society were dimmed…just a little more…that’s when he could think…that’s when he could write and reflect on the slow incoming tides that move as a mirror in the morning.   And I’m sure he had his fits of fear…anger and self doubt…as all would be revolutionaries do…but after his civil disobedience became just another campfire story…that’s when the real folklore of Henry David Thoreau became the sun of just another same ol day.

thiws

 

click HERE or on the below picture to be directed to where you can buy a copy. Thank you for reading. Peace.

Digital Blinks # The Allegro of The Summer of Chaos

if you want to buy a book of mine go here….

So I’m thinking that I’m going to write a short book about this summer, because that is what I do and it has been wild. And It is towards the end of the adventure (I think) and so to recap I’ve traveled around the country since the last week of April trying to work and just all around adventuring. Anyway so the lowest point of the relative narrative for me was when I was stranded in Boston (the last real conflict happened on Walden ST Cambridge when my friend walked away because he missed his girlfriend and left me stranded working for a moving company owned by somebody I met on craigslist) trying to get back to Michigan. As the story goes, I somehow did make it back to Michigan, but I don’t have a real home because I’m broke and so I’m camping and then well… this happened…

 Life is strange. full circle. I’m down at this campsite, and I’m smoking a smoke and talking to a kid named Dan (who picked a site right next to mine) who graduated with a mathematics degree and he just arrived from the other side of the lake. this is day 40 of his cross-country bike trip. he started in Seattle and is moving to Cambridge. he’s from Boston. Honestly I said, what are the chances. seriously life is cool. I gave him a book of mine, and so in a way I’m going back east. Gnarly seashell. organized chaos. I think that’s what existence is.

Digital Blinks #Summer of Chaos.

if you want to buy a book of mine go here….

Moving boxes and motels, a literary wandering. Lowell, Walden St, The Moon and Russians and trucks, the highway and all over the country, motorcycle rides and hundreds of miles walked, and looking for what, I don’t know, but I’m almost ready to write another book. The summer of chaos has been good for me. It’s not over and I could still falter but I don’t think so. anyway, just some random blinks. I wish I would have had a camera when I was making it back to Michigan from Boston, but oh well, that can be done better with words anyway. I’m on the streets and nobody gives a shit. Hopefully start a job in the next week or so, and until then I’ll be sleeping wherever I want. peace.

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Digital Blinks # How did I get here again?

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(I’ll write more about this, in a more literary style soon, but so, last year around this time I was just relaxing after fear and loathing in Chicago for a couple of days on the streets. And I remember two nights ago when I was in the pits of the T on the edge of Boston, I was like how the fuck did you get here man, what the fuck, why does life hate me so much and my eyes got kinda puffed up because it felt real lonely and real dirty and dismal, but well…when in rome and then later on I was running around with this Kid named jose from Puerto Rico in china town and I didn’t ask for him to follow me to Walgreens either, but whatever. Boston is cool. Maybe I’ll go back someday. Next time not on a literary adventure with the Russians. that would be nice. I didn’t sign up for any of this nonsense, but hey, space camp aint easy. (there are many more details of what I just did for the past 6 days, and I’ll write a book about it someday I think.

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Words From A New Short Story Collection #8

Cover for my super cool hardcover book with almost ten years of writing in it, reedited and contains artwork. From short lit fiction, to experimental spontaneous prose style, to science fiction and academic bewilderment, it’s all here, something for everybody. Was originally going to be 300 pages, but I can’t see people paying that much, so it will be broken down in two volumes. other one will be out next couple years. Some people know I’ve been working on this for about 2-3 now. so it isn’t like i just shit out books.Went for real simple design and as few wasted pages as possible. No introduction. just bam read the book. there’s a paper mountain ya dig. i need to sell 31 copies. that’s it. fingers crossed. out tomorrow.

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(D) (written five years ago)

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Dark shadows of knuckles cracked within soul of my cortex. Brain star left side now right lobe clicks inside of head and the heater rums and brings up warmth and down to the dusty concrete takes the night, as when you look in the sky you see the clouds and inspiration that awaits for the burning of the imagination to boil over with the point that is to be made. This is nothing but time and wood on feet which are blue with bleeding toe nails, which also sometimes get too-too-too long.

Lost track of something, maybe my mind, maybe the Ferris Wheel…the old metal circle in the playground…memory of when I was young and I spun so fast that I fell off and drug my brain on a screw. They said it’s coming from his brain. I said whats coming from my brain? my little friend rj said blood. Your brains are coming out of your head. So I started feeling around with my baseball chalk fingers, touching for my head and blood appeared on my hands where holes were poked by metal pokers. I looked at the green grass and the color of the rust that was on the fence, and the green-green grass, the green summer grass…

Freedom and berries that are from the south, and the south still is near the north star that rests behind your head. In your own head, not mine, in your head you can laugh about something, something is better than nothing. This is something that i don’t  always agree with. Do you? Do you what? Do you see space in the stars from where the sun explodes with grief? Good grief. That is all. That is all I can say. Good grief.

And down my face I saw red blood-water blood-reflection of the green grass dripping from my forehead, streaming into my eyes. It’s coming from his brain, his brain. It’s coming from his brain rj said. And it was. The blood was coming from my brain. At first I was dizzy from the merry-go-round-round-around. Being so stunned from the bloody drain of the screw I fell into while I spun in the air I thought I was on a carnival ferris-wheel during the night. I wasn’t dreaming. They put me on a stretcher and sent me in a rocket ship that really was a helicopter, and I was laughing and asking about the green grass and the kids were screaming and the parents were holding the children who were my friends, and they were worried about how long their brains would be safe, they were worried about the night dreams. And as my brain was bleeding out of my head, brain blood out a pin hole, a merry round screw hole, twisted and slit down the scalp in the back of my head, as I was laughing at the shapes of moon dusk clouds and the tinkling of the shaking of the propellers, up I went into the rocket ship and over the city I was taken to a launch pad, but we were returning, that is what the helmet and sunglasses told me. Asking for a sticker and if my brain bled out I was given a needle. That is what I remember…

The tracers in your eyes. They blur with the past, the past that is time delayed, the past that is sensitive to other thoughts, to your thoughts, to their thoughts, to everyone people folks and their thoughts, no thoughts, all thoughts, each and everyone. This is just a thought.

I stopped my yelling and talking about the green grass. They tied me down to a board, because I was saying some weird things. I asked about the rocket ship, and if we were on the space ship. They said yes were on the space ship. I was at the hospital. I saw a dead person. It was Jesus. He was laughing but also bleeding from the head. I asked for a sticker. Wondered if my brains bled out. I was given a needle and told to count. I got to three…

Around the corner there is a drug dealer. I don’t know his name. Maybe he is a doctor. Maybe he is a death dealer of the highest order of death dealers, who knows?

Night Dreams. Next day green grass. Next day surgery. Next day hands untied. Next day love. Next day cat scan. Next day tears. Next day wheel chair. Next day cold hallways. Next day jello. Every night black and white movies…

In the day you ask for something and mediate the picture screen images and wonder where the words will come from? There was this person that I met once, but I forgot all about who it was. They’re no-longer a memory. The clock is always a memory. The clock beats and spins and says hello, who are you? who are you? I don’t know I say. Who are you? Well I’m a clock? You’re a person, and this is the planet earth. Thanks clock. Thanks so much for filling me in to the what have you of the human people what have you.

Next day cartoons. Next day sticker. Next day needles. Next day chicken noodle soup. Next day grandmother. Next day beeps. Beeps. Beeps…

Next day baby tooth fall out. Next day cards and king lion and r2d2 and dog visit. Next day surgery. Next day hair starts to grow back. Next day pills. More cold hallways. beeps…

Next day fresh air. Next day green grass. Next day back on merry go around. Next day broken ankle playing basketball. That day and once again blood on green grass. That year, I was ten.

(E)

  FOUND OUT ABOUT HENRY MILLER AND MINGUS AND BIG SUR TOO (2012)

“I recall distinctly how I enjoyed my suffering. It was like taking a cub to bed with you. Once in a while he clawed you and then you really were frightened. Ordinarily you had no fear—you could always turn him loose, or chop his head off.”—Henry Miller 19442394

“Goin’ Freighting”

And that’s what those kids said, and so sure, maybe in San Francisco nothing will be discovered. Maybe it too has dried up. Maybe the paper is all digital bull and the cash cow is mooooooooving in. Maybe big brother and the spices of the far south have come home to roost, and maybe even in San Fran (and don’t call it that—don’t call it San Fran because the locals will say “what are you boy, some kind of square or retard or something? What are you boy…”—and trust me don’t ever call it San Fran in San Fran—because them those now folks there…well…they don’t like to be called San Fran)—but truthfully and honestly I don’t know anymore—maybe it’s true what they said, and maybe nothing left anywhere on the planet. And I don’t know how long it’s going to take but one day though, and maybe not soon, and maybe not later—I don’t know—but one day I’ll see it with my own eyes and not with only the stories as told by other writers and dreamers and travelers and long lost dead taps. And what will be found when I get there, and that is and truth be told, if I really do get there, because it’s going to be real hard trying to find the time to actually stop these panic attacks that are building up within me and the hell of a devil of a lord oh how the heart is beeping—it’s havin’ itself a good ol’ spasm of a time with its thumping and its pounding and its moaning—how the heart is just a’ trying to keep this old ship—this old kid’s body alive. But I could do it. I could let-go and give-in to love…that is…if you do too—but not now…no—and I know what I need—I just need to take it real easy-like—and I used to and somewhere I forgot how to, but if I remember correctly that when I just walk and smile and be me everything is cool—and man before those three kids well I’ll tell ya a’ story about how I once slowed down and found me some good music that even the beats and that poor bastard Kerouac—well even he loved that Mingus—that sax-a-phone a’ playing of a great young rebel. So it’s true that once in a while Darlin’, that some of them had it right all along, and nothing really matters and time it does…time it slows down, and right then and once again more people walk up into the attic and I’m slow right now but none of them have a clue what we’re about—no—they don’t care—they don’t care about love not-one-bit—no—at least not when it comes down to it really. They just want things. They want everything. They want all things. And I know this because sure as spit in the morning sink well around this house it never slows down and that panic for some reason is eating my soul. And I’m told to chill-out and shape-up and move-on-out to that good ol’ San Frannnnn Ciscooooooo—and further north you’ll find that Big Sur that Mr. Miller talked about before anyone really arrived on the scene yet. Big Sur is a place I’m 110 told where the writer can write in peace and dream on his back looking towards the stars, and below is the city where the poets transfer ideas to paper and as you scribble society claps and hushes itself down enough for your mind to think and that’s where you can slow down and be you. And that sounds great…real nice… doesn’t it?—yeah…it sure does. So the story goes it’s true brother man and young rebel child, that it’s time for you to chill your soul out, because in Big Sur everything goes the way it goes and nothing is ever questioned—form and syntax and let’s edit your shit down real nice and tight… ya’ dig? And I don’t know what anything is but they go and go and burn out real young. And so shall you go as they did before—and so let’s go with another rewrite and do this over and how long you been at it—and kid—it looks like you really did a number this time—you lost everything again kid—and why—but only so that you could write it down. And that’s real sad stuff kid. I’m sorry kid. I’m sorry you lost everything again kid. I’m a lost cause, and so that’s the story Darlin’, and for now the record scratches and shut your mouth Darlin! I told you that we have everything that the poet wants—and once again you made me miss it. Why do you ask such irrelevant questions—and those thoughts of….what and who and what and where—when—and how? Please just stop it please—just do what you do and stop crying Darlin’—because I told you already to stop it because these questions sink on’ up to the stars and I’m so slow right now—and sure…maybe I’ll go with those kids, and maybe I’ll go and I’ll pack-up ship once again, and just maybe it will be the same as the last time, and maybe I’ll go go go…and I’ll go because I know that something a rather has to be real close. It just has to be—NO! PLAY SOME MORE MUSIC NOW DARLIN’, AND STOP YOUR BITCHING. POVERTY IS ONLY IN YOUR MIND—and I’m sorry that you’re sensitive to me being a man, and I know that I get mad…I’m sorry…real sorry… and have I ever told you that sometimes I go out at night and watch the house under tree on curb…on other side…of street—and the time? Around 5:45 in the morning and sometimes 11:45 at night. These are the times when the train is a’ coming and when it’s a’ leaving. These are the hours of the day when the horn is a’ blowing and the people are for the most part either a’ boozing or a’ sleeping—these are the times when nobody even cares to pay attention to their surroundings—and it’s real easy to explain why I do this: I like to get another perspective on the way it is—see from the people over here’s perspective—and I like to see what they see, see what I could see, see into what I might not be…you know…and that is…if I was them…looking at me—and no…it’s not that strange…because it’s only a reflection. The other day I sat on the road and once again I did the same thing last night and everybody was inside the house and I watched the party. You were seen by my new eyes and Darlin’ you were dancing in the windows and Darlin’ you were looking fresh. The house was full and all our friends looked like beautiful fools and like strangers and everyone was so happy…and there… I sat…and I watched what I am, and yawl were so different and I was alone—I was watching my life without anybody even seeing me—I was just like a ghost with memories. Across the street I sat and smoked and watched, and I wasn’t dead yet, but to you I might as well have been—and I remember those were the good times—those were the days—those were the days and years full of those past things—those were the days now dead and those words and love-making times and body gestures and those were only a couple of years ago…and now I can only ask, how did I get here? And I don’t know and yeah kind of like that song by the Talking Heads—and sometimes I forget about good posture and sometimes I forget about good songs, but with enough time they both come back to me and maybe that’s why my neck hurts. And I feel my body and your body and maybe we’re all a bunch of forgotten ghosts and maybe there’s no time to think about this bullshit because it’s lovely and time sure as hell isn’t waiting for me. Nothing is ever going to change this time traveling paradigm and so once again I’ll be real easy-like and let’s just be here and be here right now and Darlin’ and my love, my lovely love, let’s just be here in-love within the winter and sleep in this soulless attic. It’s them again…

“Let’s smoke all of this” someone says and another person said they’re going to “roll a four paper joint” and back from Chicago and they take over the room saying they did some great cocaine and man everybody laughs and I’m not laughing and I get up and walk away and darlin’ you just stay there because you’re laughing and now I’m behind a mirror typing on a desk and my mind is focused and there are always so many people around and I’m mad and I still haven’t finished my drink and I bet the track is almost over and so what that someone may be judging me right now—and so what is right—because I don’t care. People are always asking me what I’m doing and I wish people would just leave me alone because I mean who the hell are they to despise this man…this heck of a man and a great man…that perhaps I am? Who are they and who are you and maybe this is just the tide of the past. Maybe my words follow the crest of the river sea and maybe my words have been consumed and turned into lakes of blood that break with sound that can only be made in the night…wait…I hear static and I can’t understand these sounds anymore. I feel young-er and unawar-er, even though I’m old-er and clos-er, to death—and everyone hates me—and so what that I don’t know what to do anymore? Their sounds scare me and I’m terrified and alone and I hear more feet and the wood bends and more static and made-up truths without proper information or the proper time given to understand the information. You can’t just read the book once. You have to read it five times in one year and the only thing it really is…is talk—and the talk is bullshit. The sounds deceive me, and these were the same sounds that used to make so much sense back then, and maybe the words and the lack of erase and delete and think for just one second and just write spontaneously and free, maybe my style and my discipline, maybe everything that is writing has taken it’s sweet time at killing me. The infestation is eating my brain and now the kids are talking about needle point prickers and the future of bullshit and I’m ripping up tarot cards in corner and man……..what the hell? And Seriously Henry Miller, what are you doing now? Are you out there? I want to tell you that you that handed down some wisdom and the sex and the booze and the tales and the travels and then those boys thought of you as their father and they traveled all over your America and they found something—and they found your novels that were in motel drawers that were years before traded-in for bibles, and in return the future of art was made, and I was made, and I was born, just as they were born. Thank you Henry Miller, because this is really the mutation of your art, this is really your America, and so back then finding your Tropic and your Cancer, your Black Spring and your Air Conditioned Nightmare—and when they found out they went and be-done and be-gone—and off they were as they went by boxcar boxcar boxcar—and these kids and these orphans of America ended up as West as you can go without swimming in the pacific, and some of them even ended up at the Golden Gate Bridge—some of your adopted children said it’s a wasteland and killed themselves because oh just so many reasons. And then some of these young people became old people and were ugly when they forgot and became the same material of things about order and anger and history, and I think it was only the thought of death which killed them but I don’t know because I’m not them, but empirically thinking it seems like they ended up falling in-love with defeat. and Henry Miller, I hope I don’t die like that… no… I won’t—and you wouldn’t die like that—you wouldn’t die happy—because you knew that the fight would never be over—but back then they lost their cool and the kids and the beat and the maggots forgot about what they never knew, and some of them were even cowards and they lacked the courage that life asks of the writer, and people tell me that you’re dramatic (me) and what the fuck does that even mean I ask them, and I ask them that because life is dramatic, and I always tell them all about everything, and everything is my retort to their lazy self-education, and maybe I shouldn’t use so many bad words but I get mad and people need to take life seriously and after all these are only bad words and not real bullets, and I think that this life is important ya dig? They always sing the same song, and just make yourself happy and be real and create above the future art and just please live because this is all you get and why be anything—and that’s what they found in your words Mr. Miller. They found a reason to live and then some traded your words after they traded old testaments for your words, and then some of them fell for Zen and then hated Zen and then some of them started universities after they dropped out of universities, and then some of them became judges after they were judged, and some of these writing sons and daughters of yours said they were going and they did go and then they did become men and women and owners of shops and then they forgot how it was a struggle and they didn’t bother to tell their children how they made it after they almost didn’t, and it’s just that some of these people never told us how hard it was. holy shit brother man this is some new kind of joy that they found—and that’s what they said—they made songs—crazy love like a Buddha squirrel on a warm winter day—and they did all of this after they found your words and went and traveled all the way from the Brooklyn Bridge and in the cold hell of the winter night they came from New York City and some of them left ma and pa alone in dead small towns and ran away from home to discover (as it turns out) that many of them only left old love in the dust only later to find out that the new love was only the memory of the old love which they ran away from in the first place. Life works like this I’m told. And I’m positive that they were in love with America because of you, and they ended up at a place that is in grave scientific danger of falling into the ocean—seriously Miller and I aint kidding when I say and type to you old dead man…that I’m told this could happen, and did you know that the end is near and that some bloody bad times could go down in an hour or two?—And it’s weird because the truth is very weird and I’ll tell you what’s going on…The last Governor of the State of California was an action figure (toy) that was called the terminator (a killer robot) and this isn’t no joke—this is real life and I’m serious Henry Miller that it’s a fact that he was a time traveling robot who really put the fear in my head when I was a kid, and so here’s a short story: So I woke-up in the backseat at a drive-in movie theater to the visuals of bloody cops and pumped shotguns while he was asking for a boy who would end the machine human war. The governor was shooting at kids and he only had half a human face because his skin was only a shell of a real human man. And I remember that I asked to go home and was told to go for a walk and so I did. Getting out of the old car I walked around a cemetery that was located next to the drive in, and it was a long walk and I looked at the monuments of the dead during the last week of August and the leaves were already brown and the earth smelled good. As the movie played I walked an entire double-feature and I wasn’t even ten —and my age didn’t really matter because I felt like I was eighty years old. And while I walked and looked at the sky the cemetery was the most peaceful place on the planet. I was so sick of the violence and that’s why I started reading and looking at words and thank you dead man because you always gave the reader a choice. You can turn to any page in any of your books and find something new—and if you don’t like sex or love or poverty or health you can turn another page and find something else about joy. And thank you Mr. Miller, because these are only ideas and the intelligence factory has toned down our souls and this is real life these days and people don’t have anything to live for other than the implosion of the picture. We have film-strips but nothing is moving and I don’t even know what they could be looking at anymore, and I’m sorry there aren’t many words left to make sense out of this letter but still like you said it’s lovely and not everyone is as happy as they show you they are, especially after they murder you in your sleep. The truth makes so much sense to you, but not to me. To me it’s all bullshit and static, but it is…right?—and Henry Miller so get this: my generation has been called the future for the dead and the internet is something we have and all these damn truths are understood by everyone but me—and who am I?—Can you please tell me that Henry Miller? There’s so much static and silence and since you asked…sure…I can tell you a bit about who I think I am—and so I’m a writer—or I used to be a writer—and I say that because honestly I don’t know what I am anymore. I have no money, no resources and unlike you I am not the happiest man alive—wait…Henry Miller, how did you find happiness? You were just joking weren’t you—and maybe you weren’t—or maybe you were happy in a different kind of way—but for some reason I can’t understand how any of this is possible, and I feel responsible for all of this and maybe that’s how you did it. You separated your role from the herd and maybe that’s what I have to do too—maybe I have to just take it easy…but that’s not easy…and my back hurts and my fingers hurt and I have arthritis and a young face. I have a college degree but nobody will give me a job. They want me to suffer. They think I’m an insane writer but I’m a nice man, or was, and maybe that’s my problem—maybe I need to not give a shit about the poor and the beat down and about the slaves of unity; maybe I need to just fuck and dabble with paint and yell and remember that you can always be reflective when you’re an old man… but a young man…no…there’s no time for any of that gibberjab. Maybe it’s true when I say that a young writer who’s also a man—maybe he has to be a brute. And a nice girl said to me last night that I’m much too grumpy for my age. I said I know when really I don’t know what she was talking about so I must be missing the point. I read everything you wrote, tens of thousands of pages, and right now I’m almost thirty-two years old and I’m more alone and terrified of living than I’ve ever been before. The thing is you never told me what to do, and if anybody really knew what I thought there would be some serious consequences. Henry Miller, so tell me why I should hang around with these kids and come see your refugee camp? Most of them are as ignorant as the shell of hard dog shit and not one of them is a real artist…an artist… whatever the fuck that even means. And art isn’t what I’m worried about—rather the concern I have is maybe they aren’t humans….robots…no…. zombies…that’s the biggest of gimmicks, and I know they’re alive and I know they exist, but what I’m saying is that I’m pretty sure they need to be educated and here is the problem: most of them think some form of the ‘concept’ is a truism and that something is factual when as it has turned out to be the case through some serious years of philosophical and sociological observation of these humans (outside of academia) that nothing is but what we decide for it to be the rule—and most of them are skimmers and butterfly catchers and they already think they think, which of course they don’t even know how to think, and I think Heidegger said something about that subject but let’s not get into that right now because I think I already talked about that in the very beginning of this book—and I’m real sorry to sound condescending but these kids who want me to go with them to see Big Sur are bad people and got my girlfriend into smack and now she’s a slut who hates me and last week I had to drag her out of the emergency room after they said nothing was wrong with her, and these kids said they were raised by bad people who think they have to do things and are a bunch of planners of the apocalypse of my death—and when I count on my left hand while still typing with my right hand I know maybe five to fifteen good people but they are so poor and don’t steal from their parents and these kids…no—it’s as if a god fucked a devil and shat-out the post punk soul of melancholy and I’m sorry to offend—I’m sure you could make me conform…that is…if you were nicer to me, but it’s frustrating to the point of the harmonics of a love affair I could see myself having with a shotgun to the head—and so am I mad? Yes. Am I real mad? Who cares, because my bullets are only these words and I know there’s no such thing as enlightenment for folks like these kids, because I’ve hung around with three generations of the counter-culture only to learn that I’m not even liberal. I’m flesh and bone and my heart is chaos. I’m nothing because there is only nothing but the users and the used and then there’s my atheism in not so much a lazy metaphysical realm but rather my unbelieving servitude to their lazy economy—it is simply insane—and so that’s why I ask you because in the end they said if it gets bad they will fly home and I can’t fly home, and I know when they grow up these kids will hate me and they will leave me to die because I’ve been left to die by them before—not exactly the same them—but people just like them. I know them already and they will try to kill me when it gets real bad—they just don’t know it yet. And I don’t know and none of this matters either way, because I’ll probably waste my time and I’ll go with them—and it is true that everything is in some sense a waste of time. It is also true that we’re all going to die someday so I guess you’re right that I might as well have a good time and maybe I’m just tired because writing makes you tired, and so I have no respect and no money, and I’ve had love…but love… leaves. This could go on forever, and it probably will. The truth is I rather have never met you, and I think my entire life would have been much different if I’d never had read a single book written by you, and I wish it would have went differently for me, but once you fall down this rabbit hole, well then you are what they call ‘fucked’—and that’s why I’ll go with them… because of you…and not because of them—and so can you tell me what’s even there? Is anything left? People are strange, and this is what my grandmother told me…and I agree because people are strange and people are mean and sometimes I get mean—and I started writing this letter to you about three weeks ago and I even typed it up on the old black Remington and so now I’m already packed and ready to freight. Yeah Henry I’m coming somehow and someway I’ll make it out there—but you never told me and will you please tell me what I’ll find when I get there. Will it be more death or more life? The truth is I’m older than you and I’m alive, and I get so tired but can’t ever fall asleep—and I’m slowing down and need a smoke and I constantly need a break and I wish I contained the energy that you had. And for some reason I can’t block-out other people and the sounds that they make anymore. I get real mad real easy and just stop and feel sad and you wrote some billion words of joy a day and your books were brilliant and then the Beatniks and then the French and some of us in this new generation have turned each page with such hope, as if a dream that said that being a writer was noble in a world run by fascists and money makers and people who yell at the worker for being tired—and you made me think that words were some kind of magic-trick…POOF… that you could control—and before that I was just like them—I was just a box-screen with nothing in it, and some of us read your books with so much admiration and it was almost as if you were a wizard man er’ something. And so Henry, you might wonder what I’m going on and on about—just spit it out already and just say what’s on your mind or stop with the babble. And what I’m talking about is truth and about happiness and confusion. I’m talking about smiling and wanting to write about beauty during a time when people buy real bullets to kill fake zombies. I’m writing to tell you grave people of America about a time when people are afraid of robots killing them from the air and a time when people are wasting time planning for the war that will never happen instead of planning for the future utopia that will conclude this war either way, and this long wind of prose is why I hereby declare social nonsense and the media and the public’s love of zombies is a sickness, and so to watermark my tongue with my soul of peace I’m making a new political party that has no name, and it’s because of this talk about nothing that comes from both the left and right—all of this is really only an evolution going backwards towards the lizards that will in….the end only end with the extinction of everything, and it’s fucked up to say that this movement has been paraded as the future of the future, and I don’t know what I’ll call it yet, but my new party will have a mascot, and the mascot will be a wolf with a bat sitting on the wolf’s head smiling as the wolf is standing on a mountain made out of paper—P.S: I’m not in Big Sur. I’m in Ann Arbor and I’m alone. Goodbye Forever. It was the last party before the end, and the book was from my Grandmother. It was called, ‘The Present Age’. Within its war-to-be specified pages it described the same problems that our culture forgets about today, and some call this modern angst and some say get over it and grow up. And that’s fine regarding what they say… but I say no. I reject this American notion of defeatism which is also the act of simply retreating into the fake theory of what’s been resurrected in madness and called the metaphysical. Somebody once told me that I have to change and grow and learn how see things from a different perspective, and I forgot who said that and why they said that, but yeah so I did that and decided to choose to fight for this reality, and so come-on…come-on people…this is life, and so come-on…come-on people…let’s not destroy everything. Oh shit—I hate this kid.

You’re back again?

Yeah. About fifteen minutes. Leaving for good. The house is yours. The city is going to kick you out soon. The cop told me to get out of town.

The girl here? Saw her car out front.

No. She’s in Washington. I took it back.

Shit. Girl still owes me about three hundo for… I know. It’s gone. You owe me money remember? Of course you don’t. Let’s say were even.

The way I see it I should…

What? Sorry about giving you a black eye, you caught me at a very low point and I was sick of your gibberish and telling everyone you’re a sociopath like that’s some badge of honor. Do you even know what things are? Never mind—I don’t want to hear it and this isn’t a conversation—we’re even and I don’t care—I’ll be gone and you’ll be gone and then you’ll be dead and then I’ll be dead. Chalk it on up and move on.

Whatever. So writer man…I thought you were going to kill yourself? Ha…

Fuck you. You know what that means right? Just go have a good time. Don’t talk to me ever again. Ok?

Wait man, all of it?

Seriously, I’m not kidding man…

Still the good old lunatic I see he said.

And I hate that kid but it doesn’t matter. The ship has sunk and nobody knows it yet. Everyone is drunk and everyone is in love. The basement is full of instruments and this is the last party. No Big Sur only going east in the same state, and after what happened the cop said:

“You’re smarter than that, punching a homeless kid. Said he wanted to press charges but he was high on so much junk and doesn’t have an address…so I’m not bringing you in. He said you opened his mail and I said I don’t care. But this is bad news and…”

And I totally agreed with the cop because he’s right. I have no business being here and that’s why this is the last party. I’m going with Ian to Ann Arbor but for now a guitar is played and there’s even the rusty ol’ Sax-a-phone sound but it’s still nice to hear if you use your imagination, and everything slows down and then it heats up again and like the engine that my father looked at after he spent all day working on and under the hood and without supper and grease burning on his hands and I tried to help…. I always tried to help…but man that glare and that angry look of destiny in his eyes when he fixed one of those old Fords or Hondas or whatever they were called was the look of a god…of a man…of a giant man who just destroyed everything and then put it back together again, and he did this just because he thought he knew what he was doing. That old man broke more cars than he fixed, but for some reason he acted like he conquered the world. I never understood that guy, and he was my father—and he was an asshole of an old man but he taught me a thing or two about getting mean, and he always told me to get out-of-the-way boy because I would only slow him down, and He always told me to remember that nothing stops and everything keeps going and as the hands of time wipe away all that you feel on that or this day—kid always remember that you haven’t done shit yet boy so just move and get out of my way, because you’ll only slow me down. I still get a kick out of what my roommate said…and here we go again and the same people who yell at cops always run to the cops, and that’s the same boy that just the other day said he wanted to kill him some cops. So after I made him bleed he couldn’t fight back so he ran to the cops that he said he wanted to kill. I never told on him because I know that nobody is going to do anything about nothing but get drunk and waste my time. Nobody is going to overthrow any system. Nobody wants to lose. The only thing that boy is going to do is slow me down—and so “Kill him some cops”—oh that would be the day. He’s no gangster…hardly even human—he’s just another child—another same as the old and a boy of the elite—another one of the educated who will get run-down and drug-down the social roads until he’s old and done with his studies abroad, and when the house fails and when the band fails and the painting is slop—and then like everyone else he’ll be no more. Kill him some cops, that boy—when it’s over for him he’ll be all dried-up pleading to the cops to save him. It’s true nonsense. That’s all it is, and all of them have such hop and fury and they all hold the dream together without knowing what anything is about.

What you need the kid asked me. You need something…

No.

You need something I know it. Your eyes are fixated on something he said.

And Laughing I said that I just need to write and stop listening to people like you.

Bullshit the kid said. You’re always talking about writing but I don’t know who the hell you are. You’re nobody. So what you need. I can get you anything.

I need a question

What.

Yeah

Ask me anything. I need a question.

What do you write about asshole?

I told him that I’ll write about anything that’s relevant. I’ll write about love and hate and about hippies and the rich—I’ll write about the grass that somehow makes it out alive from the top of the snow and I’ll write about hell or the destruction of heaven and about the young and the old and the tears from hipster girls and I knew it was going to happen—I knew that when the going got rough she was going to tell me that she doesn’t want to live in the ghetto no more—and now she wants to go home and so that’s where she went, and after a month and half after these assholes moved in I knew it was over—savages—and they killed my kitten and they said it just died. I was gone for the day. They said can we watch him. I said yes. It was my fault. And Kittens don’t just die and nobody ever asked me if I was ok when my kitten being dead—and I wasn’t cool with it and so that’s why I broke his face open. It wasn’t about money or the drugs that he said he was off of—it was about rage and it was about my dead kitten.

The very same questions almost fifty years later and the same words can no longer sing without a computer…

What’s going on?

What’s going on?

And I don’t know the cause of the disease and maybe I think the problem is that we’re all poor and dying. The buzzword is the name of what I studied long ago—and postmodern? Come on…really—this word is real but the thing is excuses are also real. This word is an introduction into the sociological imagination, and it’s a post stamp that sticks to my pale white-skin, and for so long I’ve said nothing to these people when I’ve been told them that I don’t know shit, and so “just listen Andrew because we know all about everything” and well that word postmodern—“it sounds like science-fiction and calm down son because I know you’re a shaman warrior but let’s look at the facts: We got nothing at all and I’m trying to see here-right-now—and so be-here-right-now and shut the hell up.”

This was the last night I would see the kids and the girl was already gone, and I said “enjoy the last party or go away and make some wisdom on a different porch because your words and your voice are bringing nothing to me about the truth of the times”

And “bad vibes man” I’m told I have, and I say “listen asshole, I think we need to look at these bad vibes that you say I’m sparking because maybe we need to operate on the organ of shit or go to war before we have another food stamp dance party…kapeesh?”

“Fuck you man” he said—and then I got drunk and happy and forgot about him, because well it was the last party and everything was gone and nobody listens and I got nothing and the city turned the electricity off again and the future and the theory of whatever is Postmodern—all of this is in the past and it is nothing but youthful bullshit and so just dance, please dance, because what’s the use and there wasn’t any use for my generation and I already knew that.

The meaningless of my existence was unbearable and I couldn’t take it so now I’m typing on a typewriter and she’s gone and the records are gone and the kitten is dead and the cops are waiting for something bad to happen and I’m here alone and typing with only candlelight while the savage young sit out there and I see their shadows which are waving flags and sticks and eating bark and Mingus is dead and Henry Miller is dead and my books have been sold for pennies and they don’t care that I’m alone because the shadows are singing and ranting and praying and dying and they are out there playing drums in the snow and searching and they are in love with being crazy and they are burning the liver—and what’s going on—what’s going on—nothing—the human eyes do not exist. These are the days that will never be defined in history books, and that’s why I’ve written them all down, only to remember that this isn’t what I thought the future was going to be like when I was a kid.

There aren’t any flying cars or interstellar starships—nothing is moving at the speed of light other than my brain that fires words to hands reaching into the external world where there’s an unprecedented response of two rolling eyes plotting within an under-appreciated reservoir of a mind that’s powered by celestial waves in-which keep this human body writing even though the writer boy-now-man is lost within the aftermath of a great recession and is now leaving what nobody wants to admit is the fallout of a university wasteland. And this is the future, please remain seated. And this is the future, it isn’t going so great. 

 QUICK ENDING TO LOVE 

I stand in the pit of the city down the street from medical mile. The winter has come back after five years and people are pissed—they have been born from fear and now they are bored of being terrified.

I’m standing as I smoke outside, and I’m reading a poem about the last gangster alive written by a poet named Gregory Corsso. He said something along the lines that the guns have frozen to bodies and that the old bullets are no good no more. It hurts turning the page but the page warms my brain, and I am alone, that is for sure, and since I’ve been in this skipping stone of a city I’ve been alone, but at the same time I’ve been surrounded by old spirits and pictures hanging on walls. One time not long ago I even got arrested for standing while smoking too close to a building and I’ve been hit by hands and been given a bloody nose. I’ve shoveled the snow and plowed the snow and I’ve changed brakes and brought water to the sick. I’ve worked as workers do and taken pictures of street signs that go north and south and everywhere that only bring the young writer back to home. But now, home is gone, and it’s never enough to make the terrified happy. It’s just been a real cold winter. I’ve read and written words and fallen out of love in less time than ever before, and people turn into stone in the winter, but they catch the bug at the end of summer, and expectations lead to war, and sometimes love ends with an unknown man’s gravestone.

I’m standing outside in the three degree weather, and a dog starts barking at me, and it’s the same dog, it’s an old dog, and the dog is with his old masters—the dog is old and is barking with his rugged old dog bark. There’s no bite and we know the truth: the days are numbered for people who don’t say hello when their dog on a leash is barking at the man who they met back in the month of July, and back then when the pit was a swamp and when the doors were open and when the sex was heard, and back then when the love was the future and when the street signs still led home to the lake. Back then things were good and I stand outside smoking and reading a poem and the dog still barks and strangely enough it’s wagging its tail. At first when I heard the dog bark I was pissed because the dog always barks at me and I say hello and I say nice dog to both the master and the owner and every day when they sneak out to look out into the woods to watch the squirrels run after each other—jumping from branch to branch as people talk about coyotes that nobody has ever seen—as hobos walk down the trains tracks that lead to and away and from the county prison—as the cardinals and the monk birds and a cat named Mark Twain come up from the pit and eat some crumbs and then slowly go back to the small forest woods that is an island for the small goodness—and the birds and the cats and the rodents and the shadows are all sitting on trees and bushes looking at this apartment complex down in the pit of medical mile, and they watch this place but they don’t envy what we have and that’s fine, because we have bigger brains and have evolved to care for them even if they don’t care the same way about us, because their littler than us. And I stand here and there’s a dog bark and the weather froze my toes, and I was standing outside smoking and I turned the page, and I was angry and then I faced the direction of the wind chill and I was standing there with the dog and the old man, and at first I was shaking my head but it was time to let go and so I smiled at the dog, and I smiled because I’m a nice person. And I’m sorry I said to the dog and the owner looked at the ground…

Nice dog I said and the owner growled.

You’re a very good dog I said and the dog barked and the birds chirped.

He’s old the owner said.

No need to be sorry. I know I said.

And I’m not sure if he knew what I was talking about or not, and that doesn’t really matter—but standing outside smoking a smoke in the cold winter weather I said enough is enough you’re too good for this fight, they don’t even care about you anyway. Walk away and hit the road, you’re too old for this nonsense.

He lived in the Black Forest Mountains, and I don’t know why I’m reminded of this obscure story right now, and it doesn’t really matter because everything is such a brilliant waste of time, and it’s very cold outside and the apartment is so hot because I don’t control the heat. I’m writing in swimming trunks without a shirt on and my beard is itchy—and I was going to shave today and slowly pack up because I’ll be moving soon, and that was the plan, but like usual the hours go away like an unverifiable rate of exchange for the dollar bill, and it’s just when you wake up it takes two hours to forget about the pain. And don’t ask me but I’m thinking about something, and the sun sets and the yellow wood garages and the white snow becomes the new color of the red roofs, and as the green walls change colors and as the houses across the street turn on lamps by the condemned school that still needs to be powered because the pipes can’t freeze, and as the sun sets the mouse with the broken foot that was in my house last night and no…I didn’t kill it…because I didn’t want to hear the sound of a living creatures bones being crushed, and when I woke up and smoked a cigarette I felt bad because the mouse forgot that it was cold and got out the door and froze to death in the driveway…poor thing.

As I think about how everything has slowly fell apart since December, and about all of the blown motors and the last breath of a few engines and a couple of loving relationships, and as I think about the night when I was stranded in the vortex of a science fiction meteorologist’s vision of the future, and back then I was walking over mediums and twisting ankles and grating ovals of flesh and bleeding my knuckles while falling over turtle fences and small rivers of snow that divided highways and townships—and it’s just that there was too much darkness and I was “done for” and so I’m “going this way” I said—and trying to survive I walked into a brand new neighborhood with brand new houses and all of the lights were on. It was minus five degrees out and I felt old and I didn’t think I was going to make it, and so that’s why I said, “Hello… is anybody here…help…anyone…please…”

There wasn’t much time to think and it was a strange moment of isolation, and even though I was embarrassed to be here I yelled as loud as I could…but no…and within five seconds I gave up because there was no way for anybody to hear my voice, because as I looked up and blocked out the sharp snowflakes with my fingers dripping with blood and ice, that’s when I looked for rescue, but I knew there wasn’t any rescue or help, not in this kind of place, and I knew that because I stood there looking and reflecting in brand new glass windows while watching spirals of smoke and steam rise out of brand new brick fireplaces—it just didn’t take long for me to realize that I was alone. And I was panicking because I was learning what it felt like to die. I just stood there under spotlights and I laughed to keep warm, and that’s when I read a sign that said, Country Time Condominiums Opening Soon.

For some reason this really happened, and it felt like a terrible sick dream because nobody was there. I was in an empty neighborhood of a new sub-division where nobody had moved in yet, but I couldn’t think long about this so I walked fifteen more miles down a country road while the Passat was buried by the present—and singing a song of anarchy I ran as I heard the sound of the zippers on boots crumbling like dead leaves, and as I think about the trees and the ninety feet of snow that I’ve shoveled and that at night becomes a romanticized feeling as if you’re walking in the trenches of war, and as I look at the nine to five commuters going home as I’m typing more minutes while looking out the window that’s blurry because my reading glasses are all fogged up, and as this day freezes over and is forgotten just like all the days before, I don’t know why but for some reason I’m reminded about this specific story of that old dead philosopher, and how he was once laughed at for saying that art was the only way to search for the true essence of a being in time.

It is a new day, a great day, and now it’s time to move on. And what I know about reality is that modern public transportation in America is a hoax, and so what being back in the real world means, is that I’m done with theoretical philosophy—and who am I kidding—I aint no philosopher—I’m a damn writer. And after being stuck for three days next to cots and yelling high school dropouts and running into ex-girlfriends who finally respect me after they were backslapped one-too-many times by reality, and after the yeast smells of the pipes down by the terminal where me and yawl waited in the vortex trying to buy some instant karma by doing our best not to fight one another out of boredom, and even after the scent went away in the mouth and after we waited next to the liberals and the conservatives who were yelling and arresting the taxpaying smokers and even the poor who thought maybe going to jail sounded warmer than here, and as a cowards hid in condos and took the day off, and as the pipes were breaking inside of the neo-rich kid’s breweries and after reading books and waiting and eating cheese crackers for dinner and shoveling city streets for fifteen dollars, and after I handed the leadership duties back to the scarecrows with suits and nice cars, and after I said “you got the jobs pal and so next time grow some courage and do something cause it’s just a farmer’s winter”, and after I was digging people’s tires out-of-holes with kitty litter as they sat in heat and rotated wheels grinding on ice while I was scooping snow out with bare hands that were pushing real hard and red, and as the young police cars just drove by, and after I was all done feeling the worst kind of pain as my hands thawed in real time and I was screaming in head to just “Leave me alone to suffer please”—but face-to-face with brothers and sisters I was looking happy and such, because during war it helps if you smile. After the snow and after the song ended, and after the screaming that hid in the corners near bus bathrooms, it’s just, that I realized that I really need to get done with this body of work and then move onto everything else.

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Old Writing Again #6: The Black Box (2013)

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As I finish this letter, and then hopefully some new form of humanity comes across it in the years to come, right now I want to tell you shortly what happened.

I don’t know why I’m writing this.

I don’t know what happened because it just happened.

The end of the modern world happened almost a month ago and in the next week I will be dead.

Everything happened at the same time.

Every bad thing you could think of happening occurred.

They’re all gone.

I’m the only person alive on this side of the country…

A country that used to be the United States of America.

The world is over, the government is gone, you can’t even see the sun during the day time and right now it should be the summer, it should be august, but we have destroyed everything and now THEY are on the way.

They must have waited for this terrible moment since the beginning of time. They must have known that this day was coming long before we even went through the different stages of development. They must have waited through the world wars and with every New Year’s celebration they must have known this day would soon be here.

For generations they must have prepared and unlike many believe that there was a conspiracy with the governments of the world, there was no conspiracy, and there was no announcement. They did nothing. They just waited. And now it’s all over.

I haven’t seen them yet. They pass through the other side of the clouds. They come out in the day and night. There are no screams. I have no clue what they are. All I know is that I’m the only one left for hundreds of miles and that the roads have been destroyed. Everything has been destroyed. And yet, I have no clue Who They are.

I don’t leave this room. I don’t really even know what is out there anymore. I’m terrified for what’s out there and when I came in here everything was on fire.

Everything was burning and the towns and the cities and farmlands were burning. Every bomb we ever made must have exploded at the same time. I was on the bus. I was on my way home.

For years I was traveling around the country and meeting people. I didn’t really have a plan; it seemed that nobody had a plan. I studied philosophy and called myself a Socratic American. I just walked around and learned from people. But then people stopped learning. Then technology kept people close but their minds began to drift. Everyone knew something was going on but nobody had a clue what that something was. But I kept walking around and not doing really, anything, and then everything dried up at the same time. Another great depression, only this time it was global and from what it seems now, what was occurring on earth, everything was universal. I don’t know. This sounds crazy. I’m talking to myself. I’ve been in here weeks now. I ate the rest of my rations and soon I will starve to death. It hurts. Everything hurts. There is no more future. Everyone is gone but still I write this letter and place it in this black box for those of my species who will come across it someday. I don’t know if anything will be left. I don’t know if there are any humans out there that are doing the same thing but I want to tell you that most of us were good people. We were advanced. We had dreams of the future and most of us hated the bombs and the wars; the Great War, that happened one day, it wasn’t of most of our doing because it just happened for us. We had no choice. Everything happened.

There aren’t birds and there’s no chirping…

There is nothing.

There are no sounds of cars.

There are no lights and phones.

There are no busy streets.

There aren’t cameras or screens or music being played.

There is no birth in my country, my land, my time, my world.

It is all over.

It is gone.

I don’t know if I can smile any more. It happened fast and I think about my family and then I can smile again but still it’s all over, everything is gone, and it happened so fast. It was summer, just another summer; I was on the bus going home from the other side of the country. One minute everything was quiet and the next second people were screaming, people were leaning up to the window, people were trying to get reception on their phones, and people were just trying to figure out what was going on. They were trying to come to terms with what they were seeing out of their windows, but it was real, and what they saw was really happening so then some people passed out and some people just started crying.  People kept saying look-look and what is that what is that, what is going on, can this really be happening. And it was happening. The day that they have been talking about for years. The final act of our modern times. The end of the world was here. And it was happening right out of the window in front of us. And like them I looked too, and like them, I too shook my head.

The bus stopped and the driver said everyone be calm and just relax I’ll try to see what’s going on but then another explosion happened right in front of us, miles, maybe hundreds of miles away, but it lit up the sky like nothing I’ve ever seen before. I wondered what I was seeing. I wondered if I was dreaming. But it was real. Those were what I thought they were, and this wasn’t a movie, this was the end of the world.

Nobody was talking on the bus. Everyone was just looking out of the window all around us. A baby started crying, I thought maybe the last baby in the entire world, and the mother hushed it down as we all kept breathing and looking out the window. We were on a bridge, I’m not sure where we were but somewhere in Arkansas I think. We were on some suspension bridge with about a dozen other cars. Some of the drivers of the cars got out of their cars and looked at the same thing that we were seeing. They stood like statues, amazed at the mushroom clouds that were all around us. Everywhere the light from the bombs covered the land. Before it was day, and when the bombs went off everything got dark. Even though everything was on fire and as bright as the sun, it was still dark, like hell is supposed to be, I suppose, and I don’t know how to explain everything that happened. I’m just one man. Even the baby is dead; I’m the only one that survived and was aboard the bridge, aboard that bus.

I think we did it. We did it all. Humanity did it. They had no hands in the destruction of the modern world; they just feasted off of the remains.

And I hope someone is out there, I hope in the future another human being will come across this black box. I hope you will see that we were good people, that we tried to live. I want you to know that we are sorry, that I am sorry, I want you to know that most of us had no role in the destruction.

Now it’s all gone for me. I don’t know what’s out there right now but I’m locked in this room in the middle of the earth. It’s some kind of fallout shelter on a government base. I’ve been down here for weeks. Trying to piece together what was going on out there. Trying to figure out who they are and what they want. But they don’t want anything. So bit by bit I have come to learn that they are just the flies that have come out after the storm has passed, and they arrived after the human species acted like children and something happened. I don’t know the events exactly. I don’t know who shot first. I don’t know what country the bomb first was ignited. I don’t know who the enemy is and who the victims are. All I know is the year is 2069, the month of august. I was on my way home. My sister was having her first child and she wanted me to be present. That’s all I know. I was on my way home, now it’s gone, now they’re all dead. Now my sister and family are dead. They’re all dead. All of them. Nothing is left. I heard it end from the satellite receiver. The end was a radio show. The bridge never even moved. I never heard a thing. I was sleeping and then I heard people screaming and shouting; words saying what is that oh my, oh my, god. Then it was real; words saying such innocent words that you’d use when you see something that your mind can’t comprehend.

Both the streets leading onto the bridge were gone. They were destroyed as trees were on fire and tipping over. I wasn’t sure what was going on. I looked up and took off my head phones and only saw the bombs reaching up far above the clouds in the sky. I heard car alarms honking and a car was half way on the bridge and half way off. More explosions went off and this time they weren’t from nuclear bombs but from fighter jets that were overhead. They were dropping bombs in every direction. People were looking up. People on the bridge who were in cars stopped honking when they saw what was going on. Nothing made sense. Who was in charge? This was America. This was the summer. This wasn’t a dream. Nobody knew what it was and so I stood up and calmed this old woman down and looked out her window to get a better look. Most of the people were holding each other and praying and saying were all going to die. I said nothing, I didn’t know what to do, and I didn’t know anything so I didn’t say anything.

None of us were prepared for war. We were Americans. We were used to watching the war outside in other countries and sending our military to the Middle East.

We were used to televised dying soldiers and televised military funerals, and in the decades since the new millennium you only watch about the ongoing war like it was some kind of sporting event, and you were used to it. Over time you got used to war and as if a boxing match, you thought about who would be the next to get in the ring. In school you read about war like some kind of morality play, like the war was your cultural awareness. You didn’t really know who was dying but you knew people were dying and you just got used to the fact that war was as common as the snow or the heat or the news that some new invention was just around the corner.

Things were getting bad. War was normal for us. War was as normal as life and birth and shooting stars. We never thought it could happen and we read about all these impending end game scenarios that we were replaying out on the world stage, on the web and in the skate rinks, and war was a form of entertainment for us. But it happened over there. Sure it made us sad but none of us had any choice. The government was in complete isolation. We fought with robots and airplanes that could approach the speed of light and bomb anyone anywhere in fractions of seconds. We fought with atoms and particles that could form and sail through air and materialize in two places at the same time, we could kill anyone anywhere, and we thought that we were the most advanced military might in the world. Our country was the most prosperous it had been in almost one hundred and fifty years. The United States was now all of North America. Everyone was happy and could travel wherever on this continent. You could go to Mexico or Canada, just like you could travel from California and Michigan. We were all mobile, and traveling was cheap and the high speed rail connected everyone and they could travel everywhere; it would only take a few hours to travel from east to west, and these were good days. People were smiling and shaking hands and loving each other, and we thought we had a grasp on just how bad it was over there, how sad and poor they were. We then pulled away from them. We stopped watching the war, and this is when we left them alone. But the war over there never stopped. The robots still killed whenever our leaders wanted. But over here on this side of the planet it was Utopian-like, and so we decided to integrate this side of the world and it seemed to be working. More innovations made us smarter and then we built all new roads and a whole new transcontinental highway system and we were on the verge of sending star ships to the outer reaches of our star system. We colonized the moon, we dismantled more bombs and we turned a blind eye to what was happening in Africa and Asia. We built walls in Central America and set up robotic counter systems on our North American border. We sent aid to these countries in form of monetary forms, even though we knew the world did not need money anymore, because money for the rest of the world was a thing of the past. But we still used money in the United States and soon the colony of the moon was to be part of our country. The fifty sixth state, and while the rest of the world was in conflict we caged ourselves. Before the end, we were a calm and peaceful civilization. But we were also, blind.