Foreign Globester * ACT I

By rondobrothers



you gotta understand this: we all need each other. this is one world man. we all gotta live on it. everywhere i go see people - too many people - and they're just crowded, and sick and they need each other.

twitter from mc lars: all these shootings just go to show how this country treats the 2nd amendment like a diseased appendix

man you are right about that Lars. that is one smart cat, that guy. he's gonna rap for a while and then go back and be president of stanford or some shit. just watch and see. he's gonna take over for clint eastwood that guy.

you know we need each other's thoughts too. that's where i don't trust this twitter shit. yeah i gotta do it, i know that. but you know it's not the thoughts, it's just the summation of the thoughts. it's the summary. we need to know each other's thoughts too, the deeper levels of it. that's what they want us to do, boil everything down and keep boiling it down. simplify everything. that's how we stay distracted. just watch. just fuckin watch.

yeah we made an album. i don't really give a shit about the album. each song is special to me. it's songs. there's no album. we tracked that shit all over the world, and i made love to every song. even the ones i'm not on. I was there.

that's not what i do though, i don't rap. that's just me expressing myself. i got other way more important stuff to do. i gotta keep up on all these fools out there trying to mess with stuff, you know what i mean? i got heads to crack. i've been to every country man, and i'm not lying about that. it's just what happens. i'm responsible. I'm the closest thing to jesus this world's got, and that's not ego talkin man. that's saying i've touched alot of hearts and looked in alot of eyes, i know mankind.

mankind is just blippin away on this thing. you get a sense for it when you been in orbit. you orbit around a couple times on a shortcut, you see how it really is. we're just having a quick looksee, you know what I mean? all you people putting yourselves up on computer screens and runnin around workin away. we're a big old ant colony. that's it. stop thinking it's much different. it''s just not.

i wear wings when i fly. i fly when i have the time. i don't drink and fly. i don't even drink water. the lighter the better.

dont' worry, it won't all be so serious. i'm gonna have some stories to tell.


yeah it's the little things that really get you. the way she smells when she walks past. the way her hair flows around her neck and the dress flows around the body. it's these things you notice and you take a deep breath and you feel your biology, boiling in your blood, washing away your thoughts. you realize there's some things you just can't take a picture of. and you wouldn't want to.

so i get to hollywood one night on business. and where i'm staying, you know my spot down there, well there's a big party next door. and we head over for a second because we hear they might have some good wine and there seem to be tall, tan girls walking around. so it turns out its a grip of australians with surfboards, hard drinkers, travelers, been up for 24 hours already. powder all over the table. i don't roll like that, and you know when you've been up for 24 hrs you're no longer in a reasonable state. and at that point it's either join em or take off.

so i choose the latter and i find the old Gibson guitar and stretch out to play some blues there on my couch.

and i'm playing my blues, you know the old humbucker is just sizzlin and poppin like bacon on that thing, and pedro's got this tube amp he keeps plugged in all the time.

next thing i know the cognac's taken effect and my blues is sleepy, slowing down, putting me out. i'm an acid, i'm on mushrooms, the blues is like syrup shot into my veins. and i'm out.

when i wake up, pedro's already cooking coffee, people are talking. the australians are still up and at it - i guess they're just hardwired for hard parties.

and you know i have a event that night. a big one. i'l be filling in for Tony Clifton at the House of Blues. Because nobody really knows who the real Tony Clifton is. Neal Hamburger either. I'm both of them - sometimes. But you didn't read it here.

It doesn't matter, but what does matter is this. She smells so good, she looks so good, people are talking about what i'm up to, and she walks by me half-asleep and all i see is the back of her dress and she says "hollywood loves you"

and i know at that moment, i'm home and i'm alive. you got it, i want it. I got it, i flaunt it.


My feelings: a voice comes
through the telephone and I am
instantly transported. I am in a
small cafe in Paris, in Vienna, I
am looking at a woman and a girl.
I am suddenly simultaneously
happy and sad. I am looking
into the eyes of beauty.
I am looking at a painting
that is a brilliant synthesis
of my feelings--She is the painting and the brush.

I am feeding my ego.

I have a smirk on my face and I am faced with

In a book you can say whatever you want. You can say whatever the fuck you want.

This girl: who is she?
why is she talking to me?
Doesn't she have anything better to do?
Perhaps a delicious trip to an old bed & breakfast on the east coast.



I should probably develop a plot for myself, and call these first few page or so an introduction, a preface to a greater work, in which many aspects of my bland personality are made evident--thus allowing a deep look into my own mind before I actually tell a story. I am also going to begin to construct the paragraphs more efficiently, and indent new lines, except for quotations, and meanwhile I will be fiddling with the style, and hopefully I can find a means of conveying thoughts (which is very important to me but impossibly frustrating to write) and internal analysis while maintaining any sort of interesting tale. This is my task.


I worked into the early hours this morning, and did not actually fall asleep 1until somewhere around three-thirty. I awoke at seven to the alarm-clock sound of the phone, and heard the voice of my beloved from a phone booth in Paris, amidst the horns and footsteps of a city and people completely different than myself. In the act of receiving the phone call I discovered something about myself, another fragment of evidence to prove my theory that my personality and mind are horrifyingly bland and without true form. When I first listened to her voice, and my mind slowly evolved from its sleepy haze, I felt as if she had something to tell me of drastic importance. She insisted that I find a piece of paper and write down this tremendous association of numbers, which would then lead me back to the sound of her voice, at her expense, once she was safely back in her little apartment. I followed instructions, but the number I called was promptly received as wrong, and so I dozed and waited for her to call back, which I felt was inevitable. While I dozed I came upon my new discovery: that is, when I hear bad news, or good news, or any news that should prompt a reaction, I do not ever respond in a manner of my own. Rather, I file through the list of people I have known, and think about their reactions, and finally decide on one that I think is suitable for the person to whom I am responding. So, before I actually heard the reason for her calling, I decided to pretend that she was calling to let me know that she had decided to marry Pascal (her sleazy French lover), and some of the reactions I imagined were as follows: my good friend Nate, who would enthusiastically say "Hey, that's great! That's amazing! Congratulations! When's the wedding? Blah blah blah...!"
Then there would be my old friend Terry, who would quietly whisper "Wow." He would pause a second, then again: "Wow." There is also my comrade and live-in Christopher, who would say: "Really...Geez. That seems like a pretty big step. Just yesterday you were like me and everyone else, and now you're getting married. Man."
The list goes on. By the time I actually received the follow-up phone call I had imagined all sorts of reactions (none of them my own) and was only too pleased to discover that she had called only to hear the sound of my voice, nothing more, and to say that she loved me. Perhaps this is part of providence guiding me anyhow, as I have often felt under the wing of an angel.
Ah, reader, you are thus blessed with the tormented images of a person without spirit or form, an amorphous being, a creature whose existence matches only that of a phantasm or other such non-existential source of energy. The endless journeys on which we can depart together will become powerful bits of inspiration, I believe, for myself, because there is an end to these means; perhaps a personality, a sovereign mind and state thereof, will glean through the opaqueness of this soul. Today I recalled a little piece of magic: A few years ago, I was sitting listlessly in one of my classes at the University...I remember that there were quite a few members of our illustrious Greek society (of which I was once a part, but that is another story) present, so to pass the time (listening to the professor was an inadequate means towards that particular end), I was thinking up all the terms I knew that were Greek or of Greek origin: logos, theotokos, Thrace, Macedonia, akropolis, Zeus, baklava....such things are amusing to someone like me. Easily entertained.
The magic that ensued involved an illusion. I was content with my eyes focused on the professor's round red Santa Claus nose, stocky frame, white hair, and easy demeanor, when I began to see arising beside him a thin wisp of smoke, which I immediately associated with the rising spirit of some long dead person, buried, perhaps, underneath the very floorboards of the University Architectural school. I looked intently at what I thought I saw but it would rapidly disappear. What tricks the mind can play! Or perhaps I did catch just a small tidbit of the supernatural, a phenomena that would otherwise be immediately dismissed as some illusory demon in the retina. In any case, I must admit that I was rather shocked, and spent a good deal of the remaining time straining my eyes towards the ceiling and other parts of the room, in search of any further occurrence. Where are those parapsychology experts when you need them? But that is a tale from a time long gone, and really has no application here.
So to further lengthen the introduction to this quest, I suppose I should begin to elaborate on descriptions of myself, who I am, how I see myself, how I consider my place as a human on this crazy world of ours that has somehow been called Earth. I have often meant to search the history of that word, I have a distant memory of being in second grade (I was only seven, if you don't mind) and asking that very question of my teacher, and being told that the word had been around since Adam, and had no origin. I should like to know the person who was allowed or happened upon the task of naming the home to an entire ecological system, in planetary form.
I am also a hypocrite, and something of a liar. It is likely that I will tell stories with little to no truth involved(if I can conjure up the imagination to think them up), and in any case the stories I do tell will only be vaguely based on reality, which I have found can be extremely boring. And this leads me to a further point: as a good friend of mine once said, as I exited a social gathering that was otherwise very entertaining, I am generally bored by everything, surprised by very little, and very rarely do I experience ecstasy or joy so wonderful that it encompasses me and inspires me. So you can see that as writer I am left to do my best with a cynical edge, strong grammatical and spelling skills, and a musician's ear. If it is possible to tell a story with these skills, then I will give my best attempt, and if not, well, then I will simply stick with getting on the mike for a living.


I suppose it is time I gave a name for myself. It would be ludicrous, of course, to use my real name, for that would probably lead me to use other people's real names, and that would be traveling all too close to truth, and for my purposes here (strictly fictional) truth is what I must consider an unnecessary evil, to be avoided at all costs. So I will have to choose a name. I will admit that I am rather bad at this...I am tempted to think up all sorts of meaningful cognomens that are both allusory and illusory--I think it would be best, actually, to have a name that means absolutely nothing, a name typical of this small American town in which I am sometimes living, a name reflecting nothing. I will allow time to assist me, and offer my name when it has come to me.
Sometimes I feel like a pitiful invalid, hopelessly confined to my bed, my apartment, and the small amounts of personal belongings that surround me. I have taken a room for the last several months in a house, that is otherwise occupied by students and artist types, and my room is tiny and box-like, and, if you can imagine, it is on the outside of the building. I reside in an annex. The room is merely tacked on to the outside of the house, and so my main wall is actually the cold brick of the outer shell of the house, painted dirty white, to match the dirty white of the plaster-covered weak walls that constitute the other three rooms. if I sit and gaze long enough at the wall, I can create the mirage that there are no surrounding walls, and I simply sitting at a desk that is pushed up next to a house, out in the open. That's how I feel. I should add that the room is not well insulated at all, and not at all heated. I thought that by living in the lower eastern portion of this god-forsaken country, I may avoid really cold weather, but I was very wrong indeed. It can be very cold here, as it is right now, and if I touch my hand to the windows, I touch the frost that has accumulated on the inside.
There is then a door in my room, that leads directly into the house, I reckon that when the addition was built, a very noisy bit of damage was done in order to create a doorway. The door leads into the kitchen, which is tiny, and joined with the main room, which is also tiny, and just enough room to have a small table. There is heat in these parts of the apartment, and you may ask why i sit in this small room on the outside of the house with the door shut, while I could just easily be sitting ten feet from here in perfect comfort, and probably even sleeping in the heated room, without having to subject myself to the radiation of an electric blanket (they are said to cause leukemia in white laboratory rats), and I guess my only response is that I am glutton for punishment, or stupid, or both. In any case, I don't see how I deserve anything more than your average white laboratory rat.
I mentioned earlier that I don't have many possessions. This is very true. I feel that possessions are the downfall of a man. I feel that for every possession you gain, you lose a small piece of your soul. I think that possessions are a worthless part of human existence, important only to those who are unable to achieve inner peace and contentment. Even possessions that someone works very hard for fall in this category. They are also extremely limiting. The more possessions you gain, the more objects that require care and transport, the more difficult it is to remain mobile. I am satisfied with my existence as always ready and able to pick up and go immediately, if I desire.
I stole a pen today. There is a store that I occasionally visit, a copying center, where I have copies of music and certain bits of literature made. I find the service often unfriendly and slow, and I once had an extremely important document copied, and they managed to lose the original copy, and also lose a page of the original, leaving me with a poorly bound copy of the original without the fourth page. Therefore, as my own revenge for their consistently failing performance, I steal a pen of my choosing (they have a rather good selection) every time I go in. Today I took an expensive pen that I will probably never use, a fountain pen (with its own ink, not one that requires an actual fountain of ink), and because fountain pens are difficult to master and my handwriting is poor enough to begin with, I will probably throw it away or break it in frustration, at some future date. But that is fine, because it was stolen. Stealing is so easy. I should make it a habit to steal more often.
I should probably come clean about something.
I have a very narcissistic, cynical, dark sort of conscience. I hate alot of people. I have considered in my mind some of the most vile, disgusting atrocities on people and life in general. I have wished death on people. I have broken and destroyed things important to me in fits of pure rage and hatred. Forgive me for contradicting my earlier statement about the plot of this literature involving some happy quest towards a personality. I probably have a very specific personality, except my conscience and subconscious are always working in such contradiction with each other that i have lost myself in my thoughts and images, my memories have become jumbled, and I find myself sitting alone and staring, wondering who I am and how I have managed to become the person that I am. How I have ended up in the position that I have. I consider memories from earlier childhood, and teenage years, and I remember how so together and aware I used to feel. It's amazing.
I am going to leave the storytelling to take care of itself. I feel it only fair to continue with self-description, as I am a difficult and complex person, and I should give a little more insight before beginning what is a lengthy and moody story. And very dull.


I stare into the flame of candle that burns on my desk. I can stare into it for as long as fifteen minutes, simply meditating, I suppose, while my mind clears itself, and the very small bits of warmth from the candle waft towards my face. I reach up and feel my chin, unshaven, my face is rough, my hair tangled amongst itself. I think about my father, and I try to picture him at my age, and wonder if he experienced the same sort of self-delusion and radically changing levels of awareness that I seem so prone to. It almost seems to me that there is some genetic force, that works beyond the physical appearance of one's offspring, that forces one's children and their lives to follow in a similar pattern--I think that when it comes to making potentially life-changing decisions, you are likely to take the same sort of path that your parents did, or that one of your parents did. They say that unless you have an unusually strong personality, you are likely to follow in the socio-economic footsteps of previous family members.
I work at a gas station. It is a small gas station at the corner of two routes, in California, if you can possibly imagine what it is like to live on nothing but routes and bypasses. It is called Small Spring, and it is the only gas station in the town, which is also called Small Spring. In California there are dozens of towns named for springs, and spring is unfortunately one of those words, that if you say it over and over, the meaning becomes lost, and the word may as well be part of a foreign language. Perhaps it is only because I am the one writing that I am especially prone to that phenomena. Anyways, I have been working as the desk clerk at this particular station for almost one year now, since I moved here. I moved from a slightly larger town in the north, actually the midwest, and I had a fairly uneventful life there as well. I put myself through college at a state university, working in restaurants and playing music when possible, and then I was given a choice: either try to find some meaningless job and become a career man, or live the way I felt I should. I opted for the latter, and did what so many people my age have often dreamed of: I packed up my car, my few belongings, drove south, looked for a room-for-rent sign, and put myself in a low-rent situation, where I don't have to worry about money, and I have all the time in the world to read, think, be by myself, work a little, and just live. I must say that this lifestyle, so far, is far preferable to the mad dash for a high paying job and social status and all the other frivolities that seemed so important to the people I went to school with. Words cannot describe the contempt I felt for those young bucks whose sole purpose in life was to make money, marry some attractive blond slut, and live out their pathetic dreams. I used to think genocidal thoughts about those types, I am willing to admit.
But here I am. I have accomplished my dream, or so I would like to think. The people that surround me are either similar to me, or country types, who don't even have the sense to question their existence, or don't really have the time, because they are too busy fixing their trucks, raising their kids... I have met a couple of people, that you will meet later, who provide me with sufficient conversation, and I have established a few slightly romantic relationships (hardly based on physical encounters), and they provide me with sufficient female interest, just enough to keep me from turning completely asexual; I do think that if I don't maintain a small interest in women then I would probably forget about them altogether, for the most part they bore me, and I have yet to meet one that can hold my attention for too long. Relationships are a mystery to me, and so dull and over-discussed a topic that I will refrain from even mentioning them.
I often wonder if a person can be conditioned for loneliness. If a person spends most of his life feeling lonely, it seems logical that the person would become so used to loneliness that it would cease to be a negative affliction, and it would become a state of mind. I have found that a strong feeling of loneliness can be suddenly refreshed by small, haunting bits of memories that remind me of a time when I was still discovering my loneliness. Certain songs, and thoughts, and objects, can take me back to a time when I was still hopeful....then the loneliness seems as powerful and discouraging as when I first began to realize that its' presence was more than temporary.
When I was in University I developed something of a love for discussion and thought of philosophical issues. I also developed an aversion for taking anything too seriously. This has led me to become a very non-commital commentator on philosophy and life, a person whose opinion is readily changed, usually not thoroughly thought out beforehand, and a person who often argues off the cuff, hoping that I will discover my argument and its validity in the midst of actually verbalizing it. Some people call this well-worded conversational device bullshit.
The reason I have let on about a few unrelated things, without implying any common end, is that I am establishing, to the best of my ability, a frame of reference for myself, and for the reader--I think that jumbled paragraphs and rambling very well represent the sort of person I am.
I used the pen today--the one that I stole. It was difficult to write with, I had to hold it just right, and I think it may have even leaked a little ink on my middle finger. I have bad luck with pens leaking on my hands, it has happened to me on a regular basis for as long as I can remember, and I often wonder if this isn't some continual augury, warning me against actually writing. In any case, I now have blue ink on my middle finger, where it will probably stay until time or gasoline wears it away.
A very attractive woman stopped by the station yesterday, while I was working. I don't know much about her, but I know she is very rich (therefore, I regret to say, I hate her and will always act very snobbish towards her), and she drives a beautiful yellow Mercedes Benz, a small one, with two doors, but not converted. For the last two or three months she has stopped about once a week, and filled up with diesel, because (this is a guess) the slightly cleaner gas station about three miles away in Rockville that used to carry diesel no longer carries it, for some sort of oil company/billing/taxation/government reason. I'm assuming she used to go there on a regular basis, but has switched to my station, and she probably only needs to fill up once a week, because I don't think she drives the car very often, but then again Mercedes aren't really famous for excellent gas mileage. With the knowledge that I have picked up as a gas station attendant (although I have never actually pumped gas, just taken the money) I could probably tell just about all there is to know about different cars and mileage and everything else. In the interest of keeping at least myself occupied, I will refrain.
She always pulls up to the pump, steps out of the car, looks at her watch, shuts the door, opens the door, reaches behind the seat, pulls the lever for the gasoline tank cover, and then puts the pump in and locks the lever with the small metal tab. She is about five and a half feet tall, with black straight hair, she wears big sweaters over white blouses, with a fashionable skirt, or some comfortable looking long dress, then usually thick socks and sandals. She has a sharp nose and chin, and mid-height cheekbones, and her hair is cut just under shoulder length. I find her very attractive. She seems slightly aloof, but then again, I am seeing her at the gas station, of all places, and from the few brief conversations I have had with her, I think that her aloofness is something that disappears quickly when she actually concentrates or applies her mind to whatever the given situation may be.
There is some unknown deity, incidentally, that gives me the right to pass judgment on all people, based on short conversations, appearances, or other such superficial evidences. I think the Greeks simply forgot to include this special god in their mythology. I hope this explanation is sufficient for giving reason to what will be an incessant need of mine in the future.
Yesterday, after going through the usual routine, she walked in to pay me--because of my hatred for the wealthy I give her the usual treatment: "Good morning ma'am." I have a very servantile expression on my face, I don't smile, and all I think about when she looks in my eyes is what sort of look she gives her husband when they make love to each other, knowing how well off they are, loving themselves. "Hello, " she says. "What's the damage?"
"Uh, fourteen eighty-two." Rich people don't usually care whether or not they round it to the dollar. That just means more work for me. Unless, of course, they hand over the credit card, but she always pays cash.
"Do you take American Express?" She pulls out a shiny gold card as she asks.
"Yes ma'am." I try my best to telegraph hatred into her brain through my eyes. It doesn't seem to work, because she just smiles and says "Ok. Here you go."
I maintain complete silence while I run the card through the machine and print the receipt. I avert my eyes, and I try to appear as intelligent as possible while I take care of my small tasks, because I want her to know that there is more to me than a man working a blue-collar job (I am only twenty-three). Somehow I convince myself that in this tiny little window of her life I may somehow influence her, affect her, change her, through some bit of magic that I can convey, a few sprinkles of spiritual completely absurd! But then I am always thrown by the thought that the most meaningful, chance encounters we have in our lives are in pitiful meaningless situations such as this, between a cretin such as myself and a wealthy lady whose identity and personality are completely unknown to me, save for a few biased assumptions.
She signs the receipt, smiles (I hate her even more for smiling, and in fact my fists tense and a surge of hatred, and frustration pushes through my body) and cheerfully says "Thanks alot!" and makes her way out the door. When she leaves, the frustration in my body and head slowly melds into sadness, boredom, and regret. I find myself feeling simultaneously pitiful and jealous, and as if I am missing something. Luckily the work is able to keep me from thinking too much about these things, because people start streaming in to the station fairly steadily, and I have enough other stuff to worry about. I have a very hard time with jobs like this, that require no resume, that pay an hourly wage, that practically anybody could do. When I show up in the morning, I can only think about how I have many hours of simple labor ahead of me, hours that could have been spent doing so many other interesting things. Ironically, if I had all that free time, I would probably waste away into nothing very rapidly. The job, then, creates a schedule for me, and forces me to insert the things I actually want to do in whatever free time I may have.
My most frequent hobby at work is to think about sex, and women's bodies. I probably spend at least half of my time on the clock with a huge erection. The whole concept of sex constantly amuses and confuses me, yet I can't get enough of even the thought of it. I have had fantasies about every woman that appears at the station, about stepping into their cars, pushing up their dresses, running my hands all over their sexual organs....the funny part is, there is really no physical stimulation from most of the acts that I think about--kissing a woman's naked breast, sliding my tongue between her thighs. These things would cause me no true pleasure, other than that which is created in my own head. And yet I would give anything for them.
Don't get me wrong--I am of solid build, and a good conversationalist, and not bad-looking by any means (though not exceptionally good looking, like some perfect Italian or olympian athlete), and if I wanted to find some female to provide me with sex, I think I probably could, quickly. But for some reason I usually lose interest when I actually talk to someone. And when I'm in the middle of a boring conversation with someone, I often have a hard time imagining what sort of things I could say or do that would, within the course of a few hours, put me in a position of sexual interaction with this other person. This is usually the point where I am so amused at the ridiculousness of the whole thing that i find it much easier to go home and masturbate, rather than deal with someone else doing it for me. I told a friend of mine that, once, a girl, and she was rather insulted. I really don't see why.
There are few friends in my life at this particular point. The other guys that work at the station are mostly mechanics, and the owner, all of them significantly older than myself, and none of them particularly interested in me. They are very friendly, but not exactly my type. There is a girl that I see all the time, she is the accountant for this station, and a little shop, in another town, that is the second establishment owned by the same guy. She is about two years older than me, her name is Martha, and she looks, actually, sort of like the wealthy woman I was talking about earlier, at a younger age. She is prettier, though, because she has no money, and graduated from Cal State University about a year and a half ago, and found herself needing a job very badly. She settled on this job, as the accountant for the owner of my station and for a couple of other small businesses around here, that prior to her arrival didn't even have accountants. She likes the idea of being the first, and of being somebody who can start with very little and create something. I think she digs this whole small-town thing. Like that ridiculously bad movie with Michael J. Fox that I saw on the plane a few years ago, where he goes to a small town as a doctor, but ends up falling in love with some country girl, and living there the rest of his life rather than going to the big city to make it big. In general I consider movies an extremely base form of entertainment. I often wonder if 'film-makers' would make films that no one was ever going to see, just because they loved it.
As I write, I am feeling a little bit of warmth from the candle on my desk. I was pouring the melted wax out of it, just because I was bored, and I managed to pour hot wax all over myself. Fortunately wax is a very harmless thing, and I haven't been harmed, but only annoyed because it is difficult to remove from clothes. I am drinking a large glass of hot water; they say you shouldn't watch water boil because it won't, but there is no apparent rule for watching a drip coffee maker piss water out of its steamy little spout. I watched the coffee maker for about ten minutes, earlier, I have almost never used it for coffee, just for hot water. I think coffee is ok, but most of the people that drink it on a regular basis are people I would rather not associate myself with.


The radio is what keeps me alive. The light rock (that word should probably be spelled lite ) station around here is my ambrosia. They play all my favorites, the old songs that I remember hearing when I was riding in the back of my mother's car, with rain pattering the windows, the windshield wipers droning on. I remember feeling sleepy and happy...there are hundreds of songs that bring back those good feelings.
If only you, reader, could hear the sigh in my voice at this moment, and hear the exasperation that filters through my breath as I utter few and silent words....I'm afraid I need to come clean again. A few pages back I confessed about a few demons that exist in my head--I admit I was feeling rather ornery at the time, and was perhaps possessed by a sudden rush of anger and bitter reconciliation with my Universal Placement (my term for our state of awareness). Well, all this preliminary description and mumbling about myself and my situation are simply procrastinational. I'm afraid I have a rather bitter story to tell, about my time here in the Republic, about an act I committed, that in a single instant changed me and my life forever. I went from being a human automaton, ignorant and happy, to having a revelation that would shock even the most transcendental easterner, whose chi could probably break my head open. The tale is gruesome and unpleasant, and I forewarn the reader to put down the computer at this point, if he/she would rather avoid having some nasty dreams and other strange thoughts weave their way into the subconscious. I can no longer deny myself the catharsis of relating my story, however, and if just one person's eyes are opened after hearing of my atrociousness, then they will know to avoid a beast like me if they are ever to encounter one.



What a beautiful word. Well, well well. Have this incredible old picture of the band on the wall. I love this opium flavored incense. Unless something happens soon I’m suddenly getting very tired, oddly because it’s early but time hasn’t really been going slowly like it usually does. As I write I lay in a jail cell. I’m trying to be stream-of-conscious but that is very difficult for me because my mind tends to think in terms of possibilities, and even while I type every word I run through several choices for the next word, in fact I can clearly see the sentence in my head, it writes itself a few words ahead, therefore stream-of-conscious is difficult because there are few totally spontaneous thoughts, although now I’m thinking about High School probably because I listened to a couple of old songs today, that really take me back to those days, and songs that i think are supercool regardless, just plain really cool songs for me, Mr. Bitter about other people’s success. One of those old songs is ‘Annie Get Your Gun’ by squeeze, listen to it sometime, it has a really cool melody and moves me. I also listened to ‘Topaz’ and ‘Follow Your Bliss’, two songs on Cosmic Thing, and they are two of the best songs I’ve ever heard, I love them both. I used to listen to all that on the way to school every day, loving it. Music can put me in such a good mood before work or school or whatever. every morning before work I pop in a song, I pick something, like some old song or anything that I like, and I listen to it while I get ready, in fact it’s funny because I look forward to that time when I can take my time to get dressed, I mean within the length of one song.

‘it is downright cold in here’
windows because I want you
my red glowing friend through
glass and money, cheap slut.
slow smoke in my eyes but
happy reminders about
stop all the cells shout
that makes it all clear

Oh, oh, midnight star.
You can read it in your daily midnight star.


"Today i am aware of my lineage. i have no need to consult my horoscope or my genealogical chart. What is written in the stars, or in my blood, I know nothing of. I know that I spring from the mythological founders of the race. The man who raises the holy bottle to his lips, the criminal who kneels in the market-place, the innocent one who discovers that all corpses stink, the madman who dances with lightning in his hands, the friar who lifts his skirts to pee over the world, the fanatic who ransacks libraries in order to find the Word - all these are fused in me, all these make my confusion, my ecstacy. If I am inhuman it is because my world has slopped over its human bounds, because to be human seems like a poor, sorry, miserable affair, limited by the senses, restricted by moralities and codes, defined by platitudes and isms. I am pouring the juice of the grape down my gullet and i find wisdom in it, but my wisodm is not born of the grape, my intoxication owes nothing to wine....

I want to make a detour of those lofty arid mountain ranges where on dies of thirst and cold, that "extra-temporal" history, that absolute of time and space where there exists neither man, beast nor vegetation, where one goes crazy with loneliness, with language that is mere words, where everything is unhooked, ungeared, out of joint with the times. I want a world of men and women, of trees that do not talk (because there is too much talk in the world as it is!), of rivers that carry you to places, not rivers that are legends, but rivers that put you in touch with other men and women, with architecture, religion, plants, animals-rivers that have boats on them and in which men drown, drown not in myth and legend and books and dust of the past, but in time and space and history. I want rivers that make oceans such as Shakespeare and Dante, rivers which do not dry up in the void of the past. Oceans, yes! Let us have more oceans, new oceans that blot out the past, oceans that create new geological formations, new topgraphical vistas and strange, terrifying continents, oceans that destroy and preserve at the same time, oceans we can sail on, take off to new discoveries, new horizons. Let us have more oceans, more upheavals, more wars, more holocausts. Let us have a world of men and women with dynamos between their legs, a world of natural fury, of passion, action, drama, dreams, madness, a world that produces ecstacy and not dry farts. I believe that today more than ever a book should be sought after even if it has only one great page in it; we must search for fragments, splinters, toe-nails, anything that has ore in it, anything that is capable of resuscitating the body and soul."

--Henry Miller

Foreign Globester * ACT I

Created: Jan 19, 2010


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