Oh, and if it isn't bad enough that my thoughts continually go to the fact that I have severe doubts about Kerry winning the presidential election... John Peel is dead. Who will save us now?
October 2004 Archives
Out of loneliness, time is going to turn back on itself. Time is lonely and I am too. All of the friends have moved on to the promise of better lives far north of this place. Nothing good ever happens south of here: abductions, mass mudrerings, rape, disappearance, infidelity...
I am working on an atomic machine that spins out of whack, to help time in its quest. Nothing is funny about this. If certain rhythms are reached, waveforms are created, the wheel of time will spin backwards - irregularly - the same way the spinning wheel of a hot rod seems to do when you stare at it while cruising beside down the highway. This atomic machine wil take away all bad things. The last four years included.
I don't know what you all were thinking. I have decided not to write much lately, at least not here, but this is a call to anti-arms. A call for you to bring your asses home. Whether or not you heed, you will be here in the end. It is the nature of the machine. I will be a 12 year-old boy when you arrive. You will all be relatively the same - twelve or so, pimpled, and in the throes of hormonal upheaval. You may not understand at all now, but understanding comes slowly under the auspices of the machine.
I have made time my friend. I have turned the bastard foe that takes my weekdays away from me, deposits me in the arms of the "man." I have taken it all and placed it into my little machine. I have placed it around my machine. I have realized how to make friends out of mud, cow dung, assorted broken stereo parts. Suddenly you will not be able to walk forward properly - legs wobbledy, kneeks knocked. You will return to me, to here.
You will fall in love all over again with whom you have chosen to love. (The nature of the erratic machinery.) And you will file bills of sale, and bails of hay, for action figures and comic books and tether ball sets. There will be no need for law and success and promotion. You will have a 2 week uptake cycle on education in the mandolin, cello, harpsichord and silk screening process. You will not leavve or feel the need to leave.
This is not a dream, for you are alive and we are all at Denny's with wiatresses carrying fluorsescent bouquets. Poker can be won for pride. The grand slam breakfast for us all. The machine shaking on the table doesn't even disturb the babies in accompanying carriages.
You will all return to me, to here.
Sherman will retrace his steps, rebuilding all of the structures of Atlanta. We will all move back to this place. We will start a commune in Candler Park.
This is public writing. Like radio Clash. Twain is observing over my shoulder, and there is a picture across the way of the the courtroom in the movie version of a book written with Truman Capote loosely the originator of one role.
I am becoming notes tonight. Little blips and bleeps - and it is football season. Your friends are mighty I would say to you if you were here. I will become heat and rising and little pieces of cotton candy. You ate them. I am silly still. I want to fill a page. It is way too late, but not early enough. What will happen in the end.
Even Thelonious Monk's wife wished the jam to be over sometimes - that all of the boys would go home.
This is stopgap.
