The Most Unlikely Day

Nimrod went to bed at 23:58, replayed the day's events in his head on fast forward, and fell asleep at 23:59:59 & 999ms. He slept for eight hours, and woke at 1ms before 8, when his alarm went off. He heard Oppenheimer start whining about fostering or fathering the atomic bomb and turned it off. He slipped out of the bed and had a perfect piss, the echoes of the sounds of the piss splashing in the water making a jingling music like freaking Santa and his sleigh bells were about to come splashing up out of the toilet with a pair of alligator shoes, made just for Nimrod. He stared expectantly at the hole in the bottom of the toilet, getting excited when he saw the most minute bubble that it meant something good was going to happen. He made a splash sound with a muted whistle and a slap of his left index finger against his cheek to bend it. He turned around to the mirror.

He showed himself his teeth, and then decided they needed to be brushed. He checked in the morning, as if he were going to find some indicator that they needed to be brushed. The television was on, and there were white people and black people telling white people white stories about what white people should do to ensure their whiteness is properly blanched. He was probably mostly white, but he felt ostracised until the redheaded weather girl came on and told the city, "Bitch, it's gonna be *nice*" They quickly brushed it off, cut back to the anchors and moved on to a story about keeping your lawn nice. "Fuck the grass" he thought to himself. But he liked that the weathergirl just said, "Fuck it. It's the weather." in so many words. The coffee was from the night before, but he sploshed it in a cup recklessly and when some dropped on the floor, he cleaned it with his sleeping socks and became pleased that the one spot on the floor was freshly clean. Then he killed the coffee and poured another more carefully.

The hair fell off his face with the same ease that a knife goes through warm butter. A no-wiper. The shower felt clean and he zipped through a scrubdown. He even thought he could smell the soapy. It didn't matter if he really could. He liked it. It felt like the same water that percolates through the oceans, the mountains, the heavens, and the urines. Fresh, warm, transcendental and maybe a little bit salty. A baptism of Oppenheimer's hydrogen.

In his drawer were the Maritime socks, with blue and grey bands around dark rusty brown colored thick cotton. Oh yes, it was a good sock day. Similarly, the trousers, shirts, and other bits were perfectly arranged to set an auspicious nautical start, all smart and dress-sailable. A red sky at night. He felt it was going to be a good day. Too glad to spend it with you. He had a mango smoothie. Hell-yeah. A quadruple shot of espresso with hot milk and he was out the door, bouncing down the steps.

A cool morning and a beautiful sky. Light blue and pure white clouds. The ocean scintillated like the crests of the swells and breaks of the waves were schools of fish made of gold twisting and turning in the sky. He remembered that he didn't feed his fish, monkey slapped his head, ran back up the steps, did a quick meditate, and fed his fish. Then back out to the beautiful morning. The air was cool. They were spraying down the sidewalks with hoses, maybe they felt similarly. All the cigarette ends, the receipts, the flotsam and jetsam were all being washed away, an ablution. He tread lightly and purposefully on the redeemed strip like he was walking on the same sky that the fish were swimming on.

He didn't have to go far, just next door, and he was at work. Zip zip zip, he knew where the things were that he needed to commence his work, was no longer suffering rookie growing pains, and everything hummed along. He sat down at a table and drank his overheated coffee. Crisp and clean, he got up and went to the bathroom to wash his hands, meditated while he did it, and returned to his coffee. "Come ooooon, Universe!" he thought to himself, like some gambler with a pair of dice looking for double 7s. The next level. Always looking for the transcendental, one had accused him.

The other servers, particularly the young ones, grumbled and pressed their eyes, trying to make something go away. He watched with the mildest anxiety that he was missing something, was making some transgression he wasn't aware of, or was uninformed about some malady from which he should be suffering. The older servers were less burdened. They seemed ready to handle what the day could throw at them, mostly by not preparing themselves. Don't prepare for shit, he told himself. Then he stopped. He just stopped. At the same time, Mr. Corvas walked in with a sheet of paper that Nimrod had seen him read from every day but had never seen the form of what he was reading.

"Good Morning." He looked around the room at everyone's ties, their eyes, and their sad, sleepy expressions, then commenced to rattle off the sections:

Helena: 130s & 140s
Thom: 110s & 120s
Tammy: 90s & 80s
Helius: 40s, and Amy is going to be in, so set up the 30s.
Nimrod: 50s & 70s
Maria: 20s
Victor: you're inside today, the whole inside. it's not going to rain.

"OK? Good."

And so they rocked to our sections, set them up with what they needed and ordered their breakfasts. Nimrod just drank coffee & smoked cigarettes. The earliest guests began to seat themselves wherever, then look around for someone to acknowledge them. There was a host, and typically they'd be seated and given menus, but this never happened. They just sat where they thought they might like to, then wanted to move when they decided they had been wrong, creating a few trivial details to mind when you had to get their food to their new table. But everything sorted itself out. Soon enough it was full-swing middle of the morning and people were asking for this, that, drinks, and checks. It went, and so it went. By 3, Nimrod was tired and sweaty and 200 dollars richer. The sun which had given the morning a brilliant and clear light had now dulled everything with a humid haze. He was glad to be out of there. He clocked out, and zipped back home. The air conditioned apartment dried his skin out and gave him a sleepy comfort.

He had a quick shower, put on his pajama trousers, and had a nap on the sofa while Judge Alex decided that some people were wrong and others were right. He liked how boring it was except commercials came on all excited about furniture and cars and casinos and they interrupted his 40 winks. He started at the ad and told it to shut up. Then he picked the remote off the floor and turned the volume down to "2". He drifted off to a half-sleep where he had a dream that he was living with a Jamaican and a Jamaican woman came to the window with a small package. There was nothing good in the package and he woke up. It was now 5, the sun had started to cast a clearer oblique. He changed into his swimming costume, strapped on his goggles in his apartment and went outside and walked to the ocean.

He made no time for considerations, just waded straight into the shallow water until it was deep enough to swim in. The current was with him, and quickly enough he had passed 8 blocks of beach, his breathing deep and rhythmic, his arms felt stretched and loose. Like a seal, sometimes he would hold his breath and propel himself three or four strokes under water, stopping to stare, holding his breath, with amazement at some little fish or crab. And he was amazed. He meditated and repeated good words with every stroke through the perfect water. They made him cut more easily through the water.

He turned around and tried to swim back 8 streets against the current. He made it 4, decided that it was taking too long and that the sun was farther along its arc, its course than he considered day, there were no lifeguards, and that sharks and other baddies did in fact live where he was. So he walked out to the sand, and up the 4 blocks and back into his apartment. He skipped a shower, he liked the salt on his skin. It made him think he should draw sea salt out with a broom synchronously to the 4 corners of every room, starting innermost. An old Italian thing, like throwing salt over your shoulder. But for now, he was good.

Indeed, it was a lucky day. And it wasn't even night. He put on his seersucker Easter trousers and went out to see some friends. They all spoke positively, without gripe or complaint or issue. It was a comedy. Life was, for a minute, beautiful. He smoked Lucky Strike Lights and drank cafe con leche with no sugar. The latin lady knew he drank con leche with no sugar. He had been told that Lucky Strike cigarettes were not being made or at least supplied to any of the stores around him soon, and this made the cigarette take on a savory caramel. The steamed milk developed a skin as he let it cool, and he slurped it off like some sort of asexual oyster.

Then he went home, ate a large container of leftover pasta, turned the perpetual flame of his music playing at random on and climbed into his bed, salty and dark and tired. If every day went like this, he thought to himself, he may get uninspired but he would be happy and uninspired. And he was happy now. His sheets still smelled like bleach and his clean socks kept his feet warm stuck out from the end of the covers. Yes, it was nice. He almost didn't want to fall asleep it felt so good. Like he would miss the comfort if he fell asleep. So he read, and the words took on light and airy forms and he laughed at characters being mean to each other. One character tricked young Oliver, and he thought it infinitely funny. When someone has such good intentions and they get bent to accommodate a sinister agenda. If it wasn't funny, it was something else, but it was definitely funny. There are few things as great at the privacy of laughing at a book.

Nimrod turned his light off and the green light from the outside cast a corrugated shadow like a mechanical jungle scene on his ceiling. He watched as nothing moved, alternating on the umbra and the silhouetted light. It reminded him of a bedroom he had when he was younger when the train would make its percussions along the track and they would echo through the busy night to his window, bouncing the shadows along in his imaginations like so many boxcars. He would try to hop them with his eyes. Then Nimrod closed his. He began to play back of the day's events through his head.

Oppenheimer, the thousand suns, Santa's sublime sewer alligator shoes, the shower, the socks, the fish, the sidewalks & their priests, the morning meeting, the guests, the orders, the comedies, the mundanities, the cashout, the conversations, the nap, the swim, the animals and the light, the coffees and the cigarettes, the pisses, the prayers, the music & the magic, the women, the old men, the paces, the faces, the failures, their resolutions, the friends, the night, the trains and their schedules (this took some time), the ghosts, the shadows, the lights, the sheets, the other socks, the salt, the book, the telecommande, the music playing piano and string tides on the stereo and his breaths, like some sort of wonderful carnival of beautiful things. Then, he twitched and fell into the sleep of old and gods, at 02:22:22.222. Nimrod hadn't said a word all day, not even to guests as a server, not to his managers, not to anyone. It was a very unlikely day.

Oh Vishnizzle, fo' Shizzle!

Nimrod's Children (almost a palindrome, except more convenient and rearranged)

Once stuck in a song, this hunter's once young, sharp tongue,
Polygluttony, of the touring variety,
Invoked a curse where he was sent babbling
From of the word of worlds, also note well:
From of the worlds of words, and
Douglas Adams made a joke about it.

A royaume ululation, but without relief,
The ceasing and the Inscendental, foreverish.
May as well go live in a cave or pretend
Life as Sophocles plays, and fuck it.
Your mom, Your fucking mom.
This joke has fallen upon my old ears.

The Fool's Gold

The conscious mind allows itself to be trained like a parrot, but the unconscious does not - which is why St. Augustine thanked God for not making him responsible for his dreams. - Carl Jung, Psychiatry & Alchemy

Salomon used to have an electric slot racer set, the kind with a plastic groove through a track and two metal inlays on either side that serve to feed current to the tiny and beautiful little electric motor by contacts on the undercarriage of the cars. When he was 20 or so he was riding in a car up the New Jersey Turnpike with Rob, a young man who has his own strange ways. Rob's car was like a Yugo or something, and he called it a slot racer. Rob's ways inspired and amused Salomon. He gripped the wheel and gritted his teeth; it was going to be a full-throttle Yugo slotrace up the Turnpike. And it was.

He was a natural artist, and Salomon held him in a very high regard. As they were driving, Rob asked Salomon about his nervous tics, "How come you have nervous tics?" "I don't," said Salomon. "I have them too, but I've learned to deal with them." "That's nice, but I don't have nervous tics." "Your jaw is moving strangely and your head is making a nervous twitch." "That's not a tic, is it?" "Yes, it is." "I don't think it is." "It is." Salomon lit a cigarette.

When Salomon was young and filled his time playing with his slot racers and reading about reptiles or O. Henry or the first volume of a set of encyclopedias that only cost 9 cents and shooting cans of spray paint with his recurve bow & arrow, or loading a .22 round into the tip of the hollow aluminum shaft of an arrow and launching it at the sky and achieving phenomenal joy as it sailed up and back down again, struck the asphalt, discharged, and sent the arrow flying back into the sky safely, very safely, his family became friends with another family in which the father was a scientist for DuPont. Salomon told Roger that he loved science. Roger told him about the electrolysis of water with submersed metals as probes that are or can be used in the same method of electroplating used for deceptive jewelry. He demonstrated with an electric train power adapter and they collected enough hydrogen from the water to make a thumb-sized Hindenburg.

Salomon felt like there was more to this. He had encountered the idea of alchemy in some sort of book, and had stolen all of the occult books in the library since they were "secret" knowledge and he wanted to preserve the hermetica. He understood alchemy as only the transmutation of base metals like lead into gold. Lead seemed a likely candidate because it was heavy, and gold is a very dense element, nearly twice as heavy as lead. This was as much metaphysical science as anything else, and there were principles that he had gleaned including one that gold could not be manufactured for one's own material benefit, or by extension anyone else's benefit. The notion that alchemy could be interpreted as a profound symbol was beyond him yet, but he had a young obsession.

Electrolysis would not make something into gold. It would potentially cover it, but it would not make it gold. Pyrite, "fool's gold", would be more valuable materially. But there was some symbolism in electroplating. Salomon perceived that the beauty of a roofing nail after copper electroplating was its own beauty, and copper was third in his chart of valuable metals. One logical problem is that he had to start with more copper than he really ended up with, losing some in the solution. There was no literal alchemy here, but there was some result.

He abandoned the alchemical research for a while. One day he found himself in a university library in the summer and it was cold and fantastic. He had learned how to make the payphones work for him for free so he would call people and he had found archives of microfilm of all of many years of newspapers. He would meander through the unixy library catalogue, playing a game of finding materials on five floors of media by Dewey decimal or whatever they were using, each piece using its number as a call sign, a beacon, a radio transmission of "warmer, cooler" until he found it. Yes, this actually engaged him. He liked the idea of psychiatry so he found academically-bound copies of the American Journal of Psychiatry. One article was on antisocial disorder. He hadn't slept in two days and he was very emotionally vulnerable. So he diagnosed himself as anti-social. This upset him. He sat in a library chair and looked out the window at the clouds sliding by.

Later that evening, he was sitting on a granite ledge of a wall around a small post office when a good Dr. he knew walked by. He stopped him, and in all sincerity explained his predicament, that he was antisocial, potentially sociopathic. Dr. Manuel asked him, "Have you slept recently?" "No. Well, two nights ago." Manuel had a look of sympathy or of difficulty or frustration. He told him, "Get some sleep. You will feel better. And consider that the fact that you are worried about this indicates that you aren't in fact one of them." This shifted Salomon's point of view, but did not alleviate his self-centered malaise.

Some time later, Salomon asked a night-working poet & activist about alchemy. Jay told him that the best Salomon could do with alchemy is apply is as a symbol, a metaphor for refining his psyche and constitution to one pure & close to divine. Again, Salomon hadn't slept. Jay also suggested that he read what he could of Jung's works, and so he found some, including Man & His Symbols and Psychology & Alchemy on a bookshelf where he lived. He did not read them, but he scanned them and grabbed the most accessible aphorisms and quotes. From this he gained an idea, one which he could not cite but he attributed to Jung and that was the idea of man's 4th instinct. The divine / magical / spiritual instinct. This instinct, though perhaps 4th in order of definition, seemed to be where one must find their alchemical answers, and find their peace in satisfying it. Salomon chose to drink & medicate this snafu away. The problem there was that it was symbolically like hitting his head with a hammer to remedy a headache.

The nervous tics were a manifestation of something. He was a primate, generally, and not all of his species had this behavior. Good and bad were at war. It was the army of considerations taking the hill in his head, the amphibious ethical / logical charge onto a beach on psychiatric d-day and his psyche was both armies. The tics exploded like artillery shells raining on him while he lay in the muddy ditches worrying about clean socks. Why should he wear a helmet? To keep the war in? The casualties were his comfort, his ease, his sense of peace. But like a war, this had gone on for so long that he didn't know anything but the war.

There is an expression: "There are no atheists in foxholes." Perhaps there aren't. And perhaps when one is a fair weather friend to the Universe and its principles, when one only considers the human condition constantly because it removes them from personal accountability in a war that is at once for nothing and everything, perhaps then do our bodies stack up. Maybe when the dawn, the gold of the sun lights up the battlefield and everyone is more interested in their socks and cigarettes than killing one another, when it looks even more perverse and wrong and bloody than ever, maybe then does one begin to find their gold. And maybe the echoes of the shells exploding will always remain in the cathedral of the psyche, but maybe they should be drowned out by the oceanic silence of divinity.

Love & Hope, AmoTe

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Assorted Cakes . . . . . . . . . . . 3.00

"What dreames may come, When we haue shufflel'd off this mortall coile, Must giue vs pawse." - Billy

The devil is in the details. The thread loose on a new shirt, the seams of the insides of your pocket. The pocks on porcelain, the twin egg yolks and the red bits in the tempura. The font, the pitch, the bends, the tint, the tone, the temperature of the marble, the color of the parchment. The blinking of the cursor. The taste in your mouth. The eyelashes in your eyes. The dirt on the floor. The serial numbers on your money, and all the fingers that have touched it. The grooves in your lips. The misspoken words. The counted breaths.

He would study everything surrounding the human but not the human. The architecture that we moved in was more vocal than the people speaking in it. The echoes off of the walls became more relevant than the conversations, they became an edificial cut-up of tragicomic proportions. They gave him drugs to quiet the rumination, the long parades of associations that would whoop it up through the cerebral soup with ticker tapes and enormous digital displays.

He played with the idea to create a sort of social sanometer in the form of a human and with visual indicators of its health and satisfaction and install it in Times Square, drawing data from the U.N. or independent voices. There would be a great mirror, a reflection that some vagabond toting a small mountain of aluminum or copper or magical alloys through that unsane place would fall into. Times Square is expensive.

When asked before, "What do you want?" he replied, "A window on a busy street." He had that. It grew tiresome looking down on people's hats and heads and the buses and the cars and the taxis and the trash and the empty lots and the storefronts through iron fire escapes. Finding himself lying on his back on the floor and looking through the window up at the color of the sky, he would make extreme efforts to turn that blue into a magical respite, a Shangri-La on the mountains of his eyes, the shadow of the veritable.

So let us pick up our pens and open our eyes. We know the colors of the sky and we know.

Отражение в мыльном пузыре

Whenever Thomas started playing with the fissures, the lenses in his eyes he opened a can of worms. Pressing on his eyeballs in a church so hard that he saw geometric patterns, maybe some eigenlicht. His father would ask him if he was ok, he would lift his head from his hands and peer through the geometry at his father and nod with perplexity. Staring at a night-light of Mary until it radiated starlike lances of light vertically, horizontally, in complete circus of the woman, he made going to sleep a game of the surreal. On the school bus he would juggle the floaters in his eyes over the telephone poles against the grey or blue sky. Or when you stare at one fixed point for long enough that some sensitivity that interprets light goes numb and everything is rendered a void.

Then when older he found that certain ways rendered his field of vision a grainy, static bird's eye view of nothing. The New York street lights would dissipate into a tea of ether. The night sky, but in his head. International told him that his father lost his vision in one of his eyes in the 60s by staring at the sun too long on acid or something. This was probably a tale. Still, it moved Thomas. The Very Human Condition.

The building across the street said I.O.O.F. in weird circled logo. It took years before someone told him that it was the Independent Order of Odd Fellows. Then still more years before he had a vague idea what that meant. And today, he had none, other than an unconfirmed notion that it may be a counter-masonic group. He didn't mind being called odd. The first taste of the flesh of his tongue was an adolescent magic. Let it fly.

Swiftly go the days.

It never ends well. There is no romance, not beauty, not comedy or tragedy in any saving sense. It just ends. Aaron could escape; he had a passport and wasn't afraid of flying. Even if he were, he wasn't afraid of the sea. He did have a healthy respect for the sea, if not a fear of it. But then he would destroy whatever beauty crept up around him, like a statue surrounded by a garden and at night he would trample the roses, the flowers, the ivy. He would be standing like a stone at dawn while the pigeons shat upon his head.

There are ideas that when a bird craps on you, it's good luck, but when a pigeon craps on you, or a seagull at the sea, it's just not luck. It's very likely and unpleasant, and the improbability ascribed to luck and chance just isn't there. These birds crap on things, they crap on people. Darwin might say that this is why they're still around. They're demonstrating they are not preferably edible. They're very crappy. Except to sharks, maybe. But don't quote him on that.

So Aaron made decisions and contradicting decisions. He was wary of declarations. He would stay, he would go, he would live, he would die, etc. He wasn't hungry, he wanted to eat. He quit smoking then in the morning he lit a cigarette before his eyes were all the way open. There was no progress, there was only an ever-increasing void. He cared, he didn't. Accountability was only to himself, and he kept as much of a tally as needed to ensure that he was always nearly drowning in self-antagonism. Until one day, when the signs were right, he would jettison his projects and fling himself away, leaving only the ghosts in his head of what may or may not be or have been.

Potential. If he heard it once, he had heard it too many times. This wasn't an issue. He could demonstrate to himself nearly with complete consistency that most endeavors could be undertaken and completed with unequivocal success if he approached them the right way. But he was never really sure he wanted to. Consistently at least. Fits of whimsy led him to draw references for paintings he would not complete any time soon, lists of characters or ideas for stories he would not write, and outlines for things that he would never record. It wasn't so much the talent was missing, though it was not necessarily evident either. It was the heart.

"We are adhering to life now with our last muscle — the heart." ~ Djuna Barnes

For Anterity, Premier Episode

So, I'm working on a podcast and I've recorded an experiment that is ... well, I recorded it. They will not and probably should not ever let me on the radio, for several reasons. One of those is my perpetual use of the F-bomb.




RSS feed to come. You can try http://feeds.feedburner.com/ForAnterity for a feed, but I'm still unclear about a few things. I'm also suspicious that I'm going to have to wait for archive.org and ourmedia.org to sync up or something. Or something.

You should be able to manually grab it from http://www.archive.org/download/IchebodEcksAsAbove_SoBelowForAnterity_01/anterity01.060608.mp3 but this ... well ... "should" is a word.

"Serious Delirium" -or- "Or to take arms against a sea of troubles And by opposing end them..."

The sea or a drop in it. This is a consideration of scale. The edges are met with glass and salt, or they are met with more drops. Somehow that introduces a difference. They're probably swirling all around it, all of the fishes, all of the smallest animals right now, as I write this, as you read this.