I might be crazy, you might be right, you might be wrong, but, I most likely am crazy. I’ve concluded that my life is a dream and that I do not want to wake up. How can one feel so melancholy without being sad? How is it that dogs make the same face as humans when they drink their first sip of whiskey? How can I be lethargic, and yet have one of my most productive days ever?
I think I realized that I may be crazy this evening, sitting in a lofted room, in a warehouse, with two dogs, a good friend, and a bottle of whiskey. We watched old punk videos on mute and listened to Doris Day, stay on the right side sister… Old Mr. Satan, he’s on the left side waiting…
Squeeze-bot, fucking awesome, played at the Nachbar tonight, I was happy. The Price is Right Theme Song as done by a polka-esque band with a banjo, has never been so good… Maybe it has, that last time when I was tripping, yeah, I did drugs once or twice, this summer. I did swim through a few songs, or maybe they swam through me.
Hold on, I’m going outside to smoke a cigarette. I’ll be back in a few minutes. It’s 7:00am now. And now it is 7:10am. A cup of guava and pineapple juice and a cigarette. I’m staying up, going to sleep some what early tonight, being Christmas eve. I suppose I’ll email everyone and say happy holidays.
Oh, and I am tremendously happy. I confessed my love, actual use of one of the strongest words in the english language, to my wonderful girlfriend. She loves me too. It seems strange, never wanting to be with one person for a long time, wanting to be a polygamist, and here I am perfectly content with spending the rest of my life with a girl that I have not known for all that long. I would have no regrets if we moved to the middle of nowhere together tomorrow and never returned. All of my life I’ve had a fleeting feeling of what home feels like, what home is, and I have found home. It is in her arms.
Blog, I promise I won’t neglect you any more. I have been making music with Fatass tracker. Here is the intro to my unedited novella.
With Every Bowel Movement
by R.W. Farnsworth III
Hello!
He’s a stout man, and by stout, I mean dark and heavy, much like the beer. He has a white and nearly frothy head, also much like the beer – and ironically, he does not like the style of beer that he resembles so much. He is an acquired taste, again like the beer, and through such acquisition, you will realize that he is not good for your health if you have more than two of him a day. His name is Nathanial. He is a time traveling hobo, owning no time machine of his own, and owing his entire existence to the hijacking of other persons wormholes, and his uncanny ability to find himself preaching that, “The future is neigh.”
No one really knows where he’s from, he simply appears in some year, some place, generally the same place that he hitched his way through because, if this weren’t so, it would be a lapse in future physics logic, and if that happened, the future would be incredibly neigh. From time to time, puns aside, he will bestow a certain small tidbit of wisdom through one of many means, time-hobo fortune cookies, time-hobo song and dance, or time-hobo drunken yelling, which, by the way, is an art in and of itself.
He wears futuristic tattered clothing, that is self repairing and conflicting of it’s own interests – he rips them, shreds them, pees on them, and shits on them, and yet somehow, his suit will be bright white and clean by morning, where he will repeat the cycle of pissing, shitting, and shredding his clothes all over again, a vicious cycle indeed. To say that he even resembles a time-hobo would be a lie, it would be a damned lie, much like the ones that come out of 20th and early 21st century politician’s mouths. But, you shouldn’t judge a time-hobo by his self-repairing future clothing, because under that clothing is piss, shit, and vinegar.
1!
“On the big-shh shh-pashe candy shhhh-pashe sh-tation all the cop-sh have crab leg-sh, and the bulldog-shh all have tiny little teef-sh and roo-sh-ters lay egg-sh too,” he screams, twirling around and around and around and around, “the shh-pashe farmer-shh tree-sh are full of sh-au-shage and the reshervshe are full of wuh-ishkey.”
A crowd gathers, as if they have found their messiah, especially children, who are enticed by the promises of space travel, crab-cops, sausage trees, and whiskey, much like they were enticed in the 1890s to candy, lemonade, and stew. The adults jaws were hanging open, much in the way that people with lock-jaw don’t.
“Ooooh, I’m bound to go wuh-ere there ain’t no shh-no, where the rain don’t fall and the wuh-ind don’t blow-shh,” slowing, slowing, slowing down, as if he’s stopped robbing the earth of angular momentum, “in the big-shh shh-pashe candy shhh-pashe sh-tation,” he screams as he stops instantaneously and becomes a living statue of a time-hobo.
Bewildered, the crowd stands still, jaws still hanging, imaginations still flaring. For one moment, maybe even two, everything is still, life, the meaning of it, and then in a sudden flash, a wormhole opens across the street from our beloved singing time-hobo, a wormhole that only he and the initiator across the street can see. He breaks into a mad dash, mad like a time-hobo drunk on time-hobo wine, pushing dreamy kids and slack jawed adults out of the way. Jumping over cabs with the swiftness of a hobo trapped in Spain during the running of the bulls, knocking over business men and women with the viciousness of a bull goring Spaniards.
One step, two steps, three steps, four steps, and five steps, he’s at the foot of the wormhole. Previously discussed time-traveler in his smart business suit and our beloved time-hobo make eye contact for a split second. They both know what’s going down, unlike the crowds across the street, and they know the deal, two men enter, one man leaves, much like the Thunderdome. He jumps through, and in a flash the wormhole closes.
The crowd is even more bewildered than before, almost sent into a frenzy, not knowing what just happened, as their beloved time-hobo was not lying, he will be at Big Space Candy Space Station, maybe, but, he definitely wasn’t lying. Or maybe they think he’s a magician, a terrorist, or even a muslim, as the American Public at this time does not understand the differences.
The time-traveler sighs, and presses a button on his fancy calculator wrist watch, he jumps through the new wormhole and in a flash, he too is gone.
Hmm.
