We’d wondered about the ghost in the neighborhood for a really long time. Me and my boyfriend had, I just told you about it. Then last night with no warning my boyfriend mentioned that he’d seen him at the Food Pit, up close, in person, a few days before, without telling me.
The Food Pit is the real-life name of the gas station/convenience store in our neighborhood. I guess it’s like the Peach Pit in the original 90210, except a bit more honest. They didn’t serve or sell the stones of fruit at the Peach Pit. The Food Pit sells “food,” and it is a bit of a hole.
I have had a craving for grape bubblegum so fierce I might just go pee on a plastic stick just to prove what I already know: I’m not pregnant. But I’m so psyched out over wanting grape gum I’ve even got him eating like there’s no tomorrow–he’s hysterically pregnant now. Life is cray-cray up in here. And it’s harder to find grape bubblegum than one would think, just to twist the knife.
We were both so happy about the grape gum (and the Lifesavers that the boyfriend got, a really nasty kind that I haven’t learned to get a taste for yet–I’m like a bacterium when it comes to sweets. I can learn to eat about any kind there is if it’s the only thing around, but I do have my preferences), that he forgot to tell me about the Ghost!
The Ghost was standing in front of him in line at the Food Pit. The Ghost is in his mid-forties. There are two wireless speakers attached to the handlebars of his bicycle. And he isn’t a ghost. He is a man, made of meat and bones and skin, not ectoplasm and fear and regret and longing.
“I think he’s a connect,” my boyfriend said.
And it all clicked! Of course. The music, the bike, the slow roll, the night, the reason we’re fascinated with him, the everything. He’s the ice cream man.
He has a reason to be out. He’s just going for a ride. Anyone can stop to talk to him. And they can hear him coming, so they get their money together and then come out of their houses. And the cops don’t have any reason to stop this guy. He’s just sharing the joy of music with the neighborhood. He probably isn’t a big time guy. Maybe he’s just making deliveries for the club, I don’t know.
I have no proof this is what’s up. I don’t know his life. But suspected small fish rolling through the neighborhood is far less interesting than undead spirit riding a ghost trick bike across the earth. I’m still considering this mystery solved.
Glory be. World without end.
I’m not sure today if I made it.
I don’t know. Today feels familiar, like I’ve lived it already, but it feels wrong. Dirty shirt, smells like BO. Gross. Open a box of shoes: there are sweaty footprints on the insoles, and they aren’t mine. I don’t think. Are they? I can’t tell. Why can’t I tell? That’s a simple question. Are these your shoes, Seer?
Is this your life? Well? Is it? I’m asking you a question.
As it was in the beginning.
And I’m in my mother’s house, and she’s got the sutures, and they’re terrible terrible things, looking just awful, but it’s okay it’s okay it’s all okay and everything will be okay and I can forget forget about yesterday yesterday when I was fetal curled up in my own safeness crying because I had to come here it’s okay I can forget that it’s okay to be here forget if you don’t think about it you can’t smell the piss. I have to wash my hair three times to get the ammonia out in the morning. Forget it it forget.
World without end.
Sometimes I wonder if I really died, you know. There were some times I came close. When people shook the very death off of me like I had leeches on my back. And I wonder if I came back to the world I knew I knew the world I knew was born into and of or stepped into a Purgatory version. Am I paying off my debts now? Do I ever get a list of what they are? A receipt?
And ever shall be.
If I were dead, how would I know? Do the dead know? Would I even know.
I know I spend a lot of time on here–way, way too much. Way over the rim with the rich taste of Brim. Far and away too much–talking shit on Moms. I’m [about to rationalize it away, this bad behavior] really anxious right now, feeling out of control and she is the symbolic manifestation of my trouble.
But in so many ways, she is awesome. I think I’ve mentioned on here that she can see auras. But have I mentioned that at times she can see people’s past bodies on them? Yeah, that’s intense. It happens mostly for her in times of her profound spiritual growth.
The one I remember the most was when some lady was talking to mom about not liking scarves or necklaces.
“I just can’t have anything, anything on my neck at all. I have to keep it free. Deep v-necks, boatnecks, everything. I have to. I can’t explain it.”
And like that, and it was all dark in the room, and it was the hold of a ship, and Some Lady was a naked African man with thick rusty fetters on her neck and arms and legs.
“I can understand that,” Moms said.
It never helps to tell people what you see of them, though. Everyone thinks they’re Jesus or Lancelot or Joan of Arc. No one thinks they’re just some guy who got shot in the back while stabbing someone else in the face, you know? And that’s why he has back pain? Who wants to hear that? How is that helping?
Moms has an irrational love for steel pans. That, coupled with her love of dance (is she a good dancer? Well, it ain’t ballroom, but it makes her happy, so don’t hate. Lots of shoulders and thumbs, she’s a master of the high shoulders and waving thumb-fist. It’s sort of a private Hora, perfectly content to sit right there in that chair) makes me wonder where she came from. She also loves Zydeco, which I cannot stand. It’s Louisiana hillbilly music with a lot of accordion and washboard and it sounds like blues on meth and glue and hooch before meth was popular. I will listen to almost anything. There are about three or four, maybe six artists and one genre–no, two genres I can’t listen to. The only thing I can’t listen to that she doesn’t listen to are those there Juggalos, whatever that genre is. That would kind of be awesome, if my late-sixties mother was into ICP. She does like the raunchy humor.
I have an irrational love for the carillon. I have always heard it pronounced “Caroline,” like the woman’s name, but I don’t know that for certain. It’s hard for me to keep going on my way and not linger when I hear one. The sound, if you’re wondering, comes from one of the weirdest instruments ever. It’s a bell tower (like the one on the UC Berkeley campus, if you know that one), but it’s played with levers that you hit with your wrists or your fists. Well worth watching, if you’re the kind of weirdo who likes antiquing for Catholic paraphernalia (I adore an old medallion or a rosary) and old graveyards and everything skull/skeleton. (Yes, I love all things Catholic and bother my Episcopal mom about her religiosity. I AM A CONUNDRUM AND A TROUBLEMAKER. Bad daughter, bad!) But my love of all this stuff makes me wonder where I came from.
Maybe this is why we don’t get along. (Also, see troublemaker.) Our past souls are too different. I’m all uptight monk and she’s all loose smoke-tough Jamaican and then I got put in a herbed form this time and she’s in a straight-laced body this time and hijinks ensued. And by “hijinks” I mean “fuck-you-pay-me,” and by “fuck-you-pay-me” I mean “you’re not allowed to set healthy boundaries around yourself without my flashing on you like a sullen thirteen year old.” Oh, and “you” is “Seer” and “me” is Moms.
But y’all, I heard some music today that made me extremely hopeful! I heard the music today that I think is my future. I can’t explain why, any more than I can explain why the carillon is my past. It’s from Thailand (at least, I think it is; I can’t read Thai, but that looks like Thai–I should ask Sparrow if that’s Thai. She can’t read it, but I know she can recognize it. She can probably read a few words, like “toilet” and “beer.” Her brother takes or took lessons. Why you would care I don’t even know) and it seems to be a mix of the old and the new and it’s fucking awesome.
Maybe Moms and I will meet up again there. And maybe we’ll have another chance to get along and get it right.
This is how the steel pan is supposed to be enjoyed: in the street, with someone going through the garbage behind you, little kids in your way and such. I’m also pleased with the random videography, and the weird tempo changes at the whim of the artist.
This is the sound that speaks to my soul: the carillon, a word I can never spell correctly. They come from different movie soundtracks, no? No one I know who loves me can stand this for long periods of time. Not unless it’s Mario Brothers or something, and even then they lose interest.
This is what I heard today and it rocked me. I can’t stop looking for more. I mean, look at how much fucking fun these people are having! Drinking and dancing nasty, immoral dances in the streets! It’s a tiny, movable rave! They look like a second line party, like the people who come back from the cemetery in New Orleans after someone is laid to rest. The living cut loose, because you only have so much time, you know?
i need to stop
with the angry
I got a weird flash the other day.
“What’s tesseract mean?”
“Huh?” says the man I love who more than puts up with my insanity. This is my version of pillow talk. He gets karmic points for being with me, yes.
(Later I asked him if we would still date if I had only one toe on each foot, but it was the entire width of all my toes combined, and had one nail, like a flipper. This was a little much at eleven at night. He was more confused than anything else. I made a note to back off of the “what-if–my-body-were-shaped-like-a-plot-device” talk. Also always interesting to me: what if all my body hair were concentrated in one place, like a rhino’s horn? Yeah, sometimes this tries the patience, but note that I am an excellent cook. Like really, really good.)
“Tesseract. Is that the name of a pyramid in three-dimensional space?”
“I know that’s what they use to get energy in The Avengers. The blue thing, remember? The cube?”
“Oh yeah. So is it some sort of Euclidean solid or something?”
“Why Seer? What? Why ‘tesseract’?” Indeed…why…?
“I don’t know.” I didn’t. “I just had that word in my head and I don’t know rightly what it is.” No voice gave it to me. It just came through me, really.
This satisfied him. But not me.
I looked it up today, but not until after I got another word.
A tesseract is the analog of a cube in four dimensions (square : cube :: cube : tesseract). Look, I can’t explain it as well as Carl Sagan can, and you’d rather hear him than me, believe me.
After I took a nap today, the word torpid came into my mind. That’s when I’d had enough and I needed to look both of them up.
Torpid means numb or slow or lazy or in stasis or hibernation. It’s also used to describe a stupor in mental illness.
This dormouse is described as torpid or being in torpor. He’s also snoring up a fuck. That’s the technical terminologism. You can look it up. I studied biology at Science University Tech State University College, you know. Go fighting louses!
Why am I getting a vocabulary list from somewhere? Hell if I fucking know. I have heard these words before, but if you had required me to define them I’d have had to have made something up. I could have probably sounded convincing. But I’ve already told you, my psychic powers are stupid. Is it any wonder my prophetic ones are also for shit? (If you want a great prophet, you want the Third Eagle of the Apocalypse. Now there is a great man with great logic and the ability to prophesy.)
I’ve been undeniably cranky lately. The past several weeks. It’s been either contagion and I got it from somewhere or I’m Patient Zero and spread it up and down to all the people who are porous around me (sorry, so sorry, I didn’t know I was giving you pinkeye on the Third one. At least is isn’t visible and people will still sit next to you on the bus). People I have noticed it in:
- Little gray asshole cat in the neighborhood (has taken to shitting on the fucking sidewalk, how dickish is that, can’t even be bothered to shit in the gutter or on the bare dirt around here, fucking little asshole cat)
Okay, I had listed three other people here, but I removed them, because I’m trying not to talk about other people. As long as you aren’t grumping at me, which they aren’t, I don’t mind. Have your feelings. Have away! Don’t take them out on me and we’re totally cool. There have been some miscommunications because grumpy people are more anxious and forgetful–this includes me–so I need to take that into account. But it’s more than just me, it’s a lot of people, which makes me think this is an emotional virus.
I think it’s starting to shift, though. At least for me.
I got a huge shift of creative energy the other day. Well, I got a huge burst of toxic energy (I felt like I was dying–don’t worry, this happens not infrequently to me), and then I had to go see Moms. But I was able to push this shit out of my psychic colon and paint this energetic poop on the walls of my own private asylum. I can use it for creative inspiration, is what I’m saying. So I’m onto a new, short-term project.
It’s shadow side, this project is, so I’ll be dipping my cup into the darkness a lot in the nearness. Next few weeks or month or so. That’s fine; it’ll give me a constructive channel for all the yechery. Maybe I’ll be less of an a-hole. Maybe. No promises.
The thing about taking on a new, highly energetic project: it hurts to do this. It’s like shedding a skin. It’s cutting the nails past the quick and bleeding. Losing teeth makes for the tender, bloody, pulpy spots, you know? That’s where the energy comes from. The energy comes from the parts of the body that don’t normally get exposed. It comes from the humors. The bile, blood, phlegm. Growth and creation hurt. If you don’t believe me, ask a pregnant lady. Hella them are fucked up crazy people. But you get a baby/work at the end of it, so hopefully you’re at least satisfied about the whole thing. Not always, but you know, there was at least some sort of payoff. Flu just sucks and then it sucks less and less until you can hold your head up without it feeling like it’s full of dirty rocks and motor oil.
This is good shit, is what I’m saying. But it’s way potent. I’m already having waking visions and sleeping dreams related to this project. I’m not taking more of the project on than I can handle (I guess, but probably not, I’m probably doing too much, letting it eat too much time), and I totally know my dealer (that’s not true, really; I have no idea where this shit comes from. Do you know the Muse? Or the energy of the universe? I fucking don’t. I feel it, and have only a rudimentary understanding of it), but still: creative energy is a helluva drug, man. Crazy-ass trip.
We’ll see how long there’s catshit on the sidewalk. That cat is a fucking nincompoop, really. No decency.
Hey everybody! I’ve been away from this thing for fucking ever. Will you still read me here? Who fucking knows!
What have I been up to in the past year? It’s been a year, a whole year since I’ve written on the blog. I’ve been writing quite a bit, just not here. But since I got myself a diary and feel I should be making more writing for other people–not just myself and my classmates (especially not my classmates)–I thought I would come back here.
[HERE was some bullshit about OTHER PEOPLE and THEIR BUSINESS but really WHO GIVES TWO SHITS. IS THAT A QUESTION I don’t know maybe I do but not right now.]
Anyways. Something else I’ve learned here? Here is a place in both time and space, temporally and spatially. I mean in my life and in school both. Something else: I really, really, really love writing the “experimental” fiction. Maybe a little too much. It’s so satisfying. That’s even worse financially than being a Poet! I’m also working on some more commercial stuff, but there’s no way I’d share it with my classmates. They’re okay, but if it ain’t literary fiction, they’re really not digging it.
Yet another thing I’ve learned: bless my stars, my Moms is fucking awful right now. If she was emotionally fourteen before, I think she’s eleven now, and she is ready to rock! The woman has arthritis and is taking it to the streets. She ain’t blind and she don’t like what she sees, Seer! She had surgery to replace one of her goddamned knees and the way I did things for her was not up to her standards nor did it work for me.
Let’s review the fun:
Please Seer, can I have some more?
I got some bad news tonight. And I just wrote a very, very bleak, somewhat unhinged post I do not feel comfortable posting. I don’t care if you want to see it. I’m not that much of an exhibitionist. (If this is better, it’ll give you an idea of how bad that one was.)
Basically, I found out tonight that someone has cancer. I’m sad, but I’m taking it somewhat personally, as if this year has done it to me again. Which is a little cray-cray. I know it’s crazy, but I still feel this way. I don’t know if that’s crazier or saner. I can’t help the way I feel, I suppose. It’s just that so many shitty things have happened over the past ten months, it feels so purposeful, so calculated. It doesn’t feel accidental.
Last year kinda sucked, too, though. With the bird mite infestation and the cursed move. I didn’t take that personally. The year before that, that was when everybody died. People close to me died of cancer, acquaintances died of COPD, the asshole maintenance man at work hanged himself. That year, that I took personally.