Well, if you do the silence thing you get to experience the orchestra of the universe. Some of the most beautiful stuff you’ve ever heard. It’s as if the universe is softly humming directly into your brain. But it’s the humming of atoms spinning, of quarks playing airy violins and superstrings slowly vibrating bass lines. Where unseen galaxies swirl about your head, scattering any possible direction of the music’s origin. Then you hear the beginning of OM: the universe breathing at the lowest threshold of sound and you constantly strain to hear it, but you never do and you smile because you know some day you will.
***Warning – Includes questionable content and imagery***
There she is, lying on the bed, the fruits of two weeks of work. Two weeks of bullshit, really. Two weeks of listening to her ramble on about her job as a veterinarian assistant in some startup mom-and-pop humanitarian effort. A last ditch effort for mom and pop to hang onto some small shred of human decency. Though you can already see that shred has withered away to a single, lonesome strand that left them years ago, though they refuse to let go of it, not noticing they’re gripping nothing at all.
While on the third date and still not having seen her naked, you try to keep your eyes at face level, but the inane drivel that escapes her lips causes piercing flashes of white-hot pain that forces you to lower your sights downward to stare at her tits, which bob gently up and down with every breath, like a lone buoy lost at sea, no real purpose, especially clothed. She continues her latest story of veterinarian delights; something about a crazy woman, the crazy woman’s cat and a bottle of generic mustard. She mentions something about the woman possibly having some kind of syndrome requiring a pharmaceutical concoction, but you can’t recall what it was exactly, because it has nothing to do with breasts. You can feel the boredom that emanates from underneath her dual bubbly “personalities” and bleached-blonde highlights. She does a pretty good job of hiding the boredom, but you’ve seen it before and it’s easy to spot. Nothing special with this one. You know that another story is probably next and you’ve decided that the only way you’re gonna sit through this one is while you’re undressing her. I only cuddle if my balls are empty. Random thoughts, but who can blame you? Three dates already? Possibly more. Ouch, my wallet.
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Swimming in Parking Lots (Revised)
July is the hottest month. Maybe not for any averages in the record books, but to me it is. I will forever equate July with scorching temperatures, sweat-soaked shirts, bone-dry infields and yellow outfields, peeling red-hot skin and rubber-green basketball courts waving in the heat currents. I’ll also remember it for oil-slick colored skies and waist-high muddy water.
It was the year 1997. It was the end of July, the 28th to be exact. It was a day like any other day. Nothing about its beginning was noteworthy. I awoke at my leisure. I was 14 and I had yet to get a job. I didn’t have an alarm clock either and had no pressing engagements scheduled that day. I rolled out of bed, my hair matted damply to the pillow; the result of the sun streaming directly onto my face through open blinds. I walked out of my room down the hallway and heard a male voice. It was not my brother’s and it was not my mother’s (ha-ha). Whose was it? I continued down the hallway to the kitchen and noticed various tools lying about. All of them caked with dirt, the tell-tale sign of heavy usage. Someone had gotten their moneys worth. I walked into the living-room and noticed a gigantic roll of carpet leaning heavily against the north wall, near the dark-brown china cabinet. Oh yeah, we were getting carpet installed. I would be outside all day.
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A chartreuse jellybean, the size of a small egg, sat nestled firmly within a Jack Daniels shot glass. A veiny hand, dotted with liver spots resembling ground sausage on a meat-lovers pizza, quietly slipped its bony fingers around the small glass and lifted it into the early morning air. Quickly following were a pair of feminine blue eyes whose flicker of life had been snuffed out long ago, but were known to occasionally flare to a startling intensity whenever a garage sale bargain was close at hand. Not ten seconds passed and the old woman was already reaching into her oversized pink handbag. As soon as the old lady exchanged the jellybean and shot glass for fifty cents (she bargained down from a dollar), a gold-green light swept the length of the jellybean from bottom to top and exploded into infinity, completely imperceptible to any human eye.
A few galaxies to the north, a four-fingered hand jerked involuntarily, causing a glass of mint tea to splatter across the chrome floor. It was the creature’s first uncalculated movement in a thousand years.
“Shit,” it said in an alien tongue, roughly translated of course.
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Lighted
I’m 21. Clueless. Only green. Not even alcohol really.
I’m browsing the internet one frigid, purple-tinged winter evening and come across a website promoting a legal psychedelic. I’m intrigued. Legal? Why?
I don’t order the material from the site. I order the plant. I’m gonna grow it. It shows up at my doorstep a month later, haggard, sickly. I follow the instructions to revive it. It revives.
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