Papa Ghede, ouvri barye-a.
Ouvri barye Atibon.
Pou nou pase la.

O, manman’m se nwa, papa’m se nwa.
Kouman yo sezi, le’m soti blan.

…………I was up all night.

Doing my history paper.

My eyes are red.

My brain is dead.

And I really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really need a neck rub……..

………time to go to work………….

(Today a writing collegue told me I was the best writer of poetic prose that he could think of. He was surpised that I didn’t really have much of a formal poetry background, or many poems to show for it – just a bunch of short stories with poetic prose. I decided I need to write more poetry.)

Every day, I ran
To the lake mouth
To clear the branches
Of vultures brooding black
In the thick of thorns
Hungry for messiah blood
Tiny Spears of Destiny
Having to instead subside
On meager meals of road kill gore
Dangling in the thorny wind
And every day
And every run
One less vulture
And then no more
And the crow laughed
And I knew I had come home

“I can’t stand to see the morning come,
While the evening rain’s still falling.”
-Moby, “Evening Rain”

Running in the rain, rocks! I ran two and a half miles tonight, without stopping. I’m high on an endorphin/pride cocktail and feeling muscles I forgot about sometime around my freshman year of college. It’s almost, almost, better than the writing high – when every other problem seems distant and unimportant. Thanks Torrie.

Then…too exhilarated to stop driving and listening to music, I drove to Rocco’s grave. Got out with the geese and the rain. I stood for ten minutes or so and smelled the rain. I love smelling the rain. It’s my favorite part of the changing seasons. You can feel rain in the winter, but you can’t smell it, sense it in the same way.

I ran into Veronica today. I used to hang out with her and a bunch of my, then neighbors, last year and the year before. She gave me her number with a promise that we had to go for drinks before she graduates. She was one of the girls, when we used to hit the bar and clubs in Springfield, who told me that, despite my racial handicap (me being white) I was a good dancer (better than my apartment mate, who did not suffer the same debilitation…and still doesn’t to my knowledge). That ranks up there with being told, by a Brazilian woman, that I “understand” death and sex, despite my cultural handicap. Wow…I need a made-for-TV movie, about the trials and tribulations of struggling against all my handicaps. WHY THE F%#$ DID WE MAKE THIS: the Joshua Doetsch story . . . tonight on Fox!

Also, I just received a picture of Lenore’s Daddy. Here he is:

Now that is a picture that warms my heart. He’s the black snake on the left hand side. The snake on the right is a Ball Python. Can’t wait till Lenore is that size! She is really starting to get her growth on (compared to the little squiggly thing I picked up last July). I can really feel the weight when I pick her up now.

Time to write about witches in England…

Wise man once said, “A man should take care, when reaching for his glass, to take a long, refreshing draght of cool water, that he not, by mistake, grab the similar glass with the warm water, defrosting a furry mouse corpse, meant for his serpent pet.”

Holy fuck that was close.

Some weekends, you end up with Mudslide on your crotch.

Where do you start on the-connect-the-dot, double helix strand of time, backtracking, remembering the series of events that led to your alcohol soaked boxers?

I recall running. Torrie, Jess, and I ran our longest interval yet (25 minutes)…and, strangely, it felt like nothing (and I recall when five minutes was a Herculean effort). Pumped was the emotion of the moment.

That night, I went to a poetry reading on campus. We had a guest author visit, open the night with Q & A, and read some of his work. Then, open mic. There were some interesting poems and even a bit of singing (including a Brazilian song from a former native).

I got up to read three times. First, my short story (I told the audience to pretend it was a “narrative poem”) “Thorns,” a sinister story disguised as a break-up rant. Then I read “Poe Goes to the Singles Bar,” and got reactions in all the right places. Lastly, I read “Teddy Bear Rex” (“…which I wrote to reconcile the age old conflict between Greek Tragedy…and stuffed animals.”)

I got the compliments that make the lows worth it.

The guest poet took me aside and told me I had a great “tone” and “humor.” Joanna told me that, in the span of a one page story, I made her laugh and cry.

Best part of the evening…I got to hook up with my old writing buddies. HOW THE HELL HAD I DRIFTED AWAY FROM THEM?! They’re a cool group of cats…and hanging out with them always brings me a sort of serenity. Plus…I get to be the baby of the group.

Turns out, it was Joanna’s birthday (good timing). So I went with her and the rest of the crew to go celebrate. Joanna is a great girl to hang out with. I don’t know if I believe that auras exist…but I believe her’s can cure cancer if you hang around her long enough.

We celebrated at Chad and David’s place. David showed me an essay that made it into a book of essays on how to beat the blues (his was nestled between Kris Kristofferson’s and Little Richard’s pieces). Sweet. We partied in a house full of balloons (seven or so of us). Never-never-land on helium.

I also got to meet the Brazilian woman that sang that song at the open mic (she really liked my writing) and her daughter. It’s kind of strange knowing people who are not that much older than me, who have adolescent daughters…but not that weird. And this particular daughter was one of the coolest little girls ever. Her music tastes were…awesome. She rattled off her favorite rock artists (and played me an AC/DC song on David’s guitar) and I thought…surely there is hope for the future. She hang out with us “adults” (FUCK all the small brained teachers and councilors that tell her single mother that she shouldn’t be “friends” with her daughter…fuck them with a rattle snake).

Her mom and I talked about the strange things she found, coming to America (not really an American bash…just some of the peculiar traits of the culture that might get taken for granted). In particular, she was perplexed by the negative attitude towards smart people (smart folk are “nerds,” kids are afraid of letting their peers know they did well on a test, etc.). In her country, she said, smart people are valued. I concurred – there are more mediocre people than exceptional and they have an instinctual drive to make all others mediocre (the ultimate society of “equality”). Her other confusion was the hang-up with sex and swears. I concurred with this also, telling her it was the Puritan influence – puritanical cultures show an aversion and fear of sex and death (life’s two defining points) and avoid it at all costs…where as, some other cultures find the humor in both. She smiled at this and gave me a high five – happy that an American “understood.”

Mother and daughter to bed – and Chad gave me the conspiratorial nod, and I followed him out the back. “This stuff is mind blowing,” he said, referring to the…herbal refreshment he offered , “somebody sent it to me from California.” Not that I’d know the difference. I could still count the number of times I’d tried this on one hand, and it had been as many months since the last time I tried. Gateway my ass.

While it failed to imprint any habits (I’m balls at forming habits…too lazy), it did make me pretty useless at answering my phone (my apologies to all those trying to get a hold of my Friday night…or worse, trying to get a decent conversation out of me).

A movie, then sleep, then we all got up (the whole party group) and went out for breakfast. I had my first “horseshoe.” I think it took five years off my life.

And that’s about it…

…what?

…oh…yeah…the mudslide on the crotch. How else was I going to get you to read this long ass post? Saturday night, I and some others did a night of dramatic readings, each of us playing parts in each others’ monologues and short plays. I played a secret service man, a piece of white trash, and Jesus. The white trash character involved me walking on stage in my boxers, and dumping mudslide on my crotch (guess you had to be there). Ah the things I do for the performing arts.

Wil and Brandy came out…and afterwords we went to Logjammer…er….Bootleggers. My crotch still smelled of mudslide (an interesting method of picking up women I must say).

That’s about it.

The performance was video taped and is, apparently, as we speak, webcasted for all the world to see. I have no idea where. Just Google me.

Google me baby!

Occult researcher and vampire scholar, Montague Summers, was born on this day in 1880.

HANDLER PUNISHED FOR DONNING CAMEL COSTUME