bump

bump is a screen play i am working on. i started writing it while i was in dallas in lawschool. while i am not myself a drug user (notwithstanding RX narcotics), i was simply overwhelmed by the cocaine culture in dallas. there was also a good romp of self-pity and dare i say despair that needed an outlet. one day during journaling (after having watched the godfaterh) i wrote a sentence that was very crass, egocentric, and amoral-- it felt good. i developed, for one of the first times in my many attempts at fiction, a voice. the sentence:

Later, after Marcus died, we decided to skip breakfast. I suppose he is still lying there, staring into the kitchen— we took the dog, Mee-Lu, but left the cannoli.

that led to:

It's already eight am so of course Andrew and Walter drop. They prefer shrooms, but after Marcus died — we figured acid would be safer. I save my mind altering experiences for wondering how Allanis Morisette's song "Ironic" ever got it's title. Instead, I bury my face in Charlotte's pussy. I lick the edges and roll my eyelids across her cold flat nipples until I can see myself in her thighs and her black, black hair. I suck cocaine off her tits like an old man gasping for life through the mask of an oxygen tank, which is invariably pea green and the size of a bloated mule dick. If Charlotte were real, I would force my fingers in her pussy, and suck cocaine off of her tits until she screamed and I stopped breathing. If there really were an Angel and a devil on your shoulder, Charlotte would talk them into a threesome. She is my life with cocaine. In reality, she is a mirror: 4" x 3". Handmade in Cuba, it is part of a rare black mirror that was supposed to conjure demons. It is set in silver, and Charlotte's voluptuous figure is etched across the whole thing; except one corner, just below her left foot is her signature— Charlotte. In my world, she is Mother Theresa, with bigger tits.

i apologize for the blatant mysogenistic tones here. i hope readers will see beyond that and instead see the connection between cocaine addiction and insatiable lust stemming from sexual frustration.

if anyone has taken a class with Wenying Xu, then you will have no doubt read some shorts by Mahatma Devi (sp?), from which i steal the following:

If Victor doesn't shoot me, I'm going to Jamestown, South Africa. I was in Japan last summer and before that I stayed in the Czech republic for a month. The coke there is horrible. They get it mostly from Russian drug czars, who couldn't cut a proper key of coke any more than they could build an economy. I don't travel b/c I'm interested in other cultures, or b/c I give a fuck about the Bastille. I'm looking for a place to die. I read a book about an Indian girl who got pimped into a whore house to satisfy her father's debt. After she had been near fucked to death they sent her home with a host of venereal diseases. She died bleeding over a map of India. I'm hoping for something slightly less symbolic.

excerpts from bump

Riley
Do we still owe him money?

Andrew
Actually no. He said he should have killed us last time. So since he did us the favor of not killing us then instead of owing him the money, we now owe him a favor. So that's it. We've just do a little favor and then we're back on track.

Riley
I wonder what other people mean when they want to get their lives back on track. They probably don't envision offering free coke to 19 year old girls so that they'll give you head in your best friend's bathroom. But maybe, that's what's wrong with America.

missing the point

here are a series of comments in response to karlito bandito, the count dracula of blogs, or at least the primogenitor (okay, so i had to look up the spelling of that one, and while doing so, i shit you not, i flipped to "oral sex," which according to the 1993 American Heritage College Dictionary means "sexual activity involving oral stimulaiton of one's partner's sex organs." ironic that the "college" dictionary singularizes oral sex.) of my onjour.

you have to read karl's post from today b/c he draws a rather clever analogy b/t cleansing his fishtank and cleansing his psyche. the gist, at least in part, is that it may be necessary to remove 10% of the water in your fishtank in order to maintain a proper balance within the fishtank between the total number of fish you have and the bacteria which consume their by-product. as i am not a fish owner, i can only assume that this exercise helps remove some of the fish waste until there has been enough bacterial growth to have a semi-homeostatic bioshpere. by comparison, muses karl, dreaming may be a similar pshycological process "Perhaps that’s what dreams are: a ten percent psyche change every night, to keep the water in balance and the mind clean." (see, www.fulcrummonkey.blogspot.com friday may 21, 2004 post).

my comment was:

Exchange? Can't be. If I follow your analogy correctly, the brain is the fishbowl. Where's the pasta bowl? You can't exchange the water (memories), and you can't purge them either... (repression and resolution are not cathartic in process, although similarly satisfying) The lesson or realization (at least that I am taking away from this onjour (see my post)) is that your fishtank is far more vast than you can imagine and the balance does not come from exchange and removal, but constant additions of memories. The cleansing is not a cleansing at all, but a balancing. In the same way that you add base to acid, you add yen to yang. The balancing, must therefore, come in your conscious existence being sure to choose karmicly positive actions in proportion to the negative. True to the fishtank, however, is the need for bacteria...
Jason | Email | 05.21.04 - 2:35 pm | #

which was followed by:

"And the bacteria consume the shit to render it non toxic - dreams are a bacteriological redigestion of memory which removes the toxins."

admittedly, i'm over-defensive, but the response to my comment seems combative or harsh, as if i missed karl's point somehow. immediately, being the argumentative type, i wanted to defend my position to explain and reassert...blah blah blah. and it is that action that would be missing the point. this is not a forum for dialogue per se, nor even the impetus for dialogue, although a natural sidebar. it is mono. it is a forum to engage one's self, which, as Bruce Lee teaches, is infitely more difficult than engaging another. so my demon is competition, but rooted more in self-doubt. so mazel tov ted kennedy and your shit eating bacteria-- and may he who blogs last blog best

of course the parentheticals are hommage to karl.

neology has nothing to do with rocks

still cannot bring myself to be comortable with the phonetic resonance of "blog" which has to be onomatopoeia for some gastral function. therefore, (and through some dashing use of flags) "blogs" and the derivatives thereof are "onjour" or online journaling.

first of few

i hope you find this as narcissistic as i do but maryanne moore rightly teaches that you must have a certain contempt for prose (in her case poetry) so this intentionally self-effacing prelude is of material importance before flashing to others "hey... read this"

karlito bandito

the senor of senors advised that this blogging phenomenon is the atkins diet of english majors-- well he didn't actually say that but i'm sure he meant it

so here it is karl, my first ever blog. if you remember much from the passing weekend i hope you can recall the southpark episode i discussed where kenny learns that there is a certain musical note that if played or sang properly will make people poop. of course they learn this in time for the world's largest children's choir- combined of several million children from all over the world- and the boys circulate new sheet music for the pan flute all the children are going to play and everyone in the world simultaneously poops themselves. i tell you this because the word blog almost has a similar effect, so i am going to have to rename this online journaling something that does not cause irritable bowel syndrome. perhaps any would be commentors may make suggestions.