Saturday, August 4, 2007

Poke A Haunt Us.

Essentially I have been making the same entry into a "daily" diary/blog for a few years now. Everytime I start typing, I want to say the same thing, but I always say everything else to avoid saying that thing. And, to be honest, I am not sure I totally know what that thing would be. It would have to be a pretty significant statement wouldn't it? I'm not a philosopher though.

A friend of mine told me one night on a late night village booze cruise that he was astounded by my thought processes.. my art for "critical thinking". He held his head close to his lap to keep the porch light out of his eyes, and I just looked at the back of his head knowing what was truly going on there. I had just told him that all I had gotten out of my primary education was a general education diploma. After the stunning 5 second silence that followed what he thought was my admission, he picked up without hesitating... a rather... thoughtful and missionary tone with me... a sincere and reflective kind of courtesy that generally makes me gag... and I just wanted to start up my tank and go home and finish my beer and listen to my one dimensional "prog-rock" and forget about anyone's needs but my own.

It isn't a matter of feeling insufficient. It's about finding friends. I haven't really been finding them, but you know, Just leave it there. Dropped off. Delivered. Done. Now, bring on the next tomorrow of swimming in a sea of self obsessed and handicapped, base, human interactions and let me act like a retard again who has no goals.. no dreams... no Nobel Prize winning drafts flooding My every cell. And I'll sum it all up with another fucking " Hello. How you doin? ... Oh yeah... Ooooh Truly?? When is this shit going to end? Yeah. .. MMMM I know what you mean. It's insane. Hope you (insert appropriate dog day joke here." Profit from all the loss..... (Right on.).... Left on.

My brain has been on repeat for about 2 months now. I could go into why. I could erase your brain of anything worth remembering for the next 4 hours trying to help you understand the simplest conclusions that I have come up with here. I'm not saying I'm complicated. I am saying that this place is complicated. Each conclusion is like a brick wall and never like an open horizon. You'd think I would be up to the challenge, for all you know about me. And the thing is... I have been doing nothing BUT be up for this unreal challenge every moment of the day since I came here. My reputation is important to me, but more important to me than that, is being able to make people around me comfortable. You might say, "Yeah right. Every time we ever hung out you were so quiet. You would always keep to yourself mostly, or make jokes..." But I know every last one of you, my friends... who I feel slipping away... Have called me FIRST when shit was really fucking bad for you. I was just wondering if .. you know. I could want to call you for a change. I haven't felt like you were there in any way but to use me. Like I said, I could go into why.. Maybe I'll just go my own way.

I am writing all of this as if I expect someone to read it. I guess, because I am not some basket case diary writer who hits the privacy button and thinks that anyone cares more about your thoughts than your credit. I'm also not a novelist. .. Though I do have one story in my head that I have always wanted to write. I might as well share it, because even if the handful of you who came upon this blog "stole" it... I'd like to see what you would do with it, and it would always be more potent in my mind regardless of what you pulled out of your ass. But to address my trepidation with bearing all in this blog, I guess. .. I wonder if my employers read my thoughts... (as an aside). Wonder if my friends and if my enemies read my thoughts here, and truthfully it doesn't give me a boner to think they do. It kind of bothers me. I assume that who I am is obvious to everyone I deal with on a regular basis, but that doesn't mean they really know what they are getting.. and there's always something in me that wants to curse them with the back up black wings.....

I always assume that my ideas are too extreme for business. The strange thing that I am finding is that... the Earth is desperate. If you can form a sentence and ask a question, there is someone out there who wants to answer you. But there's no accounting for communication. Accounting for Taste is like Doing Roll call for Manners. The only people saying "present" are simply the bored assholes who showed up and not people you should ever really want to dine with let alone set your savage swine against.. to gain.

I know better than anyone that my ideas aren't really extreme. My character is extreme.

So, my idea is this. There's this small Alaskan village on the Bering Sea. The weather is wild. The population is 50 at the most any given time of the year. There's no law enforcement. There's no church . There's no grocery store. You look at the black night, devoid of city lit reflective skylines and think of the dark ages. You feel as if you are one step removed from the Dark Ages. IN fact, lately... there's been nothing but death and misery. Strangers are proudly telling you that they are praying for you. Soon people start seeing strange things. They start imagining things. They become far off. They choose their words carefully when they run into other villagers. They want to see if someone else has seen it too. They can't decide if they are seeing blurry and late night alcoholic hallucinations or ghosts or trickery with the lighting. They wonder if what they saw has anything to do with the stories they have all been told. Anything to do with how they talked to their grandchild today, or anything to do with how much fish were in the net. The stories they all heard by gaslight or moonlight.

The sick girl who was sent away to seek medical attention with the strange seaman during a terrible storm. (Terrible storms aren't cliche' here.) They never arrived at their destination and there was no evidence of wreckage.

I have it all layed out in my mind. Scenes. Conversations. Effects. Tension. All of it. But whatever. She's not a ghost, and the joke is on the Village. She's the ship wrecked child, grown, having really lived the subsistance and spiritual life of those "Here's How We Lived Without The World" true stories... creeping out residents who are simply losing their minds.

There's nothing complicated about any of this. Except maybe me in there, and you out there, wanting to help me, and that's not complicated. That's something else....

I keep saying how fucking crazy it is to live here. Is who I am changing?