It’s the last day of my vacation and I’m sitting, yet again, in the gay coffee shop, iced coffee and Aretha Franklin’s “Say a little prayer for you” is playing slightly too loud. I feel like I’m cheating the last fading remainders of my sexuality being here; but the music is funny in juxtaposition with my normal mood and it’s not like I’m using it anyway.

Sometimes this place has a somber vibe to it, the patrons telling of the devastation that was visited upon them in the 80s and 90s. Other times it glows with a vitality I can’t quite put my finger on. Mostly it’s inexpensive coffee that’s close to my shitty apartment and not filled with the same overly hip jerk-offs that infest the other cafe’s around here. Yes, I’m talking to you: guy with tight striped shirt with a v-neck collar riding a fixed gear tall bike stroking your ironic mustache.

I didn’t mean to get so mean, but I’ve been writing the same novel here for nearly 3 years and the fucking thing is still far from finished. I’m allergic to her lipstick. I found out the other day when we shared a beer and nothing more; my luck is awesome.

Anyway, I suppose I wanted to pop in and tell you that it’s ok if you don’t have tattoo sleeves or little birdies over your clavicle, though that second one isn’t so bad either way. I’ve gotta get back to the novel before work starts to kill me again. Good luck.

– Insect Life –
There are no pronouns, as of yet, but she is waiting, bristling in the corner. If the universe could perceive without influence, it would watch her crawl and scratch in a dark and lonely place. A time of changes is set upon the town and the players held therein. The pieces move in a clockwork madness, inscribed in years gone by, and recited, by rote, as the night would swallow the day. There are no pronouns as of yet, and the camera of the universe needs servicing. John walks from a small shop, half a block off the street, wiping his hands on his pants as his memory moves as fogs across the long walk home.

-..an office in the woods –
Walking to the back he sees a shell of some old thing which may have once been machine, which may have once been plant; its rusted/rooted visage being swallowed by the viral grass springing from the earth. He sees a small child, no more than 11, with a clutch of balloons, letting go of one at a time; letting one at a time get caught in a large tree standing solitary, away from the mass on entangled others.
“Hello. I’m John.” The boy looks to him with eyes half focused on something internal. “Is this the HJ Bonobus Corporation?”
The boy smirks and speaks in a gravel, “This is in fact the property currently referred to by that name. HJB will not be here for another few hours.”
“Oh, well, may I wait with you while we wait?” John is fond of children and likes to talk to them in such ways.
“Would like to feed our friend?” The child with a man’s voice asks as he hands over a balloon and head-gestures to the tree.
John looks confused at the tree, but reaching back into his memory of jumping fences and avoiding parents decides that this would be a good game. He walks to the base of the tree, its bark reminds him of scabs, the leaves a black hole.
“Just let it go?”
“Indeed. The wind and tree will lead the way. Simply let go.”
He releases the balloon and watches it float into the branches and seemingly disappear. He looks imploringly to the child.
“Where does it go?”
“It goes as all food goes. It is ingested and forgotten. You may know over time, or not, so it will go.”
“Sounds reasonable to me. May I sit?”
They both sit on the grass, Buddha style, and pick at random grass. The wait will be pleasant.

It’s like a cardboard cutout of your entire family burnt to a cinder.

Well, maybe it’s more like those wooden marionettes that flip when you pull on the sticks.

Either way, we can call each other kings. All hail the Angra Manru(frightful spirit devil). Blessed be the Ahura Mazda(good lord god) who is now springing from winged circle.

It has often been a subject of debate how many devils can be seen dancing on the head of a match, pin or needle. The real issue here is the swirling vortex of subatomic strings which, when in full vibrational mode, cause the ebb and flow of universal properties. The Yazzatas dance on the edge of a palm leaf, angels on the head of pins and the rarely seen Seraphim minuet on tobacco ashing.

Check out this awesome painting my friend Mel made for me. This is a character/plant from the novel I’m writing. I like it.

There are no words for individual tears
or the poems which form within those moments
of walking direction-less
or sitting in a car
to watch the lights go out.

Yeah, so maybe that last post was a little darker than the usual fare here. But, fuck man, I had a bad couple of weeks. It happens, alright? Anyway, I feel obliged to come back to you with some kind of grace, some civility beyond the oppressive bluesy ennui of recent times. I just watched a cursor blink for three minutes thinking about something amusing to say. I edited the novel a bit the other night, wrote a small section about a tertiary character… how exciting! The other night I got drunk on Powers whiskey and added a donation button to here and the podcast. I’m pretty good at computers when I’m drunk. One time I bought a smoothie maker after a 12 pack of PBR. I don’t regret that since smoothies are delicious.

This is really going nowhere, but quickly! Anyone want to give me an idea of what to talk about in episode 8? I didn’t think so.

I’m reading “Be here now” by Ram Dass. It’s pretty good for the most part save for this swatch in the middle. He makes the middle of the book this annoying hand drawn thing with illustrations of smiling faces, phallic symbols, lotus symbols and over used capitals. I find that when people talk just after finding enlightenment they try really hard to show how happy and contented they are. But it sits somewhat false with me. I buy enlightenment, I do. I’ve seen and read enough accounts of gurus to know that they exist and they have a line on some secret wonderful energy. But for the first couple months after a white guy talks to the guru, the whitey tends to get really overenthusiastic, forced. I don’t know; maybe I’m just jealous. But I’d rather sit serene than dance joyous.
Oh, but he does mention this Salinger short story, “Teddy”, which is one of my favorites… so extra points for that. Read the book, it’s goodish.

Christ I feel thin lately, and not in a good way. I’m just stretched out and little spots of light are shining through the fabric. It’s like a half step away from weeping at any given moment. I went to the grocery earlier and almost broke down because I couldn’t find onion powder and this little girl kept walking by me as if the universe needed a more obvious sign post that I’m unmarried, alone, and nearly broken because the fucking onion powder isn’t in alphabetical order.

My dreams keep trying to kill me with their constant reminders of past loves and all the things I keep leaving in my wake of insecurity and anxious moments. I haven’t written a word all year that’s worth a shit and I’m about a week away from shaving my head and running away from home. I wouldn’t know where to go though since I don’t really think of this as home. I don’t think of anyplace as home, but last night there was this warmth from a girl I know, but it wasn’t for me. I feel really thin lately and I keep buying lotto tickets to make it go away. Does that make sense? I think it does. I think that buying just a few minutes of hope is worth going further and further into poverty.

I watched “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind” again the other night, which was a bad idea. That scene where Kirsten Dunst is dancing with the tech guy makes me really lonesome these days; even more so than the other obvious tear jerking bits of that film. I started whinging instead of whining,like the English do, because I think it makes me more charming in my break down.

Anyone out there give a shit about this? Or is this just for me? The program that tells me who reads this things says that I have a few regulars, do they care? I just feel really fucking thin these days and I’m out of ideas.

E-mail me if you’re alive: 1angryanthropoid at gmail dot com

I wish to tell you that my intellectual powers stop just short of making any sort of sense of the Mahabharata. It just seems like people having incredible children and then never showing up again. This makes my rereading of the Bhagavad Gita a somewhat scary proposition. I read bits of it in college, but mostly those weird verses which talk about nuclear wars and UFOs. Google nuclear war in the Bhagavad Gita if that comment makes no sense. In short: they describe these flying vessels that the gods use to wage wars, which sound like modern “UFO” encounters. Later it describes a bright fire weapon which kills at a distance, much like radiation poisoning. There’s more to the theory including an irradiated city they supposedly found in India.

Lately I’ve been avoiding novel writing, podcasting, and blogging by watching old science fiction shows and going through ancient bits of paper I found in an old folder. Once I get the house to myself I will record a new one, or write something less Indian mythical… I swear this to you.

Hey guys, I just got my first earnings report from Amazon for the book. Not a best seller by any stretch but more books sold than I previously assumed. So, thanks to anyone who spent money on my silly words. I really appreciate it. Spread the word if you liked it.
the void sutras

The dark and secret ways of The Pressfield Eleven, or, small stories from a place no gone, or, the group at the end of the establishment, or, how we came to find out about love in the time of full disclosure.

Most citizens of the sort that follow this type of thing have concluded that the Pressfield Eleven were, and I mean this without insult, a bunch a drooling inbreds not fit for God or country, but we’ll get to that later. Now, and I mean in this instant, the Pressfield Eleven, or P11 for short, were a haphazardly formed collection of drunkards and drug takers involved in conversations about all things philosophical or Fortean. They gathered at a bar on Tuesdays to discuss recent UFO sightings, chupacabras, reptilians, ghosts or the newest episode of whatever television show contained any or all of the above mentioned topics. They gathered on Saturday nights to dismiss the other pub patrons as “amateurs” and “weekend warriors” while sharing quips with one another about the various and often-displayed faux pas of these strange and convivial end of week drinkers. The Pressfield Eleven, or P11 as they eventually deemed themselves, lived the kind of life often memorialized with bad jokes in a eulogy or sideways glances in the office on Monday hungover mornings.
The P11 consisted of, quite counter-intuitively, five permanent members; well, more like three permanent members, one girlfriend of the aforementioned three, and one random drifter from the rear of the facility who sometimes would find himself on the wrong end of a debate, 4.5 on one. They names themselves after a half in the bag argument over quantum theory and whether or not tachyons were real or just part of the Star Trek universe. A mumbled phrase, which in its authorship was meant to say, derisively, “PHOTON SHIELDS SET TO 11, MAXIMUM WARP!”, actually came out more like “THE PRESSFIELD ELEVEN, MAKES WARF!”. That conversation happened 4 days before they would gather for the first time as the P11 to mock the weekend soft drunks.
The point of all this exegesis is that this group of men, bold and free of the bonds of regular society, were actually just a bunch of drunks dull-shitting their late 20’s away. That was until they made first contact. And, let us be clear here, I mean first contact with an alien race. Like, from not Earth alien.. seriously, sender gray fellows with large eyes and not from here aliens… clear? Good. As I was saying, it was August of 2017, an impressively hot in a so-far unimpressive year. They boys and one girlfriend were gathered together in a bowling alley, for the 3rd time ever. John, the lead most of the bowlers was throwing a ball or the bowling variety; Bill and Even were sipping on a light domestic beer, Alley and Jeff stood somberly as they waited for round 3 to begin on the ancient Street Fighter machine. The next blink, as they were aware, went as follows: John, in just released a bowling ball pose, has just tripped a man in a league shirt as he was approaching the line\ Bill, now holding a cupped hand around air is on a large bold man’s lap, we would read his shirt to know he was called Larry; Even is in a similar pose, though sitting on a jacket, not his, on a plastic seat; Alley and Jeff stand somberly in front of a Street Fighter 2 arcade machine now playing a demo fight, urging for coins. All at once, they screamed.