wrote this when I was 14....  can you tell I was a virgin and liked spooky books....?

"I am reminded now of an evening in my youth...

I was on a quandary run forth to the tabernacle when the figure appeared in my field of blatant vision. I should say on first impression I regarded this creature as one of very mild intelligence, unworthy, nay, undesigned to accept the higher laws

and axioms. But as I approached northward and it southward my instinct changed. I was now fully aware that this cloaked figure was something of a much more complex and intriguing item.

Its gait was awkward but made graceful by the slithering cloak floating amidst its power over the street and setting around it. Height about seven or so feet, but it may have been changing in shape and size throughout our encounter. At closer look

at its face seemed to brake any former mold I had set in my mind of what faces should look like...as distant memories faded into cloudy surreal documents.

Its eyes though both distinct from each other saw directly through me and what ever aura that I may have had about me at the time. The first was covered, or replaced by ancient glass covered with scratches that revealed patterns or maybe even lan

guages beneath its glare. The second shone as bright as the origins of flame. The rest of the profile was half kept in shadows, half formed as a pale an unmistakable nightmare expression.

This I interpreted as a death threat and fled immedeatly..."

Just beneath the clouds, there’s air only certain people can breathe.

Stuck took the truck through the flooded mud drain to get there. Approximately 17 miles long, periodic rivulets of concrete plugged up by moldy leaves and rust covered grocery carts emptied foaming alive water from the surrounding slaughterhouses and created bubbly springs of enzyme teeming oxygen. Stuck took a deep breath. His stomach and lungs were beginning to react violently, the acids and the bile in them were already fermenting their own energies, but he squeezed his thigh muscles and took deep breaths. He was carrying old fridges, tiny holes in the network of Freon tubes leaked it into the air. Little blood molecules making love with the freeon ones floating upwards.

Stuck had leased the truck from Killer Eyes Winters. Killer Eyes was from Euclid Ontario, his mother was the daughter of a french steward but she was a whore and then an eternally working seamstress and he was brought up on cornmeal, lard and licorice. But acted like he was better than Stuck.

Stuck took no offense. He got the money for the truck by making promises to his nephew Henry Bee Lee that he would bring back money from the fridges.

Stuck was from Rancid Arizona. It’s below Rumour. He did this before, trucking, except with people. The ones from Mexico and below proper didn’t look him in the eyes and the ones from Guatemala let him watch them wash their eyes when he stopped and sprayed water on their backs at that one gas station in Nowhere, I mean nowhere.

Stuck ran away from his family because there were too many of them and he kept getting in to trouble by making more of them come into being. Except there was this one kid he had called Dew who he knew was going to be a great man.

At the end of the mud drain there was a north bound gravel road to the copper dump. It was his favorite road because of how the sulfurous hot streams smelled. Sometimes they did like when he used to watch Pinnochio in his mothers apartment. How he imagined the part where they smoked cigars till they got sick and watched the little burlesque marionettes.

Grass, green and brown grew next to the concrete everything. There were stairs up to the brick factory wall that was partially crumbling and covered in bright graffiti, strait lines bleed, shaded by diffuse red and black outlines, on top of older pieces, on top of the old factory sign Stuck nor anyone would ever see again that said

“Fowle Co. Thunder Anvils.” Fowle was a devil worshiping commie Yugoslavian, his Co., him and his brothers and his Irish wildmen, making Thunder Anvils, were successful during the war, when America needed all the Thunder Anvils it could get to drop on Nazi’s and Slavs.

He pulled the truck on to a loading dock, looked at the Holy Virgin on the dashboard for a second and pulled out a clip board. Then he walked in. There was no one in the huge old warehouse, but he saw the stairs up to the office, went up there and knocked.

“Is there a Luther here?”

“Yeah. Im Luther.”

“I have the fridges”

“Go unload them”

He did. Luther gave him a check for $300.

He went to the girl he was living with’s house. She was smoking on the porch. Sticking needles into a bowl full of opaque Jelly.

“I have the money. Here.” He looked at her freckles and how they were vibrating on top of her skin.

“Thankyou.”

“Winters will call in about three days. Give him the keys, Henry”

“Ok. Where you going?” She cleared her throat and the mucus stung. Her best hour was the one right before he got here. When the coffee was enough in her, the walls were lit by the sun and the idea that she could really feel her own ideas, understand them thouroughly and logically shape them was strong.

“Im going back to Toronto.” Once he was a paint huffer there. He saw angels swim up from the paint and into the bottom of his eyes. Inside the bottom of his neck was an infinite vacuum. He grew up though when the aliens came and told him that he was going to become a retard if he kept doing that.

“What are you going to do about Henry?”

“Henry… Ill call him from Toronto and tell him Ive been communicating with his dead mother.

“That’s horrible.”

“I know.”

“Anyway he already talks to her and if your story’s not strait with hers hell start to figure the whole thing out.

The Aliens came in August. They had already sent word by sending codes through the worlds entire electricity infrastructure

I sometimes have a fantasy involving portable shadows. More than ever these days when I try to trap shadows to experiment with the spectrums I end up taking deep breaths. Heres how it usually goes. I look down and down looks lower than the usual down. I see dark areas on the ground and have to decide if these are real: the dark areas under my eyes are just so much darker. Im getting older. I use to be able to drink mercury to calibrate my silver levels before I’d try, but now I get heartburn. I use to walk through the wading pools that gather, and find tiny lights at the bottom of them to put in my bag I got, but nowadays my feet get waterlogged and I get stung by the jellyfishes who swim in their own light.

But whenever I have this fantasy I remember that my cousin is coming in august. He’s lived in the shadowplane for so long that he’s nearly pass-through able. He’s coming because my baby daughter was born about a year and a half ago and he hasn’t seen her yet. Shes my only favorite light. Me and my fiancé found her soul sitting out there on the runway when were coming down last time we went to outer space. Her name is Judyta. She will always be climbing on my arms and asking me questions without words- about how our family lives all over the place- where are they and when will they come see her?

Specifically once she said (w/o using words) “I wanna meet our grandparents a lot. Don’t they live in Fiji? Wheres Fiji?

“Well honey, first of all we cant go to Fiji anymore. We were banned when we spilled soy sauce in the public library. Second of all, they don’t live in Fiji. They live in Fuji."

“Where? "

“In Fuji. They live in cameras.”

“I saw pictures of them, is that what you mean?”

“Yes babyta. We can only see them if we take pictures with Fuji cameras.”

“Why not daddy?”

“Because they died honey.”

“Why? D’they die?”

“Because the government still makes people die honey.”

“So… howcome they’re still in the cameras?”

“Because the Fuji corporation got the rights to souls. From the soul spectrum- the FCC took it over… it’s a little complicated. Your only 1.”

“Im not a baby. What’s the Government?”

“Yes. You’re still a Babyta Judyta.”

So. I want to carry shadows. And my cousin lives among them, He has a lot of properties. A lot of old houses and haunted hotels. He knows all about shadows. He shares a lot of their properties too- like how he changes where he is based on the sun going down etc…

So Ill ask him. But I know whats gonna happen. He’s gonna tell me about 40% lies. He’s always done that. Like Granpa did.

So. I’m still gonna have to get peer review for when I publish my research. That’s fine. The problem is Im not much of an academic. I work for an architectural consulting firm. My specialty is designing dark areas. Always dark areas. Deep down or locked always. Wherever no ones gonna even see them. So why does it matter? Because its federal law? Who knows? The inspectors fuck with the owners of the property. That’s about as far as I get into it…. Its just we have to do it before we submit the plans, and thats my job.

Designing the insides of nothing.

Judyta loves candy from the mountains. I’m gonna ask my cousin to go over Galaga pass to get some on his way here. I gotta remember to put that on my calendar. Im not that good at remembering things but, giving candy to little ones is among the morst important things. That’s why dentists are persecuted in our country.

They immigrated here from Europe just like everyone else but they get a raw deal here, everbody hates them.

I have lobbied for abolition of dentist oppression laws, but I love my sweetheart so I did it half-assed. I know, that in the next life, the meek dentists will inherit the earth with all the other meek service providers, so its ok.

I got one of those lazer pointers from my fiancé for Hannukah. You ever played with one of those? My cats love it and my dog is vehemently against it. Its needed for my research so I keep it. (And secretly think its like the coolest, most important invention of the last 10 years, the one before that being the smoke machine, and before that the drum machine.) I point the lazer deep into the areas Im traversing and see who’s there. I sometimes hear laughing and giggling (because lazers tickle ghosts). It doesn’t really tell me anything though. I have to rely more on my Night Vision lenses than anything because… well, I don’t really understand why but it seems that in pitch black the structural elements of the building become more formless. The lazer wont tell me the depth of the place I’m in, rather it will tell me where the furthest wall would be if the room were properly lit.

And it’s the same with me. My face doesn’t look the same in deep darkness as it does in light… so it doesn’t work the same. I don’t see the same things with my same eyes. My glasses become unnecessary and my heartbeat changes my ability to perceive things without fear.

Fear is the reason I’m doing all this. As the government use to say “The unknown is the only thing we have to protect ourselves from. So we must venture there. And put an end to it.” Now adays we have the shitty politicians, like Blagojevich and the like, who preetymuch spend all their time hanging out around unknown elements, immoral and dark and scandalous. But I bite my lips and go out there into where I fear, for people. People like my little candy eater. And other people like her.

My fiancé looks at me when I come home and have all that darkness on my shirts, and she knows it’s a good thing rather than anything. She works in retail, where theres always a lot of light. But she still spends a lot of time delving. And I know Judyta will too. I don’t know why, I just know.

Blood on the laundry. Face it.

There are days when you wake up in the morning, and those you don't.
When the business of your dream is far too urgent. And those days when you do open your eyes, wake up with your hand on your dick and your tongue rough from last night (vomit or blood sucking, who knows? who remembers?).
You know its time to actually change. Today gets to be a special one. A researsal for opening night. The day you actually see clearly, after all the foul air and fog has cleared. No more coughing or working. No more sitting down when its time to dance.
But not yet. First you have to come up with a transition plan. Finances and feasibility. Estimates. Rolling around on the rug. Wasting more hours while the planes fly over head and the icecream truck passes by.
Its ok. Tomorrows the day.
Then you wake up that fateful day. And you answer the phone. And it's the dream. You are needed, there can be no proxy. And out of duty you go back. To the frown womb, the bomb horn. The foible. The fax mask, the ask tell and the cask of montiado. The Tasks and objects that need no logic to be true.
And then its 48 hours or so and you wake up again. And your pants are on the floor. And the saxophone you stole from your neighbor's kid is on the chair. And you ask for courage from the winds that blow through your apartment, and they respond. "Hell no."..