Wow. Talk about “getting a weight off your chest”.…
Somehow this feels heavier than the stone Jesus had to move out of the mouth of that cave to make his final getaway! Lucky fucker. That only took a minute or two! But. This gargantuan bloody… Rock of All Ages!! This sucker is taking… seems like lifetimes!!
OK. Sisyphus, old buddy. If Jesus, that scrawny Jewish carpenter’s son, can do it in an afternoon. So can we!! After all, you’re a third cousin to… a few Homeric epic poems removed from… Herakles, Perseus, Jason!! And… Don’t forget!! We’ve got a secret weapon. We’ve got Jiminy Cricket… “give a little whistle”… on our team!
Don’t be a darn sissy! Put your back into this massive primordial boulder, my son. “Third stone from the sun”… right?
While I get that first pot of heavenly dragonwell brewing… then we can get on with this hellish task of… confessing unto god in his infinite glory… of uploading our deuterium sins… this ticking time bomb going all the way back to the first perky sub-atomic quantum beach ball atom… into the NSA data banks of… the invisible digital church… the “Church of No Church!”… om mane padme humpity dumpity… om mane pay me hump
PUSH! PUSH!! PUSH HARDER!! HAARDERRR!!!
PUSH ME LADS N LADIES!!
PUSH ME LADS N LADIES!!
Push this incongruous cudgel of horseshit… this mountainous missive of steaming misappropriation… this “trojan horse” turd… through the gates of smoking Troy… past the snarling tri-lips of yonder hell-hound, Cerberus… onto the floor of the imperial Roman war-machine senate… then turn left… pick up Bernie in the Green Mountain State, Vermont… say Hi to Hugh… Hey, Hugh!… How goes it up there in St. Albans, my son?… keep pushing… keep pushing… all the way past the hundred-and-ten degree traffic snarl on the Beltway… to downtown DC… the land of the hundred-handed Hecatonchires and one-eyed Cyclopes... to DT’s temporary doorstep
Right there. Drop that Mighty Karmic Kolossus, my son. Drop that sucker… that burdensome, bewildering millstone that keeps grinding out the nightmare of history… right there… just a little more to the right…
that’s it… right on top of The Donald’s… right big toe… the one he’s always sucking on… on top of his tiny, undeveloped brain stem… which lacks the full 360 degree view… of the penthouse suite in the frontal lobes… up here in heaven
Drop that jolly Jovian jaw bone on Czar Donald’s frightfully calcified pine cone gland. Not that it will help fend off the apocalypse… Now. Join me right here. Now. For the first hot cup of the day… of glorious dragonwell tea. AAAaaaahhhh. There it is. Muy Delicioso!
Now. Where were we?
Spilling the clay cooking pot… Micaceous Pottery by Alfred Blea: El Camino de Las Estrellas… of Boston baked beans. Telling the noble truth. The whole truth and nothing but the incomprehensible, unbelievable… dark roasted… dirty, miserable truth—
This isn’t easy, friends. You can see why us mere mortals, less than great apes, make up fake news stories… tell ridiculous made-up myths around summer camp council ring fires at Rockmont Christian Summer Camp for boys in Black Mountain, NC… invent preposterous gods to worship, serve and obey… through top down corporate/militaristic style management schemes… endless pyramidal capitalistic power plays… held in place by highly organized… mind-polluting, wallet-sucking… read “fascist” religions… pay to play slot machines in native American churches… go to Catholic mass three times a week and twice on Sunday
SO HELP ME GOD!! Pretty please… with a frozen banana and a spoonful of powdered matcha on top
Alright. I guess this can’t be avoided. The truth always seems to find a way of leaking out. “There’s a crack, a crack in everything”… Rather like nuclear weapons grade plutonium… drip drip drip go the drums… from all those misplaced, poorly constructed, hastily abandoned…. forgotten military landfills… storage barns… test sites?
Who the fuck knows?
The carefully concealed truth, was rather worse than it appeared, in the terrible year, 2007. Or rather, in the telling today, in the wobbly year, 2018…
The naked truth, was, then. In 2007, when I decided to rip my heart out with my own bare hands and…
Let’s tone the rhetoric down just a notch. What say, senators?
OK? For how long, Brutus?
And, let’s backfill this waste dump a bit. OK. Move that Komatsu excavator over this way… would you, Ken… would you knock down that asbestos-covered toxic, tumbled-down, once a cow barn for me, Kenny, my good man… when you get a chance? Thank you.
Today is the day we close on… sell the ten acre parcel of swamp and ledge across the road from Dark Shadows Farm… on Peverly Road, in Northfield, New Hampshire… for seventy-five-thousand dollars.
Halleluia, Jesus!! Let’s hope there is a money god in NH today.
But. Back in that dark year, 2007. It seemed like a bright idea to give madame some cash… for her blase, begrudging, minimal help in the grow room. To give Jessica, my beloved ethical slut, a going away present—
“Everybody knows that you love me baby
Everybody knows that you really do
Everybody knows that you've been faithful
Ah, give or take a night or two
Everybody knows you've been discreet
But there were so many people you just had to meet
Without your clothes
And everybody knows”
Leonard… Thanks again, pal.
To pay the bitch off and hustle her on her way out the door to Istanbul… some might say.
But. I was in love with the cold-hearted wench. It happens. Foolish old Fu Manchu falls in love with cruel, calculating young white tigress…
My mother cackled… Hi mom! She quoted the old adage, “No fool like an old fool”… an old pimp “in love” with a young ho.
Yeah. I know.
You might be asking. But. Why Istanbul, Turkey?! Why not, Boise, Idaho, or, Butte, Montana?
Why not… Wind River, Wyoming?! Yeah, right.
Well. That’s where the lady wanted to go. She had a little plan of her own… the impetuous minx.
Unbeknownst to me at the time. The sly tramp had been corresponding via the internet… for six months to a year… planning her exit… stage left… hatching her little international flight plan… digging her digital fly-by-night escape route… late into the night… off limits in her private rental room… constructing an all-new reality tunnel… with an old pal of hers from Baltimore. A felicitous woman, whom I actually met in 2004-5-6?… I even slept in her loft in Baltimore with Jessica… and shook hands once with her olive-skinned, oleaginous… infamous Turkish boyfriend… who was constantly on his cell phone looking busy and important… planning the next hooplala… The Noble Lady T… she called herself… or… Tara, we called her, for short… and, she was short… and round… and bouncy as a soccer ball… she was fun, perky, spunky, bubbly… a ball to be around… Lady T… and, lately… back then, I mean… she had become a kind of celebrity… nanny… to an extremely wealthy family in Turkey… in Istanbul, to be exact. A terrific writer, this mystery nanny in Turkey. She was writing an early stoned age blog on her experiences in Turkey way back in 2005-6-7… A truly well-written, hilarious account of her life and times as an… ex-pat, salt of the earth, midwestern farmer’s daughter, all-American gal abroad… partying down on yachts on the Bosporus… vacationing on the Sea of Marmara… getting bounced… buns up from behind… by justly hobnobbing with the wealthy descendants of Mustafa Kemal Ataturk…working just
barely as a well-paid nanny for billionaires. Her humor was ribald. Her sparkly wit as droll as the Black Sea. Her cyber-scrolls were bone dry, light-hearted… just right to my palate… a pleasure to consume. She was blogging away… way before, during and after… the MySpace crowd moved over to Facebook. She was a blogging pioneer. And. An adept co-conspirator. With important connections. To big Turkish bucks!
You can just imagine all of those rich, bored, tired-footed… shop til you drop… bejeweled princesses… Turkish grand dame hausfraus… in their vast, empty rococo pleasure palaces… and, sprawling seasonal get-away mansions on the Dead Sea… not to mention, all of those rich Turkish pashas with tired, sore backs… what with all the heavy lifting and reconstructing… those back-breaking projects to uncover, catalogue and rebuild to modern code… all of those romantic antique ruins… of the late great Ottoman Empire—
KACHING! KACHING!! KACHING!!
Just get in line, sir. And take a ticket.
KACHING! KACHING!! KACHING!!!
Next next next next…..
Never mind graduating from a prestigious therapeutic massage institute… only to give eight back-breaking hour long massages a day on a tyrannical cruise ship!? Who needs Rimbaud’s drunken “love boat”… and a sweaty, slave-driven career… fingering, poking, elbowing… effing effleuraging… releasing the pent up tensions… soothing the knotty acres of muscle pains… relieving the beastly burdens of Marx’s stinky proletariat of midwestern famers in midlife crisis!
Put a shiny silver dollar upon the ceiling so that it’s the first thing you see in the morning when you wake up and… live, breath constantly… chant, pray, visualize… riches beyond your wildest dreams—
PRESTO!! ABRACADABRA!! LIFE IS A CINCH!!
UNHEARD OF RICHES ARE A SNAP!!
UNHEARD OF RICHES ARE A SNAP!!
When you know the magic secret of life. The Law of Attraction!! Don’t you know? Haven’t you heard?
Yes. THE SECRET!! The best-seller… the book, the movie…
Whatever.
How about a Bank of America business credit card account with a seven-thousand dollar limit?! Mom, the good money bot, worked for the BOA after all…
Uh.
Well. Surely all of Turkey’s elite would line up for a good old private Heartwood “Donna Summer” massage therapy session at the palace at all hours!? 4am, like Giacometti? Sure, why not? Nothing kinky, mind you. Therapeutic… soulful healing raindrop, essential oil, Bach flower… and, hot river stone treatments… as in, “non-sexual”… “scientific”… get naked, anything goes? Well… Depends. But. Let’s start with… therapeutic, non-sexual… massage like we were taught at the Noble Lady Sheela Institute. Right, Ma Sheela? O Great Mother Founder of Heartwood. Undisputed Strap-on Balls Top Bitch! on Campus…. disgruntled, angry, duplicitous monster… disenchanted survivor of the once hopeful hippie “new age” movement… burnt-out visionary’s wife… migrant pot farmer… refugee of the sixties, seventies, eighties, nineties… “so over it”… Ma Kali Sheela, the Late Time Destroyer!… with a thousand-thousand sagging breasts… a thousand-thousand flabby thighs… with the cruel, melancholy, razor-sharp laugh… lost a few fights, but still laughing last… all the way to the bank hopefully… the cynical, clinical, Clinique-infused… predatory eyes of a thousand endangered California condors… with a thousand blood-dripping beaks… and a mouth on her… OMG!… the mouth of a proud… just try to cut in line ahead of me bitch and see what happens… AN AUTHENTIC SOCALI JAP!… LA holocaust survivor and don’t you forget it!… with a thousand throat-slitting come backs… and… wielding her merciless tongue as a stone sickle… mowing down the rising ranks of innocent youth… with her cutting-down-the-virgins comments… like some apocalyptic beast out of the Old Testament… Beast 666 Sheela!… the outraged, eternally scorned, unfulfilled, thwarted at every turn, ancient feminine divine… taking her revenge… her long overdue just rewards… sucking all the sweat, blood, and greenbacks out of the innocent, idealistic… oh, great green
goddess, please, help us save the planet… organic, bloody-twat vegan, heart-feeling, young stupid, naive hippie-wanna-bees…
Fuck you, little bitches! I rule this sweltering-nightmare-hot-and-cold-sweat-shop-hydro-therapy-pot-ranch-vegie-sprout-California-style concentration camp. And. Don’t you forget it! Put the money right here in my trusty hands. Now Bow Down. Brown Cows. Bow Lower! Moooo! Moooo!! Those Salutations to the Sun Goddess Me! Now Get Down on Your Knees Girls! Downward Dogs Asana! Bark in Unison Bitches in Heat!
Howl Like Mother She Wolf Me!! At Your Full Bloody Moons! OWWooooo! OWWWoooooo! OK. Hold your breath. Hold it there. Longer. Longer. Long As I Say. You little whining spoiled brat bitches. Now. Kiss my smart ass. And. No shenanigans, you drippy little cunts!! Put some more mud on that one over there. Tighten up the space blanket. And. Just stay on your knees for as long as I say so… you unworthy little hoes
Howl Like Mother She Wolf Me!! At Your Full Bloody Moons! OWWooooo! OWWWoooooo! OK. Hold your breath. Hold it there. Longer. Longer. Long As I Say. You little whining spoiled brat bitches. Now. Kiss my smart ass. And. No shenanigans, you drippy little cunts!! Put some more mud on that one over there. Tighten up the space blanket. And. Just stay on your knees for as long as I say so… you unworthy little hoes
Excuse me?
Oh, right.
Scratch all that. Never said any of that. Sheela, I love you. You and old Bhagwan Shree Brucey baby. Poor long-loving, kindly old toe-cracker, foot-reading, compass-twirling bastard. You were always my favorite mandatory massage partner…. client, whatever. You know that.
Where the fuck were we?!
Old senile surfer dude on the edge of Mt. Pelee caldera about to…?
The prize pea fowl. The delicious rock pigeon.
Sacrifice a virgin chicken?!
No no…. Flew the coup, man.
Oh, right. The Daughter of the Dragon.
The water dragon herself. The “J” word.
Yeah.
So, she had it all mapped out. And I handed her a couple grand and told her bon voyage. Happy times with Turkey, my love.
And, somehow. I imagined. That it was going to be easy. A stroll on the beach. A slide in the waterpark. Easy to get over her. Easy to let go of my… foolish… not very Thich Nhat Hanh… attachment to her.
WRONG!!!
