a fear of living

Days can seem limitless in their scope of time. I know time to be a subjective construct of the beholder, yet some days have their own celerity. Today is one of those days, slow and gentle... nearly startling. Night fell early, i'd been hiding indoors for an hour or two, when i realized that i'd been searching for something to pass the time. I stepped outside to burn a cigarette on the snow-enshrouded porch. As i looked up into the night sky searching for stars between a thick blanket of snowcouds, a sonic boom shook the airwaves as a plane descended to the outskirts of town (possibly Dick Cheney or Paul Wolfowitz returning home for some shelter from the adminstration's crumble).
I sat outside this way thinking about the immensity of time, the amount of space to 'do' and to 'live,' when i witnessed a disconsolate scene. Across the street lies a home for the elderly, antiquated and forgotten. From a golden illuminated doorway a daughter was attempting to leave her aging mother for the evening. I suspected her visit was brief as her jeep was left running in the lot. Her mother was audibly reluctant to allow her daughter to depart so swiftly. She continued chatting away as the elderly are stereotypically known for doing. The daughter, on the other hand, was evidently ready to take her leave. She continued walking to her vehicle as she repeated her sordid farewells in a frustrated tone. A halo glow from a streetlamp lit the scene. It was apparent she thought her mother beyond detection of her disposition. Senile, she was thinking. And perhaps it was true, for her mother just kept right on with a pleasant inflection, though i couldn't hear what she said. Meanwhile, her daughter climbed inside the cab and slowly pulled away. Seeing this, the elderly mother closed the door and opened the blinds to watch. She waved for a long time, her silhouette warmed by a lamp in the entryway. She kept on waving, even after the jeep had disappeared, then slowly battened down the blinds. I imagined her as she returned to her quiet home, perhaps a deafening quiet.

Though i lead a domestic life that i share with my partner, i find myself often returning home in a similar manner. This place we call home, with its walls that hold tight all that occurs inside... i sometimes get an overwhelming feeling of the immensity~ of time and space. I don't speak of depression, but an overwhelming force that draws blood to the legs and leaves one restless. It was summed up in a recent telephone conversation with my dear friend and east coast correspondent, the feeling of "what to do?" When time slows, and one may say~ our dear socialization and education rears up, demanding action in the form of progress or production. It can leave one reeling if unprepared for this onslaught.
As i watched the mother return indoors, i felt the vast desuetude that we share. And the questioning of how we both ended up in such a state, though her staid lot may be closer to settled. Could this feeling be the fear of living? Not a pressure that i might do much, or do right, with the time that i've been given upon this earth. But the fear of being a small being in such a deluged arena of life. And to be equipped with a potentially disarming introspection; perhaps the possibility of going mad. Such as an Eskimo surrounded by limitless white, piblokto.

Unlikely heroes of late

With the bad name Dubya's been giving himself, he's somehow still managed to christen others with idyllic qualities and institute them as political martyrs. A few weeks ago the renowned draft-dodger, at times anti-american, Sunni-Muslim bowed to accept a chunk of metal called the Medal of Freedom. Attempting some form of otherwise absent humor, Bush stated, "The real mystery, I guess, is how he stayed so pretty. It probably had to do with his beautiful soul. He was a fierce fighter and he's a man of peace..." Meanwhile defense secretary Rumsfeld held the phone, delaying orders to Central Command for General Abizaid's go-ahead to blow up Mecca. Ali has become the administration's latest ploy to pretend this war isn't about skin color or religion. "Look, we love blacks and Muslims!" In a quick honorary display at the White House, Muhammad Ali publicly wasted his politics and years of effort and generosity, similar to Bono's show of quasi-patriotism at the Super Bowl half-time show in 2002.

In the same week President Bush attempted a blatant grab for hemispherical power by strong-arming countries opposed to the Free Trade Area of the Americas (FTAA): Paraguay, Uruguay, Brazil, Argentina, and Venezuela. The original notion of creating a continent-wide free trade area was first put forth by Dubya's father in 1994. A free trade market would consolidate power to the US, as well as provide another extension of capitalist globalization. "Free trade" will allow freedom to big business, tax sheltering, subjugation of people in poor nations, gross nonrestricted injustices, and corporate hegemony.
Mexican President Vicente Fox stood with President Bush (as 10,000 protesters gathered outside) and told reporters and other nations in opposition to the U.S. led negotiations, that they would be left behind in the wake of prosperity. Bush later praised the Latino-imposter (actually a sunburned white businessman) who has consistently pressed the Bush administration to open borders with the "guest-worker" program.

searching for plutonium powder

Just across the border in a distant foreign land called Idaho, where rural population growth is little concern... they've been planning a nuclear and otherwise toxic waste incinerator. A few miles further west, the beloved Idaho National Laboratory (INL) is receiving confirmation from the DOE to consolidate its program for Radioisotope Power Systems, thus becoming the nation's centralized refuge for the production of plutonium-238. Press releases confirm its usage for fuel to feed NASA's ridiculous ploy to continue stomping the Russians and Japanese through the 21st century. Discussions on emissions and meltdowns have been avoided in meet the press with antisemitic jetsonian scientists from the region. And no correlation has been met toward American hardliners spitting demands contra North Korea, Iran, or the late Iraqi executive branch upon their theorized plutonium production.

The INL is located northeast of Boise in a sparsely populated region of rocky chaparral and desert. It's surrounded by thousands of miles of fencing and potentially covert sniper sites from hoodoo ledges. The place is heavily guarded, restricts overhead air-traffic, and just screams obvious nuclear testing. You may have seen it on your way to Craters of the Moon National Park, where the nation's ugliest president Lyndon B. Johnson (more facially appalling and deformed than Tricky) directed furtive conspirators to film the Apollo landing. Shit, we couldn't let the reds slap us in the face again. And now this awesome land's history has passed on toward nuclear technology.
Here in Jackson one must speak the language for our brand of neo-activists to come forth. One such campaign is the "Plutonium-Free Powder" opposition which newly arrived locals can see frequently pinned upon suv bumperstickers. The campaign appears successful, as it speaks directly to the luke-warm hearts of summer home, 3.2 children, chairlifting settlers of Jackson. I must agree with the aims, though it reminds me of many hypocritical floundering altruisms such as buying organic... from an Extra Foods superstore market (Canada's Wal-Mart).
And so, today I went in search of the plutonium powder; the first day upon my snowboard this year. The last time I recall snowboarding was eight years ago on the slopes of Mount Bachelor. I thought the snowboarding girls were cute (and they were)... and I wanted to join them. Some time has passed, and in many ways I haven't changed.
I never did find the plutonium powder, which is a good thing. Instead I found immense slabs of ice and crusty chunks of snows that grated like kitty litter beneath my board. I somehow reached the bottom of the mountain, packed it up... and went to watch turkey day football at the tavern and shoot a few games of pool by myself.

colloquial quasi-"thanks"

Does anyone really celebrate? or perhaps even remember why they are celebrating? That question would be under the assumption that there was ever anything to celebrate concerning our beloved thanksgiving.
I was listening to the radio this morning as I sorted trashy donations at the thriftshop. I'd just scolded an elderly woman for attempting to barter something I was already offering for an ungodly cheap price. "Ten dollars? That's too much!" she cried in a disgustingly sweep of melodrama with her gloved hand. "M'am, we're trying to raise money for charity and you're not the one receiving it. I'm sorry," I replied.
She didn't get it, so I went back to a brown bag of miscellaneous crap.I was half-listening to the radio, in the same way that I catch myself half-listening to the same story from a loved one (yeah, you know the one). And it's some advertisement paid by god knows who, lamenting the fact that some people may not have kin to gather with for thanksgiving. Due to being out of town or dislocated on a business trip, the false radio voice mused. A light way of saying, "To all you lonely drunks and dropouts, we have a solution." And the solution was to come to some elks lodge megachurch stadium for a turkey and tater feed. It'll make you feel better I promise, the voice cooed. Don't spend thanksgiving alone the ad ended.
I could just see the can-shaped cranberry sauce jiggling in some teflon bowl. Some boxed spud mix steaming hot from the microwave, and smack dab in the middle an empathetic cub scout leader volunteer working on a butterball turkey with a plug-in meat carver. And the smell of sour sweat and porous alcohol fumes on a stale breeze. Picnic-style tables, paper plates and plastic silverware. And this is gonna make me feel better?
Give me a beer. Turn the turkey day football game on...

"yes, it's hard to tell it's hard to tell, when all your love's in vain..."

Every now and then you run up on one of those days when everything's in vain... a stone bummer from start to finish; and if you know what's good for you, on days like these you sort of hunker down in a safe corner and watch. Maybe think a bit. Lay back on a cheap wooden chair, screened off from the traffic, and shrewdly rip the poptops out of five or eight Budweisers... smoke off a pack of King Marlboros, eat a peanut-butter sandwich, and finally toward evening gobble up a wad of good mescaline... then drive out, later on, to the beach. Get out in the surf, in the fog, and slosh along on numb-frozen feet about ten yards out from the tideline... stomping through tribes of sandpeckers... riderunners, whorehoppers, stupid little birds and crabs and saltsuckers, with here and there a big pervert or woolly reject gimping off in the distance, wandering alone by themselves behind the dunes and driftwood...
-Hunter S. Thompson

hangups are for losers

i talk to my mother a lot on the phone these days. i moved out of the house eight years ago along with my knocked up girlfriend, a life form which i was unaware of at the time. for the first seven years my mother and i didn't hold the close contact that now exists. it's incredibly comforting in times of near madness. maybe people call me a mama's boy behind my back, but i generally try to avoid those type of people especially if i'm in a heightened state of gonzo.
the most recent madness to speak of is the state i've somehow found myself in; both figuratively and literally. domestic man and wyoming. to speak of more solid things, this state in our american union. wyoming, goddamn it's pretty; be prettier if you killed all the settlers. there's a dichotomy here that reminds me of east and west berlin. east wyoming is run by summer homey type knitwits with deep pockets and suv's. they own everything and have built a settlement of quasi-community that rings of the union. then there's east wyoming, run by pseudo-cowboy lopers that tie homosexuals to fences and drive poorly made american trucks. this side guzzles the petrol even more profoundly because they own a great share of the oil rigs. a lot of their actions are likely affected by the lack of blood circulation below the belt of strangling wrangler jeans.
now i happen to live on the west end with a pretty, voracious woman in a kind little apartment on one end of town. i figure i got here from reading too many books and listening to too much music, since i seem to always prefer my influences to be sentimental, sadly romantic, and generally to the underdogs. if it seems unlikely but love is possible, i go for it like a sorry rosecruxion...
im currently in a state of terribly optimistic confusion; it makes me feel as if i should be currently worrying about some catastrophic event. when in truth, i sense no such thing and instead sit dumb wondering if my senses are being shot by domesticity. wondering if perhaps i need put an end to cute pet names and frequent calls home if i'm running late. this isn't the plight of a man prospecting his lost masculinity, rather it's a sobering look at soma.
and so now and again, perhaps following a short scuffle in the kitchen or forgetting to buy toilet paper, i call my mother.

are mexicans stuck in the '80's?

My world has become increasingly distraught and interesting in the past months. Certainly living in such a trite and provincial town such as Jackson has played a great part in that. After arriving here I held a service industry job for about three weeks. That's all it took this time around to quickly throw away my quasi-dreams of serving rich, shameless mouths... but the money was good.
Now I work in the back of a thriftshop collecting and sorting donations. We like to call it the East Jackson Landfill due to the amount of trash compiled daily in our little blue dumpster. We fill the fucker up by noon some days. And all the while, people jabber of "maybe someone could use this," or "this is in good shape," as they donate a torn stained blankey of their third a.d.d. child.
An interesting phenomena I'm beginning to observe comes from the Hispanic community, which easily grabs 40% of the population. Ahh, the mexicans. At first I found it quaint and almost charming that for free I was able to daily practice my tattered spanish on many of the customers to the store. Then it began to dawn on me that often there was no choice because these people can't speak english anyhow.
With many hours to blow in this fashion as every Mexican tries to barter even the cheapest prices, I began compiling a list of why mexicans may be stuck in the 1980's. #1~ loitering in small rural towns. #2~ sweatpants and warmups, headbands. #3~ pimped up grand am turquoise cruisers and toyota trucks with tinted windows and spoilers. #4~ black guess jeans with white sneakers. #5~ mullets and rattails. #6~ whistling or hissing at women between gold capped teeth.

winter or our discontent

ethan hawley once had a woman named mary. they lived in some white, middle-class east coast community. he worked as a grocery store clerk as i once did, facing cans and jars, creating a mosaique upon the shelves. im beginning to see the similarities in our existence though steinbecks characters may not have ever existed.
my mary likes to fly off the handle with reckless abandon, fits of crying and childish balking. it reminds me of the bugling elk i can hear outside our door, upon the iced-over deck overlooking the refuge. we also live in a ruralburban community with a dominance of 'haves' versus the 'have-nots' that brings to mind one of dave barrys editorials a few years back in the miami herald. the haves know nasdaq and the have-nots eat yak. i believe that was the title.
for the past week ive found little rest in the sleep that connects my evening and morning. the feeling of marriage has been bearing down as a burden. this is what it feels like to have the common notions and complaints of communal domesticity. the inability to communicate and the sneaking suspicion that your partner is mad. im also finding similar arguments that fit an anomolous cliche of husband and wife.
i long for the grocery store aisles where i may preach to those that hear, but do not answer.

swept clean

As of late the weather has been everchanging. One moment the sky swept clean to an incandescent blue, then with a slow nod clouds arrive and i search for my discarded jacket. It's an overused analogy: a person's mood in accordance with weather, but seemingly with a touch of truth.
It's not exactly that my mood has swooned with any more doubt or motivation than in latter time, it's a certain pervasion of not being certain to what that mood is that i feel. Lately, with the newspaper in my lap and a cup of coffee. These stories, i'm hooked and excited and horrified all at the same moment. Similiar to if my neighbor's house was burning down. This is like the turbulence in my stomach, often questioning myself if ive drank too much coffee. Do you know the feeling? Your plate full and then some, a feeling of being overwhelmed and yet nothing coming to mind of just what may be the catalyst.
There's such a thin line between playing it cool, optimist selfprogramming and motivation and the other side of the fence, absolute utter mental breakdown. Like a child right now, i fall on my face and begin to wail then someone makes a face and i grin again.