[Part One - The Journey to The Gates of Dreaming] – A ‘Story’
“Give me the goddamn T-Block motherfucker!”
Strange moments passing into memory before much has been noticed. Quiet reflection upon everything and nothing, drawing into hapless spirals twisting away into Oblivion. Ashes fall quietly to come to rest amongst mass graves of coffin nails ends. Passing no certain boundary set by physics, smoke weaves itself in all dimensions, dancing lazily in the still room.
“Damn it Tucker! Put away that treacle and destroy the little birdy as commanded!” Screams a thought from somewhere across the railroad tracks in my Sub-conscious.
“What?” I reply, curious as to what I meant, and if it was even I who the voice had been addressing in the first place.
“I’unno.” An uninterested answer returns, the presence fading away into the dark night of my sleepless mind.
“Cheeky fucker…” I murmur, yawning and coughing up further proof that I need to quit smoking. “Wonderful… Blacker than my soul… Just… Wonderful.”
The Edge of IT nears as I wander throughout the labyrinthine pathways of my head, stumbling over discarded pornography, sex toys, empty beer bottles, and countless empty pens, balled up pieces of paper that didn’t quite make the grade. ‘Was that a nun clad in a full body latex habit?’ I ask myself as I trudge through the waste and begin the harrowing decent into the darker regions of the Soul. The air is dry and feels as sandpaper on my lungs as I continue onward, trying ever so often to figure out just why I’m actually going this far. The only answer that awaits each time is an empty laughter, no more than a hissing chuckle, from the darkness. ‘Ah… Here we are… About time I’ve had some company.’
“Alright… I’m tired of this ladder bullshit.” I punctuate my statement with throwing myself from my imagined ‘safe’ perch upon the ladder and let myself fall, plummeting through the Nothing Which Is.
“Won’t you come out and play with me?” A faint voice upon the silence, musical and fading fast, though recognizable enough.
“Martika? Not exactly what I had pictured to be playing in the darker recesses of my so called ‘Mind’, but I suppose it is fitting after all.” I reply. “Left, right, left, we all fall down…”
The world spins away and there I am left in the midst of a dying city, the buildings crumbling and decaying, the last souls holding out against the End. Their fires burn like beacons, dotting the fallen giants of Capitalism, the light dancing behind the last of the broken dirty glass that once adorned every building that now lay in resigned defeat. Pulling an imagined cigarette from the air, I puffed on it until it lit, blowing the smoke from my nostrils and surveying the extent of the damage done to the once bustling Metropolis. Perhaps… Perhaps there were a few left that still remembered how to Dream. Perhaps there still remained those who had held on to childish fantasies, kindling the flame within their hearts with carefully removed sections of what little remained of Hope.
“Hold fast to dreams for if dreams die, life is a broken winged bird that cannot fly.” A soft whisper upon the unfelt breeze. “Remember….”
Seventh Grade; Reading Class… The quote had been framed upon the wall. I stared at it more than I payed attention to my given assignments. For whatever reason, I had never remembered the name of the person who had originally said it. It was never that important. At least, not until now. Though even the importance of the origination of an ephemeral voice from the Past faded away as I pondered on the quote. The starless sky above rolled and moved, shifting hues of grays, purples, blues, and other colors that humans have yet to find and name. A troubled sky, as on edge and troubled as the person standing below them, wondering why such things ‘Just Are’. Surely in my own imaginings I could have willed it to be anything I wished, but it didn’t seem right to change something that lent a helping hand to the Mood of my Journey. I halfway expected to encounter Virgil, standing just outside the crumbling Gates of the City, patiently awaiting my arrival so that he might guide me through my own nine levels of Hell. A shame for Virgil that at those very same Gates I was imagining some very unsavory types of creatures that happened to have quite a sweet tooth for Poets who thought they knew where they were. Indeed, it was a shame that I imagined poor Virgil being carried off amongst the growls and hisses, into the darkness to be made useful as food for the critter’s offspring. ‘I do hope he left the bottle of Wine…’ I thought, tossing the spent cigarette into the air where it became a large gray moth that flew off into the night.
All Roads Lead to The City… All of them… Walk long enough in any direction, and you will reach it. You will know you are nearing it when the shadows reach for you and cry out in silence for missed opportunities and second chances, from the crows that gather to watch the travelers and call out jeers and insults and tormenting comments, laughing insanely the whole while. Aye… You’ll know The City… It is the only one there ever was. All others were simply echoes of this once great crossroads of Time and Tune.
“Time and Tune?” I ask myself, wondering why I chose that instead of something more eloquent and professional or mysterious sounding.
“Because you’re fucking tired, burned out, and more than a little ready to viciously maul the Sandman when he appears. Stop talking to yourself. It’s only filling the ‘pointless humor’ slot, and at this point, it’s doing a pretty piss poor job of it.” The writer responded, growling in a dangerous manner.
“Fine… Fine.” I say, trudging onward towards the great Gates of The Dead City. “But just so you know, you’re as good as Me right now, so you’re really only talking to yourself.”
“Fuck OFF!” A thundering voice boomed from the skies above; purple lightning flashing, mountains crumbling away to dust, and seas drying up to salty sand canyons that smelled of death.
Giving a finger to the voice I continued on in silence. Tempting a writer who holds a pen is like poking a known psychopath when he’s holding his favorite killing utensil and there’s no one else around. It all ends about the same way too. One way or another, the Writer wins because while the pen may write and create and channel the very essence of the Soul, it can also be used to stab you in very sensitive areas that don’t function so well with holes in them.
There, rising from the creeping darkness, stone webbed with scars of previous unknown encounters with harder objects and time, The Gates loomed. I approached and looked around, suddenly quite intent on finding that bottle of wine that Virgil had been so kind to let me have before he was pulled away on more pressing matters. It stood next to a green military backpack that had seen better days. Strange spirals and sygils adorned random parts of the canvas. Grabbing the bottle I uncorked it with my teeth and took a heavy pull, hoping that it hadn’t somehow turned to vinegar while I was on my way. My senses were assaulted by strange tastes and sensations; cold and hot, opium and gin, milk and honey… I took another pull and capped it, sliding into the only empty slot on the backpack. Throwing the bag over my shoulder I looked around and sighed. I really didn’t feel like moving any more. In fact. I figured I could easily make camp here until the time I woke up from a nap or slumber or coma and continue on my way from there. Glancing around with a paranoid cloud hanging over my head, I shrugged and set up camp, stringing up the hammock so thoughtfully provided by Virgil between two stone pillars. I lay back in it when I had finished and watched the troubled clouds shift, ever so often turning my head to hear some lewd joke the crows near me were telling. Their voices came in interrupted bursts, a set up here, two punch lines there… Pulling my blades from the bag, I armed myself and readied for what I figured was going to be one hell of a strange night.
As my eyes grew heavy and the lids slowly closed, faint music drifted out over the hills and to my ears. A soft haunting melody that led me to believe that I wasn’t the only one in this strange wasteland of my Mind. Then again… I never was.
With that I grasped my blades tighter and fell into sleep, not making a single ripple when I hit.
[Fin of Part 1]
Dear Mom & The Dreams Connected
As the last bits of Mochi get chewed absently away I remember… The mind clears and the alcohol slowly meanders in like some Ranger out of the wilderness, ready for a bit of warmth and relaxation, perhaps even a story, if the teller be of good quality…
With each yawn I acquire a new question, with each question I acquire a new curiosity, with each curiosity is aroused a new lust for Knowledge in all it’s strange and brilliant ‘Rabbit Hole’ pathways. In the microwave cooks a meal fit for a person who knows not the palate of a man with a fatter wallet, and yet the tongue and stomach do not disagree. I am poor. There is no argument to that. What I do however have, is the ability to allow myself an imagination for how to prepare such a meal. Add a few bits of seaweed here, throw some Mishima there, maybe a little pepper jack cheese, and I am well on my way to drunken happiness.
Alcohol… -sighs- It has spelled the end of many a fine and beautiful relationship, and is the cause of many a broken home. But for now, it is the only thing keeping me awake and focused on the only thing that I feel is really ‘Real”; the Words. So in this daze of sugar drink and time fermentation, I arouse in myself the one thing that has always kept me going; the Need for Information. The feeling that everything around me is a learning opportunity and that I alone can benefit from situations that otherwise seem hopeless from the start.
It was brought up quite recently that I deliver my writing in a Victorian way. I guess that’s right, especially when I’m as ‘out of it’ as I am at the moment. I revert to how it was read to me as a child and how I processed it at an early age. Is it wrong to type in such a ‘polite’ manner? I really don’t know. All I can say is that it feels good to get the words off of my chest and on to a medium that works for whatever purpose I originally intended these words to be read, if at all. J.R. R. Tolkien was one of the first Authors that I remember being in my Library that my mother read to me.
First The Hobbit and later the entire Lord of the Rings saga. I doubt I’d be able to imagine that world without first hearing my mom reading each of the characters in a different voice. It seems like forever ago that she sat patiently with me nearby, reading and ‘acting’ out the parts with a strong voice and manner. I can’t even help but laugh at half the memories I have of those days. It was like some new gate or portal had opened to a precious dimension, where only I and the characters of the story existed. Me and Bilbo, stumbling around in the dark, fearful and curious, and Thorin and co., steadfast in our lineage, and the True rulers of the Mountain that Smaug had stolen from our people…
Even now, sipping rum and water, eating some microwave dinner, daydreaming of Frodo and Sam and Mr. Took, I shed tears of both joy and pain, wishing to once more know the magic that I felt when she introduced me to the path of Fantasy and Dreaming. I will never forget any of it, and should I, it is my only hope to die and in my last, DMT induced Trip before death, lay my eyes once more on the lands and people that her voice and dedication brought to me in the years of my youth.
Thank you, mom. I haven’t forgotten and doubt I ever will.
Regards,
Kandle Smoke
Aka
Your Son
P.S: Happy Birthday – Hope it was one worth remembering.
People Change, Time Moves On, And Beetles Die Soon Forgotten Deaths
Do you remember when the world was innocent? When things were easier, less complicated, more fun, and all around… Better? I suppose it wasn’t all that long ago that people consider this time to have existed. ‘What changed?’ you ask, as if the answer isn’t obvious enough, though I suppose a reflection only knows it’s a reflection if you move out of the mirrors view. Perhaps you’ll wake up one day…? No… Wrong again, Mr. Smoke. Does the world really have to be so cold, lonely and lost in the giant koi pond, and probably eaten by the fish only to be confused for a jelly bean later by some innocent, ignorant, youth. You.
You changed, World. We all did. When we worked as hard as we could, and pumped all that we were into the tubes that were the internet, we found that we ourselves became hollow and empty as the Last Great Coca-Cola bottle, found in a sand bank in some horribly foreign desert. Perhaps we put too much of ourselves online and the only thing we can do to regain that loss, is to get it all back. To create new memories, images, realities, to allow ourselves to trancend this black hole that we’ve created in the name of Human Advancement. Maybe I’m wrong, maybe not. I feel like I’m right, but that doesn’t really mean much. It may even just re-inforce the saying that only a fool believes his own word.
I feel a fool though. Like some great jester, thrown into the game too late to make much a difference, but all the more being goaded and poked and ordered to sing, dance, and make funny. Fuck this ‘make funny’. I want my life back. I lost too much of it in the beginning due to bad, irrisponcible decisions and now all I’ve got is regret and experience. Hell, I never used to regret anything until I stepped onto the internet. Perhaps that’s why it came as such a shock when it all came crashing down around me. The flimsy bits of a world disconnected, and the utter, final, ball breaking Truth of it all; I’d fucked up and there was no turning back. It sorta felt like getting kicked in the crotch while at the same time having to give oral sex to the most un-hygenic elephant you can imagine. Sure, his name was BuhBuh. That’s just a little of how it felt, but the kicker to it all was that I felt that I deserved what had followed, and to some extent, I still do.
But I suppose this is where I need to draw the line and just move forward. I can’t always stay in the past and regret actions that in the long run, taught me a lot more than success ever would have. I have met wonderful people, and regardless of how our relationships are nowadays, I feel like these people are still wonderful for showing me something that I’d never seen before. To each and everyone of you that stood by us on our Twitter Travels Hindenburg, I thank you, from the very bottom of my soul and body and whatever else you’d care to add. I can’t impress this point enough. I am grateful and only feel gratitude for your acts of charity and Trust.
I realize that we broke that trust, but for the most part, I feel this was my mistake to address as of this Post. I can’t imagine my life without finding Twitter, the Twitter Travels journey, or any of the people I met while on the Road in search of The Truth and the American Dream. What Jack and I forgot and lost amongst the empty beer glasses and half smoked cigarettes was that we were fucking LIVING the dream. We were doing EXACTLY what we had been searching for the entire time and no one could have taken it away from us, save for the very people who’d ran all the way, pants half down, ready for a bit of action and a real chance to prove just how mature we were. -laughs- I look back on that person that I was, and who I am now and I almost want to hug myself. I love myself for what I’ve become and I hope you all understand that this is more of a final goodbye to the past than an apology though it’s that as well. I know that none of you would have done what you did to help us get where we were going had you not HONESTLY believed we could do it.
Thank you for believing in us.
Regards and Au rovior until I can figure out where to start with the repairs,
Scarab aka Kandle Smoke
The Thoughtful Writer, once more holding the pen…
[Written in one go, with no editing, and no second thought. Let's hope it's not the dagger that I'll find has killed me in my sleep. Hail Caesar.]
